The Game (A Hotwife Adventure)

by Max Sebastian

  But there could be no doubt she’d been quite taken by the forcefulness of her Senator.

  I sighed as she gripped the base of my shaft tighter in her hand, and sucked on my cock more forcefully, sinking down as far as she could on my length. After a while, I had to stop her — cradling her head in my hands, pulling her back from me — but again, she seemed to like my control. She grinned mischievously, loving being the wanton harlot. I kissed her mouth, and it tickled my sense of the taboo that her mouth had taken two men that evening.

  “Lie back,” I said, trying out a little light authority over her. She did as I asked.

  I stepped out of my boxer shorts and knelt between her thighs on the bed, pushing up her legs to expose her glistening slit, a fresh wave of her wicked scent filling my nostrils before I leaned in and slid inside her. She was so wet, I glided straight in — but she was also stretched, it seemed to me. She’d accommodated a large cock just recently, and it made the experience a touch different from usual.

  Kind of hot, that I could tell my beautiful wife had been freshly fucked by another. I concede I was a little envious that he had been able to stretch her so much, to take her to orgasm almost merely by being inside her, by filling her.

  But as I squeezed my hips and stroked her pussy from the inside, lying over her to press my body to hers, it seemed that she was enjoying me for different reasons than her Senator: because I was her husband, because I had given her the gift of sexual liberation, because I was the second man she was fucking that night. Because I was quite obviously harder, and more vigorous tonight for the expressed reason that I had watched her with another man just before.

  She moaned quietly as I thrust inside her, and pulled her legs up over my shoulders. Her scent, the scent of her previous liaison seemed intoxicating, almost overwhelming. It almost seemed to be a dream, that she’d done that, that I’d watched her — and yet now I was reclaiming her as my own, every clue pointed to the reality of the experience.

  My wife had cheated on me under my own roof. And I loved it.

  The thought motivated me, drove me on to pound into her, tasting her unfaithful mouth as I pushed into her, her legs there between our bodies, her calves locking around my neck. As I squeezed my hard cock inside her, the memory was so vibrant in my mind of another man’s cock splitting her, penetrating her, making her squeal.

  Adrenaline boosted my strength, allowing me to encircle her with my arms and lift her bodily from the bed. Now it was my turn to make her squeal as I pulled her up, turned and sat on the edge of the bed, somehow keeping my hardness inside her until she was sitting on my lap, bouncing on me.

  “You cheated on me,” I grunted, and for a flash I saw fear filling her brown eyes.

  “I did,” she said meekly, full of uncertainty. Worried I was changing my mind about it all.

  I squeezed her in my arms, and bucked under her, slamming as best I could inside her. I kissed her pretty mouth, said, “I watched all of it. Every minute.”

  The uncertainty in her was thawing. She said, “You wanted me to cheat on you.”

  “I did.”

  “So was it everything you hoped it would be?”

  “He tied you up,” I said, not quite knowing what to say. “He controlled you.”

  “Uh-huh,” she smiled, apparently reveling in my surprise at what had happened. “It’s what he’s like. It’s what he’s into.”

  I was sitting there still as I tried to get my head around what I really wanted to say to her, while she flexed her hips to continue moving on my hardness.

  I said, “We never did that. You never… seemed to want to…”

  She shrugged. “We never really talked about it.”

  “I… I guess I’m not just very good at talking about… that sort of thing.”

  Izzie froze a moment, looked me in the eye and gave me a sugary sweet smile of the warmest affection. “Me neither,” she said. “But the Senator… well, he’s just a different kind of person from us.”

  She put her hands on my shoulders and urged me down to lie flat against the bed, so she could straddle my hips and ride me. It felt good, and as she rode me I felt the muscles in her pussy squeezing my shaft — something she’d never really done before.

  “You wish it was like that between us?” I asked her. “Me tying you up, ordering you around?”

