Body Of Research: An Experiment In Hotwifing

by Arnica Butler

  She brought her thumb back to her upper teeth and grinned again.

  Then she took out her phone, and set it on the table, looking at it as though it might have the notes to a small presentation she needed to give. “Well, it's two things, actually,” she said. She swiped at the screen, and brought something up, and then spun it around so I could see it.

  Whatever was displayed was incomprehensible to me, though I knew it was one of her dating apps. A knife of pain and a stab of pleasure went through me at the same time. I sucked in my breath, not really sure what my question should be. What was I looking at? It seemed to be a map, with no legend, and hundreds of confusing symbols.

  “I activated my Lust profile again,” she said, noting my confusion. Her voice dropped. “I thought it might be fun. You know, to see what's out there...”

  My heart nearly stopped in my chest.

  “You mean like... “ I stopped talking. I had no idea what it was I had intended to say.

  Jen sat back in her chair and shook her hair out. “I don't know,” she said, smiling. “Like, you had so much fun with just that one profile. Maybe we could... look through some guys together.”

  Look through some guys together.

  I felt like something molten had been poured straight through me.

  Oh, yes, that is precisely what I would like to do. Look for some guys together.

  But my voice was caught in my throat.

  Jen looked worried all of a sudden. “Or... no. Too far?” She spun the phone back around and started to pick it up.

  My hand, acting almost of its own free will, independent of my mind, shot out and I pressed her hand to the table. “No. No. No, I like the idea,” I said quickly. “I just... I don't know what to say.” I looked at her, and finding her face insufficiently consoled, I repeated myself. “I like it. I really... I really like your idea.”

  Her downturned features brightened.

  “Do you want to see?” she said.

  Oh, did I want to see. Was she fucking crazy? Did she have any idea, any actual idea, how wild she was driving me right now?

  I looked around the restaurant. It seemed very strange, all the sudden, that in this place of all places, I was going to look through the profiles of men my wife thought were hot. That my dark fantasy was going to be unearthed, and that we were going to play a game that I never imagined I would even reveal to her.

  And yet here she was. Liking it.

  Playing it.

  With me.

  She spun the phone around again, to face me. “Just press on the profiles you like. Tell me what you think. Which one you like.”

  Naturally, the question burning inside of me was: which one I like for what? And the man inside of me was already playing this scenario out, already imagining where this could all lead, already picturing the filthiest end to this story imaginable.

  I took the phone.

  I pressed on one of the icons that had a heart. “What does this me- ?”

  I cut myself off when I felt the round, hard toe mound of Jen's foot against my crotch. My cock was hard, ever since she'd said “look through some guys together,” and she smiled a little when she found the shape of my cock jutting through my pants. She rubbed her toes over the length of my shaft. I closed my eyes, unable to concentrate for a moment.

  “Just make sure you don't press twice,” she purred. “Or it will send that guy a message.”

  The first profile to pop up was a pretty average-looking guy. Mid-thirties. A bit like me, sandy hair, blue eyes. He was okay-looking. His profile said he liked weight-lifting, and in his picture, at least, whatever was pushing out from beneath his shirt could quite possible be muscle. A shudder went through me.

  But I wanted to see more.

  “How do I go back?” I said.

  “Never mind,” I added quickly, having found it.

  I looked through a few profiles quickly. Greedily. My cock twitched, and I knew Jen could feel it. There was something very vulnerable, very dangerous, about her foot being against my cock while I looked at pictures of other men, other men I wanted her to fuck. But I no longer cared. This by itself was a thick enough slice of the fantasy I had harbored for so long, and that I had never, ever expected to even tell her about, that it didn't matter to me how much risk I was taking.

  Like it ever matters to a guy. Just ask Bill Clinton.

