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

by Arnica Butler

  The wall was already trembling with the force of their two bodies. I stood there, staring at the metal wall, watching it shake. The music was blaring, but I could still hear them panting beneath it. The heavy, thick panting of two people who are about to fuck. Or who are actually fucking.

  I looked down at the floor, and I lowered myself just in time to see Jordan's slinky shoes levitate, into the air. All that remained were the feet of her hockey player, leaning slightly forward, rocking slightly.

  It didn't take a genius to know what was happening on the other side of the door. He had my wife by the thighs, pressed up against the bathroom door. By the strength of the vibrations in the stalls, he was pummeling her good, in hard, slow strokes.

  I heard his voice, low and unintelligible below the pounding music.

  Then Jordan began to mewl. The stall rattled and her voice came in strangled, sexual squeals that seemed to be almost punched out of her.

  I wanted to take out my cock, but I didn't dare. I wanted to stand on the toilet and look over the wall to see my wife getting fucked, but I also didn't dare. I couldn't move. The whole thing was coming to me as though it were a dream now: Jordan's mewling, her howling, the shaking of the stalls.

  I leaned my hand against the stall and felt it shake, harder and harder. Jordan's howling turned to a long, unending wail. Something slammed against the stall. Their panting was so heavy now it reverberated over the music.

  I knew Jordan's tits were bouncing in her skimpy dress, bouncing with every thrust. Her legs must have been splayed, held apart by his thick, muscular arms. From the sound of it his cock was enormous, and he was manhandling her. The stall seemed like it might fall over.

  I heard Jordan come, and I imagined her flushed face, turned upward at the ceiling. Coming the way she always did, but not for me. More slamming, now faster and harder, and then a guttural, wrenching groan. The stall shook violently as he pounded his orgasm into her.

  I steadied myself on the stall. I had a violent need for release, but I still didn't feel like I could move without falling over. I heard Jordan laugh. My heart was racing and every beat was painful and delicious. My mind was whipping up a visual of what I had heard and replaying it slowly, over and over. My palms itched with the feeling of cupping Jordan's ass and hammering my cock into her – a feat I would never have been able to manage. And now she was stretched out and defiled and fucked, by this guy who could hold her up against a wall and pummel her.

  Fuck.

  I listened to them leave. They were talking but I had no idea what they were saying.

  I don't know how long I stayed there, holding myself up against the door.

  I needed to move. What was she going to do next? Was she going to go home with this guy? Maybe all of them? Maybe she was going to get wild, fuck them all. I needed to do something, and stop her.

  I stood up. I took out my phone.

  A message was already there.

  I'm getting a cab. Appearances. Where you parked?

  I stared at the time. Only a minute old.

  Relief flooded over me, I don't mind saying. What I had just witnessed was almost too much, and I typed clumsily and in a hurry: Wellington and 12th. Five minutes.

  I practically ran from the club.

  AFTERWARD

  A cab was idling a few cars down from my car, and when I approached, the door opened and Jordan stepped out. A car passed and guys whistled out the window. Jordan waved playfully and strutted toward me.

  The cab pulled away. The cabbie seemed to be smirking.

  Headlights silhouetted Jordan's red hair, her perfect figure. She was calm, composed.

  “You okay?” she said. But she didn't seem overly worried.

  This sort of bugged me, though I knew I had no right to feel that way.

  It bugged me, but she was also incredibly hot.

  She cocked her head. “Did you get to see anything?”

  My throat was dry so my first attempt at speaking was a squawk. I cleared my throat. “I was in the stall next to you.”

  Jordan gave me a smile, one I had never seen before on her face. “Mmm,” she said. “So you heard it all.”

  “I couldn't hear it all,” I said.

  She twirled her purse around. “Take me home. I'll tell you all about it.”

  I fumbled like a guy on a first date with my keys and opened the door for her. Jordan watched me, amused, but as she stepped into the car she paused, and reached out for my face. “You're okay, right?”

  Now she seemed concerned.

  “Of course,” I said. “I asked you to do it. We...you know, we did it together. It's good. It's...”

  I was having a hard time articulating that the stabbing pain inside of me was part of my thrill, even to myself.

  Jordan kissed me. “I love you,” she said. “I only did it because I thought you would like it.”

  Her eyes fell on my erection, and she smiled. Then she dropped into the car.

  There was no denying, of course, that there was one part of me that very much, very much, liked what I had just seen. I closed the door behind her and gave her a smile.

  My feelings were a tornado as I walked around the car, but I couldn't deny it even to myself:

  My wife had just fucked another man, and I loved it.

  I started the car and drove a few blocks. There was a silence in the car, but it wasn't awkward, and it didn't feel bad. The tension between us was was just a searing longing, the kind of feeling that appears only very early in a relationship, before you know what will happen, before you know what it will be like to have that person.

  Jordan was looking at me; I could feel her eyes on my face, on my cock. I could feel her sexual energy from across the car.

  I knew her pussy was wet with her own cum, and another man's. I knew she would smell different when I pulled her legs apart.

