A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife by Arnica Butler Page A
Authors: Arnica Butler
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the same reservation as I was. Instead, it was getting hard beneath Jordan's soft weight, and she was rubbing herself against it, bringing me to a boil.
“Jordan,”
“Shhh,” she said. “Just give me five minutes of your time, and then I'll be done with you.”
I was paralyzed by her words, and by her fingers, which she was using to unbuckle my pants. She did it without looking, like it was something she did all the time. Maybe from practice? And certainly not on me.
This woman, who was digging into my pants, and then squeezing my cock, was not my wife. This was not the woman I had married. Whether it was my fault or not that she had transformed into something else, someone else, while I wasn't looking was...well...a question for another…
Jordan had my cock out, and she was stroking it now. Her face had a devious grin.
I still didn't move, or know what to do. I just stared at her.
She slid down to the floor, and without any warning or teasing, took me inside of her mouth. She swallowed my cock whole, all the way to the base. She hollowed her cheeks to suck on me – hard – and I looked up at the ceiling, breathing out. Fuck. She was practically sucking the cum from my balls, through my cock, like a straw.
I grasped her hair, and the movement of her head, bobbing on my cock, stirred my arousal even more.
I was nearing the point of no return, when she suddenly stopped, and stood up.
She pulled her yoga pants and underwear down in one swift movement. Still suspicious, though powerless to do anything about it, I sniffed the air. She smelled like...yoga.
Or did she?
She gave me no time to think about it. She climbed onto my lap, and slipped her sopping wet pussy onto my cock.
Her body was warm, soft, exquisite, and she rocked against me until we both came, in just minutes.
Then she slid off of me, and kissed me. She made nothing of my stunned face.
So sure. This woman was not my wife. Not the woman I'd married. She was probably having an affair.
I was convinced, I reminded myself, that she was having an affair.
Did it matter? Was it even true?
I was dizzy. I was confused. I was having the best sex of our marriage.
Conviction, the non-legal kind, the kind that lives in the heart, is a funny, funny thing.
P HOTOS
Ricky called me, as promised, a week later.
“You'll want to stop by,” he told me.
“Any way you can come to me?” I said. “Meet for coffee?” Ricky's office was halfway across town.
There was lengthy pause. “It's a policy of mine to have people meet me here,” he said.
I closed my eyes. My heart was plummeting, because I knew what that meant. Meet him there, to avoid a public scene. To be able to assess if I should be locked in his office for a while. Searched for weapons. Referred to a lawyer friend.
At the same time, I felt a raw, intoxicating excitement. My pulse was racing and it was not out of anger or even fear: I was excited. I was already imagining pictures, and what would be in them. Black and whites, tucked in an envelope, Jordan's pretty face obscured by the back of a man's head. Jordan laughing and holding hands. Jordan through a window with her hands twisted behind her back, taking off her bra. The back of Jordan’s head, her long auburn mane unmistakable, right at the midsection of a businessman, his head turned up to the ceiling as her mouth closed around his cock...
“Paddy?”
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I'll come...I'll be by in the afternoon.”
“I'm here at three to three-thirty or after six. Surveillance.”
“Okay. Three then.” My voice was robotic, my mind detached and floating in a sea of filthy images in black and white. My cock was pressing painfully against my pants and I could do nothing about it...my door was open and anyone could look over and see me adjust it.
Jordan's tits, pal white with black nipples, bouncing over the fit torso of a prone man, her hands on his abs, her mouth open and smiling, her pussy filled up
“Jordan,”
“Shhh,” she said. “Just give me five minutes of your time, and then I'll be done with you.”
I was paralyzed by her words, and by her fingers, which she was using to unbuckle my pants. She did it without looking, like it was something she did all the time. Maybe from practice? And certainly not on me.
This woman, who was digging into my pants, and then squeezing my cock, was not my wife. This was not the woman I had married. Whether it was my fault or not that she had transformed into something else, someone else, while I wasn't looking was...well...a question for another…
Jordan had my cock out, and she was stroking it now. Her face had a devious grin.
I still didn't move, or know what to do. I just stared at her.
She slid down to the floor, and without any warning or teasing, took me inside of her mouth. She swallowed my cock whole, all the way to the base. She hollowed her cheeks to suck on me – hard – and I looked up at the ceiling, breathing out. Fuck. She was practically sucking the cum from my balls, through my cock, like a straw.
I grasped her hair, and the movement of her head, bobbing on my cock, stirred my arousal even more.
I was nearing the point of no return, when she suddenly stopped, and stood up.
She pulled her yoga pants and underwear down in one swift movement. Still suspicious, though powerless to do anything about it, I sniffed the air. She smelled like...yoga.
Or did she?
She gave me no time to think about it. She climbed onto my lap, and slipped her sopping wet pussy onto my cock.
Her body was warm, soft, exquisite, and she rocked against me until we both came, in just minutes.
Then she slid off of me, and kissed me. She made nothing of my stunned face.
So sure. This woman was not my wife. Not the woman I'd married. She was probably having an affair.
I was convinced, I reminded myself, that she was having an affair.
Did it matter? Was it even true?
I was dizzy. I was confused. I was having the best sex of our marriage.
Conviction, the non-legal kind, the kind that lives in the heart, is a funny, funny thing.
P HOTOS
Ricky called me, as promised, a week later.
“You'll want to stop by,” he told me.
“Any way you can come to me?” I said. “Meet for coffee?” Ricky's office was halfway across town.
There was lengthy pause. “It's a policy of mine to have people meet me here,” he said.
I closed my eyes. My heart was plummeting, because I knew what that meant. Meet him there, to avoid a public scene. To be able to assess if I should be locked in his office for a while. Searched for weapons. Referred to a lawyer friend.
At the same time, I felt a raw, intoxicating excitement. My pulse was racing and it was not out of anger or even fear: I was excited. I was already imagining pictures, and what would be in them. Black and whites, tucked in an envelope, Jordan's pretty face obscured by the back of a man's head. Jordan laughing and holding hands. Jordan through a window with her hands twisted behind her back, taking off her bra. The back of Jordan’s head, her long auburn mane unmistakable, right at the midsection of a businessman, his head turned up to the ceiling as her mouth closed around his cock...
“Paddy?”
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I'll come...I'll be by in the afternoon.”
“I'm here at three to three-thirty or after six. Surveillance.”
“Okay. Three then.” My voice was robotic, my mind detached and floating in a sea of filthy images in black and white. My cock was pressing painfully against my pants and I could do nothing about it...my door was open and anyone could look over and see me adjust it.
Jordan's tits, pal white with black nipples, bouncing over the fit torso of a prone man, her hands on his abs, her mouth open and smiling, her pussy filled up
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