A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife

by Arnica Butler

  “Jordan,” I gasped.

  She ground her hips against me and opened her mouth, emitting a mewl. I felt her pussy water up, and I fought the urge to spill my seed.

  Sending how close I was, she slid off my cock, and turned around. I was so hard, so ready to go, that it was almost painful. It hit me like a belly-flop. She watched my cock without touching it, amused. “Just a little longer,” she coaxed. She slid down to her knees, and looked at my cock without touching me. She wanted me to back away from the cliff. It was awful, it was torture, it was fucking incredible.

  She reached up and grasped my cock after a pause, right at the base. I felt myself twitch violently in her hand, and she pulled me closer to her, turning her head slightly to the side.

  With the flat of her tongue, she licked my cock from where her fingers were closed around the base, along the length of my shaft, in a circle around my glans, and back down the opposite side of my cock to the base again. I closed my eyes. I felt her tongue snake over my balls – not licking so much as tickling, and then her tongue was wet and flat against the bottom of my cock. She ran it up to the tip, and lapped at the precum that was practically pouring from my dick.

  She rubbed the head of my cock against her lips, giggling a little, and obviously at how worked up I was. I looked over at the mirror, and the sight of her holding my cock and opening her mouth was almost too much to bear. I watched her in the mirror until my cock disappeared entirely into her mouth, and then I looked down at her as she hollowed her cheeks to, as she had promised, “suck my cum out of my cock.”

  I came violently, my orgasm slamming inside of me. I could feel my cum spurting inside of her mouth, but I had no time to warn her.

  She stunned me then. Rather than pulling her mouth away and jerking me off, which would normally have been what Jordan would do, she fell down to her heels, and positioned her face right below me.

  She leaned her head all the way back, so that her face was almost horizontal. And then, she opened her mouth, and used her hand to stroke the last spurts of cum right into her open mouth. Stray streaks clung to her cheek, and one slid down to her exposed neck, but most of my cum landed neatly in her open mouth. I could see it, gathered at the back of her throat.

  I stared, until the last of my gut-wrenching orgasm wrested free of me and pooled in the back of my wife's throat.

  Then she tipped her head forward, and swallowed. She ran her finger up her neck, gathering a last little streak of cum, and sucked it from her finger.

  I was still staring, totally spent and totally shocked.

  Jordan smiled. She popped up, scooting her skirt down to the middle of her thigh (barely). She turned to the sink, and reached out to snatch a paper towel with an ease that almost seemed practiced. She wiped cum from her face, dropped the paper towel in the wastebasket, and then pulled her lipstick from her purse.

  Her eyes dropped to my still-exposed, and still-hard cock, and she smiled. She pressed her lips together. “I was going to ask if that was a bit too far,” she said. “But I guess not.”

  I zipped up my pants.

  Was “what” a bit too far? I wondered.

  We left the hotel separately, at Jordan's insistence. If she ran into her mark, she explained, she could still salvage things if she was alone. I told her where the car was parked and gave her the keys, thinking it was better that she didn’t stand around on the street in that get-up with no panties on. Only after she had already gone did I realize she was probably over the limit and that was a bad idea.

  My head was spinning as I waited for her.

  It was the hottest sex I had ever had. I was pretty sure of that. Jordan's sluttiness, her raw dirtiness, was almost too fucking good to be true.

  The fact that it was a hotel bathroom, that it was after she had just reeled in a hot guy with no underwear on, in a roomful of hot women, and with such professional ease, also had me on a high unlike any other.

  It was all so dirty, so dangerous, so hot.

  Lurking around, though, was some other bad feeling. Jealousy? Maybe. Concern? Maybe.

  My car swung around the corner, and Jordan squealed to a stop. I started for the driver's side and she lay her hand on the horn. “Just get in,” she said.

  I plopped in the seat and looked at her. Her long legs looked incredibly sexy with her skirt bunched up at the very top of them. I could even see a little smear of her juices on the inside of her left leg. I could smell her, her tangy fragrance and her heat. She looked fucking great driving, her muscles flexing as she operated the pedals, her face cool and collected.

