To be honest, I’d delved into her email a little here and there, mostly in those early days when we were dating, rather than married. But these days I rarely did — I just didn’t have time to snoop, or the motivation particularly. I knew she still liked to monitor what I was up to behind the scenes, however.
“So you really thought I was going out on a date with Jake on Thursday?” she asked me. “And that I’d left you clues so that you would know what was going on — and so I would be clear to sleep with him if I wanted to?”
She was picking up her pace a little, bouncing on my hardness, and with that glint in her eyes, it reminded me of how she’d been after we’d first come up with the concept of The Game. Despite her reluctance to ever actually play the game, the idea of being free to sleep with other men as well as her husband, without any associated guilt, had appealed to her. She just never believed I’d actually be as into the idea if we ever actually crossed the line and made it real.
“It was an easy conclusion to jump to,” I protested.
“Interesting,” she said, sitting up as she rode me to brush her long red locks back over her shoulders. “So what would you have done if I hadn’t brought out this condom, if I hadn’t told you why I bought them?”
“I would have fucked you anyway,” I answered her.
She leaned back, supporting her body with her hands behind her, so that as I looked down my chest, I could see my sheathed cock disappearing inside her, see her sweet pussy, her pink pussy lips, her patch of red down. I could watch our penetration — and maybe imagine it was another man thrusting into her, a man wearing a condom because he wasn’t her husband.
“But you would have done that believing that I was intending to sleep with another guy. Maybe even Jake, maybe even tomorrow night?”
I popped out of her — in that position, it was easy to slip out. For a moment or two she just sat there, pulling on my shaft with her hands.
“I guess I would,” I said.
She grinned. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “You really thought it was real, didn’t you?”
She leaned forward to grab my head, kissing me forcefully. I mumbled an affirmative “Uh-huh” as she sucked on my face, her breasts rubbing against my chest, her hot snatch pressing down on my erection.
“And you were so turned on,” she said in an awed whisper. “The way you took me in the kitchen… and God, you were so hard…”
I held her tight in my arms and rolled her over onto her back.
“You know I have that fantasy,” I said, lying over her, kissing her mouth and then down her neck, her chest, her breasts.
“But you thought it was real,” she breathed as I knelt up to slide the head of my cock inside her pussy once again, gazing at me in the eyes. “You thought I was actually planning on cheating on you… and you still wanted me…”
Sweating as I plunged into her, amid thrusts, I said, “I’ve told you… haven’t I?… I don’t… have a problem… with you… enjoying yourself… with whoever…”
She looked up at me in pure wonderment, panting as I squeezed my hardness inside her tight, wet channel. “But you might say that…” she said, “Doesn’t necessarily mean… you’ll be okay with it… if it really did happen…”
“Only, now I guess I’ve shown I’d be okay with it.”
She nodded, but somehow appeared a little dazed. “More than okay,” she said.
Izzie turned over under me, and I gave her space to go onto all fours. Behind her, I ducked down for another taste of her succulent pussy, loving how she moaned as my lips connected with her there, sounding slightly startled, surprised at my hunger for her.
Her pussy was flushed, puffy, and very wet after my penetration. How would I perceive it if we were playing The Game, and she had actually been with another guy before I came to her like this? But imagining that only made me want her more. She squealed as I squeezed her buttocks in my hands and pressed my mouth and my tongue over her sex, I could taste the condom but it didn’t put me off.
Then I knelt up, guided the tip of my cock to her entrance, and slid straight in. The two of us were wordless, merely panting for breath, as I held her waist and thrust into her, her petite frame rocking back and forth as I connected with her, her arms collapsing so her head sank into the pillows.
Reaching back under her, between her thighs, she touched her clit as I fucked her. Was she imagining how it would be to actually play The Game? For her to have another man behind her, fucking her like this? The first other man to have her in years?
Whatever she was thinking of, she came quickly, her moans turning to shrill cries, her body shaking under me. Somehow, I didn’t come myself. It was all still going through my mind —
She turned over again, onto her back once again, raising her legs and holding her knees up to her chest. She was done, but I wasn’t. She seemed content, her breathing even softening, easing, recovering her breath as I slid back inside her pussy.
“So if I understand you rightly,” she said, seeming surprisingly calm, though I was still panting and sweating and thrusting into her, “you really do want us to play The Game, right? For real.”
I tried to act calm, in the circumstances. To appear as though I was giving her my considered opinion, not some reaction to the fact that I was currently in the process of getting laid.
I said, “I think I’ve always wanted it.”
She said, “Interesting.”
With that, I slammed into her hard. I said, more of a grunt than anything, “Does that mean you want to try it?”
She looked deep in my eyes and nodded, which made me come deep inside her, within our protection.
Chapter Three
Dinner at the Hudsons’ envy-inducing red-brick townhouse in Georgetown always provoked interesting discussions, but on that particular evening a couple years back, it was one of the more memorable ones.
There were usually a good dozen of us seated around their huge dining room table, most of us from Columbia back in the day, with a few spouses and partners added to the mix — those who could stomach so many media types in one room. Izzie, being a media type herself, had always thrived in such conditions.
