Body Of Research: An Experiment In Hotwifing

by Arnica Butler

  “Do you know that guy's cock was practically down the side of his jeans? Like, to here,” she said, and I looked over, quickly, to see her moving her hand across her own thigh in the middle.

  “It turns me on so much thinking about someone fucking me with such a big, long, cock.”

  Black cock, I urged her to say.

  But instead she continued to stroke herself, and she moaned lightly and rocked her hips.

  My cock was practically bursting. I couldn't keep my eyes on the road at all. I pulled over on the shoulder, so wildly distracted I must have forgotten to slow down. Loose gravel clanked against the undercarriage, and the tires slipped. The car came to an awkward halt, and dust rose around us.

  And then I just watched, from the side of the car, as my wife brazenly brought herself to orgasm, her pointer finger working with methodical rhythm over the slick face of her clit. Her eyes were locked on mine, her lips were turned into a strange expression, parted, neither smiling nor not.

  But even though her eyes were on mine, I could see that she had withdrawn to her own mind as she neared her climax. Her own thoughts.

  And seeing how we had just come from there, I could only guess that she was thinking of Trey as she stroked herself over the edge, closing her eyes to let out the low growl of a large, wild cat as her juices gushed onto the bunched fabric of her dress. Trey, and his big, black cock.

  Jen's eyes fluttered open. Her legs were shaking slightly, and she pulled her knees together and leaned over to feel my cock with her fingertips. Satisfied that her performance had done what she had hoped: drive me to a state of such readiness that it was painful, she leaned back in the seat and brought her fingertips to her lips. She placed all four fingers in her mouth and sucked the ends loudly.

  “You had better get home,” she said, “before a cop comes along.”

  I looked at the dashboard. Somehow, in all of this, my foot had slipped off the clutch and the vehicle must have lurched forward and stalled, but fuck if I even remembered that happening.

  I summoned all the mental powers I could to safely get us back on to the road, and drove home with Jen's hand in my lap, playfully tapping my cock in anticipation.

  *

  When we got home, we didn't make it out of the garage. Jen leaned over and unbuckled my pants, reached in with her long fingers, and pulled my cock out. I had the keys in my hand, suspended in the air, and stared down, resisting nothing, as she tugged with her firm grip on my shaft until the head of my cock overflowed with precum. Then she placed the blade of her tongue on my cock and wetly slurped up the salty liquid. Her tongue swept over the head of my dick playfully, like she was eating a soft-serve ice cream, lapping at it like she just had to have some more.

  I reached down and pulled on the seat release to send my seatback crashing back as far as it would go. This way I had a better view of her, and her mouth, and all of the very wet and enthusiastic things she was doing to my cock.

  She paused for a moment, and flipped her hair to turn her face up to me as she stroked my shaft with her hand. Strands of her silky hair scraped over the raw, pounding flesh of my cock. They stuck to it, because I was dripping precum over the top and Jen had let her saliva pour over the head of my cock in sloppy slurps.

  “Now just pretend I'm sucking Trey's cock like this,” she said. She was turning her head already, but I saw her lips turn up in a smile as she felt my cock throb in her hand.

  She took me inside of her mouth, and bobbed up and down on my cock. At intervals she kissed the length of it and turned her head to give me a better view.

  And as she asked, I imagined that she was slurping and sucking on the thick black cock of her friend Trey, flashing her eyes at me occasionally, her mouth busy and wet all over his dark black shaft.

  And that's why I came, with almost no warning. Jen sat up a little and watched the fountain of cum spurting into the air. A few sticky ropes of it landed across her lips, and she let them rest on her mouth for a moment before her tongue emerged from her mouth to lick them up. A streak of cum landed across her breasts, dripping into her dress, snaking along the curves of her body beneath the fabric.

  She pumped the rest of my cum out with her hand, staring at my cock.

  It was so easy to imagine her doing the same, with a different, darker piece of meat in her hand.