  “Not particularly,” she said, her breathing deepening as she accelerated her pace on me. She leaned down to me, brushed her hair out of her face behind her ear and kissed my mouth. “We have something different going,” she explained. “And you’re not really like that.”

  “You wish I was?”

  I gripped her behind firmly in my hands, thrust into her more forcibly as though to show her I could dominate if that was what she really wanted.

  She shook her head, “No, that’s not your thing,” she said. “Your thing’s entirely different.”

  “My thing?”

  She grinned, “You have a thing about me cheating on you.”

  The words seemed to burn through my chest. They were both hurtful and yet deeply thrilling. I felt there was probably something wrong with me, though I couldn’t deny she was right.

  “It’s not really cheating if I know about it,” I said.

  But she shook her head. “Oh, it’s cheating. If you don’t play the Game right, you won’t know about it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Three days later, Izzie had a front-page exclusive about one of the front-runners in the race for the Republican nomination, and his previously unknown ties to the oil industry. The guy in question, former Georgia Governor Rory McLanahan, was well known as a climate change denier in Washington circles, but the manner in which the oil industry had channeled funding his way over the years was not well known at all.

  Izzie’s story sparked a shift in the news cycle, and by the end of the day the pundits were almost unanimous in their belief that McLanahan’s campaign was hanging by a thread.

  Sitting there on our couch, a copy of that morning’s Messenger on the coffee table in front of me, and CNN in front of my on the flatscreen rolling constant coverage of the sudden decline of a Republican star, I had to hand it to Izzie — she hadn’t been kidding when she’d suggested that offering her new source what he wanted might win her an important story.

  A few things made me uncomfortable, though. The first thing was that her source, her new lover, “C”, not exactly politically the kind of guy Izzie or I would support. Funnily enough, part of that whole deal came as a positive to me — Izzie had slept with a guy she had fundamental political differences with, and that reassured that part of me that was afraid of losing her now that I’d given her free rein to sleep with other men. There was no way she could fall in love with Billingford, went my theory.

  Yet at the same time, as I spent the day monitoring the fall-out from Izzie’s morning scoop, I was concerned that the arrangement between my wife and her secret lover had to give Billingford more than just the opportunity to sleep with the beautiful Izzie. I mean sure, any guy would probably want to sleep with her if she let them — but this was Washington. There was always some ulterior motive in Washington.

  So what did “C” want from Izzie? Taking down a prominent member of the GOP was not something a Senator would do purely for sex. Even great sex. My assumption was that Billingford had his own desires about who would win the Presidency, and would use Izzie to that end — and yet a whole day of research online produced no signs that he’d ever gone out and expressed support for any of the current line-up.

  I looked into the guy’s past, and he’d never been one to step forward and publicly back someone running for the top job.

  I liked the idea of my wife sleeping with someone she wouldn’t normally give the time of day to, personally at least, and the idea that he was giving her the kind of experienced she’d never have otherwise. But it irked me that in pursuing her adventure in adultery and exclusive reporting, Izzie might be doing polit
ical heavy lifting for any politicians, whichever ones Billingford had aligned himself to, even secretly.

  *

  I had a busy day to take my mind off things, as the business world reacted to the latest employment figures and their ramifications for the economy as a whole. I had a couple of businesses to visit in Northern Virginia, partly for a color piece for Martin, my old boss at the Messenger.

  Then on my way home, I receive a call from Marie.

  “Hey Marie, how’s tricks?”

  “Oh, same old, same old. The Times is probably gonna lay off just as many staff as the Messenger, but hasn’t happened yet.”

  “You never know,” I laughed, trying to scratch around for some kind of optimism. “You’ve got a bigger digital presence over there.”

  “So I get to be shunted into digital? Huh.”

  I was driving through thick traffic on the I-95 at the time, so Marie on hands free was a welcome distraction. That is, until she got to her reason for calling.

  “How’s Mason?”

