Nila's Long Con: A Hotwife Adventure

by Arnica Butler

  And then I went to the bar to talk to Peter. It was an odd replay of the evening. We met at a bar in my old college town, the place where I’d met Tennile for the first time, though she didn’t remember meeting me. She would see me again a year later, and then we would hit it off. But the first time I met her I was electrified by her.

  Who wouldn’t be? She was stunning.

  I sat down at this bar – The Sink, it was called. I real hole in retrospect, but at the time we all thought it was the height of cool. Tennile would actually have been too young to have been in there the first time I met her; she was a month shy of twenty-one. But Tennile was beautiful and beautiful girls always slip in.

  Peter was there, waiting for me. And it was The Sink, but it wasn’t The Sink: the same low yellow ceiling hung over us, graffiti declaring that Bush was Satan and the apocalypse was coming. Girly, fat cursive asking how I was. Peter, for some reason, was writing his questions on the ceiling with a black permanent marker.

  Why do you think Tennile is cheating on you?

  And in the dream, I was burning up, because everyone in the bar was someone I knew. The way people are people you “know” in dreams: here’s a blurry face that’s half your mother and half the guy who asks for change at the liquor store.

  “Peter,” I said. “Stop writing all this stuff down.”

  Then he kind of turned into a therapist. Asking me why I felt that way.

  And I answered his questions for a while. The place got darker, fuller. And then Tennile came in.

  Tennile before I knew her, Tennile decked out in her stripper costume. I’ve never actually seen any of those – she threw them away and left no evidence. But I enjoy imagining them.

  Silver boy-cut panties that turned to a thong in the back. They barely covered her snatch let alone her thighs. Those same silver stockings, slinging to her mid-thigh, whispering about prostitution but never really looking the whole part. Boots that turned into shoes and turned back into boots, the heels absurdly high, her calves stretching on forever. And something small over her breasts, something small that shrank away to nothing, so that as Peter kept on asking me his questions, she eventually ended up in the bar with her pretty breasts swinging over the tables and the counter-tops, totally free, her nipples erect and inviting.

  I watched this for a while, and I kept answering Peter’s questions.

  And then Shane walked in. He walked in, and by that I mean he showed up like he was there the whole time. Suddenly Tennile was just sitting on his lap, and her bare breasts kept falling into his mouth. My cock started getting hard, aching in fact, as I watched him suck her mocha nipples into his mouth. His tongue was long and lizard-like as he swept it over her silky aureole, and Tennile tipped her head back and opened her mouth.

  Then for some reason they were close to us, then closer. Peter kept writing his questions on the ceiling, and Tennile looked up to read them.

  “You think I’m cheating on you?” she said, and she dropped her face to look at me in the eyes. She had her arm draped over Shane’s shoulders and her fingers were making playful circles on his collarbone.

  The table melted away, and it was just me, facing Shane and my wife, with nothing between us. Tennile gave me a look, making me simmer, and she slid down to the ground.

  At this point, the logic of dreams took over: she wasn’t facing me, but she was, and so I could see her sucking on Shane’s cock from behind but also she could look into my eyes. And she did. She held his cock in her hand and rubbed it all over her mouth, her jaw stretched wide and open and his meat on her extended tongue. She darted her tongue in and out of her mouth, wet and glistening, lapping at the underside of his cock. All the while staring at me.

  But I could feel her sucking on my cock. Everything she did to Shane, who was grinning like smug fucker with his hands behind his head, or his hands on her head, pushing her down and to the base of his cock... everything she did I could feel. Now she was sucking on him, sucking until her cheeks caved in, and now she was just swirling and flicking her tongue all over the ridge of his crown... but I could feel it all.

  This went on for a while, and I kept feeling like I was getting closer and closer to bursting.

  Maybe it was then that I woke up, and I was in my room and the ceiling was gray above me.

  But her mouth was still on me, and I looked down to see the covers thrown back and away from us, and the half-naked from of my wife’s body bobbing up and down as she... as she actually sucked on my cock.

  The urge to come ebbed away for a bit in my surprise, and then as I took in the scene, and Tennile’s tongue made another slurping, wet pass over the crown of my cock before her whole, hot mouth enveloped me, I felt an orgasm boiling up inside of me.

  I grabbed for her hair, and tangled it in my fingers as she took me all the way to the back of her throat. Her lips and her soft tongue and palate traveled up and down the length of my shaft.

  I looked down. “I... I’m going to come,” I panted, because Tennile generally wasn’t a big fan of me doing that in her mouth.

  To my surprise, she kept on going, her breath hissing from her nose, her cheeks puffed out with effort, my cock at the back of her throat.

  “Tennile,” I said hoarsely, but it was too late. I could feel all of my hot cum exploding in her mouth.

  And her mouth closed down over the length of my shaft. The heat of my cum mingled in her mouth, turned warm, and her tongue made passes around the meat of my dick that were almost too pleasurable to withstand.

