The Hotwife Summer (4 page)

“Can you pour me a glass of wine?” she said, and her voice poured out of her throat like bourbon.

As I was pouring it, I could take it no longer. “Who did you go out with?” I squeaked.

She gave the little twist of her hips that she had started doing. Inviting, teasing, admonishing all at once.

“The instructor. Some people from class. We had a test today.”

Her eyes were sparkling and full of an unusual sentiment. She was being naughty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, and I decided to play along, even though she was half-freaking me out. “And how did you do on your test?”

She took a step toward me, so that her breasts were close to me but not touching.

“That's the thing,” she said, and she added a little frosting of bimbo to her voice. “I burnt my cream filling. There's almost no coming back from that.” She fluttered her eyes up at me. “But I managed to work something out.”

“Did you?” My voice was hoarse.

She shrugged, and suddenly she was looking at me as though I were an idiot. She popped the tomato in her mouth and crushed it. “Of course,” she said casually. “I am actually a terrible, terrible cook.”

There was a silence between us, and I could have cut through the sticky tension and heat with a knife.

“Do you want to know how I'm passing all of my tests?” she said. Teasing.

A sickening and exciting, electric and cold shiver gripped my entire torso. I could barely find a way to make my head move up and down.

“It's very naughty,” she said. “Do you still want to know?”

She was doing that light twisting. Fluttering her eyes. She was putting on a porno-grade act. It was almost as if she were somehow siphoning off my thoughts and my fantasies, and turning them to real life.

She placed her hands on my belt, where it buckled, and now her mouth was close to mine. “Are you sure?” she said, her lips just centimeters from mine. “This is your wife, the one who raises your children. Kisses you goodnight. Maybe you don't want to know all the dirty things I've done with my mouth to make the grade in my cooking class.”

Her fingers were working the belt out of the loops now. Unzipping the zipper, with her eyes never leaving mine.

Yes, I wanted to know. Yes, I wanted them to be dirty.

When she had freed my cock from my boxer shorts, it was so hard that it stood at attention, straight out. As she slid to her knees to show me how she made the grade in her cooking class, she let the tip of it trail from her navel, between her breasts, along her neck, and to her lips.

She looked up at me. “The chef,” she said sweetly, “has a lot bigger cock to swallow. So it will be even easier for me to show you what I do.”

I could not actually believe she was saying this stuff.

Really, actually saying it. I pinched my own arm to make sure I hadn't just passed out on the armchair drinking too much wine while I waited for her to come home.

“Do you want me to tell you more about his big cock?” She was smiling. “Or do you just want me to show you what I do?”

She reached up as she was saying this, and held my cock to her mouth almost like it was a microphone and she was speaking into it. She brushed it over her lips, letting the dabble of precum stain them like gloss.

I had to squeeze myself like an accordion to get the words to leave my mouth. “Show me.” My voice was barely a whisper.

Is that what I wanted? Maybe I wanted her to talk some more.

She looked at me hopefully, and then it seemed like she was reading my mind. Her hand moved back and forth very slowly on my cock. “The first time I sucked his cock,” she said, “I was a little bit surprised by how big it was. It's been such a long time since I've seen another man's cock.” She looked now at mine, as though examining it. Her hand continued to move up and down my shaft. “But maybe I expected it to be that big. He's just...the kind of man you expect to have a big cock.”

I sucked in my breath.

“Why's that?” I managed to say.

I was so glad I didn't have to ask her to keep going, to keep saying exactly what she was saying. Whether it was truth or fantasy, she had figured out that I wanted to hear it. I wanted every word to leave her mouth as sticky and wet as another man's cum.

“He's just so...commanding,” she said. “He takes what he wants. He gets what he wants. I guess you just expect a man like that to have a big cock.”

“How big?”

Now her eyes met mine. “So big,” she said, and every word was wet and full in her mouth. “I could barely. Get. My. Mouth. Around. It.”

