Megyn For The Win: A Romantic Hotwife Novel

by Arnica Butler

  But no, it was just a boring email.

  “Peter?” Megyn said, and I realized I hadn’t answered her.

  The lengthy email contained information about the dress code for her upcoming date. The email suggested certain colors, something sexy but not too risqué (with suggestions about the length of her skirt and the plunge of her neckline, no less.

  “I don’t have anything like that,” Megyn purred in my ear. “So I was wondering if maybe you’d take me shopping on Thursday. So I can pick out a very sexy, not-too-risqué, red dress for my date with Max Riley.”

  I looked quickly around me. I worked in an open-concept web design office, where no one has the same desk every day (in theory). There were no cubicle walls to hide me, and the desks on the far end of the warehouse-turned office were far enough away that someone seated there would see I had a huge erection under the table, if they looked.

  There were only a handful of people at work, and they were immersed in their projects.

  “I, uh… yeah. Yeah of course.”

  “I think I need new shoes, too.”

  I breathed into the phone.

  “Sexy ones. Very high heels, I was thinking. I sent you a picture of a pair I really like just now.”

  I opened her next email and gawked at the strappy heels.

  “So it’s a date?” she said, when I said nothing.

  “Yeah.. yes, definitely,” I bumbled.

  I heard her laugh lightly, and then she was gone.

  And so there we were. My wife sliding hangers along racks, frowning and smiling at dresses in turn, holding them up for me to see. I think she just actually, innocently, wanted advice about her clothes. I don’t think she knew that she was kneading my balls the way she was, that every single moment we were in the store I felt like I was going to explode.

  I doubt she figured that I would be thinking about how I was wrapping my wife up like a present, putting her in a sexy dress so that Max Riley could peel her open and get his cock inside of her.

  Megyn sighed. “I’m not really finding anything here,” she said.

  I pressed my lips together, attempting to look sympathetic. I looked around the store. ‘Well,” I said. “Maybe this just isn’t the right store. All this stuff is a little... conservative.”

  She was pawing through the dresses again. “It can’t be a hooker outfit,” she said, impatiently.

  At that moment, a sales clerk approached us to ask if we needed help finding anything. A tall, slender millennial with a model’s body and an unfortunate face, she looked bored as hell.

  “My wife here is going on a date,” I said, to shake her up.

  “Oh,” she said, no more interested in us than before.

  But then my words made a slow circuit through her mind, and she raised her eyebrows in brief alarm. Another slow circuit and she relaxed into an awkward laugh. “Oh. Oh, with you,” she said, and laughed awkwardly again.

  Megyn was now shaking her head.

  “Actually,” I said, “It’s not with me. My wife is going on a date with a very good-looking gentleman who is also famous and rich. Perhaps you know him.”

  Megyn turned, resting her arm on the clothing rack, and said dryly, “It’s a charity thing. I need a red dress, about this color.”

  “Who’s your date?” the girl asked. She had keyed herself back into the matrix upon hearing the word “famous.” Or perhaps it had been “rich” that caught her attention.

  Megyn demurred.

  “Max Riley,” I offered helpfully.

  The young girl scrunched her nose for a moment, an expression of distaste for a sect of people she clearly considered generations older than her, and actors who pertained to another era.

  But then her mouth formed into an “o” shape, and her breath got caught in her throat. “Wait,” she cawed, and the word left her mouth as caterpillar of diphthongs. Waaayyyyyaaaaayyyyyaaaaaayyyyyt.

  “Is he that guy...” another chain reaction of vowels lingered in the air as she rolled her eyes skyward. She seemed to be looking for her next words in the trendy rafters of the ceiling. “Is he that guy from the TV show, The Hill, or whatever it is? The black guy?”

  “Yes,” I said, my mood getting more jovial by the second.

  The girl coiled up, as though she meant to strike out at us any moment. She put her hand on her hip and cocked her head. “No.” She looked quickly from Megyn to me and back again.

