“It wasn’t hard. Not much more than a pat.”
She moved to the shower, sticking her hand under the flow of the water to test its temperature. I grabbed her other hand and pulled her back to me, making her squeal. She giggled as I held her close to me, her back to my chest, kissing her neck, breathing in the strange scent of the sex she’d had with another man.
“Wait, I’ll take a shower,” she said.
“I can’t wait,” I insisted, turning her, kissing her mouth — a mouth that had sucked on another man’s cock that very evening.
God, it was so wrong to think of her like that — used, taken, violated by another man — and yet such a buzz. The wicked harlot, my pretty wife. I pushed her back, so her butt rested against the edge of the sink, or I should say the counter. I kissed her breasts, sucked on her nipples. I could sense the other man on her, and it pushed my buttons, drove me to reclaim her for myself.
I lifted her hips, making her squeal again, sitting her up on the counter by the sink, standing to kiss her unfaithful mouth, her hard nipples, her stomach. She seemed uncertain as I ventured between her legs, as I approached the small triangular patch of bronze hair over her mound. It was like when we were first dating, and she couldn’t be sure whether I did truly enjoy going down on her, or whether I was going to do it purely as a means to please her. No though, it was because another man’s hard cock had been inside her, had thrust into her pussy. Did I see it as polluting her? No. There was something deeply thrilling about her pussy being sullied, used by another. And kissing around it, stroking it with my fingers, feeling how wet she was, breathing in the aroma of sex and female arousal and a hint of the condom they used — it was all part of the taboo, the wrongness that made Izzie so damn desirable.
For a while I just gazed upon her flower, gently parting her petals with my hands, seeing how puffy and red she was from her time with her ex-boyfriend. Taking in the splendor and the strange wonder of her sex after what I’d just seen in the bedroom.
I began flicking the tip of my tongue lightly over the rosy petals, and gradually strengthened the pressure of my attention on her, tasting her profuse wetness as I inhaled the strong smell of sex. I moaned as I ate her, showing her how much I wanted this, how I loved to, even after she’d been with another.
I sucked gently on her clit, and slipped a finger inside her, stirring her there, stronger and stronger the more she responded to it.
“You knew him in college?” I asked her.
“Uh-huh,” she said, though now she was panting so much it was difficult for her to answer me.
“He was in your year?”
“Post-grad,” she said, groaning as I fingered her. “Older than us.”
Sensing she was uncomfortable on the edge of the sink, I lifted her again, making her laugh as I carried her out of the bathroom to dump her on the bed before I resumed feasting on the center of her infidelity.
More comfortable, she lost herself in my attention, gripping my head firmly, her hips bucking under me, fucking my mouth as I ate her. Pink-faced, perspiration mottling her brow, she came vociferously — much more quickly than I’d ever made her come before.
“I didn’t think you’d come home,” she said as I lay on the bed. “I didn’t think you’d watch.”
“I was in Alexandria, not far,” I said. “You must have thought it possible, emailing me that video.”
Looming over me, she wrestled to remove my clothes, almost purring as she removed my boxer shorts to expose the full hardness of my cock.
“You liked watching me, then?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Was it all you hoped it would be?”
“And more.”
Straddling my naked form, she curled her hand around my shaft, feeling out how hard I was for her, the pressing it up against her body, her mound.
“So this Game of ours,” she said, lifting her pussy, stroking the tip of my cock against the wet groove of her sex. “You think it should continue?”
“Definitely,” I said.
She was beaming from ear to ear as she sank down, taking my hardness deep inside her.
Warmed up by the evening’s depravity, it wasn’t long before I came inside her — and she came once again along with me.
Later, in the middle of the night, I woke up for some reason, and I was hard once again. The thoughts of my Izzie fucking someone else revolved around my mind. I lay there, thinking I would have to get up, sneak out to tend to my erection if I ever wanted to get back to sleep.
Izzie’s hand moved over my lap, and her fingers were quick to locate my solid pole.
She was as awake as I was — and pretty soon, she was riding me for a second time that night. I’d say if it ever had waned, suddenly our sex life had been seriously reinvigorated.
Chapter Fourteen
To be honest, in those early days, it was difficult to find enough time to devote to The Game. Izzie wasn’t in any kind of rush to sleep around, despite how she’d been in college — and despite a constant encouragement from Marie.
I think things settled for a while after Izzie’s night with Ben. It left me with so much fuel for the fire to work out with Izzie in the bedroom, she was happy enough. But we also needed some time to get our heads around the feelings, and how things might be in the future.
We also were both fairly busy at work, of course.
Then one morning, I arrived in the office for another day’s striving, only to discover a certain pink piece of paper sitting there on my desk.
For a moment, I had no idea what it was, and my eyes didn’t seem to focus properly on the words printed on the form. I also didn’t initially connect it with the unusual atmosphere that appeared to be pervading the newsroom that morning.
“Notice of termination of employment”.
I just held it, for a long while, before it seemed to filter into my brain what this really meant. As it slowly dawned on me what it was, I felt my body go cold, my insides seem to disappear leaving an empty cavern in my chest.
