But self-preservation, even of my pride, was far away from my top priority. The thought flitted around and disappeared almost as soon as it came into my head. It was replaced by thoughts about Jordan. What she was wearing, what she would do, how far she would go.
The line, as I had imagined, was not overwhelming but was fairly long. I tucked my fists into a leather jacket Olivia had insisted I wear. It was freezing. I wished I had, instead, worn the trench coat I had almost left the house in, because at least then I would be warm until I was rejected from this club.
I kept my head down, not wanting to look like the fool I felt like, so I was shocked when an arm shot out of the line and grasped my shoulder.
I looked up.
It was Jordan, but it wasn't. She was grinning, and cocked her head to the side. “Come on in with me, baby,” she said.
I stepped over the rope, still staring at her. Behind me, a bunch of people groaned and someone called me a faggot. Great. Jordan waved her finger in the air and yelled, “He's with me!”
“Call me if you need a real man, honey!” was the answer.
Who was this woman I had married?
I looked her up and down.
It was my wife, but it wasn't. Her auburn hair seemed darker. She had straightened it, and it fell like a sheet of satin around her face, framing it in a long, shaggy curtain. Her eyes were encircled by black eyeliner and a smoky haze of gray shadow that gave her sleepy, sexy, come-fuck-me look. Her lips shone with a childish lip gloss, a bright, teenaged pink.
But the dress was the kicker.
“That looks like underwear,” I whispered.
“I know,” she said, jumping a little and hugging herself. “I'm fucking freezing.”
The dress was made of satin, and the unforgiving fabric swept around her every curve, looking for a flaw to exaggerate and finding nothing but smooth, taut skin to hug. Spaghetti straps held it the low-dipping fabric precariously over her breasts. Behind, it dipped savagely to her lower back, and it was short – barely mid-thigh.
It was also bright, bright pink.
My instinct was to cover her up.
To top it off, she was wearing a pair of shoes that made her about six inches taller. They elongated her lean thighs and gave her legs a barbie-doll length.
She was hot.
Too hot.
I was having misgivings of a more extreme nature now. Half of me wanted to call the whole thing off. The other half of me was savoring every single wandering eye that was walking up and down her legs or nestling between her breasts.
She turned to me. “Okay, but once I get you in, I'm ditching you, okay? I gotta hook up with some other girls from work to make it look real,” she whispered. “I'm taking a big risk here,” she smiled and giggled a little as she said this. She was having her own, special brand of fun.
She was clutching a tiny handbag.
She looked twenty.
She nudged me. “You look good. Pretty hip,” she said, in her kooky, middle-aged woman voice. This made me feel a little better, this familiar voice.
The bouncer was waving in our direction. “Hey you! Pretty little red.” He was beckoning her up to the front of the line.
Naturally. That was the kind of girl you wanted in your club.
She jerked her thumb at me. “You gotta take this clown. He's my cousin from out of town.”
The bouncer glared at me, folded his arms, and rolled his eyes.
Jordan gave a toss of her hair. I watched as she smiled just right, made just the right joke of things for him, and basically just worked him. He nodded, and shrugged. Sometimes you gotta let in the bad with the good.
I wanted to say one last thing to Jordan as we entered, but the club swallowed us up like a beast in red lights and body heat and pounding music. Jordan almost instantly disappeared from my sight, and I felt like someone had thrown my heart off a cliff. I peered into the darkness and caught a very quick snippet of her face, looking back at me.
Her mouth was moving.
I love you.
And then she was gone.
INSIDE THE CLUB
The club was a small-ish place, with a lot of labyrinthine passages to pool rooms and lounge rooms away from the main dance floor, an open space surrounded by a balcony on the second floor, where men were hanging their arms over the edges and ogling the throngs of girls below. Columns of red velour rose up out of the dance floor and on them girls in scant yellow and black striped swatches of fabric and high black boots were dancing like strippers.
I planted myself on the balcony, where I didn't look too different – perhaps a bit older – than the guys who were waggling their beer bottles dangerously over the edge and rating the dancers below. There were even a few solo acts like myself, though I felt certain they weren't there for the same reason.
It didn't take me long to find Jordan. I saw the purpose of her dress choice, and marveled at her innate abilities, it would seem, as a honey-trapper. The bright pink stood out in the sea of black and silver, and I saw as I looked around the club, that nearly ever guy seemed to be looking in her direction.
The pink caught the eye, but Jordan's flawless curves, and her scantily-clad breasts, and her mane of glorious hair kept their eyes there.
She was with two other girls now, and they were putting on quite a show. One was wearing a white leopard-print dress, and it clung to her lithe frame. She was stunning: long black hair, big pouty lips, long legs. But next to Jordan she somehow looked dull. The other girl was a blonde in a baby-blue two piece set, and she was undoubtedly hot. The three of them were drawing attention from every corner. They were leaning up against the bar and I had counted ten men who had come over to chat with them. Their table was littered with drinks I sincerely doubted they had to pay for.
I scanned the room for where Jordan's hockey player might be, and then I alighted on the VIP room: an atrocious red-velour covered room set into the wall and blocked off by a velvet rope.
