The Game (A Hotwife Adventure) Read online

Now I held her hips, and lifted her while lying down, pushing myself under her, between her thighs. She let out a quiet squeal, but got the gist of what I was doing. As I lay on my back, she shuffled up me, and moved so her knees were on the mattress either side of my head.

  I pulled her down to me, kissing her inner thighs, her sex touching down against my mouth and nose, though her white panties were in the way.

  I breathed her in, the spicy scent of her arousal overpowering her perfume. She sighed as she felt the heat of my mouth on her, and then moaned as I pulled her panties to the side sufficient to open her slippery flower to my enjoyment.

  Her flavor, her scent was intoxicating to me. Tangy, salty, musky. In my imagination, perhaps there was the hint of latex from another man’s condom. The faint smell of a cologne that wasn’t mine. The vague traces of him on her — just enough to really emphasize her wickedness, her depravity, her infidelity.

  Izzie moaned as I lapped at her juices, and now leaned back to hold my stiff shaft, to pump me for a while, at least until things between her thighs became a little too intense. Then she was more focused on her own pleasure, and I was fine with that.

  She hopped up for a moment to remove her panties, but then she returned to me, holding my hands as I gripped her thighs over me, sighing, panting, her body heaving as I ate her, as I flicked my tongue over her soaking pussy lips, over her sensitive clit, then wedged my face into her body to suck on her and press my tongue gently inside her.

  When I reached up to touch her breasts, it sent her over the edge, her body trembling, her breathing becoming jagged, irregular, rocked by cries as she came forcefully over me. I had the most beautiful view of her I could possibly get as I lapped at her copious juices, gazing up over her flat stomach, her breasts, those sensationally hard nipples, and her pretty face riven with the tension of an all-out climax.

  She took a moment to compose herself, and climbed down to lie over me again, smiling so sweetly, loving me, adoring the depraved streak in me.

  “That’s what you’d want to do to me after my date?” she said, beaming as she kissed my mouth, her hips now gyrating as she lay over me, so I could feel her hot pussy stroking my hardness.

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “Even if I’d gone all the way with him?”

  “It’s only sex.”

  “Mmm…” she grinned, and now lifted herself up and off, before plucking a condom from her bedside table, tearing open the packet before running the sheath down over my hardness. “There,” she said, and climbed on me once again, positioning herself to take the tip of my cock inside her.

  I held her tightly in my arms and sat up, my legs dangling over the edge of the bed, and I was pumping my hips to thrust my cock deep inside her as we kissed. She held onto my neck and rode me, her own hips jerking and jumping as she fucked me hard, panting away, sighing and groaning and crying as she did.

  I was hardly your fittest guy, but the adrenalin flooding my system turned me into a titan. I held her and lifted her, and stood to turn her, to drop her on the bed on her back so I could mount her, lay between her legs and shove myself back inside her forcefully, taking possession of her.

  She squealed in delight, and then continued her moaning and her writhing under me as I took her, imagining her to be the nymphomaniac unfaithful wife of my fantasy, the dirty, naughty wench to be tamed.

  She was whimpering and yelping by the time I came to my conclusion, shooting my come deep inside her, albeit protected by a thin sheath of latex.

  God, it was getting better and better between us. And I could see it in her eyes afterward, as we just held each other for ages, my softening cock still inside her, that she was viewing this fantasy of mine as the conduit for these kind of passions. Things between us had always been good — but never that good. Or at least, not since the last time we’d been role-playing these kind of taboo-busting thoughts.

  What would it be like to play The Game for real?

  “I’m not going to tell you, when it starts,” she said after a while, after we’d both recovered our breaths.

  “No,” I said. “You don’t have to.”

  “You’ll have to pay attention. Because it seems to me the rules have changed slightly.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that. “How so?”

  She smiled. “You remember how this started? We said I’d have to leave you clues so you’d know what was going on — so that I could avoid guilt when I was dating someone else.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “I was a little concerned maybe you’d miss my clues. Then I’d be going ahead with it, and you might not know it was happening.”

  “Right.”

  “Only, now I get the feeling I wouldn’t feel so guilty about dating someone, even if you miss my clues.”

  “That so?”

  “Because I’d know it would still turn you on when you did find out. And you wouldn’t be pissed at me for doing it.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I’d be happy you had some fun.”

  She grinned. “So it really is a game, right? I leave you clues, and you really better not miss them, or you’ll miss out on all the fun from your wife being unfaithful.”

  I laughed, “I’ll have to be very careful not to miss anything.”

  She kissed me. “I think we’ll have to play it by ear. I’d hate for you to miss all the fun…”

  *

  While Izzie wasn’t intending to rush into anything, we were fairly feverish in our desires for each other over the next couple of weeks. Put it this way, during that time we got through a large box of condoms and had to buy another.

  Once that box was gone, Izzie was of the opinion she was protected enough that we could continue without the assistance of Mr Durex.

