The Hobby Job: A Romantic Wife-Watching Novel

by Arnica Butler

  She felt me coming, and took her time moving her mouth to the end of my cock. She sucked me off with a pop! and then stroked my shaft. With her lips right next to my head, she stroked me until my cum exploded. Strings of white cum slapped across her lips and cheeks, and she smiled.

  I stared at my wife.

  I shuddered, as I let myself indulge in the pleasant micro-fantasy, of Laura being splattered by cum. Just like she was now.

  But cum from another man's cock.

  “Fuck!!” I hissed.

  Laura smiled.

  J UST LONGING

  LAURA

  The dread started in as soon as the cab pulled up to the house. All the lightness of the evening fell down on my head, like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on me.

  After all, what was I going to say?

  I smelled my shirt.

  Everyone else was smoking. You know how servers are.

  Then there was the cab.

  The fact that we'd have to go and get the car in the morning.

  The fact that I was drunk.

  I looked at the clock on the dashboard as I paid the cabbie.

  Okay. Okay. It was only 1:15. Late. So late.

  But not that late, especially for restaurants.

  And it wasn't like I hadn't told him what I was doing.

  I wasn't hiding anything.

  Anyway, this is why I had taken the job, right? To get out of the house to have something of my own to do?

  I was full of self-righteous indignation by the time I reached the door. I was also, I realized, a lot drunker than I thought. I closed my eyes and silently thanked myself for calling a cab. Refusing Nate's offer to bring me home. Giving the two of them cab money.

  I half-expected Conrad to fling the door open, and start a fight with me. And I was ready for it, because when I get drunk I get guilty no matter what I'm thinking, and then I work out a defense for every possible interaction. Most of which never happen.

  This was your idea, I was going to tell him. It's not that late, what are you, my father...it was all building up in a little micro-argument.

  But when I opened the door, the house was quiet and dark.

  I stumbled taking my shoes off, and made a clatter in the kitchen getting a glass of water. I stood in the silence of the house, in the dark, gulping a glass of water, my drunk buzzing in my ears. I felt like a teenager sneaking home late at night.

  The effect was intoxicating.

  I took a shower in the downstairs bathroom, singing silently, thinking about the evening. How much fun it had been to be out, laughing and drinking, singing karaoke.

  Having men around. Young men. Unmarried men. Men who found me attractive, who were blatantly flirting.

  Men I would never do anything with, of course...but male energy, male desire, pulsing around me. It had felt so good.

  By the time I got out of the shower I felt guilty. Also there was no towel. I looked around. I was probably the first person to take a shower in that shower.

  Fuck. Now I would have to clean it.

  You are married, the shower seemed to be telling me. You are thirty-eight years old.

  This evening had been fun but it was a one-time thing that couldn't happen again.

  The reality was that I had a loving husband and a beautiful family, and a lot of laundry to do.

  That was life.

  To really drive it home for myself, I imagined the opposite evening happening: Conrad going out and tending bar one night a week, going out for drinks with all the waitresses afterward. Young, pretty waitresses who were looking at him with adoring eyes.

  I slid into bed, cringing a little as the mattress moved with my weight. Stabs of guilt moved through me again. I had only ever moved like this, sneaking around in my own house, when I had been sick and trying not to wake anyone up. Now I was doing it because...because what?

  Because in truth, I didn't want Conrad to wake up. I didn't want him to ask me why I was home so late, or ask me any questions about what I did.

  Why?

  It wasn't as if I had done anything I couldn't tell him about. I had gone to the bar. The music had been loud and I had let Nate buy me a few beers.

  I had let him sit next to me, closer and closer until our arms were touching.

  That's all. Nothing...obscene.

  But you thought about it.

  And now, as I was thinking about it, the sensation of his arm against mine sent a shiver along my spine.

  I moved awkwardly, trying to jostle the sheets and the bed as little as possible, until I was facing Conrad.

