Body Of Research: An Experiment In Hotwifing Read online

  BODY OF RESEARCH

  By Arnica Butler

  *********

  Copyright 2016 by Arnica Butler

  All rights reserved. No duplicating and no resale, but

  feel free to share with friends or family.

  Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those that are clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, companies, organizations, events, or products, is purely coincidental.

  All characters depicted in this story are 18 years or older.

  Cover characters are models. Image(s) is/are licensed from:

  bartekwadziak / DepositPhotos

  Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

  Other Novels by Arnica Butler:

  A Conventional Hotwife

  Grand Slam: An Interracial Hotwife Adventure

  Well-Constructed Affairs

  Nikita Gets In Too Deep: A Hotwife Exploration

  Human Interest 1: A Lead-In To Wife-Watching

  Ela's Performance: A Romantic Wife-Watching Novel

  A Well-Laid Trap 1

  A Well-Laid Trap 2

  The Hobby Job

  Not Black And White: A Hotwife Novel

  A Gamble: The Making Of A Hotwife

  The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel

  The Hotwife Summer

  A Dark Place: Cuckolded in Lagos

  The Hotwife Tattoo

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1: No Real Conclusions

  2: Late Again

  3: Dr. Heller

  4: Unlocked

  5: Discussion

  6: New Dress

  7: Brownhouse

  8: The Question

  9: Some Profiles

  10: Fishing

  11: Awake

  12: Another Question

  13: Caught

  14: Million Dollar Question

  15: Dreams Come True

  16: Our Old Friend Trey

  17: The Real Party

  C hapter 1

  NO REAL CONCLUSIONS

  I reached over to the passenger seat without taking my eyes off the entrance to the Mackenzie Building, and unlocked my phone.

  Just to be sure.

  Triply sure.

  Ringer: On.

  Alerts: On.

  Number of missed calls and messages:

  My heart felt hollow and I sighed audibly.

  Zero.

  How long had I been waiting? I unlocked my phone again and looked at the time.

  9:07.

  Only two minutes.

  Two long minutes.

  I sighed again. Mine was a lone car in front of the building. I was parked in the fire lane, a light dusting of snow settling onto my windshield. I had spent the few minutes I had been waiting, tapping my foot, sweeping my glance in jerky circles from phone to windshield to my passenger window and the exit of the building visible through the glass.

  Patience. Not my forte.

  My leg tap-tap-tapped on the floorboard. I had my pointer finger pressed against my pursed lips.

  Chris. If she was fucking Dave Emery, PhD., good-looking Indiana-Jones anthropologist and world-class asshole, would she have asked you to come pick her up?

  No, of course not.

  Still.

  The door shimmered in my peripheral vision, and I jerked my head to look at it.

  Exiting the building was not one long-legged Jen Sandoval, but a scrawny undergrad, nearly tipping over with the weight of a heavy backpack. Jesus. She looked like she should be in middle school.

  Disappointed, and not-so disappointed, I looked at my phone again.

  9:08.

  My stomach treated me to a cool shudder.

  The door opened again.

  This time, there was no mistaking it: Jen, a red knit cap pulled over her ears. Emery, in his very professorial wool trench coat and impossibly masculine scarf. Jen had fat, long red mittens on her hands, which she used to pat her hat down childishly (and endearingly) as she turned to Professor Emery, S.O.B., and smiled. They had evidently found something of such great importance to say to each other. Something that couldn't be said in the hallway or the office, or at any point in the whole day they had spent together, and so they needed to stand there in subzero temperatures, talking about it and laughing. Their breath left their mouths in wet clouds and mingled in the air between them.

  I looked at my phone, irritated.

  9:10.

  I grimaced and gripped the steering wheel. I was determined not to make a spectacle of myself by honking.

  I had also been determined not to get carried away by my imagination. But I had abandoned all hope with the latter goal.

  For the past ten minutes, which was really all the amount of time I could reasonably claim to have been waiting, I had been doing just that: letting my imagination run wild.

  Jen, do you have a minute? Emery would say. I just need to run over these stats with you.. it seems that you've made a very, very, bad error.

  Oh have I, Dr. Emery? Whatever can I do to make it up to you?

  I turned on the car engine and looked pointedly out the window as I did so. Jen and Emery continued talking, oblivious to the thickening snow, the cold, the running car.

  I flipped the headlights on.

  Still nothing.

  I fished a scraper out of the back of the car and got out to wipe the very dry snow, which would have blown off, from the back of the car.

