The Hotwife Summer

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The Hotwife Summer Page 3

by Arnica Butler


  When I looked at the documents, the words on the page turned into the shapes of Summer's body. The musty air turned sweeter and sweeter until the only thing I could smell was the scent of her body.

  There was the other matter that was filling my head, and this went beyond just general horniness. It was Summer herself, who seemed to be transforming each day of our stay in Rome. She was becoming bolder and more sexual. She was trying new things in the bedroom.

  She was engaging my fantasies, and driving me wild.

  What had begun as talk, and fantasy, and then a game, had begun to seem almost real to me. It was intoxicating, but I wasn't sure if it had gone too far already. I kept sipping at it, though. The way I had trouble having a last drink when I was already too drunk.

  I couldn't remember how the game had begun. I am sure we had been drinking wine, and too much of it. We had discovered, one evening, that we could crawl onto the fire escape in our courtyard, and that it was very pleasant having wine there in the summer heat. Summer almost always overheated the kitchen in her zeal to practice her new skills.

  She had almost knocked me off of the fire escape with surprise when she reached into her shirt and pulled out two cigarettes. She tossed her hair back from her face – she had been wearing it down all the time except for while cooking – and she looked almost as young as when I had met her, in university. “I found a guy,” she said, “who will sell them individually, down the street.”

  We hadn't smoked for twelve years. She had liked having one or two a week, when we were younger, but she quit when it wasn't possible to buy singles from anyone, anywhere. She didn't trust herself.

  “I feel like it's okay,” I said, “to smoke while you're in Europe.”

  So we had taken to smoking one cigarette on our fire escape, drinking wine with every dinner, laughing until late at night and then having sex. Nearly every night.

  The conversation turned to her cooking class one night, and perhaps because I was drunk, I led her down the path of my fantasy a little. The only surprising thing was that she went so willingly.

  “So,” I had probably said. “Your instructor is still hot?”

  She had turned to me, and tipped her head to the side. Do you want him to be? She had said. Or something like that. Something in a low, whiskeyed voice. Something that sounded like Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate. Whatever it was, it seized my insides like a giant's fist.

  She was smiling. She was teasing. She moved her bare foot along my calf.

  “You like thinking about me with other men?” she said.

  She wasn't shy about it, the way she would have been before we came to Italy. The question was direct, and her lips were parted in a seductive grin. Her toes worked its way under my pants.

  This is not my wife, I remember thinking. Aliens had abducted the Summer I knew, because even at the height of our falling in love, she wasn't like this. She was ready for a good time back then, but she didn't want to talk dirtily to me about my fantasies – not the real ones. And she had never been so forward.

  A sense of danger began to smolder inside of me. It was a feeling of uneasiness, of suddenly having let a steering wheel slip from your hands, or having closed your eyes for a second to long. I felt like I was losing control of myself, and in a way, of Summer.

  But this feeling was overruled by my cock. Especially when Summer reached over and put her hand on my crotch. Her eyes widened when she felt how hard I was. “You do,” she purred, and my head was reeling so it took me a moment to remember what it was that I did. I did like thinking about her with other men.

  Her smile changed now. I wouldn't be able to describe it to anyone if I tried for a million years. It was not a smile of friendliness, or complicity, or pleasure. It was a smile of amusement – and there are many shades of amusement. There is amusement at someone else's expense. There is sadistic amusement. There is mischievous amusement, psychopathic amusement, vengeful amusement, selfish amusement. Plain old-fashioned amusement , not meant to be at anyone's expense.

  I cannot say, to this day, which kind of amusement flickered at Summer's mouth as she leaned close to my lips and whispered:

  “You like thinking about me with the chef, don't you?”

  The wine got the better of me. The wine, my surprise, the way she was rubbing my cock gently through the material of my pants.

  “Hey!” a voice yelled out in the dark. “Andate voi a prendere una stanza!”

