Body Of Research: An Experiment In Hotwifing

by Arnica Butler

  I rubbed my forehead. “Well, this is why I pay you the big bucks,” I said.

  Heller shifted in her seat. “I'm going to ask you try something. I want you to answer my next questions without hesitating or thinking much about them. Just yes or no.”

  “Fine,” I said, sighing.

  So Heller asked me a bunch of crap questions, wily psychologist that she is, until she got to this:

  “Do you want your wife to have an affair?”

  Yes.

  The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  “Wait! I mean, no. No, of course not.”

  Heller folded up her notebook, looking smug. She placed the pen in the little flap at the top and stared me down. “Well,” she said. “We're nearly out of time -”

  “Wait, I want to talk about this. That was... I answered... it isn't really what I meant.”

  “No?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  Heller leaned on her notebook. “I'd like to suggest something, since our time is nearly up. I want you to spend some time thinking about...” she waved her hand in the air lightly, and made a face, “the possibility, that you answered honestly. The possibility that you want your wife to be having an affair -”

  “I -”

  Heller held up a finger to silence me. “Not,” she cautioned, “as any kind of judgment, but with an open mind. And ask yourself: what is the reason I might want that?”

  “Who would want their wife to have an affair?!” I said defensively.

  “There can be a lot of reasons. I'll give you some examples, but I caution you to not allow them to influence your own thoughts. There are cases of partners who feel pressured sexually, and are relieved that their partner has taken their sexual preferences elsewhere. This can be beneficial for their marriage. There are people who have complicated emotional problems associated with their marriage, for whom their partner's infidelity serves as a useful tool for escaping those problems without having to take responsibility for them. There are people who find infidelity sexually arousing, even. There are many possibilities. I am only suggesting that you explore the possibility that, deep down inside, you are behaving this way toward your wife and her possible infidelity because it is something you might actually want. And depending upon what that desire is, it can be healthy or unhealthy. Certainly, if that is not the case, then you will need to address these problems differently. But for now, I think you could benefit from giving this idea some serious consideration.”

  I sighed.

  “I'd like to leave you with this thought, as well, because it's related, though I'd prefer for you to think about why and how. It's this: we often spend a great deal of time on struggles that we believe are internal, when in fact they are struggles between our own natures and the expectations and norms of society.” She shook her watch with her characteristic shake. “Well, that's time.”

  I cannot believe, sometimes, I have to pay someone to say all this shit I already know.

  C hapter 9

  SOME PROFILES

  Dr. Heller and her bullshit questions, however obvious they might have been, threw me a little off my game. I got busy at work; so did Jen. The heat of our adventures at Brownhouse sort of cooled

  I picked up the phone and answered Jen's call wearily and warily. I was accustomed by now to her calling me every other day to report that she would be late coming home.

  “Late again?” I said, almost cheerfully, after greeting her.

  “No, not late,” Jen said, her voice happy and smiling. Seductive. “Want to get a bottle of wine and look through some profiles?”

  “I...” I said, surprised. It had been almost a week and a half since we had even mentioned “the profiles.”

  I did want to, that much was true. Very much. Very much I wanted to get a bottle of wine and look through some profiles. Perhaps inspiring us to go out and experiment with one of them again...

  But the cloud of suspicion wouldn't let me enjoy the suggestion. Not entirely.

  After all, why today? Why so out of the blue? What had motivated Jen, sitting around in the library or the whirring computers of the stats lab, to think: today I'd like to engage in my husband's fantasy?

  Versus any other day?

  Had her date canceled? Were her fixes not enough?

  “Sounds like a 'yes,'” Jen said, oblivious to my inner torment. “Red or white?”

  “Uh...”

  “How about both, then? Okay, I have to go submersible now,” she said, referring to her descent into the stats lab.

  “Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” I said, lacking anything more intelligent to say.

  Her voice broke up a little as she entered the building. “I woul...you woul....with Sven so...love you.”

  I slid my phone into my pocket.

