Megyn For The Win: A Romantic Hotwife Novel

by Arnica Butler

  There would be time to press this matter later.

  “So,” I said, plopping down next to Megyn on the couch and patting my lap, indicating she should put her feet up so I could massage them. She slid onto her back and faced me, leaning against the armrest of the sofa. Even though she was in her yoga pants and a baggy shirt, as she stretched out on the couch with a feline stretch she looked sexier than usual.

  “So,” she replied, her eyes twinkling.

  The corner of her mouth turned up. She already knew where I was going with this conversation. She held a magazine up pointedly in front of her face.

  “So. Max Riley,” I said, and I felt a queer rush of blood into my cock.

  I slid Megyn’s sock from her foot and stroked the smooth underside of it with my thumb. I’ve always had a bit of a foot thing, so touching the smooth underside of her feet usually caused something to flicker in my gut anyway. But today, for some reason, it felt like someone was rubbing the sole of my own foot. I felt another warm surge in my dick.

  Megyn said nothing and held the magazine steady as I made a pass over the unusual shape of her feet; a high arch, vaguely shaped like woman’s body in some strange way.

  “Max Riley,” I mused. “He’s a pretty good-looking guy.”

  No reaction from Megyn. A page of the magazine floated languidly from one hand to the other as she pretended to read. “Is he,” she commented.

  I wasn’t really sure where I was going with this myself. I slid my hand over her smooth skin and pressed into the meat of her foot. She had painted her toenails a few weeks ago, and because it was not sandal weather yet, abandoned them to grow out. A sliver of unpainted nail showed beneath the coral color of her toes.

  “You probably aren’t entirely disappointed that there’s no way out of this.”

  A sigh emanated from behind the magazine.

  Silence.

  Megyn dropped the magazine onto her lap as I continued to rub her foot.

  “See?” I said.

  She propped herself up on her elbows. “See what?”

  I shrugged. “Well, you’re not denying it.”

  Megyn rolled her eyes again and stretched back out against the armrest. “Yes,” she said. “You’ve caught me. I’m actually thrilled I’m going to go on a date with Max Riley. I’m going to spend every moment of it thinking about how much I’d like to grab his huge, thick cock.”

  I froze, my hand squeezing the arch of her foot. My own cock – not huge or thick, but decently sized, involuntarily jerked against her ankle. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

  My own eyes were open in disbelief. “Meg,” I said. “Such a potty mouth.”

  She held the magazine up again. “You started this conversation. Weirdo.”

  I wondered if she had felt my cock slap against her heel, or if maybe she hadn’t. And if she hadn’t, whether there were some way that I could keep this conversation going, maybe even if I couldn’t, whether there were some way I could get in a little extra... you know.

  My hand was moving up her leg as I was having these thoughts. Over her smooth ankle, up under the hem of her boot-cut yoga pants, along her calf, slightly sprinkled with a stubble of ultra-fine hair. I felt her body react, so I kept going, up to her knee, where I knew she was sensitive, right behind the knee or along the side, leading to her inner thigh...

  The magazine dropped again and Megyn was staring at me. “Peter,” she said. The inclusion of the final “r” in my name was a sign that she was getting a little irritated. It was meant to warn me off. But her face was displaying mild interest, and to me it felt like a heat was gathering between her legs that I could feel radiating all the way to my fingertips.

  So, I ignored the tone of her voice. I shrugged.

  She dropped a hand and stopped the slow crawl of my fingers up her pant leg. “Peter!” Her tone was one of disbelief. Then her face became amused and incredulous all at once. “Do you mean to tell me, you’re getting turned on because you wife is going on a date with another guy?”

  “Not just any guy,” I said, after a moment of thought.

  I pressed onward, wiggling my hand so her fingers relented and I could keep traveling along her smooth skin to her warm, moist thigh.

  “You can’t tell me you don’t find the prospect a little... I don’t know? Stimulating?” I said.