“Jesus,” I said finally, “it really is pink.”
I looked up, mainly to find someone with whom I might share the news of my sudden termination as a Washington Messenger reporter — and it was then it became clear that I wasn’t the only one to receive this particular paperwork that morning. There were guys around the newsroom just sitting at their desks staring at their pink slips. There were folks quietly sobbing in their cubicles. There were some people even diligently clearing their desks, just plain getting on with it. Plenty of empty desks within my sight bore pink slips that hadn’t even been picked up yet. There were even a couple of shouters, although a couple of security staff with advance warning soon made light work of encouraging those guys to make their way out of the building in good time.
“Oscar.”
I turned to find Martin Townsend, who I guessed was technically no longer my boss, standing there looking dejected — and completely exhausted. I suspected a lack of sleep the previous night, though since he appeared to be still in receipt of a job here, I didn’t feel much pity for him.
“Mart. Looks like a scene of devastation right here,” I said, gesturing to the desperate state of the newsroom. The last time the newsroom felt like this was probably when one of our colleagues was confirmed dead, killed by Islamic extremists in Syria.
He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was up all night fighting for you.”
“How many?”
“They’ve got to can half the paper,” he said. “Half.”
“Half. Jesus.” Somehow, I felt less cold toward Mart himself. Wasn’t his fault the money men were doing what they were doing.
“They’re giving our local business patch to the national business desk. There’ll be plenty of freelance work around in the transition.”
I nodded. “I guess I’m available,” I said.
“This is only the first phase of layoffs. They’ve got to find as many again.”
“W
hat about you?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “They keep me six months, then I get early retirement,” he said. “I tell you, this paper will never be the same.”
I found myself looking forlornly around the office, my mind reeling. Did I even possess a box in which I could put my stuff? Where did everyone get their damn boxes?
“Well, everyone reads the news for free now, huh,” I said dejectedly.
Mart said, “They’re going to cut the size of the paper down an unbelievable amount. Cut the revenue, but cut the costs more. Start from scratch, basically.”
I couldn’t see the part of the floor where the political guys hung out, where Izzie worked. I pulled my mobile out of my pocket and fired off a text to her:
>Just lost my job. Hope they’re keeping you, sweetie xx
“What’s happening to the Capitol Hill desk?” I asked my former boss.
Mart shrugged, “They’ll be in phase two. Six months down the line. Cutbacks, not complete closure like us. Some will survive, some will go.”
I could see he knew to whom I was referring. In one foul swoop, this whole thing could have our little household facing a zero income. Well, I guess it wouldn’t be zero — we’d find something. But for a time it would be nothing.
A text came back:
>So sorry to hear it, sweetie. I’m safe for now — but they’ll be looking for people to go in the next phase.
I felt some small measure of relief at that. We’d have some income coming in over the next six months at least, to help pay the bills. But what then?
*
I did get some work via the grapevine — editors I’d worked with before, and some who had been rivals and knew of my capabilities well enough. Martin from the Messenger was fairly supportive, although I knew much of his commissions would be part of the transition to the new company structure. I even did some reporting for the Times, via our friend Marie’s recommendations.
I worked hard, and I knew Izzie was working hard, too, at the Messenger. She still had a good chance of keeping her job, we were certain.
Meanwhile, we were both able to distract ourselves from the doom and gloom by thinking about our Game — I could spend quiet moments checking up on Izzie’s communications with some of her male friends, and take some delight in her flirtatious manner.
It was difficult to tell if there was someone she was really interested in, since she was flirty with most guys around her, but it seemed to me that there were a few she might have her eye on. There were guys in her office dropping her little messages to ask if she wanted a coffee, or to go for lunch, or to say she “looked nice today”, or similar, and it was hardly the most appropriate thing for the workplace — but Izzie seemed to lap it up, and give it back.
When she got home after work, we would often head for the bedroom even before fixing dinner, the memory of her tryst with her ex-boyfriend, Ben, still firmly in our minds.
When she was late home from work, I’d find myself hoping she had gone out for an impromptu date, though I couldn’t find any clues supporting such an idea. Often it was just that work had overrun, pushing her gym session later as well. A few times she had dinner with contacts, or even drinks with a group of co-workers after work — but again, there was no signs of her dating.
She even had a couple of nights away from home, covering the early campaign trail for the Presidential nominations, and that led me to hope that something might happen, even if I didn’t get to see it with my own eyes.
On those nights, I found myself preparing for the stresses and strains that would come from having her seeing other guys when I couldn’t be around to witness it or its aftermath.
It wasn’t until she flew out to San Francisco to cover a Democratic rally — a trip that would take her away from home for three nights — that I was given concrete proof that something might happen.
Chapter Fifteen
It wasn’t just that a few of the condoms from the box in the bathroom went missing. When I checked, a few hours after she’d left for the airport, the whole box was gone. Further investigation suggested that she’d packed some saucy underwear for her trip. So who was going to be the lucky so-and-so?
