Nikita Gets In Too Deep: A Hotwife Exploration

by Arnica Butler

  NIKITA GETS IN TOO DEEP

  A Hotwife Exploration

  By Arnica Butler

  *********

  Copyright 2016 by Arnica Butler

  All rights reserved. No duplicating and no resale, but

  feel free to share with friends or family.

  Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those that are clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, companies, organizations, events, or products, is purely coincidental.

  All characters depicted in this story are 18 years or older.

  Cover characters are models. Image(s) is/are licensed from:

  konradbak / DepositPhotos

  Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

  Other Novels by Arnica Butler:

  Human Interest 1: A Lead-In To Wife-Watching

  Ela's Performance: A Romantic Wife-Watching Novel

  A Well-Laid Trap 1

  A Well-Laid Trap 2

  The Hobby Job

  Not Black And White: A Hotwife Novel

  A Gamble: The Making Of A Hotwife

  The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel

  The Hotwife Summer

  A Dark Place: Cuckolded in Lagos

  The Hotwife Tattoo

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  Table of Contents

  To The Reader & Acknowledgements

  1 - The Cottage

  2 - Meet The Hudsons

  3- Zach's

  4 - The Next Morning

  5 - I Tell Nik

  6 - The Anklet

  7 - A Spin

  8 - Porn Stars

  9 - Meet Pretty Haley

  10 – Watching

  11 - Uncharted Territory

  12- The Next Day

  13 – Sydney

  14 - A Talk About Something

  15 - Back In Cape Breton

  16 - The First Video

  17 - Game On Again

  18 – Montreal

  19 - Real Watching

  20 - Back In Toronto

  21 - The Plan

  22 – SlutWifeNextDoor

  23 - Nikita Returns

  24 - So That's The Story

  To The Reader/Acknowledgements

  There's a reason I really love this genre of erotica, and a lot of it has to do with the psychological depths (and highs) to which a hotwife/wife-swapping/cuckolding adventure takes the characters and the reader, and so also the writer.

  It is, ultimately, a genre that seems to favor realism over fantasy (witness the grave unpopularity of my own books, Claire's Cowboy and Cuckold Time Machine, which I personally think are very fun but apparently went too far), and so I do my best to balance realistic characters and reactions with a story I hope people will ultimately enjoy reading. For me, it's important that the characters get to do something we likely will never be able to indulge in ourselves, at least not with the same tame and confined consequences. As I've mentioned before, I sort of look at erotica like action movies. Car chase scenes wouldn't be much fun to watch if thirty minutes of film subsequent to the chase were dedicated to watching the paramedics haul off all the fruit stand owners who will be paraplegic for life because your hero ran them over. I likewise don't feel like painting the marital aftermath of this sort of erotic adventure in too much detail.

  But, my very favorite beta reader, who I am going to call Watson (and hope he laughs when I explain why), suggested a healthy dose of realism that be added to the end of this story. I really can't talk about it in detail without ruining the plot for you. At any rate, thanks W – I've made a compromise, and I hope it' satisfactory for you and other readers. (Also, you're tops).

  Thanks also, as always, to my favorite authors – Ben, Kenny, Kirsten, Max. You have been great friends and colleagues, and I couldn't get in with a better crowd. (If you are a new reader, try out all of these wonderful authors in our collaborative anthology, Best Hotwife Erotica: Summer Confessions).

  Kenny Wright has kindly graced this book with another beautiful cover; we should all thank him for that because my talents clearly lie in the realm of writing.

  Semi-finally, it is my deepest wish that by reading this book, people are left with the impression that sexy things can happen in Canada.

  My final thanks is for my readers. Thank you for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy my story!

  Arnica

  1 THE COTTAGE

  “Okay,” Nik sighed, her terse, downtown-Toronto, managerial voice on. “Let's get this unpacked.”

  Every time.

  I saw this coming, so I had already buried my desire to say, as I usually did: “God. Can we just...relax for a minute?” But I sighed audibly. Nikita shot me a fierce look, and began to wind her loose black hair into a bun. She clipped around the car and bent down to open the trunk from the drivers' side while squatted and stood to stretch my legs.

  A middle-aged tightness was creeping into my joints. I wasn't some arthritic geezer, but I was starting to feel it: the slow hardening, the calcification of my body from the inside out.

  I dropped to another squat and distracted myself from my middle-aged woes by appreciating Nikita's well-turned ass, displayed nicely in a pair of tight beige Capri pants, and swollen into a perfect shape as she bent over to unlatch the trunk. Nik took care of her figure the way she took care of everything else in her life: with a ruthless dedication to perfection.

  The trip had begun, two days ago, with Nikita's long legs stretched out in front of her, and her black hair loose and blowing around in the wind. She had white Capris on that first day, and her olive skin teased me through the thing fabric as she skipped through the parking lots of truck stops where we playfully indulged in butter tarts, cheese curds, poutine, and other unhealthy Canadiana that were normally verboten. She had even broken her insurance-minded rules, and placed a leg on the dash for a while, giving me a nice view of her tight thigh through her semi-transparent pants, and a window to pleasant and dirty thoughts.