  Megyn’s jaw dropped open, and for a second I thought my fun times were about to come to crashing halt.

  Whatever. Worth it.

  But I was surprised to find that the mild outrage and disbelief playing across her face deflated – not much, just a little. I thought I saw a little bit of interest flicker in the corner of her mouth.

  “Pete,” she whispered, as my hand went further up her pants and a seam gave a little, cottony shriek as it stretched too far and tore. She looked down the hallway furtively, as though to signal that we had children and therefore the conversation (and these goings-on) were over.

  But she didn’t do anything else to try to stop me.

  I slid my hand down again to the back of her knee, and with a feathery touch I stroked her sensitive skin. I could feel the rush that traveled through her body, tightening the muscles of her leg, rippling in her stomach, making her arms go stiff. A flash of red burned from her neck to her cheeks. Her lips parted and she stared through me.

  A rush of excitement traveled through me along with a thought: I imagined for a moment that Megyn’s stare was vacant because she was imagining something else – someone else. And that the “someone else” was Max Riley.

  I was suddenly impatient. I withdrew my hand from beneath her yoga pants and her eyes snapped suddenly into focus. I grabbed the pants at the waist and slid them down her legs, admiring the toned shape of her muscles as I peeled the pants away. Megyn gave another concerned glance in the direction of the hallway and the children's’ rooms, but she abandoned her protest before saying anything.

  I pushed her firmly until she rolled over, and I began at her feet, drawing my lips along her skin. I reveled in the way her skin formed goosebumps as I traveled along the sinuous length of her calf, up to her knee. When I kissed the back of her knee she twisted beneath me, and moaned lightly. I nibbled at the sensitive skin, knowing that I was getting her going – this was her most sensitive part, and it never failed to get her aroused if I kissed her there.

  As she clawed at the pillow on the couch and gasped, I wondered why we didn’t do this more often. I moved up her body, treating the place where her butt met her thigh to the same languid licks of my tongue. As I did, I moved my hand along her thigh and slipped a finger under the cotton panties she was wearing.

  I encountered her slick juices immediately, and the scent of them reached my nose. The tangy, sweet scent of fresh arousal assailed me.

  And then, again, rising in my thoughts and invigorating me: the idea that Megyn was squirming beneath me not because I was licking her body, but instead because she was lost in her thoughts, imagining that the man who was touching her was Max Riley.

  And who can know, for certain, if their lover doesn’t imagine someone else as his fingers move over her body? When Megyn closes her eyes, there is no way to be certain that she isn’t giving herself over to a fantasy of which I am not the star.

  The thought rattled through me, more arousing than painful. I moved a little clumsily to the side of Megyn's body to wriggle out of my pants and underwear, while trying to still tantalize her with kisses.

  To my surprise, as I did this, Megyn slid her hands down to either side of her hips and tugged at her cotton panties. She hooked her fingers under the material and pulled them away, unwrapping the firm curve of her ass.

  The curls of her bright red pubic hair were visible between her legs, glistening with her excitement. I fumbled out of my pants and crouched over her, staring at the lovely sight of the two hills of her ass and the fiery red hair between her legs.

  I moved my hand carelessly over her legs and her ass, moving in ever-tighter circle
s toward her wet center. When I reached her pussy and pulled her lips apart, her hips rose toward me at the same time. Her pussy blossomed open, pink and wet, and I looked at it, my fingers moving over her lips, thinking about what a long time it had been since I had enjoyed the taste of her, the sight of her pretty cunt.

  I lowered my head, scooting backward on the couch, so that I could get my face up to her. I made a slow pass over her outer lips, her curls soft against my cheek and her skin as smooth as glass under my tongue. She tasted like a vinegary honey. I dove in to find her clit, pushing down on it, fighting through the gushing juices that were oozing from inside of her.

  But the errant thoughts about Max went through me again, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I pictured him so clearly it was almost a hallucination: instead of my head between her legs, I saw his. His tongue sliding along the ridges in her pretty pussy, making her moan.