  I pulled the car over. I turned to her to say, “I can't drive,” but she moved closer to me before I could say anything, and we kissed violently. Her hands found a way underneath my shirt, and then they moved over my jeans and grasped my cock through the material.

  I didn't even think, for a second, about how the street was pretty public. It was residential here, but party-goers were walking by every now and then. I leaned back in the seat and let Jordan unbutton my jeans. She pulled my cock out of my boxers.

  I thought she had something in mind like the first night I had watched her honey-trapping, at The Yacht Club. That maybe she would jerk me off or dare to give me a blow job in a car on a public street. She stroked my cock, and then she leaned over, as though she planned to lick the gushing precum from my glans. She surprised me by seemingly losing control of herself. She reached down to move the seat back and hopped onto my lap, in quick succession.

  It was a tight squeeze, there between the steering wheel and the seat-back. Her breasts brushed against my face, and I pulled at the fabric, stretching it down to expose her supple flesh, and her hardened nipples. I took one into my mouth, and felt her body shudder as I swirled my tongue around the pebble in the center of her aureola. I moved my hands down to her skirt, pushing it up to her hips.

  I slid a finger down her scanty underwear. It seemed to be no more than a string and a shred of lace, and I wondered what she had done with it in the bathroom stall. The fabric was soaked, and it sent another wave of arousal through me to feel it. To know what it contained.

  My fingers were on her smooth pussy now, sticky with her own excitement. I pulled her panties aside. She grasped my cock at the same time, guiding it quickly to her dripping hole. Her legs tensed as she rose up to accommodate me, and then she slammed herself down on my cock.

  Without speaking, we stared into each other's eyes, and she pressed herself down against my pelvis, grinding herself into me, until we both came. It was brief, but the intensity of it was almost painful.

  Jordan laughed, and climbed, with decidedly less grace than she had come over with, into the passenger seat. She lean
ed her head back against the headrest, and blew her tangled hair away from her face.

  I reached over and pulled on her dress, because her breasts were still exposed.

  I wiped my forehead. Turned the car on. And we drove home.

  WE ALL KNOW WHEN WE'VE CROSSED THE LINE

  “Did I ever tell you the story about my brother?”

  Doug has finished a hamburger, which he consumed like a wild boar, and he is now dabbing at the corners of his mouth like a pixie.

  Inwardly, I groan. Doug pulls out this anecdote for nearly every occasion, whenever he wants to make a point, and God only knows what his point might be this time.

  He looks at me archly.

  I suspect that Doug believes I might be in on this corruption in the DAs office, and who can blame him? I've been acting funny. Like a guilty man. Slinking around, sneaking into the bathroom, making phone calls in the stairwell.

  Either that, or he's just sick of my incompetence. I've been leaving early, sweating more than usual. I've been distracted, vague, unprepared.

  I nod, in answer to his question, but I know he's going to tell me this story anyway.

  His brother never had a drink until he was twenty-five, the story goes. And then he turned into a raging alcoholic. In some versions of the story he ran over the family dog; in others he put the car through a neighbor's living room window. In all the stories, he goes to AA, and tells the group about this memory that came to him as he was sobering up. One night he had gone to bed wasted, and still he couldn't sleep. He felt sick, and he got out of bed, and then he went downstairs and poured himself another drink. He knew, as he looked at it – in some versions a clear shot of vodka, in others a brown, rich whiskey (knowing Chip, in reality, probably Everclear) – and then, he drinks it. But he knows. He knows he's gone too far.

  “We all know,” Doug always concludes, “when we cross the line.”

  I know this is a story meant for some other issue Doug thinks he understands about my life. But still, my stomach twists. He might as well see right into my private life, right into my marriage.

  When we got home the night Jordan fucked the hockey player, we had great sex again. Again: this is twice in the same day, and we're a long-married couple. Jordan on all fours, telling me how big his cock was, how he lifted her and pinned her to the wall and fucked her like she had never been fucked before.

  He had given her his number. Begged her to call him.

  Put his lips on her pretty nipples.

  Felt her thighs against his chest.

  I wake up all the time, or stay awake, or fall into a daydream in the middle of the day. I snap into the moment, over and over, and I can taste it, smell it, hear it, feel it. The sweat and the fake smoke on the dance floor. The pounding music, the pounding blood in my ears. The flashing lights, Jordan's bright pink dress.

  A hand between her legs.

  A sexual smile on her face, but not for me.

  The bathroom stall, cold on my skin, shaking and rattling as my wife is slammed against it, a big, veined cock between her legs.

  Jordan's mewl, over and over again.

  Inside of me, a snake of arousal, and a knife of pain.

  When Jordan is there and I think of these things, I roll over and wake her with my fingers sliding into her flesh.

  We fuck, like we had not fucked in a long, long time. Every time we have sex now there is the excitement of all the thing we've shared together: the clubs, the men, the flirting, the sex in the car, sex in bathroom, sex in public places, wilder sex than we've ever had. The danger of it all: for her job, for mine, for our marriage.

  I don't want those things to taste so good. Like Doug's brother's midnight drink, I know I've probably opened a Pandora’s box.

  Where could it possibly go from here, except too far?

