The Hotwife Summer

by Arnica Butler

  I watched, still shaking with the last gripping waves of my orgasm, as she lifted her fingers to her face and rubbed the splatters of cum into her skin.

  My mouth was hanging open already, so perhaps nothing changed on my face, but it felt like her fingers had worked their way from her face to inside my balls, and were now milking another hard cock out of me. I felt a shudder course through me, and I expelled a gasp of air.

  It was so hot.

  It was so unlike her.

  When she stood up, I could smell the salty, pleasantly sour scent of my cum on her face. It was pasted to her with a light sheen, quickly drying. She was close to me as she whispered: “This way,” and she let the pause linger between us, while the anticipation turned inside of me, “you'll think it's only your cum smeared all over my face.”

  Changing her tone almost immediately, she straightened her clothing, and found a lipstick in her underwear – a place from which, I'd noticed, she had been pulling a lot of things lately. She applied a bright red, and pressed her lips together as she turned to me. She gave them a little pop.

  A smile.

  “Let's go out to dinner,” she said. “I'm famished.”

  CHAPTER 4: The Plan

  Summer was looking through the still-busy street, her mouth slightly open and her jaw moving from left to right in her signature expression of indignant disbelief. On the table before us were two wine glasses, still half-full; a clean ashtray, just changed by the waiter; and our crumpled napkins. The restaurant had done an excellent job of sweeping away our ten or so cigarette butts, our empty wine bottles, and the plates with nothing left on them but shells and a few stray splatters of chocolate. We had really outdone ourselves.

  “I can't believe you thought I was serious,” Summer repeated, for the tenth time.

  But her face was not entirely displeased.

  Somewhere in the course of our dinner, and certainly long after we had consumed a lot of wine, I had brought up the evening's encounter. How hot it was.

  I didn't think I had mentioned that I thought it was something she really did. But I must have, because here she was repeating, over and over again, that she couldn't believe I had thought that it was.

  The thrilling thing was, she had not gotten up from the table, thrown a napkin or a glass of wine at me, and stomped off. Which is how I always imagined it would be if I confessed my secret desire to see her with another man.

  “Seriously?” she said, again. She turned toward me, and she leaned on the table. Her posture was inviting, rather than repelled. “You're not just..fucking with me or something?”

  I felt like I was walking on early spring ice. I wasn't sure if I should, as the Russians suggested, move quickly, or if I should retreat.

  “I know it sounds strange,” I said. I had this part memorized, because I often played this conversation out in the car on my way to work. I just never really thought I would actually be saying it to her.

  A bus pulled away from us, close to the curb, and a cloud of diesel filled the air. Summer took a sip of her wine and smiled. She toasted the air, or nothing in particular. “Ah, Rome,” she said. “We might as well smoke all we want.” She took out another cigarette and held it in her hand, close to her cheek, with out lighting it.

  “I just don't get...what's the appeal? I mean I would be murderous if I saw you fucking some other woman. Just so you know.”

  But she was leaning on the table, looking into my eyes, and her own eyes were bright and interested.

  She was actually interested.

  Oh god, I thought to myself. Make it good.

  “Look,” I said. “I'm not even really sure myself. It's just...a fantasy. I mean, can you really explain all the things you fantasize about?”

  She had confided a few things to me that evening. Some of them were very, very dirty. She fantasized about anal sex, but was quick to add that she didn't like the idea of actually doing it. Just thinking about it.

  To my surprise, she looked upward, and gave my statement some thought. “Okay,” she said. “Fair enough.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “I just...I mean, you actually want me to do it?”

  I nodded, because she was sweeping me up in a spell, and my cock was getting hard and robbing my entire body of blood. She was on the cusp of perhaps agreeing to my fantasy; she was like a doe in the forest. I didn't want to startle her.

  “So if I said, 'I want to fuck the Italian chef,' you would be like, 'Okay, as long as I can watch?'” She was no longer looking at me, but away, with an expression of incredulity.

