The Game (A Hotwife Adventure) Page 2

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, you okay?” I asked her.

  “Just wet. Jesus, this storm. You eat dinner?”

  “Had a nibble on the way home,” I lied. Truth was, I wasn’t even remotely hungry. Just a raging mass of hormones — my cock was still hard in my boxers.

  “Gonna take off these clothes,” she said, dropping her bag by the desk at which I had just been sitting.

  “Good idea. How was the debate?”

  “Meh,” she said as she started up the stairs. “A load of hot air, all nicely polished by their media trainers.”

  My pulse was still raised as I sat there waiting for her. Should I do something? Should I go up there, confront her? Demand to know if something was happening, if we really were starting the Game after all? But I couldn’t. That repressed part of me was more terrified of looking foolish, of going up there and embarrassing myself by suggesting this ridiculous fantasy of mine could be made real, than anything.

  Izzie was my soulmate, after all. I was intending to spend the rest of my life with her. That fact alone made me reluctant to make a complete ass of myself in her presence.

  But now, as I waited, I wondered if she was going to the bathroom medical cabinet to check whether I’d seen her clue. Damn it — was I supposed to have done something with the box of condoms? What had we said all those months ago? She could leave me clues like a box of condoms, and I could leave her evidence that I’d seen her clues, and was on board with it all. If she bought a box of condoms, since she’d need some if she was intending to take a new sexual partner, I would have to move the box so she could tell I’d seen them and approved.

  I sat there on the couch wondering if I’d moved the box of condoms enough, if I’d actually put them back where I’d found them, so she wouldn’t know I’d seen them and consented to this. Maybe I’d have to go up there later and move them more blatantly.

  She was in her scarlet bathrobe when she came back down. She’d dried off her long auburn hair quickly, leaving it a little mussed from the towel, but she still looked searingly beautiful, the bathrobe tied around her waist to highlight her petite frame, dropping down to show most of her thighs.

  “You still think Fiorina can step up to the big stage?” I asked her as she wandered quietly through to the kitchen area of our open plan lower floor.

  “She was the best of the bunch tonight. But who knows, the way the polling’s going.”

  She stood by the central island in our kitchen, drumming her fingertips on the counter silently. Was she anxious? Was she nervous about dealing with me, now that she was preparing to go on a date with this Jacob guy?

  I watched her from the corner of my eye as she ran a hand through her hair, and glanced over at the TV, which was now showing a package summing up that evening’s undercard debate, ahead of the main event. I felt a craving to go over there, to take her in my arms, to devour her. The thought that she might want to actually run with my dark little fantasy made her suddenly so irresistible.

  “You okay?” I asked her, more an attempt at a prompt, rather than actively worrying about her.

  “Just can’t really decide if I’m hungry or not,” she said with a smile.

  She went to the refrigerator and pulled out half a cucumber, which made me think something Freudian was going through her mind. But with a knife and a cutting board, she took off a few slices and began snacking on them.

  “What happened with your Shady Grove meeting?” she asked me.

  I pulled myself up from the couch. I couldn’t just sit there. “The developers are going to sue,” I said.

  “Of course.” She smiled as I walked toward her, as I sidled up to her, one arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her to me as I stood behind her, so I could kiss her cheek.

  “I’ll probably be out of a job by the time the case is decided,” I said.

  “Oh nonsense,” she said, but couldn’t stop smiling as I kissed her cheek again, then continued planting kisses down her neck.

  “We can’t all be star political reporters,” I grinned. “And we know there’s big cutbacks on the way.”

  She turned to me, one hand gripping my arm, and kissed my mouth. Her lips were so soft, so sweet. I could smell the rain on her, even over the lingering traces of her perfume. “You’re a fantastic journalist,” she said. “There’s no way they’d want to get rid of you.”

  I shrugged as one of my hands found its way to cup one of her breasts over her thin satiny bathrobe. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll find something else.”