  Megyn shrugged. “I have all these specifications,” she said, taking the phone out of my hand. “Can you see if you have a dress that’s...” she swiped at the screen. The girl continued staring, and moving her eyes back and forth from one of us to the other.

  I stood there grinning. Why not?

  “... it needs to be this shade of red, more or less, which is... yeah, that doesn't necessarily look good on me, and then, it can’t be too short, it has to be – you know what, here, here’s the email. Do you have anything like that?”

  Megyn placed the phone in the girl’s hand, and she let her eyes drop to read the screen.

  Then she looked back up.

  “You’re... so what is this, like... I thought you guys said you were married.”

  “It’s a charity thing,” Megyn said.

  This answer seemed to satisfy the sales attendant in some way.

  Then she squealed, balling up her fists. “Oh my God! Okay. Okay... so.... here is some stuff...”

  She practically ran to the back of the store.

  “Oh. My. God,” I said, nudging Megyn and giving it my best valley-girl impression. Or whatever they call that way of talking these days. “You are like, so popular.”

  Megyn recoiled from me now, putting her hand on her hip just like the girl had done. Then she gave a shake of her hair. “I am, aren’t I?” And with what is best described as a harrumph, she strolled in the direction our excited attendant had gone.

  “Are you, like, so going to be jealous?” the girl asked me, fifteen minutes later. Her name was Amber, a piece of information, like many others (such as the fact that she loved owls, had two boyfriends, was taking a year off of community college, and hated some kind of internet application the name of which I didn’t think I could pronounce) had been machine-gunned at me as we stood outside the dressing room together waiting for Megyn to emerge in a variety of dresses.

  Other customers had come in and left the store, and Amber did not seem to work on commission or care about them anymore.

  So far, Megyn had come out in two dresses, neither of which was particularly suitable. The first one had been too scandalous for TV (or even for waiting tables at a strip club), and the image of it still burned in my mind (and my crotch). Amber had fished a skin-tight red sheath that came barely to mid-thigh and clung to Megyn’s figure in bunched, filmy red flowery things (I didn’t understand). It was sexy as hell, and it was the first time I had seen Megyn in anything vaguely risqué for a long time.

  Her running was paying off, I had noticed. After the kids she had developed a bit of a belly, which was very sexy, but this had melted away and was now just a slight fullness in her abdomen. Her legs and arms were toned without being excessive. An attractive line of muscle ran along the length of her upper thigh and disappeared under the dress.

  “You look hot,” I had blubbered.

  The second dress had been too fancy, as Megyn had put it: it was too long and flowy for the intended date, which Megyn had been vague about. I gleaned from the ad I had read and re-read that it would involve cooking.

  My cock thickened slightly and I sat down in a chair with my ankle on my knee in the hopes of hiding it.

  Now we were on the third dress.

  The handle turned and the door opened.

  Amber turned to me, her eyes wild and her mouth open in a big smile.

  The dress was a terracotta red which wasn’t a shade I would have thought would look as good on Megyn as it did. Even in the stark, fluorescent light, the color picked up the highlights of her hair and
her eyes, and the flush on her cheeks.

  I could tell by the expression on her own face that she knew just how good she looked in it.

  The dress clung to her body in a sort of bunched material, accenting the slight roundness of her stomach and the shape of her slender hips. A deeper-than usual cut at the collar gave a view of inside swells of her small but shapely breasts. Three-quarter length sleeves saved the ensemble, with its short hem-length and cleavage view, from being slutty. It was a classy, pretty dress that complimented her perfectly.

  Not only that, I realized it had been quite some time since I’d seen Megyn in anything “fancy.”

  I resisted the urge to let out a low whistle.

  “It’s the right one,” Megyn said, after looking at my face for a bit. She knew from looking at me how I felt about it. Without waiting for me to say anything (I was just staring at her, gawking), she nodded at Amber, who had clapped her hands together with glee when Megyn had come out. “I’ll take it.”