  I moved my cursor around on the screen, whatever intelligent thing I had come up with for work just seconds ago having flown from my mind. I tried to reel myself back in, but the thoughts about Jen just kept nagging and nagging me.

  There was the gentle tug of the desire to ask Jen to take this fantasy further. A slow, persistent pull on my psyche in one direction.

  There were the constant, sudden jerks in another direction of my suspicions. Parts of Jen's stories, things about her behavior that just didn't quite fit together. These would surface, slowly like bubbles in a lava lamp, and then burst and send me reeling with the thought. Cold and hot: what if my wife was actually just cheating on me, stringing me along in her elaborate game, making an ass of me?

  There was another force, maybe best described as drag, since I'm using all these boat metaphors – the drag behind me of commitment, of concern for our marriage. The constant hum in my mind that sharing my wife with other men was a perverse and stupid thing to do. A thing that could only end badly.

  But the end result of all of these competing forces was that I was looking forward to going home and drinking wine with Jen, lying on our stomachs on the bed and searching for men. Talking about which ones she liked, and why she liked them, her tongue getting looser with every sip of wine, her mind getting dirtier with every glassful. Her cunt getting wet and ripe as she looked at all of the ripped abs and thick biceps, and told me how she imagined their cocks would feel in her hand. And then maybe fucking her, from behind, while she looked at their pictures and told me what she would like them to do to her.

  Fuck.

  My head was thin on blood and reason, and my cock was taking most of those things out of my system. I blinked at the screen. The campaign I was working on did not even ring a bell in my mind: slogans I was tossing about didn't even seem like something I myself had written.

  What the fuck?

  I could barely make out the images in front of me for all the images my brain was boiling up from the dirtiest trenches of my mind: Jen on her hands and knees, stuffed with black cock. Jen, on her knees, her hand wrapped around a fat prick, guiding it to her mouth.

  Why couldn't it just be enough that she was flirting with these guys? Playing a game with me? Talking dirty? Surely I knew that I should stop here, push her no further, get her to stop before things got out of control.

  A delicious shiver went down my spine:

  If, in fact, they hadn't already.

  *

  “Okay, what about this guy?” Jen said, laughing, and cradling her wine glass against her chest, trying to pass me the phone without spilling the liquid from the glass. She failed, and the phone dropped into my lap as her wine sloshed against her shirt.

  “That's fine,” I said, jovially. The wine had also gone to my head, and we were crouched on the floor, giggling like two adolescents. “Let me get that for you,”

  I unbuttoned her shirt – a flannel shirt that I was pretty sure, though not certain, was actually mine. The shiny, unfrayed knobs in the intricate lace of a new black bra blossomed out of the opening. I rubbed my finger over the lace, and made a face that seemed to convey what I wanted it to: my suspicion, still lin
gering, about her new collection of underwear. However it made her react, it was a mystery. If Jen was telling the truth or not, there was one thing she knew: she held immense power over me by playing the game of being coy and unrevealing. Her face said nothing as I fingered the material, stroking the soft flesh beneath it, beaming my distrust to her.

  “Hmm,” I said. “A flannel shirt and a gorgeous bra.” I leaned forward and pressed my lips to her skin, just above the line of the embroidered edge. I slurped at her skin, even though very little wine had soaked through the shirt. I was pleased that her body gave a slight ripple.

  In response to my “accusation,” she said nothing, which also delighted me.

  I picked the phone up and unlocked it again. I looked at the screen.

  “Mickey Z.,” I read. “Huh. That's a pretty stupid name.”

  He looked a little stupid, too. Not dum-dum stupid, just... thick, thug stupid. He had a hat with a tall brim on it tipped slightly sideways on his head. His arms were covered in tattoos that were inelegantly mismatched indicating a frenetic, impulsive personality. His face was good-looking, dangerous and masculine, a bit hard-edged, with a scar on one cheek.

  “I don't know about this guy,” I said warily.

  I was perfectly serious.

