A CONVENTIONAL HOTWIFE
By Arnica Butler
*********
Copyright 2016 by Arnica Butler
All rights reserved. No duplicating and no resale, but
feel free to share with friends or family.
Published by Thirteenth Line Publications
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those that are clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, companies, organizations, events, or products, is purely coincidental.
All characters depicted in this story are 18 years or older.
Cover characters are models. Image(s) is/are licensed from:
bartekwadziak / DepositPhotos
Published by Thirteenth Line Publications
Other Novels by Arnica Butler:
Grand Slam: An Interracial Hotwife Adventure
Well-Constructed Affairs
Nikita Gets In Too Deep: A Hotwife Exploration
Human Interest 1: A Lead-In To Wife-Watching
Ela's Performance: A Romantic Wife-Watching Novel
A Well-Laid Trap 1
A Well-Laid Trap 2
The Hobby Job
Not Black And White: A Hotwife Novel
A Gamble: The Making Of A Hotwife
The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel
The Hotwife Summer
A Dark Place: Cuckolded in Lagos
The Hotwife Tattoo
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
TO THE READER
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
T O THE READER
I began this book with a much different tone than the final product. The reason for the change is because a reviewer (whose reviews I very much respect, for honesty that is occasionally acerbic, but always fair) made a comment that very much resonated with me: most people don't read erotica to be disturbed.
The simplicity and truth of this statement made me do two things: 1) laugh, and 2) change the tone of the slightly disturbing book (this one) I was busy writing.
There are authors in this genre, whom I respect deeply and am pleased to be friends with, who write hotwife erotica that is enjoyable to read and at the same time goes in-depth to the emotional consequences of their character's choices. These are well-written and very excellent novels.
But reading that review, I realized something about myself: that isn't really my bag. It isn't at all why I started writing erotica. It was a sort of drift that happened with my writing, an inevitable result of being surrounded by great peers and being influenced by them.
But with this book, I just want people to have fun. Be titillated. Engage in the vibrant escapism of erotica. For me, escapism involves the central idea of escaping: escaping the conversations you would actually have, and the laws of physics, and the dreary realities of safe sex, so that you can have an adventure that is purely a thrill.
So...it's my fondest hope that you: Have fun. Be titillated. Escape.
Happy Reading,
Arnica
C HAPTER 1
“Is that what you're wearing?” I said, as Kathy hurried past me, laundry basket on hip.
“Can I trust you to take out the compost?” she said, ignoring me.
She set the laundry basket down and bent over to pick up some socks that had fallen out as she squeezed past me to get into the closet. Kathy was on high-speed, and I was shifting from place to place, trying to stay out of her way.
I admired the shape of her ass in the track suit she was wearing: a firm, upside-down heart. The pants were unusually tight for an around-the-house outfit. Kathy stood up, and I noticed that her top was also much sexier than her usual, loose shirt. It fit snugly against her ample bosom, and a zipper from neck to mid-breast was pulled all the way down, so the line of her cleavage was on display. I wondered if it was new.
Kathy had definitely been wearing new things around the house lately. I felt certain of it.
Well...50% certain.
It could just be my mind playing tricks on me.
“Paul. Can I?” she said, slightly annoyed. She was reaching above her to take something down from a closet shelf.
“Of course,” I said.
Kathy's eyelids dropped, and her cool blue eyes settled on my face. My own eyes were locked on her midriff, admiring her bared waist, and I snapped my eyes up to meet hers when I realized she was giving me The Stare. “What?” I said, feigning innocence.
“Because I don't want a bunch of rotten tomatoes under the sink when we get home,” she said, still talking about the compost.
“Gotcha,” I said.
She smiled, shaking her head, and grabbed whatever she was looking for. “Right. Well, they shouldn't smell too awful,” she joked. “Okay,” she popped toward the doorway. I couldn't resist sliding my arms around her firm waist and plunging my eyes into the canyon between her breasts.
She sighed and zipped up the shirt. “Paul,” she said impatiently, but with amusement. “I have. to get. going.” She brushed past me. “Or do you want me to miss my plane?”
I did not want that.
Or maybe I did.
“I mean...” I moved close to her and put my hands around her waist again, this time from behind. Kathy continued to sort the laundry on the bed and waved her hand impatiently at me. “You have to change clothes anyway...” I said suggestively. I slid my hands underneath the fabric of her shirt and along her ribs.
She pushed my hands down and rushed over to the counter. “I don't have time,” she said. She shook her hair out of the bun she seemed to keep it in eternally, and ran her fingers through it quickly, before putting it back up in a ponytail. Then she began to open drawers and dump the contents into a little bag on the counter. “So...mom's picking the kids up at school starting this afternoon, and...you got your reservation, right? I sent it to you yesterday.”
“Yeah,” I said, noncommittally. I flipped the lid of her suitcase open and began sifting through the clothing inside. She seemed to have really gone on a shopping spree this year, I noted. My stomach gave a little flop. Kathy went into the bathroom and closed the door.
