The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel

by Butler, Arnica

  THE TENANT

  A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel

  By Arnica Butler

  *********

  Copyright 2015 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:

  Tanyunya2014 / DepositPhotos

  Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

  Other Hotwife/Cuckold Novels By Arnica Butler:

  Not Black And White

  The Hotwife Summer

  A Dark Place: Cuckolded in Lagos

  The Hotwife Tattoo

  A Gamble: The Making Of A Hotwife

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1: The Lake House

  Chapter 2: Potrero Hill

  Chapter 3: Moving In

  Chapter 4: The Next Morning

  Chapter 5: The Beginning

  Chapter 6: Turn Into Obsession

  Chapter 7: The Hole

  Chapter 8: Trivia Night

  Chapter 9: The First Game

  Chapter 10: All Over Again

  Chapter 11: The Boots

  Chapter 12: The Real Thing

  Chapter 13: Orange Chair

  Chapter 14: Addiction

  Chapter 15: Turned Tables

  Chapter 16: The Final Act

  Chapter 17: An Ending

  More From Arnica Butler

  1: THE LAKE HOUSE

  “It's horrible,” I said, making no attempt to hide my frustration. I usually didn't like to participate in Sheila and Mark's ritualistic complaining, but the challenges of renting out the lower floor of our Potrero Hill home in San Francisco were getting to me.

  Sheila raised her eyebrows in sympathy. “Of course it is,” she said. I could tell she was torn between her desire to complain, and wanting to know why I didn't answer with my usual, stubborn, cheerfulness.

  Sheila, who was an incorrigible cougar a few drinks in, often had a few too many at the lake house. At that point she liked to touch my arm, and shower me with compliments about my positive attitude. “What I love about Brian, here, is that he's always such a positive man!” she would yell, in her nasal accent. The Shapiros were from New Jersey, and Sheila frequently yelled and talked about people in the third person.

  Mark and Sheila were old friends of the family, and they had known me a long time. Even though the Shapiros were quite a bit older than us, we enjoyed each other's company. They had a timeshare at a house on Lake Tahoe and invited us often. It was a nice deal, especially since our house was eating up so much of our fun money.

  “We rented a place on Long Island, you remember that, Sheila?” Mark waved his spatula in the air for emphasis, telling the story to no one in particular. He dispensed some advice to the lake: “Never do that again.”

  “It's such a good deal,” Shelia protested. “Such a nice neighborhood, for someone to rent a nice place. There's almost nothing to rent in that area.” She was slurring away. Sheila knew almost nothing about San Francisco. The Shapiros lived in Reno, and as far as I knew, she hadn't set foot in San Francisco since the sixties. She brought the straw of her drink to her lips. “What's the problem? Too many gay men?”

  I flinched, and hoped that was the end of it.

  She took a sip of her drink, something fruit-colored and almost certainly syrupy-sweet, before she raised her eyebrows again. “You know it wouldn't be bad to rent to a gay man. They're very tidy. Just one, though...otherwise...” She waved her hand around in the air and rolled her eyes.

  I decided to ignore Sheila's completely un-PC comment – she'd said much worse, in a much more public setting. She was almost sixty and some truly crazy shit came out of her mouth sometimes. I shook my head.

  “Nah, we wouldn't care about that. Just so many...weirdos, people with bad credit, guys giving us a bad vibe.”

  “You have to be careful,” Mark agreed solemnly, shaking his spatula again.

  His eyes, though, had shifted to the distance. A pleasant, warm look came over his face. A look I knew was reserved for attractive women. In this case, the attractive woman was my wife.

  I scanned the other, nearby patios as my own eyes drifted down to the lake. Sure enough, the eyes of most of the men seated on lawn chairs, facing the water, were being pulled like magnets to the shore. Every man around had taken a nice long look when Anna had headed with her kayak down to the dock about two hours ago. Some of them had been too late, and only caught a glimpse of her perfect figure, sealed in her skin-tight wetsuit. Now they wanted to make sure they didn't miss her as she returned.

  I looked down at the shore. Sure enough, the change in the air had been created by Anna, cutting through the water in her kayak.

  Anna glided ashore and stepped out of her boat. She had grown up on the water, sea-kayaking, and she had the fluid grace of a person well-accustomed to what she was doing.

  She was wearing a wetsuit for the lake, because we were up at a pretty high altitude and it was early in the summer. Plus she liked to jump into the water in the middle of the lake for a swim and a cold thrill.

  I watched her with delight as she shook her long, light brown hair loose from a ponytail, and reached for the zipper of her skin-tight suit. I knew that more than a few men had their eyes on her hand now, hopeful that she was going to do what they were hoping for.

  Down, down, down went the zipper, and where it opened up, Anna's almond-colored skin came into view: her smooth neck, her flawless chest, the dip between her full breasts, her chest, rising, filling out, promising to end in dark, chocolatey nipples...

