“Don't stop,” I said. “Were you thinking about sucking his cock?”
“I was thinking about if I would be able to get his whole, big cock inside my mouth, down my throat, so I could...suck the...” her voice trailed off, and her hand jerked my cock faster over the hard knob of her clit. “Inside my...” Her eyes were half closed now, and her legs had turned to steel, along with her abdomen.
I watched her in all of her beautiful, distracted glory, as her orgasm seized her and sent a bright flush of pink streaking across her face. Her mouth opened and a moan escaped her chest, a sound she had no control over. I felt her legs shudder against my thighs. A hot liquid streamed from inside of her and coated my cock.
When her body went limp, I grasped her and flipped her onto her back, rolling on top of her.
I ripped her panties away, and I pushed my cock into her flesh.
She wrapped her thighs around me. Her soft feet were at my lower back. I sank into the hot flesh of her pussy, the soft flesh of her legs wrapped around me, and I let out a growl. I wanted to tell her to keep talking, keep saying “Tyrese's cock” over and over again, keep filling my head with images of her mouth and her pussy being filled up by all the many inches of his thick black cock. Images of her lips against his skin: a kiss against his chest, stretched around his cock, biting into his shoulder.
But I was nearly gone within moments. She had driven me so wild talking on the phone and masturbating with my cock that it took very little to send me over the edge. The orgasm almost popped out of me, and I gave a sharp yell as it did.
I collapsed on the bed next to Jordan. The intensity of my climax was such that I actually couldn't stand being inside of her, and her throbbing pussy, any longer. We lay on the bed, panting.
I held up my hand to my forehead. “Fuck,” I whispered. I wasn't entirely sure what I meant by that. “Fuck, that was good?” Yes.
“Fuck, what am I doing?” Also.
“Fuck you are such a hot, dirty-mouthed little slut Jordan?” Probably.
“Fuck, this is out of control?”
I closed my eyes.
“So you have a date with Tyrese?” I asked.
Jordan smiled and her abdomen twitched violently in a small laugh. “No, no date yet. I told him I'd call him back.”
But I knew that. She knew I knew that, because she knew I was hanging on every last word she said.
She rolled over, sat up, and picked up her phone.
“What did he say to you? At the end?”
This was what Jordan had responded to with: “Oh, I will.”
Jordan shrugged. “Uh...'bye?'”
I shook my head. “You said, 'oh, I will,” I reminded her. I really hammed up her sultry accent.
“Oh, I will,” Jordan repeated, in an even more ridiculous accent. She laughed and threw herself backward on the bed. “Ooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllll, oooh, ahh.” She turned to me. “No. Impossible. Never happened.”
I squinted at her.
She narrowed her eyes, as if trying to remember. Then she shook her head. “Sorry, I forget. Anyway, I told him I have to check with my husband-”
“Wait, he knows?”
“That I'm married? Yeah of course. I was wearing my wedding ring-”
“But he knows that we're...you know...like, doing...this...?”
Jordan propped her head up in her hand. “What's, 'this'?” she said, waving her hand around to mock the dumb gesture I had just made.
I looked at her. “Uh...well, that's kind of something I've been wanting to talk to you about. Like...what is 'this'?”
She gave me an incredulous look. “You're such an attorney. You should have been a contract attorney. You could be the guy who writes all the definitions at the beginning.” Her voice was amused. “I thought we were watching The Saint. And eating Max's cheese puffs that he hides in his room.”
She kissed me.
It felt good again. Of course I had nothing to worry about.
Jordan, the Jordan who stole food from her children and watched terrible movies, was all mine.
“Do you need a name for that, too?” she said, standing up and moving the covers, in search of her panties.
I tried to think of a pithy reply, but it was Jordan who beat me to it. “Saintenwatchenslanger...mitdemstolenkassepoofen.”
I laughed.
She gave up on her underwear, and trotted out of the room in only her camisole.
T HE DRESS
The date was set, after a series of text exchanges, for the following Saturday.
So Monday, I started bugging her about what she was going to wear.
I held up, first, the pink dress from our first adventure, with the hockey player in the club.
She shook her head, and smiled at me. “I don't think he's...that kind of guy. And we're going to sort of a classy place. I think. Something classier.”
She reached past me and selected her gray dress, the dress I had first seen her in at The Mile. She didn't know that, of course, because I had still never confided to her all the details of my crazed stalking.
I yawned theatrically. “Too boring.”
“You don't like this dress?” she complained.
I liked that dress. The sight of gray worsted fabric made my cock hard, if I were to be honest. But I wanted Jordan to be encased in some fabric that clung to her every curve, something incredible, something devastating.
Instead of saying any of this more poetic stuff, though, my mouth opened up and dumped out:
“It doesn't really show off your boobs.”
Jordan shook her head and rolled her eyes as she replaced the hangar on the closet. “I married a thirteen-year old boy.”
In reality, she wasn't really that far off. We had married at twenty, because she was pregnant, and we had started our relationship when we were sixteen. There was a lot of adolescence still coating our ideas about each other, and who we were. I was starting to see how hard it was to leave that impression behind, and see the person I married for who she was now.
Or to let go, and let her be who she was now.
