He moved in again, trying to get a handful of my wife wherever he could get it: under the skirt or under her shirt.
But Jordan pushed his hand away, and slipped from his grasp. She gave him a smile of encouragement, though: something to keep him thinking about her. Get him to take the next step, and call her or “meet” her at a hotel, and then Jordan's trap would close around him.
He watched her go, a smug grin on his face.
Poor schmuck.
I looked for my waitress, and, not finding her, I left $100 on the table. Probably way too much, but I needed to go. I had a hot date with a hot woman, and whatever Jordan had promised Mr. Hands was going to actually be bestowed upon yours truly.
I N THE HOTEL
Come to the Westin on Holly
I stared at Jordan's text.
I was in my car, fighting off the ache in my cock and the flood of images my imagination was producing, trying to focus on finding a way out of the maze of beige and glass buildings.
I stopped the car with a lurch on the side of one of the excessively wide streets when I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket. Lately, I was acting like a teenager with a crush. Digging for my phone the moment it buzzed, checking for messages every minute.
I stared at her message. She wouldn't dare to use the hotel room arranged for her trap? We could run into Arest...
Jordan evidently guessed at what I would think, because a second message rattled my hand.
I took the liberty. too long a drive
We were in Tech City, a mini-city that had exploded ten years ago at the Southern-most point of the actual city. Conference centers and office complexes, business-grade hotels, traveler's bars, and not much else, abounded. It was almost an hour to get back to our end of town. Added to this that we had, necessarily, come in separate cars, and it was a long drive.
I fumbled to type: K
Then I set to work finding the Westin.
Jordan greeted me by pressing her body up against mine. “I'm sorry this might be going a little to waste,” she said. “That guy was such a dud up until the last minute.”
I slid my arm around her. I wanted to explain that nothing was wrong about my wife getting a hotel room after the scene I had just seen. For that matter, no man would really have a problem with his wife getting a hotel room and inviting him to it, regardless of what just happened.
“I like this get-up,” I told her. I lowered my hand to the hem of her skirt and stroked her thigh with the back of my forefinger. I felt her move inside her skin as the wave of gooseflesh rose along her inner thigh.
“I think he liked it, too, there at the end.”
I felt a cool river of jealous arousal snake through me as I remembered the sight of the man's fingers on my wife's thigh.
“It's a good thing he didn't keep going,” Jordan said, and she gave me an impish look.
I didn't bother asking why; in a way I already knew. I moved my hands up, further beneath her skirt, and as I suspected, I encountered nothing but her smooth skin, all the way to the swell of her ass.
I moved my hand inward, between her thighs, and brushed my fingertips over the smooth lips of her pussy. I was pleased that my fingertips were wet as I moved down the length of her opposite thigh.
We kissed, our lips mashing hungrily against each other's, and I wriggled from as much clothing as I could as we charged, lip-locked, toward the bed. I pushed Jordan onto the white covers, and fell to my knees on the edge of the bed. At the same time, I grasped her legs and pulled her up to me, so her ass was on my lap, and her legs were over my shoulders.
I had my doubts that Jordan would be so brazen as to wear this tiny jean skirt in a bar with no panties on, but the idea that her last target had moved his fingers so very close to her sweet cunt with nothing, not even a scrap of fabric, to stop him, certainly wasn't an idea I was going to “kick out of bed,” as the expression goes.
I spread Jordan's legs open, and enjoyed the steamy whiff of her wet pussy. With her legs apart, her slit opened up for me; layer after layer of pretty, pink flesh.
The image of Mr. Hands' fingers, brushing along her inner thigh, so close to her soft pussy lips, made me shudder.
I decided to change tack. I lowered myself down, onto the floor, and yanked her body toward the edge of the bed. “You like having strange men touch you here?” I said. I let my lips graze the inside of her thigh, down low. I watched her skin prickle, and I felt her try to to twist in my hands. I clutched her buttocks. I breathed on her upper thigh, and I felt her squirm again. “Or here? You li-ttle slut.” I licked the inside of her thigh. “And no panties, Jordan? What were you hoping would happen?” I moved my mouth against her skin, my lips barely touching her thigh, closer and closer to her pussy. I could feel the energy coiling up inside of her, and it drove me wild. I passed my mouth just in front of her cunt, but I paused only long enough to let her know I was there, millimeters from her clit. Then I moved to her other thigh to give her the same treatment.
When I looked up at her, she had propped her head up to watch me, and she was panting. A wild, needy look was in her eyes, and it sent a wave of extreme pleasure through me.
“Such a slutty little wife,” I said.
This was part of our game, and I knew it drove Jordan as wild as it drove me. I knew because the more I dirty-talked her, the sluttier she got.
“Tell the truth,” I said, placing my mouth close to her pussy and breathing against her wetness. I felt another ripple of pleasure travel beneath her skin. “Did you go to the bar with no panties on?”
She waited a momentum teasing me as much as I was teasing her, before answering:
“Yes.”
“Such a bad girl, Jordan.” I licked her clit. Just a quick, nimble lap. She dropped head on the bed and looked up at the ceiling, groaning a little when the brief caress ended.
