She was still clawing her fingers into the flesh of her buttocks, and panting with her face turned to the side. Her eyes were watering a little, her cheeks bright pink. It was beautiful.
But as my orgasm began to fade away in waves, the strangeness of it all began to pulse into reality. Jordan never had sex like this. She didn't do things like this. This wasn't her at all.
Not that I didn't like it. Give me a break. But with all of my other suspicions, it was hard not to feel uneasy about it, for dark clouds of doubt to come in fast like a summer storm. I frowned.
And then she did the strangest thing of all. She worked her handcuffed arms down her thighs, tucking her legs up to her chest with a facility that almost seemed – no, did, most definitely, seem – practiced. She rolled around as I stared at her, and tucked her feet through her arms, bringing her cuffed hands to the front of her body. Now she was on her back, and looking up at me with a grin.
But a very strange grin. The kind of grin I never saw on her face. “Phew!” she said. “That was hot.”
She held the handcuffs out to me.
I stared at her.
“Can you?” she prompted, pointing at the simple release mechanism on the side of them.
I released the cuffs, and she took them off like she did it all the time.
“You're certainly a pro with those,” I said. I attempted a joking tone but my voice was flat.
Jordan kissed me on the cheek, and if she noticed my demeanor she gave no indication of it.
“I have to take another shower,” she said. She scooted off the edge of the bed, holding her hands as if they were still cuffed. She stood up and started to walk to the bathroom, but she turned around halfway across the room.
“Care to join me?”
God, I was so conflicted. How could I say no to an offer like that? I felt fucked-out, but she was gloriously flushed and wet, and the sensation of her hot flesh around my cock and hand was coming back to life in my memory, tapping at my cock already.
On the other hand, it felt like an animal was trapped in my chest, clawing around, trying to get out. What the hell was going on here? Why couldn't I just enjoy it? Was my wife having an affair or not? Did it matter? Was I turned on by it? I needed some time to think.
I smiled. “In a minute.” I pointed at myself with a vague gesture, meant to indicate I was too tired to stand. Jordan smiled back, and she slipped into the shower.
My insides were tearing to shreds. I collapsed on my back and stared at the ceiling, trying to get my head around what was happening and how I felt about it.
I got up and walked to the sink, throwing cold water on my face to straighten my mind out. My eyes, of course, went to the vision of Jordan's naked body behind the shower door. She was streaked with soapy water, and the humidity on the door blurred her in places, but mostly it was an unobstructed to view to her sculpted body.
She had her head under the water, rinsing her hair again. “Join me,” she said, her voice light and carefree.
I opened the door and stepped into the water – always, with Jordan, a few degrees hotter than I was comfortable with. But she immediately turned, slippery and silk-smooth, and pressed her ass against me. Her hand was reaching up for her facecloth. She leaned her head back against my chest. “Hmmm,” she growled. “Someone's ready to go again.”
I helped her find her facecloth, because her face was slick with soap. She smiled as I wiped the water from her face, and she gave me a wicked grin as I passed the cloth over her eyes. “That's something to try, too,” she said.
I moved my hands down her body. My own body was responding to her in the only way it could: by wanting her again. But my mind was deeply troubled.
“You're getting awfully experimental,” I said.
Jordan leaned against me with more force. She edged her ass up a little, moving her snatch closer and closer to my cock. She smiled, and tipped her head back even further to look at me in surprise. “You don't like it?” she teased, and her hand went behind her back and slid down, so the back of her wrist passed over my cock, teasing me. My dick spasmed involuntarily, and my hands, moving with what seemed like their own force, squeezed her breasts. I watched my hands work her nipples between my fingers, and cup her full flesh, as she writhed in pleasure.
“Why is it you're so experimental?” I said, and I felt like my mouth was as out-of-control as my hands and cock, but running off with the fantasy of my mind. “Is it because you've been getting some more experience?”
Jordan tipped her head forward and smiled, and she sort of shrugged. She twisted her hair away from her back, over one shoulder, and found the facecloth again. “I don't know. Don't you feel like we should...you know....spice it up a little? I sort of want to try new things.”
I knew she could feel my cock throbbing against her lower back, but I wondered if she knew why. If she could guess that the hardness of my cock came not from thinking about “new things” such as ass play or anal, but another man playing with her ass, or dipping inside of it...
I moved my hand down between her round buttocks, along her crack and to her asshole. To my surprise, she accommodated me by moving her feet apart slightly, and she flinched with immense pleasure when I made a circle around her ass with my fingertip. “Something new, like this?” I asked.
She smiled and turned her face toward me a little. “Maybe,” she said. “I'm sort...warming up to it. I liked it.”
I slid my finger to her pussy, and I was pleased to find her wet again. I dragged her juices toward her ass, and made another circle before slowly inserting my forefinger. Another flinch rippled through her body, and her ass squeezed tightly around my finger.
Now my cock was dripping precum again, and my head was spinning. I had dumped my fantasies of Jordan with another man for the one that was now presenting itself to me: the possibility that she might really let me try this on her.
Her ass relaxed, and my finger slid in easily, surrounded again my her hot flesh. Jordan leaned forward, passing under the shower, and pressing her hands against the wall. Her ass tilted upward, and I looked at my finger inside of her.
