A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife (7 page)

I blinked.

While I whirled in confusion, he guided his cock behind her. He moved the tip of it around in a circle, which I couldn't see but knew to be the puckered rim of her hole.

I stared at her cunt, still mystified by what was confusing me. And then she lifted her head.

Answering all of my questions.:

Olivia.

I was too stunned to look away. Relief and disappointment flooded through me.

And also: sheepishness.

Of
course
this was Olivia. It was Olivia's hair, Olivia's body. Olivia's room. I had wanted it to be Jordan so much that I allowed myself to ignore evidence that it wasn't. I had twisted the images in my mind until I saw what I wanted.

I
wanted
it to be Jordan.

It hit me hard, the realization. It was too obvious to deny.

I felt myself giving in, turning myself over to my fantasy in that moment. As though there were no other option except to accept it.

I let my mind play tricks on me.

I told myself I was still watching Jordan.

She began to move backward, and she squeezed her eyes closed and opened her mouth as she did. “Oh, god!” she said, but she didn't slow her descent.

I watched as his cock began to disappear again. Her wet gash was forward, and there was only one place that thick cock could be disappearing to – but still, it amazed me that she just slid right down, all the way, his whole cock filling up her ass.

She did it slowly, and then rested on his hips. Her eyes were still closed.

“Oh yeah, that's it. Fuck you feel good,” he said. “That's it.”

She ground against him, sort of in a circle, and she gave a soft moan. Her eyes were still closed, and a small tear tickled out of her left eye. She was evidently in some pain.

I heard the slap before I saw it. Then again. Her lover was slapping her ass with his free hand. Hard. She gasped, but her mouth was turned up in a small smile.

“You want an ass full of cum?” he growled.

“Oh, yeah,” Olivia murmured.

It was Olivia's voice, but I closed my eyes and pictured Jordan's mouth saying the words.

“Say it.”

I opened my eyes.

She rolled a little on his hips. “I want an ass full of cum,” she howled.

He slapped her ass again, and I imagined the ripple of Jordan’s ass, and the crimson stain of his hand darkening on Jordan's skin.

My own cock was spewing precum.

“Ride it then, you little slut.”

Oh yeah. Ride that cock.

She bit her lower lip, and mewled, but she obeyed. She began to pump her stuffed asshole up and down the length of his shaft.

He slapped her again, and she picked up speed.

“That's it, keep going, pump that cock for cum you little slut. You want an ass full of cum or not?”

She began to pump harder, and I watched, my mouth dry. My mind hard at work superimposing the details of Jordan's body over Olivia's.

“Oh fuck,” she cried. “Oh, it hurts.”

He slapped her on the ass again. “Tell me you want an ass full of cum.”

“Oh, fuck. I want you to fill my ass up with cum!”

Jesus Christ.

She pumped, but he lost patience after a moment and grabbed her by her tight thighs, and slammed into her. He
manhandled
her, jamming his cock up inside of her with a thrust of his hips, and pulling her down hard to maximize the depth. Her eyes and mouth flew open in what seemed like shock, and she stayed like that, silently screaming, as he pummeled his cum into her.

When he released her hips, she caught her breath but did not slide off his cock. Instead, she put her feet on the bed, spreading her legs wider but still sitting on top of him with his cock in her ass. She leaned back a little, and I could now see his huge cock inside of her asshole, still hard, her hole stretched to a reddened rim to accommodate him. Her gash was swollen and soaked, and she slid her fingers into to the fleshy mess. She stroked her clit, and it didn't take much before she gasped and yelped as she came herself. Her asshole twitched around his cock, and a dribble of cum escaped and dripped onto his balls.

He slapped her ass again, this time more playfully, and Olivia let out a sigh and flopped onto the bed on her stomach. I caught a glimpse of her gaping asshole and her reddened ass cheeks. Her feet kicked up in the air, and though I wanted to stay and see if I would get another glimpse of her battered ass, or even her huge tits, self-preservation kicked in. I needed to get out of sight.