  Jen's eyes widened as she took the phone from me. “Really? I like Mickey Z.”

  She was joking, of course, and she rolled her eyes to prove it. Then she shrugged. “Still...there's something very sexy about him.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “What?” My cock twitched. Images of Jen's flawless skin tangled in the brutish, tattooed arms of Mickey Z., his cock (probably tattooed as well) plunging in and out of her trimmed bush...

  Jen smiled as she watched obvious flush rise from my neck to my face. “It's the, um... I don't know, like, dangerous look about him. Like, 'I've been in a knife fight,' you know?”

  “That sort of thing is sexy?” I said, incredulously, though I was sure I knew exactly what it was about him that was making her cream her panties at this moment. Because she was, I knew she was. I started to slide my hand along her thigh so I could find a way into her absurdly baggy jeans and prove it.

  “It's like that like, half-mute kinda dumb guy, the warrior guy, from...what's it...?”

  “Every movie?” I suggested. But I knew she was thinking of Game Of Thrones. The two episodes we had watched together. Khal Drogo, the beast-like warrior from wherever. I didn't know; I was probably the only person alive who repeatedly fell asleep watching it.

  She was swiping – scratch that, stroking her phone. “Yeah, true enough. But that's the thing. It's probably evolutionarily hardwired.” She looked up at me. I couldn't tell if she was joking or dead serious, or what percentage mixture of these two things she was. Did she secretly harbor a very serious attraction to men like Mickey Z.? Did my wife imagine that she was fucking a man like that instead of a man like me? Was her enthusiasm in bed mimicry, or the product of her own fertile imagination? Did she picture herself fucking a man like that, instead of me?

  And why in the fuck did it turn me on so much to think a thought like that?

  I slid my fingers underneath the strap of her sexy new bra, sliding it down her shoulder, beneath the shirt. I peeled the lace that was pressed against the swell of her breasts away, until her nipples sprang loose. Jen's tiny nipples, which pebbled when she was aroused, were hard in the center of the dark, exotic chocolate of her small areola. I bent down and suckled one of them, and her chest rose in response, pressing her flesh against my chin. I bit lightly into her nipple, and she exhaled. “So you and Mickey Z.,” I said, my lips against her flesh. “What kind of date do you think you'd go on with him?”

  “This is from Lust, baby... there's no 'dating' going on,” Jen said.

  I was working my fingers into her jeans now, trying to get the material and her legs out of the way so I could get to the center of her sex, beneath the panties that I could feel were satin and embroidered – matching, I guessed, the black bra. I wanted to confirm what I believed: that she was wet, and that it all emanate from her thoughts about the manly man on the screen of her phone.

  I moved up to her face with my mouth, and bit into her earlobe. “You make it sound like you've already checked it out,” I said. “Already used it to hook up with someone,”

  My pointer finger, at that moment, dipped beneath the fabric of her panties and found the thick, slippery nectar of her cunt. The stain was soaked through, and I wormed my finger into her hole, feeling that she was gushing with excitement. I could see her lips turn upward as I nuzzled her ear, egging her on.

  Come on Jen, say what I want you to say.

  “Maybe I've already met up with Mickey Z.,” she purred. Her own hands were clumsily (we were both quite drunk) moving to unbuckle my pants. The meat of the side of her hand was resting against my cock, and I knew she felt the pulse of my excitement at her words. My confined cock was throbbing against the confines of my jeans, aching to get out. Aching to get inside my wife's slippery cunt while she told me all about what she would do – or what she already did – with Mickey Z.

  Impatient, I pushed her onto the floor and ripped the flannel shirt wide open. I rose up on my knees and unbuckled my belt and jeans. Jen took my cock in her hand and began to rub the length of it. The skin of my shaft was sticky with precum, so her palm stuck a little as she moved it up and down. I was shocked when she slipped her hand into her own jeans and then came back to my cock, using her own juices to lubricate her handjob.