  Jen released my cock finally, and sat up and back into her seat. We were both still panting with excitement. The window had fogged up and we both laughed lightly when we looked at it. The car smelled heavily of sex.

  Leading up to my climax, I had only the drive to release the energy that had been bottled up since that afternoon. But now, with my cum splattered all over Jen's chin and her tits, and some of the car, the whole thing seemed so much more... seedy than it had just thirty seconds before. Jen twisted the ring on her finger, a simple gold band that she had insisted on because she hated any sort of jewelry that would catch on something.

  “That was fucking incredible,” I said, to fill the silence that somehow seemed to be growing awkward, which was the last thing I wanted, the last direction I wanted this to take.

  Jen twisted her ring some more and looked out the foggy windshield. Or rather, at it.

  “You don't think it was a little too much?” she said, and her voice seemed quieter, weaker.

  It was strange. Only moments before Jen had seemed so completely in control that I thought maybe she was a different woman.

  I reached over to move my fingers lightly over her neck in a tender caress. “Jen, I don't get it,” I said. “You were so... you seemed so into it.”

  But the truth was, I was a little relieved. Now that the testosterone and the lust had exploded from inside my cock, I felt my mind clearing, and making way for all the disturbing thoughts I had been having recently about Jen. Suspicions, anxiety, and loss of control were all creeping in and darkening my mood a little with every second.

  Seeing Jen feeling... whatever she was feeling... a little twist of guilt? A little shame?..felt good. It felt a little dirty, a little wrong, to be sure, but it felt good every time she twisted her wedding ring around her finger.

  I moved my fingers playfully along her neck. She moved her body slightly, closer, so that my fingers pressed against her skin a little more. Her eyes were distracted again as she looked into the fog of the windshield, and whether it was embarrassment about what we had just done, or guilt about something else she had done, or a desire to something even more – I couldn't know. I wasn't sure I wanted to delve into it, narrow it down to any one thing. Find out if it was something I didn't want to know.

  All I knew is that whatever was happening in her mind now, it felt better to me than her cavalier, devil-may-care attitude from earlier.

  She gave her ring another twist. Then she shook her head lightly. “I don't know,” she said, finally. “I was really into it, but...” She turned and looked at me. “It seems sort of... I don't know... skeezy.”

  Another drop of disappointment took my whole body on a ride. I tried to keep my face from crumbling with it. There was also a flare of anger that came with the feeling – I mean, she led me to this. She did.

  “Why 'skeezy'?” I said calmly.

  She looked at her lap. “I don't know, don't you feel like... kind of bad?”

  I looked into the condensation on the windshield. “I mean, honestly,” I said. “I feel bad for Trey.”

  This made Jen laugh, and I soared with another high of relief.

  I decided to drag out the humor, take her mind off whatever was making her feel dark. After all, I didn't want to lose the ground I'd already made. “What happened to your underwear, anyway?” I said. And then I added: “That was about the hottest thing I have ever seen, by the way.”

  Jen looked over at me, encouraged. I saw her sexy alter-ego creeping back into her face. “I just forgot them,” she said.

  I gave my head a small turn. “Forgot your underwear?”

  The bad feeling, the
suspicious, jealous feeling was creeping back inside of me, dark and slimy, filling up my heart.

  Jen rolled her eyes. If she was being caught in some kind of lie, or felt guilty about anything, she didn’t reveal it. “Not my underwear, entirely. I had them on when I went to work, of course.”

  But it wouldn't it be just horrible and delightful if she hadn't? If under her jeans she had no underwear, giving Dave easy access? Wouldn't it be wonderful if she had practiced this whole performance with him first?

  The memory of her texted picture from earlier in the day, which seemed like a lifetime ago, surfaced to freshly rub my wounds raw, and reveal the oozing sores of suspicion and raging jealousy. I bristled.

  I'm not sure what Jen read into this. Maybe she thought it aroused me. She got a little smile on her lips.

