The Game (A Hotwife Adventure) Read online

  The Game

  A hotwife adventure

  MAX SEBASTIAN

  MaxSebastian.net

  KW

  PUBLISHING

  The Game

  Copyright © 2015 Max Sebastian

  All rights reserved.

  Cover image © anpet2000 | BigStock.com

  First digital edition electronically published by KW Publishing, December 2015

  This is a work of fiction, any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or events, organizations or locations, is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or in part of this publication without written consent is strictly prohibited, other than limited quotes for the purposes of review.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read this book, please do consider leaving a review wherever you bought this title, to help others find this story.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Part One: Rules of the Game

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two: Playing the Game

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Three: Power Play

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Part Four: Game Over

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  About the Author

  Also by Max Sebastian

  Foreword

  Like many of my books, this is ultimately a story about communication between a husband and wife, and how it develops through the exploration of a central sexual fantasy, that of the wife being free to sleep with people other than her husband.

  The Game involves a married couple who are professional communicators - journalists, no less - and yet both find it difficult to communicate with each other when it comes to sex. As is common in the wife-sharing fantasy, the husband's one condition for his wife if she wishes to sleep with other men is that she fulfill his side of the fantasy by sharing details of the encounter with him.

  Yet what do they do if the wife finds it difficult to do that one thing - communicating the details of the encounter to her husband? And so they come up with the concept of The Game.

  This story gets a little darker than my previous novels, as we explore the nature of power within the central relationship, and the relationships formed by the liberated wife. However, ultimately it shares the same values as my previous wife-sharing stories, so anyone who has enjoyed those should enjoy this one.

  Many thanks for picking up this book, whether you've bought it or borrowed it, your contribution helps keep this particular author writing. Along with you, dear reader, I'd like to add a note of thanks to fellow authors Kenny Wright and Sean Geist, along with my editor Sarah P, and beta readers Anjali and Ian, for their invaluable assistance on this story.

  Max Sebastian

  London, December 2015

  Part One:

  Rules of the Game

  Chapter One

  It was a dark and stormy night.

  Isn’t that how these stories are supposed to start? Well, it was actually stormy — the humid summer heat that had hung around DC for weeks was breaking into a massive thunderstorm as I left work for the evening — and the heavy cloud cover provided a premature darkening of the evening sky.

  I kind of like that feeling that a storm is coming. The air gets this yellowish tinge — and I’ve never heard a scientific explanation for that — and there’s this ominous tone to the ether, you know it’s going to really bucket down. Driving in heavy rain, though — particularly that heavy — has never been my favorite. And I had all kinds of doubts that my ancient Celica would even make it out to the suburbs the way that rain hit. There was a raging torrent pouring down the windshield as I crawled my way north up Connecticut Avenue.

  I was just relieved to get home that night, as the real darkness set in. It didn’t even bother me much that I got soaked from just walking from the car in the driveway to the porch of our small suburban house. I will admit to being a mite concerned that Izzie wasn’t back yet, but she’d always been good at taking care of herself.

  My phone was buzzing by the time I got in, but a quick glance at the caller ID and I just declined the call. Martin Townsend could wait until the morning to demand my copy. My deadline wasn’t even until the following evening. Right now, I needed to get out of these clothes — and grab a couple of pills for the headache that always seemed to come when there was any kind of low pressure zone in the area.

  Down to my boxers and a white vest, I found a towel in the bathroom to dry off my hair, and then opened the mirrored door of the little medical cabinet above the sink to find the Tylenol — all, as it happened, without turning on any lights.

  What I saw when I opened the medical cabinet certainly made me wish I had turned on the lights. I almost didn’t believe my eyes — and I did, in fact, swivel on my heels and reach for the bathroom light switch.

  No mistake. There on the middle shelf of the medical cabinet was a pristine, unopened box of condoms.

  Oh Jesus.

  I felt as though someone had just dropped a large, hot stone into my stomach. My heart rate quickened, I even became a little breathless just standing there looking at that blue and purple box of Durex “Extra Sensitive”.

  At the same time, I felt myself becoming hard at the thought of what this might mean.

  I picked it up. The plastic wrap was still around the box, unbroken. When did she buy these? I guess I didn’t open the medical cabinet that morning. Or for a while, in fact. Could have been days ago. Was she fooling around with me? Was she trying to send me a message? We hadn’t had sex for a few days, and I guess things weren’t quite as fiery as they had once been when we’d started dating, but there was really nothing wrong with our love life, not for a couple married five years.

  Or was Izzie under the impression that it wasn’t good enough, that she wasn’t getting satisfaction?