  “What do the icons mean?” I said, my throat slightly parched. I took another sip of wine, which had miraculously appeared without me even noticing the waiter coming by. I looked up and saw Jen's face. She was watching me with that light smile on her lips, and my cock pulsed against her foot again. This made her smile for real. She rubbed my cock a little more. “A heart is for a great match, possible true love,” she said. “A, um.. lips are for an okay match. And then the one that's a moon, or something like that, good for one night stand. And if there's a star there it's like, I don't know... a great match. Physically.”

  I looked back at the screen.

  There were a lot of hearts.

  And a lot of stars with numeral ones in front of them. I widened my eyes, and my cock flexed. Now I could feel the outline of my zipper, the seams of my underwear, and they were rubbing me raw. “How'd you get so many hearts and... one night stands?” I said.

  I looked up at her.

  She shrugged and slid an ice cube out of her water glass. “Just hot I guess. And likeable.”

  I smiled. Then I dropped my eyes, unable to take them away for long from the screen full of potential studs for my wife.

  I mean... in theory. As a fantasy. Right? She wasn't actually into this?

  She was holding the ice cube between her fingers, and pressing her lips to it. I couldn't help but picture the satin head of another man's cock sliding over her lips in precisely the same way. Another shudder.

  The guy whose profile I had pressed was a dark-skinned guy named Trey. His picture filled the screen. Dark eyes, ripped body. He was wearing no shirt, outdoors, looking very athletic with a basketball on his hip. He also looked incredibly tall.

  But already my mind was working ahead to the fantasy. Picturing the loose shorts he was wearing sliding down, his big hands hooked beneath the fabric. His cock springing loose, pointing in front of him. Thick, veined, sticky with sweat and precum. Jen's hands creeping up from his hips to his chest as her dark hair rippled in waves with every bob of her head, forward and back, forward and back, as she knelt at his feet to suck his cock.

  Jen leaned forward on the table to get a view of whatever it was on her screen that was making my cock pulse so wildly beneath her foot. “You really like that guy, huh?”

  I could feel a light layer of sweat forming on my upper lip. “I... not necessarily.. I just..”

  But my voice was a whisper, a betrayal. And I was shaking.

  “Shit!” I said. “Shit, shit, I think I just...”

  My hand had jerked, my thumb pressed the profile icon twice, and now a line of dots, rolling over, searching, had appeared at the bottom of the screen with the dreaded word “Connecting you to Trey”

  I dropped the phone. Jen looked down, confused at first, and then gave a laugh as she picked it up.

  She looked back at me.

  “I didn't mean to,” I said. “I – shit. Can you -”

  Jen smiled. “It's just a messenger. He's probably not even -”

  She held up a finger. “Whoop. Oh. Oh my god,” she set the phone down as well. “He's online,” she said, whispering. “Shit. Oh shit...” she laughed.

  I stared at her. The waiter brought our salads, and she picked up the phone without taking her eyes off of it. I thanked him, and then looked back at Jen. “Jen,”

  She held up her finger.

  “Oh my god,” she said. “He's typing something.”

  Her foot dropped to the floor, and my cock twitched violently. I watched, my blood boiling, as she smiled and began to type something back.

  It felt like she had just abandoned
me. Right then and there, with a salad. How could she just type out a message to a hot black guy, right in front of me like this? I was definitely getting taken for a ride. A big, long ride, like an idiot -

  “What do you think?” she whispered, ignoring her salad to lean on the table as she pushed the phone toward me.

  On the screen was a messenger screen.

  [Trey]: Hey. Ive seen u for a grip on here never online I'm at brownhouse want to hook up

  And then below it, my wife's message. Typed and not sent.

  [Me]: You sure don't waste any time. Not really into the hookup, but you want to meet for drinks, I'm game

  I squinted at the message. My feelings were all over the place.

  Jen waved a hand at me. “Everyone says that. You know, that they're not into the hookup. If that's what you're thinking. Girls say that all the time and then they hook up.” She made little, clawed air quotes with her fingers. “You can see how hard it is to do any decent research.”

  I blinked at her.

