The Hotwife Summer (3 page)

“Now fuck me,” she said, and she leaned back on the table with her legs spread.

I started to move in and out of her, watching my own cock disappearing and withdrawing.

Summer treated me to a moan – and this, too, had improved in sound and quality since coming to Italy. Before, she had moaned as though under duress. Acting out a part that she knew I wanted her to play. After so many years of marriage, what could you expect?

But now her moan seemed to come from her abdomen, and it seemed to squeeze out of her like another creature, coated in her pussy juices. It was a sticky, wet, throaty moan – and there was nothing fake about it.

“Harder,” she breathed. She put her hand on my shoulder and started to pull me in and out of her faster.

She tipped her head back, and her white throat was exposed to me as she opened her mouth and moaned again. It was almost like I could see the moan in her throat, like a cock, like my cock was going to be...

“Pound me harder,” she mewled.

She began to move her own hips to get me deeper inside of her. She pulled and tugged until we were slapping against each other furiously, and the smacks of our skin were echoing around the room.

The boiling water began to spill over onto the stove, and sizzle on its hot surface. I looked over at the stove, and Summer gave it a quick glance, but she looked back down at my cock without giving the stove much thought. She threw her arms around me, grasping my ass and imprisoning me in a vice grip with her legs.

“Don't stop!” she said.

Summer of only two weeks ago would never have let water boil over onto a natural gas stove while she clutched me with her legs and pulled my cock deeper and deeper inside of her. She twisted and tossed her hair. Sweat was gathering on her forehead, on her upper lip, on her cheeks. Her pussy was getting tighter, and her stomach was crunching up into a tight ball. She was no longer looking at me, or anything in the room – her eyes closed and her face contorted as she thought only of herself, pulling her pussy up and down my shaft with her legs.

When she came she screamed. She didn't try to hold it back, even though the kitchen window was open and everyone in the building would hear her. The scream was not a scream that could be mistaken for any other kind of scream, either: it was coated in sex like my cock was coated in her juices.

The pot continued to sizzle as water splashed out onto the surface. I concentrated on this sound, because I didn't want to come just yet.

Summer's promise still invited me, and I hoped she hadn't forgotten it.

She leaned forward on my cock, ceasing her pumping. Her pussy spasmed around me, a fist of flesh squeezing and releasing my shaft. The scent of her cum, and her body, filled the kitchen and drowned out even the onions.

She slid down between us, without my cock even coming completely out of her until her feet hit the floor, and then she escaped quickly. She hopped to the stove and turned off the burner.

It was prudent, I realized: the flame had gone out and we would blow up the apartment if we weren't careful. The scent of natural gas reached my nose.

It was dangerous, but Summer seemed unaffected by it. She turned to me, and approached me. My cock was still throbbing, and my mind was humming with the promise she had made: the promise of her mouth enclosing my cock. The promise to lick her own pussy juices off of my shaft.

She smiled at me, and for a moment she teased me. Just using her eyes, which somehow smiled mischievously.

She knew that she had me, utterly enslaved to her at that moment. It was an unusual thing for Summer, to take control this way. She swayed from side to side, and she ran her tongue along her teeth.

She knew that all I wanted was for her to touch my cock, in any way. To drop her eyes and look at it.

She teased me a little longer, and then she looked down. A faint smile appeared on her lips. She moved closer, and her hand moved, palm upward, beneath my stiff cock. She didn't enclose her hand around it, like my cock was screaming for her to do. She met my eyes, and her jaw shifted slightly – cockily – before she smiled again, and kissed my chest. Her hands trailed down my shirt, which I had never taken off, and she kissed me through the fabric. Once, on the nipple. Again, on my chest. A third time, her body sinking down achingly slowly, on my abdomen.

A fourth time, and this time her lips pressed to my skin right on my pelvis.

So close.

Her lips touched my thigh.

I looked down. She was looking up at me, her eyes filled with a combination of lust, mischief, power, hunger. I sucked in my breath.

Her hand was around my cock now, and she moved her lips just half a centimeter from the dripping tip of it as she moved to the other side of my body and kissed my other thigh.

She pushed her hand back to the base of my cock, exposing the long shaft, and she stroked it with her eyes, her mouth just in front of the tip.

I was screaming in pain by now, but I was enjoying watching her. Watching her watch my cock with such interest.

