Madeleine Plays (A Wife-Watching Romance): Book Two of the Madeleine Trilogy

by Max Sebastian

  Hugo couldn’t see what was going on behind him, but he could tell from his wife’s face that she wasn’t being ignored. There was a kind of glow about her, an underlying bloom of pride and delicious arousal.

  He saw her shift one knee just an inch or two further to the side, opening herself even further to the stranger’s gaze, and heard her utter a tiny little gasp. Hugo felt the heat of jealousy and raw excitement burst inside his chest at the thought that another man was checking out his wife’s most intimate parts.

  “He can see me,” she said so quietly her husband almost couldn’t hear it over the tinkle of the piano behind. “He’s looking up my dress.”

  Madeleine suddenly looked Hugo right in the eyes, blushing furiously, as though she’d suddenly decided that staring direct at her husband was the safest way to avoid her new admirer’s gaze, to protect her reputation while a stranger feasted his eyes on her bare pussy.

  She seemed really embarrassed, and yet also seriously turned on—and somehow Hugo felt in-tune with her confusing mix of emotions, since his own cocktail of white-hot jealousy and blistering arousal had that same conflicting chaos.

  Hugo saw her knees quivering a little, as though there was a little war going on inside her to keep her legs open—her powerful sense of excitement in pitched battle against her innate sense of shame.

  “He’s good,” Hugo said, trying to appear calm and collected. “He hasn’t tripped over his piano keys yet.”

  “Oh God, Hugo,” she said, and he heard a tremor in her voice. “I’m not sure I can handle this after all.”

  “We can go home any time you like, honey.”

  “No…” she said, a wicked glimmer returning to her eyes, pushing out the fear. “I have a bet to win.”

  Without warning, she suddenly and quietly lifted her right knee, resting her foot on the edge of her stool, completely opening up her pussy for public view, her dress appearing to be nothing more than a shirt. Now it was Hugo’s turn to gasp—he could see her beautiful flower in all its glory, her lips flushed with arousal and glistening with her excitement.

  Both of them suddenly noticed movement off to the right, and turned to catch sight of their waiter the split second before the extraordinary distraction at the bar caused him to knock into a table, pitching the tray he had been carrying forward to split its collection of glasses everywhere.

  Madeleine suddenly slapped her thighs together, but as the waiter stood frozen by what he’d seen, in that instant as the glasses crashed to Earth, obliterating the peaceful atmosphere of the empty restaurant, both she and Hugo heard the piano player suddenly stumble over his keyboard, his music grinding to a halt.

  She didn’t care if she’d won the bet indirectly—by affecting the waiter, whose dropping of glassware then disrupted the music.

  Madeleine shot her arms up into the air, whooping at least semi-drunkenly in her glorious victory.

  “So,” Hugo said, “where do you want your reward?”

  Eight

  Hugo woke the next morning to the news—by text message—that he was needed in the office, on a Saturday of all days. A groan of frustration escaped him before he controlled himself, not wanting to wake a shattered Madeleine.

  He was still tired after what had turned into a superb evening, but as he hauled himself out of bed and threw himself into the shower, leaving his beautiful bride asleep, he felt seriously content with life.

  Hugo found his cock thickening up in the shower as he washed himself, the memories of devouring Madeleine the night before strong in his mind.

  He had to resist delay, however. His call to the office was urgent—no doubt some client or other getting themselves in a fix. It was always the damage limitation work, brand protection, that dragged PR people at the firm into work at irregular hours.

  Madeleine was really out for the count, even as he finished up dressing. Unwilling to wake her prematurely, no doubt to a headache, he simply fetched a glass of ice water, placed a little bottle of Tylenol next to it on her bedside table, before jotting down a note on a post-it about being suddenly called into the office.

  Then he headed out the door. At least these urgent calls into the office meant he was allowed to claim back a taxi receipt.

  As he sat there in the back of a cab, trying not to choke from the driver’s heady air freshener as the vehicle negotiated its way through the traffic up Fifth, Hugo’s mind drifted back to Madeleine.

  She had certainly been fired up by flashing that piano player. Jesus, the guy had seen her pussy in all its glory.

  Hugo felt a curious loss of control. It did frighten him, even though it excited him at the same time. The idea of an independent, strong, sexually powerful wife was extraordinarily attractive – but the fact she might, in her independence, choose to reject him, or prioritize someone else above him, was terrifying.

  Well, he had to trust her. That was the bottom line—and in marriage, if there was no trust, the relationship was flawed anyway.

  Sitting there, helpless as the traffic snarled up close to Central Park, he tried to dwell more on the exciting thoughts, of Madeleine teasing the guys at work with those short skirts and hints of lace underwear. He tried to focus on the alpha-male buzz he got from the idea that when all was said and done, she came home to him. There might be plenty of upstarts sniffing her tail, but he was the leader of her pack.

  Madeleine was so beautiful, so bright and vivacious, her husband simply wanted to worship her—and he found that he liked the idea of others worshipping her, too.