She looked at me, her face some strange combination of amusement and pleasure. Her hand was moving up and down my shaft, but not fast enough to make me explode all over her face, as I was imagining myself doing. Imagining the chef doing. Imagining these two things, along with a lot of other dirty scenes.

But I was also watching her mouth, waiting for her to take me inside of her.

“I just really, really, wanted,” she licked at the tip of my cock, and the hot wet sensation of her tongue against my flesh shuddered through me and coiled up inside of me. “To pass this class. So here's what I did. You tell me if it's any good.”

And then, without saying another word, she opened her mouth wide, and swallowed my cock.

All the way into her throat, all the way to the base, until it was absorbed by the soft flesh deep in her neck. My cock was surrounded by her heat, her soft mouth, and then: she started to squeeze something, somehow, deep in her throat. It felt like someone had managed to rub my cock through her neck.

I turned my face up to the ceiling, because between the view of her eyes looking up at me, and her mouth spread around the base of my cock, and the sensation at the tip of my member, I was almost ready to burst already. Add to all of that the images I had created, of her sucking off this mysterious chef, and his gigantic cock filling her throat, and I was almost done for.

I felt her lips sliding up and down my cock, and one more image flashed through my mind, of her on her knees, gagging on the thick dick of an Italian chef, his hands in her silky hair, pushing her further and further down his shaft – and then I felt myself go past the point of no return.

She pulled my cock from her throat, and rubbed my climax out of me over her open mouth. I was so tightly strung it only took a few quick strokes. My cum sprayed into the air, and fell onto her face in wet globs. She moved her open mouth to get some of it inside of her, and she licked at the splatters on her lips.

I had already come, but her tongue moving along her lips sent new shudders of ecstasy through me, as she swallowed me, accepted me, tasted me.

I watched, still shaking with the last gripping waves of my orgasm, as she lifted her fingers to her face and rubbed the splatters of cum into her skin.

My mouth was hanging open already, so perhaps nothing changed on my face, but it felt like her fingers had worked their way from her face to inside my balls, and were now milking another hard cock out of me. I felt a shudder course through me, and I expelled a gasp of air.

It was so hot.

It was so unlike her.

When she stood up, I could smell the salty, pleasantly sour scent of my cum on her face. It was pasted to her with a light sheen, quickly drying. She was close to me as she whispered: “This way,” and she let the pause linger between us, while the anticipation turned inside of me, “you'll think it's only your cum smeared all over my face.”

Changing her tone almost immediately, she straightened her clothing, and found a lipstick in her underwear – a place from which, I'd noticed, she had been pulling a lot of things lately. She applied a bright red, and pressed her lips together as she turned to me. She gave them a little pop.

A smile.

“Let's go out to dinner,” she said. “I'm famished.”

C
HAPTER
4
: The Plan

Summer was looking through the still-busy street, her mouth slightly open and her jaw moving from left to right in her signature expression of indignant disbelief. On the table before us were two wine glasses, still half-full; a clean ashtray, just changed by the waiter; and our crumpled napkins. The restaurant had done an excellent job of sweeping away our ten or so cigarette butts, our empty wine bottles, and the plates with nothing left on them but shells and a few stray splatters of chocolate. We had really outdone ourselves.

“I can't believe you thought I was
serious,”
Summer repeated, for the tenth time.

But her face was not entirely displeased.

Somewhere in the course of our dinner, and certainly long after we had consumed a lot of wine, I had brought up the evening's encounter. How hot it was.

I didn't think I had mentioned that I thought it was something she really did. But I must have, because here she was repeating, over and over again, that she couldn't believe I had thought that it was.

The thrilling thing was, she had not gotten up from the table, thrown a napkin or a glass of wine at me, and stomped off. Which is how I always imagined it would be if I confessed my secret desire to see her with another man.

“
Seriously
?” she said, again. She turned toward me, and she leaned on the table. Her posture was inviting, rather than repelled. “You're not just..fucking with me or something?”

I felt like I was walking on early spring ice. I wasn't sure if I should, as the Russians suggested, move quickly, or if I should retreat.