  And I was of the opinion that from what Izzie had said, the Game could start at any time.

  Chapter Five

  The sexual tension between us was unbelievable for a few weeks. It was the anticipation, more than anything. Early on, she came home one night from work and found me on our desktop computer checking out her email, her Facebook account, our joint bank account online.

  Creepy behavior for a normal husband, I agree, but we had an open book as far as sensitive information in our relationship — Izzie had started it, and I had followed suit, and now there was nothing remarkable about us checking out what the other was up to. Normally, though, it was so unremarkable that I rarely bothered checking out her inner secrets. But now the Game had started, I dipped in each evening briefly when I got home from work, just to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.

  To start with, it was just exciting to snoop on my wife with the idea in mind that she could be misbehaving, she could be laying the groundwork for an affair. And even though she wasn’t, most of the time Izzie was just plain flirty with guys anyway, so it fed my fantasies.

  Izzie: Hey hon, would you be the sweetest guy in the world and tell me where Congressman Vito is on the healthcare Bill?

  Scott: Sure — I could tell you over a drink or two at the Panacea.

  Izzie: Mmm… they have a cocktail that makes me warm all over…

  Scott: I’ll buy you two ;-)

  Izzie: You free tonight?

  Scott: Sure. 7pm?

  Izzie: Sounds like a date x

  Oh, it sounded like a date, but this was always the way Izzie was with certain contacts. She had most young male Capitol Hill staffers — and plenty of older ones, too — eating out of her hand. I used to tease her about it, about how she used her female charms to get ahead, but she always just threw back in my face how Washington’s so male-biased. And I knew she had concerns about going any further than drinks with her regular contacts in Washington — these guys liked to brag, even if they were bedding someone’s wife.

  Anyway. One evening she came home and for the first time in a long while found me glancing at her Facebook account. There was instantly fire in her eyes.

  “So it really is happening, huh?” she said, s
ounding almost as though she was in disbelief.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

  She seemed shocked. We’d talked it all over, but she really was surprised that I actually accepted that we were really playing The Game.

  “So how does it go?” she asked. “I mean, how does it start?”

  I shrugged, and clicked to log out of her Facebook account. “You’re basically a single woman,” I said. “As far as dealing with other guys, anyway.”

  “Single.” She seemed to mull the word over in her mouth, as though tasting a special wine or whiskey.

  “You do as you like, as though you were, anyway.”

  “Okay…”

  “So what would you do if you were still single?” I asked her, standing up to approach her. “Or if you were newly single.”

  “Wow, that is a question,” she said. “It’s been so long since I was single. I’m not sure…”

  I wrapped my arms around her. “You don’t have to rush into anything, you know. You do what you want to. At your pace. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  She kissed me. “And as far as… you know… is concerned… I’m single?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Her hand found its way to my crotch, where she found my cock already hard inside my pants. She said, “Well I guess if I’m single, I’m going to have to go out a hell of a lot more than I do now.”

  I smiled at that, along with the way she was stroking me through my pants. “Are you saying being married to me has stopped you from going out at night?”

  She grinned. “No,” she said, “if I wanted us to go out, I’d tell you. I do tell you. We go out, sometimes.”

  “We do.”

  “But if you want me to get laid,” she said, the fire in her eyes positively roaring now, “I’m going to have to step it up, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  With that she dropped to her knees and pulled my hardness out of my pants, and into her mouth. This was how it was in the beginning. She seemed to want reassurance that we really were playing the Game. That she really could respond to a man’s advances if she wanted to, she really could invite a guy out on a date if it tickled her fancy. She really could take someone to a motel for an illicit encounter if she so desired. I’d give her the reassurance, and we’d soon end up in bed as she worked through the realization of what being an effective single woman meant.

  It took a while for her to warm up to it, though. To actually do something.

  That didn’t mean there weren’t early signals from her playing of the Game.

  The next day, she joined the gym. She was late home from work, and our joint bank account showed her paying a gym registration fee when I checked. Then she came home in sweats, fresh from a workout.

  “You joined the gym?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Because we’re… playing?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You don’t need to join a gym,” I said. “You’re seriously hot already.”

  “Thanks,” she smiled. “But you know… it just boosts my confidence.”

  “Okay…”

  “And there are so many hot guys in the gym.”

  “Right…”

  “And besides, I want to be as fit as I can for when… you know… it happens…”

  There was that word, ‘it’, again. It got me going. It got both of us going — I joined her in the shower after that, shortly after I’d helped tear off her workout clothes, and for a while neither of us were getting any cleaner under the warm flow of water.

  At the weekend, she had to go out shopping for clothes in which she could better portray herself as a single woman on nights out.

  She cleared out a load of old clothes to make space in the wardrobe — and also, I noticed, she cleared out her underwear drawer, filling it with new bras and panties, not to mention some special lingerie.

  She bought new perfume, she started wearing more make-up than usual.

  She waxed her bikini line.

