John’s car is pulling into traffic. The driver eases out behind him, and it’s all clicking into place, like the universe itself wants me to catch Effy tonight. “Yeah, man, sure, whatever.” I look in my wallet, and pull out a hundred.
I’ll give you one piece of advice, in the event you ever have to try and prove your wife is having an affair, and it’s this: carry cash.
The driver’s eyes take in the bill, and then he is focused like a laser on the road. I hold on to the back of the seat and stare out the windshield, my heart pounding in my chest.
Tonight, I think, is the night.
~~~
It’s clear to me once we pass Riverdale Parkway and head north on the interstate that we’re headed to Breckridge. As the city falls away and the bland suburban tracts spread out around us, I sober up a little and start to lose interest in the chase. I lean back in the seat and stare emptily out the window. I’m less convinced it’s John now, though I can’t say why. I just don’t picture Effy out here, driving so long through the strip malls and the industrial parks to Breckridge, eating at an Applebee’s or something.
I should have gone to the office, kept my eyes on the real target: my wife.
It’s what I’ll do after we follow John, because I have too much pride to tell the cabbie to turn around now.
“Where you from?” I say to him.
He gives me a look in the mirror. “I’m from Dakar,” he says.
If I were sober, I'd know where that is, but at the moment I don't and there's not much to say. So I nod.
If the cabbie wants to know why I'm following this car, he doesn't let on. His eyes are keen and relaxed at the same time. I don't know exactly where Dakar is but I do know it's one of those places where you probably are best off shutting the hell up.
I see John's car gliding off the interstate, headed to his house. I know I should probably follow him all the way, since I've come so far, but the task suddenly irritates me. My mood turns sour.
Turns out John lives like twenty seconds from the exit, in one of those clusters of houses behind a sound barrier. He pulls into his driveway, and I make a quick sweep of the street while I sink down to hide myself in case he looks into the cab. The cabbie drives on by like he does this business all the time. “You want me to go once around the blog?” he says, quiet and calm. Jesus, what a guy. I'm definitely going to tip this James-Bond-guy.
“Nah,” I say. “Keep going. We have to head back downtown.”
The cabbie doesn't even shrug, he just keeps on going. He doesn't care what I'm doing, and I guess I like that about him. There's a part of me that wants to spill my guts, though. A part of me, the whole silent way back downtown, that wouldn't mind just confessing all my deep, dark secrets.
I direct him to the office building, twenty floors of a 34-story architectural nightmare, one of those quickly-built buildings that makes the city look like it got a coat of Dubai stuck to it, and my request is met with the same indifference.
If it's not John, I think, then who is it? I'm running out of time here, running out of options.
I decide to get out of the cab, no matter what I find at the office. I have him stop at the corner, a block away, and give him a big tip, which he takes with the same disaffect that he's done everything else.
Then I creep up to the building.
That's when I realize I am fucked.
I don't have my card pass for the parking garage, and it's locked up for the night with the steel doors down.
I sit down on the steps of an adjacent building, the door to a closed coffee shop. Man, I'm still pretty trashed. I hold my head for a second, hoping it'll straighten me out.
There's no way in. There's no way in except to call Effy, and that would really tip my hand. Anyway, what good would it do? If she's here, she'll just think I'm an idiot. She'll smile her wry little smile and shake her head. I'll look like a fool.
And if she isn't here?
My thumb pauses, hovering over her picture on the screen of my phone. In the picture, she doesn't look particularly like herself. I can't say why.
If she isn't here, and she ran off with her lover, I still won't get what I want by calling her. In fact, it would only let her know that I'm on to her, and that would set me back even further.
I sigh, and step to the curb to hail a cab.
~~~
I hear her when she comes home. Rattle of the door; keys on the hook – no casual toss onto the counter for Effy – shoes onto the shoe rack, refrigerator open, then closed. The ring of a glass on the marble counter, the trickle of wine into the crystal. I imagine her standing there, lights off, staring out the window at the yard lit by pale moonlight.
