Nikita Gets In Too Deep: A Hotwife Exploration

by Arnica Butler

  I couldn't see her eyes, but I could feel the disturbance of the atmosphere as she rolled them right out of her head. “I got it, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said, and plopped onto my own towel. I was already a little hot. My reasons for being here were to ogle Nik in her swimsuit, maybe run into the pink surfer, and to eventually claim to be so hot that I needed a beer.

  2 MEET THE HUDSONS

  The cool shadow of a cloud awoke me from my half-nap. For a moment I took it all in: the pleasant sound of the waves, the stinging of my skin because I had, in fact, been such an idiot as to not apply sunscreen in silent protest. I dreaded moving. The full impact of the burn would be evident then.

  I sat up.

  Nik was gone. Her book was lying open and it looked as if she'd been snatched away. I looked back at the house. The door was closed. Her flip-flops were still by the towel.

  I looked back to the water. In all likelihood, she had decided to go swimming – and not casual, wading, fun swimming. The kind of hard-core, exercise-driven swimming that would take her out to some island and back, three hours later. It was the sort of thing Nik could end up doing: going out to burn off some energy, deciding there was some sort of competition between her and God, and then crossing the fucking Atlantic.

  An exaggeration of course, but not much of one.

  I couldn't see a single human form in the gray water. I felt a little twist of fear in my stomach: the waves were strong here, the water incredibly cold once you got out more than 50 yards. Really anyone sensible wouldn't get in without a wetsuit.

  “Jesus,” I muttered under my breath.

  What I did next may seem like a bit of an asshole thing to do, but if your were married to Nik you'd understand why it wasn't: if some battle was happening here between the sea and Nik, she was going to win.

  And a different, more important, war was ongoing, and that was the war for my freedom to drink beer. In the quantities I chose.

  Whenever I wanted to.

  Without the look.

  So I trotted up to the house, and whistled as I did a celebratory spin in front of the small fridge in the sun room – a gift from John, who had upgraded his own beer fridge secretly and wanted me to have my own, too – and selected a tall boy of an obscure Ukrainian beer, whose name was Cyrillic gibberish to me, that was sold in Quebec and contained about one and a half times the alcohol. This piece of information was also a gift from John, who had showed me the beer and told me to stock up when we drove through Quebec.

  I slammed the first half of the beer, then sat down in the airy sun room to survey the sea again. I probably should have been looking for my wife, but I'll be honest: my eyes were really scanning the scene for a scrap of bright pink.

  The beach was nearly dead. A few beach strollers were headed in the direction of our cottage from either side. The wind was picking up and our towels were turned over on our things on the sand.

  The beer was going to my head. I was getting philosophical and nostalgic, and also turned on as I thought about the surfer-girl. I hoped I would see her again. I slammed the rest of the can, scanned the beach again, and retrieved another from the fridge.

  When I sat down I looked at the figures coming down the beach. A dark couple: dark hair, with tanned or naturally dark skin, were walking and chatting excitedly to each other. It gave my heart a sentimental stir: the dark-haired woman was leggy and graceful like Nik, and there was a time when we used to have conversations like that. It's one of the things I had been attracted to about her: her fierceness, her passion, even in conversation. After being married for five years, I was rarely treated to that kind of-

  I interrupted my own thoughts, because it came to me very suddenly that the raven hair blowing in the wind, and the pretty legs and trim figure of the woman on the beach, in fact belonged to my wife. Nik was strolling along with another man, talking the way she used to talk to me.

  A stab of jealousy went through me. It wasn't an entirely unfamiliar feeling; Nik was a pretty woman, and she got a lot of attention from men. She sometimes reciprocated, with a flirtatious smile or an appreciative laugh. I felt the usual flare-up of quiet rage that I suspect any man gets – kind of a fun and terrible-feeling at the same time.

  But this scene had unfolded differently, because in my mind those two had been a couple, and then suddenly they weren't. Suddenly it was my wife, and because I had superimposed the idea of her being that man's girlfriend or wife in the scene, I felt a more intense feeling.