On this particular evening, we were gossiping about one of those media rumors that circulated widely among our industry, but likely as not would never actually make it to the general public. Believe it or not, there are some secrets that the media will, as a homogenous mass, clam up about, even without a court injunction. In this case, the fact that a reporter from the Washington Times had slept with a source purely to get the story was probably only of interest to DC-based journalists anyway, so there wouldn’t be any benefit to anyone to run the story publicly.
But, it did throw up an interesting question for our dinner party: would you sleep with a source if it meant getting your hands on the most fantastic story?
Of course, the straight-down-the-line ethical answer was, certainly not. But then again, the straight-down-the-line ethical approach was never to pay for a story, never to even buy someone lunch just to get a story — but no reporter was going to flinch from a little inducement here and there if it meant bagging a hot exclusive.
Our discussion veered into talking about the wider field of adultery as Izzie spoke up as one of the few women willing to state categorically that she would sleep with a source if the importance of the story justified it, and if there really was no other solution.
“And if my source doesn’t turn my stomach,” she’d added, to much mirth from around the rest of the table.
“So what does your husband have to say about that?” came the booming voice of John Hudson, our host and probably the most successful among us since he had his own late-night show on CNN.
“Oh, but we were talking hypothetically,” Izzie insisted. “We weren’t hypothetically being married while considering the question, were we?”
She looked across at me almost apologetically, for suggesting she might be willing to cheat on me just t
o get a story if it was a decent enough scoop.
Funny, but I looked at her, sitting across the table from me — since the Hudsons liked to split up couples if any should appear around their dinner table — and suddenly the thought popped into my mind that if Izzie were to cheat on me to get a good story… maybe I wouldn’t be so angry about it.
In fact, looking at her sitting there in a figure-hugging white dress that could probably cause drivers to lose concentration and drive into the Potomac, I found myself thinking that actually it might be quite interesting if Izzie were to be tempted into an adulterous liaison for the purposes of her journalism. Or for any other purposes, for that matter. Why did I have thoughts like that?
While I was having those particular thoughts, I think I experienced the first inappropriate erection I’d had in years. Perhaps even since I was an adolescent.
“Would you leave her, Oscar?” came the question from Michael Angeles, a staffer on a finance magazine the name of which escapes me. “If she cheated on you to get a story?”
Somebody else chipped in: “Maybe you could sleep with someone to get a story, even the score?” It may have been Harry Tybalt, a producer at a local TV news show.
There was much laughter, loosened by the strong red the Hudsons had been circulating during our meal of elaborately roasted duck on a bed of melt-in-the-mouth vegetables.
I guess I’d had as much plonk as the next guy, as I felt very relaxed about it all. I said quite casually, “Oh, I’d never leave her.”
Izzie beamed affectionately at me from across the table.
Marie McCoy, a dark-haired mischief-maker who was one of Izzie’s best friends from college, and also a New York Times correspondent posted on Capitol Hill, leaned over to me to say: “That’s sweet, honey, but don’t you think now she knows that, she’ll feel she can just go out and cheat on you?”
“Of course not!”
“I mean, you just said you’d stay with her, right? What’s stopping her from doing it?”
Marie’s wavering eyebrows suggested that if it was her, and her husband pledged to stand by her side if she ever decided to cheat on him, she would be straight out there hitting the bars and restaurants to find a guy with which to do exactly that.
“She’s got carte blanche!” John Hudson roared with laughter. “She knows you’ll forgive her!”
Izzie piped up, “Uh… there would be something to stop me doing it — guilt. I wouldn’t actually want to hurt my husband.”
A pitying look from my wife now, that she’d opened our cosy marriage to this hypothetical onslaught.
Marie chuckled, and said to Izzie, “But if you were really tempted — like by the most gorgeous guy in the world. Or the biggest dick. And you knew at the end of the day if Oscar found out, he’d still want to save your marriage…”
“That would be kind of cynical, wouldn’t it?” Izzie replied.
“Oscar, you’d have to rethink your whole pledge to stand by her if she did that, right?” asked Michael.
I heaved a sigh that quietly called on everyone to drop the subject and move on, but felt pressured to give an answer. “I don’t know… I love her,” I said. “If she felt so tempted that she’d go against her whole sense of guilt just to do it… I don’t know… I think I’d have to feel it was worth it, too.”
Marie was cackling, and shoving an elbow into Izzie’s side. “Sounds to me like you have the green light to sleep with whoever you want, girl!”
“I wouldn’t. That’s the point of marriage, isn’t it?” Izzie said.
The thing is, Izzie was saying that as a good wife, but I could see the wheels turning inside her mind. I think if she was presented with the right kind of story offer, it might be hard for her to turn down a little dodgy dealing like that. The thing is, I’ve always been a bit of a journeyman when it comes to journalism. I work hard, I do my best, I give good coverage in my specialist areas — but I accept I’ve peaked with a reporter’s job at the Messenger. I’ll give you an accurate account of anything that’s going on in the world of business, if it falls in my plate, if I luck out with one of my contacts. But I’m not that ruthless kind of reporter who will bring down governments. I don’t have that spark of ambition that will have me tearing White House policies apart to uncover scandalous problems — or meet in underground parking lots with shady figures to get information to depose Presidents.