“I'm glad we did this tonight,” she said, fingering the fabric of a red dress with a frown.
“That's a nice one,” I said.
She folded her arms. “I don't really like how the red makes my skin look. Should we go shopping?”
“Uh...”
The idea of standing around in a store normally squeezed my balls in a completely different way, as in, as if they were in a vice. But now, imagining myself sitting in a chair, watching Jordan do pirouettes in sexy dresses that she planned to wear to entice a gorgeous, hulking black man to strip them off of her...that was squeezing my balls in an entirely different way.
I had an erection.
Jordan leaned toward me, and kissed me as she rubbed my cock through my pants. “That's a 'yes.'”
The outdoor mall, normally a hell for me, had transformed into a paradise.
Not wanting to appear...I don't know, somehow cheap...as I selected a dress for my wife to wear on a date with another man who I wanted her to fuck in front of me, I drove to Cherrywood Village on Saturday. It was the most expensive conglomeration of stores in the city. Where Banana Republic looked like a semi-trashy discount store.
The first saleswoman approached us and was utterly confounded by my interest in Jordan's dress.
“What sort of occasion is it?”
It lingered for a long time in my mind, the thought of saying to her: My wife is going to fuck a gorgeous black man and this is their first date.
Jordan put a hand on my arm, evidently concerned that I would actually say such a thing. We laughed, irritating the saleswoman with our private, special joke.
“It's a cocktail party with a client. It should be sexy, but not over-the-top. Cocktails and dinner.”
Jordan's voice delivered the perfect amount of authority and confidence, at just the right time, that the saleswoman lost her u
nease with us and fluttered away to see what she could find in a size...
“Four,” Jordan said. “For cocktail dresses. But...it has to accommodate...” she made a box with her fingers across her chest and drew them apart.
The woman gave her a warm smile, underneath which there was a layer of cool cattiness. Jordan had the kind of figure I had heard many a woman swear did not actually exist without the help of a plastic surgeon.
I turned to Jordan. “When did you get so...I don't know...con-artisty?”
Jordan fingered a scarf on a mannequin bust. “Why 'con-artisty?'” She was smiling. She knew why. Jordan had acquired a taste and an evident talent for manipulating people. Telling lies with ease, making up stories on the spot. Where and when she had acquired this was still up for discussion: was it solely when she began doing her job as a honey-trapping seductress? Or had it developed before that, and Arest had only tapped into an already-developed ability of hers? One that I had never noticed?
And then the real question: was she manipulating everyone around her but me, as I hoped? Or was I just another item on her smorgasbord of cons?
“Here you are. This season is all black and white.”
The sales clerk was holding up two dresses that looked like they had come off a runway show. Jordan held them. “Oh, they're delightful, aren't they? I'm thinking something a little more...sexy,” she said. She leaned in and whispered something to the woman, whose eyes widened a little and a knowing smile spread on her face.
I raised my eyebrows, and Jordan winked at me, indicating that whatever secret she had whispered to the associate, she wasn't going to share it.
It was a strange feeling, watching my wife exit a dressing room and stand in front of me, waiting for my opinion. Strange to hear myself saying things like, “not short enough,” or “is there something with a deeper scoop?” All the while, knowing that I was dressing my wife up for myself but also for another man. Trying to find the best way to showcase her, within the folds of some expensive fabric, almost like she was a gift...so another man could unwrap her.
Odd. It was really the only thing I could think of to tell myself: odd.
Well...odd, and fucking hot.
“This is the one,” Jordan called from behind a thick curtain.
My heart skipped around in my chest.
“Yep. This one has everything you were looking for. It looks...incredible.”
She was teasing me now.
I leaned my elbows on my knees in an attempt to do two things: look more like one of the cool male models in the large photographs adorning the walls, and hide my slowly burgeoning erection.
She wasn't even out of the dressing room, and my cock was ready to go.
“It's expensive, but it's trashy while still looking classy, it says, 'come get it,' without looking like a hooker dress. Well...maybe an expensive hooker.” Jordan was purring behind the curtain, and I imagined her smiling, enjoying the tease.
“Jordan.”
A giggle from behind the curtain. It was a thick, velvet-like black curtain that went all the way to the floor. There was no telling what she was up to in there.
She threw it open.
I sucked in my breath. Partly because she was breathtaking, and partly because, while I knew little about dresses or fashion, I could see that I was about to drop an incredibly large amount of money in this store.
The dress was a simple black sheath from just above her waist to the middle of her thigh, where it ended, just half an inch shorter than “decent” length. The length lent it the kind of sexiness that you had to keep sizing up for sluttiness: was it a “decent” dress or too far over the line? The length perfectly showcased Jordan's legs. They were in amazing shape, and they would look even better, I knew, in heels.
The bodice of the dress was made of a perfectly sheer fabric, so Jordan's skin was everywhere. Intricate swirls of black beads covered the fabric, but only just enough to cover what needed to be covered and a tad more, so the dress looked like a dress and not a stripper's costume. The fact that the beads were expensive, glass and ceramic, and clearly hand-sewn to the fabric, elevated the skimpy design to the realm of high-fashion. The neckline plunged, almost to where the bodice joined the shirt. The entire dress fit like a glove around Jordan's curves. There was very, very little left to the imagination, but what was left to the imagination was delightfully gift-wrapped.
