The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel (9 page)

She was walking toward the bathroom.

My eyes moved from side to side. I watched him take a sip of his drink, turning to survey the room with the smug expression of a man who believes he is going to get laid.

But Anna was on the dance floor.

In the back of my mind, the ideas were all mixing together, but not very quickly.

“Oh,” I said aloud, as the whole picture hit me at once. “Fuck.”

I paid with a fifty because I had no change. Later I would learn to pay for each drink as it came. To be ready whenever Anna said
now,
to leave the man she had teased so mercilessly.

Now
had meant run away.

Not sure if I was doing the right thing, I stepped out into the parking lot. I gave a last glance at the poor guy at the bar. He had a smug expression that made it hard to feel completely sorry for him, but it was a terrible thing Anna was doing.

She ran up to me from the side of the building. She was flushed, smiling. She grabbed my arm. “Okay. We have to go,” she said. She had intense excitement in her eyes.

She led me out to the car, and she had the keys in her purse. There were so many things going through my head, and she was smiling at me every few steps, totally in control of me, leading me like a dog. I didn't even think to drive my own car.  I just followed her, and sat in it, waiting for wherever or whatever she would take me to next.

She rolled the windows down and let the wind blow her hair around. She was still radiating heat from the club, from her dancing, and our running to the car. She drove without saying anything for a few miles, then her right hand moved over to my side of the car.

She managed to get her hand into my lap, unbuckle my pants, and reach in to grab me, kneading my balls and driving me crazy – all while driving. I just stared at her, and let her do it. There was nothing else I could do. I had never let her drive my car, and she was doing it the way she seemed to do everything: fiercely, and competitively, even if no one was around. She was driving way too fast and had scraped the undercarriage a few times as she hit potholes or took steeply changing hills.

Her hand was on my cock, though, and it was the only thing I could think about. My balls ached from the half hour she had tortured me, and my head was pounding with pent-up lust and a strange residual left by jealousy and excitement.  

She pulled into a strip mall. I had no idea where we were, at all.

It was a pretty risque place to park – it wasn't that late, and some of the lights were still on. The parking lot was bright, and there was no dark corner to hide in.

But there was no stopping her. She turned the car off, and slipped her panties off gracefully.

My cock was already out, so climbed over and hopped on to it in one easy motion. Her pussy was so wet I could feel her nectar dripping onto my balls immediately, and I glided right into her like a knife in butter.

She tipped her head back, and her mouth was open. She rode me hard and fast, and she came like a rocket. She screamed and her pussy clenched on my cock, rippling with wave after wave of her orgasm. I let her hot, soft muscles spasm on my cock, stroking me like a mouth. My cock felt like it was going to split open, but I loved it when she came first, and then I pounded her while she moaned with her leftover ecstasy, until I spilled my cum into her.

She let me grab her and move her body over my cock, just as I had imagined that man from the bar doing. Her eyes were open but they were distant, and I came in almost no time at all thinking about how she was probably imagining the same thing: his big, thick cock, dark and pulsing, ramming up inside of her while he grasped her with his huge hands and held her up with his enormous arms.

I found myself hoping, as I burst into her sopping wet pussy, that she was imagining his cum filling her up. Instead of mine. Or with mine.

Even though I was also hoping that she was not imagining that at all.

What was I thinking? I didn't even know anymore.

There was nothing wrong with her
imagining
that, I thought, as we panted on each other, both of us sweaty and tired.  That's what this was all about. Imagining these things. It's all I wanted to do: imagine.

Except.

Anna had gone a little bit further than just imagining.

I leaned into her full breasts, and felt a fear unlike any other I had felt before creeping in on me.

Or was it excitement?

It felt like an adrenaline rush at a really bad moment, like the time I had been skiing and started a jump over what I thought was a small drop and looked down to find fifty feet yawning below me, and no way to turn back the clock...maybe there was no end to the depth below me, the danger that awaited me. It was exhilarating, but I felt it deep in my crotch: it was also terrifying.

She slipped off of me and plopped into the driver's seat. “Phew,” she said. She seemed more satisfied than ever. “That was great.” She had quite the glow on her cheeks now, and she seemed so completely contented that I just smiled back at her.

It was short, but it was one of the best fucks I had ever had. At the time, I couldn't quite put my finger on why. It was only later, as we went through more and more games, and we became closer and closer, that I could see it for what it was: I had a desire to see Anna get fucked by other men. It turned me on. I really wanted to see it.