  “So you and Mickey,” I said, prompting her. “Where did you meet?”

  Jen was smiling. I was bending awkwardly to tug at her jeans and expose her pussy. She shrugged indifferently, her hand wrapped around my cock. “At some bar,” she said.

  Had it been detailed, it probably would have stung me less. The cavalier, realistic, “at some bar,” cut through me.

  “And did you fuck him?” I said, jumping to the chase now that the scent of her drenched cunt was rising up to my nostrils, and her hands were squeezing my cock and glancing over my balls.

  Jen just smiled mysteriously.

  “Where?” I said.

  “In the car,” Jen said, smiling. “He had a van,” she added.

  I became impatient and flipped her over, jerking down her panties – indeed black, matching her bra. Her small ass gleamed with the dripping excitement from her cunt. She folded upward, her pants sliding down her legs along with her panties. She pushed herself up on all fours.

  I guided my cock to her hole, but I hesitated because I wanted to wring as much of this story from her as I could. I placed the head of my cock against her clit, slowly rubbing it. The heat of her soaked pussy lips enclosed around the head of my cock like a kiss, and it was almost impossible not to ram my dick inside of her and fuck her senseless, but I wanted just a little more fantasy.

  “How did he fuck you?” I said.

  Jen laughed. “Just like this,” she said, tossing her hair loose and looking back at me.

  Fuck. My wife was so fucking hot. At that particular moment she looked like the pages of a dirty magazine come to life.

  Then she moaned like a porn star. She moved her ass against the head of my cock. “His cock was so big,” she purred. “He didn't take his time like you are. So it really hurt at first, when he thrust all of his fat cock inside of me -”

  Jen was cut off as I lost control of myself and slammed my dick into her pussy. I imagined Mickey doing just what I was now, but with a bigger cock. Fucking my wife hard, so hard that her knees scraped over the rough carpet in the back of his skeezy van and gave her rug burn. Slamming his cock all the way to her cervix, stretching her open, gliding through her tight pussy like butter because she was so wet for him to begin with.

  Jen yelled loudly and obscenely as I rammed my cock deep inside of her. I hadn't fucked her like this in ages; animalistically, almost barbarically. I reached down and grabbed her hair and pulled on it.

  Jen's pus
sy clenched around my pistoning cock, and then I felt a gush of warmth as she came. She yelled and tried to pull forward with her head, but I had her hair wrapped around my hand and I did not relent. “Did you like him fucking you, you dirty little whore?” I said. The words were sort of out of my mouth before I thought about them.

  “Oh, fuck, yes I liked it!” Jen screamed. “I liked when he fucked me full of his cum.”

  I exploded inside of her. I dropped her hair and grasped her hips, almost dizzy with the force of my orgasm.

  I knelt over her, panting, for a few minutes.

  Then the realization of what we had said to each other came creeping slowly back into my memory.

  Shit.

  “Uh...” I said. “Did I, uh, go too far with that?”

  Jen slid off my cock and stretched forward like a cat, then flipped on her back. I was relieved to see that the look on her face was one of amusement.

  Well, relieved, and disconcerted.

  “You mean when you called me a dirty whore?” she said.

  I nodded.

  She looked to the side. As though she were thinking about it very seriously. Then she said, “nah!” and smiled. She wriggled away and sat up. I sat back on my heels.

  We finished off the wine and had a fine time chatting. Laughing. Making jokes and not even talking about sex.

  But I was miles away. Miles away thinking about the fact that, while I loved my sexy new wife – her new underwear, her propensity for dirty-talk, her amusement at playing around with my fantasy and dating apps – I was also still suspicious of it all. It was scary, this change in her.

  And could it really have come about so suddenly?

  Could everything have really unfolded just the way she said it had? Could she really have just been doing research, innocently, and coincidentally decided to buy some new underwear and shave her pussy and turn into a wildcat who fulfilled my basest fantasies, all at the same time?

  I mean:

  You could see why I wanted to buy it enough to talk myself into it.