She didn't mean?
Her hand went up to the showerhead, and she pulled it out of the holder (comically splashing me in the face as she did.) I didn't know what my next move was, only that I was tempted to see how far she wanted to go with this. I was aching to feel around my cock what I could feel around my finger: tight, hot flesh.
The steady splash of the showerhead turned to a pulsing hum, and I felt the pulsing stream cross over my balls before Jordan guided it to her target: her own clit. She threw her head back as the water hit her sweet spot, and her ass began to spasm around my finger.
I began to move my finger, fucking her in the ass with my forefinger, as she twisted and groaned with the extreme pleasure of her shower-head masturbation. “Fuck,” she panted. “Oh god.”
I touched her anus with my middle finger, and then I began to slide it in, alongside my forefinger.
“Oh!” Jordan moaned, and her body twitched. She dropped her head again. “Oh god.”
But she didn't ask me to stop, so I pushed forward, and though she writhed around my fingers she continued to allow me in deeper.
I felt her body tensing around me, and her feet slid on the floor against mine. I held her torso with my other hand as she grew stiff throughout her whole body and her orgasm racked through her, so she wouldn't fall.
Her body seemed to turn from hot rock to liquid around my fingers and in my hands as she shuddered and screamed through her intense orgasm. The showerhead fell from her hands and she shrieked and tossed her head back. She clawed at the walls, and around my fingers her ass pulsed.
I wasn't able to stand any more. I slid my fingers from her ass, and spun her around and toward the bench at the back of the shower. I pressed her torso down so she could hold herself up, and then I guided my cock to her red slit.
My intention was to get my cock slicked up in her
pussy, and try to push inside of her ass. But after I sank into her flesh and felt her still-throbbing, ultra-wet, superheated flesh clenching around me, I knew I wouldn't make it.
I slammed against her ass, enjoying the wet slap and the way her hands slid across the wet tiles with the force of my thrusts, until she had to press against the vertical wall, her cheek turned to the side, as I drilled my seed inside of her as violently and as deep as I had ever fucked my wife.
We panted against the wall for full minutes. Jordan's pussy was still welling with her own cum, and mine, and twitching with the force of her own orgasm.
I finally slid my arm beneath her torso to help her to standing. My cock slid from inside of her, and she leaned against me, pressing her back against my chest. “Holy. Shit,” she breathed.
She turned and sat on the bench, knocking shampoo bottles out of the way. She giggled. “My thighs are burning.”
Mine were, too. As the intoxication of my orgasm faded, I could feel all the strain my muscles had been under. I squeezed next to her and we leaned against the tile wall. Jordan reached out for the showerhead with her feet, and pulled to where she could grab it.
“Fuck that's hot,” I said.
Jordan held the showerhead against her chest and flicked it occasionally toward me. She was exhausted. I was exhausted. It felt good, like another time, long ago, when we used to fuck ourselves silly as teenagers.
“The sex or the water,” she said, smiling with her eyes closed.
“Both,” I said.
I wanted to say more. But I was tired. The moment was nice, and I didn't want to ruin it.
But my paranoia was not long at bay.
Jordan fell asleep, snuggled up next to me, and it was only minutes before the warm, numb, fucked-out sense of well-being turned to pins and needles and all of the things that had happened that evening came crashing into my mind.
My heart felt like a knife had been plunged into it as I came back to this one, incontrovertible fact:
Jordan was the woman at the bar, the woman I had seen and not truly, truly believed to be her until I saw her this evening in the gray dress.
And if Jordan was the woman at the bar in the gray dress, then everything leading to this point – my suspicions – fell into a new class. A very probable class.
Jordan was lying.
Jordan was having an affair.
My stomach went ice-cold.
But it was peculiar, the kind of icy fingers that were working their way around my insides. They felt awful, but they also felt delicious.
I was up all night, my cock ready to go again, thinking about the evidence against my wife. All of it pointing to her being a lying, cheating whore. And then to the new, spectacular ways she was fucking me. And then to my fantasies.
Where Jordan was even more filthy, even more experimental, even more of a whore. With the men she was, it seemed, picking up at bars.
“Are you satisfied with our sex life?” I said, as she rolled over to her other side, facing away from me. She was still half-asleep, and she waved her hand up dismissively. She grinned, but she didn't open her eyes. The question wasn't fair, she was saying. Not when she was only trying to roll over.
“Turn out the light,” she mumbled.
I did. And I sat in the dark, spinning my fantasies until I was nearly insane.
Spinning them until in the morning, I was planning to call in, claiming to be incredibly ill, and spend the day spying on Jordan.
This was incredibly, outrageously, ludicrously insane, I realized in the shower. I was a fucking district attorney, planning to fake illness, to spy on my wife. I was coming undone. I was going to lose my fucking job.
I went to work, determined not to let this...whatever it was...take over my life. I turned on talk radio and tried to listen, to get Jordan out of my mind. The taste of her, the lies she was telling, the way her body had rippled, like hot silk, all around my fingers when she came. The sound she would make when another man filled her ass with his big, thick cock...