  Jen looked over at that point. “Oh,” she said, and her voice echoed like breaking crystal over the cement compound. “Sorry, I gotta go.”

  I raised my scraper, hoping it looked a little more like a weapon than what it was. “Hey there, Dave.”

  I was satisfied to see the little twitch in his right hand, a slight squeeze of his briefcase. Jen had probably told me a hundred times to call him “David.” I kept my deliberate jabs to a minimum – maybe one in every ten times I whipped out “Dave.” The infrequency was for plausible deniability, as well as impact.

  He raised his briefcase slightly and tucked his shmaltzy hat down against the wind before turning on his heel to head off in the direction of his cozy underground faculty parking lot.

  “Jackass,” I muttered under my breath.

  Jen was skipping down the steps. “Hey sweetie,” she said. She looked up at the sky.

  “Whoa. Really comin' down out here,” she proclaimed, using an overzealous imitation of a rural Minnesotan accent. She delighted peppering any and all humorous statements with this accent, ever since she had returned with me to Minnesota and discovered that people actually spoke like that.

  “You and 'Emeritus' really had a lot to talk about, there,” I said.

  Jen rolled her eyes and used her fat mitten to flip the car door handle up. “We're soooo academic.” She slipped into the car and settled down, immediately blasting the heat.

  Her cheeks were rosy red. Even bundled in her usual grad-schooly getup, which was a far cry from the schoolgirl-slutty I liked to imagine in my fantasies, she was quite stunning. Jen was a third-generation Mexican, and her skin was fair but tinted by the slightest ocher-brown, like a cup of very creamy coffee. She had a long mane of very straight, rich chocolate-colored hair, and dark brown eyes with long lashes that were also straight and subjected her to the only daily beauty regimen she seemed to indulge in: she had to curl them. (Otherwise, she looked half-as
leep, and, as she put it, people started talking to her more slowly.)

  Jen had a pretty face, not a stunning one: she was doll-cute. Her big, dark eyes and the straight lashes that framed them looked like they might blink slowly if you tipped her head. Her nose sloped like a ski-jump, with a little upturned hop at the end. The mannequin-nose hovered over a pretty, tidy mouth, her lips almost mirror images of each other, full but not overflowing. The features of her face made her look far younger than she was, though she was still quite a bit younger than me (seven years, which had seemed like much more of a distance when I first met her).

  Jen was one of those very nerdy girls who could best be animated by talking about space exploration or the origins of life or her own work in sociology. Her excitement about a political discussion knew no bounds, and most guys didn't really want to get into it with her. When this was combined with her androgynous clothing choices, it all kept Jen's very pretty face and lean figure from ever being accused of being “sexy.”

  However, Jen was a real animal in bed. That was something you wouldn't see coming, and frankly I was pretty content that most people didn't see it coming.

  Content, and... discontent. But more on that later.

  It was complicated situation.

  “Did you,” Jen said, turning to me to bat her eyelashes, “happen to buy me any Chinese takeout?”

  The thing about my wife is that it was very easy, when she was nowhere around, to fall into a cycle of jealous, negative thoughts. Once she was near me, however, it was much more difficult not to just be sucked in. Jen made my thinking hazy.

  “What will you give me for it?” I asked.

  Jen raised her eyebrows seductively, and pulled her mitten off with her teeth. She slid her hand over my thigh. Her fingers didn't quite touch my cock as she moved her hand in a gentle, massaging roll over my leg, but the heat of her hand sent an electric shiver through me.

  She shrugged.

  She looked out the window - and while I knew it was just part of her enticing ploy, her way of teasing me before we got home and had pretty hot sex (for a married couple) – I couldn't help but indulge in my own twisted fantasy.

  Because the direction she was looking, with a faintly smug grin on her face, and her fingers brushing just next to my cock, was the way Dr. Emery had gone.

  *

  The idea of my wife sleeping with Dr. Emery had been unsettling me for some time.

  I use the word “unsettling” because it's the closest to what the idea had been doing. It kept me awake. It disrupted my thoughts. It made me think in incredibly convoluted ways.

  Incredibly convoluted ways.

  When we got home that night, Jen's thigh-massage, which had promised to, but never quite did, turn into an actual massage of my cock, ended abruptly. The car was barely parked in the garage when she opened the door and began to hop out. “I have to take a shower,” she said abruptly.

  Convoluted thought: Jen is taking a shower because she fucked Emery in his office and doesn't want to get caught. She wants to get in the shower and wash his cum, his dank smell, his stickiness, from her skin and the folds of her cheating cunt before I can find her out.

