A Well-Laid Trap 2: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife

by Arnica Butler

  “Do you want me to lick the cum from the tip of his cock?” she said. Her voice was sibilant, a warble and a purr. I sucked in my breath.

  But she kept going. “Do you want me to swallow the whole thing, no matter how big it is, until my mouth and my throat are just completely stuffed with big, black cock?”

  I froze, because I was right at the edge.

  “Jordan,” I whispered, though I had no idea what I meant by saying that. I wanted her to stop, I didn't want her to stop. This was too much, it wasn't enough. I loved it, I hated it. I was in control, I wasn't.

  She placed her arms above her head, as though she had just woken up from a nap.

  “Do you want me to do every dirty thing I've ever done, until I'm dripping cum from every hole-”

  By the time she got to “dripping” I was already gone. I slammed my cock into her and began to pound at her. I was fucking her so hard, it cut her words off.

  We came together, both of us seized by an intense orgasm and involuntary screams that we tried to stifle, but failed to.

  I half-expected Olivia to appear in the doorway and tell me she thought there was another earthquake.

  A GAIN

  Jordan decided, and I agreed because I didn't know what else to do, that she would wait for Tyrese to call her. I had never understood the intricate “rules” governing calling back or not calling back, because I had never spent much time dating.

  So of course it made me suspicious that Jordan, who also hadn't spent any time dating, felt so attuned to them.

  So we waited.

  I was in a strange twilight, a little like the half-life of jury deliberations. Time was all but suspended, and every second ticked away on clocks as an entire hour. Whole, tangled sagas weaved themselves in my mind, as you ran through possibilities over and over in the slowest possible motion.

  With jury deliberations, these sagas were legal.

  With the waiting I was doing now, the possible outcomes I was fine-tuning and replaying in my mind were all sexual. Darker and lewder with ever passing moment.

  A week went by.

  “Nothing from Tyrese?” I finally asked, trying to be as casual as possible by asking while she was brushing her teeth. I peered into the dental floss container to make it look like I was otherwise mentally occupied. This was just a casual question.

  “Oh,” Jordan said. She spat into the sink and pushed her hair back. “I completely forgot to tell you. He did text me...but he's out of town for another week.”

  “Hmmm.”

  She smiled at me and twisted her toothbrush in her mouth. “What?”

  “I dunno, just seems...weird. Doesn't he have medical school or something?”

  Jordan shrugged. “Maybe it's a lie. Doesn't really matter, right?”

  Naturally, I should have felt happy about Jordan's reaction. She was not taking her “relationship” with Tyrese very seriously. She seemed almost indifferent to the idea that he might be lying.

  That was perfect, right? That was exactly what I wanted.

  But Paddy, as I'm sure you've come to realize, is never satisfied with the most satisfactory of situations.

  Instead of falling asleep, thrilled that my wife had no emotional connection to her lover, which is exactly what I believed I wanted...I instead spent the whole night concocting horrific nightmare after horrific nightmare.

  Wasn't she just a bit too calloused?

  Was it a possibility that a man in medical school had gone out of town? Or that a man who had fingered a gorgeous woman in a taxi cab had so many other options on his plate that he couldn't get back to her for a week, and had to make up some story about being out of town?

  Or did it make more sense that Jordan was keeping something from me? Maybe she was seeing him and not telling me. Maybe she had an emotional connection with him after all. Maybe she had been swept off her feet by the guy, and they had plotted this escape route together: tell your husband this is what happened. Then tell him I never called you back. Then we can have a torrid affair together in peace and he won't suspect a thing...

  As usual, in the middle of the night my paranoid thoughts all made sense. I was writhing in the pain of my jealousy, unable to sleep, concocting more and more elaborate scenarios in which everything leading up to this moment had been an elaborate set-up, all so that my wife could have an affair with my idiotic blessing.

  When the light of day was shed on the facts, I would feel a little crazy.

  But not so crazy that I put an end to my cycles of crazy thoughts. Oh no.

  There was still so much to think about, think through, anticipate, worry about. And I hated and loved every single thought I had.

  As the week dragged on, Jordan had no further honey-trap assignments come her way.

  A wave of paranoia about this rolled in around Wednesday.

  Perhaps she was no longer taking those jobs, because she herself could only think of Tyrese. Or she was taking them, but she wasn't telling me. Or she just forgot, because she was so obsessed thinking about Tyrese.

  Maybe I was being cuckolded.

  It would be so much worse, if that were the case, than just getting cheated on.

  Because I had my own hand in it all.

  Get a grip Paddy.

  It's too complicated, the shit you're concocting, to be real.

  You're acting like an ass.

  Maybe so. But I actually couldn't stop myself.

  Like magic, just as I was about to tip over the edge on Friday night to a new and unfathomable low, a text arrived.

  I read and re-read it.

  It almost added to my suspicion, as illogical as that sounds. As if Jordan possessed some magical power to read my mind, from across the city, and know that I was getting paranoid.

  I read the text again.

  Have a trap tonight but you can't come. Call u around 6?

  It was coincidence. A sane man would see that.