Anna kept playing these games while we dated. Always the same set-up: we would go out, and she would pretend to be single. I would watch her flirt with another man, and then we would leave the scene and return home (or sometimes not get all the way home) to fuck ourselves silly. There was a night we fucked in the bathroom of the bar where she had seduced some guy, and we literally climbed out of a window to avoid running into him on the way out, because he seemed a little like a tough guy who would go into a rage if he found out what was going on. At the height of our addiction – because that’s almost what it became – we were doing this three times a week.

But after I proposed to Anna, she seemed to lose interest in her games. She played them with less enthusiasm, or didn't want to do it some evenings. Until she stopped suggesting them altogether.

The idea sort of faded in my mind as well. We settled into married life, and the sex was still good, but became more routine.

It didn't happen in any kind of sad way – just that way that I think life goes for everyone. Passion sort of loses its punch, new habits get formed, security in the relationship builds and the fantastical jolts of adrenaline and serotonin are no longer delivered for staying up late to fuck. The chase ends, and people get tired.

We still loved each other and had a passionate relationship...just...we took the time to floss our teeth before hopping into bed now, and we didn't prey on poor young men in bars for our own amusement. Or challenge the boundaries of our love to get a high.

And then John arrived. 

10
: ALL OVER AGAIN

So there
I
wa
s
, seven years later, married now for five years. Obsessed again.

Only this time, I felt the pull more strongly. I didn't just want to see Anna flirt with another man. I wanted to see some very, very dirty things.

I wanted her to go all the way.

Maybe I had kept things pent up all these years, and they had just concentrated inside of me.

But now I was like an addict. I was spacing out, spending all of my time thinking about Anna fucking John.

One night at dinner, maybe a month after he moved in, a few weeks after my obsession began in earnest, Anna slammed her fork down on my plate. Evidently I hadn't been listening to her.

“Brian. I said, you missed the deadline for that Rice project.”

I closed my eyes.

“I know,” was all I could say.

“What in the hell is going on with you?”

Her tone wasn't admonishing; it carried the overtones of real concern and a lightheartedness to it. Anna was the real breadwinner in the relationship, and we both knew it. I might be the one paying for vacations and fancy dinners, but Anna had the real job, and Anna had her shit together.

“I can't concentrate,” I said.

Anna smiled, confused. “Too much porn on the internet?”

“Something like that.”

She stood up and opened the refrigerator.

“Seriously,” she said. “What do you need to do so you can get back on top of things? Take a break?”

I looked at her.

She turned to me. “Do you have...sexual needs that aren't being fulfilled?”

Even though it was the kind of joke Anna often made, the timing was uncanny and the question took me by surprise.

“Something like that,” I said. My voice was low and had taken on a tone that made her face change.

She narrowed her eyes. “You really do.”

I said nothing.

“Is it something you want me to do?”

My chest felt tight.

“It's John.”

Her face did not register shock, at least. She was quiet. She was thinking.

What was she weighing, in that mind of hers? I had no way of knowing. I knew that Anna was a calculating woman, a person who did not make rash decisions, even if they seemed spontaneous. She weighed her options carefully – but since I couldn't know if she was honestly attracted to John, or honestly interested enough in this fantasy to take it all the way, I could have no idea what she was measuring in her thoughts.

“If you aren't careful, I'll start to think you're serious.”

I realized that it was now or never. I wasn't certain about Anna's tone: if she was serious, or if she was teasing again.

I felt the same queasiness as the first (and only) time I bungee-jumped.

I made sure that my voice sounded serious. I lowered it to nearly a whisper, and delivered this sentence almost monotone:

“I think I am serious.”

Here it was. The moment of truth.

Anna's lips parted, and her head tilted just a tiny bit. Her expression went flat, and I had no idea what she was going to do. She left me wondering for a full couple of minutes, and the silence in the room was almost deafening.

“Serious?” she said, and now her own voice was serious.

I nodded.

“Because I am, too.”

I exhaled. I hadn’t even realized that I had been holding my breath.

She laughed suddenly. A strange laugh, and it made me laugh nervously.  She held her hand to her cheek. Then against her mouth. She shook her head. “I'm sorry,” she said. “That was just kind of tense.”

It still was. At least for me.

But now Anna-The-Planner was at work. Anna-Make-It-Happen.