Her scent was driving me wild, but I wanted to have some fun with her before I got what I had been aching for for nearly two hours: the sweet release of pounding my cum into my very naughty wife.
“Were you hoping he would touch you here?”
I ran my tongue along the edge of her outer labia, up to where her clit was pulsing and waiting for my touch.
“Mmmm,” Jordan said.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted him to put his fingers here?”
I licked the silken inside of her outer lips. My tongue glided over them as though on a liquid surface, and her tangy taste filled my mouth.
“Find out that you were wet for him?” I wasn't going to be able to take much more of this myself. I moved in on Jordan's clit, and treated her to a few languished swirls over her sensitive nerves. “I'll make you come, if you tell me all about what you wanted.”
I tugged at the little hood of pink flesh that covered her clit, until the center of her button was exposed, stretched to purplish membrane. I licked her there, and as always, it was as if I sent a bolt of electricity through her. Her entire body jerked. I knew it was almost to painful for her to expose her like this, but I also knew she loved it.
“I wanted him to keep going,” she panted. “I wanted him to finger me at the bar, put me right in front of him, with his hand up my skirt, and get his fingers inside of me, right there where you could watch.”
The image was clear in my mind. I slid two fingers inside of her, and licked at her slit at the same time. Her pussy spasmed around my fingers, and her sweet juices flowed onto my palm. “Like this? But that wouldn't make you come, Jordan. What else did you want him to do?”
I licked her clit, already knowing what it was, and she howled again. I kept going, pushing upward inside of her and against her clit with my fingers, right against the tip of my tongue. Every swish of the tip of my tongue sent a jerk through her limbs, and she began to rock her hips up and down. She pressed herself up toward my mouth, trying to get herself inside of my whole mouth, but I pulled away, smiling.
“Please,” Jor
dan said. “Please. Fuck, I can't stand it.”
She was talking about the feel of my tongue against the outer edges of her exposed clit, in places normally protected by the hood of skin. She had told me this particular, tiny patch of skin was almost painful to the touch – painfully delicious. Her reactions were wild. I licked her again.
“Oh god.”
Jordan reached down and grabbed my hair. She tried to pull me close to her, but I resisted.
“Just a little more, Jordan. You've been very bad,” I licked her again.
You've been very good, strutting around in a bar with no underwear in a short, short skirt, letting a man slide his fingers up, up, nearly to your pussy.
Jordan planted her feet on my shoulders and pushed against me. “Oh god,” she almost screamed. She was panting. “Too much.”
I unzipped my pants and shimmied them down my legs with my underwear. I jerked her back by the legs, but I was no longer interested in torturing her: I wanted to be inside of her.
I pulled her feet up to my shoulders, and pushed her knees open. I teased her a bit more with the tip of my cock, stroking it up and down her clit.
“Open your shirt,” I said.
She complied, twisting as I teased her, and then she pushed her bra up and over her tits, so I could have a nice view of her nipples. I cupped her ass, and pulled her onto my shaft. As I slid in she moaned and closed her eyes. She clenched tight around me. I grasped her ankles, which were close to my face, and began to pound myself into her. I knew she was close, which was good, because so was I. Her lovely, full breasts bounced up and down as I pummeled her, thinking, all the time, of Mr. Hands reaching under her skirt...further...further...then his stubby fingers disappearing into her flesh.
Jordan lifted her head and screamed as her pussy tightened around my cock. I felt a hot wave of liquid gush around me. I pushed her down, with her ankles still up close to my face, and thrust into her as deeply as I could go to fill her up with my seed. The orgasm gripped me so fiercely I had to close my eyes.
We left the hotel about an hour later, because we were people with jobs and kids and a house in the suburbs. When we got home, all was like any “regular” home. Olivia, Jordan's live-in little sister, was diligently eating cereal in front of the TV. The kids were on their laptops, pretending to do homework.
We went to bed.
Jordan gave me a kiss, turned out the light, and her breathing was slow and steady moments later.
I stared at the ceiling.
I was troubled, just like always.
You might be wondering where the problem was in all of this. I was a man whose wife was fulfilling his fantasies, and I had come to terms with the fact that I enjoyed watching my wife with other men. The heat this had infused in our marriage and my (youngish) middle-aged libido was almost unbelievable.
But something was nagging at me.
How could it not?
Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night, as though a door had slammed or someone had hit me on the head. The first thing to enter my mind was the thought: I let my wife fuck another man.
This was really me, really my life.
I would look over at Jordan, and find her sleeping, every time. This was the woman I loved, and I was thinking all day long about how to get her into the arms of another man. How to get another man between her legs, with her muscular thighs wrapped around him and her hot pussy encasing his cock.
In seconds my pulse would be elevated. I would have to throw the covers off and sweat out my...what to call it? Anxiety? Existential discomfort?
Don't forget my new constant companion, a huge erection.