  The clerk nodded enthusiastically. “Oh! It’s so pretty. You look amazing.”

  Megyn retreated into the changing room to take it off.

  Amber gave me a look. It was the kind of look that said: “You, sir, are an idiot.” She turned on her heel and went to the counter, where she waited, an expression of mild disbelief on her face, to ring up the dress.

  “Okay,” Megyn said, when we exited the store. I could feel her excitement burning off of her, radiating next to me. She was excited, and it was adding flush to her skin and a sparkle to her eyes. A sort of rushed clumsiness to the way that she talked. Behind everything she was saying, her thoughts were miles away, and she was trying desperately to hide the thrill it had given her to try on that dress and look so hot in it.

  The dress she was wearing to go on a date with another man.

  If Megyn was having a hard time hiding her excitement, so was I.

  I didn’t know what Megyn was thinking. I didn’t know if this was part of some extensive game she was playing, a game that had begun that night we had talked about “my jealousy”. I didn’t know if it was more than a game, and teasing me had turned into a thrill for her – one she might take further. Maybe she had been joking, and forgotten all about that incident, and all of this shopping glee was just part of a different, new excitement. Maybe she was just getting caught up in her own fantasy with Max, and the fun I was having was purely incidental.

  I didn’t know, and I certainly wasn’t going to do anything to break the magic.

  We stood in front of the store, and it was clear that Megyn didn’t just want to go home, but she also seemed to not want to suggest anything. She had, after all just purchased a really expensive dress for her date.

  “I think,” I said, and I hope my voice didn’t crack as much as I felt like it was, “that as long as we’re here, we should -” I cut myself off, because I was going to say, “get all our shopping out of the way.”

  As the words left my mouth, I realized I had the intention of steering Megyn into a lingerie store eventually.

  Then, I had a thought: “Hey. You need shoes for that, don’t you?”

  Megyn bit her lip and tried to make a face like the suggestion took her completely by surprise. “I... guess so.”

  I was perversely delighted with how fake this whole act was. Megyn had been thinking about her shoes all along, and she was relieved that I had suggested them. Her excitement was buzzing under her skin; it was almost tangible.

  “Let’s get you some shoes, then.”

  For your date. With another man.

  As we walked along in the mall, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I wondered why this poker-hot, delicious feeling was slithering around inside of me, shopping for fucking shoes. But just picturing a sales clerk slipping some sultry heels over Megyn’s feet while I sat there watching, knowing that the shoes were for this date, for another man to appreciate – the idea of it all was driving me wild.

  We stopped in front of a window and surveyed the shoes.

  “Too practical,” Megyn said softly.

  I felt my cock twitch. Oh good. She, like me, was envisioning something higher, something sexier, something sluttier.

  I felt almost a punch in the stomach as I pictured Max Riley slipping these (as yet imaginary) shoes off her feet.

  We walked on. We found a store a bit further down the corridor, one I had never even noticed, with an array of very tall heels and expensive price tags glaring from every corner.

  Another sales lady approached us begrudgingly.

  Megyn held up her bag. “Can I show you a dress, and you make a recommendation for a shoe for me?”

  The girl brightened a little and they walked back to the counter. I stood where I was, unsure if I was invited on this female bonding trip.

  “What’s it for?” the girl said, after complimenting the dress.

  I pretended to look at a shoe with great interest.

  “Well,” Megyn said, and the excitement – real, undiluted excitement – was evident in her voice. “You probably won’t believe this, but I won a date with Max Riley.”

  “What?!”

  As exciting as this all was, in terms of my daydreams about my wife, I was getting a li-ttle bit tired of all the gulping of air and waving of hands that women were doing every time someone said “Max Riley.”

  I mean, really.

  He was good-looking. But he was just some guy, not the fucking return of Jesus.