“Hey,” Jordan snapped her fingers. “You're spacing out.” She turned and put a hand on her hip, striking a sexy pose. “You don't like it?”
I exhaled. “I...no...it's...”
Jordan lifted the tag to check out the price. “Oh Jesus!” she said. She reached up to close the curtain, shaking her head.
I stood up, and stopped her.
The dress was the sexiest thing I had ever seen her wear. And she had worn quite a few sexy things. I didn't care how much it cost. I wanted her to wear it. I wanted her to wear on a date with Tyrese.
“Get it,” I said.
“It's -”
I kissed her, because I'd rather find out later about the exact price.
My cock was hard, and Jordan grinned as she felt it against her thigh. She reached down, very indiscreetly, and stroked me with her hand.
Ordinarily, I might have found this sort of thing inappropriate. Childish. Beyond the pale.
Instead, I kissed her again, enjoying the view in the mirror behind her of her ass in the tight black skirt and the plunging line of the dress in back, which I hadn't noticed. The dress scooped down nearly to her ass.
This woman, was my wife.
“Help me with this zipper,” she said, and stepped backward.
I stepped with her, a vague concern about her plans drifting through my mind. Almost immediately, the concern evaporated.
She found the zipper herself once I stepped inside the dressing room and pulled the curtain shut. It was on the side, easily accessible. She winked at me. I wasn't here to help her with a zipper.
She slid herself out of her dress, setting it neatly on a stool.
She was naked now, except for a pair of black lace underwear, and even in the stark light of the dressing room she was flawless.
“Can you be very quick?” she whispered, moving close to me.
Was she actually talking about...?
“I...”
But she was already unzipping my pants.
She pulled my cock out, and pressed herself up against me. Her hand encircled my dick, and she began to rub me down.
I looked down at my cock, and Jordan's hand pumping me, with a nice view of her tits pressed up close to me in the foreground. I sucked in my breath.
A shudder passed through me. I slid my hand down her bare back and into the crack of her ass, trying to reach around and through her to get at her sweet, wet cunt. Jordan lifted a leg and wrapped it around me, and I hooked my hand underneath her thigh. Now I could get at her more easily, as she stood on her tiptoes and pressed against me harder. My fingertips found her wet hole and dipped inside of her.
It was wildly uncomfortable, and even through my fevered lust, I knew I would be paying for it later. As soon as my orgasm racked through me, I would feel the pain.
But just then, I was too wound up to stop myself. I grasped Jordan's ass with my fingers still in her pussy, squeezing all over her fiercely with my hand. We were both trying not to make too much noise, and so she leaned into my shirt and bit me through the fabric.
I moved my hand to get better access to her dripping cunt, still holding her leg up. I found her clit with my fingers and began to stroke it at the same pace as she was jerking me off. Her hand was working rapidly now, and I had to fight to keep from coming too far ahead of her. I made the mistake of looking into the mirror, at Jordan's beautiful body crawling up me like a cat. Her lean leg was hooked over my arm, her hand was pumping my cock. Her bare pussy glistened, my fingers inside of it.
My eyes shifted to the corner, where the dress Tyrese would peel off
of her was draped over a stool. The sight was too much. I felt myself losing control, impatient to possess her.
I spun Jordan around quickly and pushed her toward a wall. Her hands thumped against the mirror and we both paused, trying to listen over our labored breathing for whether someone heard or not. But we didn't pause long: we were too far gone in our own little world now to care about the scene we were making. Jordan arched her ass up for me, and I pushed her panties to the side to enter her from behind.
I thrust upward and inside of her. From behind her I could see the full length of her body in the mirror. Her big tits bounced with each thrust, and her sodden black panties were twisted into a thin strip that cut through the center of her slit. I pulled on them from behind, and the fabric tightened and rubbed her between her folds. Her mouth opened in surprise, but I could see that she liked it so I twisted the panties around my wrist and pulled again. At the same time, I hammered into her. I could feel her body tense as her orgasm overtook her. When I was sure she had gone over the edge, I let myself go. I gave her underwear one final twist to really pull them tight against her clit as I drove deep into her cunt, almost lifting her legs off the floor.
Jordan's face colored as she struggled to contain a scream. Her legs shook as she came, and I pulled her back against my chest as my seed filled her.
Then, it was suddenly very obvious that we were making quite an auditory scene. Jordan slid forward and my cock, still semi-hard, slipped from inside of her. She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.
I watched her in the mirror as she very pragmatically removed her destroyed panties, and tucked them into a plastic bag she happened to have with her.
I watched her dress. She slid the conservative brown skirt she had come in up her body and buttoned it against her navel. She smiled at me in the mirror, and then ruffled my hair. “They won't say a thing,” she assured me. “This is a three-thousand dollar dress.”
Oh well.
T HE WAIT
Jordan stepped into the cab. With her hand on the handle, she looked up at me.
“You're sure about this?” she said. “Last chance.”
A Well-Laid Trap 2: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife Page 8