  It was also quite different. Part of it felt like fear: was my wife actually flirting with this guy? Maybe she was really attracted to him – and here, I narrowed my eyes and inspected him and felt even more fearful. He was a very fit guy. Not a muscle-man, but a man with abs. A guy who looked like he worked out or did some kind of work that kept him fit naturally. He was far away but there are some people whose faces are so well-structured that you can tell they're good looking from a distance, and he was one of those. A little like a fucking Ken Doll, with the shiny white teeth and everything.

  So there was a little rage. A little fear (what if she became attracted to him, had an affair with him, left me here at the cottage alone?)

  And then...something else. At the time I wasn't quite sure of what it was. I mean, maybe I was, and I just didn't know what to make of myself. But I got to thinking about how that guy was drinking in her nice tits, getting treated to her animated storytelling, watching her lips move and thinking about how he could get her to wrap her legs around his fit fucking torso and squeeze him tight while he sank into the hot wet center of her...and whatever it was I was feeling, it didn't get pent up in my chest or my stomach. No, it coiled up in my balls, and throbbed in my cock.

  I watched this for I don't know how long. It was a surreal scene, observing my wife with this vague overlay of her being another woman. Something about that made her hotter. I was a little tipsy, and I slammed the rest of the second beer and made myself dizzy. The air was throbbing, and so was my dick, as I watched Nik push her hair over her ear, twist slightly back and forth, pointing at something in the distance.

  And then she came into the scene.

  I don't know how to describe the way she walked, but there was something to it. Maybe a slink, maybe a glide. Her body was big and curved and Nik was like a wispy twig next to her. Her long, dirty-blonde hair was loose and trailing behind her in the wind. She had exchanged her sporty suit for a form-fitting white dress, and the sea provided a perfect silhouette of her every curve. She sort of melted into the dark-haired man, and her hair blew out as she turned to say something close to his ear. She spoke to Nik and reached for her hand, not to shake but to squeeze.

  Nik pointed at our house. The girls' hair was blowing in the wind and they both looked stunningly beautiful in their two separate ways.

  I stood up and nearly stumbled out the door. The sand made me waddle awkwardly, and I wished I hadn't had anything to drink at all. I waved at them, but Nik didn't see me, so I looked like an idiot.

  No choice but to keep waddling up to the water.

  Nik's laugh was the first thing I was able to hear, and the three of them were chattering like a group of old friends by the time I finally reached them.

  “Hey,” I said, to no one in particular.

  It should be said, because it maybe serves as an explanation for how stupid I was acting, that the dress this girl was wearing was made of a very, very thin fabric. It was all but transparent, and she had nothing on underneath it. The sun was shining through the back of it and so when she turned, the big caramel circles of her aureola, and her semi-hard nipples in the center of them, like partially-melted candy, were fully visible. The dark, bare coloring of her skin winked at me, and then, lower, where I could not help but let my eyes go, was a fold in the fabric where her pussy had to be, but no trace of darkness at all betrayed it.

  A full bikini wax. Or whatever the fuck it was called.

  I snapped my eyes back at my wife, w
ith my mind racing on that single thought. I couldn't get it out of my mind, the idea of the bare pussy of this mysterious woman. Nik was talking to me, or about me, and she slipped her hand around my bicep. I heard the word “chef” used to describe my vocation, but I was in a tailspin in own mind. I was lost in a sea of white fabric, and all I could envision or hear or see or imagine was that woman's bare slash.

  “...right?” Nik said, and I realized everyone was looking at me.

  The other thing about this woman: her eyes were a strange, alluring, smokey gray color. At that moment. Later they would appear more blue, but they were in a shadow or reflecting the sea and they were so dirtily seductive somehow, that I got lost all over again.

  Everyone was staring at me.

  “I'm sorry,” I blurted. “I had a couple of beers and...fell asleep...I'm sort of spaced out...”