  Summer surprised me by waving her hand at the darkness in an obscene Italian gesture, and in a deep voice that mimicked a male baritone, which she always used to imitate Italians from Staten Island, she called out, “Hey! Vai all'inferno!”

  “Now,” she said, turning back to me, and it could have been anything that she had in store for me. I was feeling both incredibly excited, and afraid. “We had better get inside, just in case that guy is big.”

  That evening ended on a light note because of her flippant – and suspiciously good – Italian remarks. We were laughing like two kids when we got back into the apartment, and she imitated the goon from downstairs several times. We both forgot about my being turned on by the idea of her with “the chef.”

  But it came up again, several nights later. She was late coming home, and I had waited in the darkening apartment for what seemed like an eternity, but was really only an hour.

  We hadn't gotten cellphones in Italy. It had been part of our plan to slow down and enjoy life more.

  I had no one to call, and I tried not to let my mind go to dark places. But I did. I poured myself too much wine, and began to get jealous in my living room at 8pm.

  I had begun to indulge in my own dark fantasies about Summer more and more every day. As she became more sexually vigorous, and adventurous, I started to think about what it was that had changed her. I knew that it could be Italy – the frescoes, the romance dripping off of every wall and restaurant and passer-by. I knew it could also just be that she had some free time, and she could finally relax.

  But I enjoyed glossing over those possibilities, and finding another reason. A darker reason.

  I liked to think that she was learning all her new tricks in her “cooking” class.

  Her chef asked her to stay late, to show her a new technique.

  Maybe she almost lit the kitchen on fire, and had no other way to make financial amends.

  Maybe she never even went to a cooking class. Maybe she was having an affair with a sexy chef she met in a restaurant. Maybe he wasn't even a chef; maybe he was just someone. Someone Italian and muscular, manly and rich.

  No, she called him “the chef” far too often.

  At first, in my fantasies, she and the chef would fuck against a wall. But the more she swallowed my cock and guided my fingers to make circles around her anus, the more I started to imagine her in dirtier, more contorted positions. Her chef got larger and larger in my imagination, and her pussy stretched out more and more to accommodate him. She squealed while he barreled his cock into her tight ass, and licked at the air while he splattered his cum all over her tits.

  The fantasies made me hard. It was clearly where my mind wanted to go, because I always went there. I sometimes went there while she had her lips spread around the base of my cock.

  But then the fantasies also made some sharp thing twist inside of me.

  My head felt like it was expanding and getting hotter with every second. Blood was pounding everywhere inside of me, knocking against my arteries, flushing my face, hardening my dick. Images layered on top of each other, and in every one of them Summer's holes gaped wider and were filled by an even bigger man, and her moans became exquisitely sexual, like her cum had turned

  I was losing it. I knew I was, even then.

  Around 9pm, which was not late in Rome and certainly not late for our new lifestyle, she came through the door. She had several grocery bags looped around her arms, and she stumbled a little as she pushed through the door. The bags fell to the ground and vegetables gave hol
low thunks as they rolled across the tile floor.

  “A little help here,” she said, laughing and chasing after some tomatoes.

  In my self-inflicted fury, I had just sat in my chair, watching her, accusing her in my mind.

  Or was I enjoying the accusations I had come up with? Still watching a cock slide through her open pussy?

  As I watched her, clumsily chasing the tomatoes and laughing as they rolled away from her, my thoughts became dark again.

  She seemed drunk. And why would she be drunk and coming home late when we always had standing plans now? Or why hadn't she called?

  Realizing, suddenly, like waking from a dream, that I was being an idiot, I jumped up and started to help her.

  “What's with you?” she said, looking at my face, which I could not make stop frowning.

  I set the tomatoes down on the counter after standing up. I let out a sigh, and realized that I also had very little I could legitimately be mad about.

  “You're awfully late,” I said weakly.

  Summer was already on to another topic, which infuriated me. “They have these little purple tomatoes down the street. They're so sweet they taste like candy. Here, try one.”