  Finally, she released me, and I stared at her as she rose to her knees, taking my hand in hers and guiding it to her panties. She grasped my thumb and rubbed it over her clit, which was hard beneath the silky fabric. As I pressed on the silk it turned warm and wet under my fingers, and she threw back her head and gyrated her hips, all the while moving my thumb with her own fingers, right over her clit, until she came.

  When she looked down at me she smiled, then she threw herself onto the pillow and laughed lightly before closing her eyes.

  Unsure of what to say, because Tennile had never, ever done anything like that in all our years of dating and marriage (though, like most guys, I’d always wished she had), I stroked her arm and finally murmured, “That was great.”

  Tennile smiled, her eyes still closed, but she said nothing, and pretty soon her smile turned to a pleasant, neutral expression, because she was asleep.

  I looked up at the ceiling.

  It was then that the pleasant, starry, just-fucked feeling began to drain away, and its place came the terrible reality:

  She started getting into it more.

  Starting it.

  Doing things that...

  It’s something they do, because they feel guilty, you know.

  I must have fallen asleep, though, because before long Peter wasn’t talking in my head, he was back to writing things on the ceiling of the bar we had actually gone to that evening. And he was standing on a chair, and Tennile was still there in her stripper clothes, but she was a waitress, and all she did was simmer, and bring me drinks.

  Tennile was up and out the door early. I heard her get out of bed, I dozed off after seeing it was only 4:30, and the next thing I knew she was kissing me on the cheek, her breath faintly smelling of coffee.

  She was through the bedroom door before the night before came crashing into my mind and I awoke with a jolt. I sat up and stared after her, my heart pounding so suddenly I could feel it kicking at my chest. All the fresh blood tingling in my limbs.

  Last night.

  I threw the covers back. I looked down.

  My boxers were amiss, but it could have been any kind of amiss. Sexual amiss, or just sleeping amiss.

  I stood up and peeked into them.

  Had that even happened?

  I tried to remember the minutes after she had blown me.

  It had seemed real, as real as it could seem. If it was a dream, it was a mind-blowing dream.

  And there
wouldn’t be evidence, would there? Not if it had happened like I remembered it happening.

  I looked down the hallway. I heard the spring of the door to the carport hissing; she was already out the door. What was I going to do, anyway? Run after her, ask her if she had woken me up to suck my cock last night or not? The answer, I could explain, would make a big difference to me because it was potential proof that she was cheating on me.

  I walked, instead, in a daze to the shower, trying to recollect the scraps of dream I could remember and the scraps of what I thought was reality.

  Peter’s warning gnawed at my mind the whole time: more into it, guilty...

  Tennile was more into it, that was for sure. That is, if that had really happened. And she was definitely doing something new. And she had definitely initiated it.

  Or had I imagined it?

  “Fuck,” I said to the tile.

  So I dug through her clothes.

  The problem here, I noticed, was that I wasn’t exactly the world’s most observant guy. Tennile had a lot of clothes, and they were all nice lawyer clothes, and I’d have to admit that I didn’t know what was new from what was old in her closet.

  I spent as much time as I could, but being late again was out of the question, so I eventually had to abandon the closet and think about all the items I’d seen as I drove to work.

  A funny thing happened to my memory, now that I thought Tennile might be cheating on me: it was perfect. I remembered every skirt, every shirt I had touched in the closet. I could think about they way they felt, they smelled. If they had been in the plastic wrap of a dry-cleaning bag still, or not.

  The only thing I couldn’t do was go back in time and give myself this high-powered skill of observation, so that I could remember if she had suddenly acquired a lot of new things. Were the items I had fondled in the closet sexier than usual? It was hard to say.

  But we all see what we want to see, don’t we? We hear the news we want to hear, find the clues we want to find.

  And Tennile came home late, again and again.

  She had to drive her own car to a dinner party with friends, “just in case,” and she left early after getting a phone call.

  She acted funny when I asked her if a suit-dress she was wearing was new.

  And so on.

  So.

  I didn’t feel good about it.

  For one thing, I thought (and maybe I even hoped) it might be a bogus product: the TrapHer App claimed to provide GPS information and instant updates from all social media sites on the “targets” phone. It seemed ludicrous to me that this was possible.

  Also, it ended up being easier than I thought it would be. For two days, I had deliberated about doing it at all. I had imagined myself doing it, and as I imagined it, my hands became clammy and my stomach went rigid with cold, hard fear.

  But when I finally dared to put my plan into action, it unfolded so smoothly it seemed like I was born to be a spy.

  I obtained the code to unlock her phone almost by accident: I actually did want to look something up, and I really had misplaced my own phone. As I was asking her if I could use hers, I had a surge of excitement as I realized that I was doing something I should have planned to do. My stomach did a flip, my heart beat a little faster.

  “Use mine,” Tennile said, and I felt a kick from inside my chest as my excitement built.

  “What's your code?”

  “371523,” she said, and just like that, I had the tools to break into her phone and install the app.

  But I waited. The absolute last thing I wanted was to get caught.

  I waited for the perfect time, even though many opportunities came along. She took showers, she fell asleep; these were all “opportunities,” but Tennile kept her phone nearby usually. She was an important person who took important calls.