“I know it sounds strange,” I said. I had this part memorized, because I often played this conversation out in the car on my way to work. I just never really thought I would actually be saying it to her.

A bus pulled away from us, close to the curb, and a cloud of diesel filled the air. Summer took a sip of her wine and smiled. She toasted the air, or nothing in particular. “Ah, Rome,” she said. “We might as well smoke all we want.” She took out another cigarette and held it in her hand, close to her cheek, with out lighting it.

“I just don't get...what's the appeal? I mean I would be
murderous
if I saw you fucking some other woman. Just so you know.”

But she was leaning on the table, looking into my eyes, and her own eyes were bright and interested.

She was actually interested.

Oh god,
I thought to myself.
Make it good.

“Look,” I said. “I'm not even really sure myself. It's just...a fantasy. I mean, can you really explain all the things you fantasize about?”

She had confided a few things to me that evening. Some of them were very, very dirty. She fantasized about anal sex, but was quick to add that she didn't like the idea of actually doing it. Just thinking about it.

To my surprise, she looked upward, and gave my statement some thought. “Okay,” she said. “Fair enough.”

She leaned back in her chair. “I just...I mean, you
actually want
me to do it?”

I nodded, because she was sweeping me up in a spell, and my cock was getting hard and robbing my entire body of blood. She was on the cusp of perhaps agreeing to my fantasy; she was like a doe in the forest. I didn't want to startle her.

“So if I said, 'I want to fuck the Italian chef,' you would be like, 'Okay, as long as I can watch?'” She was no longer looking at me, but away, with an expression of incredulity.

I waited for eyes to return to mine.

“Yes,” I said. I chose my tone carefully I wanted her to know that I was serious.

She was holding the cigarette in her fist, still unlit.

Her eyes revealed nothing about what she was thinking.

“And you wouldn't get jealous?”

How to explain this one? I had tried, so many times, in the car by myself, to come up with something simple to explain to her.

“It's not that,” I said, and I searched for the right words.

“The jealousy is part of the thing,” she finished for me. As if she knew all about it.

I looked at her as she lit her cigarette.

She suddenly seemed so different. Like who Summer would have been if I had never married her, and we had never had kids. The Summer I might have seen here, at another table, laughing with her girlfriends, or fighting with another man. Her face looked younger and just slightly different – like she was her own sister. Not Cora, but another sibling, who had all the elements of Summer's face, ever-so-slightly changed. Aged differently. Beneath them, a different personality simmering.

Candles flickered in the light breezes made by the traffic. The air smelled of cigarettes and coffee. Dishes clattered everywhere around us, and at all the tables there were couples in conversations like ours. Wives, lost in thought.

Her eyes moved back to mine, and the glimmered.

“I mean, okay. If that's what you really want...okay.”

I said nothing. I was afraid of breaking the mirage.

“I can actually make this happen,” she warned. “You really want this?”

My cock was so hard I was starting to feel dizzy.

I just nodded again.

Summer smiled, her jaw shifting, and she looked out into the street. Thinking.

THE NEXT DAY

“I've arranged it all,” she said.

She climbed on top of me. I was between her tight, tanned thighs, and her breasts tantalized me from above, beneath her shirt but just within grasp. I was getting so strung up I thought I would snap and burst all over her pretty flowered dress just listening to her talk. She seemed to know that, and she moved over my body seductively, and lifted her hair up in a pile on top of her head while she spoke. “If you want to get out of this,” she said. “Now is the time to do it.”

“Do you want to get out of it?” I asked, but I did it quietly, and only because I felt it had to be said. I wanted desperately for this to really happen. My voice was a whisper.

She leaned close to me, and she was smiling, knowing that she had me on the hook. She knew what I wanted her to say, and she wanted to tease me just a little longer. “Hmmmm,” she hummed in my ear.

“No,” she said. “No, I want to go ahead with it.” Her words worked their way up and down my shaft like a lubed palm. I grasped her and quickly turned her over on the bed.