  Jesus.

  We had the windows down. A hot breeze had taken over the city. I felt like I had gone back in time somehow, to younger times. Like we were in high school again, no place to drive, carefree.

  But I was still bothered.

  “So how does it work, from here?” I said. “You really have a hotel room?”

  Jordan smiled and pressed her lips together.

  She smiled. “Well, there's no real ground fro divorce, unless there's real adultery,” she purred, moving her hand across the seats and into my lap. She smiled against when she found my hard cock.

  “You know,” she said, “I was worried you wouldn't be okay with this?” She turned to me. Her hair was whipping in the wind, and she looked hotter than ever. “But it seems you sort of like it so much...”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  She knew she had me on the hook.

  “How far do you go?” I said.

  She smiled. Shrugged.

  “How far do you take it, Jordan, for real?”

  She looked over at me quickly. “Babe,” she said, and her face had changed. “I'm just teasing you because it seemed like you were into it.”

  I faced the front of the car and leaned my head against the headrest until it snapped back. I sighed at the roof of the car.

  “That guy's gonna show up the hotel room and run into his wife,” Jordan said. “And Arest.”

  She looked over at me. “Fully clothed they will be.”

  I didn't respond. I couldn't tell what I was feeling. Part of me wanted to hear something else entirely, even though that “something else” would be like a hot poker through my chest, to my other sensibilities.

  “Look,” she said, and she pulled over the car.

  I looked back at her.

  “I never take it that far. Never anything more than...like what you saw tonight.”

  I could feel my cock coming to life again as I remembered Jordan running her hands all over the man's chest.

  “But it turns you on,” I said.

  Jordan looked at me pointedly. She smiled and sat back in her seat. “Maybe. But I can see it turns you on, too.”

  I sighed again, and banged my head on the headrest. It was true.

  “You ever do more than that?” I found myself saying.

  Jordan turned coyly to me. “I need to know why you're asking.”

  I shrugged.

  “You want me to do more?” she said.

  “Do you?”

  Jordan bit her lip. She reached for my cock again, rubbing it through the material. “Sometimes. If he's a hot guy.”

  “Do you ever do more?”

  She shook her head.

  “You've never, say, rubbed up against a guy's cock. Over his pants. Nothing like that?”

  She smiled. Her hand pressed against me harder. We were on a very public street, I realized suddenly, and there were quite a few people passing by. Any of them could, and probably did, see into the seats. See what we were doing.

  For some reason, that only made it hotter.

  “It's against the rules,” Jordan said.

  She had her playful voice on again. We were both getting wound up, I could see. I was starting to understand that part of what was turning me on so hard was how illicit this all was. It was all on a knife's edge, and we could tip over any moment.

  I looked out at the street. Two girls, linked arm in
arm, gave me a salacious smile and giggled. They could see what Jordan was doing. One of them gave me a thumbs-up.

  “In fact,” Jordan said. “Everything we did tonight is very much against the rules. I could get fired.”

  I exhaled as Jordan began to unbuckle my pants.

  “Jordan, I...”

  Her hand was hot against my cock, though. I wasn't about to stop her. I grabbed my suit jacket, and threw it over my crotch. It was still obvious what we were doing, if anyone bothered to look, but I felt better if my cock wasn't out there in the open.

  She freed my cock, and looked out the window the other way as she began to stroke my shaft. She began slow, teasing me.

  “Would you like it if I took it a little bit further?” she said.

  My face was turning bright red, not from embarrassment but a heavy flush. “How far would you take it?” I squeaked.

  She squeezed my cock.

  She had somehow removed a cigarette from her purse with her one free hand, and she lit it. She turned quickly to me, and when she saw my raised eyebrows, she shrugged. “Cover,” she said, by way of explanation of her new smoking habit. She flitted her eyes at the passers-by on the street.

  Her hand was now moving over the top of my shaft. My abs were tightening.