  And a lot of them. I looked through her text messages and phone call history. There was no sign of Shane, or even any wrongdoing. But a lot of her calls registered as numbers, nothing more, and there were too many texts to safely read through them all.

  Also, as the TrapHer app website had pointed out, smart cheaters often deleted their text immediately. Tennile appeared to be in the habit of doing this anyway, which was probably a confidentiality consideration, given her line of work.

  So I would need the app, I decided. I justified it this way: almost any man would sneak a peek at his wife's phone. This was really no different than that, because of the way my wife protected her texts.

  Right?

  Right.

  It was still a matter of getting the app on her phone.

  One day, almost two weeks after I met with Peter, it all came together as the perfect opportunity. She left her phone in the room we used as an office and yoga room, and she went to take a shower. She was a long way from her phone, and I would hear it if she turned off the water and have plenty of time to cover my tracks if the water turned off.

  And so, it was with calm steady hands that I unlocked her phone, downloaded the app, waited for it to install, and replaced her phone looking just like it had before. All while the shower water ran.

  I was sitting on the couch by the time she left the bathroom.

  The app, it turned out, worked exactly as described. It sent real-time updates of her texts and incoming calls, as well as GPS information about where she actually was.

  Which was usually exactly where she said she'd be: at work.

  In fact, the app worked and the information it gave me was so terribly boring for three days that I almost lost interest in checking the notifications when they arrived.

  Almost being the operative word, there.

  Because who actually tires of spying on someone? Especially a loved one? Even though almost all of her texts consisted of either incomprehensible garble about contracts, or girly texts from friends who were discussing lunch or mani-pedis, it was still fascinating and sort of arousing to have the window into her life, into the things she did when I wasn't around. It was even more stimulating because she did so frequently delete her messages.

  Just as I was beginning to think that I wasn't going to get much more than this vague eroticism out of my endeavor, things fell apart.

  6: T RAPPED

  A text, from a phone number:

  [SXH]: I need you tonight

  My eyes moved over the words in disbelief. For a moment I had no physical reaction to what I was seeing, and then it spread through me from my heart outward. I went completely numb, and the phone slipped in my hand and almost fell to the floor.

  There it was. The indisputable evidence. All in black-ish and white.

  I need you tonight.

  And what was with the “SXH?

  Sexy Hunk?

  I was at work, and the time was 5:37 pm. I was on a job site, and it didn't look like we were going to wrap anything up anytime soon. It had rained for three days and we were behind.

  I stared at the phone and scuttled into a corner.

  Waiting.

  Someone was calling my name for a few minutes, and I heard it, but through my mental fog, distant, as unrelated to me as my body felt. The only thing in the world was this phone, and the words I was waiting for, the uncompromising truth, Tennile's message to her lover.

  What would she write? I need you, too, I've been thinking about you all day?

  Or was she more crass than that? More sexual, more business-like? What kind of relationship would she have with a guy like Shane?

  “Boss!”

  Corey's voice pierced my reverie. He was impatient, frowning in confusion when he looked at me. “You goin' fuckin' deaf?”

  But he didn't wait for an answer. “That guy from Cimex is here, he wants to leave that order out where we're parking, I told him he can't do that and he's sayin' someone told him to.”

  I rubbed my forehead. Cimex.

  “Yeah, no, tell him... uh...”

  The phone was vibrating in my hand. Sending me my wife's response, and I had to keep my e
yes on Corey, answer his fucking question, think about what to do with this Cimex delivery... what the fuck was Cimex anyway?

  I rubbed my forehead again and couldn't stop myself from looking at the screen.

  [Me]: ill see what i can do

  I wasn't sure what sensation was coursing through my veins as I read that message. I was a little disappointed, disappointed maybe because it seemed so transactional.

  Although... that had its merits too.

  “Rich?” Corey urged. “Man, you feelin' all right?”

  “Uh...” I said. I couldn't get my mind off the texts, the possibilities, the meaning of them. The strange duplicity of my feelings – disappointment, longing, anger, a funny kind of joy.

  “I just... this is another problem, I have to think about. Yeah.” I looked up. “Tell that guy put it where I said, I wanted it out back on that clearing.” I gained sudden clarity, which at least made Corey feel better. He nodded and turned to go.

  “Call me down there if he gives you any trouble,” I added.

  The last thing you could do with this crew was look flustered.

  I looked back at the phone, and two things happened at the same time, confounding me: it began to vibrate and notify me of both an outgoing and an incoming call. For a moment I was distraught by the seeming incongruity of calling myself and getting a call from my wife.

  And then I realized: she was 'seeing what she could do.'

  “Hello?” I said, after swiping the screen.

  “Rich?” Tennile said. She sounded incredulous.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “Why are you answering your phone like that.” She didn't say it as a question, and her voice was rigid, admonishing. “Anyway. I'm glad I caught you. I, uh, just had something come up and I think I'll be pretty late tonight. Just to let you know.”

  “Oh,” I said. “What came up?”

  “I have this file for... well, I can't really say, of course, but it's that same client that we had that long meeting for the other night. They're still unsatisfied with the product and we have to get it revised by tomorrow at the latest.”