  Even though I knew it was coming, I was disappointed when the red fabric of a skimpy bikini stopped the show.

  She wriggled out of the sleeves of her suit, and her breasts jiggled lightly. Once her toned arms released, she let the suit flop at her waist. We all – because I knew every other man in sight was looking at her – took in the lovely sight of her long torso and flat stomach, disappearing into the black rubber of her wetsuit.

  She didn't keep going, though, to reveal her coltish legs and her high, rounded ass to the audience on the patios.

  She used a towel to dry off her arms and her chest, and then she climbed the stairs to our patio. Her eyes darted to the other decks, and sent the other men's eyes scurrying.

  Anna knew people were watching her, everywhere she went. She liked catching them in the act and making them look away.

  She would never admit this, of course, but I saw how much fun she was having.

  Anna treated me to a smile as she climbed the last steps. Her nipples were hard, I could see now, beneath the thin fabric of her bikini. She caught my eye and grinned. “Cold out there,” she said.

  Mark had dutifully gone back to flipping his steaks, but I saw his torso shake with a private chuckle. Mark was one of those older men who didn't hide that he was looking, becau
se it's all he was doing at his age.

  “Brian was just telling us you've got a problem with your rental,” Sheila screamed.

  Anna took her towel to her head and gave her wet hair a good rubbing. She grasped her wet suit and began to squeeze herself out of it. Inch by inch, her body twisted free of the rubber. Every unblemished, toned inch of her, except for the very small parts of her body she had covered with the bikini.

  Anna knew she had a great body, and she didn't mind showing it off.

  Sheila set her drink down. Sheila also didn't try to hide that she ogled young women, but her ogling was more wistful than lustful. She shook her head. “I had legs like that, when I was younger.”

  Mark harrumphed.

  Sheila laughed, and turned her attention away from Anna's legs to her face. “Sweetie what's the problem with the house?”

  Anna shrugged. “We just have no luck with people.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like...they're flaky, they have bad credit, they...do you remember that guy last week,” she turned to me, “who showed up drunk as hell?” She turned back to Sheila as she sat down. Her cheeks were flushed bright pink with the cold from swimming, giving her an almost erotic glow. “It's stuff like that.”

  “Sheila would show up drunk to a viewing,” Mark quipped.

  “Oh,” Sheila waved at the air, dismissing his comment.

  There was a silence. I spent the time admiring the little bumps that were traveling over Anna's creamy toffee-colored skin, up to her neck, down her spine, over her shoulders.

  Anna was a delightful example of all the amazing things that could happen to a person if they came from a multitude of ethnic backgrounds. Her mother was a stunning, olive-skinned and light-eyed daughter of a very illicit Portuguese-Swedish romance, and in photos she looked like exactly what you would expect and hope for from a Portuguese-Swedish love child. Anna's father was a mixed-race man from the Dominican Republic. All of these divergent colors and shapes had swirled around to produce Anna: tall, long-legged, with the firm muscle tone and the body type (best manifested in her very round, very high, ass) that confirmed the African lineage in her mixed heritage. It was particularly disarming because her glowing skin was a dark shade of cream, and her hair was silky and golden-brown.

  But her eyes were probably the most striking feature about her: they were a bright, shifting, sea-green shade that almost looked unreal. They immediately drew attention directly to her face, where a unique blend of very European coloring, and features that were not exactly from that continent, combined in her intelligent countenance. She was almost always described as stunning, because she was precisely that: she sent a lot of men into a state of fumbling idiocy. Anna was the kind of woman who actually made men walk into walls, and I had seen it with my own two eyes on more than one occasion.

  I had walked into a wall when I first saw her, for example.

  I had no idea, still, why Anna had ever even spoken to me, let alone married me. I had spent most of the time we had dated walking around in a state of shock, half-believing I was in a dream. When she smiled at me on our wedding day after saying “I do,” I was certain I would wake up.

  She claims to think I have a good sense of humor, and she likes that I am “chilled out.”

  Anna is a high-octane person. She works in marketing and she does not relax. She comes up with brilliant ideas in the middle of the night and wakes me up turning the light on to write them down. If she is taking a rest, as she was on this particular day, she has to go do something, like kayak to the middle of the lake and take a one-mile swim with her boat dragging behind her.

  On the other hand, I like to relax with some beers and old people like Sheila and Mark (who Anna genuinely liked by this time, but originally put up with only because she could pick their brains for baby-boomer marketing information). I ride my bike to the store. I work at home and take about half as many projects as I could. I volunteer to work with mentally disabled adults. I like to keep everybody calm.

  As long as this works for Anna, it's great. I often had a difficult time believing that the stunning woman who frequently left for work after microwaving her coffee for one minute and eleven seconds (because she could save time pressing “1” three times, versus three different numbers) could really be interested in a man like me.

  So far, though, we had made it through five years.