  I rose up on my knees and pulled her by the legs toward me. As I did, she opted to raise her butt up toward me, and the submission of the position drove me wilder. My cock was bouncing in the air, and I pointed it easily, without touching it, to her wet hole.

  I grabbed her hips as I sank into her body. Her hot channel closed around my cock, and I closed my eyes, grasping wildly in my mind for an image that would hold me back.

  Instead, I saw a big black cock sinking into my wife’s pussy, and I looked down with my eyes open to force the image from my mind. But it was too late, and I was already bursting inside of her.

  Fortunately for me, Megyn was also very close. She began to move her hips wildly against me, and she kept going, even after I had spewed my seed inside of her. She bucked against me, as my cock cried out in sweet pain, until her cunt seized up around me and throbbed against my dick.

  For a moment we remained as we were, and then Megyn slid forward, and I lay down over her body.

  She giggled.

  I kissed the back of her neck.

  “That was fun,” I said, finally.

  It was fun. Megyn and I hadn’t had sex outside of the bedroom in... I didn’t even know how long. The kids were, naturally, the explanation for it all. They were the way it had begun, anyway. The chipping away at our sex life and our intimacy.

  But really, they weren’t an excuse anymore. Why didn’t we do this more often?

  I inhaled the scent of Megyn’s body – a light sweat, a little sweet and a little dirty, her special smell, the smell of sex. She grinned. Then she pushed against me. “We better get up,” she said.

  I had a hard time getting to sleep that night. Megyn and I had snuck into the kitchen and had a glass of wine together. We sat at the kitchen table in the semi-darkness, having a fun and light conversation, remembering old times.

  Then Megyn had gone to shower, and I had followed her, hoping to have a repeat performance. But she was asleep by the time I got out of the shower, and she only grumbled at me when I tried to nudge her awake.

  I was left alone with my thoughts in the dark.

  That’s when what had happened – the thoughts about another man – started to surface again. The visceral images I had concocted, of Max Riley with his cock inside my wife.

  It was jarring. But I couldn’t dismiss them. I tried to think about something else, I tried to analyze why I was having these thoughts, but my mind kept returning to the thoughts themselves. Dirty, filthy images and scenarios, growing progressively filthier as the hours ticked by, until my cock was so hard I had to go take another shower and jerk off.

  I started off just picturing Megyn flirting with Max, and the jealous pain the image gave me burned sweetly under my skin.

  I went deeper, picturing her lips under his, his tongue probing her mouth.

  And then deeper: his hands moving all over her body while she purred at his touch. His big, almost onyx-colored hands against her pale skin. I imagined his delight when he discovered her fiery red hair, imagined him spreading her legs to lap at her cunt.

  But then I pictured his cock filling her up.

  And then I pictured her sucking on his dick like a wild whore, hungry, slurping, gulping it down. Looking over at me from moment to moment, smiling.

  Tugging furiously on my cock in the shower, my hand on the slippery tile to hold myself up, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. After I came, and watched my cum wash away as the water pushed it down the wall, I felt a feeling wash over me. A little like shame, maybe guilt, maybe none of those things.

  Imagining my wife with another man was not a brand-new experience for me. The idea had flickered through my head before. At some point while we were dating, I had applied gentle and consistent pressure to Megyn to tell me about her ex-boyfriends. And when she had given me only the barest of details, I had filled in the rest. I had imagined the guys from her collection of photos with her, sort of enjoyed the pain that washed over me, and then shelved it.

  I would even go so far as to say that I had gotten aroused by the idea a few times.

  But I had never delved so deeply into my imagination, I had never before created such lewd, visceral tableaus in my mind, never animated the porn stars of my mind to do such filthy things.

  I finally fell into a fitful sleep, but my dreams were just a troubled continuation of these same thoughts.