  He was face-up, his jaw slack, a dull snore rumbling around in the back of his throat. He seemed to be genuinely asleep.

  Obviously not too worried about where I was.

  I turned on my side without being careful of my movement.

  How stupid was I being? How stupid was it to not want to wake him up, and to be annoyed that he was sleeping so peacefully, not a care in the world, assuming his wife would come home at the appointed time, not worried about it in the least...

  I smiled at myself. I have this reaction when things get serious or intense.

  I was acting like a crazy person.

  Oh yeah. I was drunk. That was probably why.

  Some guilt bounced around in my mind for a while, and then some irritation, and then some amusement about how silly I was being. Whenever I started feeling the warm glow of the evening's fun creeping over me, though, the guilt came back.

  But the truth was, as I drifted off to sleep, I was thinking about Nate. Playing out a harmless fantasy or two. He was stirring up feelings I hadn't felt for a long time.

  Not that I really wanted anything with Nate. He was a kid. But the idea of it, the way it was so forbidden....

  We would exchange looks all night.

  Bump into each other in the freezer, face-to-face.

  His chest would be hard as a rock, young and warm when my hands pressed against it – accidentally, of course – and then our faces would draw nearer, nearer...

  “I can't,” I would tell him.

  And that would be that.

  Just longing. Simmering looks. Desire, that could never be played out.

  It was all harmless, and Nate would move on soon enough. Or I would. In the meantime, there was no sense not enjoying the excitement of having some guys think I was hot, right? Of flirting a little?

  Conrad gave a huge, loud sputter behind me, as if in protest. He shook me out of my freezer-encounter reverie. I covered my mouth to hide a laugh that threatened to escape me.

  Of course, it was all so ridiculous. Conrad was the one I loved. Even if he was a loud sleeper, and even if we no longer had the sweet tension and aching of new love, new attraction, youth...

  I closed my eyes again and tried to fall asleep without thinking about the very young, very good-looking guys at my new job. Without seeing Nate, smiling and palming salad bowls. Nate, smiling behind a cigarette. Nate's chest under his shirt, athletic and lean. I bet he could lift me easily with those climber-gym arms, the veins barely straining against his skin, his fingers digging into the flesh of my ass.

  I wasn't sure what overcame me. I had an ache between my legs that had swelled because of the ideas in my head, and because of the attention I had been paid. But the desire pivoted very suddenly to Conrad.

  I turned toward him.

  I pressed my body against his.

  It felt strange to be so horny at the end of the day.

  I mean, really, it felt so strange to be horny at any time during the day.

  I pushed my hand down to the front of his body.

  I found his cock. Semi-hard.

  The alcohol and the lust combined. It gave me an idea.

  I stroked him through the fabric of his boxers.

  It was rude to wake him up.

  It was even ruder to wake him up when I knew perfectly well that I was going to think of something else...someone else...while I did what I was going to do
.

  But he wouldn't mind? Would he?

  M ILF

  CONRAD

  “So,” I said, kissing Laura on the back of the neck. “I didn’t get to ask you last night. How was it?”

  My trepidation about Laura's shower, and the reasons she had been so horny, had faded a little with my orgasm and a good night's sleep. But I still had something gnawing at me. Something that didn't sit right.

  Laura was behind the kids, pouring milk with expert efficiency into glasses. She had popped out of bed bright and early. She looked at me and gave me a quick warm smile.

  She looked a little tired, but she had a lot of pep in her step. The slight dark circles under her eyes looked somehow less despairing. Her cheeks were flushed, and, most importantly, she was smiling.

  She shrugged, though. “It's a pretty divey place,” she said. “I only made like...”

  She hesitated. An odd hesitation, almost like she wanted to take back the sentence.

  “Not very much money,” she said finally.

  I opened the fridge. “You worked pretty late,” I said.

  I tried to keep my voice casual.

  After all, I was the one who had encouraged her to do this.

  I knew how it was. You have a tough night, you work hard, and then everyone is pretty wound up. You have some cash. You want to go out.

