Best Hotwife Erotica Vol.3: Caught!

by Kirsten McCurran

  Best Hotwife Erotica vol. 3

  Caught!

  Kirsten McCurran, Editor

  BEST HOTWIFE EROTICA 3: CAUGHT!

  © 2017 Aphrodite Omnimedia. All Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced for distribution by any means physical, mechanical or electronic without the explicit written permission of the copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and locations are fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Cover designed by Kenny Wright. Cover image licensed from bigstock.

  First edition published digitally March 2017.

  Brooke’s Revenge & Preface © 2017 Aphrodite Omnimedia. All Rights Reserved.

  Catching Effy © 2017 Arnica Butler. All Rights Reserved. Used with permission.

  Caught on Camera © 2017 Kenny Wright. All Rights Reserved. Used with permission.

  The Stranger in My Bed © 2017 Max Sebastian. All Rights Reserved. Used with permission.

  Wages of Sin © 2017 Ben Boswell. All Rights Reserved. Used with permission.

  table of contents

  preface

  catching effy

  by arnica butler

  caught on camera

  by kenny wright

  brooke’s revenge

  by kirsten mccurran

  the stranger in my bed

  by max sebastian

  wages of sin

  by ben boswell

  about the authors

  preface

  A couple things about writers. We love to navel gaze about our stuff, and we love to talk about writing with other writers. I’ve had the pleasure of having those talks with the other four writers in this collection—four writers whose talent I deep respect and admire. We talk about writing in general, writing erotica specifically, but our conversations always come back around this Hotwife subgenre we find ourselves frequently writing in. As you can expect, five different writers have wildly different takes on what exactly makes the best kind of “Hotwife story”, but we do agree it’s not some rigid, rote definition.

  For the uninitiated, the Hotwife sexual fetish is widely regarded as a married (or attached) man who gets off on his wife (or girlfriend) sleeping with other men, while he stays faithful. You may be thinking, Hey, that sounds a lot like cuckold porn. People who engage in Hotwife behavior would bristle at that. To them, cuckolds revel in the humiliation of the behavior, hotwife husbands swear they do not. But that’s a fairly strict, dictionary type definition of Hotwife. We all know real life is much messier.

  Sexual fetishes and behaviors are amazingly fluid. We’re all over the place. If you’re a swinging couple who occasionally invites a single man into the bedroom, are you Hotwife on those occasions? What if you really get off on your wife sleeping with other men, but you sometimes indulge with other women? These definitions get tricky when writing about married couples engaging in bad behavior because sometimes readers aren’t happy when they don’t get what they expected. So let me give you guys a heads up.

  To us, Hotwife erotica is simply about married or attached women indulging themselves, while their husbands revel in being married to these sexual goddesses. Sometimes the husband springs it on the wife—sometimes she brings her need to act out to her husband. Sometimes it just happens, and the couple doesn’t fully realize what they’re doing until they are in over their heads, which can be fun and dangerous. Sometimes those husbands couldn’t be more thrilled, and sometimes they are going to be heavily conflicted. And yes, sometimes those husband are going to get lucky too. We just writing about “normal” couples having dirty, forbidden fun.

  For this third collection I’ve chosen the theme of Caught!. You’ll see we five very different authors went five very different ways in interpreting the idea of a person or a couple being caught. I had a blast reading my friends’ stories, and I hope you will too.

  Kirsten McCurran

  March 2017

  catching effy

  by arnica butler

  I’ve had too much to drink, and I can feel what a bad idea it has been as I slide on the black pleather booth to face John again. My brain is rolling around in my head like molten lava. Bad. For one thing, I’m trying to think; and for another, I’m 38 years old and my hangovers start before I get buzzed.

  Oh well.

  John’s eyes are still on my wife as she swishes away in her crisp, efficient steps, her small and well-turned ass moving under an immaculate (and knowing Effy, tailored) black pencil skirt. I stare at his eyes, so that when he snaps them away from Effy’s butt, he’ll see me staring right at him.

  And then I’ll know.

  John looks startled when he meets my eyes, but it’s a “caught-looking-at-your-wife” kind of startled.

  Not the other kind.

  At least, not definitively.

  And I’m after “definitive.”

  “So,” I say, and I try to sound casual but I can hear the menace in my own voice. I’m actually tingling with excitement; it’s running in currents all over my skin. “Did I hear you right? You’re skipping the retreat this year?”

  I’m assessing John in a new light as I talk. I hadn’t noticed, because up until now I hadn’t really been paying attention, but John’s a pretty good-looking guy. He has dark hair, a whole mop of it, and unlike most guys his age, his stomach is flat and he has an athletic bounce to his step. His face has this beat-up look to it, like he’s polished himself for his middle-management job but underneath it he’s a brawler.

  I can see Effy getting into that.

  He looks at me, and that’s when I see it: a flicker of guilt. He clears his throat, and then he’s stumbling all over the place while he talks. “I, uh... yeah. It’s just... bad timing.”