“Tell me what you'll let him do,” I said, taking my chances that she would play along. I think, at the time, that I still didn't really believe she would go through with it the end. In the back of my mind I still believed that she was taking me on an elaborate, fun fantasy ride, and it would all come to a halt when she backed out of it at the last minute.

And truth be told, I wasn't sure I really wanted her to go through with it, 100%.

Yes, I did. Very much.

No. Not really.

Even though my wife was new to how my mind worked with this fantasy, she seemed to have a tap to my own thoughts and desires.

“Anything he wants,” she purred.

I moved my hand down to between her thighs, and I was pleased to find she was soaking wet. I slipped a finger into her, then another. She mewled.

“Will you let him finger you like this?”

She moaned a little as she breathed: “If he wants to.”

“Harder?” I pushed my hand forcefully inside of her.

She closed her eyes like a napping cat and purred again. “Yes.”

I worked another finger into her, and clawed at her from the inside. Her body shook and she howled in a low voice. “Deeper?” I demanded.

She made a sound that meant nothing, and was only pleasure.

I hastily unbuckled my belt, and got myself inside of her.

“He'll want it rougher than that,” she said, opening her eyes. “He'll want to fuck me until I can't walk.” She gave me an insolent grin.

Jesus.

I thrust myself deep inside of her, and she squealed.

She held her hands up to her thighs, and pulled them open.

“Is that what you'll do?” I breathed. My cock was so hard I felt like I would burst any second.

“I'll let him fill me up with all of his hot, Italian, cock.”

Fuck.
I could feel myself so close to tipping over the edge. I slowed, and she looked disappointed.

“What's the matter?” she smiled. “You can't fuck me like a man?”

I pushed myself deep into her, and she rolled her eyes back and bit her lip. “That's what I'll let him do to me. All the way inside while I hold my legs open for him and let him pound his cum into my pussy until it's full...”

I didn't hear the rest of what she said. As soon as she said “pound,” I could feel myself bubbling over, and I was yelling and straining against my own skin while I filled her up as she went on and on in her dirtiest and most seductive voice. My mind filled with images of her Italian chef between her legs, spread wide by her own two hands, pumping himself deep inside of her while she screamed in pleasure. Fucking her thoroughly, turning her inside-out.

But the blood was pounding too hard in my ears to hear anything she said.  

The plan was elegant in its simplicity, and easy to execute. Summer perched on a chair next to the window and told me about it with her foot extended to my crotch, her pleasure growing as she told me the details and my cock got harder and harder.

Friday the class was going to eat at some famous restaurant, a former student's place. Some well-kept secret that was going to make it big as soon as her instructor gave the word and endorsed it. It was a lesson for the class in some particular kind of cooking.

Seafood or something. My mind wandered while she gave me all these details. I watched her mouth moving and imagined her biting her lip while her chef pushed his cock inside of her.

Spouses were welcome. I could go with her, tease myself through part of dinner, pretend to be called away for some important…

She paused, her eyes skyward.

“A meeting,” I offered.

“Yeah, okay. A historical emergency. The archives are on fire. Whatever.”

Her words were deliberately acidic. How could she know, I wondered, what would sink into me like liquid sex?

Her eyes were sparkling as she told me the next part: she would stay late, lure him here, and I would be tucked away in the closet to watch.

“What if he doesn't go for it?”

Summer lifted her chin haughtily. It was so fucking hot, what was happening to her. She raised an eyebrow. “He'll go for it,” she said, with absolute confidence.

I was looking at a piece of paper. My eyes unfocused. My thoughts scattered.

She moved her foot over my cock. “How do you know he hasn't already?”

I let my arm drop, setting my wine glass on the floor.

Keep talking.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder.

“How do you know he hasn't had me already? All kinds of ways. Ways you would never be man enough to even think about?”

“Like what.” I whispered, a statement more than a question.

She smiled. “Maybe you have to wait and see.”

It's a game, Ben.

I forced a smile. Mostly, I
was
smiling. But part of me was wondering, even then, if I wasn't being taken on some kind of ride.

“You have to promise me something, though.”

Anything,
I heard myself say.