The Cayman Proxy (Box One): An Erotic Hotwife Box Set

by KT Morrison

  Omar: your pants

  She stood and put her laptop on her mahogany makeup table, angled the camera so it would get her. She pulled her slippers off with her toes and peeled the leggings down just below her ass cheeks, the tight waist pinching into the flesh of her thighs. She slapped her own bare ass hard, watched it jiggle in the little square of her laptop. She knew what he always asked for, she didn’t mind giving it to him. She kneaded her cheeks with her hands, lifting and dropping them for him. He would normally be stroking that thing of his by now, squeezing it and pulling it for her to see, watching him over her shoulder. This felt odd, like no one was there watching her. She squeezed herself out of the tights, bending right over and sliding them down with her thumbs, letting him see her hairy sex from behind. She stepped out of them and parted her legs, slapping at her ass again for him. It was hard to know what to do if she couldn’t see him, how hard he was, how he was working it. She backed right up to the camera, filled the frame with her ass, and dug her fingers deep into her flesh. She saw her wedding ring and her big diamond. Wished it would prompt some sympathy. Knew he was a freak though, it probably just got him harder. She swayed her ass for him and pulled her cheeks up and apart, stretched her labia up to the camera for him. Nothing.

  Kate: what’s the key for?

  She stood and waited, her hand covering her hairy front, demure now for some reason.

  Omar: I’m coming to London to fuck you

  Oh shit, she thought. That’s not good. She didn’t think she would have the chance to do what she had to do. She felt a little weak at the thought that an opportunity was imminent.

  Kate: when?

  Omar: look happy for me

  Kate: I am. I can’t wait to get that cock inside me

  Playing it up for him. Giving him what he wanted to hear.

  Omar: Wednesday afternoon. You’ll come and see me

  Kate: ok

  Omar: not a question, you’ll come and see me and I’m going to fuck you the way I know you need it

  Kate: yes

  Omar: the key is for a gift that I want you to have

  Kate: thank you. Where will I meet you?

  Omar: you’ll know when you need to know

  He was being more elusive tonight. Mysterious and perplexing. He was usually so straightforward. Demanding. She picked her notebook up and carried it back to the wall and sat down with her back against it again. Completely naked except for her rings and a single leather bracelet. She put the laptop on the floor between her legs and drew her heels right up so that they were touching her cheeks, her little painted toes lifted up off the floor. She slid the computer around and flexed the lid; Omar liked to see her pussy and he liked to watch her face too, watch it change, and she got it all in the shot. She watched the black square as she ran her two middle fingers gently against herself. She was so dry. Usually watching Omar had her a little damp. She closed her eyes and tried to make it happen. She stroked and pinched her folds, opened herself a little for Omar. She tried to think of better times. Of Omar on the beach when she had pulled that big thing out in the daylight and got him rock hard with her fingertips. Or that first night when she held Mitch’s hand and they watched that fat grey head push into her. She stayed with that one. Mitch holding her as she got what she craved. What she needed. How Mitch watched her getting fucked, watched her ride that massive thing, watched her come. She was wet now, it was working. She could hear her flesh squishing under her fingers, she slipped a finger inside just a little and gasped, she bit her lip. She thought of Mitch again, how he granted Kate’s greatest wish even though it must have been torture for him. Her hand buzzed over her swollen wet button, and her legs quivered. She was aware, very unconsciously, like a pea under a mattress, of a polished gem of an idea. Paying him back. Doing what needed to be done. The greatest obscenity yet. So deep and dark. Doing the awful deed to save the life of the man she loved. She wailed as she came, her black thoughts streaming tears from her eyes.

  Kate watched the glossy chestnut stud, prancing and high stepping, his enormous black cock swinging and slapping itself in its belly. She watched it rear up and mount the female while two men held her in place. She looked away and kept walking.

  She heard the horses braying behind her, the shouts of the men. She couldn’t tell if they were encouraging them or trying to stop them. She kept walking making her way to the metal door painted a deep Hunter green.

  Kate had followed the instructions that came in the envelope. She'd left at about six in the morning slipping out of bed and leaving the apartment while Mitch was still sleeping. She drove the Bentley out to the west end of London, came here to this racetrack, quiet and lonely on a grey Tuesday morning. She parked where she'd been told to, the lot almost empty and walked the path reading as she went. She'd encountered those men with the horses as she'd come out from a low brick passage into a garden area that opened out to a small paddock lined with tall wrought iron fencing.

  She made it past the horse ring got to the door saw that someone had scratched a little x into the door up near the top as it said there would on the little stiff card in her hand. This was the door.

  She opened it and walked through into a long wooden hall lined with stables. The smell of horses hit her. Deep, sweaty farm smell from the past, she covered her nose for a moment.

  She walked along between the horses looking out at her from behind their gates. Heard the clinking of their bridles as they watched her pass. She crossed through, made it to the far end where the stable ended in a low room stretching out to her left and right. She looked at the card and then counted the doors across from her and opened the one that was third from the left.