  All of these little clues were easy enough for me to observe — and each time I noticed something, it only drove me to want her more, and usually ended up with us both in bed working out our anticipation excitement. But none of them in themselves suggested that anything was actually going to happen.

  Her emails with a number of guys were still flagrantly flirtatious — but then they had been before. She wasn’t suggesting drinks, or a night out, with any of them.

  I even played the stalker, and drove by her gym occasionally, to see if anything was happening while she worked out. She was flirty with a couple of guys, and that was hot to watch — seeing them ogling her in her skin-tight lycra when she wasn’t looking, seeing her smile at them when she caught them, seeing her arching her back and pushing out her chest when she was chatting with them. But there was that polite awkwardness about her that suggested she wasn’t going to act on any of it.

  Izzie started going out a couple of nights each week with her friends, or people from work, and that was definitely something different. Each time she’d tell me she was going to be late home, I’d be waiting at home, hoping that something would happen while she was out. Each time she came home and it had been an innocent evening in a restaurant, or in a bar, or some kind of interview for work.

  “I don’t feel like I can do much when I’m with my friends,” she said after a while, when I’d asked if she was enjoying her new social freedoms. “And I really don’t want to do anything in front of people from work.”

  The point was that our playing of the Game was a secret, and a secret that we did not want to share with our friends and family. Izzie didn’t want to go out on her own, and she wasn’t in a hurry to try out any kind of online dating websites after the complete debacle that the website Ashley Madison turned into over the summer, where hackers who seemed to want to turn America into some kind of puritanical nightmare decided to steal the website’s database of members, and publish the details to expose millions of potential adulterers.

  For a while, we rode the tension that existed between us, the spark arising every time we considered the fact that Izzie could, at any time, date someone other than me. But after a while with no opportunities arising, things seemed to settle down again.

  I almost took my eye off the ball.

  And then something changed, to kickstart the Game after all.

  Part Two:

  Playing the Game

  Chapter Six

  What happened came completely out of the blue: our friend Marie McCoy caught her husband, Gerry, in the throes of passion with his secretary one afternoon when she was unexpectedly home to change her clothes owing to an unfortunate incident with a Caesar salad an hour before she was due to go on CBS News.

  The New York Times correspondent was horrified, of course, but not necessarily surprised. She moved out and into a hotel — at her husband’s expense — while looking to pursue a divorce as quickly as possible. Getting a divorce out of state appeared the swiftest option, and the State of Nevada’s required six weeks of separation was about as quick as it got.

  In the meantime, Marie drowned her sorrows with her friends, and, more often than not, with Izzie in particular.

  Actually, the term drowning her sorrows didn’t quite do justice to her — she seemed to take the collapse of her marriage very well.

  “He wasn’t the man I thought I’d married,” she explained to me once when she came round to ours for dinner one evening. “So it’s probably better we weren’t married at all.”

  Marie coped with the whole thing with carefully concealed anger, but otherwise just seemed to want to move on with her life. She had plenty of potential, after all — she was pretty, intelligent, with an impressive job — and she was only 31, so there was plenty of time even if she wanted to have kids.

  One night Izzie came home after a late one with Marie, and said to me: “I want to tell her.”

  “Tell her? Tell her what?”

  “About the Game. Abo
ut what we’re doing. “

  After things had settled down between us, this reminder that we were actually supposed to be playing the Game put a little lead in my pencil. I was in bed at that time, having put down my copy of the latest John Grisham doorstopper in order to watch my beautiful wife undress from her evening out.

  Watching her removing her shirt, and then slipping out of her skirt, made me suddenly wonder if I’d been missing anything — if Izzie had done something on one of her nights out and I hadn’t picked up any of the signs. It was something about her unfamiliar underwear — well, all her underwear was unfamiliar these days — that made me feel sudden insecurity. If she was being unfaithful, that was fine, but I damn well wanted to know about it.

  “You want to tell her that?”

  Aware how closely I was watching her strip, Izzie took her time peeling off her black bra and matching thong.

  “She doesn’t show it, but she’s been so miserable, I said she should just go out and meet some guys, but she says she needs some single friends to do it with.”

  “And you want to tell her you’re single?”

  “Something like that,” she grinned, and slipped under the covers, only to find me hard and waiting for her.

  “I don’t see why not,” I said. “You trust her not to tell anyone else?”

  “Of course.”

  Izzie straddled me under the bedsheets, and pressed her pussy against my hardness, before starting up a rhythm to stroke it along my length.

  “So you’ll be like single girls going out to have fun, huh?”

  “I should imagine so,” she said, pushing herself forward to drop her beautiful breasts over my face, and brush me with her soft, smooth skin.

  “I guess it’s fine by me…” I said, and she was clearly delighted with my support, rewarding me by sinking down, taking my cock deep inside her.

  The day after that, a fresh box of condoms appeared in our bathroom, and this time there was absolutely no reason why Izzie would need to use them with her husband.