I could sneak up on her. Stand behind her, put my arms around her, brush her hair to the side and inhale her scent, right at the soft hollow between her neck and her shoulder blade, or just below her hairline where the smell of her gathers most potently, mingles with her shampoo, and sends my cock into an uproar.
Then I could get my hands underneath that new, strange choice of blouse, feel her skin, run my fingers over her stomach. What would I find there? Would I scrape over the dried film of another man's cum? Would Effy let a man like John kneel above her naked body and spray his creamy seed all over her tits?
My cock is getting hard just thinking about it.
If I slid my fingers into her panties, would they be cool and wet against my knuckles? Would I dip my fingers into her pussy and find it sloshing with the mingled cum of another man and her own, terrific orgasms? And what if I brought that salty-sweet cum to her mouth, and let her know she'd been caught?
My stomach goes cold. Then what?
But by now Effy is moving through the house. I can hear her soft footsteps in the hallway, though just barely. Effy is classically trained in almost everything you can imagine. She has long, lean fingers that play the piano, and long lean limbs that have gone to ballet class just long enough to make her move like a dancer though not long enough – thank God – to ruin her feet.
She goes to the closet and closes the door to turn on the light. Effy does not throw clothing on the floor, no matter how late she comes home. I hear her unzip her tidy skirt, the scratch of hangers on the bars of the closet.
When she steps out of the closet she’s in just her lingerie. I eye her through half-closed eyelids. The lingerie is black, lacy at the edges and silky against her snatch. Effy does a very naughty thing and waxes herself to nothing. I consider it naughty because it obsesses me, the feel of it, and I can't get enough. But you must admit that you have to wonder about yourself when you like the feel of a bare pussy so much.
Moving on. The lingerie, I am slightly disappointed to see, do not seem rumpled or out of place. They look as though they have been put on for a lingerie catalog, carefully arranged, nothing out of order.
She could have gone to a hotel, I remind myself. Taken a shower.
But Effy walks to the bathroom, a luxurious en-suite. She closes the door, and in moments I hear the bath running.
I wait a bit, and after the water turns off I give her a few moments to get settled in the tub. Then I go into the bathroom.
She's lounging in the tub, an oversized, modern, freestanding tub in the middle of the room. She has propped her neck under a towel, some kind of mask thing covering her eyes, and her lithe body is stretched out the length of the tub, with her ankles crossed neatly at the other end, resting on the edge. Effy is not a bubble-bath kind of gal, so the water is clear and her naked body is on full display. The water laps at her hard, pink nipples. My eyes go straight to her smooth pussy, and the slim line of pink that marks it.
My eyes are searching for evidence: a scratch or a bite, reddened lips, perhaps a slap on her asscheek when she steps out of the tub? But I see nothing.
“I'm sorry I woke you,” Effy says, without even moving.
“It's the booze,” I say, grumpily. “How was work?”
I think I see Effy's lip twitch in a wry smi
le. But then, I want to see that, don't I? “Incredibly dull,” she murmurs. “Incredibly tedious for a Friday night, thank you for asking.”
I pee with the door open. Effy finds this “boorishly American,” but I do it anyway, because that's what I am. Personally, I think it's grown on her.
I walk back out and sit on the edge of the bathtub. All of Effy is stretched out before me, the water lapping at the curves of her body. Where to start?
I begin at her ankle, a smooth and well-turned shape. Dipping my hands into the water, and teetering a bit precariously on the edge of the tub, I trace along her ultra-smooth legs and up to her thighs. Effy’s face doesn’t change much, but her lips part slightly.
“And here I was, thinking you had maybe gone somewhere else tonight,” I say, as I slide my fingertips closer and closer to the center of her thighs, where her smooth pussy is pulling me like a magnet to slip between her folds and feel the inside of her. As though maybe I can find, deep inside of her, the evidence I am seeking. The briny scent of cum that still hides in her silky, cheating cunt.