I heard the flick of a lighter. “Dude, no way,” I heard Olivia's voice. “My fucking brother-in-law will kill me.”

I paused on the second-to last step to the bottom.

“He's never home,” the male voice said, uninterested.

I heard a light slap, and a clatter. “Just do it, you fuck,” Olivia muttered.

Her giggle.

I moved away from the stairs and jogged foolishly down the hallway to the master bedroom, where I hid behind the open door and tried to catch my breath. My cock was raging, and my head was spinning.

I exhaled sharply, and when I looked up I could see myself in the mirror of my bathroom.

And I remember looking at my erection, my wild eyes, my crazed posture, and thinking:

What the fuck, Paddy? What the fuck are you doing?

Because in my mind, I was doing my absolute best to recapture the moments before I realized that it was Olivia, not Jordan, fucking that guy in the bedroom upstairs. I was imagining the sight of a big, thick cock stretching out
Jordan.
Jordan, talking like a dirty whore.

I was submerging the very fact I should have been relieved about, in favor of a lie I should have repelled: my wife, fucking another man like a whore.

I stayed where I was, pressed up against the door, for much longer than I needed to. Olivia and her man came down the stairs not much more than ten minutes later, after the upstairs shower ran for a bit. They exchanged unintelligible teen-talk in marble-mouthed voices, and then they left through the front door.

While I waited, I replayed the sight of Olivia's boyfriend's thick, veined cock moving in and out of her tight ass. Except it wasn't Olivia who was riding him, and it wasn't Olivia's big breasts flapping against her chest, and it wasn't Olivia's voice moaning over and over, “fill my ass full of cum.” In my mind, when the woman I had seen on the bed lifted her head finally, it was Jordan. Jordan mewling as another man filled her ass full of his cum.

My cock was screaming-in-pain hard, and it wasn't going away. There was precum staining my suit pants. I couldn't remember being this worked up in a long, long time.

But I waited ten minutes, almost savoring the excuse to torture myself by fantasizing about Jordan and another man, and then I dashed into the shower. I ripped my clothes off and left them in a heap. I pressed my hand against the shower wall and closed my fingers around my cock. It only took a few seconds to cum, with the sound of Jordan's voice saying “
I want an ass full of cum”
in my head, and the images of Olivia-Jordan's sore, distended asshole stretching wider and wider for her boyfriend's cock.

I looked down at the shower floor after I came, stunned as much by how I had acted as by what I was thinking. How much I liked thinking about what I was thinking. A few minutes passed before I noticed the water running over the back of my neck was cold.

I slammed the faucet to off and walked out of the shower, dripping water everywhere.

I found a pair of suit pants similar in color to the one I was wearing. I stuffed the others into a dry-cleaning bag.

Then, feeling still a little bit like a burglar in my own home, I slipped out the garage side door and cagily darted to my car.

I was losing it.

I felt guilty about watching Olivia with her boyfriend.

I felt extremely guilty for being turned on by it.

But I felt...a feeling I couldn't describe, a feeling I didn't know how to name, about the fact that my mind kept returning to the same fantasy over and over again. A fantasy in which I pushed the door open, and the face that I saw when she lifted her head to scream as a big cock went in her ass was not Olivia's at all. What did it mean that I kept replaying that scene, and enjoying it? If I enjoyed it more if it was Jordan, and not Olivia?

E
VIDENCE

A week later, I was parked down the street and around the corner with the lights off and my computer on, the car idling and the whole scene set up to look like I had pulled over to urgently do some business.

Yes. I sound crazy. I sounded crazy. I was acting crazy.

The pieces didn't fit. None of the pieces fit. The car switching, the bar, the clothes, the phone, the looks between Olivia and Jordan, the hot sex, the perfume...none of it fit.