  I waited for eyes to return to mine.

  “Yes,” I said. I chose my tone carefully I wanted her to know that I was serious.

  She was holding the cigarette in her fist, still unlit.

  Her eyes revealed nothing about what she was thinking.

  “And you wouldn't get jealous?”

  How to explain this one? I had tried, so many times, in the car by myself, to come up with something simple to explain to her.

  “It's not that,” I said, and I searched for the right words.

  “The jealousy is part of the thing,” she finished for me. As if she knew all about it.

  I looked at her as she lit her cigarette.

  She suddenly seemed so different. Like who Summer would have been if I had never married her, and we had never had kids. The Summer I might have seen here, at another table, laughing with her girlfriends, or fighting with another man. Her face looked younger and just slightly different – like she was her own sister. Not Cora, but another sibling, who had all the elements of Summer's face, ever-so-slightly changed. Aged differently. Beneath them, a different personality simmering.

  Candles flickered in the light breezes made by the traffic. The air smelled of cigarettes and coffee. Dishes clattered everywhere around us, and at all the tables there were couples in conversations like ours. Wives, lost in thought.

  Her eyes moved back to mine, and the glimmered.

  “I mean, okay. If that's what you really want...okay.”

  I said nothing. I was afraid of breaking the mirage.

  “I can actually make this happen,” she warned. “You really want this?”

  My cock was so hard I was starting to feel dizzy.

  I just nodded again.

  Summer smiled, her jaw shifting, and she looked out into the street. Thinking.

  THE NEXT DAY

  “I've arranged it all,” she said.

  She climbed on top of me. I was between her tight, tanned thighs, and her breasts tantalized me from above, beneath her shirt but just within grasp. I was getting so strung up I thought I would snap and burst all over her pretty flowered dress just listening to her talk. She seemed to know that, and she moved over my body seductively, and lifted her hair up in a pile on top of her head while she spoke. “If you want to get out of this,” she said. “Now is the time to do it.”

  “Do you want to get out of it?” I asked, but I did it quietly, and only because I felt it had to be said. I wanted desperately for this to really happen. My voice was a whisper.

  She leaned close to me, and she was smiling, knowing that she had me on the hook. She knew what I wanted her to say, and she wanted to tease me just a little longer. “Hmmmm,” she hummed in my ear.

  “No,” she said. “No, I want to go ahead with it.” Her words worked their way up and down my shaft like a lubed palm. I grasped her and quickly turned her over on the bed.

  “Tell me what you'll let him do,” I said, taking my chances that she would play along. I think, at the time, that I still didn't really believe she would go through with it the end. In the back of my mind I still believed that she was taking me on an elaborate, fun fantasy ride, and it would all come to a halt when she backed out of it at the last minute.

  And truth be told, I wasn't sure I really wanted her to go through with it, 100%.

  Yes, I did. Very much.

  No. Not really.

  Even though my
wife was new to how my mind worked with this fantasy, she seemed to have a tap to my own thoughts and desires.

  “Anything he wants,” she purred.

  I moved my hand down to between her thighs, and I was pleased to find she was soaking wet. I slipped a finger into her, then another. She mewled.

  “Will you let him finger you like this?”

  She moaned a little as she breathed: “If he wants to.”

  “Harder?” I pushed my hand forcefully inside of her.

  She closed her eyes like a napping cat and purred again. “Yes.”

  I worked another finger into her, and clawed at her from the inside. Her body shook and she howled in a low voice. “Deeper?” I demanded.

  She made a sound that meant nothing, and was only pleasure.

  I hastily unbuckled my belt, and got myself inside of her.

  “He'll want it rougher than that,” she said, opening her eyes. “He'll want to fuck me until I can't walk.” She gave me an insolent grin.

  Jesus.

  I thrust myself deep inside of her, and she squealed.

  She held her hands up to her thighs, and pulled them open.

