A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife by Arnica Butler
Authors: Arnica Butler
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jerk off in the shower thinking about what he might find.
And hopefully, as twisted as it sounded, get a picture of.
Is that what I wanted?
I had no idea.
C ONVICTION
As it seemed to go on this roller-coaster ride with Jordan, things went back, very much, to “normal” again for several days. Having relieved myself of the surveillance of my wife, but feeling guilty and conflicted about it, I threw myself into catching up on work that had really gone to hell. The end of the term was approaching and I was, actually, going to be fired if I didn't get my act together.
Jordan was asleep most nights when I arrived home, her face a picture of angelic innocence, her brow untroubled, her respiration slow and steady.
How could she be the duplicitous woman I suspected her of being? I thought. Again, in spite of the evidence, I began to doubt my conviction.
But Thursday I came home to find Olivia watching TV on the couch alone. She greeted me with a jerk of her head and mumbled that Jordan was at the gym.
I saw her, though, from the kitchen, as she found her phone next to her on the couch and, without setting her bowl of cereal down, typed a message on it.
It was 9:30.
I went to the study and forced myself to read through my assistant's briefs. I had been saddled with an intern who seemed to only have been admitted to law school to begin with because of some family connection, and who only got the coveted internship for the same reason. She was awful, and somehow converted boiler-plate motions to utter gibberish when asked to modify minor details. Ultimately, my paranoid delusions about my wife and Cassie Davis' incompetence, were going to combine and destroy my career.
I heard the garage door at 10:37. I rose and moved to the doorway. In the kitchen I heard whispered exchanges between Jordan and Olivia.
I moved back to my desk and put my hands behind my head.
What was it, I wondered, that Jordan needed to seek outside of our marriage? Why like this, with evening dates, with fat men, going to bars? Was that it? She wanted to go out to dinner or get some drinks?
Or was it something else? Something physical? Some twisted sexual game she wanted to play and couldn't tell me about?
I wondered, briefly, if she was one of those rape fantasy women.
But why wouldn't she just tell me?
And no, it didn't add up.
“Hey.”
Jordan's voice was breathy. She was standing in the doorway; I could see her reflection in the window. I swiveled in my chair and looked at her.
She was dressed in her gym clothes, all right.
“Oh...kay,” she said. “Hello to you, too.”
I blinked.
“Your hair always looks so...un-mussed after the gym,” I ventured.
Jordan squinted. She reached up to her head, and patted it. “What the heck are you talking about?” she said.
God, she was good.
Shaved pussy, working out more, fancy clothes...you should have known about this affair ages ago.
She stepped forward, apparently not truly interested in what the heck I was talking about. Apparently unaffected by my strange mood. I still had my hands clasped at the back of my head.
She came to the chair, and pushed my spread legs closed with her knees so that she could plop herself onto my lap.
I inhaled her scent.
She did smell like sweat. And sandalwood. Not fresh, like a shower.
“I'm glad you're here,” she said. She put her arms on my shoulders. Her breasts pressed against my chest. “I have just been stretching in all these weird positions, and this class was really long, really boring, and all I could do the whole time was think about sex.”
Sex with who, Jordan?
She was grinning.
Was she telling me this class was so long to cover up for how late she was getting home? Was this another night she had left in a cab and changed her clothes before she got home?
If it was, she was shameless. She had no remorse as she squirmed on top of me, biting her lower lip, her eyes glowing with mischief.
My cock, of course, was not responding with
And hopefully, as twisted as it sounded, get a picture of.
Is that what I wanted?
I had no idea.
C ONVICTION
As it seemed to go on this roller-coaster ride with Jordan, things went back, very much, to “normal” again for several days. Having relieved myself of the surveillance of my wife, but feeling guilty and conflicted about it, I threw myself into catching up on work that had really gone to hell. The end of the term was approaching and I was, actually, going to be fired if I didn't get my act together.
Jordan was asleep most nights when I arrived home, her face a picture of angelic innocence, her brow untroubled, her respiration slow and steady.
How could she be the duplicitous woman I suspected her of being? I thought. Again, in spite of the evidence, I began to doubt my conviction.
But Thursday I came home to find Olivia watching TV on the couch alone. She greeted me with a jerk of her head and mumbled that Jordan was at the gym.
I saw her, though, from the kitchen, as she found her phone next to her on the couch and, without setting her bowl of cereal down, typed a message on it.
It was 9:30.
I went to the study and forced myself to read through my assistant's briefs. I had been saddled with an intern who seemed to only have been admitted to law school to begin with because of some family connection, and who only got the coveted internship for the same reason. She was awful, and somehow converted boiler-plate motions to utter gibberish when asked to modify minor details. Ultimately, my paranoid delusions about my wife and Cassie Davis' incompetence, were going to combine and destroy my career.
I heard the garage door at 10:37. I rose and moved to the doorway. In the kitchen I heard whispered exchanges between Jordan and Olivia.
I moved back to my desk and put my hands behind my head.
What was it, I wondered, that Jordan needed to seek outside of our marriage? Why like this, with evening dates, with fat men, going to bars? Was that it? She wanted to go out to dinner or get some drinks?
Or was it something else? Something physical? Some twisted sexual game she wanted to play and couldn't tell me about?
I wondered, briefly, if she was one of those rape fantasy women.
But why wouldn't she just tell me?
And no, it didn't add up.
“Hey.”
Jordan's voice was breathy. She was standing in the doorway; I could see her reflection in the window. I swiveled in my chair and looked at her.
She was dressed in her gym clothes, all right.
“Oh...kay,” she said. “Hello to you, too.”
I blinked.
“Your hair always looks so...un-mussed after the gym,” I ventured.
Jordan squinted. She reached up to her head, and patted it. “What the heck are you talking about?” she said.
God, she was good.
Shaved pussy, working out more, fancy clothes...you should have known about this affair ages ago.
She stepped forward, apparently not truly interested in what the heck I was talking about. Apparently unaffected by my strange mood. I still had my hands clasped at the back of my head.
She came to the chair, and pushed my spread legs closed with her knees so that she could plop herself onto my lap.
I inhaled her scent.
She did smell like sweat. And sandalwood. Not fresh, like a shower.
“I'm glad you're here,” she said. She put her arms on my shoulders. Her breasts pressed against my chest. “I have just been stretching in all these weird positions, and this class was really long, really boring, and all I could do the whole time was think about sex.”
Sex with who, Jordan?
She was grinning.
Was she telling me this class was so long to cover up for how late she was getting home? Was this another night she had left in a cab and changed her clothes before she got home?
If it was, she was shameless. She had no remorse as she squirmed on top of me, biting her lower lip, her eyes glowing with mischief.
My cock, of course, was not responding with
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