At least that's what I told myself, to give myself a reason to be here. Stalking my house and my wife.

A cocktail of erotic jealousy was churning inside of me, and it was trumping all reason.

I was parked so that I could only see a sliver of our house: the front door, a part of the driveway. This car was not going to hide itself, or blend, but I figured that no one would look over here, and even if they did, the car looked like everyone else's car. Silver. Bulbous. New. Probably not very affordable.

What was it I was expecting to see? Hoping to see?

At work, thanks to this hobby, cases were falling apart, I was passing things off to Doug. I cited marital problems, problems with my teenage sons. Doug seemed happy to help, happy to have an excuse to stay at work all night.

I then made up the work at four in the morning. I had worked all weekend to make up for this nonsense.

I was burning the candle at both ends, and even though it had only been less than a week, I was starting to feel it. I was getting fucking old, I realized miserably. Even though I was on a high, delighting in the excitement and the danger and the...who knows what?...of spying on my wife, I was still getting sleepy.

Also, I had turned up nothing. Jordan had come home. She had stayed home. I had sat in the car, polluting the environment, making people suspicious, for nothing.

It was the fourth day of my “surveillance,” and I was starting to realize I was a fucking idiot.

My phone buzzed.

Home. 

God, she probably sees me out here. She probably thinks I'm having a mental breakdown.

I stared at the phone.

Probably best just to answer. I had rehearsed what I was going to say.

I stopped myself.
Only answer what you're asked. Volunteer nothing.

I swept my finger over the phone.

“Hey, honey,” I said.

I realized, then, that anyone could be calling me from home. I half-expected to hear Olivia's dry voice, telling me what a freak I was and how she was going to blackmail me, so that Jordan never found out I was hiding down the street spying on my own house.

“Hey...I'm just calling to see if you're coming home early..or, I guess...what time do you think you'll be home? I was assuming you'd be late....and I got a hankering so I...actually Olivia it pointed out, I was making french onion soup, so you might want it hot, right? If you're coming home for dinner or anytime near it”

A million alarm bells went off in my head.

Fake. Fake, fake, and fake. She would never make french onion soup on a Thursday.

Would she?

She wouldn't make it at all.

Olivia would never remember my favorite soup.

“I...french onion soup? Really?” I said. I was almost zealous. I was catching her, I knew, in some illicit “thing,” something that was making her tell me this crazy story. Something was funny. 

At the same time, my heart sank and my insides twisted.

What kind of “funny?” Odd-funny, or pain-funny? Lies and affairs and divorce-

Paddy, listen to yourself, Really. French onion soup? Means your wife is having an affair?

“Paddy? You there?”

“I...it's, my phone cut out. Did you say french onion soup?”

“I did. I just..you know, if you're going to be late, I'll just go to the gym now and make it when you get home. The kids already ate three loaves of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Olivia can wait. Or...like, if you won't be home at all...we'll just eat it ourselves.”

“He won't be home,” I heard Olivia's voice drone on near the mouthpiece. “He's working late, I told you already.”

Everything was literally normal here. 

But my mind was on a trail, and I was going to be led down it no matter what.
It could be a ploy of some kind.

“I'll be...” What should I say? An hour? A little late? Very late? What could I tell her that would prompt her to maybe go out with her lover?

I lied. “Sorry. Really late. Like eleven. Don't even worry about me.”

A pause.

“Oh, too bad. I figured I'd try.”

What was in her voice? Resignation? Disappointment? Excitement?

“Told ya,” Olivia said in the background.

How did we end the call? I barely remember. I was clearly being a fucking idiot. Olivia's responses seemed too natural, and I was just a sad little man trying to catch his loyal wife in an affair because I had seen a woman who looked like her in a bar and spun out of control fantasizing about her.

What was I going to do until eleven? I couldn't even work. My ass was cold and uncomfortable.

I could be home, eating french onion soup and getting some of the work I needed to do done, in a comfortable chair with a beer next to me.