Effy’s mouth twitches slightly. She lets me part her legs, so if she’s worried that I will find something there, she doesn’t show it. Effy is a smooth operator, though, so this is neither proof nor disproof of anything.
“Were you?” she says casually. “And where was it you thought I might have gone?”
I move my fingers to the lips of her pussy, and I’m not wholly surprised to find that the tips slip into the slick wetness of her excitement. Whether Effy did do something naughty this evening or not, she certainly liked the idea of me thinking she did.
I move a finger through her slippery lips and slide it up to touch her clit. I don’t answer the question. I play with her clit for a moment, gently stroking it, teasing with little flutters, while I watch Effy’s face grow a little more serious, her lips drying as she pants with excitement.
Then, I think of her with John. Because maybe she did just work tonight, but I’ve seen her flutter her eyes at him and the secret little exchanges they have across the table when we go out for drinks or have a meeting. I imagine John’s athletic body pressed against hers, pinning her to the wall, Effy’s long legs flopping on either side of him as he pounds his big, thick, rugby-playing cock into her. I picture her tidying her hair, straightening her tailored skirt, and then walking back down the hallway to her office, John’s cum lubricating her thighs. I caught her once with no pantyhose on, sitting in her office looking flushed when I came for lunch. That’s how I knew it was someone at work.
Effy had seen my look, as my eyes had traveled all over her bare thighs. “Snag,” she had said. I had pretended to believe her, but Effy is the kind of immaculate woman who carries spare pantyhose in her bag. I knew she just hadn’t had time to put them on, and so she must have been sitting there at her desk dripping cum into her panties and onto the lining of that pencil skirt.
But back to now. Now I think about all of this and my cock, which has been thickening slowly, is instantly rock hard. I push my fingers abruptly into her pussy and press my thumb down on her clit. Her cunt is wet and my hand glides in. I finger-fuck her while I stroke her clit, and she stirs enough that the thing -whatever it is – on her eyes slides off and she forgets all about it. It dips into the water and she opens her mouth. I can feel her pussy clenching around my fingers, and her neck strains a little, the ligaments rising from her skin and her carotid pulsing wildly under the pale sheet marble of her neck. Her eyes are closed, and I know she is thinking about another man’s cock filling her up.
I wonder what dirty things Effy gets up to with John. John is a pretty straight-laced guy on the outside, but that rugby thing – so much potential for nastiness.
And the thing about Effy, and all of her tailored suits and porcelain skin and immaculate hair and rosy-pink English-rose lips and cheeks, is that it’s all a beautiful exterior for one very, very dirty little girl.
I think about this, and I get another finger into her, stretching her cunt wide. I decide, as I feel her skin expand and the tightness around my fingers, that maybe Effy really did go to work tonight. Her pussy is tight and she’s coming like a rocket, which probably wouldn’t be the case if that fucker John had his fat prick inside of her tonight.
My dick throbs when Effy leans forward and her pussy spasms around my hand as she comes. I can feel her muscles rippling and her insides welling up with hot liquid. I waste no time, and keeping my hand inside of her I climb into the tub, boxers and all, and push my fist upward so that she slides along the high back of the tub. I pull my hand from inside of her and I grab her shoulder to push her toward the side of the tub, until she is pretty much bent over it. I push my boxers down and grasp my cock.
I stroke her clit with the crown on my dick, and Effy moans. I reach forward and grab her hair, and Effy strains to hold herself by the edge of the tub, her back arched, as I sink my cock into her pussy.
Maybe I’m the only one to have my dick in her tonight, but I know Effy is letting someone fill her cunt up with his creamy seed. I put my finger on her asshole and press against it: I know she probably lets him fuck her ass, because she’s just the sort of dirty little slut to do that. I let her know I know, I know she lets him fuck her in every hole, by pounding myself into her cheating cunt as hard as I can.