  I swatted the tomato away as she held it to my lips. “That's been on the floor,” I said grumpily.

  As the words were leaving my mouth, I felt like a child, but I couldn't stop myself.

  Summer popped the tomato into her mouth and again the expression of amusement that I find so hard to describe flickered across her face. “What's with you?” she said.

  But she didn't seem truly concerned.

  Or did she?

  “You seem tipsy,” I said, deflecting.

  She put a hand on her hip. “I am,” she answered, matter-of-factly. Then she started digging into her bag again.

  I felt the slip again. The feeling that I was losing some kind of control. I mean, what in the hell was wrong with me? My wife was one hour late, and she had some wine, and she went grocery shopping in Italy. She was smiling and happy, and I was acting like a child.

  But something about Summer's cool answer was what was bothering me.

  Pre-Italy Summer would have had more to say about this. Pre-Italy Summer could never let anything go without explaining it fully and to death. She would have told me where she had been, and then analyzed why I was upset, and then discussed which part of my childhood made me feel that way. She would have done all of this without me ever having to say anything.

  The old Summer would not have teased me by bursting a cherry tomato the color of ox blood in her mouth, letting it drip over her lips, smiling a mysterious smile, and then digging silently in the bag of groceries.

  She wasn't just getting out the groceries, either. She was waiting for me to respond. She was teasing me. She knew she was infuriating me and turning me on.

  This was hot – don't get me wrong. But it was just another thing that made me uneasy. It was so unlike her. Part of me liked it. Okay, my cock really liked it. My cock was doing all of the thinking as I watched her finger swiped the juice of the tomato she popped from her lip, and then suck on it.

  She couldn't actually be doing that, and leaving me in the dark about where she had been after her cooking class with the hot chef, and not know what she was doing, right?

  She placed another cherry next to her lips as she turned to me. She didn't eat it, she just held it there, brushing it lightly over her plump lips, amused in that indescribable way. She was watching me, watching my reactions. She knew exactly what she was doing.

  “Can you pour me a glass of wine?” she said, and her voice poured out of her throat like bourbon.

  As I was pouring it, I could take it no longer. “Who did you go out with?” I squeaked.

  She gave the little twist of her hips that she had started doing. Inviting, teasing, admonishing all at once.

  “The instructor. Some people from class. We had a test today.”

  Her eyes were sparkling and full of an unusual sentiment. She was being naughty.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, and I decided to play along, even though she was half-freaking me out. “And how did you do on your test?”

  She took a step toward me, so that her breasts were close to me but not touching.

  “That's the thing,” she said, and she added a little frosting of bimbo to her voice. “I burnt my cream filling. There's almost no coming back from that.” She fluttered her eyes up at me. “But I managed to work something out.”

  “Did you?” My voice was hoarse.

  She shrugged, and suddenly she was looking at me as though I were an idiot. She popped the tomato in her mouth and crushed it. “Of course,” she said casually. “I am actually a terrible, terrible cook.”

  There was a silence between us, and I could have cut through the sticky tension and heat with a knife.

  “Do you want to know how I'm passing all of my tests?” she said. Teasing.

  A sickening and exciting, electric and cold shiver gripped my entire torso. I could barely find a way to make my head move up and down.

  “It's very naughty,” she said. “Do you still want to know?”

  She was doing that light twisting. Fluttering her eyes. She was putting on a porno-grade act. It was almost as if she were somehow siphoning off my thoughts and my fantasies, and turning them to real life.

  She placed her hands on my belt, where it buckled, and now her mouth was close to mine. “Are you sure?” she said, her lips just centimeters from mine. “This is your wife, the one who raises your children. Kisses you goodnight. Maybe you don't want to know all the dirty things I've done with my mouth to make the grade in my cooking class.”

  Her fingers were working the belt out of the loops now. Unzipping the zipper, with her eyes never leaving mine.