  “Great. He’s got me going to yoga class now, of course. Jesus. Never cared for lycra. So what’s the latest with you and Izzie?”

  I felt heat spreading through the back of my neck. The sensitive nature of Izzie’s latest fling suddenly made me regret drawing Marie into things in the first place.

  “Not much,” I said, trying to sound relaxed, casual, but entirely failing to stem the sudden iciness that crept into our conversation.

  “I know she’s with someone new now. Someone different. She won’t tell me anything, all of a sudden.”

  “She doesn’t tell me everything either,” I said, which was true, but hardly likely to satisfy Marie’s curiosity.

  God. Being a journalist myself, I hated having to conceal the truth from another journalist — but I had inside knowledge of how dangerous it could be to slip sensitive information to someone like Marie. I’d hope that if she did find out, she’d keep the secret to herself for the benefit of our friendship — but you could never guarantee anything. If Marie was facing the same kind of career oblivion as I was, with newspapers letting so many people go, she could feel forced to expose the story.

  “But you’re supposed to find out, aren’t you? I mean, as I understand it, your little Game isn’t just about letting her sleep with whoever she wants — you have to be in on it, somehow.” She was sharp.

  “She saw someone out in San Francisco,” I said — again, relying on what truth I could muster, to maintain the credibility of my speaking voice. “I didn’t get to be there, but I know she saw someone.”

  “Sam Bradford,” she said.

  “The quarterback?”

  “No. Same name. Works for the Miami Herald. I think she knew him in college.”

  “An ex-boyfriend?”

  “No. Could’ve been, but no. They’ve always been on friendly terms.”

  “What’s he like?”

  I heard Marie breathe out long and slow through the phone. She said, “Nice enough. I guess he’s her type.”

  “Her type?”

  “Tall. Very big dick.”

  I know, we’d talked about Izzie in college. I just liked it when Marie told me that my Izzie had a thing for those kind of guys. I don’t know. I guess it was strangely interesting to hear she liked guys with big dicks. That it was something that drove her, that got her wet. I guess I was taller than the average American male, and in the personal anatomy department I was doing okay — but it was just hot to think of her craving another type of guy.

  “Isn’t that all women’s type?” I asked Marie. “If they can get them, I mean.”

  “Not like Izzie,” Marie laughed.

  “So why are you so interested in all this, in Izzie’s sex life?” I demanded, an edge in my voice all of a sudden.

  It seemed to me almost that Marie was trying to play the Game. She was doing damn near as much as me to investigate Izzie’s infidelity.

  Marie said brightly, “Because she’s living the dream, right? She gets all the perks of being married to a wonderful, reliable guy who would do anything to make sure she’s happy — and she gets to date any other man she feels like dating.”

  I liked her flattery, I’ll admit it got be back on side.

  “I’m still reeling from a failed marriage, so I like to live vicariously sometimes,” she said. “So tell me who she’s with now.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Anything. Just a hint. Lives in the DC area? Must do. In the business? Or is he more interesting than that…”

  “Marie, I can’t tell you. You’ll have to get it from Izzie, if she wants you to know.”

  Marie sighed. “We have got to have a fairer deal than this, Oscar. I tell you what I know, you tell me what you know, right?”

  I said, “I’ve got to go, Marie.”

  “Come on. She’s out with him right now, isn’t she?”

  “Speak soon, Marie.”

  “Spoil sport.”

  *

  I had to admit to being tempted to divulge a little of what was going on to Marie. She was one of Izzie’s best friends, after all. She already knew a lot, she’d already done me quite a few favors. I nearly slept with her, for God’s sake. I had to think she would never want to do anything to hurt my wife.

  At the same time, Marie was a journalist. I couldn’t ignore that.

  I returned to an empty house. Was it late for Izzie to be out, at work, at the gym, wherever? Yes, I thought it was. Marie had suggested that Izzie was out with her new man tonight — which led me to believe that my wife may have let slip that she was, indeed, doing something with C, even if she didn’t let Marie know who C was.

