The Game (A Hotwife Adventure)

by Max Sebastian

  *

  The box was unopened when I first discovered it. It was another clue that might not necessarily mean anything was definitely going to happen, but thus far it was the biggest turn-on yet for me. The suggestion was that one day, probably soon, she would be tearing open one of these little packets, to roll it down the stiff cock of another man before taking him inside her.

  It made me shiver with fear and excitement.

  Then a couple of days later, Izzie was due to go out for another evening of cocktails with Marie in their favorite haunts downtown, and I came home to find the box of condoms had been opened — and by my count, three were missing.

  I was instantly hard at the discovery, and breathing a little irregularly.

  Had anything happened already? I was certain the box had been unopened that morning. I was also fairly certain it could be no coincidence that Izzie had taken out three condoms just before her night out with Marie. She was due to tell her, tonight, that she had this quasi-single status, after all.

  The stiffness in my pants, and the shock at seeing the condom box opened, engineered a paranoia that started putting ideas into my head about Izzie slipping off to a motel somewhere with some guy she’d met at work, or wherever. Or maybe she’d even brought some guy back here, knowing I would still be at work.

  But the logical part of me held to the idea that Izzie was just being prudent, playing it safe in case anything did happen if her night out with Marie turned wild.

  It could also have been Izzie leaving me an obvious clue to watch closely, because she was more and more of the belief that something might happen in this damn Game, sooner rather than later.

  Nevertheless, I searched the bedroom for more clues, I searched the living room, too, in case anything had happened down there. There was no sign of anything, certainly no used condoms carefully stashed in the garbage. It was eight o’clock in the evening, and knowing that my Izzie was out at a bar somewhere, armed with three condoms, meant I couldn’t actually concentrate on anything. I couldn’t watch TV, I couldn’t read, I couldn’t even play video games. I certainly couldn’t pull open my laptop and try to do some work. I had time to search the house for more clues, but there was nothing obvious.

  For a moment, I sat down on the sofa and tried to calm down. This was the crux of the Game, wasn’t it? I wanted my wife to go out and be a devil, but neither of us were comfortable about talking about the intimate details of such things. So I would have to wait until it was all over, and hope there were signs to confirm something had happened.

  I guess, I wanted something to happen more than I wanted to be there when it happened. But at the same time, I wanted to know.

  I glanced at the little coffee table between the sofa and the large-screen TV. Izzie had left her iPad there on the stack of magazines. It struck me as slightly odd, because she usually took it with her wherever she went — even on a night out.

  I picked it up. Perhaps the battery had died, and she’d decided to shed the weight. Yet Izzie was always very good at keeping her iPad charged up.

  I touched the button in the corner of the device and turned it on. The tablet screen lit up almost immediately to display a map, in the middle of which was a green circle around a little image of an iPhone.

  Jesus. I drew in a deep breath: Izzie had left the “Find My iPhone” application on. And knowing her, it was more than just an accident.

  This damn thing was showing me her precise location, right now. Assuming her iPhone hadn’t been stolen, she was apparently at a bar not far from Dupont Circle.

  I waited, unsure what to do - debating with myself whether I should act on this particular clue, or wait for Izzie to come home after her night out. Part of me figured that she had gone out specifically to let her hair down — and that was why she didn’t want to carry the weight of a tablet with her. She’d have to leave it somewhere if she wanted to go dancing, after all. But the way she’d left it out on the coffee table — with the iPhone-tracking app open and ready to be found — did suggest she wanted me to track her.

  It was nine o’clock by the time I clambered into my car, my decision made. This was the game that we were playing: if she didn’t intend for me to follow her to find out what she was up to, she should have told me to keep my distance.

  *

  Perched atop a bar stool opposite Marie, Izzie was wearing a blue and black dress that was so revealing it quite took my breath away. Ordinarily there was no way she’d wear something like that — I’d even have hazarded a guess she wouldn’t be comfortable being seen in it.

  The neckline plunged so deep, enough of her creamy breasts were exposed that the imagination could fill in virtually everything that was covered. She certainly wasn’t wearing a bra, and could almost have foregone anything at all above her waist, there was so much cleavage showing.

  At the back, the dress threw similar caution to the wind, making the casual observer wonder if she was wearing any underwear at all.

  I’d have assumed such an outfit would be only ever worn by the kind of attention-seeking celebrity as Miley Cyrus — but this was Izzie, my wife, someone who just wasn’t like that. And yet there she was, looking as comfortable in a dress as she possibly could, and comfortable in how much attention it got her.

  Looking at Marie’s outfit, which wasn’t quite so shocking by comparison, but still drew admiring glances, I was given the impression that Izzie had been influenced in her choice of attire. Newly single, Marie wanted her friend to match her status.

  The men seemed drawn to both of them like bears to a honeypot — and the women seemed to enjoy it, judging by their wide smiles, bright eyes and willingness to talk to anyone who felt the need to stop by and maybe buy them drinks along the way.