  She kissed me again, and my hands slid around her waist, over her back, up to take in the slight dampness of her silky hair flowing over her shoulders. She moaned quietly as I leaned down to kiss her neck.

  “This is nice,” she said softly. “I don’t normally get this every time I come home.”

  I kissed her again, and now fumbled with the knot on her bathrobe cord, unfastening it, exposing her exquisite breasts. “I’m allowed to get horny when my beautiful wife gets home from work, aren’t I?” I smiled.

  “Of course,” she grinned as I covered her stiff nipples with my palms. “It’s to be encouraged, in fact. I wish it rained more.”

  Her scent swirled around me as I kissed her again, my hands slipping around to hold her cute behind. God I wanted her so badly. Could I really stand idly by while she dated another man? My cock throbbed in my boxer shorts: yes, apparently I could, or at least the horny part of me could. The part of me that loved the idea that other men wanted Izzie as badly as me, that she might have a little fun with them, but then always come home to me.

  She squealed as I lifted her up, to place her butt on the kitchen counter, but then melted into me as I stood between her thighs to kiss her soft mouth, her breathing deepening as my kisses descended to her chest, to her breasts, to the velvet vale between her breasts, then up to her hard little buds.

  “Mmm… maybe we need to close the blinds,” she said as I began peeling her bathrobe off her shoulders.

  “Nobody can see. Not through this storm.”

  “Oh… but what if somebody comes to the door… I don’t know… to ask for help because of the storm…”

  “They won’t.”

  “They could see in through our windows…”

  She probably liked the idea that someone might see us. Sitting there on the island, her butt on the edge of the counter, she certainly wasn’t stopping me. She leaned back as I kissed my way down her stomach, her legs parted so I could stroke my face down over her smooth, soft skin to the waistband of her panties.

  “Mmm… we’ve never done it here,” she moaned, lying down across the island now.

  “No,” I said, inhaling her scent as I drew my mouth and nose over the warm, damp white cotton stretched over her mound. I could smell her arousal already, along with her usual fragrance.

  “I like it,” she said, then sucked in her breath as I ran the tip of my tongue over her pussy, though the thin cotton of her underwear remained a barrier.

  “Then stay put,” I ordered her, and now stood to peel her panties up over her thighs, her knees, her calves, as she held her legs aloft.

  “Mmm… whatever my husband commands,” she smirked, but then closed her eyes, her head tilting back, as I descended on her naked form, as I kissed my way through the small patch of red fur on her mound, and down to the apex of her beautiful flower, filling my chest with her spicy scent.

  She gasped as I pressed my mouth against her sex, and her body writhed under me.

  “What are you… doing?” she murmured as I sucked on her pussy lips, as I coursed my tongue through her slippery folds.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” I asked, and then swirled the tip of my tongue gently around her clit, not yet touching it directly.

  I felt her delicate hand touch down over my head as I began to lap at her increasingly wet pussy, as I sampled her delicious tangy flavor.

  “Oh God…”

  I loved the soft sound of her
moaning and sighing under me, and that little tremor in her breathing, that staccato stutter as she coped with the sexual energy flowing through her body from her soaking pussy.

  I’ll admit, normally when we slept together, I probably neglected this part of my duty to Izzie. Not because I didn’t enjoy it — I’d gladly spend all day with my head locked between her thighs if I could — but it was just one of those things that ended up falling by the wayside, when a married couple like us took our usual shortcuts in navigating our sexual congress, both of us usually trying to get to our climax as quickly as possible, instead of truly taking the time to appreciate it all.

  Our lives were usually too stressed to really stop and take the time we should for each other, I always believed. But perhaps if we were starting The Game for real, it was time to challenge that approach.