  And if so, was this merely some kind of signal that she was worried about us, somehow? Or was she actively thinking about taking up the ideas we’d talked about — what was it, a year before? Two? How time flew.

  What I was clear about was that this — the box of condoms bought by a woman who’d been on birth control since college — had been one of our “clues” that would signal the start of The Game.

  Jesus.

  My heart fluttered. Had she been leaving me clues that I’d been missing? How long had this box of condoms been sitting there, waiting for me to find it? How far had she gone with The Game?

  I put the thing back, closed the medical cabinet, and now hard as a rock, I started looking around — the bathroom, then the bedroom — scouring the scene for anything else I might have missed. Lights went on, of course, but I couldn’t find anything that seemed out of place, couldn’t spot anything else that
we’d talked about all those months ago when we’d first come up, semi-jokingly I thought, with The Game before promptly dropping the idea.

  I looked under the bed, I opened the wardrobe, I glanced in the laundry basket. Nothing unusual. Likewise with the chest of drawers, although I did pause while searching Izzie’s underwear draw. Was there new lingerie in there? A few items, certainly, I didn’t recognize.

  It was hardly definite, but still made my heart burn, still made my erect cock throb in my boxer shorts.

  Was my wife having an affair? Was she cheating on me? I know I’d said to her, after that fateful dinner party at the Hudsons’ place in Georgetown, that if she ever felt the dire need to sleep with another man, I’d be able to cope with it. But I thought the whole way The Game came about was that there was an implicit clause to that agreement which said she wouldn’t hide anything from me, I would be made aware of what was going on.

  That was the whole point of The Game.

  Maybe this was her laying the groundwork, making me aware of what was going on. Nothing had happened yet, I was receiving the first clues.

  Boy, was I hard. Clearly the reality was as arousing as the fantasy, then. I sat for a moment or two on the edge of the bed, savoring the feelings rushing through my body. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t really jealous, at least I didn’t think that was what I was feeling. There was a flicker of fear — from the possibility that I might lose her, I guess. That she might partake of her new lover and decide there were more advantages to spending the rest of her life with him. My rational self had an override for that fear, though. Izzie wasn’t like that, Izzie wouldn’t do that to me.

  Our relationship was perfectly healthy.

  I was excited, sitting there. I was buzzing with adrenalin. And, on the balance of things, I did find myself actively hoping that it was true, that Izzie had hit the “start” button on The Game, that she was intending to pursue some crush she might have on a guy at work, or wherever.

  Where was she? It was getting late. I glanced at my phone, and there was no message from her. Was she with him, whoever he was? Was she on a date?

  I felt my cock twitch at that thought. Suddenly, I was quite seriously craving my wife’s body, my wife’s kiss, my wife’s sex — like I hadn’t really in months. The thought of her dating someone else stirred the lust in me like nothing else.

  I stood. I wanted to know. I wanted to be sure she hadn’t done it yet — my paranoia wanted one last discussion with her, if we were truly going to go through with this. I opened the laundry basket, found her clothes from the previous evening on the top of the pile. Nothing out of the ordinary — just work clothes. Blue shirt, black pencil skirt, black hose, white bra, matching panties. She looked good in any clothes, of course, but she hadn’t made an effort to dress up. Her underwear was fairly plain. The lust surging through my veins made me press it to my face, breathing in her scent, her familiar sweet perfume, the hint of her sex. Her shirt smelled of her, of course, but there was no trace of a man’s cologne.

  In the rest of the laundry basket, there was nothing obvious, either. No special outfits designed for a date. She hadn’t been to a black tie event for a couple weeks, so there was nothing like that here. No special date lingerie stashed down the bottom of the basket.

  Maybe I was imagining it all.

  The bottom line, though, was: what the hell were those condoms doing in the bathroom? I walked slowly downstairs, feeling strangely that my biggest fear now was that I’d been imagining all this, that Izzie hadn’t had the idea to resurrect our talk of The Game now she’d come round to the benefits of it, that there was simply some rational explanation to the Durex box sitting in the bathroom.

  My phone buzzed again as I sat at the little desk in the corner of the living room, firing up our shared desktop computer. Martin Townsend again. A deviant idea sprang to mind — but really, there was no way Izzie would be tempted by someone like Martin. Nevertheless, I accepted the call this time.

  “Oscar. You home?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “Power’s gone out all over the city already. Crazy night — one little gust of wind, all the damn power cables go down.”

  “We still have power here,” I reported dutifully as I watched our Dell firing up happily enough.