  From a darkened corner, a safe distance away, I just couldn’t have predicted how exhilarating it would be to watch my pretty wife batting her eyelids at the predatory alpha males roaming the bar. A thrill to see how obviously Izzie was excited by the good-looking guys pursuing her. Many of them seemed younger — mid-twenties, if that — and I guess in that dress, with the new sense of availability about her, Izzie did appear younger than her 32 years.

  A thrill to see those guys hoping to win her, hoping to attract her, hoping to bed her. I couldn’t believe it — from where I watched, I was actively willing some of them to succeed.

  But while many seemed to try to prize Izzie and Marie way from the bar, none of the men managed it. The women appeared content to sit where they were, chatting and flirting, leaving their options open until later in the evening.

  At last I saw the two women slip off their bar stools and retire to the cloakroom to retrieve their jackets, then leave the establishment.

  I followed them up the street, to where they ducked into another place — a dance club I’d never heard of. The two of the waltzed in while I myself as a lowly guy had to wait in a line to get in. Waiting was agonizing. After spending so long watching her flirting with guys, I was getting desperate for her to make a move on someone, and waiting outside the club my paranoia made me certain she had to be now it was getting late into the night.

  Inside, however, I quickly located Izzie and Marie near the bar, checking out the dance floor with cocktails in their hands and a few male admirers close by attempting conversation despite the loud thumping music. I felt relief that nothing significant had happened, although as it transpired, the two women were never intending to move quickly. I had to wait a while, clutching a iced water to keep me alert, milling around the edges of the dance floor, nervously breathing in the thick air scented by sweat and dry ice.

  It was a while before any of the men enticed them onto the dance floor. The successful men were a couple of young black guys I recognized from the previous bar. I was trembling to watch them dancing increasingly closely, Izzie seemingly unafraid to drape her hands all over her new friend, who frequently leaned down for her to whisper in his ear.

  I have to admit being shaken when I first saw
her hand on his shoulder, to see that she’d taken off her wedding ring. After a few moments, however, it all just fed into the exhilaration I felt at setting my wife free to play as she liked — and toy with the dangerous prospect of actually going home with someone.

  Jesus. The music went slow, and my wife was holding onto her guy, her hands behind his neck, his hands around her waist, her chest pressed to his, her cheek touching his.

  The pace of the music picked up, and she was twirling and jiving — and occasionally grinding up against him, and wearing that dress, she had to be feeling how hard he was for her.

  The guy seemed like a clean-cut, wholesome white-collar male, probably late twenties in a tidy shirt and pants. Like thousands of guys around here, he could have worked on The Hill or in any white collar job either linked to the world of politics or completely detached. I watched him holding her, I watched him touching her, I watched him fondling her butt, even her breasts later on in the night.

  And at one point, I did catch Izzie’s eye. The connection was explosive. She broke out into the most dazzling, exquisite smile, her eyes telling me how wild all this was to her, and how she could hardly believe I was letting her do this.

  And after she saw me, and apparently how much I was enjoying seeing her playing the Game, her hands moved up to her new friend’s jaw, and she was kissing him right there on the dance floor.

  “Hey, I thought that was you, Oscar!”

  I whirled around to find Marie there behind me — I’m not sure at what point my focus had concentrated on Izzie so much that I’d lost track of her friend, but it was so intense watching her dancing with another man, I wasn’t surprised that Marie had been able to sneak up on me.

  “Uh… hey, Marie. How’s things?”

  I was s trifle embarrassed at standing there next to her sporting a huge hard-on, and felt more than a little flustered at being ‘caught’ watching my wife misbehaving on the dance floor. It was so dark, there was no way Marie could even have seen me blush, but that didn’t help the awkwardness.

  “Not so terrible,” she said, her body language conceding that her marriage had broken down, though she was clearly having a good time out with Izzie. “Izzie’s having a whale of a time,” she added, turning to stand by my side, watching my wife as I was.

  “She is,” I agreed.

  For a few moments we just watched her kissing her dance partner. Sucking on his lips, slipping her tongue in his mouth, her breasts crushed against his chest, her hands sprawling over his body, his hands squeezing her behind.

  Then Marie said in my ear, “I can’t believe you guys are doing this.”

  “Uh-huh,” was all I could think of to say.

  “It’s so… naughty.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I still don’t really get what you get out of it.”

  I shrugged — a fairly meaningless gesture in that dark dance club. “I like seeing her happy,” I said, feeling the whole complexity of my feelings about Izzie and the Game crumple into some simplistic half-sentence. It was hardly the place to talk intricacy.

  “No wonder you guys are still together - you have to be the best husband in the world.”

  I smiled nervously. My heart was palpitating. Izzie’s friend had slipped his hand into her dress, to stroke and squeeze her breasts directly. I didn’t feel like the best husband in the world. I felt like I was letting my wife go, losing complete control over my relationship with her, as though I’d untied a boat from the dock in a storm.

  “You’d really let her sleep with him?” Marie asked me.

  “If she wanted to.”

  Marie looked shocked but intrigued.

  I felt my hard cock throbbing in my pants at the mere thought that Izzie could go home to another man’s bed that night.

  After a while, however, Izzie broke away from her dance partner, giving him a playful pat on the cheek, then turned to walk away, toward Marie and I.

