A WELL-LAID TRAP 2
The Story Of A Professional Hotwife
By Arnica Butler
*********
Copyright 2016 by Arnica Butler
All rights reserved. No duplicating and no resale, but
feel free to share with friends or family.
Published by Thirteenth Line Publications
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those that are clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, companies, organizations, events, or products, is purely coincidental.
All characters depicted in this story are 18 years or older.
Cover characters are models. Image(s) is/are licensed from:
cokacoka / DepositPhotos
Published by Thirteenth Line Publications
Other Novels by Arnica Butler:
A Well-Laid Trap (1)
The Hobby Job
Ela's Performance: A Romantic Wife-Watching Novel
Not Black And White: A Hotwife Novel
A Gamble: The Making Of A Hotwife
The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel
The Hotwife Summer
A Dark Place: Cuckolded in Lagos
The Hotwife Tattoo
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
1: The Man At The Bar
2: In The Hotel
3: Other Men?
4: Into The Abyss
5: A Talk
6: Tyrese
7: That Night
8: A Date
9: The Dress
10: The Wait
11: Again
12: Ball
13: Practice
14: The Plan
15: Ready
16: A Grand Finale
17: An Ending
TO THE READER
First, I want to thank those who took the time to read this sequel and offer their opinions and advice. Special thanks to Kenny Wright, not just for personal support, but for his tireless support of so many authors in this genre.
People seemed to be very divided about where they wanted Paddy and Jordan to go. This is one of the reasons I don't typically write sequels. This is not to say I think all sequels are a bad idea, but because of the way I write, leaving much to the reader to think about, I realize I am on dangerous ground when I do.
The books I love to read leave much of the interpretation to me. In turn, as an author, I like to leave much of the character analysis to my readers. Is Jordan a trustworthy wife? Is Paddy really as quixotic as his actions would suggest? I think it's best if you decide, and my favorite books are those where more than one interpretation is plausible. I created Jordan and Paddy, so I know what I think, but the beauty of fiction, for me anyway, has always been that no story is exactly the same for any two people. I wrote the story, but once you read it, it's yours. (Hence the danger of sequels: they may diverge from what the readers dreamed of as a future for the characters).
At the same time, I know you'll at least have fun, because at the end of the day, that's my main purpose for writing hotwife novels: to indulge in fantasy, and to have a good time. So, even if Jordan and Paddy don't go exactly where you expected, I hope they at least entertain you.
As always, I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Arnica
T HE MAN AT THE BAR
I watched the man at the bar. Not a real go-getter, this one. His hands were clamped around his drink: another large, piss-colored draft of beer. While he was obviously attracted to Jordan, and edging his body and his hands closer to her, he was doing it at a glacial pace.
I was bleary-eyed and exhausted. I accidentally had too many drinks while I was waiting for the scene before me to unfold into action. It was getting late, and even Jordan seemed to be drooping.
To keep myself from dropping off, I looked at her lean leg. It was crossed over the other and stretched out toward the man's barstool.
There was no way he could miss her delectable bare thigh, and there was no way he could misinterpret the signals she was sending him. She ran a finger along the neckline of her dress and placed her pretty head coyly in her palm; she laughed and looked him in the eyes; she practically gave the rim of her beer a blowjob each time she brought it to her lips.
So far, I had never seen a guy resist Jordan's advances. Since my wife had informed me that her job working for a private investigator involved a little bit “more” than paralegal work, I had crept into bars and restaurants to watch her work as a honey-trapper. In every case, she had dressed, acted, and flirted her way to success: every man she was after had fallen right into her well-laid trap.
Of course, how could they not? My wife was utterly stunning. A fact that, as stupid as it sounds, was finally getting rammed into my apparently very thick skull.
I mean, I always knew Jordan was attractive. It's why I had been so attracted to her, after all. But things were different long ago, when Jordan and I had fallen in love as teenagers. She had been a cute girl with unruly hair, neither straight nor curly, which she dismissed by pulling it into an eternal ponytail. She had been a lean, tomboyish girl, who hid her enormous, shapely breasts under baggy white shirts and an oversized leather jacket. She had one of those faces that was sort of uncomfortable with itself in high school: too lean, too childish, too angular and awkward. No one had turned their heads when Jordan walked by, not back then.
Now, she made entire rooms stand still and left a trail of whiplash victims in her wake.
So what happened to your wife, Paddy?
Who knew? Who knew when it was, exactly, that Jordan's features had softened and aligned into the regal countenance she now had? Who knew when she had learned to straighten her hair to a silky, black-cherry crown? Who knew when she had worked out so hard and toned her whole body to red-hot perfection? Who knew, for that matter, when she had gone from tomboy to femme fatale?
I certainly hadn't been paying attention. I was too busy with my career.