  She was in an empty locker room, dark and low ceilinged. She turned the light but on and called out softly but she was alone in there. The walls were red brick and lined with photos of men with their horses, some new, lots in black and white, there were crops and bridles that had some meaning she supposed, and championship jerseys and ribbons framed in glass. She walked along running her finger along the metal lockers looking for a number 60. She found it and fished the little key out of her pocket. She slid it in and wiggled it to turn it and it opened. The locker had only one thing in it. A pretty blue box wrapped in a big silk ribbon. It was on the shelf leaning sideways on an angle. She took it out it, was big but not heavy. She turned and put it on the bench behind her. She sat next to it, looked at it for a moment. She pulled the top off, the ribbon only wrapped around the lid and put it aside. She pushed the soft silk aside trying to find what was under there. She felt leather under her fingertips. It was a horse bridle. She took it out of the box and held it up stretched between her hands like a jumble of leather straps. It was very finely made, the leather soft and buttery, deep caramel brown, buckles and rings in shining brass. She was instantly transported back to unpleasant grey weekends on her Uncle’s farm. Sixteen weekends over two summers when she was nine and ten. Two summers buried deep in her memory where she wouldn't see them.

  She put the bridle down, straightened it out trying to see its natural shape. She saw that it wasn't a bridle at all now. She looked in the box. Another white card. More instructions typed into its stiff surface.

  7

  The Fairway House

  Kate didn’t like the neighbourhood that the Fairway House was in. She drove past the manor twice, going slow, trying to look in the front doors just seeing the reflection of the Bentley slide along, warbling, distorted. It was a nice looking place, brass doors, a faded burgundy awning that went right out to the edge of the street, shaded on either side by two old, gnarled oak trees. Behind the trees were glimpses of an ancient Victorian manor, charcoal painted brick and heavy black casing with lots of little edges and details. But when you completed a circle around the place, going around counterclockwise, there were loading bays, lorries being unloaded, open boxes of fish on ice, gruff men from far away places with cigarettes dangling from a lip, faceless little offices, an Indian takeaway,
a check casher, and two cellphone shops both with Arabic writing.

  The sun was shining and the streets bright and active. Such a funny time to embark on some twisted little escapade. The situation, the leather straps pinching her flesh, her body completely bare under her trench coat, seemed like something to do under the cover of night. She pulled into a space just past the entrance and watched the place in the rearview for a moment. There was no one coming or going and she was just wasting time. She squeezed the polished wood steering wheel, wishing this all to go away.

  She stepped out of the Bentley and stood a moment, frozen by her bright reflection in the driver side window. Standing there in a honey Burberry, mid-length, completely bare underneath except for the leather straps and brass rings crossing over her. She could feel the fresh cool air stirring, felt it between her legs chilling her damp creases. She took her leather kidskin gloves out of her pocket and watched herself put them on, her face expressionless. She had her hair down and she put on her big, black sunglasses as she headed to the Manor.

  Eight degrees out and each step brought a chill under her coat that she felt against her bare skin as it jiggled with each step in her riding boots. She walked up the carpeted steps under the awning and stepped into the Manor quickly.

  The lobby was dark, poorly lit but clean and polished. Not too cramped but not grand in any way. The floor was black and white marble tiles, checkerboard, blood red carpet in the centre and then running up the wooden staircase to her left that went to a balcony overhead. The place was empty and quiet, but you could tell there was activity behind the wood panelled walls around her. She put her hand on the black wooden ball that started up the handrail and looked around. She wished there were another way.

  She slowly walked up the stairs, each time her foot went down on one of the low carpeted steps she struggled with the notion that she could just run back down. Just get back in the car and start driving. She wouldn’t die. She wouldn’t kill. But it would all be over. And Mitch would be philosophically dead, killed, split apart and ruined by his disgusting wife. At the top of the stairs she had a new resolve. There was no running away. She could do this. Do it for Mitch.

  Somewhere in the building a baby cried. Something heavy was dropped somewhere else. She took the key out of her pocket and looked at it again. Simple little key you’d see anywhere, tarnished ring holding onto a plastic fob, a red rounded diamond, gold print said 2F, faded so it was almost gone. She dropped it back in her pocket, felt it rattle against something else in there, the rattle setting off an intense dread at what she must do.

  She was gripped with fear, walking along the hall, her boots clopping on the threadbare carpet stretched over stone. What would it be like to be alone with him again. Face to face hidden away in some room where no one knew they were. Could she do it?

  She stood in front of 2F her feet frozen to the floor with the weight of her intent. The door was painted black, six raised panels down it. The dim little gas lamps in the hall looked like they were from a different time with their single amber filament bulbs too weak to push away the shadows in the black stained wooden hall. Someone was yelling in a deep voice on another floor. Something in Farsi.

  She slid the key into the lock and turned it. She pushed the door open with a high, barely perceptible creak and quietly stepped into a vestibule. The little room was dark, lit up only by the daylight coming into the apartment that she couldn’t see yet, opening up beyond an elaborate archway but off to the right. She stood there listening but there was nothing to hear. Nothing close, just the sounds of a normal workday in London from outside the windows.

  The furniture was ornate, over-done and Gothic. A gilded table and padded chair with elaborate carved finials, a mirror with a frame more than a foot thick, a potted palm sprouting from a huge metal urn.