  This made the girl smile. Her mouth was of that strange kind: she had big lips, sensual lips, but they were a dense, flat surface in a way. Nik had removed her sunglasses and so the iciness of her look was palpable. The man looked at me with disdain, and it was easy to see he was not the kind of man who fell asleep on the beach. Or anywhere, probably.

  “This is Mitch,” Nik repeated, like she was speaking to a five-year-old, “and his wife, Paige. Hudson. They are staying at the Smiths' house this year.”

  I shot out my hand to Mitch, who shook it violently and nearly crushed it. Oh yeah, I thought. That kind of guy. Up at four to check his email, trade some stocks, see what's coming in and going out. “Cole,” I said, as sternly as I could manage. Because I hate guys like Mitch, but there's a masculine need to sort of...I don't know, make one's chest appear broader.

  Paige took my hand, but she didn't shake it. She kind of massaged it, and her touch sent a knife of lust through me. I couldn't stop my eyes from drifting down to the plunge in her dress, to the warm shade of her skin beneath the fabric and the dark circles of her aureole. I looked back up at her ice-gray eyes, and she was staring right at me, but there was friendliness and no offense in her expression. In fact, she seemed like she was pleased that I had taken the time to visually grope her. “I'm Paige,” she said, and her voice had this lovely gravelly resonance to it. It was a relaxed voice, the voice of a woman who lived at a nudest colony and smoked a lot of weed.

  My eyes went back to Mitch, and then to my wife, and the whole scene made very little sense to me at that moment.

  “At the Smiths'?” I said, vacantly.

  No John, I remember thinking. No beer and no pinocle.

  Paige pushed her hair up with one hand, and her breasts shifted in her dress and made me want to reach over and cup them. The motion was lazy, reminiscent of a stretch, and she seemed to be yawning even though she wasn't, as she drawled to Mitch that she was going back to the house for a cat nap before they went out.

  I kept my eyes on the thin line of the ocean and off of Paige's ass, which I really wanted to see moving beneath that fabric, and mumbled: “What brings you guys all the way up here?”

  When I looked at Mitch his face seemed hard. He had a smattering of stubble all over his square jaw, and it seemed to have grown in while we were standing there. His eyes took another dive at my wife, and I could have sworn that something was exchanged between them.

  Then he shook his head and smiled. “Wife's always wanted to come. Likes to surf. She wants to surf everywhere.”

  Mitch had the kind of voice I didn't get to hear much anymore, up here. American. American businessman. A man who spoke and got things done.

  “Where y'all from?” I said. I was from Washington, which is about as far away in every sense of the word from places where people say “y'all,” but I liked to use it to identify myself as American.

  No Canadian would ever say that, you see.

  Mitch sighed, as if this question was far too profound and troubling for him to take on. “All over. L.A..”

  Nik pushed her hair back and almost sniffed at the air with interest.

  Nik loved New York, but right after that she loved L.A.. The way greyhounds love races. “This must be perfectly awful,” she said. She was referring to the beach, I knew, and the fact that there were maybe 30 people under the age of fifty in this whole province, and none of them had coffee at four to check their email, if they even knew what that was.

  Mitch shrugged. His eyes – and I remember this clearly – took a long, lingering walk all over Nik's body, sweeping a few extra times over her breasts, and he smiled. “It has its charms.”

  I actually saw Nik ripple at this. She gave a twittery laugh, or maybe I should say it sort of erupted out of her mouth like a hatching bird, and then she looked quickly at me, as if in apology.

  My cock twitched. My head was spinning.

  “Where are you going?” Nik said, suddenly.

  Mitch looked at her quizzically, as did I.

  “Oh you mean tonight,” Mitch said, after a long pause.

  I saw something flicker across his face just then. A little spark of interest, amusement, and the hint of a hunter roused. “There's some bar, Paige's heard of it from her surfer friends. It's down the highway there. You heard of it? Zigzag's? Zambuca? Something with a 'z.'”

  I squinted. I was still getting over the idea that anyone would come to Canada from L.A. to surf. Without a wetsuit. And wear a see-through white dress like that.

  Then I felt a strand of Nik's hair against my arm, and her hands closed around my bicep. “Oh, let's go!” she said, and gave a little hop. “Can we?”