  Right now, I couldn’t get enough of my beautiful wife’s sweet pussy. Feasting on her, engorging myself on her, coating my face in her juices as I rubbed against her, as I sucked on her, as I slid my tongue inside her. Sensing that perhaps one day soon, this sweet pussy would be available for someone else to enjoy. The wickedness in that thought, the taboo-busting darkness only drove me on in devouring her.

  Her sighs and moans turned into cries and whimpers, her breaths becoming irregular, her hands clamping down on my head, locking me to her as she rode my face to her shuddering climax.

  “Where did that come from?” she said, out of breath and beaming from ear to ear, as she sat up, her cheeks flushed, the roots of her hair damp with perspiration.

  “I don’t know… I just had a craving for some fresh Izzie,” I said, kissing her mouth, my hands finding their way back to her behind, so I could lift her up off the counter again, depositing her back down on the ground.

  “Mmm…” she grinned, “You should let me know every time you get a craving like that.”

  “Come on,” I lightly slapped her ass. “Upstairs. Now.”

  “My,” she flashed her eyes at me, but started walking toward the stairs. “Aren’t we demanding tonight?”

  I followed her, drinking the sight of her naked body in as we went up the stairs, and by the time we got to the first floor, my hands were already reaching for her, touching those pert buttocks.

  “What has gotten into you?” she grinned, pulling off my remaining clothes as we reached the bedroom.

  “I just need a little quality time with my honey,” I said, crawling onto the bed.

  Now it was her turn to drink me in with her eyes, especially my stiff prick standing aloft as I lay on my back, ready for her.

  “Okay…” she said, placing her hands on my thighs as she climbed onto the bed herself, to kneel between my legs.

  I guess when you’re married, you develop a routine, and even sex can become part of that routine. That’s the way it was for us, or that was the way it had become. It was usually saved for the weekend, or at least the weekends where one or other of us weren’t off on assignment, when we were knocking around the house together. Maybe a quiet afternoon on the couch would turn into something, or just the act of going to bed early for once, without the pressing need to get up early in the morning.

  Any break from the routine is seen as unusual. It might even require explanation. My sudden need to make love to Izzie in the middle of the week, early enough that neither of us had even had a proper supper yet, was definitely a break from the routine.

  I kind of liked that she was intrigued by why I was suddenly feeling so amorous, though.

  She knelt between my thighs and ran her hand over my shaft, saying quietly, “My God, you’re so hard…”

  Then she was ducking down to kiss around the base of my cock, her hot breath dancing over my sensitive skin, her velvet cheeks brushing against my shaft.

  “I have a hot, naked babe between my legs…” I attempted by way of an explanation. I had to concede, though, that ordinarily, the familiarity of my wife’s nude form meant I’d probably only get halfway or two thirds of the way to full rigidity on visual stimulation alone.

  This time, she hadn’t had to even really touch me for me to be at one hundred percent.

  Well, the thought of that box of condoms in the bathroom, the recall of that flirty conversation in her email did that. The thought of her taking my fantasy and running with it, actually wanting to try out the strange Game that we’d once concocted without really believing she’d ever do it — it all pumped extra testosterone into my blood.

  I moaned as she gripped my shaft in her hands and kissed the tip of my cock before stretching her lips around it, sinking down on it. The heat of her mouth was irresistible around my manhood. Her silver wedding ring glinted in the light from the bathroom as she pumped my cock.

  She looked up at me with a mischievous look even as she continued to suck on me, and stroke me in her hands. She was amused at me for my unexpected horniness, though she was enjoying every moment of it.

  It didn’t last too long, however. She wanted more, after I’d warmed her up in the kitchen. She crawled further up my body, straddling my hips, the smooth skin of her shaven legs gliding against my thighs, the searing heat of her pussy touching down against my shaft.

  God, she looked amazing sitting astride me, my naughty red-haired wife. I ran my hands over the curve of her behind, her waist, her lower back, up to those sensational breasts so prominent on her ribs, peaked with pebble-like nipples.