  “Well, enough of the city. I’d tell you to stock up while you have it, but you know…”

  “You seen Izzie tonight, Mart?” I asked him. I really wasn’t thinking he’d call me to tell me my wife had been seen dating someone else, but I had to see if he knew anything before I started calling Izzie direct to ask where she was.

  “She not covering the GOP debate tonight?”

  A light dose of relief fizzed inside my chest at the recollection that, indeed, she had been due to report on the debate between candidates going for the Republican nomination for President — or as I now remembered, at least the undercard debate between candidates polling outside the top 10.

  “Right, I remember,” I replied to Martin. “So — what did you want, Mart?”

  “Want you to get round to Pepco, find out just what the hell is going on over there. Why we still have these power lines flapping about in the wind, instead of going through the ground.”

  “Think it’s a minor issue known as ‘lack of investment’.”

  “Yes, yes, clever dick. But it’s been five years since we investigated the suckers, time to needle them some more. If Facebook can invest in drones to make the Internet available in Outer Mongolia, why do we have the lights flickering on and off at the White House?”

  “Sure, Marty. Think they have backup systems in the West Wing, but I can get you something.”

  “You can hold off on that Shady Grove piece in the meanwhile.”

  “Thanks.”

  So, the first thing I had to do once the desktop had booted up was to fire off an email to my guy at Pepco, to set the ball rolling and all that. With that done, I was into Outlook to dip into Izzie’s emails. She might have an excuse for being out tonight, but that didn’t mean something wasn’t brewing for another night. My heart was still hopping like Jiminy Cricket, still optimistic I was going to find something to back up my theory.

  If she was embarking on an affair, she wouldn’t leave any traces in her work email. But could she leave traces in her personal email. Would she use the email account she knew I had access to? I had to hope that if she was going to leave the box of condoms out as an obvious clue, she wasn’t going to try to hide her email correspondence with her new lover within some newly-created Gmail account. That she was following the rules of The Game.

  Most of her recent emails were junk, which she hadn’t cleaned out yet. Then previous to those, a scattering of messages that weren’t unusual — Facebook alerts, receipts for various online shopping excursions, correspondence with her parents, her sisters.

  And here, a few days back, was an email from someone called Jacob, no surname.

  Great, I’ll see you Thursday evening, then. Looking forward to it. J

  I caught my breath. Thursday evening — a date? That would be tomorrow. Below the one line message, I saw there was a history of messages sent between Izzie and this Jacob. I scrolled down, and read some from the bottom, scanning upwards from old to new messages.

  Jacob: There’s a place on T St, supposed to be wonderful. Great seafood.

  Izzie: I love seafood :-)

  Jacob: Then it’s a date.

  I drew in a gasp as my eyes fell on that word, “date”.

  Izzie: What’s the dress code?

  Jacob: Wear something small, something tight.

  Izzie: Naughty. I’m not sure I own anything like that ;-)

  Jacob: I bet you do, judging by what you wore on Dateline the other week :-P

  Jesus. My hand fell into my lap as I read their flirty exchange. I couldn’t stop myself grazing a fingertip along the length of my stiff shaft through my boxers. Was this the guy? Was this the man she was intending on seducing? She’d
left these emails in her account, she hadn’t deleted them — she had to remember I had access to it. She’d left the box of condoms in plain sight…

  Izzie: You better book a table in the back if I’m going to wear something like that

  Jacob: I’ll have them reserve their most private booth

  Izzie: Scandalous. I’m a married woman.

  Jacob: And I’m chief of staff for an eminent congressman. You can trust me.

  Izzie: That’s not what I hear about Congress ;-)

  This email exchange seemed even more of a confirmation than the box of condoms. God — and I really wanted this. It felt like Christmas morning, and I was getting the giant present under the tree.

  Chapter Two

  Outside, I heard a huge gust of wind flinging rain at the house. Turning to the window to check it out, I saw the headlights doing their utmost to penetrate the gloom as Izzie’s tidy little Volkswagen drew up in the driveway in front of my car.

  Shit. What should I do? Tell her I knew what was going on? How was it supposed to go in The Game? The whole thing had been devised because the two of us — professional communicators, would you believe it — found it impossible to open up to each other about the intimate subject of sex. Her Catholic upbringing, my New England childhood had engineered the pair of us to feel deeply uncomfortable about talking about intimate issues, even if we were perfectly happy stripping off and going to bed with each other.

  The Game was entirely predicated on the assumption that when it came down to it, she would be too reluctant to come out with anything about her own sexual desires, and I would feel too awkward to inquire.

  I clicked out of Izzie’s email, and powered down the PC. On went the TV, and I made it onto the couch just in time to appear as though I’d been there a while, just lounging there watching CNN.