  But I was not a sane man.

  I ended up at home fairly early that night, to the arched and suspicious eyebrows of Doug as I left the office, and Olivia as I arrived home.

  I wanted to be home when Jordan got home.

  I knew, in a way, that I was outside the boundaries of the trust we had established between us, to deliberately go home in order to be there when she arrived.

  But I also knew she could never prove that I was there in order to see for myself that she had only been at an assignment, and not fooling around on me. Even if she thought it, she could never prove it.

  I was agitated. I was agitated by her latest assignment, and the fact that she had told me about it just as I was thinking about her honey trapping.

  I was agitated that my mind, my cool, logical, reasonable mind, was allowing itself to go to idiotic explanations of what had to be – had to be – a simple coincidence.

  Everything, after all, was exactly what it appeared to be.

  Everything was exactly what it was:

  Jordan was a gorgeous woman and she worked for a PI honey-trapping, and she had an idiot husband who had neglected her for years, who now had a fantasy of seeing her get fucked by other men, and she was fulfilling it. For me. Because she loved me. She even said so. She had never done anything to make me suspicious.

  All of my suspicion, I reminded myself, had been generated by my own stupidity.

  So what was bothering me, then?

  Tyrese.

  Jordan seemed perfectly at ease with the arrangement we had.

  I knew I should be happy about that.

  After all, we had discussed things. In detail. We had made rules and set boundaries and made it clear that this was an arrangement between us.

  Why was I so bothered, then?

  Oh, of course it was obvious. It was obvious this whole time. Deep down I knew it all along. It bothered me because Jordan had control, in the end, over everything. And I just had to trust her. I had to trust her to follow the rules, and there was no way to ever know if she did or she di
dn't.

  Not really.

  No one can ever know what another person actually feels.

  What if all along, all this time, Jordan wanted more? More from our marriage? And this was just a pleasant turn of events for her, giving her an easy way to get what she wanted? Another man. Without all the messiness of an affair and a divorce.

  That was the real question.

  But it wasn't really dangerous, if the question wasn't out there.

  And then, I suppose, it wasn't really as sexy, if the danger wasn't there.

  I was pacing the room.

  Jordan. Out there baiting men.

  Tonight was a little different than the usual flirt-in-a-bar setup: the wife was going to introduce Jordan as a friend. Jordan was at a basketball game right now, in box seats.

  There was no way for me to go and watch her.

  She had explained all of this and it was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  I wondered if she was doing her job as well, now that she had this plan with Tyrese.

  Or was she thinking about him all the time?

  Was she able to flirt with other men while she longed to be with another?

  Was she able to pretend to love me, while she actually longed for another?

  I covered my face with my hands and sighed.

  “Uneventful.”

  Jordan was dressed casually, in jeans and a very hot striped top that showed off her cleavage but kept everything covered nicely, just the way the upper-crust box-seat holders would dress for a sporting event. I had “wandered” into the kitchen as she arrived home. I was now pretending to be on a quest for a midnight snack, by opening the cupboards.

  “What was the score?”

  Jordan snorted. “Oh god. I don't even know who they played.”

  A smile crept into my face. This had been a test, even though I felt sort of shitty for giving it to her. If she had known the score, it would have been more of an indication that she was lying and trying to cover something up.

  It was anybody's guess, at this point, what I thought that “something” could be.

  Another date with a man I knew she was dating?

  Sex with a man I wanted her to have sex with? Who she texted while riding my cock?

  What was I thinking?

  She reached into the cupboard from behind me and pulled out some Triscuit crackers, handing them to me. “Here.”

  “I hate those.”

  She gave me a wicked grin. “I know. That's for being a dick.” She opened the box as she took it across the room and plopped onto a barstool. “What's with the quiz? Did I pass?” She looked into the box and shook it, as if searching for one specific cracker.

  I stared at her.

  She looked up at me. “Busted.”

  But she was still amused.

  This was both really wonderful, and amusing; and it irked me.

  She pointed a finger at me. “This isn't going to work if you can't trust me,” she said.

  “I trust you.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded.

  “Why are you pretending to look for a snack then? Why are you asking me what the score of some stupid basketball game was?”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  A very quick flash of anger went through me.

  Jordan must have seen it. She was one of the few people (I hoped) who noticed that while I was an outwardly very calm person, anger stained my cheeks bright red in a small patch just below my cheekbones, and the stain remained for hours. I could feel the color in my cheeks, even though the moment had passed.

  She dropped her crackers. “Sweetheart,” she said. “I'm sorry...I was just joking around. I didn't mean to get you mad.”

  She came across the room and leaned against the counter next to me. She placed her hands on the edge and tapped her fingers in a long roll, from her left hand to her right, like a wave in a stadium.

  “Look, maybe we should just...”

  I waved my hands in the air in exasperation. “No,” I hissed. “No, god...it isn't that. It isn't you. It isn't anything...it's just...I can't stand being so out of control.”

  Jordan was quiet.

  “Except that's what I want,” I added.

  She looked at the wall in front of her.

  “Sometimes I don't know if I understand you, Paddy. Is this what you want, or isn't it?”

