The Hotwife Summer

by Arnica Butler

  I watched with the most perverse kind of pleasure as Sandro's face turned red and then pink and then white and then red again. I could almost feel the confusion and the sickness that twisted inside of him.

  “How do I know you'll give it to me?” he spat.

  Marcel tried to cover a laugh with a cough. Sandro shot him a look and something poisonous in French. Marcel shrugged in reply. His big white teeth were showing through his dark lips, in a mean smile.

  “Come on, Sandro darling. It's what I want. Just clean me up nicely, and we can forget about the whole thing.”

  I sucked in my breath.

  For a moment Sandro was still. Then his head hung a little, like the dog that he was. A beaten dog.

  I almost felt sorry for him.

  He slumped to his knees. Marcel tipped his head back in vicious glee, but made no sound.

  Summer reached out, and placed her hands on Sandro's head. She scooted her soaked pussy to the edge of the chair. “There we go,” she cooed. “Do a good job cleaning.”

  I was disappointed, though I knew it must have been tricky to orchestrate any of this at all, that I had no view of Sandro's face as he lowered himself to where my wife's sodden pussy was. I could not see his tongue finding its way to her cream-filled hole, and I couldn't see him lap up Marcel's cum from inside of her.

  But I could hear it. Like a dog drinking water from a bowl of flesh. Lap, lap, lap lap.

  “That's it,” Summer said. She held her hand out, with a single finger held up. For me. Telling me to wait just a little longer.

  “Oh, good. Now keep going. Right there. Suck it out. Drink up.”

  She really made him work for it, holding his head against her wet flesh. The sounds of his sucking and licking echoed around the room.

  Finally she released him, and he fell back to his heels. He glared at her, and wiped his mouth.

  “Now the tape,” he sneered.

  Summer didn't answer. She stood up and turned, and propped herself up on the chair with her ass back toward him. She winked at me under the tablecloth, and displayed her ass for Sandro. Her hair made a shimmering arc of golden-brown as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I really need everything cleaned up,” she insisted.

  My need for release had been tapping against my insides up until now, but it slammed against me as though another person were growing inside of me and had kicked my groin. My eyes were so wide they were beginning to sting.

  I looked at Summer, and she was unrecognizable. She was a whoreish, mean, temptress. She was using her sexual powers to get everything she wanted, to humiliate another man.

  It was intoxicating.

  Sandro looked at Marcel, as though for help. Marcel extended his arm in the universal arc of hospitality.

  “I'm not doing it,” Sandro said.

  “No?” Summer said. She shook her ass a little. “That's cool. I suppose I'll just have to get this out on the internet, if my marriage is going to be ruined over a thing like this.”

  Silence.

  “You already went this far,” Summer said sweetly. “Just get me all cleaned up, Sandro. A real man cleans up after himself.”

  Marcel laughed out loud. “Just do it, man.”

  Sandro was still on his knees, so it was a short stretch for him to begin.

  A knife of satisfaction ripped through me as he sucked in his breath, and leaned forward to place his hands on Summer's hips.

  Summer turned to me, and was looking right at me with a wicked grin as the sounds of Sandro's humiliating lapping filled the room. Sucking his own cum out of her ass.

  “Get it all,” she breathed. “Do as good of a job for me as you did before. But get it all cleaned up.”

  Her eyes were half-closed in pleasure.

  “I have to get all cleaned up for Ben, Sandro darling. I'm going to see him very soon.”

  She had a naughty smile for me as she said this.

  Oh god. If her plan required me to stand up or walk, I was going to fall over on my own dick and impale myself. I was faint from the rush of blood that was leaving every organ except that one.

  Sandro suddenly jerked his head away. He spit and wiped his mouth. “There,” he said.

  Summer sighed. “Oh, all right. If that's the best you can do.”

  She stood up, and conveniently found her underwear on the floor next to her foot. She pulled it up neatly while Sandro stared at her with a mixture of humiliation, anger, attraction, and admiration on his face. She shimmied into her pants, as though she were dressing in her own room, perfunctorily. The red shirt was near the camera, and she picked the hand-held we had bought earlier that morning up and turned quickly, tossing it to Sandro.

  Sandro reacted quickly and caught the camera with ease. He looked down at it, and the final pieces of comprehension washed over him, like a trickle of rain. Marcel sprinkled him with his amused laughter.

  The disc had been there all along.

