by Bart Tracer
Jenny Unleashed, Volume 1
A Hotwife Adventure
Bart Tracer
Copyright 2017 Bart Tracer
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this work may be reproduced for distribution by any means physical, mechanical, or electronic without the explicit written permission of the copyright holder.
This is a work of erotic fiction intended for adult consumption only. Unlike real life, characters in books cannot contract STDs and/or ruin their lives or the lives of other people. All characters and locations are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Individuals pictured on the cover are models and are used for illustrative purposes only.
First digital edition electronically published by Bart Tracer, September 2017
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bart Tracer is a family man who has a secret passion for writing erotic stories. He specializes in hotwife adventures and sexy group encounters, writing the kinds of stories that he enjoys reading. His narratives pull the reader in and provide an emotional investment in the characters, with plenty of naughty action and sexual tension to keep things lively. Some of his inspiration is drawn from his own personal experiences, but mostly his works are a way for him to explore all of those theoretical “what ifs” that separate the mundane from the extraordinary. Hope you enjoy them!
Feedback welcome! Visit Bart’s Tumblr site at http://barttracer.tumblr.com. You can also follow him on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/BartTracer or Twitter @BartTracer.
Sign up for Bart’s Newsletter/Blog at: http://barttracer.wixsite.com/barttracer
Bart Tracer’s Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/Bart-Tracer/e/B01MT0WXK5
Prologue
It was with an equal mixture of relief and sadness that I turned back onto the main highway and headed north. A glance at the rearview mirror showed the façade of the hotel that had been our home through it all fading rapidly in the distance. But in many ways, we would never be able to leave it behind. It would follow us for the rest of our lives, the fragmented, patchwork memories of what we had done still stark and jagged in both our minds.
It was strange to think that we had only been in Florida for three weeks. Twenty-one days. A lot had happened in that time. And the two of us had discovered more about ourselves and our particular sexual proclivities than we had ever expected. What had started out as an overdue vacation, a chance to relax and reconnect with my wife, had unexpectedly turned into so much more.
My wife, my beautiful Jennifer, was an adulteress now. But it’s not what you think. There had been no betrayal, no clandestine assignations, no cheating. Ultimately, it had been my idea, this indiscretion of hers, and I had been there, a willing, if conflicted, witness to it all.
God, what a difference three short weeks can make, I thought with a smile. Now, we were headed back home, back to real life. But things would never be like they were before. How could they be? I didn’t know what the future held, but Jennifer and I had already drunk from that chalice of forbidden wine, and drunk deep. We were hooked now… addicts. This wouldn’t be the last time my wife took a lover.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s a story behind all of this, a twisted, not altogether G-rated story, and that’s why you’re here. So, I suppose I should back up and start at the beginning…
Chapter 1
The fading green sign beside the highway told me that the next exit was the one I was looking for. Putting on my turn signal, I looked over my shoulder to check my blind spot, then eased the freshly waxed, black Mustang into the turning lane. As the car wound around the off-ramp, my nostrils detected the scent of the ocean carried on the summer breeze.
A broad, paved road took us away from the hectic bustle of the highway, winding its way between the trees and past the moldering remnants of a long-abandoned house, no doubt a grand edifice in its time, but now partially reclaimed by the thick native foliage.
When we rounded a corner a mile and a half from the highway, the town itself came into view, and I caught just the briefest glimpse of the broad ocean, faint white breakers rolling in across a vast sheet of blue, barely visible between the low buildings through the dense screen of slash pine and saw palmetto.
“Almost there,” I said, my eyes still focused on the road in front of me.
“Oooh!” my wife cooed happily on the soft leather seat beside me. “I can hardly wait!” There was an unmistakable ring of excitement in her voice.
A lone stoplight stood at the edge of town and, once we had come to a stop, I turned to her and smiled, “Me, too, baby! I’m sorry it took so long for us to get away like this!”
“Don’t worry about it,” she beamed. Though I couldn’t see them behind her enormous sunglasses, I knew that her green eyes were shining with delight. It’d been ages since we had been able to get away. “I know how hard it’s been lately. I’m just glad we’re here!”
She turned her head to look out the passenger window at a pair of seagulls fighting over a discarded piece of garbage on the freshly shorn grass next to the road. The sunlight streaming in through the car window danced across her jet-black hair, her ponytail shimmering in its rays like a raven’s wing. Damn, she looks good! I thought as my eyes roamed over her body. You’re a lucky, lucky man, Kenneth Wilson! Sometimes, I forgot just how beautiful my wife was.
With her black hair and strikingly green eyes, there was no denying it; my wife was a gorgeous woman. Jennifer was small and petite, barely 5’2”, with an ass so tight you could almost hold it in one hand. She had always been self-conscious about her small breasts, which were barely an A-cup, but, in reality, they matched her slender, fit frame beautifully. Her legs were, without a doubt, her best feature. As I let my eyes wander down her toned thighs to her shapely calves, I felt a familiar stirring in my crotch.