  Was I really going to give this up to another man? Well, it would only be temporary, only a loan. And then she’d come back more desirable than ever, my wicked little minx — sullied, sexy, satisfied.

  “Oh… wait,” she said, suddenly leaping off me, off the bed.

  She slipped into the bathroom for a moment, and I heard her open the medical cabinet. Was now really the time to check I’d seen her clue?

  But she came out holding up a single condom, puzzling me in the process.

  “I changed my birth control,” she said, climbing back onto the bed, straddling my thighs this time, so she could hold my pole in her hands. “The doctor says we have to use condoms for a couple weeks, you know, so there’s no chance of anything getting through during the transition.”

  My stomach lurched at hearing her explanation.

  I was, it has to be said, disappointed.

  “That’s what they’re for?” I asked her as she tore open the condom packet, and started rolling the cool latex down my shaft.

  “Well what did you think they were for?” she asked with a wry grin, lifting herself up on her knees to guide the tip of my sheathed cock to her pussy.

  She paused, just the tip of my hardness inside her.

  “Wait…” she said, tilting her head, puzzled, “You saw the box of condoms in the bathroom… you thought… you thought it was part of that Game? That I wanted to do… that?”

  There was no doubt what she was referring to with the word ‘that’.

  She was blushing, fiercely.

  “Well what was I supposed to think?” I said. “You’ve always been on birth control, we’ve never needed condoms. And suddenly, there they are?”

  She wasn’t angry at me, it was more that she was surprised — shocked, even. That I had leapt to the conclusion that she might want to play The Game. That I had assumed it. And that the idea really did turn me on —

  “Wait — that’s what’s got you all wound up and horny?” she said, and now slid down on my hardness, taking me inside her.

  “You know it’s my fantasy.”

  “Yeah, but a fantasy. Right up until I went in that bathroom just now, you thought it was real, didn’t you? You thought I was… playing. Aren’t I supposed to leave more clues than just a box of condoms?”

  She began slowly riding me, and it seemed to me that the way her nipples were just so hard, and the way her chest was now flushed — and the way she was just so damn wet down there — was she responding to the thought that I’d believed her to be playing The Game?

  “I checked your email,
” I said.

  “So?”

  “Who’s Jacob?”

  She looked at me for a moment or two, blank. Then something seemed to click, and she relaxed into a sigh. “Oh, Jake. Congressman’s Chief of Staff Jake?”

  If I’d been a political reporter like her, perhaps I would have known which particular Congressmen’s Chief of Staff was called Jake or Jacob. I wasn’t, so I didn’t.

  Izzie smiled. “I forgot about that. He’s quite… flirty, isn’t he?”

  “And you are with him. You have a date lined up for tomorrow night?”

  She laughed, and I felt it in the tremor rippling through her tight pussy. “Oh, it’s just dinner. And he’s just a contact, that’s all. He’s promised me a copy of the confidential proposals Hillary has for tax reform.”

  She paused again, then added, “But I guess I can see how you might take it if you were snooping.”

  That little line came with an impish grin. Snooping was allowed in our relationship — always had been. Ever since we’d started dating, and Izzie’s conversation had included queries about how this meeting or that meeting of mine had gone — when I’d never ever told her about the meetings in the first place. “We’re journalists, what’re you gonna do?” had been her response to my startled suggestion that she’d somehow managed to get into my email account. “And you know, having my name as your password is pretty predictable,” she’d added.

  It was true, we were both journalists, we liked being in full receipt of all the facts possible. We liked finding stuff out ourselves if we weren’t going to remember to tell each other every little detail about our lives.

  And we’d never had any secrets from each other.

  Izzie liked prying into my email, she liked reading the vague attempts at short fiction I’d tried, thinking about the future and a career away from journalism. She liked finding out the inner thoughts I disguised in my writing — about her, about life, about everything. I had nothing much to hide, other than the occasional sappy thought about how much I loved her — and it turned out she liked reading that kind of thing, too.