In one tiger-like move, Jordan jumped over the gearshift and into my lap. We kissed violently, and our hands moved to grab each other like teenage lovers. The horn honked and Jordan laughed. She tried to shift her weight and grab at my pants, but there wasn't enough room in the seat.
I fumbled for the door handle and finally got it. My other hand was busy searching out her bare pussy, the smooth feel of which had not ceased to send shivers up my spine every time I felt it.
We sort of tumbled out of the car, and I turned Jordan around and pressed her against the back passenger door. She splayed her hands against the top of the window and arched her back so that her ass was turned up toward me.
There was no need for any kind of foreplay: that had all happened in the searing, silent moments in the car. Again I saw Jordan's mouth against the mouth of the blonde stranger at the bar, and my cock thrashed violently against my pants.
I jerked the zipper down, moving in disjointed, feverish movements, until at last my pants fell down to my ankles and I could shove my boxers away. I pushed Jordan's dress up to her waist and guided my cock between her dripping-wet legs.
She was so wet that she actually felt different. I glided into her with no resistance whatsoever. Her body squeezed me from above, and she pressed back ward to drive me deeper inside of her.
I began to fuck her, and I engaged wantonly in the act of summoning the images of her with other men. All of the many, many men that Jordan had seduced. The ones who had touched her beneath her skirts, the one who had gone all the way with her and rammed his cock into her pussy much like I was doing now, against a wall. I slammed into her, and I felt her come almost immediately. Warm, honeyed cum burst around my cock and the walls of her cunt shuddered and squeezed as I slammed my cock deep inside of her to fill her.
She let her head drop to the edge of the window and let out a light laugh.
Very suddenly, the whole scene took on the light of reality, and it seemed insane. Insane that we were in our garage, fucking up against the car.
She had been on her tiptoes, and she dropped to the heels of her shoes. My cock slithered out of her, and she adjusted her dress.
She turned around and smiled at me as I put my pants on.
Sure, I needed to talk to my wife about what had just happened at Washington's. I needed to say to her: I didn't like that because it felt too out-of-control. I needed to hear her say, “I knew that, that's why I left.”
But Jordan pushed her hair from her face and leaned in toward me.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Do you still keep some secret beer out here?”
So instead, we sat on an unused cooler that we had moved from the old house, which everyone was afraid to open, because we hadn't been on a picnic for ten years, and laughed about how she'd known all along about my secret stash of beer.
I found myself staring at her and wondering how the woman I was married to could be so incredibly beautiful, and know so much about me, while at the same time I could be such an idiot and not know her at all.
Who was this woman I was married to?
So I never did get around to that conversation.
The dry spell wore on, for weeks. Jordan never suggested the idea of going out on our own again, and I never brought the topic up. I was half-relieved, and half-devastated. I divided my time between the low of repeated disappointment, every afternoon, when she didn't text me, and hungry, boundless optimism that she might. With a sprinkling of relief that she didn't.
Did my wife love me as much as I loved her? Or did she not?
I don't know how I thought I would leave that cycle. Would I talk to her some day about what had happened at Washington's? Did I need to? Would we go back to fishing for our own men if she no longer had honey-trapping assignments? Would I decide to abandon my obsession and put an end to all of this once and for all?
One Thursday night, these questions evaporated.
“Don't make plans for Saturday,” she said, with a wink. “I have an assignment.”
My heart began to beat quickly, and I felt the hot high of this particular excitement spreading inside of me.
But I had no idea how this next assignment would change everything.
T YRESE
“How do you guys always know where these cats are going to hang out?” I said, turning the windshield wiper off with annoyance.
“Cats,” Jordan laughed. She had the mirror down and was putting on some lipstick. She paused and looked, with me, at the oncoming traffic. “You cool cats sure can jibe, gotta get me a zoot suit looks like that, cool cat,” she said, in some kind of funky accent.
“I don't think that's where 'cool cat' comes from,” I pointed out.
She snorted. “I know. I don't even really know what a zoot suit is. It's just...you sound like an idiot.” Her voice was friendly, not actually berating. She was using what I called her “kooky voice,” a deep, fluttering voice that belonged on an Amazonian class-clown. She was having fun with me.
I let my eyes drift away from the seemingly unending flow of traffic and appraised Jordan's appearance.
She was in a black dress she had worn before, and it looked murderously good on her. This dress plunged at the neckline, in a wide, deep v-shape. It was tight against her skin, and Jordan's body was flawless. A curtain of fabric hung low in the back of the dress, swaying as she walked. And advertising that she had nothing between her and the dress, at least not up top. She had a faux-fur coat-like wrap over her shoulders, which kept slipping seductively and baring her creamy skin.
From where I was in the car, I had a nice view of her breasts, barely contained in the dress. She had her hair up, but in some messy style where parts of it were falling down and grazing her shoulders.
She leaned toward the mirror and started putting on her lipstick again. It was quite bright, and I stared at her as she outlined her lips, and filled them in with the orange-red color.
“Kinda...seductive,” I commented.