Just then, a car behind us honked. Dammit! I’d been so caught up in ogling my wife’s perfect legs that I’d failed to notice the stoplight had turned green! With an apologetic wave at the annoyed guy in the blue sedan behind us, I slapped the gearshift into second and bumped the accelerator as I took my foot off the clutch. The 5.0-liter V-8 roared to life beneath the broad hood of the car, causing the tires to chirp on the hot pavement as we shot forward onto the main street of the little town that was our destination.
Jennifer and I had been looking forward to this vacation for months. It was going to be perfect: 3 weeks at an out-of-the-way coastal town in Florida, relaxing far away from the noise and bustle of the city traffic, swimming in the warm Florida waters, taking long walks along the beach, sipping Mai Tais in some quaint little beachfront bar, kicking back in a hammock and letting the ocean breeze wash over our bodies. Damn! I had to admit: I was pretty excited myself!
This vacation had been a long time coming. My job as a corporate executive provided us with all the money we could ever want, but it didn’t allow for much in the way of recreational time. To make matters worse, my company had recently acquired one of our small competitors, which had pushed my normally busy schedule straight into the realm of insane. Sometimes, I felt like I needed to schedule time each day just to blink! So, for the last two years, we hadn’t taken a vacation at all. Not so much as a weekend getaway. We couldn’t. I had just been too busy.
There had been no complaints from Jennifer. On the contrary, my wife had been very understanding. She knew the pressures I was under, understood the number of hours I had to put in to climb the corporate ladder. And she could see firsthand the rewards that all of my hard work brought. We weren’t rich. Anyway, not ‘private jet’ rich. But Jen and I didn’t have to worry much about money. W
e had done pretty well for ourselves and had a comfortable life. We had two other cars, besides the Mustang, a swimming pool, a hot tub, even a little wine cellar, not to mention Jen’s art studio.
That’s right, I said art studio! You see, Jen was an artist. A painter, to be more precise. In fact, it was in an art history class during our freshman year at college that we had first met. Two years after we were married, once my salary increased to the point that we no longer needed her second income, she had quit her job as a receptionist for a local law firm and dedicated herself to painting full-time.
Unlike most of her fellow art graduates, my wife had no interest in post-modernism, Dadaism, cubism, or the myriad of other angst-ridden, more recent art movements that required some goateed chap in a sweater vest to explain to you just how gauche you were for not immediately recognizing that a single white line on an otherwise black canvas clearly represented man’s eternal struggle to escape the oppressive bonds of social mores in the post-industrial landscape. Yeah… like I said, not her bag!
Instead, Jenny focused mainly on realism a la Winslow Homer and Andrew Wyeth, with occasional swerves into the realm of impressionism. And she was good. Damned good. Several of her pieces had been selected for exhibition in museums throughout the state, and over the years, she had sold a surprising number of paintings to private collectors. Not that she was raking in the dough. Hell, artists had to be dead to make real money, didn’t they? But it was more than a hobby, and I was proud of her accomplishments.
Her other passion was fitness. Jennifer was into healthy food and exercise. Scarcely a day passed without her jogging or going to the gym. There were weekly yoga classes, spinning classes, free weights, you name it. Jen liked to work out!
Not that I was complaining. All that exercise had given my wife the figure of a ballerina, and the endurance to put that figure to good use in the bedroom. When we found the time for that sort of thing, that is. Lately, there had been precious little going on in the sack!
With her workouts and her painting, my wife kept herself busy when I was working, but that didn’t mean it was easy for her, having a husband who was at the office all the time. What was it the guys jokingly called their wives around the water cooler? ‘Corporate widows’. It was an apt description, in a lot of ways. For all our wives saw of us some weeks, we might just as well have been dead! And it took its toll. There was always someone in the office whose wife was pissed off about him working too much. More than one of those guys wound up in divorce court.
Jenny never complained about my absence or the loneliness I suspected she must feel. She was a trooper. But in spite of her patience and encouragement, I knew that she longed to spend more time with me, to go places, do things, like we’d done in the early days of our marriage. I had been spending too much of my time at work, neglecting her.
Finally, I had decided that enough was enough, it wasn’t fair to her. I had marched into my boss’s office and informed him that I wanted to take some of the vacation time I was owed. To my surprise, he had been quite willing to give me three weeks off. “Sure!” he said. “Take your wife and go have some fun! God knows you’ve earned it, Kenneth! We never would have been able to get through the last two years without you. And if three weeks isn’t enough, just give me a call!” He shook my hand and smiled broadly. “Because the last thing we need is for you to get burned out.”
And now, here I was, a thousand miles away, pulling off the interstate in a sleepy, little Florida town, scanning both sides of the cracked, two-lane road for the little hotel where I’d booked our reservations last week. I had driven two blocks, past a row of neat, tidy, little shops with racks of brightly colored t-shirts and beach-themed coffee mugs on the sidewalks in front of them, obviously catering to the tourist trade, when my eyes were drawn to a large, red neon sign, tucked away far down a side street, that read, “Hotel Sandpiper”. That was it! Our hotel! I recognized the sign from the website. Checking my mirrors, I made the turn onto the little side street.
“Here we go,” I nodded toward the sign down the road in front of us.