Fuck, I was so stupid.

But I didn't move.

Ten minutes went by, with me thinking about how stupid I was. Headlights appeared in the gray asphalt of the street, and I looked down at my computer to give the appearance of being a busy businessman and not a stalker. I was parked around the bend from the direction all traffic entered the neighborhood. Another reason I knew no one would see my car: there was no way out his way; it dead-ended at a cul-de-sac about a quarter of a mile behind me.

But the lights did not swing around the corner and into my face, as I had expected. I looked up.

My heart skipped a beat. The beams of the headlights were shining against the garage door.

I strained to see the vehicle, but from where I was, I couldn't.

My heart started racing.

Jesus, Paddy, it's probably just some dipshit guy for Olivia.

But my heart wouldn't quiet, not with reason.

A friend of the kids'?

And then, the front door opened.

After so many days of seeing nothing, I was so shocked by this development I almost didn't trust my eyes. I rubbed them.

Out of the pool of light in the doorway stepped Jordan.

My heart sank for a moment. With disappointment. She was wearing a dumpy jacket, and carrying a duffel bag.

But then the details of the image began to reach me. Like shards of glass, each one sharp and painful, each one cutting into my eyes, into my heart. Each one deliciously damming, painfully undeniable. The puzzle shifted, my heart flopped, my chest began to hurt so much that I wasn't sure I wasn't having a heart attack.

And my cock, my crazy fucking cock, began to throb wildly in my pants.

Dumpy jacket, yes. Duffel bag, yes. Tennis shoes, even.

But as the jacket swung around her frame, I saw it.

Not sweats. Not yoga pants. Not biker shorts or any of the things she should be wearing.

No. Swimming underneath the dumpy jacket was:

The gray dress. 

Jordan's figure stopped and she swung open a car door. I put the car into drive. She was getting into a car. On the driver's side.

I edged forward after her figure disappeared. My lights were still off.

I turned the corner, and saw the red lights breaking at a speed bump about three hundred yards down the street. Around them, the bright yellow paint, and the endlessly repetitious digits, of Metro Taxi.

My mind went numb. Now what? Now what the fuck was this?

I followed the taxi.

Following a car while trying to fit impossible pieces of a puzzle together is no easy task.

I followed without thinking. I followed too closely. I watched Jordan's head in the back of the cab. Her hair was down, she was moving around. Bending over, holding something up to her face.

Getting ready. Getting ready for
what?

Why was my wife in a cab? Where was her car?

I'll just go to the gym.

I drove without thinking.

I drove without reasoning.

I felt so many things at once.

For one, I was vindicated. Wasn't I? She had lied to me. She had been the woman at the bar. Everything I had been doing had not been crazy, after all...but
real.

This was all real.

I felt the sadness that comes with losing. Losing a game, losing a case.

And then, I was also excited.

Yes, there was that. I was fucking excited. I was drooling on my steering wheel, thrilled to have caught her, thrilled that all of this was happening. I was excited about what I was going to see.

My fucking cock was getting hard. Driving my car, behind my wife, in a taxi.

The cab turned on Martin Luther King. Headed into town.

Jordan relaxed against the back of the seat, finished with whatever she had been doing.

I stared at the back of her head and almost rear-ended the cab at a red light.

And then, going through the intersection, the cabbie made a left turn. It was so sudden, so close to oncoming traffic, that I had no choice but to go straight. I turned and watched the cab disappear down Vispera, into a sea of traffic.
“Fuck!” I screamed. I pounded the steering wheel.

It was futile, but I turned around, nearly hitting a bicyclist, and pulled into Vispera. I drove for a mile or so, a little recklessly, in ways that could never be explained if I hit someone. I looked into every cab, but I knew I would never find her.

I pulled over, and put the car in park in a parallel parking space. Stared at the traffic of the Vispera, disappearing into the city.

She could be anywhere.