  I overslept, and when I finally woke the next morning the dishes were clanging in the kitchen, a tone of anger to the sound. Either one of us clanged the dishes rather passive-aggressively if the other slept in too long.

  Marriage.

  I jumped out of bed, feeling disconcerted by my thoughts, and rushed out to the kitchen to help with the banal tasks of the morning, and getting the kids off to school.

  3: A CRACK IN THE DOOR

  I didn’t bring any of this up for about a week, even though I desperately wanted to talk to Megyn about what she was going to do about her “date” with Max Riley. Because my interest in the date bordered upon the profane, I didn’t want to look eager, or start salivating with an erection like an untamed dog as I waited for her answer.

  But the next Friday, Megyn brought it up. The kids were in bed and we had taken some wine out to the mudroom/sunroom, where we had placed our old couch and sometimes went out to read or have a few drinks.

  Megyn was obviously a little flummoxed. She picked up a magazine, flipped through it too quickly to read anything, sighed, and then picked up another. She gave it the same treatment and then set it down in her lap.

  Call me a jerk, but I really enjoyed pretending like I didn’t notice any of this. I held a book up with one hand and pretended to be absorbed in it.

  “So listen,” she began. She sighed. “I don’t think there’s any way I can get out of this date thing...”

  I let the book drop slowly to my lap. The moment she said “date,” my heart had started pounding.

  I fought to keep my expression calm.

  “What date?” I said.

  Megyn frowned at me.

  I folded the book closed and set it on the table. “Okay, okay,” I conceded, because Megyn’s expression told me she wasn’t in the mood to pretend like I had forgotten about her date with a movie star.

  I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and took her hands. She had to lean over for me to get to her. Her loose red shirt hung down and gave me a nice view of her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “What’s the problem?” I said, stroking her hand.

  I guess this was the wrong thing to say, because Megyn stiffened a little. “What’s the problem,” she repeated. She huffed and looked from side to side, as if there were an audience there that was going to agree with her that her husband had just said something very stupid. “I’m married, hello? That’s the problem.”

  I laughed. “It’s not a real date, though," I said.

  Megyn softened, and that actually disappointed me a little. She laughed at herself. “No, I know. I just... I don’t really want to do it.”

  I let go of her hand and motioned to her that she should co
me sit by me. “Why not?” I said, as she curled up next to me. She took her ankle in one hand and tucked her leg up so that she was very compact.

  She didn’t say anything for a second. “Well, you’re having a weird reaction," she said finally.

  I looked down at her.

  Two emotions tapped at my chest: one, excitement.

  I liked this territory. I liked talking about this topic, I liked curling up in the awful discomfort of all. I liked picturing my wife’s mind full of thoughts about another man, her heart full of desires for things I couldn’t give her. I liked to think that she was imagining the taste of Max Riley’s big cock, maybe wondering about its size and the feel of it in her hand.

  The second emotion, though, was fear. As much as I enjoyed all these fantasies, I was pretty sure I didn’t want Megyn to realize it.

  After all, I knew how she would react. I could tell from the way she was reacting right now that if I unveiled all my thoughts to her, she would probably find me to be a depraved and horrible man.

  Hope fluttered in my chest again.

  Maybe I could just nudge her in the direction I wanted her to go?

  “Why do you think my reaction’s weird?” I said gently.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Aren’t you even a little bit worried that your wife is going on a date with another man?”

  I squeezed her to me. She was right, of course. That would have been the most “normal” reaction to have. In truth, it was the reaction I was having.

  It’s just that it felt good. I liked feeling jealous. I liked being worried.

  But how could I explain this to Megyn?

  So I lied. -ish.

  “Honey,” I said, laying it on pretty thick. “Of course I am. It’s just... I really was serious, it’s not a real date, right?” I summoned deep concern and furrowed my brow. “Right?”

  I could feel that my concern, even if it was a little staged, made her feel better. Her features brightened up a little. “No,” she agreed, practically whining. “It’s not, but... I didn't know. It feels sort of funny.”