“Mmm….” she moaned, curling a hand around my neck as we kissed again. “You don’t normally do this when I come home from work.”
I kissed her neck and stepped behind her to pull her t-shirt off over her head, then held her tight in my arms, my hands splaying over the white lace bra covering her breasts. I said, “You don’t normally spend all day kissing some guy in Central Park.”
She giggled, “And that’s got you all worked up?”
Running my hands over her shapely figure, it almost seemed as though I’d had my eyes closed for months, unable to see just how exquisite my wife was. I kissed the back of her neck and now fumbled with the button on her denim shorts, and it wasn’t hard to tell that she was just as worked up as I was after her day on that park bench.
She turned her head to kiss my mouth as I forced her shorts down her thighs.
“Mmm…. Maybe I should do it more often,” she joked. “Sitting on park benches, kissing strangers.”
With her shorts dropping to the floor, now I slipped one bra strap over her shoulder, then the other, before it also fell to the floor revealing her full breasts and nipples that were hard as pebbles.
“Maybe you should,” I said, and she moaned again as I touched her soft breasts, cupping them, fondling them.
She said, “Oh, I think you’d get jealous if I did that for real. If it wasn’t acting.”
One of my hands skirted down over the velvet skin of her stomach, and now found the soft white lace of her panties, and the heat that lay beneath.
“So what’s the difference?” I asked.
I stroked her burning sex through her panties, and as my fingers found the tantalizing topography of her pussy, it became abundantly clear that she was already very, very wet. More so than if we’d just started playing like this.
She caught her breath for a moment, then seeming distracted, asked, “Difference?”
“Between sitting there kissing some guy on a bench when you’re actors, and kissing some stranger for real?”
Hayley gasped as my hand slipped under the waistband of her panties, and dove into the sticky heat of her pussy. The soft patch of red hair over her mound, her tender lips, her underwear—all were saturated with her juices. She must have spent all day feeling increasingly turned on.
“Physically…I don’t know….” she said. “I guess we’re not using tongues. Some of the principals do, if the camera’s right on them, if it’s that kind of scene.”
I brought my hand up to caress her breasts, tracing some of her wetness over her soft mounds before I moved around to kiss her there, to lick her, to swirl my tongue around her stiff buds where I could now taste her arousal.
“You didn’t with your man today, then? Tongues, I mean?”
She shook her head, but seemed doubtful somehow. “I…don’t think so,” she said.
“Don’t think so?” I prompted, sucking increasingly firmly on her nipple.
She looked nervous, like it was some kind of admission, and it only made my cock throb in my pants.
“It was…I don’t know…kind of a blur, most of the time,” she said.
“But you said it was ‘nice’, he was ‘nice’.” I sat down on the corner of our bed, leaving her standing there before me.
“Are you mad at me?”
I smiled. “Does it look like I’m mad at you?”
I leaned in and kissed her lower stomach, peeling her damp panties down over her thighs. I kissed my way down to that tidy little triangle of soft red hair, and ran the tip of my tongue up her soaking groove, tasting her day’s excitement.
“Oh God….” she groaned as I lapped at her as long as she was able to stay on her feet.
I didn’t say anything more to her then, about her kissing another man in Central Park, though as she knelt before me and drew my hard cock from my pajama pants and took it in her hot mouth, I found myself wondering how I’d feel if she’d found a quiet place in some wooded part of the park to do this with her fellow actor that afternoon. And I have to report back that it only turned me on even more to imagine that she’d been so wicked, swirling her tongue around some other guy’s cock while pumping it with her hand.
And later, as she went on all fours on the bed, and I slid my cock deep into her beautifully tight pussy from behind, fucking her like some animal, I found myself curious about how it might be to watch someone else doing this to Hayley—would I get jealous then?
Holding her, claiming her, squeezing my particularly swollen manhood inside her, pumping my semen deep within her—I had to conclude that theoretically, at least, I wouldn’t object to my wife having a little fun like this with someone else, if she was ever tempted.
How reality would compare, however, was anyone’s guess.
Chapter One
We didn’t talk about Mr. Central Park again, or about how I’d been so turned on by her having such a ‘nice’ time with him during her movie shoot. I guess I wasn’t entirely comfortable with just how to talk about it with her—after a little more time to think about it, I became fearful that she would think me a freak, or that I didn’t love her after all, or some such nonsense.
But the main thing was the maelstrom of effort it took for us to wrap up our lives in New York completely, and move thousands of miles to another coast—and find me a whole new job in the process.
I think compared to a lot of folks, we were quite lucky. In the end, inquiries made through my law firm in NYC led me to a not-too-dissimilar role at an affiliated firm based out in Santa Monica. It wasn’t such a large company, and it wasn’t such a large salary as I’d been on, but it was something to get us started—and something to underpin the rent on a small but comfortable house not too far from the waterfront, just down the road in Redondo Beach.
Los Angeles was not a sudden short-cut to fame and riches, however.