  Was this really my wife, sitting across from me and talking to me about how I shouldn't feel bad that her message to some random guy on a dating app was not going to be discouraged by the words “not into hookup.”

  Wasn't that the pre-date version of “I hope we can still be friends?”

  “Um...” I said. There was also the fact that I both desperately wanted her to send that message, and desperately felt like this might be the worst mistake of my life.

  After all, it could all go very, very wrong.

  “I was thinking,” Jen said, sliding on her seat, forward, closer to me. Her foot moved up and down the outside of my calf now, sending a strange shiver through my leg and to the outside of my hip. “We could maybe just end it... see what happens. He's at a public place, we could maybe go... you can watch me flirt... and then we go home?” She paused. “Yay? Nay?”

  Brownhouse was a brewery, a little gritty but a mostly high-class clientele. It certainly wasn't dangerous, though the area around it was. It was crowded inside, a perfect place to blend in, with my eyes wandering frequently to my wife in the corner, snuggled up against Trey, laughing at what he said, drawing him in with her eyes...

  “Um,” I croaked. “I'm, uh...” But to keep my wife from fluttering back to putting the phone away, I reached over and took her hand, awkwardly pushing it onto the plates. “I'm not saying no, I'm just...”

  What was I? Nervous? Flabbergasted? I was excited as fuck, that was for sure – I didn't want to lose hold on this momentum with my wife suggesting that sh ego and meet some guy, flirt with him...

  But there was all this other garbage in my head. A sense that it might not be a good idea. The worries, the paranoia, the little niggling details that wouldn't shake out of my head so easily.

  Jen sort of frowned. “I mean, we don't have to do it,” she said.

  What was in her voice? Disappointment?

  “I didn't say that,” I said.

  In fact, now that she put the idea of not doing it on the table, I knew that wasn't what I wanted to do. Or not do, rather.

  “I vote yay,” I said quickly, and it felt like jumping off a cliff. My stomach lurched as if that was, exactly, what I had done. I exhaled and then I held my breath as I watched Jen's face.

  She seemed confused, then she smiled. “It's crazy,” she said. “But it's just flirting. Just for fun. Just because, I really had fun last night.” She smiled. Turning the phone around to me so I could see Trey's ripped body and square jaw, she said, “You're sure this is the one you want?”

  Another pleasant shudder shook through me. I nodded.

  She smiled. “Just checking.” She started to type.

  “What are you typing?” I said.

  “Just that I'm bringing my husband along and so could he order some nachos,” Jen said, smiling.

  I was pretty wound up at this point, and so the expression of taking that comment seriously had already washed over my face before I stopped it.

  “Joke,” Jen said, pressing send.

  I felt like the bottom dropped out of the floor just then.

  Jen raised her hand and the waiter flew to her aid. She canceled our food orders.

  The waiter looked from her to me, and back again. He had a coy grin. He could probably read the sexual energy between us, the naughty excitement.

  The order was canceled without further ado.

  Jen played with my cock under the table. Her toes were encased in some kind of nylon, which was something I hadn't noticed when she first walked in to the restaurant. The material slid easily over the material of my pants, and she rubbed the pulsing length of my cock with less and less reluctance to be seen as we waited for the bill. I felt sure the waiters could see her leg moving under the table, her foot between my thighs, from where they were standing across the room. But I didn't care. If anything, it added to the thrill.

  “He'll wait for me,” Jen said, reading a message from her phone.

  I paid the bill and we made our way to the car. We weren't talking anymore, just exchanging knowing, thrilling glances. The evening seemed, against all logic, to have warmed up, though it was early fall. Jen was glittering and bright, and I noticed a pearl necklace for the first time. It fell into her dress, snug against her breasts.

  My stomach was in knots, mostly of excitement, as I drove to Brownhouse, which was only a few blocks away. Jen placed her hand on my thigh, and I silently wished she would drop it between my legs and treat me to another delicious massage. At the same time, I didn't want to tip over the edge, or dull the excitement I was feeling.