And Effy is such a little whore that her pussy goes wild for it: I feel her muscles clench around me and squeeze, as another orgasm seizes her. I pound her full of cum, and water sloshes all over the bathroom floor.
~~~
Effy is still asleep when I wake up. I'm cooking through all the alcohol I consumed last night, and I can't stand still. I look over at Effy, who is asleep on her side, as tidy as ever, not a hair out of place. She looks like an angel, an ad for mattresses. Something like that. Her cheeks have a light flush on them, and the straight lids of her eyes are quivering with deep sleep. I get up and head out to the kitchen. I decide to make a spectacular breakfast.
When Effy comes out to the kitchen she moves silently in bare feet. She has on a white silk robe with black embroidery, a little shorter than usual. I have never seen it before.
“Nice robe,” I say. It flatters her figure, being so short. She has tied it loosely at the waist so the silk seems to be eternally sliding away from her breasts, ready to burst open and give me a full show.
I wonder if she plans to wear this with her lover.
Or maybe she already has.
“Do I smell coffee?” she inquires, brushing off the robe comment.
I'm surprised, frankly, by her impropriety as she opens the front door and trots down the steps to the street to collect the newspaper. Surprised, and maybe a little pleased. I hope our neighbor Mike is out there, trimming away at his ludicrous bushes, and gets a nice eyeful of Effy bending down to pick up her copy of the Times.
I cheerfully make her a cup of coffee – unsmilingly black, and strong – and set it in front of her.
“Thank you darling,” she says, and immerses herself in the paper.
Moments pass.
“Only one more week until the retreat,” I say.
“Mmmm,” she says, pulling the coffee away from her mouth as though it's hot. She waves her free hand, flapping about in a decidedly un-Effy-like gesture. “I completely forgot to tell you, the past two nights, I've canceled. I can't possibly go.”
For a moment – and this is good, because it hides what happens next – I am genuinely disappointed. And that's all. “Oh no,” I say. “What file?”
Then, it cracks through me like thunder:
I, uh... yeah, I think I'm staying back. I have this really wild file...
John, too, is staying back.
“It's a real 'doozy' as you would say,” Effy says. “It's really wild.”
Wild. There’s that word again.
You devious little bitch, I think.
I have her. She’d no more use “wild” to describe a file than she’d say “totally awesome.”
My mouth is slow, but my mind is racing. Circling faster now: what is her plan?
Effy doesn't even look up from the paper for a beat. Like whatever she's looking at there in the Fashion section is going to change the world and she can't tear her eyes away. Then she looks up. A look crosses her face like she just... can't quite remember what we're talking... about.
And the Oscar goes to... Effy.
“Oh,” she says, almost sleepily. “No... no, I think you should go, of course. I'll only be working the whole weekend anyway.”
My heart beat is picking up. I can feel it, I can feel the excitement again.
It is John. John, John, John. It is John, after all.
John and Effy, staying back home to work.
And spend the weekend together.
I wonder where they plan to go, and I cycle through all kinds of ideas until I settle on the most horrible and at the same time, the best.
But they wouldn’t.
Would they?
Would she bring John here? Does my wife plan to sit here reading the paper while John makes her coffee, after banging her senseless the night before? Would John fuck my wife in the ass in my own bed?
But for all the excitement this is bringing on – I'm so close to catching her now, I can feel it – I still need proof. I need a second to think my way through this one.
I need to outsmart Effy, and she's a clever one. I have just enough brains receiving oxygen right now to realize that I have one, solitary advantage: Effy probably doesn't know that John told me he was skipping the retreat as well.
Think.
“I'm going to take a shower,” I tell Effy.
She looks at me strangely, and then turns her attention back to the paper. “Okay.”
I'm in the shower without even realizing how I got there. The water is on and it's streaming over me, too cold. I don't care.
Best Hotwife Erotica Vol.3: Caught! Page 2
