The Hotwife Summer (2 page)

C
HAPTER
2
: Going Down

The scent of cigarette smoke, ever-present in Europe, mingled with the aroma of onions cooking in butter. I wound my way up the four flights of stairs, determined to keep my soft paunch from expanding while we were in Italy. The sharp and creamy aroma grew stronger as I ascended, and when I opened the door, it assailed me.

I paused for a moment to savor the scene: the large window was filled with Roman sunshine, and the stucco walls of the courtyard filled the glass. Vegetables were lined up on the counter, and Summer was busily peeling a carrot, her back to me. She had a form-fitting red shirt on, and neat gray capris that fit snugly on her round bottom.

The sizzle of onions confirmed that the smell was coming from our own apartment. Steam wafted from a large pot on the stove.

I tried to sneak up on her. I closed the door gently, and I crept theatrically across the floor. The building was old, and even though it was refurbished, the floor groaned and squeaked with every movement.

I saw her bob move up and down as she laughed to herself, trying to pretend she hadn't heard me.

I slipped my hands around her waist, and she treated me to an exaggerated jump and a sharp scream, but did not stop peeling the carrots. “Oh no! An Italian burglar is burgling me. Whatever shall I do?” she cried, in a falsetto scream.

I slipped the ponytail of hair to one side of her shoulders to reveal her neck. I moved my lips over her skin, and I was pleased when her fine neck hairs stood on end. “You'll have to submit to my demands,” I said.

“Can't,” she said, her voice returning to its normal, lovely contralto. “Cooking.”

Then she turned around, and her face was flushed with excitement. “Did you know,” she asked, her eyes getting wide, “that spaghetti sauce can be flavored with carrots and celery instead of sugar and salt?”

I was tempted to make a very wise remark, but the flush on her cheeks and the light in her eyes was so lovely that I didn't want to ruin it. “It went well, then?” I said, instead of quipping that it seemed like a pretty expensive class to be learning about spaghetti sauce, which came in a jar.

“It was just an overview today. But I thought I would try. Except...I'm not supposed to put onions in here. Or garlic. Can you believe that? But I like onions, so...” She pushed me gently out of the way and stirred the onions.

“Good,” I said.

“Good that I like onions, good that I'm not taking the chef's instructions seriously, or good that it went well?”

When she turned around she had a carafe of wine in her hands. She handed me the carafe and smiled at me, her eyes moving over my face. “How was your research? How are the students? This has already been decanted.”

She was talking quickly, moving around the kitchen with a busy energy. I opened the wine and poured it into two waiting glasses, thinking how lovely the next six weeks would be. Summer bloomed when she had something to do that captured her imagination, and she seemed to grown younger with every second we spent in Europe.

It wasn't only that she looked younger, although she did. Her movements and her speech seemed to be rejuvenated as well. She sat in chairs with one leg crossed under her, for example, and talked excitedly, with round, bright eyes.

She spent a lot of time not just looking at me, but
seeing
me.

“I think I'm going to really learn a lot in this class,” she said to my silence. She was often too impatient to wait for my replies, especially if she was excited about something. “This guy is good...well, oh, I didn't tell you, at first I was pretty annoyed because that chef that was supposed to be teaching the class, who was an expert in pasta or something, which I was pretty excited about, he wasn't there, and he's been replaced. So at first, I was pretty disappointed.” She paused to sip the wine I had poured, without smelling or tasting it. She looked past me, at the wall, as though remembering the distant past. “He's really good-looking,” she said, bringing her eyes back to mine, and giving me a mischievous smile.

“Is that so?” I said. I moved forward, and pulled her close to me. The shirt she was wearing was low-cut and I had a lovely view from where I was standing, which I couldn't help but take in. Summer turned her head to sip more wine, and her mouth was smiling as she did.

“
So
good-looking,” she said. “A
real
Italian man.”

“Oh yeah?” I repeated. I didn't mean to sound like an idiot, but when she said things like this it got me really hotted up. I wanted her to repeat it, again and again.

I tried to extract this kind of teasing from Summer all the time. She was rarely game for it. There was nothing, it seemed, I could do to convince her that I really wanted her to say things like this.

I was feeling brave. “Tell me more about this new chef.”

I was hoping for more sultry short sentences about how he was
so
handsome and
so
dark, but instead she set the wine glass down and began to speak in earnest. “You know? I think he's actually a more reputable chef. He's really famous, apparently, in Bologna, and he has like three or four restaurants and he has a Michelin star...”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Wonder what he's doing at your cooking class?”

She turned from side to side flirtatiously and batted her eyes. “Maybe he heard that I was in town,” she said, “and I was too hot to resist.”

My cock was coming alive, as though it were a toy being slowly wound into place. I loved hearing her talk like this.

When Summer said things like this, she did it tongue-in-cheek: all her life she had been a little clueless about her attractiveness to men. She made jokes about it, and in her mind, they were jokes. I think she really viewed herself as less-than-desireable.

Summer's sister was a former model. She was long-boned and thin, had naturally platinum hair, and her face was cheery and perfect. She was as interesting as box of unsalted Saltine crackers and it wouldn't be entirely unfair to call her half as smart as Summer.

Summer, on the other hand, had grown up with mousy-brown hair that had become, almost as if by an act of magic, a peculiar shade of brown that looked like highly varnished oak. She was a full-figured girl: thick but not fat, with generous curves that were neatly proportioned. Her features, rather than being carefully arranged in porcelain teacup perfection on her face, were jarring and angular, or oversized and plump; but all together, they orchestrated perfectly into a stunning and interesting face. Summer still thought of herself as the mousy, chubby girl who had been outshined by her sister for so long, and it was true that a lot of men gravitated to Cora when they were together. A lot of men, though, gravitated to Summer – and I saw how they moved around her and darted into conversation with her, like bees to a rich, nectary flower.