“Okay,” she said, and she was using the voice I knew she used in meetings, to lead people, to convince people. “What is it you were thinking?”

I covered my eyes and shook my head. Anna's cut-and-dry approach to some things really made me uncomfortable. “I don't know Anna,” I said. “I...I guess I just imagined it sort of...developing naturally. Like...you're attracted to John. And then you just kind of...” I stopped. No, that wasn't really what I had been thinking.

“No,” I said, echoing my own thoughts. “No, that wasn't really what I was thinking.”

I opened my eyes.

“Want to know the truth?” I said. For some reason I felt suddenly bold.

I watched Anna respond. She liked it. She was twisting inside of herself with expectation. She grinned and nodded.

“I want you do it. I want you to sleep with John. But I want to control it. I want to tell you what to do.”  

Anna had her hand on her hip.

There was a strange element to our relationship at play here, and that was Anna's desire for sexual domination, which was evident and which she admitted to readily. It was combining now with her real-life lack of tolerance for anyone at all telling her what to do, which was also evident and which she not only admitted to but practically bragged about. The two were competing inside of her now, and I was enjoying the show of conflict on her face.

Anna hardly ever had to grapple with this kind of thing in her own mind.

She tapped her fingers on her pelvis, from the pinky to the pointer, in two steady, neat drum rolls. Her lips were pouting, her eyes were narrowed in concentration. Anna, I knew, was making an extensive list of pros and cons, weighing her options and desires, calculating all of the possibilities, good and bad.

She was almost terrifying.

“You tell me what to do,” she repeated.

I nodded.

Her face changed. Her decision was made. Her conscious mind sort of rolled from where it had been hunched over a desk and thinking, to now, the moment with me. She stepped toward me. She was smiling, but that could be a bad thing.

Anna liked to surprise.

She pulled on my shirt, and made me step toward her.

This was the moment.

“And what would you have me do?” she said sassily.

And this is where my seriousness disintegrated, and I had to laugh a little.

“Jesus,” I said. “I have no idea. I hadn't thought it all the way through.”

It was true. I hadn't expected Anna to take it all so seriously. I hadn't expected Anna to be so willing.

And now? Truth be told, I was a little
bothered
that Anna was so willing. I knew it didn't make any sense to feel that way. This whole conversation had been my idea. The obsession was mine. I had no justification for wanting Anna to resist it, just so, just some perfect amount that made me feel...like what?

Anna's hand was finding its way between my skin and my sweatpants.

Strangely, a small pang of disappointment was knocking at my chest. It wasn't exactly what I had envisioned.

She brought her lips close to mine, her wry smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

“Would you have me do incredibly dirty things?”

My cock responded to her touch. My cock was thinking for itself, filling up, ready to be treated to whatever it was I would ask her to let John do to her.

But in the back of my mind, a pang of disappointment was tapping at me.

What had I wanted? What was it reasonable for me to want?

“Would you ask me to do filthy, degrading, humiliating things?”

I would. That's exactly what I wanted her to do. That's what I wanted to see John do to her. It's what I imagined all the time.

Didn't every man want his wife to talk like a filthy little whore, as well?

Grab his cock, start to slide down his body, with her lips opening wider and wider. Going where he hoped she would go: to his cock?

But it was bothering me. It bothered me right through Anna smiling with her lips at the tip of my cock. She asked me if I would ask her to suck John's cock, and I said yes. She asked me if I would tell her to take the whole big thing, and precum began to ooze from deep inside of me, and I said yes. My voice was a hoarse whisper. Her mouth was wet and she swallowed all of me, her hand clamped around my balls and squeezing.

But I had lost the thing that had really made me most excited.

Control.

I had wanted to convince her. I had wanted to push her into it. I had wanted her reluctant. Virtuous and in need of prodding. Who knows exactly what I had envisioned?

But with her eyes closed, and her mind free to think whatever she wanted as she slurped on my cock, who knew if Anna hadn't simply played me? Who knew if this was my idea at all? Anna was an expert marketer, and one thing she excelled at was subterfuge. Under-the-radar advertising.

She sold people things they didn't need or want, and she made them think the whole thing was their idea.

What if Anna wanted John all along?

She sucked hard on my shaft, with a hungry, almost violent suction.

It felt terrific, and I could feel my orgasm being pulled out of me, almost like I was unwilling (except, of course, I wasn't: it was hot as hell). I came hard and yelled at the ceiling.

That part was good.

But part of me was still unsettled.