  I looked at her. Her eyes were alive and bright, and I could see she was plotting something. Deep down inside, I knew it was probably something very financial, very network-y and start-up-y, and not anything sexual. But the quiver went through me again. I looked back at the tan, muscular Mitch.

  “Uh...how far is it?”

  “Not far.” Mitch placed a toothpick it his mouth and turned to walk down the beach, where I could now see that Paige had decided to take a catnap on a towel, and the sun was making her skin glow right through her dress. “Stop by if you're coming, say seven.”

  And he walked away, toward the statuesque Paige lying on the beach.

  “Holy fuck,” I said bemusedly.

  Nik looked at me, one hand up to her face to block out the sun. “What?”

  I decided not to try and explain what my comment really meant, even if I was sure of it myself, and instead swung toward her and put my arms on her slender shoulders. “Who,” I said dramatically, “am I going to play pinocle with?”

  She gave me a funny look. It might have even had a little tease in it. It's hard to say, especially after all that's happened, and because Nik was never the teasing type. Not this kind of tease, anyway. “Maybe Paige knows how to play,” she surprised me by saying. “You two could get a little pinocle on.”

  I couldn't think of anything to say. It was really strange to hear Nik egging me on to flirt with another woman. I decided I was hearing things.

  But Nik pushed her hair from her face and squinted out to sea. “That dress,” she murmured.

  Ordinarily I would have interpreted this as a catty comment. Nik was competitive, and women seemed to have some innate need to say something shitty about attractive women in too-short or too-see-through clothing.

  But oddly, it didn't sound that way at all. It sounded almost...admiring.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  I was drunk. What the hell?

  “It's some dress,” I said.

  Nik slapped my arm. “So let's go,” she said, cheerfully. “I've never heard of this place but I'm curious. This place,” she waved her hands around at the beach. “Is extra-dead this year.” She turned and started to walk back to the towels, where I heard her voice of complaint rise over the wind and the waves.

  “Cole,” she whined, because her book had sand on it.

  I gave a final glance at our new neighbors, and my stomach shifted like the sea in front of me.

  Maybe this vacation
would turn out okay.

  ZACH'S

  Mitch drove. The car was a mystery, if they were in fact from L.A., because it was a tan Jaguar with a tan interior and Canadian plates. I have no idea where someone would rent something like that anywhere in the whole country, let alone in the boonies, but Montreal or Toronto seemed like the only possibilities. And who has enough money to rent a Jaguar, but decides to drive (as opposed to fly) all the way up to Cape Breton?

  I frowned at all these thoughts, and Nik caught me, and slapped me on the arm. She professed to detest my tendency to believe in conspiracy theories, but secretly I believed she liked it.

  Mitch drove like I expected him to: too fast, but deeply in control. Masculine, rich-man driving. Paige sat up front, still wearing that fucking dress, though she had put on a pair of white panties. I saw them as she climbed in to the Jaguar: a narrow strip of thong nestled in the center of her ass. Now that the sun was lower, the dress was less see-through, but not by much. She hadn't bothered with a bra, and so the dress kind of hung around in the air like fog: if the light was right, I would maybe see her nipples.

  Nik had put on a black dress that hugged her at the waist and hip and flared slightly to her knee. The neck of it was a wide cowl. She had put on red lipstick and had her dark hair down in a silky, shiny mane that I knew didn't come at no expense: a variety of products and care had to be applied to her very wild chocolate brown hair to achieve that look. The attention she had put into herself sort of sliced at me, but in a strange pleasant and painful way.

  I was surprised she had a dress. This wasn't exactly the sort of place one needed a cocktail dress.

  But...Nik was both highly economical and liked to be prepared for all occasions. I decided I shouldn't have been surprised that she had tucked away a single, form-fitting black cocktail dress that would serve its purpose tonight. It was very sexy, but could easily be converted into a dress for a funeral if the occasion arose.

  I had on jeans and a white shirt, because I am generally not prepared for anything except dinner service.