I turned to the side and began to dig into the suitcase in earnest. Pushing through the many, many carefully folded dresses and skirts, all smelling expensive and brand-new, I unearthed what I had suspected I would find.
I fingered the black satin and delicate lace of the thong bottoms of a set of lingerie. New. A red, semi-transparent material that appeared to be nightie. White silk bikini bottoms. Black lace edging on the gloriously large cups of a scantily-designed bra. The clips of a garter, and the lacy tops of a pair of stockings.
All new.
My cock twitched to life.
I heard the toilet flush and quickly rearranged the suitcase. My heart was pounding. I pretended to be looking through the pile of socks on the bed.
Kathy didn't even notice. She was on warp-speed.
“Okay,” she said, tossing her make-up bag into the suitcase and zipping it up. “I'm already so late.”
“So you are wearing that on the plane?” I said, eying her track pants.
She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe,” she said coyly.
I felt my stomach sink.
She leaned over and pecked me on the cheek. “See you soon,�
� she said.
I followed her down the hall, admiring her new clothing with an uneasy ache settling low in my abdomen and squeezing my chest. My eyes kept dropping to the suitcase full of new lingerie. The kind of lingerie Kathy never wore for me. The suitcase full of new and undoubtedly sexy outfits.
Was it just me, or had she in fact started to dress more sexily around the house as well? Shirts with tantalizing zippers she could pull down when the FedEx guy came by? Tight pants that flattered her round bottom?
I lifted the suitcase for her and put it in the trunk of the car. She pecked my cheek again. “Okay,” she said.
“Have a good trip,” I said. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”
Kathy lowered herself into the car and gave me a devilish smile.
And that was all. She backed out of the garage, and headed off to the airport.
I stood in the garage after the door closed until the light went off and I was in the dark.
What in the hell was my wife up to this time? I wondered.
C HAPTER 2
Thirty-some hours later, I was seated at a cocktail party. John Wilde had been talking nonstop since I sat down at his table, which was not my choice. An ill-fated seating arrangement had been hashed out, probably six months ago, and it had placed me next to John “The Mouth” Wilde.
That was his own nickname. As in: people said he coined it himself.
I blinked slowly, because he seemed to be speaking to me directly now. What was he talking about?
Who the fuck knew at that point? The elections, alpacas, his new boat, the excruciatingly long-winded explanation of the fact that he “raced” and did not “sail.” I think at some point we talked about Mars, and how he was investing in a private aerospace firm to be the first mission there.
I think he had said: “History, baby!” in a low, eighties-movie chuckle at that point. He sounded like Keanu Reeves.
Who the fuck knew? It was like listening to a toddler. A toddler with a lot of money and a huge desire to talk about it all the fucking time.
But suddenly, John Wilde's incessantly-moving mouth hung open. The half-crunched ice he had been sawing on, the remnants of his fifth Cubalibre (he was incapable of calling it a Rum and Coke, which grated on my last nerve) nearly spilling onto the table.
“Oh, fuck, that's what I'm talking about.” He sort of lifted his arm, a zombie-like rise, meant to be only half-discreet, that is the universal signal for “approaching attractive woman.”
I made a show of turning around, but I already knew who had arrived. That bad feeling I had been working so diligently to get rid of since I boarded the plane, by downing alcoholic beverage after alcoholic beverage, returned and started slithering around in my groin.
John crunched the ice just before it fell out of his mouth. “Kate fucking Orel.”
Kate Fucking Orel was, indeed, making her way through the tables.
I watched her, even if I didn't want to. Even if watching her was making the cold snake of bad feelings slither even deeper into my body.
I was impressed, like everyone, by her swagger.
Kate Orel was not a small girl. She had incredibly large tits, and a well-proportioned waist, and her hips flared out to an even the weight of her huge breasts. But she owned it. She owned it like Joan from Mad Men owned it, and the comparison was often made. She was the arrival everyone was waiting for (well, nearly everyone, because some men did actually bring their wives along).
Kate was in a green dress, and there was nothing overtly sexy about it. It didn't scoop down low to reveal the firm and bountiful mountains of her breasts, or cut into the ample canyon between them. It wasn't short, and it wasn't even particularly tight. It was cinched high on her waist by a green belt of a matching fabric. The material stretched across her hips, and we all knew that her full but well-turned bottom had filled out the back, even though we couldn't see it.
It wasn't that the dress was hot. It was her. It was the full, wide hourglass of her figure, and the sassy way she walked it around the room. It was her blonde hair, a little longer than shoulder-length, spiraled in big, movie-star waves that perfectly framed her very pretty face. The way her chin was turned up slightly, and the way she had a gleam in her eye like she knew everyone's eyes were on her (and why). And she didn't mind. In fact, her expression said, she liked it.
“I would love,” John breathed under his breath, “to throw a fuck into that.”