Jennifer followed my gaze, the smile never having left her pretty face. “Oh! I hope it’s nice!” she gushed.
“Don’t worry! I did my homework on this one. According to everything I read, it’s supposed to be the ‘undiscovered gem of southern Florida’. Nice and classy, but far enough away from the main tourist beaches to actually be enjoyable.”
“Hmm. Classy, you say? That certainly sounds like what we’re looking for!”
‘Classy’ didn’t do it justice. Unlike the big-chain hotel we had stayed at last night, the Hotel Sandpiper was impressive. A meticulously maintained relic from a bygone era, it was a 7-storey masterpiece of Streamline Moderne architecture, situated with its back to the ocean. Its tall, stucco façade seemed to jut up from the sand like the hood ornament of some enormous antique automobile.
My eyes swept up the towering beige front, with its rounded edges, to where the flat roof created a stark break against the powder blue of the Florida sky. Elegantly curved balconies wrapped around the upper floors to create dark, horizontal bars across the face of the edifice, their chromed balustrades glistening in the summer sun. The Hotel Sandpiper was truly a thing of beauty.
I tore my attention away long enough to pull the Mustang up next to the curb near the rounded portico that led to the main entrance, flanked by two rows of palm trees, and killed the engine, my gaze immediately straying back to the details of the building next to us.
“Ahem!” said a voice next to me. “Are we actually going to go inside, or are you just going to ogle it from afar?”
I was a sucker for interesting examples of architecture, and Jenny knew it. In fact, when we first had met in college, I had been studying to be an architect. Then, at the urging of my father, I had switched my major to business my sophomore year and never looked back. But some part of me would always have a soft spot for a well-designed building.
Freshman year. Ken and Jen. Everyone had laughed at that one. That was what, ten years ago? Ten years! It didn’t seem possible. But it was true. Next year, Jennifer and I would both turn the big Three Oh. 30? Shit! Where did the time go?! Hell, this December we’d have been married seven years! You’re an old man, Ken, old buddy! I thought.
I blinked and turned to face Jenny. “Sorry!” I blushed, opening the door. “Just got a little distracted!”
The heat hit me like a wall when I stepped out onto the asphalt driveway.
“Don’t apologize,” she laughed as she waited on me to open the trunk. “I just wish you’d look at me that way sometimes!”
I knew it was a joke. She was teasing me. And yet, it bothered me. Probably because it hit too close to home. One more in a long string of reminders that I hadn’t been paying enough attention to my young wife. For the 50th time that week, I vowed to change that. And this vacation seemed like as good a place as any to start.
A porter and a valet appeared from nowhere, both wearing immaculate uniforms, and I handed Jenny’s enormous designer suitcase to the porter, then pulled out my own. He placed both bags on a large, brass cart, then held out his hand for Jenny’s large shoulder bag.
“Thanks!” I said when he took the bag from her.
“Anything else?” he asked with a warm smile. He was a good-looking kid with sandy blond hair and freckles, bright blue eyes and an infectious smile. I couldn’t be sure, but he looked like he probably wasn’t old enough to drink yet.
“No, I think that’s it,” I told him. Shaking my head.
I closed the trunk and handed the keys to the valet, a slight, dark-skinned young man with dark, almost black eyes. I pulled my wallet out and gave him a generous tip. “Please take good care of it,” I said to him with a smile.
“Oh, yes sir! And thank you very much,” he inclined his head toward the bill in his hand. “I’ll see that your car is parked in the hotel’s fenced parking lot. It is guarded around the clock, so it will be quite safe.
If you need it at any time, just call down to the concierge and I will be happy to bring it around for you. Please enjoy your stay!” He turned crisply on his heel and walked around the car to the driver’s door.
Turning back to my wife and the porter, I saw that he was rearranging the load on the cart to make sure nothing fell off. Satisfied, he straightened up and gestured toward the main building. “If you’ll follow me?” he said. “The name is Jimmy, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Jimmy. I’m Ken, and this is my wife, Jennifer,” I shook his hand.
“Charmed,” he nodded toward Jen with a smile.
I took my wife’s warm hand in mine and followed the young man up the concrete walkway, accompanied by the shrill squeaking of the luggage cart’s plastic wheels.
The porthole windows in the doors brought a smile to my face, earning me an immediate eyeroll from Jennifer. It’s just that they were so typical of that architectural style and so strange for the modern eye. I was a little surprised when both doors began to swing outwards as we approached. Not exactly original equipment! The owners had maintained the period flare of the hotel as much as possible, but some concessions had been made for modern technology. And apparently, that included automatic doors!
The porter wheeled the luggage cart through the door, glancing behind him to see if we were following, and parked it in the lobby, just inside. “You can check in over there,” he pointed out the reception desk nestled discreetly along the back wall. “I’ll look after your luggage, then help you to your room.”
“Thanks.”
I took my Ray-Bans off as I turned around, my eyes falling on a cavernous, tiled lobby that reflected the mid-century splendor of the building’s exterior. An ornate sign above a huge double door proclaimed the restaurant to the left of the entry to be the “Conch Room”.