  “Is that what you'll do?” I breathed. My cock was so hard I felt like I would burst any second.

  “I'll let him fill me up with all of his hot, Italian, cock.”

  Fuck. I could feel myself so close to tipping over the edge. I slowed, and she looked disappointed.

  “What's the matter?” she smiled. “You can't fuck me like a man?”

  I pushed myself deep into her, and she rolled her eyes back and bit her lip. “That's what I'll let him do to me. All the way inside while I hold my legs open for him and let him pound his cum into my pussy until it's full...”

  I didn't hear the rest of what she said. As soon as she said “pound,” I could feel myself bubbling over, and I was yelling and straining against my own skin while I filled her up as she went on and on in her dirtiest and most seductive voice. My mind filled with images of her Italian chef between her legs, spread wide by her own two hands, pumping himself deep inside of her while she screamed in pleasure. Fucking her thoroughly, turning her inside-out.

  But the blood was pounding too hard in my ears to hear anything she said.

  The plan was elegant in its simplicity, and easy to execute. Summer perched on a chair next to the window and told me about it with her foot extended to my crotch, her pleasure growing as she told me the details and my cock got harder and harder.

  Friday the class was going to eat at some famous restaurant, a former student's place. Some well-kept secret that was going to make it big as soon as her instructor gave the word and endorsed it. It was a lesson for the class in some particular kind of cooking.

  Seafood or something. My mind wandered while she gave me all these details. I watched her mouth moving and imagined her biting her lip while her chef pushed his cock inside of her.

  Spouses were welcome. I could go with her, tease myself through part of dinner, pretend to be called away for some important…

  She paused, her eyes skyward.

  “A meeting,” I offered.

  “Yeah, okay. A historical emergency. The archives are on fire. Whatever.”

  Her words were deliberately acidic. How could she know, I wondered, what would sink into me like liquid sex?

  Her eyes were sparkling as she told me the next part: she would stay late, lure him here, and I would be tucked away in the closet to watch.

  “What if he doesn't go for it?”

  Summer lifted her chin haughtily. It was so fucking hot, what was happening to her. She raised an eyebrow. “He'll go for it,” she said, with absolute confidence.

  I was looking at a piece of paper. My eyes unfocused. My thoughts scattered.

  She moved her foot over my cock. “How do you know he hasn't already?”

  I let my arm drop, setting my wine glass on the floor.

  Keep talking.

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder.

  “How do you know he hasn't had me already? All kinds of ways. Ways you would never be man enough to even think about?”

  “Like what.” I whispered, a statement more than a question.

  She smiled. “Maybe you have to wait and see.”

  It's a game, Ben.

  I forced a smile. Mostly, I was smiling. But part of me was wondering, even then, if I wasn't being taken on some kind of ride.

  “You have to promise me something, though.”

  Anything, I heard myself say.

  CHAPTER 5: El Giardino

  July is scorching in Rome, and the days are unbearable late into the evening. By eight o'clock, though, the night has cooled, and the heat trapped in the pavement and the stone radiates to calf-height, while breezes made by the shifting temperature caress the bare legs and shift the skirts of women. It had rained in the early evening, driving everyone indoors for coffee and gelatto, and now the streets were awash in the white-sodium lights that lit up the landmarks. The red of brake lights dropped onto the slick pavement and stained it all directions.

  We had had far too much wine, but the perfect amount of wine. We had opened the bottle while waiting for the rain to die down, and then we forgot what we were waiting for and drank the whole thing. I followed Summer's swishing skirt, and her bare legs, which ended in a pair of incredibly sexy heeled sandals that I could not take my eyes away from. The streets were alive with snippets of music and the sticky splashes of rain, the clatter of dishes and the disintegrating laughter and conversation that rose and fell as we passed each patio full of diners. Coffee filled my nose, then smoke, then coffee, then something terrible and foul, then a blank space where there was only the flower shop: a floral undertone, rain.