  Anna made me a plate of food. She did it quickly and efficiently, and then leaned back in her chair. She smiled at me.

  I watched her, in awe of her beauty and the fact that she was married to me. I really loved Anna, and this was in spite of the fact that our personalities seemed so incompatible. I loved the way she moved, I loved the way she handled people, I loved how reckless and brave she could be.

  I also loved that, though it didn't happen very often, she liked to come to me for reassurance and comfort. Because even women like Anna have occasional moments of insecurity.

  And let's face it: Anna was the hottest fucking woman in any room, hands down.

  She bit into a cherry tomato and looked out at the lake. Everyone had gone quiet, enjoying Mark's barbeque. He was a marinading master.

  “We have a cousin,” Mark announced suddenly, both of his hands on his hamburger. He was looking into the distance.

  I had no idea what he was talking about. He had erupted with this statement out of nowhere.

  “Oh yeah,” Sheila said, aligned with his thoughts in that uncanny way that old married couples are.

  I looked at Anna for help. She was usually very good at figuring out conversations like this. She shrugged.

  Mark took a bit out of his hamburger and began explaining through his half-eaten bun. “He's a lawyer. He needs a place in the city. He doesn't want to buy -”

  “It's crazy,” Sheila assured us. “I tell him all the time that real estate is where to put your money.”

  “-because he wants to pay down his student loans-”

  “Went to Columbia!” Sheila shrieked.

  “No kidding,” Anna said, her interest suddenly piqued. I couldn't tell if it was her competitive or her intellectually flirtatious nature. She did her undergrad at Stanford and was a bit of an educational elitist.

  “He'd be perfect for you. He's a nice kid. Young, but he wants to make partner, he works all the time and the rest of the time he just sleeps. I just remembered it, that he was looking for a place. My aunt's kid. Nice kid.” Mark slapped a thick steak onto a plate and set it in front of Anna.

  “It's not healthy,” Sheila mused, “him working so much. He needs a girlfriend.”

  Here it comes, I thought.

  “If I were younger,” Sheila said, her eyes misting over, “I would eat that man up with a spoon.”

  “But you're not any younger, so don't frighten our guests,” Mark bellowed.

  Sheila rolled her eyes and shooed him away. “He's gorgeous,” she mouthed to Anna.

  Anna laughed appreciatively.

  I tried to get her attention, to indicate that she should start cutting her steak, but I was too late.

  “What? Are you a vegetarian? Eat!” Mark screamed at her, as he returned to the table with a steak for me.

  “Out in that crazy boat all day. It's not even a boat. You need to eat,” Sheila affirmed. “Skin and bones.”

  Anna smiled at me and picked her knife and fork up theatrically.

  We dug in.

  2: POTRERO HILL

  The house we had purchased was slightly beyond our real means, and I wouldn't have dared to invest in it if not for Anna. She was always so sure that the right outcome would come her way, and if it didn't, she would make it happen.

  Anna had the brazen confidence that beautiful women have. Everything did, usually, go her way, but I don't think she knew how much of it was probably attributable to the fact that she was so stunningly beautiful.

  As for me, I was an average guy. Things went more or less average for me – Anna being the one exception to th
e rule.

  “We'll just rent the property below out, pay for half the mortgage with that,” she had explained. “And then it's fine. We sit on it for a few years and make a killing.”

  Renting out the basement walkout, it turns out, was one thing that Anna couldn't make go her way. No matter how attractive she was, and no matter how much renters wanted to stay once they got a whiff of her, she couldn't turn her potential renters into quiet people, or people with good credit scores, or people who didn't, as she put it, give her the “heebie-jeebies.”

  It quietly infuriated her.

  “Oh god,” she said, out of nowhere in the car on the way home. “I really hope Mark's cousin works out.”

  I had forgotten all about the conversation, had too many beers the day before, and had a headache.

  “Huh?”

  Anna was not patient with my memory lapses. “Mark's cousin,” she snapped. “For the rental.”

  “At least we can be sure of one thing,” I said. “If he's related to Mark, he's bound to be good-looking.”

  Anna had her knuckles in her mouth and opened a little wider in a smile, a show of appreciation for the joke. Mark was a large man with features that had turned gnomish in his old age, but gave the appearance of never having been particularly attractive.

  “Let's keep out fingers crossed.”

  “That he's hot.”

  “That he has a huge Italian sausage,” she shot back.

  I knew Anna was just joking, the way we often did. What she also knew is that this kind of comment was a little less of a joke for me.

  Something quivered inside of me.

  “You'd like that, wouldn't you?” I asked. “A nice, hot, Italian man with a big cock.”

  Anna shrugged, as if she didn't care, and flipped open a magazine.

  Then, like five minutes later:

  “I mean...if it was spicy.”

  Two weeks later,Mark called me and asked if John, who I had nearly forgotten about, could come over in an hour to look at the place.