  Yes, I wanted to know. Yes, I wanted them to be dirty.

  When she had freed my cock from my boxer shorts, it was so hard that it stood at attention, straight out. As she slid to her knees to show me how she made the grade in her cooking class, she let the tip of it trail from her navel, between her breasts, along her neck, and to her lips.

  She looked up at me. “The chef,” she said sweetly, “has a lot bigger cock to swallow. So it will be even easier for me to show you what I do.”

  I could not actually believe she was saying this stuff.

  Really, actually saying it. I pinched my own arm to make sure I hadn't just passed out on the armchair drinking too much wine while I waited for her to come home.

  “Do you want me to tell you more about his big cock?” She was smiling. “Or do you just want me to show you what I do?”

  She reached up as she was saying this, and held my cock to her mouth almost like it was a microphone and she was speaking into it. She brushed it over her lips, letting the dabble of precum stain them like gloss.

  I had to squeeze myself like an accordion to get the words to leave my mouth. “Show me.” My voice was barely a whisper.

  Is that what I wanted? Maybe I wanted her to talk some more.

  She looked at me hopefully, and then it seemed like she was reading my mind. Her hand moved back and forth very slowly on my cock. “The first time I sucked his cock,” she said, “I was a little bit surprised by how big it was. It's been such a long time since I've seen another man's cock.” She looked now at mine, as though examining it. Her hand continued to move up and down my shaft. “But maybe I expected it to be that big. He's just...the kind of man you expect to have a big cock.”

  I sucked in my breath.

  “Why's that?” I managed to say.

  I was so glad I didn't have to ask her to keep going, to keep saying exactly what she was saying. Whether it was truth or fantasy, she had figured out that I wanted to hear it. I wanted every word to leave her mouth as sticky and wet as another man's cum.

  “He's just so...commanding,” she said. “He takes what he wants. He gets what he wants. I guess you just expect a man like that to have a big cock.”
<
br />   “How big?”

  Now her eyes met mine. “So big,” she said, and every word was wet and full in her mouth. “I could barely. Get. My. Mouth. Around. It.”

  She looked at me, her face some strange combination of amusement and pleasure. Her hand was moving up and down my shaft, but not fast enough to make me explode all over her face, as I was imagining myself doing. Imagining the chef doing. Imagining these two things, along with a lot of other dirty scenes.

  But I was also watching her mouth, waiting for her to take me inside of her.

  “I just really, really, wanted,” she licked at the tip of my cock, and the hot wet sensation of her tongue against my flesh shuddered through me and coiled up inside of me. “To pass this class. So here's what I did. You tell me if it's any good.”

  And then, without saying another word, she opened her mouth wide, and swallowed my cock.

  All the way into her throat, all the way to the base, until it was absorbed by the soft flesh deep in her neck. My cock was surrounded by her heat, her soft mouth, and then: she started to squeeze something, somehow, deep in her throat. It felt like someone had managed to rub my cock through her neck.

  I turned my face up to the ceiling, because between the view of her eyes looking up at me, and her mouth spread around the base of my cock, and the sensation at the tip of my member, I was almost ready to burst already. Add to all of that the images I had created, of her sucking off this mysterious chef, and his gigantic cock filling her throat, and I was almost done for.

  I felt her lips sliding up and down my cock, and one more image flashed through my mind, of her on her knees, gagging on the thick dick of an Italian chef, his hands in her silky hair, pushing her further and further down his shaft – and then I felt myself go past the point of no return.

  She pulled my cock from her throat, and rubbed my climax out of me over her open mouth. I was so tightly strung it only took a few quick strokes. My cum sprayed into the air, and fell onto her face in wet globs. She moved her open mouth to get some of it inside of her, and she licked at the splatters on her lips.

  I had already come, but her tongue moving along her lips sent new shudders of ecstasy through me, as she swallowed me, accepted me, tasted me.

 

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