  Summer pulled her shirt over her head. “Gents,” she said, as she did. “Thanks for your assistance. Ben.”

  I heard my name but it took me a moment to realize it had left her mouth. It was slowly moving inside of me. What did it mean?

  “Let's go, honey. I'm sure you're in need of some TLC.”

  I fell, awkwardly to say the least, from behind the tablecloth. My cock was hard and my legs screamed at me with a thousand small bites where they had fallen asleep. I managed to straighten myself out and walk with some dignity.

  “Dang,” I heard Marcel say, in imitation of American blacks. It was mangled by his French accent, but it still felt good to hear. A convenient one-liner, delivering a pang of satisfaction.

  I turned back to look at Sandro as I left. His face was utterly stunned, the camera in his hand, his mouth open.

  Like I said, there was always a part of Sandro that you couldn't help liking. It was the same thing that almost made me feel sorry for him, again. But as the door swung closed, I felt certain that in the final seconds, his mouth turned slightly upward. The expression was, if it really happened, most akin to camaraderie.

  Summer collapsed into laughter in the hallway, and she took my hand to walk fast, and then we ran. She was ahead of me, looking back occasionally, through hallways and out into a courtyard, through an adjacent building, into another set of hallways. All in a blur. My heart was pounding but every ounce of blood was rushing to my cock, and the only thing I could feel was how much I wanted to burst inside of her.

  She pushed a door open and we entered a restroom.

  I grabbed her and pushed her against the wall, turned her around and pushed her capris away hastily. My hand tugged at the soaked underwear, and slipped into the mess that still covered her, in spite of Sandro's cleanup. She pressed her hands against he wall and helped me find my way inside of her pussy. In only a few thrusts inside her scorching, filthy wet pussy, I came hard, crushing her against the wall. My orgasm seemed to last for minutes, and I let it shake out of me as I sandwiched her to the wall, panting, breathing in the heavy scent of hardcore fucking that covered her skin.

  Epilogue

  “Where's your wife, then?” Nigel Wentworth says to me, looking sideways for her like nervous hamster as he hands me a glass of wine.

  I know where Summer is, and so does everyone in the room. She is covered, only tastefully enough, in a clingy and strappy red dress that seems like it will slip off of her but never does. The tan she acquired in Italy, the final two weeks that we spent at the beach (Summer, topless and unafraid of it) still radiates from her skin. Her plump lips are painted the same bright rose-red shade as her dress, and all anyone can see are her breasts, and her round bottom, moving beneath her dress like small bowling balls under a magician's silk cape. Awaiting some kind of magic trick.

  I sip my wine and smile. “Around,” I say vaguely.

  Against all odds, I managed to complete my research and then, the eight months after we returned, a book. I had strayed from my original topic, and written
a historical comparison of sexuality and social unrest. The publisher had opted for a launch party, the book was so riveting.

  Well, not really. But it was a glamorous success in my circles, and I had been absorbing praise all night while my wife sparkled around the room with all eyes on her.

  Summer glittered next to the bar, where she was flirting shamelessly with a bartender ten years younger than her. I smiled.

  The unwritten rule seemed to be that there was no real hotwifing until the summer. Just teasers, a constant reminder of what lay in store for me when we took another holiday this summer.

  Summer.

  When I had met her, the word had divorced itself from the season in my mind. There was Summer, wife, mother. And summer, season of heat and mowed lawns.

  Now there was one Summer, and it filled my head like a bottle of wine.

  Summer, my wife, everyone agreed without saying, had returned from Rome a changed woman. They meant a reawakened woman, a sexy woman, a confident woman.

  She was unstoppable now.

  She looked over her shoulder and found my eyes. Briefly, but long enough that it felt as though she trailed her tongue the length of my shaft with a single look. I watched the bartender as she returned her attention to him. He was eating it up.

  Summer knew I was watching. Enjoying her flirting, the preview for what was to come. She had all year to tease me, and she was in it for the long game. She enjoyed it.

  I slapped Nigel, who had locked onto to Summer's ass with his eyes and coughed to cover up his indiscretion, on the back.

  “Whatcha doin' this summer, old buddy?” I said.

  Nigel answered me, but I heard nothing except Summer, moaning softly in my ear. Her two round buttocks moving underneath the silk, she tipped her head back and touched her throat for the bartender. For me.

  All for me.

  END

  Thank you so much for reading and supporting independent authors. I hope you enjoyed my story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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