Izzie is the ambitious kind of reporter, always has been. I’ve often wondered how far she’d go if she caught the possibility of a major exclusive at the end.
There at the dinner table, I got the distinct impression — just from her eyes — that if she were truly tempted by the right kind of scoop, she might go for the whole adultery deal. And strangely enough, that kind of excited me.
Both of us seemed oddly silent for the rest of that dinner, I can tell you. We’d pipe up if directly challenged, but if you were really paying attention, based on past performance you’d definitely say we were muted.
I think I was a little shocked, to be honest, that looking at Izzie and imagining her taking some kind of deal that required her to sleep with some besuited source in an anonymous hotel room somewhere downtown, actually started to turn me on. If I thought about it too much, my pants started to become a little tight and I’d have to shift in my seat to get comfortable again.
I think she was, perhaps, debating with herself as to whether she really would cheat on her husband if the best scoop of her career really necessitated it. And how she should factor in the assertion I’d made that if she really had to do something like that, I would stand by her, I wouldn’t want to lose her.
Was she thinking that when it all came down to it, she might be tempted to flout her wedding vows for the right story? God, I found myself sitting at that table wishing she would.
*
We took a taxi home to the apartment we’d had at the time in Bethesda, in the north-west of the city. And for a fair way up through Chevy Chase, we were both silent. I was thinking about how sheltered an upbringing I’d had up in New Hampshire. I hadn’t even known anyone until I reached high school whose parents were split up — and my parents were solid as a rock.
Perhaps if I’d come from a broke home, I’d think very differently about the prospect of turning a blind eye to my wife being tempted into adultery to attain an exclusive.
But there I was, and it wasn’t just that I was theoretically on board with turning a blind eye to Izzie fooling around a little: right now, it seemed to have graduated into actual sexual arousal concerning the prospect. And I didn’t want to turn a blind eye, I wanted to know actual details of my wife’s infidelity.
It made her more desirable in my eyes.
We were probably ten, fifteen minutes from home when Izzie suddenly broke the silence in the back of that cab.
“You’d really let me?” she said.
“Let you?” I prompted her, since I wasn’t party to her thought process before she’d finally opened her mouth.
“If a seriously good story required it,” she said, “and I was seriously tempted to take another guy up on his offer… you’re really saying you’d… forgive me?”
“Forgive you?”
“You’d stand by me, though. You wouldn’t want to end our marriage?”
I chuckled, trying to make light of it, though my heart was thumping away in my chest and my cock was feeling pretty fat in my pants. “Are you saying you’ve got a source all lined up ready to sleep with?”
“No. But you seemed remarkably relaxed about the idea… I mean, I don’t think I know any guys who would be that… understanding.”
Understanding. I felt my prick throbbing between my thighs. The word seemed to suggest that in Izzie’s eyes, there really would be an occasion where it would be appropriate to sleep with a source.
“I guess I’m not like other guys,” I said.
“You don’t care?” there was an edge to her voice. I didn’t like it — but I could see why it was there
.
“It’s not that…” I sighed. “It’s not that I don’t care. It’s… I’m not sure why… but it just seems… I don’t know… kinda hot to me.”
My stumbling explanation silenced her for a moment.
Then she said, “‘Kinda hot’?”
Another sigh from this direction. I’d never been good at talking about my feelings. At talking about anything vaguely risqué. Izzie neither.
“I don’t know… thinking of you that way… you know, breaking the rules, being a bad girl… I guess it turns me on a little.”
There in the darkness, I was blushing like a schoolgirl. I hoped sincerely that our driver couldn’t hear our conversation. He had some radio station on up there, offering some kind of music — I never had any idea about music — so hopefully it covered our discussion.
“It turns you on, thinking of me cheating on you to get a story?” she said quietly. Perhaps she’d been thinking the same thing about our driver.
Suddenly I felt her hand crawling over my thigh, then sweep slowly up to my crotch — only for her fingers to spread across the stiffness I was fostering under my pants.
“Jesus!” she gasped. “You really aren’t kidding!”
“I guess it would just… I don’t know… make you seem a more interesting person…”
“You’re saying I’m boring?”
“Not at all. You’re an interesting person already — you know that. This would just make you… more fascinating.”
I don’t think she was really offended at my suggestion that infidelity would make her more interesting. She had left her hand conspicuously on my erection, and was gently stroking it in the darkness.
“Adultery makes a person fascinating?” she said, her tone neutral. Inquiring, not really judging. “You’d want me to do it, even if it wasn’t only to get a story, huh?”
I added, “It’s just… I guess… it’s just exciting. Thinking of you being bad.”
“Even with some other guy?”
The Game (A Hotwife Adventure) Page 3