I was the one who asked my wife to go all the way through with it. But in the wee hours of the night, the idea somehow twisted into a different shape. Things took on a darker aspect. Maybe Jordan had manipulated me, somehow. Maybe Jordan had only given me half of the truth. Maybe she was playing one game with me, and another game on the side. Maybe telling me about her honey-trapping, and then letting me in on it was just a way to keep me pacified and ignorant. Like all the nights she didn't call me, what was she doing then? I just assumed she had no target to meet, and that she went to the gym. But maybe she was out having her real affairs then...
Like everything, it all looked better in the light of day. The nightmarish ideas that kept me awake at night seemed ludicrous. Jordan slept peacefully and brushed her teeth with...I don't know, such a frank, normal honesty and then smiled at me with the same sentiment. There was no way she was as duplicitous as my nighttime thoughts made her out to be.
In the daytime, I was obsessed in a different way. Obsessed with thoughts about Jordan and our next adventure together. Thinking of Jordan's lips against another man's mouth, or traveling down his chest, or kissing the tip of his cock...
This, too, was a problem. It was a problem because it was taking over my mind, and my life. It was a problem because I wanted to keep my nose, and personal life, clean for an eventual judgeship. I wanted to climb all the way to Appeals, or Circuit: and watching one's wife walk as close to the edge of prostitution as one can get without breaking the law was...well, not great for all that.
No.
This wasn't the actual problem.
The actual problem was that I could never quite to the point with Jordan where I felt like we actually talked this out.
This, too, was disturbing me. My need to have some kind of deep conversation with Jordan about what we were doing. What she was doing. What it meant for our marriage.
Wasn't it women who were supposed to need this kind of thing?
And why didn't Jordan need it more? That really burned when I thought of it. Why didn't Jordan want to sit down and write down rules and talk about the same thing over and over again like I did?
There was also some latent guilt about how I had actually discovered Jordan's activities. Some part of me that wanted to have a talk with her about what a rabid lunatic I had been acting like after I saw her one night on one of her “assignments.” How I had followed her around, how I had snuck into my own house like a burglar hoping to catch her with another man, how I had almost lost my job because of my obsession with her.
How I had thought she was fucking another man upstairs in our house and I had watched for five minutes until I discovered it was Olivia.
(And then kept watching...best maybe to leave that part out).
How I hadn't trusted her, but I also hadn't confronted her. Because in a way, the idea of her cheating had been too horrible to imagine and make real, but also a huge turn-on.
I wanted to come clean about all of this, but of course I was too chicken-shit.
It all painted me in a very terrible light, for one thing.
But also, it bothered me that Jordan herself wasn't pressing the issue more. When I had finally confronted her, the conversation we had about how I had discovered her had been just a bit too...quick. Didn't he have any questions for me? Didn't she want everything to add up as desperately as I did?
Or did she just not care?
And that was the dark thing, the thing I didn't want to get anywhere near. The thought that I recoiled from, like a hot coal:
Maybe Jordan didn't need things wrapped up because she didn't care.
Or worse yet, because she was hiding even more secrets, and she didn't want the ground disturbed so close to where they were buried.
All of these things kept me up at night.
O THER MEN?
In the strange way that coincidences happen, after the cowgirl night at the Westin, Jordan started getting fewer honey-trapping jobs.
Jordan and I had an arrangement as far as her honey-trapping assignments went. If she got an assignment, and she would be doing it in a place where I could easily watch her without being seen, she would text me as soon as she knew about it. If I managed to escape work, I would go to where she was, and watch her lure a man to promises of sex.
It was all very spy-thriller, cloak-and-dagger fun,
in addition to being almost intolerably sexy.
But the week after our adventures at the Westin, there were no messages from Jordan in the afternoon. It wasn't the first time a week passed with no jobs, so I suppressed my deep disappointment, and tried not to check my phone constantly, salivating or worse.
After all, one couldn't expect there to be an endless stream of female clients in this city who wanted to catch their husbands cheating, and that all of them would go to Arest Greene, supplying me with endless opportunities to watch my own wife flirting with other men.
But after that dry week, another week went by, and still no texts in the afternoon.
A dry spell, nothing more.
I did my best to pretend to be shrugging it off.
“No jobs this week?” I asked Jordan one evening.
Another unspoken rule about our arrangement was that she wouldn't bother telling me to come if she thought the guy was unattractive, sine that wasn't as much fun to watch. Her words, not necessarily mine, though I appreciated the sentiment.
I was hoping Jordan would tell me she hadn't texted me because her targets had all been unattractive, or inconveniently-timed.
“No,” she said, instead, and furrowed her forehead. “I hope business isn't drying up.”
For a moment I wondered what bothered Jordan most about the tide of business drying up. Was it the loss of income (she was well-paid for her services)? Or the loss of our sexual game?
Which one was more important to her?
I often considered this question, and came to the same disappointing and slightly painful answer every time: Jordan was definitely not like me. She was not as addicted to the thrill of these encounters. She liked what she was doing, and that was plain to see.
But she was not like me.
She didn't spend her entire day thinking about it, I'm sure.
Perhaps because it wasn't her fetish as much as it was mine. Perhaps because women in general never seem to care as much about sex as men do. Perhaps because I was a raving lunatic, and Jordan was a sane and rational person.
A Well-Laid Trap 2: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife Page 2
