The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel (14 page)

Underneath that raging pulse was something else, though. Painful and sweet.

And there was worry.

Jealousy.

The helplessness of being clutched by an addiction, and then the love of it that makes you not care.

I walked to the store down the street and I bought a pack of cigarettes. I stared at my phone some more.

What was there to say?

I lit up a cigarette, the first I'd smoked in almost fifteen years.

It tasted terrible.

It tasted so terrible, so terribly good. It went through me, and it was suddenly every afternoon when I was young. Having a smoke, not caring what would happen because of it, floating through the afternoon. Pretty girls, warm summers, nothing to do...

I had a beer. Another cigarette.

I was jittery.

I wrote back:

Okay.

I was out of control. I opened another beer.

Nine pm.

Anna usually managed to leave work by six or seven. Not because her job was the kind of job that people normally left by that time, but because Anna was a fucking maniac. She went in, she made phone calls, she put nothing off, she made things happen.

What would she do until then?

I wanted to write to her, or to call her, to ask her where she was going. What they were going to do. How she had arranged things in such a way that could say with confidence that she would be home by 9pm. That she would get John into his apartment by then, the apartment below the home of the man whose wife he was fucking, how she would get him in there and his cock into her mouth by some certain time.

Who was this woman I was married to?

I couldn't call her. I felt as nervous as when we had first started dating. Like I didn't know her again, like I might be shot down or told a lie.

You might think that was a terrible feeling. I tried to mope, tried to drink away a feeling of depression that I didn't have, tried to tell myself it was a bad feeling.

But it wasn't.

It was a good feeling. An invigorating feeling,

A feeling I had felt had gone away forever.

There was also the fact that, even though I had this fear of the unpredictability of what was happening, I knew that Anna was doing it because I had asked her to.

Right?

I took a long drag of another cigarette. The light had grown dim around me, and now it was well past dusk. I hadn't turned on the lights, and I shouldn't. The cigarette was burning my lungs, and I knew I would be sorry tomorrow. Tomorrow when I started thinking about it, craving it, and I was back where I had been so long ago.

Wanting something bad for me.

Doing it anyway.

It was not too late to stop. To put the cigarette out, to never smoke one again, to pick up my phone and text Anna back, to just
not do
these things. Not do them, because they were almost certainly headed for disaster.

I looked behind me at the house, all the lights out. For a moment, just a moment, the whole thing seemed so sordid.

I was a man who was going to sneak into my own house, watch my own street from the window like a stalker, watch my wife come home with another man, sneak into my dark basement and watch her through a hole in the wall.

Like a cigarette. Tasty. But bad.

I could send her a text now and call it off.

I could put out the cigarette now, go to sleep. Get up and run ten miles. Tell Anna we needed to get back to the way we were before.

But the image of her with her mouth open, spit coating her face, her eyes on mine, John's cock inside of her...it filled my head and the smoke filled my lungs.

Sweet. Deadly. Bad.

Good.

When John and Ann
a
arrived they came in separate cars.

I had been standing three feet away from the darkened window of my bedroom, looking out at the street, for about two hours. Like a zombie. When a car passed, my pulse elevated and the blood pounded in my ears. In my cock. I drank another drink, then another.

Headlights swept across the small front yard, as all cars did when they came up the hill to our corner. But they stayed there, frozen in time. Slowing.

The car was John's. The sleek black used Lexus.

And only seconds later, more lights. A sweep over the house, the light bent as it glared onto the side of the house where out parking spot was.

Anna.

Anna right behind John.

Where had they gone, or how had they met up? My mind played through all the possibilities again – and this was now the hundredth time for any of them. A quiet bar, leaning toward each other and smiling with complicity. Dinner, where John ordered some kind of rare wine and laughed as he poured it, telling Anna he didn't believe in being pretentious about wine.

They were whispering. They were laughing and whispering as they each crossed the yard, toward each other. The half-whispers, the too-loud whispers of two people who are trying to be discreet but can't see themselves for what they are. The kind of hoarse, loud, silly whispering that comes from teenagers.

Women having affairs.

Men seducing women.

They met in the middle of the yard and glued themselves to each other. I could only see their figures now. Kinetic, hands everywhere. Touching and coming together again and again. Melting together. Laughing.

They ran to the basement door. As if they would get caught suddenly. They were being silly. Cheerful, laughing.

The door slammed and I crept downstairs. The excitement was clawing at my chest. Down, down, creeping like a cockroach, into my own basement. Stepping lightly, trying not to make any sound.

Moving in the dark, thinking of Anna, of what filthy things might be coming out of her mouth at this very moment. Trying to be quiet.

I could hear my breath, almost as if it had become the breath of another person in the darkness. It was thick and black, and in front of me I could see the pinpoint of light. The hole that would let me see into John's apartment. Right where the bed was. Right where the orange chair was.

Anna climbe
d
onto the chair, and it was like she had channeled the spirit of a pole dancer. She folded up neatly to flip her body around, so that her head was hanging down, and then she unfolded. Her long legs stretched upwards until they were straight and crossed at the ankle, almost like she was doing some kind of elegant dance routine. Her arms were draped over the armrests, as if she meant to convey that she did this kind of thing all the time.

Her head was hanging down, her long hair grazing the carpet.

It was exactly as I had envisioned it.