If anything, the sense of moving out west, away from all our friends and family, pushed both of us to work even harder—and for Hayley that meant three waitressing jobs while she attended every possible open audition for which she could get her name on the list. She also made it to whichever acting workshops she could squeeze into her packed schedule—and every movie industry event that would have her, in the hope that a little networking might get her to the next step.
I admit that I ended up burying myself in my work, ostensibly to make sure we made the rent each month, but also because it was hard to watch Hayley slogging so hard without really seeming to get anywhere.
She was so unhappy, and I couldn’t undo it. No matter how many compliments I gave her—about her acting, about how beautiful she looked even when she was downcast—she would only ever thank me. Her eyes, however, said: you’re my husband, it’s your job to pay me compliments, so it doesn’t really validate me at all.
I’d sit in her restaurant or diner sometimes, when she had a late shift to do and I was concerned about her state of mind, and I’d see the other customers trying to flirt with her. I’d point it out to her, but she’d think I was kidding, or I was making things up to try to prove my compliments.
Under the surface, of course, I enjoyed seeing other men being attracted to her, I loved to see them flirting with her. This was my fantasy bubbling up again. Doubtless, I wanted to sweeten her ongoing misery with a little attention from other guys, but I also needed to lighten my load in terms of constantly trying to cheer her up.
I took a more subtle approach, suggesting she flirt back with this guy or that guy, and maybe she’d get a bigger tip. It worked, on both levels. She did get a bigger tip, but she also noticed that, yes indeed, these guys were actually flirting with her. The confidence boost in her was tangible, the glow about her once her shift was ended was irresistible.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” she’d say when we wound ourselves back to our little place a few blocks back from the ocean. “Most men would probably want to beat those guys up for checking out their woman.”
“Most guys aren’t married to a hot actress,” was my repl
y.
But she did continue with her new approach to dealing with customers—and seemed to enjoy it. Over the course of a few weeks, I noticed a change in her—at her work, and even in her acting, where two auditions even led to small roles in a commercial and in a small stage play put on during the Venice Beach Festival.
Watching her when I could, it was clear that she took my encouragement about it being okay to play off the attractions of other men, and ran with it. She grew more and more comfortable with the whole act of flirting with the opposite sex, seeing there was no harm in it. Certainly no harm in the size of her tips at the end of a night. No harm in the fact that she was head-hunted by a new upscale restaurant looking for any way to draw in new clientele. No harm in the way her new confidence got her acting in a more extroverted way, dressing in more stylish clothes—and instead of coming home after a long shift feeling dejected and despondent, she was all abuzz and full of giggles and smiles, not to mention horny as a minx.
I remember daydreaming one night when I was trying out her swanky new restaurant, discreetly watching her winning over the other diners with her charm and a scandalously short skirt—and my daydream turned this venue into a strip club, with my wife becoming the star attraction, taking her clothes off to the accompaniment of cheers and wolf-whistles. I think that was probably the first time my enjoyment of her flirting veered into the territory of a sexual fantasy. It was probably the first time that seeing her working the room actually made me hard.
When we got home that night, she forced it out of me. I was never any good at lying or concealing the truth.
“What’s that look for?” she said as she came to collect me from my shady little booth in the far corner of the restaurant.
“Oh, nothing. Good food tonight.”
“That’s not what that look says.” As I stood up, she leaned in for her customary kiss, and I was completely busted as she came into contact with the stiffness lurking beneath my pants. It made her gasp, and ask under her breath, “What is that for?”
“For you.”
“Seriously?” She led me toward the exit as though we were spies who’d fallen under the suspicion of the secret police. “You’ve watched me working often enough….”
“I don’t know…it’s that skirt of yours…and the way those guys were looking at you tonight….”
She looked around to make sure no one had spotted the tent in my pants—as if anyone could in the darkness of the room. We stepped out into the street, and she said: “And that turned you on?”
I shrugged, sheepishly. “I had a little daydream, I guess.”
“A dirty dream?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Soon as we get home, you’re going to tell me every detail.”
We hailed a cab, even though home wasn’t far at all, and although she refused to hear another word from me in the presence of the driver, she was surreptitiously stroking my hardness through my pants the whole way, making sure I’d be in the mood for something when we got back.
As soon as we fell into our apartment, she was tearing off my clothes, and demanding my full account of the daydream I’d had. Even in four years of marriage, we hadn’t really spoken of our fantasies with each other. I’d always been a little awkward about that kind of thing, and Hayley had always acted as though she never really had sexual fantasies. But she was all over me as I admitted I’d been imagining her in a gentleman’s club, taking off her clothes to the beat of the music, prancing and jumping and twirling to show her stunning curves off to the baying mob of lustful men.
“Your fantasy was a bunch of men watching me strip?” She couldn’t quite get her head around it.
“You’re just…I don’t know…really hot when there’s lots of attention on you. When you’re flirting.”
“But stripping?”
I shrugged again. “They’re just watching,” I said. “I was the one who got to go home with you at the end of the night.”