Her juices were drying now, clinging to my cock. I could smell her, still, a layer of honey stuck to my dick. I knew she could smell herself, and that she would have her own slightly sour, mostly sweet taste in her mouth soon...

She began by placing the flat of her tongue at he very base of my cock, and then licking outward. One long lick, to the tip of my cock. I shuddered.

Another.

At the tip of my cock, she opened her mouth wide, as though she were going to take me inside of her.

But she went down the side of my cock instead, running her tongue along it like cat cleaning up its fur. Again and again, until I thought I would burst.

She pressed her lips together, like she eating an ice cream cone.

Then she looked up at me, and paused with her mouth open near the tip of my cock.

“Say you want it,” she said.

I placed my hand on her head, and pushed her forward gently. She smiled as my cock disappeared into her red, wet mouth. Inch by inch. She closed her lips around it, and without taking her eyes off mine, she let me move her head back and forth, all the way to the base of my cock as she had never done before.

She was still looking at me when I let out a mangled statement: “I'm going to come,” I said, and the muscles of my abdomen squeezed tightly.

Instead of pulling away and jerking me off onto her tits, as she had surprised me by doing the night before, she grasped my ass with both hands and drove me deeper into her mouth than I had ever been before.

I tried to pull out, but she held me firmly in her throat, her hair falling over her face and my cock buried all the way to the very base.

I yelled as I burst inside of her, and could not stop myself from giving a few thrusts into her face. But she simply closed her throat and her lips over me, and took me in, all the way, and swallowed my seed.

When she pulled her mouth from my cock, she gave her lips a quick little wipe, and stood up in a bouncy, girlish way. She straightened her skirt out, and smoothed it against her skin.

I stood, shocked, and made no effort to do anything with myself. She gave me an amused looking-over, turned to the stove, and began to finish her dinner preparations.

After I got myself back together again, I approached her, and reached around her waist. Usually, if I ever managed to catch her cooking at home, she pushed me away hurriedly. Now she paused, and let herself absorb the kiss I delivered to the nape of her neck. “What was
that?
” I said.

She shrugged, as if it were something she did all the time, like adding raisins on a whim to a salad. She held a string of spaghetti up and inspected it.

She flung it toward the wall, and it missed. She laughed, and fetched another one. She tilted her head back, and slowly dropped the spaghetti into her mouth.

Knowing full well, I am sure, that I would think of the way she had just swallowed my cock.

C
HAPTER
3
: Not My Wife

In the Biblioteca Angelica, a golden-white light bathes the main floor. It is yellow from the old glass that fills the window, and it is yellowed by the dust in the air. There is a solemn, mildewed, academic air to the place. It was perfect for doing research, and I had been desperate to come here and spend my time in Italy absorbed in the old documents of the archives. For me, there was no greater pleasure than handling the real documents, sitting with them among the dusty shelves, and occasionally extracting a secret from the wizened archivist who fetched them for me.

I had arrived later than I had hoped to, charmed back into bed by my wife. I had still managed to seize a lovely work area. But try as I might, the things I should have been enjoying – watching the yellow light, smelling the annals of history – were doing almost nothing for me. I was having a very hard time concentrating on any of it.

I tried to force myself. After all, at the end of this excursion, I had to have more to show for my grant money than a memoir of great sex with my wife. I screwed my face up in concentration. I even resorted to an old trick I had used to get myself through university: if I read twenty pages diligently, I could have five minute of time to think about whatever I wanted.

And what I wanted was easy to conjure. 

When I looked at the documents, the words on the page turned into the shapes of Summer's body. The musty air turned sweeter and sweeter until the only thing I could smell was the scent of her body.

There was the other matter that was filling my head, and this went beyond just general horniness. It was Summer herself, who seemed to be transforming each day of our stay in Rome. She was becoming bolder and more sexual. She was trying new things in the bedroom.

She was engaging my fantasies, and driving me wild.

What had begun as talk, and fantasy, and then a game, had begun to seem almost real to me. It was intoxicating, but I wasn't sure if it had gone too far already. I kept sipping at it, though. The way I had trouble having a last drink when I was already too drunk. 

I couldn't remember how the game had begun. I am sure we had been drinking wine, and too much of it. We had discovered, one evening, that we could crawl onto the fire escape in our courtyard, and that it was very pleasant having wine there in the summer heat. Summer almost always overheated the kitchen in her zeal to practice her new skills.