“That's the idea,” she sang. She waved her left hand at me, pointing the cap at the traffic. “You've missed an opening.”
“I was staring at you,” I said softly.
My romantic tone tore Jordan away from the mirror. She smiled, and it was heart-melting. I know it seems strange, but there were moments of real romance in this thing we were doing. She leaned over and kissed me.
The car behind us startled us by honking. I heard angry words through both of the closed windows of the vehicle and ours.
“Better go,” Jordan laughed.
She turned around in her seat and waved at the man behind us. I cringed, but apparently the sight of her lovely rack in the hot black dress calmed him. The yelling and honking dribbled away. I looked in the mirror. The driver was a dark-skinned cabbie, a very sappy grin on his face now.
“Nice one,” I said. Not just anyone could get a taxi driver to lay off his horn in this town.
Jordan snorted again.
We were on our way to a place called Little Havana. Aside from watching my wife flirt with another man, I was looking forward to a mojito and the promised faux tropical climate inside.
“I turned into the street. “But seriously,” I said. “How do you guys know where these guys are going to be?”
“Google.”
Jordan's personality, while still intact at its core, had evolved into a particularly edgy, witty version of her former self. I liked it – I loved it – but it was a little disconcerting at times. More than anything, it served as a piquant reminder of the fact that I had been fairly neglectful of my wife for many years, probably close to fifteen.
I flashed my eyes back at her. I was lucky to have Jordan. I was lucky to have escaped a disaster that we seemed to have been heading for, where I kept working and working and then woke up one day to find my wife to be a totally different person, probably having an affair, and wanting a divorce. I was lucky to have been shaken awake when I was.
I was lucky she would indulge my fantasies.
Right?
Right.
For whatever reason, Little Havana was nothing like Little Havana at all, or probably even Havana, and looked more like the set for Casablanca. It was, as promised, warm to the point of feeling steamy, and palms in giant pots dotted the entire place. It was a cavernous place, nearly empty at this odd hour of 4pm on a Saturday. I asked for the bar when an eager host in a beige linen suit appeared in front of me.
Jordan had gone in ahead of me, and she was already in the bar, where the illusion of Little Havana had been suspended in favor of sports games on flat-screen TVs that I noted could be tucked away behind big, wooden shutters, probably in the evening.
I sat at the opposite end of the bar.
There were a few men scattered here and there, but none of them appeared to be Jordan's intended target.
Well, she texted me.
I smiled. It was a cardinal rule to never answer texts right away, or even smile at them. We would give ourselves away.
Here we are.
I fought a smile again.
But also, I fought with the thing that was crawling around inside of me. It was great that Jordan was so funny. So casual. Such a professional that she could make jokes while she did her job.
But all of that cavalier, easy-breezy attitude meant something else, and it was this “something else” that I didn't like. I felt out of control.
I'm going to have some fun with the bartender while wait. OK? DON'T TEXT ME. Just stick your finger in your ear 3 times if it's okay.
This kind of thing. Funny, absolutely.
Potentially hot as hell – also.
But something about it wormed around inside of me. There was something about Jordan's new power – over me, over other men – that made me horribly uncomfortable.
And then there was the fact that I wasn't going to resist it.
I drank my beer and stuck my finger into my ear, but only once. I let my eyes meet Jordan's to let her know her joke was funny but I wasn't going to act like a clown. She winked at me.
Then she went to work.
It wasn't much work, naturally, because Jordan was stratospherically hot, and she was the only woman in the bar. The bartender was a young Hispanic guy, and he hadn't wasted any time laying down the charm already.
Jordan leaned over the bar, allowing him an even better view of her breasts. I watched her place a finger between her teeth while she frowned at the menu. The bartender was mesmerized, and he stood next to her as she chewed helplessly on her finger, wondering what on earth to order for a drink.
I settled in to watch my wife flirt. Biding her time before she would flirt in earnest.
My stomach flopped.
And maybe...do more than flirt.
We would just have to see.
Nearly an hour went by. I moved to a table to make myself seem less obvious at the bar. I had begun staring in a way that might be considered “creepy” and perhaps even break some laws in some states.
Finally, Jordan texted.
I looked up. The bartender's mojitos had seemed, initially, to be practically free of alcohol, and so I had ordered far too many. An older gentleman had chatted me up about stocks, baseball, and taxes, and since I mostly nodded and agreed with everything he said, he had bought me a large beer. I was a little drunk.
Jordan was now leaning on the bar and chatting with the bartender and the man next to her. I blinked. The place had, in that way that bars do, very suddenly begun to hop. Gone were the older men watching football – the TVs had been shuttered and music was on. Young women in tight, revealing dresses seemed to be everywhere.
The location made infinitely more sense now. I wasn't sure why Jordan had wanted to be here so early, but I suspected now it was because this place had a line after a certain time and she was worried I wouldn't get in.
She would get in. Anyone would let her in to any club anywhere, at any time of night.