My heart aflame, my cock thick with the hope that my pretty wife was planning some wicked encounter while away from home, I scoured her messages, her email, whatever I could get my hands on. It seemed that a group of reporters — including Marie — were planning on getting together for a meal and cocktails in San Francisco once everything was wrapped up with the rally itself. Nothing unusual about that, but it got me wondering whether she had her eye on anyone.
That night, she called from the hotel via FaceTime, since whenever either of us was away from home, it was standard practice to call each other before bedtime. This time, though, she definitely wasn’t ready for bed when she called. The time difference meant that bedtime for me was dinner time for her. She had her make-up on, a delicate necklace and matching earrings, and was wearing an elegant long black dress.
“You been out already?” was my first question.
She smiled. “Not yet. Late night dinner with someone.”
“Someone?”
She blushed. Even after everything I’d seen her do with Ben, and she was blushing. “A man,” she said.
She shifted in her seat, and I saw a little more of her dress. The neckline plunged to a stylish buckle that connected the two sides of the dress between her breasts. And as she shifted further in the seat, it seemed to me that that buckle was really the only thing keeping the dress together. Any breeze could have opened the thing up like some loosely tied bathrobe.
The way she was sitting now, I could see her stomach, her midriff — even her black panties, semi-sheer ones.
“You’ll be cold wearing that out to dinner,” I warned her.
“I have a jacket,” she smiled.
I felt jealousy singeing my insides, but my thumping heart was pumping the blood into my thigh erection, I couldn’t deny.
“Who is he?” I asked her. I wanted to ask if she was planning on sex, if there was any way I’d get to watch her if it happened. It just felt a trifle too awkward — and not wanting to risk discouraging her by being too needy.
“A journalist,” she said.
“Does he know the deal between us?”
“I don’t think so.”
So, that meant whoever it was would be under the impression that Izzie was cheating on her husband. Something in that notion appealed to me, made me want Izzie that much more.
“You know him well?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “We talk on the phone sometimes. We have lunch when he’s in DC.”
I nodded. I felt too proud, too strange about all this, to ask her to let me watch.
I said only, “Well, have fun. Don’t stay up too late — you have to cover the rally tomorrow.”
She smiled. “I know. It’s a school night. I love you.”
There was that excitement in her eyes just then — and it seemed to me linked to the fact that I hadn’t stepped in and prevented her from going on this date tonight. There was gratitude — and love — in her eyes, in her expression, too. That gave me a buzz and a half.
“I love you too,” I said.
I think she was just about to end our call, then she suddenly blurted out: “It’s possible… it’s possible I might not be back here… tonight.”
I hesitated. My cock strained inside my pants, but I didn’t quite know what to say. She was perhaps concerned that I hadn’t caught the full implications of the evidence I was being presented with. That she was looking to score tonight.
Well, it was still early days in our Game.
“I figured that might be the case,” I said finally, with a warm smile I hoped to be supportive, encouraging.
I did want her to date, after all. Even if I didn’t get to see all of it. My excitement stemmed from her excitement, the thought of her misbehaving — not just from the visual stimulus of watching her havin
g sex with someone.
“Right,” she said, a touch awkward, perhaps concerned I would be hurt by knowing what she was up to, and being unable to control it.
I said, “This is the way the Game is going to be sometimes. You’re free to play, even if I can’t be physically with you at the time.”
She smiled. “Don’t forget how much I love you,” she said.
“No, I won’t ever do that.”
I was hard as a rock as we ended the call. I went for a drive, obtained some drive-thru to help distract me from it all. I lay in bed imagining what she might be doing. Dinner, then drinks, then a taxi ride back to the hotel. Sneaking into one or other of their rooms to ensure none of the other reporters in town to cover the rally would see them playing the couple.
There was no way I was going to sleep.
1am, Izzie sent a text message:
>Hope you’re asleep! Love you ;-)
There was a picture attached to her text message — a selfie Izzie had taken with the assistance of a bathroom mirror. Izzie wearing that scandalous dress, the thing flapping open to show me so much of her pale skin. Her panties were just transparent enough to make out the shape of the little triangular patch of fuzz about her sex.
Jesus. There were toiletries around the bathroom sink, visible in the picture — but they weren’t Izzie’s, they were distinctly male-oriented. A bottle of aftershave, a male shaving razor. She was in a guy’s bathroom, a guy’s hotel room.
I shivered.
But that was it for the night. No more texts. No more clues. I made myself come — it was the only way I’d be able to get any sleep at all, with that tension inside me.
*
The next morning I received another text message, though no image, from Izzie:
>Hey sweetie! I hope you got some sleep. I promise I did, too. Might not be able to call you tonight because it will be quite busy. Have a great day tho! Xxx
I took the meaning from her “promise” that she’d got some sleep as suggesting she did also sleep with her date the previous night. It actually made me feel great all day. While I missed her — my heart was hurting from her absence more than it ever had before we’d started playing the game — and I wished I’d got the chance to watch her with her date, I clung onto the thought that very soon, Izzie would be back, and I would have her to myself.
The Game (A Hotwife Adventure) Page 12