  “Yeah?” I press. I wait a beat. I think about what Effy’s wearing tonight, and everything starts to fall into place. She’s wearing a black skirt, and it’s tailored - because one thing that the slightly uptight, British, ultimately very classist Effy would never do is walk around in off-the-rack clothing no matter what kind of dirty little affairs she might get up to. So that was nothing new. And there was nothing especially new about the length of the skirt: just above the knee, just enough of a taste of her straight, slender legs to make you wonder if the top half looked like the bottom half, and if so, why the hell she wasn’t baring more of them. Just enough to make you imagine sliding your hand right up under her skirt and feeling it out for yourself.

  But the shirt gives her away. The shirt is new, and instead of some slightly-loose silk blouse that buttoned squarely between the swell of her breasts and her throat, this shirt is tight, and the collar swings low – from shoulder-to-shoulder in fact, baring a whole swath of Effy’s milky English-rose skin.

  It is also striped. And colorful.

  It has all the markings of a suggestion from another man, not Effy’s own tastes, which are neutral, expensive, and consummately professional.

  Tick-tock, I think.

  The time is ticking away.

  I decide to be bold.

  “That’s a nice necklace Effy is wearing,” I say.

  John has a beer to his lips, and a ripple of his exhaled breath spreads out on the surface of it. Small. But noticeable. At least to me, because I notice these things.

  You notice these things when you’re looking for the man your wife is having an affair with.

  And that’s what I’m doing.

  John looks at me over the beer, and then drops his eyes. He takes a swig of it, clumsily gulping too much (a real tell-tale sign, if I ever saw one, given th
at John is such a fucking athlete, he plays fucking rugby, which is just one more strike against him. Who the fuck do you know, after all, who is a goddamn American and plays rugby? Except maybe men fucking your British wife?), and sets it down.

  “I uh... what?”

  I eye him with what I hope is a terrifying expression.

  I hope I look a little crazy.

  “Her necklace,” I repeat, watching his face for any little giveaway flicker of guilt.

  I’m disappointed. John’s face is a mess. He looks confused and then he looks at his beer, and just when my investigation is off to a conclusion, Effy is standing there next to me. She clicked and clacked away in her heels, but, as is Effy’s style, she managed to walk back here without making a sound.

  She looks down at me. “You’re pissed,” she says. “In the proper sense of the word.” She waves at me with her hand and I scoot over so she can sit down next to me.

  Like a hawk, I eye the exchange between her and John. She’s not being very subtle, is she? I see her mouth turn up a little at one corner.

  I’m about to mention the necklace, about to lay it all out on the table, call her hand – like I said, I’m pretty drunk, and I’m not wearing my thinking cap – when Effy sighs.

  She reaches across the table, and her fingers are going for John’s drink. I can see it, he can see it (and he looks horrified), and then they suddenly drop out of the air, like a drone with no juice left. Plop.

  Effy plays it cool. She wasn’t just about to casually reach over there and take John’s glass, have a sip from it, the way a woman who saw John all the time – or fucked John all the time – would do. Not Effy. She has her hand in her hair in a second and she’s leaning on her palm as though she meant, all along, to turn to me and smile while leaning on her slender wrist.

  Her hand disappears into her shiny, shoulder-length hair. Her hair is oak-colored and it would be easy to even go so far as to call it plain.

  The plain color of her hair, however, is made up for by the fact that her eyes are navy blue, often mistaken for brown until someone looks closely. These eyes are set in a milky complexion, amid an arrangement of features that are individually “pretty.” No big, overflowing lips, or doe eyes, or unusual nose – nothing that particularly stands out. No perky asymmetry. Just pretty features all together, all aligned, like her wardrobe and her wit, in a sort of uptight, no-nonsense way.

  But Effy is a great beauty. She looks like an ad for complexion cream. She’s the face you imagine when someone says the phrase “English rose.” She has a natural pink flush on her flawless cheekbones tonight, and the dark blue of her eyes is glittering.

  “I’ve got to go,” she says abruptly, after smiling at me rather demonically for a moment. “But you are not driving anywhere.” She reached into my breast pocket quickly and has the keys to the car in her hand before I can open my mouth.

  She’s right, of course. I’m toast.

  I shake my head. Oh, Effy. She has it all planned out. We’ve taken separate cars, we’ve just “run into” John, she’s going to work at the office, and I’m going home in a cab. Alone.

  I turn my gaze from Effy’s smiling face to John. I beam. “John,” I boom. “You’re not lookin’ too bad. You wanna give me a ride home?”

  John looks stunned. He’s about to respond, when Effy puts her hand on my arm. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “John lives in Breckridge.”

  If the city were a globe, Breckridge would be China, and we lived in America. Fair enough.

  “Maybe I’ll just go to the office with you. Sleep on the couch.”

  “You’ll sleep on a bench, because you’re not allowed on my floor,” Effy quips.

  “You have it all covered,” I slur. I remind myself to keep it together.

  Effy rolls her eyes and takes out her phone. “Uber? Or cab?”

  I pause for a moment to think about this. I have never asked an Uber driver to follow another car, which is my plan for the moment (I will realize only later that it makes no sense).