  Maybe she thought it made me feel exactly the way it did: provoked. Jealous. Like a rabid dog. Maybe that was her game.

  “I just didn't think plain cotton panties went with this dress.”

  My heart was pounding in my chest. I wanted to yell: where were you when you sent that picture?! Who were you with?! Did you take your panties off for him and ask his opinion? Oh David, what do you think, for my date with my husband? Should I wear these, or just go like this?

  I pictured Jen sprawling across Dave's ugly office sofa, spreading her legs and showing just how she would work me up in the car.

  Don't worry, David. If I show him this he'll never suspect a thing.

  I shifted in my seat. “We better go inside,” I said.

  Jen's eyes had already dropped to my crotch, and her eyebrows were rising as I spoke. “Wow,” she said. And then she looked at me. “That's good. All of this...” she waved her hand around the car, “got me pretty worked up.”

  As she said “worked up,” she leaned toward me and whispered it, her breath hot on my face. Her fingers slid over my rumpled pants and she used her pinkie to rub my shaft, which was painfully hard again.

  Then she popped out of the passenger's seat, and hopped up the stairs of the garage, leaving me to follow her.

  And follow her I did.

  And so once again, I slid into my own kind of fog, about what my wife was doing.

  I really had no idea.

  And instead of asking her, I fucked her wildly while I imagined all the delicious possibilities of her faithfulness and her loyalty, her remorse and her guilt, or her clear conscience that was getting slowly corrupted by our dating app games. Or about how much I'd like to make it even more corrupt.

  C hapter 8

  THE QUESTION

  “I'd like to get back to what we were discussing last session,” Dr. Heller said, after a bit of chit-chat about why I had missed my appointment the week before and other pleasantries about the weather, which I was making a conscientious effort to drag out for a full hour if I could.

  She set her pen down and folded her hands over her notebook. “Is there any news about that situation?”

  “Uh... what was it, again?” I said.

  Dr. Heller's face twitched ever-so-slightly with the expression of a middle-school teacher dealing with a smart-ass boy. It disappeared quickly, though.

  “Your wife. You had gotten into her cell phone, and found something that disturbed you.”

  My skin was getting hot, and, I feared, probably showing that it was. “Oh yeah,” I said, leaning back to feign relaxation. “That.”

  Heller arched her eyebrows. “How did that end up playing out?”

  “Well,” I said, about to lie through my teeth. At the last second, though, I felt a real need to confess. It almost seemed to come up and out of me like vomit. It took me by surprise, so much so that I couldn't even believe my mouth was moving, even as I heard the words coming out of it.

  “So I ignored your advice, doc, and I went ahead and broke into her phone the next day. And I found all of these dating apps, and I went through them all night, until Jen got home. Late, by the way. And I say to her, 'hey, Jen, what the hell is all this,' right? Oh – yeah, and I almost forgot. I also dug through her shit after I read these messages she has. They're not... incriminating, exactly, the messages, just like... messages from a few guys. But nothing back to them except these weird little...” I paused. I waved my hand, understanding that my story had already derailed. “It's not important. She has all these messages and new underwear. And not like, Hanes cotton panties, either.. new lingerie. Really sexy stuff.”

  I looked to Heller for affirmation of some kind. A trace of sympathy. Some recognition, or at least a flicker of knowing what I was talking about.

  Her face was utterly neutral.

  “So, I confront her,” I continued, and now my voice was starting to seem a little shaky. Now that I started actually saying all of this, it sounded terrible, and I sounded like an idiot. A cuckold. A dumbass. When you say things like: “My wife had a bunch of dating apps on her phone and new lingerie,” out loud, it's pretty obvious what's going on there.

  “And she tells me, it's just research. For school. For her post-doc.”

  Heller raised her eyebrows.