  Her guy seemed disappointed, and I have to admit a slight buzz from feeling her reject him in favor of me — and yet there was also some disappointment on my part that it was apparently over.

  Her forehead a touch shiny with perspiration, her face glowing with suppressed excitement, Izzie stepped up to me and hugged me, kissed my cheek, whispered in my ear, “Take me home.”

  I could smell the cologne from her dance partner on her. It only enhanced the craving I had to strip that dress off her and take her for myself.

  *

  We dropped Marie off at her little house in Brookland before returning home. The benefits of me driving down there, and drinking iced water all night.

  “He would have let you sleep with the guy, you know,” I heart Marie saying to her as Izzie saw her friend to the doorstep.

  “I didn’t feel ready,” Izzie replied. As often happened, she impressed me.

  “You could have gone home with him.”

  Izzie said, “You could have gone with yours.”

  “I had a little too much to drink. Wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”

  “Next time. Next time, we’ll both be ready.”

  I felt my heart skip a beat to hear that.

  Back home, I couldn’t wait to tear that dress from her body. As soon as that front door closed behind us, it was languishing on the floor like fancy wrapping paper, and with Izzie in nothing but a pair of soaking white lace thong panties, I lifted her up onto the small side table by the front door, to kiss her sweet mouth and cup her phenomenal breasts in my hands.

  “You could’ve had him,” I said, and she was smiling ear-to-ear.

  “I know.”

  “You could have gone home with him.”

  Izzie unfastened the buttons on my shirt. “I was enjoying having you there,” she said, kissing me again. “If I went with him, you wouldn’t be.”

  She peeled off my shirt. I said, “Marie thinks I’m nuts, doesn’t she?”

  Izzie laughed. “She just doesn’t understand what you get out of the deal. I guess it isn’t easy, understanding.”

  I stooped to kiss between her breasts, tasting the gentle salt of perspiration, recalling the way she had let another man put his hands all over her breasts that night.

  “I can see that,” I said. Her nipples were little pebbles, begging for my mouth. She sighed as I sucked on each one, as I crushed them between my lips.

  “It turns you on,” she said, stroking my head, one hand reaching and just about finding its way to confirm how hard I was in my pants. “That’s all I need to understand.”

  She lost touch of my hardness as I kissed my way down her stomach, the scent of her arousal growing strong as I neared the waistband of her wet panties.

  She said, “Marie thinks this is about you getting permission to see someone else.”

  “You know it’s not.”

  I lifted one of her legs, propping her foot up on the edge of the table, opening her thighs. I nudged aside the small triangle of damn white lace and cotton, ducked down to taste her — taste her pussy, all juicy with thoughts of possible infidelity.

  She moaned as I licked her, as I massaged around her clit with a couple of careful fingers, as I released the sexual tension that had built up in her petite frame throughout the evening.

  I peeled off her panties before carrying her over to the couch, dropping her gently down before kneeling between her thighs, eating her as I contemplated the possibility of another man actually penetrating her here.

  “You think you’ll go dancing with Marie again, like that?” I asked her.

  “Maybe,” she said, now sitting forward, reaching for me, for my pants, unbuckling me, setting my hardness free.

  “Should’ve got that guy’s number,” I smiled.

  She circled her fingers around my stiff shaft, kissed the tip of my hard cock. “Who told you I didn’t?” she grinned.

  I nearly came in her mouth at that. I only just managed to hold on, until she sat back in the couch again, opened her legs for me to slide into her dripping
pussy.

  We came together there on the couch, and then once again in the shower, before collapsing into bed together.

  The incredible sexual satisfaction I felt as I slipped steadily off to sleep beside her only went to encourage the feelings I had deep down, that I wanted my wife to do it for real — to sleep with another man. Even if it meant going home with him rather than me.

  Chapter Seven

  It was a couple of days later that Marie demanded lunch with me via a very brief and to-the-point text message. Normally when I had lunch with Marie, we went to the National Press Club, and it would always involve Izzie as well. This time, it was just the two of us, and Marie instructed me toward a little Italian restaurant on Q street, which I’d never heard of but did a fantastic calamari.

  “What if someone sees us?” I joked with her as we took our seats. “The scandal!”

  She grinned. “You’d be fine,” she said. “In this town, adultery improves a guy’s reputation. And I’m divorced — or as close to.”

  “Right.”

  “Izzie’s going to have to be careful, though.”

  “Of course.”

  “And if anyone knew you were allowing her…”

  As we settled into our seats, Marie looked closely at me, her large, dark eyes penetrating mine without mercy. She was normally a chirpy, cheerful person, not much different from the perky, unserious college girl Izzie knew in college. For a moment, though, I knew how her interviewees must feel sometimes when she was in the mood to grill someone. She was very effective at her job.

  “You really are going to let her, aren’t you?” she said. I thought we’d confirmed that the other night when she’d been out with Izzie. But I saw now that this was what this little secret lunch was right now. Marie wanted to know if Izzie and I were really serious about this.

  “I am,” I said.

  She gave a half-smile. Quizzical, interested, puzzled. “You honestly think your marriage would grind to a halt if you don’t let her see other men?”