The woman at the bar was a freckle-less redhead, and not a pasty-skinned one. She had a killer body. Her legs were long and her thighs were sculpted. Her ass was small and round, and her waist was narrow enough she could have been eighteen and never had children at all. The top she was wearing now did not hide her tits; the material hugged her figure and the top three buttons of her sheer blouse were left open to showcase her unarguably best feature.
It was more than just the physical Jordan that had changed, though, and perhaps this was the most enticing thing but also the most disturbing. She was clever and charming, and she handled men with a disturbing ease. There were moments when I felt almost bad for them, her targets. There was no way to escape a woman like her.
Today, Jordan was wearing a jean skirt and a casual white blouse. She had cowboy boots on. This was another delightful aspect of her new job: the way she changed for each man. She put on a different, exciting act, becoming a different woman for every man.
And she was great at it.
And me? I got to watch. Lurking in the restaurant or the bar or the club. Watching my wife reel in her mark (and nearly every other man in the place as well). I got to watch her flirt lightly, or heavily, or maybe even go a little further.
Maybe she would kiss him. Let him fondle her. A hand might w
ander along her thigh.
And then there was the time – the one time, so far – she went all the way.
A ripple of searing-hot pleasure shook me as I thought about it. I felt the hairs on my forearms and neck rise against the fabric of my shirt. I was Pavlov's dog, and there were a million bells in the world. Anything could set me off, set me salivating, ratchet my cock up to hard-as-stone: a bathroom stall; loud music; an errant thought; a woman's laugh; a strobe light; a martini; a hockey game; the color pink. All since Jordan – Jordan and I – had taken things all the way with one of her honey-trap targets.
My wife had fucked another man.
And I loved it.
Or, at least, I thought I loved it. My cock loved it. I couldn't stop thinking about it.
And even if I we never took things that far again, I didn't want Jordan to stop what she was doing.
A knife twisted inside of me. I didn't want Jordan to stop what she was doing. I liked to tell myself that I was sacrificing myself for her: she loved her new job, and she loved how good she was at it, and I was just letting her do it because it was important to her. She deserved some kind of self-fulfillment after everything we'd been through together as very young parents.
But the real truth was, I didn't want Jordan to stop because I didn't want to stop watching. Watching other men paw at my wife. Watching her reel them in, watching them get all hotted up for her, with the promise of her body, and then watching her blow them off.
Or not.
What I really wanted, I knew, was for this to go somewhere the way it had months ago, when Jordan and I decided she should go all the way. And Jordan seemed to want this, too, because she was always looking for another man who would be a possibility.
Which is why I was here.
Jordan had texted me to come and watch her tonight because she couldn't tell if this guy was going to be a “winner” or not. By “winner” she meant good enough to cross her professional boundaries for. Good-looking enough to go a little further with him, or all the way.
It's important to mention here that Jordan had my complete approval for all of this. We'd discussed it, and she wouldn't put on a repeat performance of her hockey-player-romp without my permission, or approval. Or whatever you wanted to call it when she sent her drooling husband a text that read:
????????
and I wrote back:
yes. Do it.
So everything was perfect. My wife was indulging my wildest fantasies, and she was even making good money doing it. I got to watch her, looking her absolute best, flirting with other men, and sometimes even more.
Perfect, right?
But something was bothering me.
I knew it was control. I felt a little out of control, even if Jordan did check things out with me by sending a text and inviting me to watch her. Even if she gave me the power to veto her choice, I still felt out of control.
Who knew if she would listen to me, if I said no?
But more importantly, who knew if I could say no?
I was an addict, and I wasn't about to turn down a chance to get a fix. I was out of control on two counts, and there seemed to be no way out of it.
In real life, the target she was currently working at the bar had been a bit of a disappointment. (Not like Mr. Hockey, who had looked like a thug in his picture and had turned out to be over six feet of perfect man. His thug-stare for his hockey shots had turned into a searing, soul-searching gaze when he directed it at women in real life. And there was the fact that he had held my wife by the ass against a wall and fucked her until she screamed, straining himself no more than if he were taking a bite of a cupcake).
Mr. Glacial here was not that hot, but he was an attractive enough guy. A tiny bit of middle-aged pudge on his belly, but otherwise slim. He seemed to have some kind of thick arms hiding underneath his sweatshirt. Jordan liked his curly hair, I knew.
He seemed a little bit red-necky, but it wasn't entirely turning me off for some reason.
???????, Jordan had written, about Mr. Glacial.
If you want to, I had written back.
This is what I'm talking about, out of control:
If you want to???
Who the fuck was I? What kind of man writes if you want to back to his wife when she's asked him if she should have sex with another man?