No one was in it.
Of course. Because they weren't here yet.
Time dragged on. I was afraid to abandon my perch on the balcony, because the club was filling up and it seemed like I had some prime real estate. The bee-clad waitresses who were circulating upstairs ignored most of my requests for drinks. I switched to double vodkas in order to have something while I waited.
Jordan and her cohort seemed to be in a holding pattern as well. I watched as men passed her and took a long, lecherous walk all over her body. I alternated between excitement, boredom, and feeling ill. What the fuck were we doing? What the fuck was I doing at this seedy club at eleven at night, wearing Olivia's boyfriend's jeans, watching my wife, dressed as a hooker, fend off man after man so she could get the one she really wanted?
My heart dropped again.
The one she wanted.
Jordan was so excited about his guy.
Was she going to fall for him? What if she got a taste of a big, athletic man, a rich man who already had his career in order, a guy who could punch other guys out and lift her with one, bulging bicep? What if he turned out to be fun, and nice, and she traded me in?
Then a high would start back up: but what if she didn't? What if she just let him manhandle her, and then came back to me?
An image of Jordan, her head tossed back and her mouth open in ecstasy against a wall, her pussy stretched open by a huge cock, would flit through my head.
And then the boredom: my feet hurt. I was out of drinks.
When the players showed up, the effect rippled through the club. It was visible: the dance floor parted, and the feminine energy changed from sort of dull, vacant dancing, to a slithering, wet, sex-charged vibe. There were five guys, and they went straight to the VIP room. I watched them move. They were not the most enormous guys, but their hard bodies showed through their expensive suits. Also, they just looked fucking cool. Young, athletic, rich, and cool.
I swept my eyes over to Jordan and her girls, who hadn't moved. It was e
vident that Jordan was the leader of the group, and that the other two took their cues from her. This particular detail gave even more edge to the scene. Watching Jordan, calculating and in control of what amounted to a sexual hunt, drove me wild.
Jordan was leaning sideways against the bar. Her forearm was on the counter, her long legs stretched out at an angle from the bar, almost as though she wanted to lie down. One leg was crossed over the other. She looked comfortable. Just resting. Cool as a cucumber. She was looking over at the VIP lounge, but she wasn't making a move.
The bartender set an order drinks in front of the three, and still Jordan just looked in the direction of the men, who were settling into the seats in that hyper-masculine way that thugs and athletes do: spreading their legs, stretching their arms over the top of the booth, taking up space. Marking territory, like animals.
Finally, Jordan returned to her drink, clinked it together with the other girls,' and said something which made the black-haired girl smile wryly.
They downed their shots.
The dark-haired girl and the blond sprung almost immediately into action, raising their arms and diving into the crowd on the dance floor. Jordan stayed where she was, like a huntress, surveying her options.
I could see that not just her intended target, but some of the guys he was with, were hooked by Jordan as soon as she walked by. I admired her sneaky little tricks: digging into her small handbag on the way past them, feigning an utter disinterest in whether they looked at her or not.
But in her hot pink dress, with her fantastic tits promising to slip out any moment, there was no way they weren't going to notice her.
I watched the reactions of the men; specifically, the one she was after. They had leaned in to speak to each other. It was more than evident that Jordan had been noticed, that Jordan was being discussed, and I could put good money on the talk being not safe for work.
My phone tickled my thigh.
How'd it go over?
Jordan. Jordan in a bathroom stall, probably not even there to pee. Jordan who was now being described in what I could only assume were the filthiest terms by the group of jocks in the VIP lounge.
And me. My cock already felt like it might burst.
Oh they saw you, I typed. It felt lame but I didn't know what else to write.
Watch this.
I have a hard time describing what that text did to me. It was almost like the words started to move inside of me. Watch this. I gripped the handrail and trained my eyes on the passage to the bathrooms.
It seemed to be a long, long time before Jordan emerged from the bathroom. She was un-missable in her hot pink dress, and when she came out she was clipping along at a pretty good pace. I had only a second to wonder what she might be doing when she crashed into her pretty blonde friend, who was holding a martini and essentially poured it all over Jordan.
Right in front of the VIP section.
I was still wondering what the ploy was, my mind a little behind the obvious: the two gorgeous girls were laughing, her blonde friend had a napkin (of course) and dabbed at Jordan's chest. It was far too cliched to be real, like something out of a B-grade movie. Though, admittedly, sexy.
And the guys, of course, ate it up. I saw the wisdom of the scene immediately: they were just two hot girls, pouring drinks all over each other and laughing about it. And now, the men had a reason to talk to them and buy them a drink.
I could almost hear it: the men smiled, the sandy-haired target leaned on his muscular thighs and grinned at the girls. There was shaking of shiny hair and wide smiles were exchanged. Jordan pointed out to the crowd, and slipped away to retrieve her pretty black-haired friend.
And then I watched. There were three girls and five men, and these were the kind of guys who would divvy up their goodies like loot ahead of time. Who was the alpha male who would get Jordan? Because it was obvious, obvious by the way they looked at her: the blonde was sexy, the raven-haired girl was lovely, but Jordan – my wife – was the real prize.