  “I went out with the...didn't you get my text?”

  I closed the door and looked at her.

  She looked genuinely concerned. Suddenly, I felt like an ass. I felt like an ass because I knew I was sort of reeling her into a guilt trap.

  I shook my head. “I'm sorry,” I said suddenly. I felt the need to confess to not writing her back on purpose, because I had some sour grapes. I was actually jealous that she was out, having a good time. Even though I had been the one to suggest it. “I -”

  “Get me some more water,” Jenny moaned.

  “How do you ask?” Laura said sweetly.

  “Please.”

  Laura rolled her eyes and came closer to me, near the sink. She took down a glass, and turned on the water.

  Taylor started crying. Probably because he wanted water, too.

  God, these fucking kids.

  Laura had clearly forgotten about my half-delivered apology.

  “You meet any cool people?” I asked, after the water had been delivered, the faces wiped, and a few other concerns attended to.

  Laura poured herself a coffee. “Uh...yeah, I guess. Pretty...standard people. You know. Kids, drug addicts, single moms. That kind of thing.”

  “Oh. So who'd you go out with?” I wanted to leave it there, and not say what I did say next: “That Mac guy?”

  I wasn't sure why I was asking all these questions. Partly, I wanted to show an interest in her hobby job. Wasn't that why we had done this? So we'd have some new people to talk about? Something else in our lives we could share?

  Or was this just what I was telling myself? Because actually, I could feel a little bit of an itch.

  A sort of spiteful, jealous itch.

  It was stupid. I knew that.

  But a man had to wonder, when his wife came home so randy.

  God, Conrad. It wasn't as if she had never had a job, a full-time job.

  And I hadn't felt like this about that job.

  Okay, but it didn't help that Laura seemed to be deflecting the questions I was asking. It didn't help that she had been horny for the first time in...years, really...two nights in a row.

  Did she hesitate a little too much before saying, as if she had selected the answer from several possibilities: “Nah, wasn't there.”

  I watched her. She seemed to not even be paying much attention to the questions. Like it was no big deal.

  It probably isn't a big deal, Conrad. You should probably just shut up.

  But I didn't want to. I wanted to hear her say something that would cut deep, something that would explain her horniness in the most painful way possible.

  “So who?” I prodded.

  “You know. Kids, drug addicts. The cooks.”

  I saw something flicker in her face.

  The cooks, huh?

  The cooks were always sneaking in there, grabbing up the waitresses. They charmed them with specially-crafted little crepes or some shit like that. Bartenders, sure, you could sneak them a drink, but it wasn't as charming as a personally-stacked olive-and-cheese teddy bear statue, or a sandwich made into a unicorn.

  Also, girls seemed to be less wary of a food gift than an alcoholic beverage. Waffles with funny faces didn't scream “trying-to-fuck-you” quite as much as a personalized martini.

  I stopped myself.

  What the actual hell was I thinking?

  Laura turned to me, a box of cereal in her hand. She smiled sweetly now. “It’s pretty funny.” Then she mouthed, “I'm so old!” She continued. “These guys are talking about, like...all these dating apps and this stuff I have never even heard of. They're on their phones half the time.” She shrugged. “So...yeah. Mostly I just felt old. And god. I am sooooo tired.”

  She gave me a wink.

  Was she referring to our hot sex last night?

  Or something else?

  She gave me a kiss and whispered, “That was hot last night.”

  This instantly made me feel better.

  And, it instantly depleted something inside of me. Some little thrill I had been letting hum inside my chest.

  Down in my groin.

  Of course that's what had happened. Of course she had no connection to these people. Of course she was just happy to be out of the house, and it was paying off for me. Of course we were just in one of those pleasant upswings in our marriage. It happens.

  Still.