She had almost knocked me off of the fire escape with surprise when she reached into her shirt and pulled out two cigarettes. She tossed her hair back from her face – she had been wearing it down all the time except for while cooking – and she looked almost as young as when I had met her, in university. “I found a guy,” she said, “who will sell them individually, down the street.”

We hadn't smoked for twelve years. She had liked having one or two a week, when we were younger, but she quit when it wasn't possible to buy singles from anyone, anywhere. She didn't trust herself.

“I feel like it's okay,” I said, “to smoke while you're in Europe.”

So we had taken to smoking one cigarette on our fire escape, drinking wine with every dinner, laughing until late at night and then having sex. Nearly every night.

The conversation turned to her cooking class one night, and perhaps because I was drunk, I led her down the path of my fantasy a little. The only surprising thing was that she went so willingly.

“So,” I had probably said. “Your instructor is still hot?”

She had turned to me, and tipped her head to the side.
Do you want him to be?
She had said. Or something like that. Something in a low, whiskeyed voice. Something that sounded like Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate. Whatever it was, it seized my insides like a giant's fist.

She was smiling. She was teasing. She moved her bare foot along my calf.

“You like thinking about me with other men?” she said.

She wasn't shy about it, the way she would have been before we came to Italy. The question was direct, and her lips were parted in a seductive grin. Her toes worked its way under my pants.

This is not my wife
, I remember thinking. Aliens had abducted the Summer I knew, because even at the height of our falling in love, she wasn't like this. She was ready for a good time back then, but she didn't want to talk dirtily to me about my fantasies – not the real ones. And she had never been so forward.

A sense of danger began to smolder inside of me. It was a feeling of uneasiness, of suddenly having let a steering wheel slip from your hands, or having closed your eyes for a second to long. I felt like I was losing control of myself, and in a way, of Summer.

But this feeling was overruled by my cock. Especially when Summer reached over and put her hand on my crotch. Her eyes widened when she felt how hard I was. “You do,” she purred, and my head was reeling so it took me a moment to remember what it was that I
did.
I did like thinking about her with other men.

Her smile changed now. I wouldn't be able to describe it to anyone if I tried for a million years. It was not a smile of friendliness, or complicity, or pleasure. It was a smile of amusement – and there are many shades of amusement. There is amusement at someone else's expense. There is sadistic amusement. There is mischievous amusement, psychopathic amusement, vengeful amusement, selfish amusement. Plain old-fashioned amusement , not meant to be at anyone's expense.

I cannot say, to this day, which kind of amusement flickered at Summer's mouth as she leaned close to my lips and whispered:

“You like thinking about me with the chef, don't you?”

The wine got the better of me. The wine, my surprise, the way she was rubbing my cock gently through the material of my pants.

“Hey!” a voice yelled out in the dark. “
Andate voi a prendere una stanza
!”

Summer surprised me by waving her hand at the darkness in an obscene Italian gesture, and in a deep voice that mimicked a male baritone, which she always used to imitate Italians from Staten Island, she called out, “Hey!
Vai all'inferno!
”  

“Now,” she said, turning back to me, and it could have been anything that she had in store for me. I was feeling both incredibly excited, and afraid. “We had better get inside, just in case that guy is big.”

That evening ended on a light note because of her flippant – and suspiciously good – Italian remarks.  We were laughing like two kids when we got back into the apartment, and she imitated the goon from downstairs several times. We both forgot about my being turned on by the idea of her with “the chef.”

But it came up again, several nights later. She was late coming home, and I had waited in the darkening apartment for what seemed like an eternity, but was really only an hour.

We hadn't gotten cellphones in Italy. It had been part of our plan to slow down and enjoy life more.

I had no one to call, and I tried not to let my mind go to dark places. But I did. I poured myself too much wine, and began to get jealous in my living room at 8pm.

I had begun to indulge in my own dark fantasies about Summer more and more every day. As she became more sexually vigorous, and adventurous, I started to think about what it was that had changed her. I knew that it could be Italy – the frescoes, the romance dripping off of every wall and restaurant and passer-by. I knew it could also just be that she had some free time, and she could finally relax.

But I enjoyed glossing over those possibilities, and finding another reason. A darker reason.

I liked to think that she was learning all her new tricks in her “cooking” class.

Her chef asked her to stay late, to show her a new technique.