  But, as usual, the hours of driving had worn the initial bonhomie of the trip down to silence and a desire to get there, red-eyed and humorless, without stopping.

  “When will we learn this is a bad idea?” we always muttered, somewhere near Quebec City.

  But we were here now, and we had a week of vacation sandwiched between our driving, and I was looking forward to Nik's more relaxed personality. If there was such a thing anymore.

  She was down there longer than it took to pop the trunk, and I lingered in my squat even though it was mightily uncomfortable after so much driving, because the view of her ass was so lovely.

  She was collecting scraps of wrappers, emitting her impatient sigh.

  I'm not as tidy as Nikita.

  She stood up, and I did, too. I was overcome by the temptation, I reached out and slid my hands around her body. She let me hold onto her and slide my hand along her well-toned waist, but only for a moment. Then she pushed a stray lock of hair back from her face and squirmed away. She gave another sigh of impatience. “Let's get unpacked first,” she repeated, and hoisted one of her well-packed plastic containers from the trunk.

  I stretched and put my hands on my hips. This was the routine, and I knew Nik was going to get annoyed with me for standing around, but Jesus. It was a long drive, and there was a spectacular wind pushing waves onto the beach, it was hotter than usual, and I just wanted to sit on the rickety boards of the back
porch with an ice-cold beer.

  I opened the cooler. The ice had melted, and the beer was cool and not ice-cold, but it was good enough. Ignoring my never-put-off-for-the-minute-what-you-can-do-this-nanosecond wife, I rounded the cottage from the side and waddled through the grassy sand to sit down on the porch on the other side of the small home.

  I heard the battered window slide open behind me, and I cracked the can at that moment. Nikita sighed. “Cole,” she whined.

  I held a second beer up. “Just come out here, and relax for a second.”

  Another sigh. The clattering of locks, the scrape of the screen door, and the beer was lifted from my extended hand.

  It went like this every time.

  “You're on vacation,” I told her. “Just enjoy yourself.”

  Another sigh. “You're right.” Her calves were next to me, firm and slender. She dropped down to the steps, and nudged me. “Sorry. I have a hard time relaxing.”

  We'd been coming here for five years, and every time it was the same song and dance. I laughed at the memory of it.

  “What?” she said.

  “It's just this happens every time.”

  She took a sip of her beer and gave her head a slight, upward shake. “Well,” she said. “Maybe if we could go somewhere else.”

  Her tone was mostly joking, but there was a little irritation in it. We were trapped in Canada, with me in a residency status termed, nefariously, “implied.”

  “Or at least drive through Maine,” I joked back. It would cut hours off the trip if it were possible.

  She took a long drink of her beer. “God. Seriously.”

  I kicked off my shoes. “Some day,” I said. “Until then, we have all of this grandeur,” I waved at the ramshackle cottage, which was quite nice inside but one of the more weather-beaten on the beach.

  “Don't forget the Smiths.”

  I nodded. Who could forget the Smiths? Bridge and pinocle, whenever you wanted.

  Don't get me wrong, we enjoyed them, and they liked to get their gin and tonics on, but they were thirty years older than us. The rest of the cottages were inhabited by families who may or may not show up.

  I liked it, because it was relaxing. I knew that Nik had a hard time sinking into it, but she usually ended up relaxed after a few days.

  And we always came back here, which meant she enjoyed something about it.

  “Okay,” she said, after a while. “Let's get unpacked for real.”

  I saw her in the morning, through the window over the sink as I rinsed the dishes. The beach was wide and the tide was out, so she was far away, but there was no mistaking a woman like that for anyone we normally saw around here.

  Or anyone you normally saw anywhere.

  For one thing, she had a surfboard. Her hair was long and blonde, piled into a pony-tail high on her head and wet with seawater, clinging in a river to her bare neck and then her shoulder. She was wearing a hot pink sporty racer-back top and boy-short bottoms – no wetsuit – in that water, which, while it was at its warmest of the year, was still cold as fuck.

  She was a big girl, a blonde girl with the pretty, sturdy figure of a pin-up girl. In fact, in spite of her contemporary, sporty suit, that's what she looked like at that moment, looking back over her shoulder and smiling back at the shore, her full ass jutting behind her in a pronounced and pretty curve.

  Then she turned, and ran into the water. It licked her toned calves, swallowed up her hips, and she was off. She glided onto her surfboard with a practiced agility, then disappeared into the gray horizon.

  That was when I realized I was standing there with our water on, staring.

  Nik slid her coffee cup into the sink. “What?” she said.

  “Can you surf here?” I said, after a too-long pause.

  She shrugged. “I mean...maybe. I don't know. Cold, though.”

  An image of pebbled nipples beneath hot-pink swimsuit fabric blew life into my cock.

  “I just saw a surfer,” I said lamely.

  Nik sat down at the table and propped her feet up. “Oh yeah?” she replied, but she was already on her Blackberry, and her tone couldn't have possibly cared less.

  I turned my attention back to her. Two things were going through my mind: one, that I didn't want her to get sucked into work the way she always did; and two, I now believed we should go spend some time on the beach. I looked back out at the rolling waves, and could make out the pink of the mysterious woman's top floating above them.