So now I was waiting, waiting to find out if Jordan wanted to or not. I had no idea what she would do. Jordan, along with Arest, her boss, typically had things arranged so that the guy she was trapping would go to meet her later at a hotel room. She would not be there, but Arest would. If the guy actually showed up, it was pretty decent proof of intended infidelity. It was Jordan's job to make the promise as sweet as...well, honey.
And Jordan's job ended there. Her job was to lure men to a trap, and she was supposed to do it with as little physical contact as possible. With as much confidentiality as possible.
What we were doing in this bar was strictly unprofessional.
The guy was getting up now. I watched him stride toward the restroom.
My phone buzzed.
I think this guy is a dud. Im gonna let him go kind of feel sorry for him
I have no idea why, but the idea that Jordan felt anything for her target sent an extremely unpleasant knife of pain right through the center of my heart. Not the kind of pain that came with the idea of Jordan letting him touch her, or Jordan getting pummeled by the hockey player in the bathroom stall. Not a sweet pain. This pain was just...bad.
The guy came back from the restroom, and Jordan held her phone to her ear.
Yep, I could see her saying into her phone, faking a call to an imaginary “work emergency.” Okay.
She hopped off the barstool and shrugged apologetically at the man. I could almost hear her. Work, I have to go, you know how it is...
Not one to give up, Jordan placed her hand on his upper arm. One final attempt to lure him in.
The man, so slow-paced up until now he seemed half-dead, leaped into action now that it appeared Jordan was leaving. His hand shot out, and cupped Jordan's ass. This surprised her and it surprised me. He pulled her close to him and began to speak to her, very close to her face.
Jordan, ever the professional, recovered quickly. I could see she had changed her plan back to “kill” and responded like a pro: she registered surprise by opening her mouth in a wide gasp, but she coated it with a smile.
I watched as she walked her fingers up his chest. I rolled my eyes inwardly. God, what a cliche.
But like any man would, he was falling for it.
And like any man would, I was enjoying watching it.
I watched the man's hand. Jordan's jean-skirt was short-short, and he was taking full advantage by sliding his fingers under the fabric. It was just a short trip from there to the sweet fold where her ass met her legs. Was he working his finger in there now? Sliding his middle finger along the delicate valley of flesh that made goosebumps pepper the insides of Jordan's thigh?
And what of Jordan? Did her pupils dilate, and did her cunt well up with her delicious honey when she felt his fingers there, the same way she did for my fingers? Was it all just the same to her, no matter who touched her? Or worse yet, was it more exciting that it was another man's fingers in her sensitive spots?
My cock certainly responded.
I gripped my whiskey glass fiercely enough to make the waitress raise her eyebrows in alarm as she approached.
I glared at her. She was in my way.
“Just the bill,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
Her mouth hung slightly open. I was evidently making her nervous. I knew I looked like a madman when I came to observe Jordan. I could tell by the way the waitresses looked at me and talked to me in soft, calming tones.
The waitress left for my bill, and the view of my wife and her target was restored.
Jordan was squirming in his hands, smiling. He had a handful of her ass and was holding her body close to him. Jordan was res
ponding by giggling and batting her eyes.
I wondered if she would change her plan again, and leave with the guy after all.
I watched her with some relief as she took a small card out of her purse. She asked the bartender for a pen, and she wrote something on the card. In the meantime, “Mr. Glacial” had turned into “Mr. Hands” and was working his fingers beneath her blouse. Stroking her lower back.
Jordan didn't squirm away. She tossed her hair and gave him an inviting look.
She bit her lower lip.
My god, the cliched gestures, straight out of a bad movie or a good porno.
But I wasn't complaining. Jordan was putting on a show, not just for him, but for me.
No reason to complain.
She tucked her card into his pocket, and then she leaned toward him.
This was signature Jordan. It was my turn to feel sorry for the guy, because Jordan was about to do something incredibly cruel. She was leaning in close, her full breasts swinging just below his face. Her light perfume was probably steaming from her skin with the heat of her body, and her lips were inches from his ear. She was probably saying something very, very naughty right now. In the past few months she'd started coming up with some really filthy things to say to “seal the deal” with her targets. The kind of things that made my cock start dripping like a faucet, the kind of things that bit into my balls and throbbed in my pelvis until we actually fucked.
Mr. Hands moved his hand up, under her shirt, and Jordan stopped him.
It was a calculated stop. Jordan was 100% professional, and she didn't slap him away or stop him when she could: she stopped him right where his fingertips could graze the swell of her breast in her nearly-see through bra. In combination with her sheer shirt, it provided just enough fabric to make her nipples into a vague darkness in the center of her breasts. I knew she let him get to where he could just feel the shape of the mounds he'd been drooling over all evening, before she detained his fingers.
I saw disappointment, quickly turned to hunger, flash over his face.
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