  “Did you like what I said to that guy in the bar?” she said. “Because I can say it again, next time. And add a little something in.” She stroked my cock to emphasize her point: she could take it to the next level.

  Jesus. Who is this woman?

  “Oh god,” was all I could say.

  “I've never done that,” she said. Her voice was breathy, like she was on the bed being fucked as she spoke to me. “But maybe you want me to?”

  I closed my eyes and sputtered an exhale as my orgasm shuddered through me from the simple visual of Jordan placing her hand on another man's cock, over the fabric of his pants. As the haze of lust faded, I realized how public the setting was, how embarrassing it might have been to have a police officer tap on our car. I swept my eyes over the street and was relieved to see that no one had noticed us.

  Jordan, cool as a cucumber, removed her hand, slicked the cigarette away, and turned on the blinker. Calmly, she pulled into traffic.

  “You owe me one,” she said.

  I'VE DONE SOMETHING NAUGHTY

  “This fucking shit. Shit, shit, shit, whores and fucking pimps, I swear to fucking God...”

  Doug was in an unusual mood, one of ranting.

  The accusations of corruption were now in full-blown investigative mode, and a special committee was now digging through our cases and interviewing everyone in the office, from the janitor all the way to Catherine Gates about every DUI since the dawn of time. I wasn't worried about it; I was clean. But I knew some things, and I was busy trying to figure out how I could keep my mouth shut about them and save my ethical soul, and perhaps also maneuver my way into Catherine's job. I was actually pleased to see the black suits marching around our office, carrying boxes. If Catherine was out, someone would have to take her place, and that person, hopefully, would be me.

  Doug had been asked to leave his own office, so he was sitting at my assistant's desk, groaning about everything under the sun.

  I put my feet up on the desk and put my hands behind my head. I had talked to Doug about it; he claimed to be clean as a whistle. “Relax, buddy. We get free take-out outta this.”

  Doug muttered more cuss words but his face did light up a little.

  The only downside to the whole business came in the form of a text from Jordan:

  Bordello's 891 Canyon Street 8-10ish see you there?

  This was really the only thing I cared about doing, all day long. Sure, I shuffled through my day and filed motions and listened to judges hollering from the bench and sat around in the time-freeze of jury deliberations, but all of that was on auto-pilot. My real mind was on whether I would receive a text from Jordan or not. Whether or not I would crank out my work as fast as I could, so I could leave and see Jordan, honey-trapping in her fucking hot dresses.

  I typed.

  Suits are here. I'm trapped.

  Uncharacteristically, I made a frowning face.

  There were often nights when I was unable to pull myself away from the office, and I was left to think about Jordan, dressed up and flirting with another man somewhere. These nights came with their own delicious pleasure, however. And usually, they came with a very, very sexy retelling of the evening later on at home.

  I sighed, uncrossed my legs, and scooted myself under the desk to hide my growing erection. My cock had come to life thinking about the last time Jordan had told me about her “date,” on her knees with her lips just centimeters from the tip of my cock. I had gotten so worked up that my precum had actually dribbled onto her lips, and she had just kept talking, looking at me calmly with that wry little smile, as her lower lip turned creamy white with my smeared cum on it.

  And that was just for starters.

  My phone vibrated against my thigh.

  We were technically under orders not to use our phones, but no one was really enforcing it. This investigation had been coming like a wide load on the highway for weeks now, and everyone who needed to had plenty of time to get a lawyer, ask IT for a “favor,” or lose files.

  I looked. An image.

  From Jordan.

  The fact that I was supposed to turn my phone off, and hadn't, made it even more tantalizing. I held the phone on my seat, and opened the image. But I had to keep my eyes on the suits, and couldn't look down. Not yet.

  “What do you want?” Doug said.

  “Huh?”

  “To eat.”

  “Oh. Uh...whatever.”

  Doug didn't wait for me to change my mind, but punched his phone so the receiver popped up into his hand. He swung around theatrically and began to dial.