  It made me suspicious enough to treat our empty house as a clue within our Game, anyway.

  There was a slight hint of Izzie’s perfume in the air — perfume that made me even unconsciously think of her going out for something special. She’d been home recently, I was sure of it.

  Upstairs, the bathroom light was on, the extractor fan humming quietly. That was all I needed to be sure that Izzie had showered recently, leaving the fan on to help clear the post-shower condensation. But I could also smell her shampoo in the air, I could see the damp patches where her wet feet had stood on the mat outside the shower, and there were still some water droplets on the glass door.

  I felt a little cold — she hadn’t given me any indications before that she was going out with someone tonight. C, or otherwise.

  I guess I had clues here, now. I didn’t feel entirely comfortable about it — but wasn’t that the nature of our Game? We’d talked about the possibility of me missing her clues, of failing to realize when she was out dating someone. That was part and parcel of the Game.

  The Game wasn’t simply wife-sharing, after all. It straddled the boundaries of actual cheating. Flirted with the dark side.

  And I have to admit, part of me did like straddling that boundary. In that moment, it seemed like I’d always wanted to know how it would feel to have my spouse cheat on me. The curiosity inside me that had once pushed me to become a journalist had railed against the cozy stability of my relationship with Izzie, the security of our marriage. It wanted to know how it would feel to be spurned, betrayed, cheated.

  Izzie had been here, within the last hour, to shower and change before another date. It was consensual, because I had basically allowed her to date who she liked, when she liked. But I had only spotted her clues now, as the date was mostly likely already beginning.

  Here in the laundry basket were the clothes she’d worn to work. Her plain-ordinary blue cotton panties were still damp with her arousal. It really couldn’t have been long since she’d gone. I might even have driven past her taxi.

  It made me feel giddy to see how wet she must have gotten on her way home, anticipating another evening with C.

  She had put on some special lingerie, too, I could tell that much, though I couldn’t tell what she might be wearing over it.

  In some ways, Izzie
had left me clues, as per the rules of our Game. But she hadn’t really given me any warning to let me stop her from doing it, to let me support her or object to her liaison. To let me enjoy the doing, rather than just the aftermath.

  So did I stay at home and wait for her? My heart was thumping fourteen-to-the-dozen. I craved her physically. I felt genuine fear that she had dropped everything to go out with C tonight because she might feel stronger attraction to him than me, and that it would ultimately result in her rejecting me in favor of him.

  Yet I did want her to be doing this, ultimately. To me, it was hot to have a straying wife, to have her operating independently almost like a single woman, although she would have to come back to me afterward.

  I checked her messages, and the only thing she’d received that day from C was a text containing three numbers.

  >32 1967 1930

  What was that?

  Izzie’s “Find my iPhone” application wasn’t on, so I couldn’t just track her. Had she turned her relationship with C secret?

  I sat and stared at that text message for a while. My belief was that this had to be some instruction to her about where and when to meet C. The last four digits could have been the time for her to arrive, I figured. The middle cluster of numbers couldn’t have been a time.

  I tried to watch TV. I tried to play video games. I tried to distract myself, but I was really beginning to worry. I really felt all over the place — that strange mix of fear and arousal really went into overdrive.

  I took a shower, hoping it would relax me. I was so hard thinking about what she might be doing, though. I stood there under the flow of the water, and just from washing myself, I soon found myself mentally drifting off — and in no time I was coming in my hands.

  I guess that did make me calm down. In the same way that guys who have just had sex feel a compulsion to just turn over and fall asleep in bed, I did relax after that shower. That was, until something clicked in my head about Izzie’s text message. What if 32 1967 referred to an address? That was what was needed, wasn’t it, apart from the time? It couldn’t refer to a zip code in the DC area, I believed, but what if it was simply a street name and a house number? More specifically, 1967 was too large for a street number, but could be a house number. So house number 1967, on 32nd street?