  I said as much to Jordan one night, across the pillow, our bodies sticky with cum and sweat, our legs tangled together. It was one in the morning, and we had been writhing in the bed, muffling our screams of pleasure, fucking ourselves silly.

  “I'll tell Arest I need to quit,” she said, and on her face I could see she thought the same things I did. “Or...I can just go back to flirting.”

  Because no alcoholic wants to quit, not really. No smoker wants to have the last cigarette. No gambler wants to play his last hand.

  I pulled her to me, and incredibly, given how much we had just screwed, we were both aroused again. Our bodies came together, and soon I was inside of her.

  But we both knew, or at least I think we did, that the passion was as fiery as it was because of these dangerous, glittering things. And that it would fade, like a high, like a drunken buzz.

  And that we would both need to have more.

  Maybe we do all know when we've crossed the line. Hindsight, the saying goes and goes, is twenty-twenty.

  But then: what the fuck are you supposed to do about it?

  END

  Jordan and Paddy will find their marriage taken to the absolute limit in the sequel to A Well-Laid Trap. It's in the works right now! Don't forget to follow me on Twitter (@ArnicaButler), or sign up for the Thirteenth Line newsletter (you can specify your author updates) at http://www.thirteenthline.com/ so you know when it's out!

  MORE FROM ARNICA BUTLER

  Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed my story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Please don't forget to leave a review...it's the best compliment I can receive, and it helps boost sales and get my stories out to the readers who want them, so I can keep writing more long works like these for you to enjoy!

  Also, don't forget to Sign Up For Our Newsletter

  If you enjoyed A Well-Laid Plan,

  give my other novels a try!

  The Hobby Job

  Former career professional Laura is going crazy living her stay-at-home-mom life in a small country town. Her husband Conrad has the perfect solution: get a “hobby job.” Laura gets turned on to the idea, and to Conrad's surprise, chooses to wait tables at a run-down restaurant down the street. But she gets a lot more than a hobby job when she meets Nate, a young, hot waiter who has his eyes on her from the start.

  Conrad and Laura start on separate journeys, exploring new possibilities in their marriage, and opening up to their hidden desires, fantasies, and needs. Will their journeys merge, or will Laura's “hobby job” make a hobby of their marriage?

  Ela's Performance

  Peter's sweet-faced and fiery wife is headed back to school for a degree in violin performance. Unexpectedly, Peter finds himself becoming very paranoid about who Ela is spending so much time with, and what she is doing at school so very late. It isn't as if he doesn't have his reasons for suspicion. There's the way his own relationship with Ela started, and their own past experiment with an open relationship before they were married. A few other strange things to fuel his jealous fantasies...

  And when he discovers someone from Ela's past has resurfaced, he'll take a chance and confront his own desires and obsessions...but will he get what he really wants?

  The Hotwife Tattoo

  When Greg's brother marries his wild, tattooed, ex-girlfriend Renee, he knows things will be a little complicated. But when Renee befriends his wife Sara, she starts to change in almost unbelievable ways. Greg sees that there is something more to Renee's plans than just friendly sister-in-law bonding. Is Renee's influence all bad, or can Greg get something he has always wanted and never admitted to is wife – maybe even himself?

  The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel

  Once upon a time, his exotic and incredibly sexy wife Anna loved to indulge Brian's fantasies...to a point. She teased strangers, and took them to cruel, tantalizing places. But she never went all the way. The game ended when Brian and Anna got married, and that was that.

  Or was it?

  When the gorgeous, charming, and very black John moves into their basement rental, Brian finds that his sleeping desires have been building up all these years. He doesn't just w
ant Anna to tease. He isn't just toying with the idea. He is obsessed with driving his wife to do things with another man. Lewd things. Obscene things.

  When he confesses his desires, is Anna just a little bit too willing to make things just like old times? Is she too easy to push over each new line? Brian can't help but wonder if his own obsessions have gone too far...or if Anna's have.

  A Gamble: The Making of A Hotwife

  Ryan is just an average guy, coaxing his sweet, beautiful wife Victoria into playing into his hotwife fantasy – even if they're just pretending. But a trip to Vegas with his co-worker Brad and his sexy wife Irena turns Ryan's life upside-down. To help Ryan, Brad makes a proposal that could change everything...but it all centers on Victoria's innocence. How far will Victoria go to save what she holds most dear, now that her virtues, her love for Ryan, their marriage, Ryan's desires, and even their finances all hang in the balance? This is a 52,000-word novel about risk and romance, filled to the brim with the hard, steamy scenes you love. Please enjoy!

  The Hotwife Summer

  When Ben and Summer have the chance to spend the summer in Italy, their stale marriage starts to heat up in ways Ben could only have dreamed about. Summer is ready to take his hotwife fantasy all the way, and her choice is a sexy, Italian, Michelin star-studded chef. It's too late to put the brakes on what he's set in motion when Ben discovers the humiliating truth about Summer's choice of man. Summer has a taste for being naughty, and a filthy little plan of her own. Will it be everything he could wish for, or will Ben's cuckold fantasy turn into a nightmare he can't escape?

  A Dark Place: Cuckolded In Lagos