  In the Foro di Augusto there were opera singers performing free in the ruins. Summer stopped to listen, leaning her arms over the edge of the wall. Her skirt got caught in the breeze and lifted high on her thigh. Her hair was loose, fluttering away in long strands. She looked ten years younger as she turned to me and smiled. “I love Rome!” she shouted.

  A well-dressed young man in passing did not hesitate a nanosecond to turn on his heel and reply, “Roma anche ti ama, bella!” As always in Italy, the comment caused every man around to turn and look at the source of the man's affection, and the smiled in approval before returning to what they were doing.

  Desire and a pang of jealousy scratched inside of me.

  I pulled her by the hand to the sidewalk. “Come on,” I said, trying to sound playful. “We have a dinner date, remember?”

  “Come to dinner with me, bella,” a man called out.

  All in good fun, in Rome.

  “Tomorrow!” Summer called out, winking at the man.

  This met with a general murmur of approval among the group. I felt myself tugging Summer closer to me and quickening my step, even though I didn't want to. You had to remain calm with Italian men, or they sensed weakness.

  Luckily it was a busy night, and we had a green light at the intersection. Summer dashed into the shining street, and I ran after her. Then men told her they loved her, and they would wait for her, and they bid her a very filthy goodnight.

  We found the restaurant finally, after getting almost hopelessly lost in the narrow alleys. The fresh scent of rain and the wine we had both consumed kept our endless wrong turns from disintegrating into a fight. The evening was cool, our spirits were high, we kissed against he chipping stucco walls in quiet corners before we started looking again for the mysterious Lo Giardino restaurant.

  Embarrassingly, we asked the stern headwaiter outside Lo Giardino where Lo Giardino was, and after bestowing upon us a look of contempt that he seemed to keep in reserve especially for drunk Americans, he stepped aside and waved his hand over the doorway like a magician. “E qui,” he said calmly. He somehow managed to make his sentence sound as if it ended with, you fucking rube idiots.

  Summer stepped back to look up at the very small rectangular sign above the doo
r. We had passed the place several times and given it no notice, because only two tiny and uninhabited tables on either side of the door gave any indication that there was a restaurant here at all.

  “I thought giardino meant 'garden,'” Summer confided to me in what was meant to be a whisper, but because she was so tipsy, came out much louder than she had wanted.

  “There is a very nice garden in the back of the restaurant,” the headwaiter snipped. “We do not make our customers eat on the street like peasants. Do you have a booking?”

  Summer tried to compose herself. “Well...I am not really sure...”

  “It may be some time before we can get you in.”

  We were standing in a very small lobby, beyond which we could hear the bustle of a busy kitchen, and smell the delightful food that awaited us.

  I was thinking of none of these things, of course. I was thinking of the man who would fuck my wife, and what he would he would be like. I was thinking of myself, tucked away in the closet, watching him fuck her until she screamed in ecstasy.

  The headwaiter gave me a curious look. I blushed.

  “The thing is,” Summer said, and she was putting on her slightly dumb act, which I loved because it worked such a charm on men. The headwaiter was clearly gay, and so it made the scene even funnier for me. I folded my arms and watched in amusement. Summer was also quite tipsy, and I could tell that her American accent, the splatter of freckles on her nose, and her tipsiness, were combining to irritate the very European, homosexual headwaiter to such an extent that he might pass out. “The thing is,” she repeated, and her voice dribbled away into a honeyed laugh, “I'm meeting a class here.”

  The headwaiter was impassive.

  “This is not a school,” he cautioned, as though speaking to a child. He began to lean over the small podium where he kept the reservation book. “There is no class at Lo Giardino.” He almost spat as he said 'class.'

  I was close to cracking up. This was too much. It was like a movie, but better.

  “It's a cooking class,” Summer said, drunk enough, and in a good enough mood, to let the headwaiter's snobbery sail right through her. “It's Sandro Cervi's class, maybe he...”