  The thought that got him going most of all, however—that got him so hard as the taxi pulled up outside the firm’s building that he worried about people noticing as he stepped out of the vehicle onto the curb—was the thought that some day, Madeleine would feel confident enough or tipsy enough to try a little more than flirting, even actual physical connection with another man.

  The look on her face from such an illicit thrill would be priceless.

  *

  The whole day, he actually found himself battling against his nerves, wondering what Madeleine was thinking as she woke up, remembered the events of the previous night, and returned to work—where perhaps, she would run into the guy she’d kissed.

  During the morning, he sent three text messages to her, checking she was feeling okay, that everything was good after the previous night. Yet it got to noon, and she still hadn’t responded.

  His paranoia turned her lack of response into the possibility she wasn’t happy about what happened the previous night, she was ashamed at displaying herself so provocatively in front of that piano player.

  Maybe she’d blame the drink, but maybe she’d blame her husband and this weird new attitude of his regarding her flirtation with others.

  Then around noon, a simple little text came back from her

  > Sorry, didn’t realize phone was out of batteries. Not entirely thinking straight today.

  The smiley-face emoticon she added to the end of her text warmed his heart considerably.

  Hugo sent a text back:

  > Me neither. Can’t stop thinking about last night.

  It was a fairly neutral text, could have gone either way. If she had negative feelings about the previous night, he could turn it into telling her he was concerned about things, too. If she had positive feelings, she would read it as his sharing her lusty thoughts about what had happened.

  It was still a nervy few minutes until her next text came in, shaking him up a little as his phone beeped on receiving her next message.

  > Can we have Date Nights like that every week?

  This time, she added an emoticon with a tongue sticking out of its mouth. Hugo felt a tingling inside his loins, his insides filled with the warmth of knowing Madeleine was happy about the previous night’s events.

  > Often as you like.

  He replied with his own smiley-face at the end of the text.

  > You had a good time?

  > Loved every minute.

&
nbsp; > I can’t quite believe it all happened. Guess I had too much to drink.

  > You’re so sexy when you’re tipsy

  > You had hardly anything—you had no excuse. Can’t believe you just sat there and let me.

  > You loved every minute of it

  > I loved winning our bet

  Hugo felt his sleeping tiger really stir as he read that text from her.

  She signed off with another tongue-sticking-out emoticon, and then Hugo had to get back to work—no doubt Madeleine did, too.

  *

  A day of meetings about how to manage a certain crisis in which a mouse had been found inside a jar of baby food for one of the company’s large manufacturer clients finally slowed around mid-afternoon.

  Hugo had done his bit, writing three completely different drafts of a press release to take into account the changing view of the client’s lawyers through the day. But at last, things were winding down.

  By four, they were all merely waiting around waiting for the client to finally approve everything.

  Hugo naturally found his mind wandering back to thoughts of Madeleine. He found himself picking up his phone to check for any messages. There was a text from Madeleine sent mid-morning while he’d obviously been too busy to see it.

  > Oops, guess I forgot to wear panties today.

  He was instantly stiffening up after reading that, and regretted not knowing she’d sent it earlier, though he probably wouldn’t have been in a position to do anything about it.

  He sent a text back saying:

  > Naughty girl. Just picked up your text. Your co-workers realized yet?

  He had to wait 15 minutes, but then her reply came back:

  > Think it’s actually been too busy today for any of that! It did feel so sexy, though. And after I texted you, I kept thinking about how you might feel knowing ;-)

  He assumed ‘any of that’ merely meant flirting with her colleagues during work. It was so hot to think of her working a whole Saturday shift with a bare pussy that might be seen if anything happened with her skirt.

  He replied:

  > Only just found out—instant stiffness ;-)

  She said:

  > Okay—I have two hours left of my shift—if you keep telling me things like that I’ll be dripping all over the books.

  He smiled, but was chomping at the bit at the thought of her getting wet and juicy thinking about him.

  She asked him what he wanted to do that evening, and he knew he wasn’t going to have the energy to go out, not after a weekend day of crisis management—and probably not after such an exhilarating but ultimately exhausting date night.

  Right now, he wanted nothing more than an evening in with his pretty blonde wife.

  He texted her back:

  > As soon as you’re done at the bookstore, I want you to go home and start warming yourself up for me.

  It was probably a little presumptive, a little more assertive or even overbearing than she might be used to with him—but she hadn’t indicated that she had other plans that evening.

  > Warm myself up? Whatever might you mean by that?

  Her text reply made him smile. He felt the door opening for a little dominant energy.

  > You know what I mean. The minute your shift is over, I want you to go home, grab a bite to eat and then take off your clothes and wait for me in bed.

  She replied:

  > And this is mandatory?

  Hugo smiled again, at her injection of mild protest. He could tell she was interested, or she would have sent something back about being tired, perhaps that he shouldn’t push her so soon after what happened at the bar the previous night. But she didn’t.

  > The grabbing a bite part is optional, but just thought you might want to keep your energy levels up.

  > And what am I supposed to do while I’m lying in bed, naked, waiting for you?

  > As I indicated before—warm yourself up for me.

  > You might have to help me with something to think about while I do. I’m not sure I can do without my husband’s firm guidance.