  I felt a little excitement stir inside of me. Not to say I'm the kind of guy to act on the presence of another woman. A few things stop me, and not all of them are noble: I'm far too lazy for that, for one. I'm also a one-woman guy. Nik is uptight, bossy, and frustratingly out of reach much of the time, but I'm essentially obsessed with her.

  It was just so pleasant to have some female energy around. Young female energy. Particularly when it came in the form of a carefully sculpted, Swedish-looking surfer goddess. Especially when all I had come to hope for from this vacation was to be able to drink more beer with John in his workshop, easing the cans open one slow hiss at a time, so that his wife Elaine didn't come shrieking into the room and slap the can out of his hand while muttering incoherent threats about diabetes.

  I sat down across from Nik and reached for her ankle. I placed her calf across my lap and stroked her smooth and impeccably manicured foot. Then I worked my thumbs into the center of her sole, and watched the effect ripple through her body.

  I'll never know if a foot massage has the same effect on a woman that it does on me, but I have this weird experience where I can imagine, quite intensely, the feel of my own massage. It radiates right up from the sole of my own feet and into my cock as I massage Nik's feet.

  I ground my thumbs in deeper, and I saw Nik's shoulder relax, and her lips part. She let her head drop back slightly, and closed her eyes. If she were capable, she might have purred like a cat. I picked up her other leg and started in on the gentle arch of her foot. Her toes were carefully manicured, painted a summery melon-red color, and the sight of her pretty foot gave me a little surge in my pants.

  “No Blackberry. No work,” I said. “Let's sit out on the beach and relax.”

  I was kneading the soft sole of her foot, and her leg was getting more supple across my leg, melting into my thigh. I could feel my cock getting hard, though I knew I would be pushing it trying for sex at this hour of the day and after talking her into it the night before.

  What I would have loved to happen? For Nik to feel my twitching cock with her foot, and then move her toes over my shaft, stroking me with them. For Nik to give me a wink, and dig her bare foot into my boxers, and to feel the cold skin of her foot on my hot balls.

  Nik was not exactly a sexual-spontaneity enthusiast, however. She liked to plan. The realist in me was just hoping to convince her to go outside, sit on the beach, and then perhaps we could run into the pink-clad surfer girl and her heavy, heaving breasts.

  The beach. Nik likes to lie on the beach for about thirty minutes. Then she gets bored and puts me to work repairing the fence or demands that we go rent bicycles or sea kayaks. Which is probably good, because if I were left to my own devices I would just crack one open and stare at the waves.

  “Hmm,” she murmured, and I felt my cock twitch again. Her foot was close to my crotch, and I wondered if she felt it. If she did, she paid me no mind as she opened her eyes and leveled her head.

  “Okay,” she said suddenly. “But I've got to get ready.”

  By the time we got out there, the beach was again deserted except for a few people walking in either direction with dogs. As they passed, the dogs barked and lunged at each other, and then the sound of the surf took over. It was barely ten, but this far north the sun is wild in the sky by then, and Nik was judiciously applying sunscreen. She has pretty, light-olive skin that only toasts to a warmer shade in the sun, but she is the kind of person who never leaves the house with out a big, floppy hat, sunscre
en, and dark glasses.

  I watched Nik rubbing the lotion into her skin, and all the thoughts of the surfer flew right out of my head. Her limbs were perfectly sculpted by her rigid gym regimen, and though I knew she was doing it subconsciously, she was rubbing that creamy white lotion into her skin with such sensual, languid strokes that I felt myself getting hard again. She had a one-piece on, which was disappointing, but it was cute, a little retro, and very glamorous. An under wire bra pushed her small breasts into perky cups, and a low shadow was visible between the two curves. Beneath the suit I knew she had dark, mocha nipples that hardened into fat knobs at the center of a milk-chocolate, smooth areola.

  I let out a sigh as she lowered her body onto the towel, lay on her stomach, and kicked her heels up. She rested her chin on another neatly rolled towel (she was impeccably prepared, going nowhere, ever, without everything she would need, even if the house was fifty feet away). She opened her book, marked, of course, with a tidy bookmark.

  I shook sand out of my rag-eared paperback, and was pleased that my antics made her smile. She had applied a lip balm that was the same fruity shade as her toenails, and her skin was getting a salty flush to it already. Wisps of black hair grazed her back and teleported the shivers to my own.

  “I brought your chair,” she said, without moving her head. “Could you also just get a little sunscreen on my back? Make sure I got it everywhere?”

  I'm a man like any other man, and even though I knew my wife pretty well, I still heard her say this in the way a soft porn star might coo at the beginning of a video. Sure, I knew she was actually just making sure she had applied sunscreen judiciously on every last part of her body, but my hands were already feeling her satiny skin on my palms, and the shape of her bottom cupped in my hand.

  I rubbed the lotion between my hands until it was warm, and I lifted the straps on her shoulders to work my palms over her shoulder blades. Up over her slender neck.

  I suggested: “You'd better have someone make sure your bum is covered.”