Jordan came back, towing her pretty friend behind her. The blonde had already moved onto a couch and was busy charming two of the men. But even her lovely body and pretty face couldn't keep them from looking up as Jordan arrived. Like a hungry pack of wolves.
But Jordan went for her mark right away, and it was clear he had negotiated with his buddies to hit on her anyway. I watched as she sat down next to him, and they began to immerse themselves in that hookup kind of conversation that people out for sex have at bars: pretending to have a conversation, moving closer and closer to each other, doing the ever-shorter mating dance that is the prelude to a one-night stand.
I wanted to be closer. I was worried, though, that if I abandoned my place, I wouldn't find anything better downstairs. No way to watch my wife.
The hockey player was moving ever closer to Jordan, and I could see her smiling at everything he said. The two were in their own little world now. His hand went to her knee.
My blood pressure shot up as I watched him stroke her knee. Or was I seeing this right? I was too far away.
Jordan is actually going to do this.
I pushed my way down the crowded stairs. The music was humming through the floor and it was somehow even hotter on the first floor. Perfume, sweat, and alcohol mixed in the air, which almost throbbed with the bass of the music. My balls were blue, the vibration was only making it worse. I pushed my way to the end of the bar closest to the VIP lounge, but it was clear no one was going to let me stand there. I struggled to see as I waited in a chaotic line for drinks.
Heads moved in and out of my field of vision, blocking Jordan's laughing face, her pretty tits, her long, crossed legs. The hockey player's hand, which had moved up to her shoulder. More heads. A strobe light began to flash and the crowd went wild for whatever song was being played. Hands in the air, flashes now of faces and people and…
Jordan's mouth, against his.
I blinked. I froze. More people moved in front of me. Flash.
Jordan's lips forming a smile, her lower lips touching his mouth.
Flash. A pretty girl's face blanched by the strobe. Another head.
His hand moving along her thigh.
Between her legs.
More flashes. The place got darker, the strobes flashed more. Everywhere around me people seemed to be bouncing into my view. I was unable to move, so I stood and waited until I got the next glimpse, and the next flash, and the next image:
Their heads close together, his hand between her legs at the knee.
Her lips on his, his hand under the fabric of her skirt.
Her mouth open, her hand around his neck. His arm between her thighs. Her eyes half closed.
More of the same. Jordan's head tipped up slightly.
Their lips back together again. His hand still between her legs.
This was it. I was seeing strobe light flashes of my wife letting another man slide his huge, grizzly, hockey hands up her delicate thighs and into the bare, wet slit of her cunt.
Her mouth was open again. She was smiling but her eyes were vacant with that just-about-to-come stare.
Heads moved in front of me. I thought I might collapse. I felt a freezing pain coursing through me, out to my fingertips, clawing inside my chest.
And my fucking cock actually hurt, it was so hard.
The heads moved. Jordan's eyes were open. She was still clinging to the back of his neck. It had been good for her, any fool could see that.
It slammed against me: my wife had just let this guy finger her in plain sight of everyone in this club.
He was talking to her. She was smiling.
Then they were moving. Standing up.
My mind raced. Where the fuck were they going? What was I supposed to do?
I took out my phone, as though Jordan would have sent me some message; some final request for approval while she was getting fingered by her hockey player. It was ridiculous, and we had already talked it out. I had given my approval. There
was no backing out.
And I didn't really want to.
Or did I?
I started to push my way toward the VIP area. Jordan and her guy were already walking down the steps, hand in hand.
Into one of the many corridors that led off to the smaller rooms of the club, the ones I hadn't seen, the places where people were getting up to all kinds of illicit things. Pretty girls sat on pool tables and smiled like porn actresses; people exited small rooms rubbing their noses and sniffing. I was grateful for the crowds, and Jordan's hot pink outfit: together they gave me anonymity and a way to follow her.
They were pushing through a door. Jordan was suddenly in front of him, smiling, her arms around his neck. He had her by the waist and was pushing her forward, kissing her neck.
She looked over his shoulder, and her eyes met mine.
The hottest, the most pleasurable, and possibly the worst sensation I have ever felt cut through me at that moment.
She winked.
I felt my face smile.
And that was it. My last chance to stop her.
The door, a black wooden door, hobbled closed, and I pushed ahead toward where they were going. A black guy squeezed by them on his way out, and grinned appreciatively. He was still looking behind him and almost ran into me as I followed, and he smiled at me. The smile guys give when they see another guy about to score with a hot chick, when there is nothing left to do but congratulate him on his luck, nod in appreciation with some stranger.
Except I was not a stranger. I was her husband.
The bathroom was fairly full, and Jordan was not the only girl there. Nor were most people there to use the bathroom. I saw them disappear into a stall.
Was she really going to do this?
I stood, staring at where they had disappeared. I knew I probably looked insane, but no one seemed to be paying much attention. The place had disintegrated into debauchery and no one but me was taking much notice of anything. A girl emerged from the stall next to the one they had gone into. She smiled at me, and touched my chest. I shook my head and locked myself in the stall.
A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife Page 16