  I looked down at the screen, next to my thigh.

  It was a selfie, taken carelessly by Jordan – perhaps on purpose – in the bathroom at Arest Greene. She was wearing a skin-tight black dress with a deep plunge between her breasts. It was, thankfully, fairly long, coming to a few inches above her knee (otherwise she would have looked like a hooker). She was turned to the side, and I noted with appreciation how absolutely fabulous her body was looking. Not a scrap of flab, everything in perfect, tight curves. She looked fucking incredible.

  “Done! Tamales. Chili rellenos. Burritos. The works,” Doug announced.

  I stared at him. He was grinning broadly at me. Almost expectantly.

  My mind was too caught up in Jordan's black dress to know what he wanted me to say.

  “Hot,” Doug hissed.

  For a second, it felt like he was reading my mind. Then I saw he was chuckling. He meant “spicy,” because he knew I could barely handle Rosario's mildest sauce.

  I managed to roll my eyes.

  Doug looked at me funny, then.

  He's a big fat man, Doug, but when he wants to, he can move fast as lightning. His head was hanging down near his midsection and he had a clear view of my cell in my hand before I had a clue he was moving.

  He lifted his bulky torso back up slowly.

  “It's not what you're thinking,” I said. “It's got nothing to do with this.”

  “Then you better put it away, man.”

  I looked at him helplessly.

  Doug rose up and held his hands up like croupier leaving a table. He left the room, shaking his head.

  My phone buzzed in my hand.

  Another image. This one of her “mark.”

  The man was young, maybe younger than me. Square jaw, broad shoulders, a fit physique beneath an expensive dress shirt. No tie. He had the intense, alpha-male stare of a day trader and hard partier. The picture had been taken surreptitiously, from maybe where Jordan's waist would be. Evidently she had not moved in on him yet.

  Her message read: Hot, huh?

  Jesus Christ, Jordan was driving me fucking crazy.

  I wa
tched Doug walk by my office in the opposite direction he had gone. He was in full-on mutter mode. He didn't look in at me.

  As well he shouldn't. He was right to wash his hands of the whole thing. I mean, there was nothing going here but wildly embarrassing sexy talk with my wife. I could turn over the phone if I was caught and get nothing more than a round of dirty rumors circulating the office. But Doug didn't know what I was doing. For all he knew I was texting someone to dump my files or giving them a heads-up.

  The fact that Doug was distancing himself from me now reassured me, however, that he was also clean as a whistle in all this business.

  I looked at the picture of Jordan's target for the evening. He was, in fact, quite attractive.

  Hot, I wrote, and then couldn't think of what else to say.

  Take it further, I wanted to write.

  Touch his cock.

  Let him kiss you.

  Fuck him and film it.

  I just didn't have the balls. I wasn’t even sure which one of those things I actually wanted her to do, or if I wanted her to do them at all.

  I didn't send the message, not even the benign, “hot.”

  I looked up. Waving at me from across the sea of cubicles outside the office was Charlie Burns, the notorious former CIA agent in Special Investigations.

  It was my turn to be interviewed.

  I held my jacket in front of me, and reluctantly turned off my phone. Doug might overlook what I was doing, but Charlie Burns wouldn't. But I have to say that even after all this work, getting to where I was in my career, looking at taking over for Catherine Gates in just months (or maybe sooner, by the looks of things), I was less concerned about blowing it than I ever thought I could be. The only thing on my mind was Jordan.

  The interview lasted only half an hour. My mind was so deep inside of my fantasies about Jordan I barely remember sitting there, or answering any questions. The take-away was that I was in the clear and they just needed some details about a few other cases, to burn someone else's house down. I felt sure I was sweating, even under the heatless lights of the ratty “conference room.” No one noticed. I found myself saying goodbye and sitting, in a feverish sweat, in my office for the next twenty minutes. I had to play it cool. I wasn't in on anything illicit, but I knew what it would look like if I went scurrying away to the restroom or took out my phone. So I sat.