It turned me on that she was so oblivious to her powers of attraction. She never understood that guys were actually putting the moves on her, so she often completely devastated them when she put her arm around me and introduced me.

I enjoyed watching how let down they were, how the kindling fire of hope was crushed. I liked that she was so unaware of what she was doing that she often ground the disappointment into them like finely crushed glass. I knew it was mean of me, but it was a secret pleasure I had.

I often let my imagination run away with me when I saw her interacting with other men. I thought about what she must look like to them, touching her shoulder when she frowned in thought. Adjusting the straps of her shoes around her ankle, her full breasts forming two creamy mountains and dark amber valley over her knees as she leaned over them.

Then I liked to imagine what it would be like to feel my wife for the first time. To touch her hair, and see the dark pink circles around her nipples for the first time.

As my imagination kept going, it often turned on me, until I was watching another man touching her. Another man would place his fingertips on the velvet circles around her pert nipples, and then lean down to taste them. His other hand would find its way to her brown curls, and pry them open, and then his fingers would disappear into the flesh of my wife's pussy...

From there, things could really go wild. I might end the fantasy panting in the shower while I watched my cum spray all over the wall, imagining another man's cock spreading her pussy open, his fingers embedded in her ass, his seed spurting from her swollen hole while she rode him frantically screaming
yes yes yes!

I wasn't entirely sure why my mind always went there.

But it did.

A lot.

Back in the kitchen in Rome, I set my wine glass on the table and moved my hand down the length of her body, which was smoothed out by the tight clothes she was wearing. I let my hand rest on her full, round bottom, and I squeezed gently.

She was responding warmly to my advances. She even placed her forearms on my shoulders, letting herself move closer to me. I could smell a puff of her deodorant, and nothing more than her very specific scent, the smell of her skin. Summer was decidedly unperfumed at all times but I could always smell her. She smelled like honey and something mildly feral.

Her pussy smelled like that, too, but more sexual. Mixed with the sweet scent of a woman.

The idea drifted through my mind and my cock pulsed against her leg.

She gave me an inviting smile. “Well,” she said, and her eyes dropped down, as though she could see through her plump breasts to where my cock was tapping at her leg. “Looks like
you
heard I was in town, too.”

It was a silly pun, but the kind we used to make so long ago, for the fun of it. Puns that were not even puns.

I felt a kind of vigor starting to pulse inside of me. It was sexual, but it was also something else. Since we had arrived in Italy, Summer had been so much more youthful. More adventurous, and carefree.

Okay, maybe it was all just sexual, because her sense of adventure and carefree attitude were most obvious to me with regard to sex.

Case in point: she hopped up on the counter herself, and pulled her skirt up in one neat movement as she did it.

It took me no time at all to discover that she wasn't wearing underwear. The honeyed scent of her pussy drifted up to my nose before my excitedly probing fingers, expecting to bump into a wall of cotton over her soft curls, found instead dampness and flesh.

My cock had been stiffening since she sat on the table, but the feel of her wet pussy slammed it into a solid rock. I left my hand between her legs and fumbled with my belt. I didn't want to take my fingers away from their exciting exploration – peeling away the outer layers of her dewy flower, they were in search of something that would make her tip her head back. My other hand was having a hard time with the belt buckle and the button of my pants.

Summer had brought her face close to mine, along the side of my jaw, and was breathing into my skin. Her hot breath caressed my neck, and then my ear. Her fingers were working their way up to my hair, raking against my skin, sending chills down my spine that pulsed right into my cock.

One of her hands slid between my pants, and she leaned forward to get it down to her goal: her fingers squeezed the base of my cock, crushing my balls against the shaft.

It was painful but it felt good. This was a new thing she had just started doing. I don't know if she read something somewhere, or a girlfriend had passed the advice on to her, but she did it with a hand that almost seemed practiced. I could feel the tip of my cock getting sticky and wet with precum.

Her lips were close to my ear, and I think I stopped breathing as I waited to hear what she was going to say. This, too, was fairly new since arriving in Italy. Sure, Summer had talked dirty to me a few times, after too many glasses of wine, but now she did it in the afternoon, in the evening, every chance she got.

“I want you to get your whole cock wet in my pussy,” she breathed, and slap those balls against my ass hard.”

It was stuff like that. Sweet Summer, mother of my children, baker of cookies, the brown-haired sister who did not fully comprehend her sexuality. Asking me to fuck her hard while she grasped my balls.

There was more, though:

“And then,” she said, and she teased me with a long pause as she ran her tongue along the outer edge of my ear, “I want to taste my own pussy on your cock.”

I hastily pushed back and used two hands to unbuckle my belt and let my pants drop to the floor. I pushed her thighs open and she scooted toward me, her hands guiding my cock with her firm grip toward her dripping slit.

I looked down to see her trimmed, feathery curls – the exact shade of her reddish-brown hair. They glistened with moisture. I caught a glimpse of her pink flesh, swollen with desire and coated in her creamy juices, just before she aggressively pulled me inside of her.

Her soft flesh encased my cock in its heat. She was so
wet.

She put her hands on my ass, and dug her fingernails into my skin as she pulled me deep inside of her, until my balls were creamed by her wet pussy. They stuck to her skin, and for a moment she just twisted a little on the table, squeezing me inside of her, ball-deep in her flesh.