  > I’ve got some firm guidance in my pants right now that you can think about.

  > Okay—I really do have customers I’m supposed to be serving.

  > Two hours. Then you serve me.

  He chuckled. This was kind of fun—they hadn’t really played with him being in any way dominant. It didn’t come entirely naturally to him, particularly around Madeleine, but maybe it would be fun. He just had to hope that things at work finished up in good time for him to get home and enjoy his warmed-up wife.

  The client would probably want some changes made to the latest draft, and then some more reassurance that their entire business wouldn’t be destroyed by the actions of a disgruntled now-former employee.

  But ten minutes later, Ray popped his head over Hugo’s cubicle with a relieved smile plastered all over his face.

  “All done,” he said.

  “Done? They don’t want changes?”

  “Nope—completely happy, ready to roll. Davis will handle any press calls from here—we’re done! Hey—you fancy a drink? Could probably catch the tail-end of Notre Dame.”

  Hugo felt a little funny sitting in Ray’s presence with an erection. It was subsiding, but it still had enough power to affect his decision-making. He shook his head: “Got to get home, I’m afraid. Plans tonight.”

  Ray nodded the nod of marital solidarity. “My wife thinks I’m still at work and it could take all night,” he said. “Sure you don’t want to come along? We could hit a strip joint later.”

  Hugo wasn’t in the least bit tempted to choose a visit to a strip joint in the company of his discreditable colleague over an evening home with the prospect of trying something new with his seriously sexy better half.

  “Lowego will probably want to go,” he suggested to Ray, but the other man shook his head.

  “Lowego is still in the process of reclaiming his wife. Jesus. Lightweights!”

  Almost two hours until Madeleine’s shift was over, and walking out of the office building down to the nearest subway stop, Hugo half wondered if he should have at least shared a drink or two with Ray.

  Sitting on the subway train as it rattled and shook its way home, he found himself thinking about Ray’s offhand remark about Lowego patching it up with his wife. “Reclaiming”, he’d said. Was Hugo insane to find that notion deeply arousing? His wife had fooled around with another man—fucked another man, repeatedly—and now Lowego was going to reclaim her. She was used, dirty, messed up, but so desirable she could have another man as easy as pie—as she’d shown by her affair. And Lowego was going to have to make her his own.

  God, such a fantasy probably objectified the wife, turning her into something to be fought over, to be reclaimed after falling into the hands of another. But Hugo preferred to think of the fantasy setting up the wife as a fiery independent, who could choose to go off and violate her wedding vows if she so wanted, but might now be tamed by a careful and attentive husband.

  He thought about how Lowego was lucky to have been able to reclaim his wife—plenty of marriages would fail if the wife strayed. Lowego had kept the communication going, and things had turned out okay so far.

  Stepping off the train for the final walk back to the apartment building, Hugo thought to himself that if Madeleine suddenly came out and revealed she’d had an affair, he would understand and even find it faintly exciting. Did that make him weird?

  *

  At home with more than an hour to kill before Madeleine returned home, he quickly came to the decision not to tell her he’d actually made it home early. No—he wanted to surprise her. He wanted to see her warming herself up for him in bed, and perhaps wind her up so badly that she was crying out for him to be at home already, she couldn’t wait for him to commute all the way back from work. Then he’d show up, surprise her, and take her over the edge.

  He made a space for himself in the closet, and made it comfortable with a few strat
egic cushions, then he checked to ensure he’d be able to see everything—and that from outside the closet, she wouldn’t be able to see him.

  He made himself a ham and cheese sandwich and watched a little TV while eating it, knowing that he needed to keep his energy levels up, too.

  When Madeleine finally texted him at a minute past six to tell him she was on the way home, he made sure there was no evidence in the entire apartment suggesting he was home, then made himself comfortable in that closet, easing the door closed sufficiently to hide himself while keeping the sight lines open.

  Then he texted back:

  > Hopefully I won’t be too long at the office. So you got away with wearing no panties to work today?

  She replied:

  > A customer asked me to get a Jeffrey Deaver novel down from a topshelf, think he might have caught an eyeful.

  Hugo laughed at that.

  > Did you make the sale though?

  > He said I gave him the wrong one, sent me back up the step-ladder. But then he bought five books.

  He loved the thought of his wife up on a pedestal, fetching books from a top shelf. He replied:

  > And that’s where Amazon can’t compete. Sexy shop assistants.

  Then her text came back:

  > Hurry home—this sexy shop assistant is so wet it’s dripping down her leg.

  With that, he felt the need to get things started. He tried to channel the spirit of a dominant male. What would he tell her if she was his to control?

  He texted:

  > I will. But now I want you to make a quick sandwich for yourself, and then go into the bedroom and remove your clothes.

  She replied:

  > Yes, sir.

  He’d timed his last-minute preparations well, because it wasn’t long at all before he heard the front door opened, and Madeleine was home. His heart started pounding inside his chest.

  *

  He could hear her voice, and it put him suddenly on edge. At first, he thought she must have rumbled him, she was calling for him. But she wasn’t calling for him—she was talking to someone.

  “Oh my God! Seriously?”