  She put her hand back in her pocket, felt the object’s weight. She wrapped her hand around the handle, felt the dead, cold metal of it. She had every reason to do this. Every reason not to do it. If she could even manage it. He was strong, he could overpower her, do anything to her, would he kill her if she’d only hurt him?

  It would be easier to just give in, let it happen, let him consume her. Let him continue to harass her, abuse her, let him today to just fuck her, defile her, let him do it again and again, today and any other day for as long as he wanted this to go on. Make her suffer because she was a dirty whore who deserved it. Had earned it. But not Mitch. He had nothing to do with this. He was her angel, her saviour, and she couldn’t bring him harm, she couldn’t let this happen to him. For Mitch, she could do this.

  She felt her hand sweating, squeaking against the tight leather glove as she gripped the handle of the knife. She took it out of her pocket, looked at it glow in the dark, drawing the daylight to its stainless blade. She thought to bring a knife from her kitchen, a sturdy butcher’s blade, razor sharp and black handled. She pictured herself on a witness stand in some impossible future unable to claim self-defence when she had the foresight to bring a blade with her. She bought this heavy, cheap hunting knife from a table on the street at a market far from home. This could be the knife of her attacker, somehow used against him. Fifteen quid to purchase Mitch’s freedom, a real bargain. She put the blade behind her back, gripped it again, firmly, letting it find some comfort in the shape of her grip. She’d used a knife on a man before. Not to kill. But she’d slashed him good, sent him packing. She took a step to the arch, a step to her doom. She breathed in and stepped through to the other side, into the cold daylight of the apartment.

  Omar was there seated in a high-back, padded Victorian chair. He was a dark silhouette, the sky of London a hazy bright gauze behind gently rustling ivory lace beyond him. He wasn’t alone.

  Kate felt like she was floating, the toes of her boots coming up off the floor, the weight of all she had to do taken away from her. She was flooded with relief, she didn’t know if she could have done it, but with two men she knew it was futile. She felt the relief of surrender, of giving in, like a hunted animal turning its neck to a predator succumbing in trade for a quick and painless end. She felt her arm with the knife come down, without her approval, and her hand let the blade go, she heard it drop softly into the soil of the little palm tree. She stood a moment longer before them, motionless, they hadn’t noticed. She stepped forward, felt the emotions coming, the enormous action she had been prepared to take, what might happen now, and she felt her eyes rim with tears, and her face went flush. But she kept walking, the sounds of her boot heels on the floor huge in the room.

  “There she is,” Omar said. “I didn’t know it could take so long to walk from the car up one flight of stairs.”

  The man next to him sat as Omar did, one leg crossed over the other, both of them watching her walk across the floor to them. She struggled to keep herself together, felt one tear roll down her cheek and brushed it away with the back of her gloved hand. She stopped a body’s length from them.

  “Who’s he?” she said.

  The man stood up, took a step and held out his hand to her. He was young, younger than Kate and Omar. He was boyishly handsome with a thick head of hair, the back and sides cut very short. He was wearing a three piece suit, glen check plaid, and some polished brown brogues.

  “This is my American friend, call him Ares,” Omar said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said in some American accent, Southern, or Texan, or something. He shook her hand gently, just once, and sat back down, smiling at her. The whole thing felt very weird, like she was here for a business meeting, or to sign some papers. Was she mistaken about why she’d been summoned here?

  “I’ve told Ares everything about you,” Omar said. She was troubled by that, bit her bottom lip, and looked up at the ceiling. What did that mean? Does someone else know about the video, had he seen it, how she’d enjoyed being violated. The things she said about the man she loved. Was this one more person who could ruin her life? Mitch’s life?

  “What did
you tell him?”

  Omar looked at her, waited, watched her shift as she stood, uncomfortable with the leather straps squeezing her. “I told him how you love cock. How you fuck like a devil.”

  This was about sex. It was nothing more. She resigned herself to what was going to happen now. They were going to fuck her, humiliate her. But she could do that.

  “Come and sit,” he said, patting his thigh once. Omar was wearing a suit too. Just a jacket and pants and a collared shirt buttoned up but without a tie. She went to him, sat on his left thigh facing into the two of them. She kept her legs together, her hands in her pockets. Omar put his hand on the small of her back supporting her. He wiped her cheek.

  “Hey, look at me. Smile for us.”

  She was able to smile for them, smiling at her ridiculous situation, smiling at how outrageous her whole life had become. She smiled because it felt inevitable, once again she’d done herself in. It didn’t matter what luck she’d landed in, Mitch’s pot of gold, the love he had for her, she could undo it all.

  She watched Omar’s strong hand work one of the big black buttons out of its hole at the top of her Sandringham, then the one below it, pulling it away from the belt tied around her waist. He pulled the lapel across exposing her breast. She felt her nipple tighten in the cold. He pulled her breast out of the jacket let it hang over the cotton gabardine, Ares watched, his face blank but intent on what he was seeing.

  Omar untied her belt, shaking her body as he pulled the knot apart. She looked down and away at the floor but she could feel him staring into her.