I watched Jordan's eyes as she sought out her target: Brian Green, age 42, owner of several car dealerships and an heir to some other automotive fortune. Blonde, athletic, smug, and with a blond, athletic, smug wife who had apparently grown tired of his cheating ways.
She had shown me his picture, and now I could see him myself. He was settling in at the other end of the bar with some friends. But all of them, I could see, had noticed my wife as they passed her. They had all taken a big drink of all the bare skin cradled by the low-dripping dress, and an eyeful of her round ass. I could see their faces brighten when they reached the other side of the bar and saw that her tits were just as spectacular as the rest of her. I felt sure one of them even pursed his lips in a whistle.
Why did I get off on this? I wondered to myself.
But I did. It had been such a long time to wait to see this again. It felt like a smooth whiskey after weeks of sobriety. I could feel it tingling under my skin, throbbing in my cock, buzzing in every fiber of my being.
Jordan played it cool as always. She was having fun with her bartender and another girl who was sitting next to her now. I could tell that it was all very staged, the way she ignored her target and let him observe her. Just a fun, sexy girl alone at a bar. Leaning over the bar to show the bartender something, with her dress dipping low and revealing almost all of her breasts...
I twisted in anticipation as I watched Jordan turn a little on her bar stool to make her move. No matter how many times I watched her in action, it was always hot. I could always admire her from afar, a little bit like she was a stranger at a bar instead of my wife: a leggy, slender redhead with huge tits and a sexy, wry smile. Then I let it sink in, deliciously, that she was my wife, and she was putting on her performance for me.
I mean...mostly for me. Right?
I pushed the thought away.
Jordan was walking now, and I wondered of she was going to use her classic move of spilling something on her only-too-happy target. Or if she would drop her purse, or bump into him, or – as I had seen her do before – simply pull him in like a tractor beam by walking next to him radiating all of her sexiness.
But she never made it that far.
A tall man in a very classy and expensive suit backed out from the bar at precisely the moment Jordan was attempting to pass. He timed it to be exactly in her way, at precisely the right moment.
He was at least a foot taller than Jordan – who was almost six feet tall in her heels. He was nearly seven feet of towering, black man. He pressed his lips together and said something to the surprised Jordan, and whatever it was, it made her laugh.
It took my mind, which was all set for Brian Green, millionaire, to be wiping vodka off my wife's collarbone, to catch up to what was happening in front of me.
A lot of guys hit on Jordan when she was after a man. She was beautiful, after all, and she didn't simply go unnoticed while she planned her approach. She always worked these men into her schemes. She had things under control.
I tried to remind my knotting, writhing stomach of this fact as I watched her, smiling even more broadly now, squeeze into the small space at the bar where the black man had been standing, and disappear behind his huge body.
I had no view of my wife now, only the large back of the tall gentleman who had stopped her cold in her tracks and made her laugh. From the looks of things, he was against her body, his big, muscular chest pressing against her, solid and gigantic.
Definitely. Definitely he was leaning up against her.
My cock was rock-hard, almost instantaneously. After watching these scenes play out so many times, I had become a little numb to the set-up. Like anything, I needed more and more to fuel my desire.
And now I was getting it.
What had this guy said to her?
The scene dragged out for what seemed like an eternity. Jordan out of my sight, only her legs visible, occasionally, through the legs of the handsome stranger who was rubbing up against her, behind her.
Then a stool opened up next to them, Jordan sat down.
Except...this was the real Jordan. Not an act. This was the way my real wife told real stories. The look on her face was not the femme fatale act she had cooked up for the evening.
I felt a searing pain in my chest.
And the black guy was listening to her, smiling. Was he enjoying his view of her breasts from high above her? Where he was, he could stare straight down at the two swells, the soft shadow between them, and see her thighs below that lovely image. Was he imagining how it would look to see the top of her head for a different reason...not because she was sitting but because she was kneeling?
I stared, the jealousy building and building, as Jordan continued to talk to the wrong guy.
I mean...he was the wrong guy but he was also the right guy. The longer she talked to him the easier it was to imagine their bodies pressed against each other. It became hard not to envision his cock, which grew in my imagination with each passing minute, stretching her open as she gasped in pleasure and surprise. It was hard not to hear Jordan moaning “oh, it's so big, it's so big, it's so big!” over and over in my mind.
Really. That's where my mind went.
I couldn't help feeling uneasy, though. This wasn't her plan, it wasn't her target. She was getting seduced. She didn't seem to be leveraging it in any way to get at her target, either.
But tell the truth, Paddy.
You want Jordan to fuck another man.
And you want it sooner than later.
And if she does fuck another man, you'd rather see this guy do than Brian Green.
Admit it.
I felt like I was getting torn apart by the battle of feelings going on inside of me. Just actually ripped apart. My chest hurt and my cock was hard enough to explode.
I considered sending her a text, but I resisted the urge. It was part of our agreement, an unspoken rule: she was in charge of these encounters. It was her job, and she was the professional. And if I did send a text, it would imply that I didn't trust her.
A Well-Laid Trap 2: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife Page 5