  “So what are you doing?” the girl insisted. “Is it like, a restaurant, or...?”

  “I think it’s cooking. At his house. Kind of a thing.”

  This was met with silence by the girl and a nearly audible thunk of my heart against my chest by me.

  I started breathing faster.

  It was hard to know if I was breathing like that because I was shocked by the location of this “date,” and it suddenly occurred to me that this whole thing was a little over-the-top. Or if it was because... well, it was over-the-top, but the prospect thrilled me.

  In his house.

  “I have the perfect thing,” the girl said.

  The two of them rushed past me, behind me, and I watched them in the mirror in front of me as the sales attendant went to a tall, light brown leather boot with an extremely high heel.

  I’m a guy, and even I knew before she tried it on with the dress, that the boot was perfect.

  I also knew, as she held it in her hands and turned it around and around, feeling the leather, that my wife was about to spend at least $500 on a pair of shoes.

  For another man.

  “You want to go in the back and put the dress on, and try the shoes with that?” the sales clerk suggested. “That way you’ll know if it all works or not. But I think it will. These boots are hot. I so wish I had something to wear them with. It’s like they were made for this dress.”

  Megyn looked at me, amused. “Yes,” she said.

  The girl guided her to the back, and they were both back there for a while. Then the sales attendant returned and walked around the counter, folding her arms over her stomach.

  “Are you her...?”

  “Husband,” I said. I couldn’t tell if I felt humiliated, or if it gave me pleasure to say the word “husband” and watch the girl’s face crowd with expressions of pity and shock and disdain and confusion.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Megyn emerged from the back of the store.

  Again, her face was flushed with pleasure, pleasure she was trying to subdue but failing miserably at doing. The boots seemed to have buoyed her spirits so much that she walked differently; erect, like a model, slinking rather than shuffling along. She strode out to stand next to me and appraise herself in the mirror.

  The boots came to just below her knee. They added about three inches to her height. And they did, as the sales girl had noted, seem to be made for the dress. Megyn looked fashionable and sexy and sort of casual. The boots added a hint of sluttiness, because they were k
nee-high, but not as much sluttiness as say, black boots would have done.

  “Oh my God,” the girl said. “You have to buy those boots.”

  Megyn was excited. I could tell she loved the way she looked in the mirror. I loved the way she looked.

  I loved the fact that she looked like this because she had a date with Max Riley.

  Her face fell a little. She leaned over to me. “They’re almost five hundred dollars,” she whispered.

  Bingo.

  I looked her up and down in the mirror as she waited, breathlessly. “They look so good, though.”

  I saw her face light up with hope.

  “I think we should get them,” I said.

  Megyn couldn’t contain herself. She let out a little squeal, and the sales girl clapped her hands together. Just one clap, nothing cliched.

  But still.

  Megyn headed to the back, then stopped and turned to us. “Maybe I can – no, I don’t want to mess it up,” she said. “Okay. I’m going to change.”

  “I’ll ring you up,” the clerk said. “Unless you need anything else.”

  “Oh, I think that’s enough,” I said, approaching the cash register with my hand in my pocket, fishing out my wallet.

  But in truth, I didn’t want the day to be over yet. A fever was taking me over, making me want to put even more things on my wife and watch her flush with excitement and try to hide it. I wanted to get her into the lingerie store somehow, and find some pretty underwear for her.

  And even though it was really just for me, even though I obviously didn’t actually want Max Riley to see my wife in her lingerie – I wanted to keep enjoying the fantasy, thinking about whatever we picked out being less “intimate” than intended.

  More shared.

  “That’s five seventy-seven, fifty,” the sales attendant intoned.

  I handed over my Visa.

  Why? Why was I like this? How could I possibly be turned on by the idea of my wife cheating on me, in plain sight, with a man who was thirty times the man as me?

  Megyn came striding out of the back room, her bags in hand. She set the large shoe box containing the boots on the counter.