Maybe she almost lit the kitchen on fire, and had no other way to make financial amends.

Maybe she never even went to a cooking class. Maybe she was having an affair with a sexy chef she met in a restaurant. Maybe he wasn't even a chef; maybe he was just someone. Someone Italian and muscular, manly and rich.

No, she called him “the chef” far too often.

At first, in my fantasies, she and the chef would fuck against a wall. But the more she swallowed my cock and guided my fingers to make circles around her anus, the more I started to imagine her in dirtier, more contorted positions. Her chef got larger and larger in my imagination, and her pussy stretched out more and more to accommodate him. She squealed while he barreled his cock into her tight ass, and licked at the air while he splattered his cum all over her tits.

The fantasies made me hard. It was clearly where my mind wanted to go, because I always went there. I sometimes went there while she had her lips spread around the base of my cock.

But then the fantasies also made some sharp thing twist inside of me.

My head felt like it was expanding and getting hotter with every second. Blood was pounding everywhere inside of me, knocking against my arteries, flushing my face, hardening my dick. Images layered on top of each other, and in every one of them Summer's holes gaped wider and were filled by an even bigger man, and her moans became exquisitely sexual, like her cum had turned

I was losing it. I knew I was, even then.

Around 9pm, which was not late in Rome and certainly not late for our new lifestyle, she came through the door. She had several grocery bags looped around her arms, and she stumbled a little as she pushed through the door. The bags fell to the ground and vegetables gave hollow thunks as they rolled across the tile floor.

“A little help here,” she said, laughing and chasing after some tomatoes.

In my self-inflicted fury, I had just sat in my chair, watching her, accusing her in my mind.

Or was I enjoying the accusations I had come up with? Still watching a cock slide through her open pussy?

As I watched her, clumsily chasing the tomatoes and laughing as they rolled away from her, my thoughts became dark again.

She
seemed
drunk. And why would she
be
drunk and coming home late when we always had standing plans now? Or why hadn't she called?

Realizing, suddenly, like waking from a dream, that I was being an idiot, I jumped up and started to help her.

“What's with you?” she said, looking at my face, which I could not make stop frowning.

I set the tomatoes down on the counter after standing up. I let out a sigh, and realized that I also had very little I could legitimately be mad about.

“You're awfully late,” I said weakly.

Summer was already on to another topic, which infuriated me. “They have these little purple tomatoes down the street. They're so sweet they taste like candy. Here, try one.”

I swatted the tomato away as she held it to my lips. “That's been on the floor,” I said grumpily.

As the words were leaving my mouth, I felt like a child, but I couldn't stop myself.

Summer popped the tomato into her mouth and again the expression of amusement that I find so hard to describe flickered across her face. “What's with you?” she said.

But she didn't seem truly concerned.

Or did she?

“You seem tipsy,” I said, deflecting.

She put a hand on her hip. “I am,” she answered, matter-of-factly. Then she started digging into her bag again.

I felt the slip again. The feeling that I was losing some kind of control. I mean, what in the hell was wrong with me? My wife was one hour late, and she had some wine, and she went grocery shopping in Italy. She was smiling and happy, and I was acting like a child.

But something about Summer's cool answer was what was bothering me.

Pre-Italy Summer would have had more to say about this. Pre-Italy Summer could never let anything go without explaining it fully and to death. She would have told me where she had been, and then analyzed why I was upset, and then discussed which part of my childhood made me feel that way. She would have done all of this without me ever having to say anything.

The old Summer would not have teased me by bursting a cherry tomato the color of ox blood in her mouth, letting it drip over her lips, smiling a mysterious smile, and then digging silently in the bag of groceries.

She wasn't just getting out the groceries, either. She was waiting for me to respond.  She was teasing me. She knew she was infuriating me and turning me on.

This was hot – don't get me wrong. But it was just another thing that made me uneasy. It was so unlike her. Part of me liked it. Okay, my cock
really
liked it. My cock was doing all of the thinking as I watched her finger swiped the juice of the tomato she popped from her lip, and then suck on it.

She couldn't
actually
be doing that, and leaving me in the dark about where she had been after her cooking class with the hot chef, and not
know
what she was doing, right?

She placed another cherry next to her lips as she turned to me. She didn't eat it, she just held it there, brushing it lightly over her plump lips, amused in that indescribable way. She was watching me, watching my reactions. She knew exactly what she was doing.