She was beaming, though. She liked the concept of me fantasizing about her being a sex object. She pushed me back onto the bed and started sucking my cock for all she was worth, as though rewarding me for casting her in the starring role in my sex dream.
When she straddled me and sank down on my pole, she was incredibly wet. It only turned me on more that she was so aroused after hearing my fantasy.
*
It wasn’t all plain-sailing, even though we both loved the constant California warmth and the smell of the ocean nearby. There were peaks and troughs.
But her little run at the Venice Beach Festival saw Hayley win herself the services of an agent—and from a reputable firm, too, albeit huge. Liona Fairbanks was friendly and bright and very complimentary of her new client’s capabilities. The fiery blonde was impressed at our ambitious coast-to-coast relocation, and over a few drinks after Hayley’s final performance at the Festival, she said we’d done exactly the right thing if we wanted Hayley to get anywhere in the business.
“I can’t guarantee anything,” she said, chomping on a lump of pineapple from her Pina Colada. “But you’ll have a much better shot at it, I’ll tell you that.”
And she wasn’t kidding. The most noticeable thing, early on, was that Hayley was able to get in a slightly higher class of audition. It was like she’d been pre-vetted, so could attend try-outs that were a little less than completely open to the public.
And it was at one of these that something quite remarkable happened.
Chapter Two
It came out of nowhere, a bolt from the blue. I came home from work one evening to find Hayley in the bedroom, sitting silently on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but a small pair of white panties, gazing into the full-length mirror in the corner.
“Hayley, honey, you okay?”
She looked gorgeous, perched there with her hands clasped between her thighs, her face perfectly made up, her long red hair flowing down over her shoulders, her pale face almost glowing, the sensual lines of her near-naked body tickling my libido.
But she was perched on the edge of that mattress as though Medusa had turned her into a statue. Didn’t even glance up as I appeared at the bedroom door. For a moment, I even looked to check her shapely chest was rising and falling just as it should.
Almost as though she was on drugs.
“I met Aaron Simpson,” she said at last, and her voice might have confirmed drug use had I not known her better.
“Really?” I smiled. I never knew my wife had a crush on Aaron Simpson. “He came into the restaurant today?”
At this point, my wife was no longer working at the Cheesecake Factory. These days, it was a more exclusive restaurant in West Hollywood, where it wouldn’t be too much of a shock that a Hollywood star ventured inside for a light lunch. As soon as she’d started in this town, Hayley had been looking to get into a place like that—even simply serving the tables somewhere that famous people gathered was another opportunity in her eyes. When there were thousands and thousands of budding actresses fighting for exposure, you had to take your opportunities in this town.
“Did he leave you a tip?” I added, then instantly regretted it, thinking she might take it as a put-down.
“He was at my audition,” she said, sounding so far away.
“That’s great!”
She probably did tell me she had an audition that day, might even have said what it was for. We tell each other everything. But sometimes, when I’m busy with work, a few of the details get missed as she tells me what she’s up to.
Auditions came and went, and when it sounded as though she thought she had a chance with one, I’d be all ears and all attention. But the other times, when she was more skeptical about her hopes of landing something, I’d be a little less energetic in asking her about it all. I’d seen her on stage often enough to know she had real talent, but her confidence sometimes slipped when there was too much pressure on her. She didn’t want me eagerly anticipating her big break every time she went for an audition, even ou
t here under the California sun. I had to play it cool most of the time, trying to play down the importance of the thing if it didn’t go well.
There in the bedroom, she shifted her arms a little, and I saw how hard her nipples were. It wasn’t cold in there.
“So it’s one of his movies?” I hovered in the doorway, not quite knowing how to respond to my wife acting this way. “He’s the star?”
“And producer, which is why he was at the audition.” She looked shocked. It made me catch my breath, because the most obvious reason for her being this way was that she’d done so well at the audition, they had given her a role—or at least a second audition. But I still couldn’t pre-empt her telling me. Couldn’t afford her to think I was disappointed if the truth didn’t live up to my hopes.
“So it went okay?” I prompted.
“I was an idiot,” she said.
My heart deflated. I thought, if only I could be a successful movie producer instead of a corporate lawyer, I might be able to help my wife. I sighed and went to sit beside her on the bed. “What happened?”
“They asked me if I’d be willing to take my clothes off for the movie,” she said.
“They did?” I looked over her beautiful form in the mirror and couldn’t imagine how any movie producer could say no to Hayley gracing their project, with or without her clothes. “We’ve talked about that kind of thing before. I thought you were okay with something like that.”
She shrugged. “Only as it turns out, I didn’t hear the question properly.”
“So what, you said ‘no’?”
She shook her head. “I took off my clothes.”
I had to stifle a mixture of horror and laughter, although it wasn’t only her mistake that amused and disturbed me. This was pretty much in line with my sexual fantasies these days.
“You took everything off?” I asked, my pants tightening.
Hayley stood up, wearing nothing but those tiny little white cotton panties—practically a thong.
She's a Star (a Hollywood Hotwife story) Page 2