  I was about to open my mouth, and I was glad that she interrupted me, in that way of hers:

  “And if you say, 'I don't know,' that's as good as a 'no' to me.”

  I snapped my mouth shut.

  She was right, of course.

  I needed to make a decision.

  I needed to stop second-guessing myself.

  “I need to stop second-guessing myself,” I said aloud, not really realizing I was speaking my thoughts.

  Jordan looked at me, and her eyes were angry. “You need to stop second-guessing me.”

  I looked anxiously at the living room. I knew Olivia was listening in on our conversation, even though she was pretending to eat cereal and be absorbed in the TV.

  I jerked my head toward the bedroom, and Jordan gave an exaggerated sigh, but she picked up her purse and went out of the kitchen and toward the bedroom.

  She surprised me by tossing her purse on the bed and tackling the conversation head-on. “I'm getting tired of this, Paddy. I need to know if this is really what you want to be doing, or not.”

  She folded her arms over her chest and tapped her fingers on her own forearm. Her lips were pressed together, and she was a little flushed.

  She was mad, and in a strange way it was good to see.

  I realized, watching her anger streak across her face, that this is sort of what I had wanted. This was one of the missing elements of Jordan's reactions to what was going on, a thing she hadn't felt that made me uneasy because she wasn't feeling it.

  “So?” she said, annoyed at my reverie. “You have to either decide what you want to do or I'll just decide and we'll get it over with. I'm sick of this cold-hot business with you.”

  “How can you just be so...business-like about this?!” I blurted.

  Jordan narrowed her eyes.

  “Because it is business. Remember? You are the one who wanted to turn in it to something more.”

  She had me there.

  Sure, that was true.

  I spluttered a few things, none of which were complete sentences. I was not even sure what point I wanted to make, and as a person normally so in control of my words, I felt awful. I was really careening out of control.

  “What is bothering you?!” Jordan said, exasperated. “Just spit it out.”

  “I'm bothered,” I was practically shouting, “that you're not that bothered by any of this!”

  Jordan snapped her mouth shut. Then she opened it, and seemed to suddenly think better of it.

  So I just went on and on. My mouth was ahead of brain again, but as I listened to myself I realized that a lot of what I was saying was not only true, but needed to be said. My mouth wasn't doing the worst job.

  “It bothers me...that you don't, like don't you get mad, mad that I was so out of it for so long, and caught up in my career, and then when you start doing something like this, all you have to do is text me and I'm there just like that?!” I snapped my fingers. “I don't understand why you aren't angry about that. And then you're just...like you don't even need to talk about that? Or talk about how you're this completely different person than the person I married, and it's great that you are, but don't you want to say something about that? I'm really...it bugs me. And don't you...don't you have more curiosity, for example, about how it is that I figured out what you were doing? Don't you want to know more about that?”

  Jordan was now pressing her lips together, I think, to keep from smiling.

  I sat down on the bed, shaking my head.

  There was nothing new under the sun. Guilty people want to confess. They really do.

  I put my he
ad in my hands.

  And then it just all started pouring out.

  I'd seen it happen before. Someone starts talking, they admit to a murder or a robbery or a rape. They get the first two sentences out and then it's like a toilet flushing, it's past the point they can stop it. It all just comes out.

  “This whole thing is driving me crazy,” I said. “Okay? That's the truth. I love it. I hate it. I feel like...a drug addict.” Because Jordan gave a small shake of her head at that moment, like I was being ridiculous, I spat out this: “I...there's so much more to the story about how I figured out what you were doing. I hired Doug's brother as a PI, but that was only...only after I was following you around myself, thinking you were having an affair...I...I fucking came in here, one afternoon, because your car was here and some kid was driving it in a hoody and I snuck into my own house, and I went upstairs thinking you were fucking some guy and it was actually Olivia, and then...I don't know, fuck, I was relieved but I almost wanted to catch you doing it? You know? Like, I didn't want that, and I did want that, because I wanted you to have just...I don't know, I don't know...gotten back at me, for being such a shitty husband.”

  This last sentence, I realized, was really the heart of the matter.

  The whole thing.

  Jordan's eyes were wide open but she seemed to be unable to say anything.

  “And now,” I kept going, “I don't know...you're incredible, you're this sexy, amazing woman and I love watching you, and it's fun, and it's dangerous, and it gives me a high...but I also sit there looking at you and thinking, maybe I've lost you, or I did along time ago...”

  I stopped talking. I rubbed my face with my hands, hoping to keep myself from starting to cry or some likewise un-masculine thing.

  There was a very uncomfortable silence.

  Then I felt the weight of Jordan's body next to mine. She had moved closer to me.

  “I didn't know you were feeling all these things,” she said quietly.

  I dropped my hands from my face and sucked in my breath, trying to recapture some dignity.

  She placed a hand on mine. “You know, it's...some things you say are maybe true. I'm not the same person you married. But you aren't either. You know? People just change. But I...I guess the only reason I was doing this was because...yeah, it seemed like you liked it. I hadn't really thought of that before. Because you were finally paying attention to me...”