  “Cab,” I say, though I’ve never asked a cabbie to do that, either. Something about the fact that I’ve seen it in movies is reassuring to me.

  Effy is smiling as she swipes away at her phone. “You have any particular preference, Endeavor Morse?” she says.

  “You know,” I proclaim loudly, drunkenly. “You’ve been here for like twenty years. Why don’t you watch an American TV show once in a while so I know what the hell you’re talking about?”

  “Yellow Cab?” Effy says politely, smiling up at me from the screen.

  The good news about all of this is that John is looking really uncomfortable.

  I nod, and then I have a great idea. I wave at a passing waitress. “Hey can I get another drink?”

  She looks like she’s deciding if she’ll serve me or not, but I take it that because Effy gives her the go-ahead she decides to do it. I lean over to peek at Effy’s screen, but whatever she’s doing, it’s swiped away by her calm fingers as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

  “I’m going to sit here and have another drink, then,” I say.

  “Your cab will be here in ten minutes, so make it snappy.” Effy rises to her full, very tall height of 5’9”, taken to six feet by her heels. “I’m off, then.”

  She leans down and kisses me on the cheek. “Behave.”

  She clicks away.

  I watch her, and let myself indulge in the perverse pleasure of seeing all the male heads at the bar turn slightly as she passes them, before I set my sights back on John.

  “You’ll stay and have a round with me, right?”

  John presses his lips together. I wait, my whole body almost shaking with preemptive satisfaction, as he tries desperately to hold himself back. Or make an excuse.

  He holds up his phone. It seems to me that he’s hiding it very carefully from my view. I wonder if Effy has texted him. I wonder if he put her name in as “Effy” or “Elizabeth,” or if they are sneakier than that. I wonder, if I looked at the screen right now, if I would see a message from her.

  [Effy] meet me at the hotel

  It is then that I realize that the plan I have been concocting in my mind, of following Effy or John to the place where they meet, is utterly unfeasible. I’m not leaving at the same time as John or Effy.

  I’m such a fucking idiot.

  I wonder where Effy does meet her lover – and even if I’m wrong, and it isn’t John, she most certainly has one. Does she go to hotels? Or does she go to John’s place?

  I go down a rabbit hole, thinking about whether or not Effy has had the time or the opportunity to be so bold as to have people over at our place.

  John is looking uncomfortable.

  “You looking forward to the retreat?” I say.

  This year's company retreat has been extended to a lot of junior investigators, so John will be able to go. It's a really great deal at a ranch in Montana owned by the company.

  John presses his lips together again. “I, uh... yeah, I think I'm staying back. I have this really wild file...”

  I'm bored. I'm also, frankly, a little disappointed. I have been looking forward to seeing how Effy kept her lover hidden in such close quarters.

  John finishes his beer and takes advantage of the moment to say: “Man, I gotta be at work early tomorrow.”

  If I were less drunk, I’d have the smarts to tell him tomorrow is Saturday, but I think of it only after he’s gone.

  The waitress brings me my drink, a whiskey soda, and I slam it while I consider my options. John stops to let some ladies walk past him, and starts to chat with a man at the bar, so he’s a little slower getting out of the building than Effy was.

  I could still follow him.

  If I could find a cab.

  I stand up and rush to the door. I’m rude, I push those same people John let by out of my way as I charge forward.

  When I get outside, there’s the slam of silence and stupidity in my face. A li
ght rain is falling, so light it’s like a mist. It has a very temporary clarifying effect on me, like spraying a cat with water might. You, the rain says, are an idiot.

  But I’m too drunk, too paranoid, too obsessed, for it to last. I look from side to side in the small parking lot in front of The Yellow Parrot. John is nowhere to be seen. I walk to the end of the building and peer around the corner – and I do this with my hands in my pockets, leaning back toward the wall, like I stepped out of a fucking cartoon.

  There he is, headed down the street. His car winks at him, a gleaming black fancy Accord, like I didn’t see that coming, all shiny and black like his hair. It’s his weekday car, I know he has a mangy old Range Rover that he drives around in the desert on the weekends.

  “What a twat,” I say, and a couple giggling their way past me raise their eyebrows collectively.

  And then, like magic, here comes my cab. Five minutes early, scrubbed clean, and driven by a dark-skinned man, probably Somali, who looks like he could drive you out of the last days of Saigon. “You are Jag, sir?” He has a curious mix of indifference and impatience in his voice.

  I drop into the cab, and at that moment I realize that I left my trench coat in the bar. I slap my pocket, relieved to find my wallet there, and look through the windshield to John’s car, the wheels turning on the pavement, ready to pull into traffic. We have a blessedly good view of John’s car.

  “You ever follow a car, man?” I say to the driver.

  He’s sorting some things out in the well between the seats, and he looks up where I’m looking and gives the whole scene a shrug.

  “It’s that Honda Accord up there.”

  The meter is on and he throws the car into drive. His eyes look in the mirror. “Follow the black car,” he says. “You gotta pay me even if we lose him, sir.”