But long before I reached the city, I found myself exiting the interstate.
Holland Drive to Santa Fe. Santa Fe to Orlando.
Parallel parking between a van and a bike.
And then my hand was on the dirty knob of the door to Wilburton Investigations. And within half an hour, I was talking to Ricky across his broad, oak desk.
NO FURTHER QUESTIONS
Ricky didn't ask any questions. If I had talked to my wife, what she had said, why I was back...nothing. He took my very large deposit, in the form of a money order, in the event Jordan ever went through my bank account.
“I have more information,” I said. I told him the whole story, and once I started I couldn't stop. It felt good to be spilling my soul out to someone, even if it was a PI and I knew he ultimately didn't care about my feelings. A consummate professional, he listened, made notes, and judged nothing with his expression or his words. When I was done, he stroked his beard. He looked at his notes.
“The place to start then,” he said, “would be to follow her from work, I suppose?”
He wasn't really asking, but I nodded.
Ricky ordered some papers, and smiled at me. “I'll be in touch in a week, regardless. Sooner, if I have something else. Try to put things out of your mind, get caught up on your work.” He looked down at his folder. “You want pictures, I assume?”
I nodded again, and he checked a small box on a pre-printed sheet of paper. The letters at the top swarmed at me, and then formed the title:
Surveillance Order for Spouse/Partner.
I looked at Ricky, who had an impenetrable expression that I supposed was the best thing to have in a job like this. I wondered, if behind his inscrutable poker face, he knew that I was the kind of man who wasn't entirely sure why I was here. The kind of man who was hiring a private detective to catch his wife, but who didn't know whether to hope he turned up nothing, or jerk off in the shower thinking about what he might find.
And hopefully, as twisted as it sounded, get a picture of.
Is that what I wanted?
I had no idea.
CONVICTION
As it seemed to go on this roller-coaster ride with Jordan, things went back, very much, to “normal” again for several days. Having relieved myself of the surveillance of my wife, but feeling guilty and conflicted about it, I threw myself into catching up on work that had really gone to hell. The end of the term was approaching and I was, actually, going to be fired if I didn't get my act together.
Jordan was asleep most nights when I arrived home, her face a picture of angelic innocence, her brow untroubled, her respiration slow and steady.
How could she be the duplicitous woman I suspected her of being? I thought. Again, in spite of the evidence, I began to doubt my conviction.
But Thursday I came home to find Olivia watching TV on the couch alone. She greeted me with a jerk of her head and mumbled that Jordan was at the gym.
I saw her, though, from the kitchen, as she found her phone next to her on the couch and, without setting her bowl of cereal down, typed a message on it.
It was 9:30.
I went to the study and forced myself to read through my assistant's briefs. I had been saddled with an intern who seemed to only have been admitted to law school to begin with because of some family connection, and who only got the coveted internship for the same reason. She was awful, and somehow converted boiler-plate motions to utter gibberish when asked to modify minor details. Ultimately, my paranoid delusions about my wife and Cassie Davis' incompetence, were going to combine and destroy my career.
I heard the garage door at 10:37. I rose and moved to the doorway. In the kitchen I heard whispered exchanges between Jordan and Olivia.
I moved back to my desk and put my hands behind my head.
What was it, I wondered, that Jordan needed to seek outside of our marriage? Why like this, with evening dates, with fat men, going to bars? Was that it? She wanted to go
out to dinner or get some drinks?
Or was it something else? Something physical? Some twisted sexual game she wanted to play and couldn't tell me about?
I wondered, briefly, if she was one of those rape fantasy women.
But why wouldn't she just tell me?
And no, it didn't add up.
“Hey.”
Jordan's voice was breathy. She was standing in the doorway; I could see her reflection in the window. I swiveled in my chair and looked at her.
She was dressed in her gym clothes, all right.
“Oh...kay,” she said. “Hello to you, too.”
I blinked.
“Your hair always looks so...un-mussed after the gym,” I ventured.
Jordan squinted. She reached up to her head, and patted it. “What the heck are you talking about?” she said.
God, she was good.
Shaved pussy, working out more, fancy clothes...you should have known about this affair ages ago.
She stepped forward, apparently not truly interested in what the heck I was talking about. Apparently unaffected by my strange mood. I still had my hands clasped at the back of my head.
She came to the chair, and pushed my spread legs closed with her knees so that she could plop herself onto my lap.
I inhaled her scent.
She did smell like sweat. And sandalwood. Not fresh, like a shower.
“I'm glad you're here,” she said. She put her arms on my shoulders. Her breasts pressed against my chest. “I have just been stretching in all these weird positions, and this class was really long, really boring, and all I could do the whole time was think about sex.”
Sex with who, Jordan?
She was grinning.
Was she telling me this class was so long to cover up for how late she was getting home? Was this another night she had left in a cab and changed her clothes before she got home?
If it was, she was shameless. She had no remorse as she squirmed on top of me, biting her lower lip, her eyes glowing with mischief.
My cock, of course, was not responding with the same reservation as I was. Instead, it was getting hard beneath Jordan's soft weight, and she was rubbing herself against it, bringing me to a boil.
A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife Page 8