  I parked in a parallel spot about a block away from Brownhouse (and honestly, not much further from La Terrasse. Jen had her hand on the door, ready to just get out. Then she laughed. “What... how do we do this?” she giggled. “Am I supposed to go first? Or you?”

  I shook my head.

  She laughed again. “Okay... I'll go -”

  “No wait,” I interjected. “Let me go first. I kind of want to see the whole thing.”

  Jen pushed a strand of loose hair from her face. “Okay. This is so.. cloak and dagger.”

  She grinned at me.

  I opened the door, and started to get out. Then I let my weight fall back into the seat.

  “Only flirting,” I reminded her.

  Jen had taken out a tube of lipstick. It was dark red, and as she slid it over her lips, turning them from cute to luscious, I felt the motion like a knife through my heart. She never wore lipstick. She never wore dark, luscious red lipstick. And why did she have it, tonight of all nights? Just tucked in her purse, in case?

  “Just flirting,” she purred. “For now.”

  She looked over at me and batted her eyes.

  Her long eyelashes raked through the air and through my chest, digging into my heart. I had another one of those jolts I was having lately: this was not my wife. And so I was left to wonder, in equally painful jolts: was this woman buried in there all along, and just now coming out, or had something happened to convert her?

  And wasn't she just a little too light-hearted? Too enthusiastic?

  And most importantly: did I really want what I thought I wanted for so long?

  “Okay,” I reiterated. “So... really: just flirting.”

  “I know. I was just kidding.” She pursed her lips. “Come on. It'll be fun. It's just for fun.”

  I rose from the car and ducked to look in at her. “Give me ten minutes?”

  She saluted me.

  *

  Brownhouse was one of a million microbrewery-restaurants that had sprouted up in a revamped industrial area, along with open-concept condos and climbing gyms.

  I spotted Trey pretty easily: this area was no longer known for a large black population, although he wasn't the only guy in the bar who was black, at least. He was wearing a gray t-shirt and jeans, and looked a lot like an athletic, affluent... millennial.

  Young millennial.

  There were, technically spe
aking, plenty of definitions of 'millennial' that put me within that date range. Or at least a few. But this guy was young.

  Jen-young.

  He had a casual, classy air about him. And he was so well-built.

  And he was very, very black.

  This particular aspect of his appearance was stirring something inside of me – and I have to say, I wasn't entirely comfortable with it, but there it was. The thought of him fucking my wife, with a huge black cock, was even more enticing than all of the other men I had imagined fucking my wife.

  I shuddered and tried to control my face as I watched him, so I didn't like I was some hungry gay man, or a crazy person. I ordered a beer and found a seat at a cluster of tables that seemed to have been pushed aside by the throng of standing, loud, flirting young kids. A low wall was between the tables and the pool tables where Trey was moving with fluid agility to easily sink his stripes.

  I could, by turning my ear in their direction and focusing on my beer with my eyes, hear snippets enough of their conversation to piece it together. From what I gathered, the group was shooting pool and occasionally scanning their booty-call dating apps to see if anyone had bitten.

  The talk was about average. Guy-talk. A little lewd, heavy on sports, some business jibber-jabber. They all seemed to work at the same place, something in finance.

  Great.

  I looked at my phone for the time. It seemed like an eternity had passed since I had left Jen in the car. A flashback of her putting on her slutty red lipstick jolted through me. The fat, thick stick of it smearing against her lips like a fat cock...

  “Oh shit,” I heard Trey say.

  His friends, along with him, looked up in the direction he was staring.

  Jen was coming through the door.

  “Damn,” one of his friends said, punching him on the shoulder. Another let out a low whistle.

  “Actually looks like her picture,” one of them said, in a low voice, shaking his head and lining up his shot.

  I took a sip of my beer, listening furtively while looking down as though my phone were the most interesting thing in the world. I wanted, desperately, to look up and see how Jen was going to enter the room and approach this group, or what Trey would do, but if I leered too much someone was bound to decide I needed a punch in the face.