We all raised our glasses to commend this noble statement, even me. Even though John was officially grating on my nerves more than anyone I ever met, and even though I usually stayed away from toasting vulgar statements like the one he had just made.
I sipped my whiskey and turned back to face John, whose eyes were still fixated on Kate Orel.
“She married?” someone asked.
John shrugged.
“I don't think so. Or if she is, she doesn't talk much about him.”
“Or care much. I have it on good authority she slept with that guy Hansen from Arizona last year.”
I rolled my eyes. “Hansen,” I muttered. No one at the table paid me any mind.
“Look at this,” John half-whispered, with out moving his mouth much, hiding behind his whiskey glass.
The whole group of us looked like a lunch table of teenage boys for a moment, looking sideways over our glasses, feigning disinterest in a hot girl.
“Hey boys.”
It was the thrilling, velvety voice of Kate herself. She set a purse down on the table. “Looks like you're my dinner dates.”
John, the slimy fucking bastard, actually jumped out of his seat in time to pull a chair out for the magnanimous Kate, who gave him a flutter of her deeply mascara'd eyelashes, and a baiting smile that looked a little like a pucker for a kiss. She sat down, and stroked the length of one arm with her well-manicured hands. “What's a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?”
She was wearing a red-orange lipstick that made her heart-shaped mouth even more sexy. It was almost cartoonish. She looked like Lauren Bacall on Marilyn Monroe's body at that moment.
Some guy named Ben, the one who had been sitting next to me and clapping like a seal for everything John Wilde had been saying, jumped out of his seat. “I got it. What do you want?”
“Oh,” Kate said, treating the whole table to a delighted giggle. “Thank you. A, um...vodka martini. Extra dirty.”
She placed a lot of unnecessary emphasis on the word “dirty.”
Ben, or whatever his name was, scurried away. John was about to dive in, when Kate stretched her arms across the table, and tapped her fingers on his forearm. Playfully, with her head tipped to the side. “So,” she said. “You're John Wilde.”
John Wilde was, for the first moment ever, speechless. He gave a smile, and shifted his jaw back and forth, weighing his responses.
“I need to pick your head for a bit before the evening's over,” Kate said.
My eyes popped and I crunched into a piece of ice. She was making a lazy trail up and down John's arm.
John Wilde. One lucky guy. I wondered what exactly he had that made Kate Orel want to “pick his head,” but that was her business.
She sat back in her seat. Ben was back with her martini, which she sipped before thanking him. She showered him with another overtly sexual flutter of her eyes a wicked grin.
Huh.
Maybe she was just spraying it all over the place, and I would get lucky, too.
She met my eyes as she bit into her olive. Her white teeth sliced into the flesh of the fruit in her signature, sexual way. “Hi there Paulie Banks. Long time no see.” She gave me a knowing smile.
I could see Ben's neck whiplashing as he looked from her to me and back again.
The smile that I summoned was an attempt at being cool. The feigned “coolness” was more for the other guys at the table than for her. I took a sip of my whiskey to hide the frown that was pulling at the sides of my lips.
Fortunately, Kate didn't n
otice anything. She winked at me, and I knew Ben caught it as soon as she did. Then she turned her attention back to John Wilde.
I stood up. I walked calmly to the bar, where I ordered a drink and then stood around drinking it, even though it wasn't really a place that welcomed mingling or even private musings. The caterer serving drinks gave me an odd look every time I met his eyes.
I turned back to the table. Kate was leaning closer and closer to John. She had a big, wet smile on her lips, her head perched in her hand. Any second now, she'd bring one of those slender fingers to her lips, and bite down gently on it.
“Don't tell me,” Ben's voice cracked through my reverie. “Don't tell me you've fucked Kate Orel. Gimme a vodka soda, man,” Ben handed his glass to the caterer, who smiled politely. For some reason Ben didn't piss people off, even if he said a lot of shit that should. He had a kind of boyish appearance that seemed to smooth everything over.
I looked into my glass and swirled the ice.
“Fuck,” he exhaled. “I fucking knew it. Man. Is she as fucking hot in the sack as everyone says?” He took his drink and looked back at her. “Those fucking tits. I want to just stick my face in them.”
Everyone does, I thought. “How original,” I said, under my breath.
Ben was already pantomiming what he would do in Kate Orel's tits and didn't hear me.
“Those are definitely tits you want to jerk off in. Just hammer your cock right in there and come all over her face,” Ben continued.
I looked at Kate Orel. Indeed, I was sure that many a man liked to do just that. I was sure she let them do it, too. Pushing those pillow-sized tits around some guy's cock until it was all walled in by her flesh, and then rubbing his shaft until his creamy cum landed all over her lips.
“You think she lets you in the back door?”
Kate, at this moment was leaning very close to John Wilde's ear. Her lips were so near to his neck that I knew her every word was skating over the surface of his skin as warm, moist breath. Her black lashes fluttered up, and the gray-blue of her eyes met mine as her mouth kept on whispering to John.
A Conventional Hotwife Page 1