John seemed almost taken by surprise. I wondered then, as I would for many nights to come, for many years, what it was that Anna had said. Or not said, before she coiled and then uncoiled on that ratty orange chair.

But John hesitated only a moment. His boxers were sliding down now, his fingers moving them impatiently down his hard thighs.

He got on his knees. Moved closer to the chair.

His cock was twitching visibly in the air. Pulsing with heat, knowing that he would soon have another man's wife’s mouth around his cock, that he could pummel her face and fill her up with his cum while she lay there, draped on a chair, her mouth open as nothing more than a flesh hole for him.

Anna, true to her promise, shifted her eyes right toward the hole where she knew I was watching.

I wondered what she was feeling. What motivated her at that moment. Who she wanted to please.

Was her pussy wet thinking about me, how I was hungry and crazed behind the wall, watching and trying to keep myself quiet? Or had she forgotten me entirely?

She had said, before, that she thought about me watching. That it turned her on, that she liked the feeling of degrading herself and giving up her will to please me. That knowing that I was getting off watching her under John's cock, his punishing thrusts nearly ripping her apart, had turned her on.

But was it true?

John's well-formed buttocks filled the space where Anna's eyes had met mine, and then I had nothing more to look at than his ass, rocking back and forth.

But wait.

John's legs began to open slightly, as though to get a better position for fucking my wife. And between his two trunk-like thighs I saw Anna's eyes.

His thick, purple balls were resting on her nose, blocking her airway. Keeping her from breathing. His soft sack was against her delicate nostrils, and now she was choked off completely: his cock was inside of her throat and his ball-sack was on her last airway.

She had her eyes closed, and then she opened them.

Her eyes were watery, red-rimmed. But she looked right at me. Right to where she knew I was, starving like an animal. Her fingers clutched at John's thighs, as though she wanted him to go deeper, fuck her more roughly, choke her until she passed out.

His hips moved quickly, and though I know it's impossible I felt as though I could hear the stickiness of his cock in her throat. The glug, glug, glug; that humiliating, degrading sound of her face being used as a hole and nothing more, to pleasure a man who was not her husband.

She dug her fingernails into the back of his thigh, and he pulled his long cock from her mouth.

I watched my wife gasp for air – she was really gasping, licking her lips and gulping at the air. Saliva streamed down her face, into her eyes, but she persevered enough to look at me. Then she opened her mouth, and I watched as the tip of John's cock passed her lips, and then filled her mouth.

Again he fucked her, and he fucked her just as I had wanted her to tell him to: mercilessly, hard, like a toy of his that he could abuse in any way that he wanted.

She gagged, and she gagged beautifully. She moaned into his cock, all the while staring at me through her tear and spit watering eyes. Her lips were stretched wide, and when he pulled his cock from her mouth the second time it was almost like looking at a misshapen rubber band, a distended anus: they seemed fatter, wetter, almost like they could never go back into place.

In again. Glug, glug, glug.

I had my hand on my cock now. Anna's legs splayed apart and rocked with the motion of John's fucking her, and the way they seemed like the feet of a doll only heated me up more.

Why?

Why would watching someone abuse the woman I loved make me so hot?

Who cared. I stroked myself furiously. After all that had happened I was no longer worried about my ability to get my cock hard again when my used and cum-covered wife came home to me, dirty and smeared with another man's cream. I would be able to fuck her all night.

I could fuck her like this – and for a moment I thought I would lose it before I got to see the final scene, as I thought of the feel of Anna's abused mouth around my cock. How she would try to close up enough for the small size of me, after taking such a big piece of meat in her mouth.

And then I heard John groan, and he pulled out of her throat.

He leaned back, and I had a beautiful view of the destruction and humiliation of my wife's face:

Her mascara was streaked and her face was wet with saliva. She looked so used, so fucked, and she fluttered her eyes open to look me in the eye.

And then, streak by thick, globby streak, the cum.

John's cum.

Hot, sticky, and seemingly unending. A streak cut across her throat, and then her forehead. His white liquid slashed across her cheeks, over her used and fattened lips. It mixed with the spit and the tears he had wrung from her eyes. The whole creamy, slick mess began to slide down her face. Anna brought her hand to her throat, and looked directly at me. Her lithe body was akimbo above her freshly-fucked face, and she looked like the last scenes of a porno.

John was panting, staring at what he had done, just as I was.

I felt my own climax surging up from inside of me, and I released my cock, fighting the temptation to give myself the final release I was now burning to get. I let go, though, because after pausing with her hand on her throat to give me a full view of what she had promised to deliver, Anna folded herself up neatly again and turned around on the chair.

She spread her legs, and her gash of hot-pink flesh was wet and glistening. Her neatly manicured fingers, long and playful, made their way to her clit. She pulled herself apart, clearly wanting not only to make herself come, but to put on a show. Her pointer finger moved up and down the hyper-sensitive flesh of her little button, and her eyes half-closed in pleasure.

My own cock was throbbing painfully now, but I resisted the urge to relieve myself of the pain because I could see that Anna had more planned than just what I had asked her to do.

One of her hands was kneading one of her breasts now, squeezing the full flesh and her own nipple. The sight of her face was so obscene; she was so used and degraded, and yet she was transforming her humiliation into a near work of art as she took back the power to do whatever she wanted.