  I watched her stand on her tiptoes to reach a small dish, with prints of “birdies” on it, at Madison's request. The lean line of her calf rippled and lengthened, and I admired the curve of her ass. Her shirt slid up, revealing her still-slender waist. She had worked hard to return her stomach to its pre-child firmness, and with the exception of it being just slightly thicker, she had succeeded. I thought back to myself at that age, the age she was labeling “kid.” If a MILF like Laura had come to work at my college bars and restaurants....

  Something twisted inside of me again, as I took on that perspective. Maybe it was the first time I had really realized it. Laura, with her brown hair pulled up in a bouncing ponytail, and her small but nicely-shaped breasts moving with her stretching body – Laura was a MILF.

  Believe me, I've always known Laura was attractive. Her body wasn't the kind that stopped anyone in their tracks…she didn't have Amazonian hips and breasts or Barbie-doll legs or gym-hardened anything. She just had a cute butt, a pretty set of tits, and a nice, flat stomach that had taken on the very tiniest of roundness after the kids (personally, I liked it). Her face was kind of plain, if she wasn't smiling: small, pretty features that were all pleasant. Brown eyes, a long, slender, well-shaped nose, and lips that were neither large nor small. None of it came together in a way that was particularly stunning, just pleasant.

  When Laura smiled, however, it transformed the plainness of her face into radiance, and there was something very sexual, very hot about that. She had a wide, open smile, and she used it generously. It transformed her from “cute” to “dirty-hot.”

  Or at least, it used to. I saw her smile like that less and less these days.

  But I had always viewed her as “girl-hot,” and even though I had of course been there for the whole transformation from girlfriend to wife to mother to mother of three, it was like I just snapped out of a trance.

  Laura was hot.

  And she was a MILF.

  And she worked at a restaurant with “kids.”

  But they weren't kids. Not really. They were at least 21 if they were serving booze and going out to bars afterward. Young, but young men. Lean, full of energy, ready to do stupid things to impress some hot housewife...

  My insides twisted ag
ain, and I felt my cock getting hard. A little pang of...what? Not exactly guilt, but maybe just...uncomfortable shame?...squeezed me.

  Because I knew why my cock was getting hard. It wasn't just because my wife was hot. It wasn't the sight of her pleasing midriff, or the nice view of her round bottom she was giving me a few seconds later as she bent over to swipe some milk off the floor. It wasn't just that I realized I was married to a MILF.

  It was also the thought, snaking through my bloodstream, warm like a drink, that other guys were looking at Laura. The idea that those guys were thinking the same thing I was thinking right then. I wasn't getting hard thinking about how I could move close behind her and slide my hand down to cup her round buttock, or how I could find a way to slip my fingers into her jeans and get as far as the hem of her panties before she slapped me away...

  It was at that moment that I realized I didn't have a very good grip on things.

  That I was starting to lose it.

  “So, you're gonna stick it out?” I said, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible.

  Laura was facing the window. She looked at her hands. There was a long pause, long enough for me to wonder if she heard me.

  “Yeah,” she said, just as I was about to ask her again. “Yeah. I think so.”

  O N THE SIDE

  LAURA – 6 WEEKS LATER

  There was a turn-around about half a mile from our house. I had never noticed it, for as many times as I drove past it. It gave you just enough space to pull over, and turn around if you needed to, but you had to be careful because it was about ten feet wide and then dropped off sharply into a ditch.

  I pulled into it and put the car in park.

  As I had for several weeks now, I adjusted the rear-view mirror and looked at myself. “Oh, Laura,” I said to my reflection. “What are you doing?”

  Okay, so I wasn't doing anything. Not unless there's some law against putting your makeup on on the side of a road.

  I dabbed some of the new, orange-red lip gloss I had purchased a few weeks ago on my lips. I knew it was a little bit wrong. I was, after all, hiding something from Conrad. I was leaving the house deliberately without my makeup on, so that he wouldn't do what he did the second week I worked at The Pied Piper, and eye my makeup suspiciously. Ask me about it. Say things like, “Is that a new shade of lipstick? Uh-huh. So you expect to see Mac there, tonight?”