  “She's a sociologist,” I said quickly. I found myself rising to my own defense. “So, you know... and the thing is, I know I sound like a fucking... dipshit cuckold, right? But the thing is she wasn't like... she didn't freak out. She just had this reaction that was...” I strained to remember exactly how Jen had reacted. I had to push aside all of the memories of La Terrasse, and Trey, and it was like wading through heavy curtains. “I don't know. She just said... 'oh, yeah that, I don't need those anymore, whatever, delete them,' you know?” I was tapping my foot maniacally and I stopped. “So... but then I said, 'what about the underwear?' because that's... damning, right?”

  I waited.

  Heller clicked her pen. “And so? What did she say?”

  I had leaned forward on my knees to stop my feet from tapping so much. I leaned back, exasperated with myself and Heller. I exhaled. “She said... it was just time for new underwear.”

  Heller pursed her lips. Was she on my side here? And what side would that be?

  “Do you believe her?”

  I wagged my finger in the air. That's the thing, Heller. That's the fucking thing.

  I shook my head as I did this.

  “Let me ask you another question, Chris, because I think this is the most important one, okay?”

  I nodded. My feet were going berserk again.

  “Do you want to believe her?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes tightly. “Okay, see... that's... yeah, I know, okay? I know that's the question.”

  Heller paused.

  “Let's take a different tack, shall we. How is your relationship with your wife in other respects?”

  “Fine,” I answered, a little too quickly.

  Heller stared at me.

  “I mean... it is, okay? It's fine. I have... we don't fight, we don't really have any problems, we always, I don't know, have a good time.”

  Heller waited.

  “Are there any problems in the bedroom?”

  My whole body reacted to this with a cold chill, but mysteriously, I got a little aroused. Not some full-on hard-on, just a creeping one. I looked over at a shitty Monet reprint in an ugly frame.

  “The reason I'm asking – and I know this can be hard to talk about – is because, in my experience, men are generally concerned about their wives having an affair because of something that is happening in within their marriage.”

  “Really?” I said sarcastically.

  Heller's face beamed ice to me.

  “Look,” I said. “There aren't any problems in the bedroom.”

  Heller lifted her notepad and flipped through it. “You've mentioned that your wife is quite a bit younger than you.”

  A silence.

  I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. Heller, that vulture of an old bitch of a shrink, was quickly circling in on something, and I didn't like it one bit.

  “
Do you feel insecure about that at all?”

  “She's only seven, eight-ish years younger than me,” I objected. “It's less obvious every year. Or, you know, different. And no. No, I don't feel insecure about that.”

  “Okay. Well, what I'm trying to get at here, Chris, and I think it's something you should think about as well, is that you have a few things that have caused you to be suspicious of your wife. And she's provided you with an explanation of them. And you still seem... unconvinced by that explanation. Is that fair to say?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “But I think you might be missing a more important issue, which has to do with why it is that you went looking for this evidence in the first place.”

  I clapped lightly.

  Heller pursed her lips.

  We sat in silence. This was a great ploy of hers. Stone me with her face and silence at $100/second until I caved.

  I sighed. “Okay. Look, she has this guy she works with, you know? Dr. Emeritus.”

  “His name is Dr. Emeritus,” Heller said blandly.

  “It's what I call him. Anyway, Davie. He's a real Indiana-Jones guy, right? Rugged, all that masculine stuff. Except he wears these really gay scarves. But anyway, there's that.”

  “And you think she might be having an affair with him?”

  I pinched my nose again.

  Did I? Did I honestly think that?

  “Have you talked to Jen about this?'

  “I just said I did.”

  “No, not about your snooping and the underwear. About this professor. Specifically.”

  I shrugged again.

  “So, here's another important question. And I really want you to think about it: why haven't you confronted your wife about Dave?”

  I shrugged again.

  “Often times people will go to great lengths to avoid confrontation with their spouse, especially about matters of infidelity. I'm wondering if perhaps your suspicions about her dating apps and her new underwear are not a deflection of a more serious concern.”