  Convoluted action:

  I leaned over and pulled her gently back toward me. I kissed her on the mouth, which made her bristle in surprise, pull away, and then give in. I probed her mouth with my tongue, searching for the evidence of this convoluted thing I both wanted and didn't want.

  It was complicated.

  Jen pulled away. “Whoa,” she said. “Okay... I'm going to take a shower and you get the Chinese ready.”

  She seemed to be trying to get out as fast as she could.

  My chest burned with suspicion as I watched her hop up the steps.

  Then she turned and held her hand up to the light, still streaming from the headlights I hadn't turned off. “You did get Chinese, didn't you?”

  But she didn't wait for my answer. She dashed into the house.

  I turned off the car and followed slowly. Treading in an even, measured pace into the kitchen, letting the cool fingers of jealousy and arousal curl around me.

  Was I savoring the feeling?

  Or trying to avoid it?

  Who can say?

  I walked down the hall and into the master bedroom, connected to the bathroom where I could hear the shower running. Great splashes of water crashed on the tile as Jen wrung water from her hair.

  Washing her hair.

  It was an invitation to imagine Emery pulling his cock, sticky with her saliva, from her mouth, so he could come all over her face. An invitation to imagine that sticky ropes of his cum had squirted from his cock, landing on her lips and cheeks. To imagine her using a finger to swipe them into her mouth, and smile as she tasted his salty seed. To picture him noticing, at the last minute, that rogue ropes of cum had dried in her satin hair.

  Don't worry about it, she had laughed, pulling her red knit cap over her hair to cover them.

  I sat down on the bed and picked up her red cap.

  I sniffed it.

  There was nothing of course, but the scent of Jen's shampoo and the faint undertone of her skin.

  Of course there wasn't.

  I walked into the bathroom and leaned against the wall. The tub, an antique someone had tiled into the wall, was enclosed by shower doors. Jen hated them, but I had a nice view of her lithe body, streaks of soapy water outlining her curves. Her eyes were closed as she rinsed her hair beneath the showerhead. She didn't know I was there yet. She moved her hands, eyes still closed, to the built-in shelves from which she grabbed the shampoo and put a little in her hand.

  I watched her, fascinated, my imagination running wild, as she guided the shampoo to her glistening, dark curls.

  I shuddered, imagining now a scene in which Emery's fat pink cock slid furiously in and out of my wife's warm cunt, and then filled her up with his creamy cum. But when he finally eased his prick from inside of her, she overflowed, and his seed gushed into her pubic hair, soaking it with the scent of her betrayal.

  I slid my own shirt over my head and unbuckled my pants.

  Jen still hadn't heard me, and my eyes were riveted on her fingers, combing water through her pubic curls, sliding between the folds of her pussy.

  I let my pants drop to the floor, along with my underwear. My cock was rigid in front of me, and I swept my hand over it absently, still watching my wife.

  Then I slid the door open.

  “Ah! Fuck! Jesus!”

  Jen slapped me just as I was stepping into the tub, which had a high, tiled side and a slippery, old basin. I slipped, and the momentum of Jen's slap almost sent me flying. I grabbed the shower door and knocked it off the track.

  “You scared the shit out of me!” Jen said, then started laughing when she saw the swaying shower door.

  It was comical. Sure.

  But my mind was on other things.

  Jen smiled as she looked back to me. “Well, now maybe we can get rid of...”

  But she cut herself off when she saw my erection, and raised her eyebrows.

  Her curls were still soapy. Water streamed down her mocha skin. Her nipples had filled out like small, round balloons, burgeoning with excitement.

  I moved my hand toward her pussy. I planned to slide my fingers into her folds, and find what I wanted: some kind of evidence that she had been very naughty. Even if it was just the slipperiness of unexplained excitement. I wanted to feel the silky wetness that came from inside of her. Or maybe from inside of her lover, delivered on the couch in the office, an injection from his pale cock.

  But Jen pushed my hand away lightly. Not forcefully, but deliberately. My fingers never found their mark.

  And then she surprised me by sliding down to the floor of the tub, my cock in her hand. She pushed me back a little, to clear the falling water. It streamed onto the back of her head, down her shoulders, splashing a little at my balls in hot, feathery spray.

  Jen looked up at me and
moved my cock to her mouth. Her brown eyes burned through me as she opened, and swallowed me to the middle of my shaft. She wrapped her hand around the base, then worked her mouth and hand together to suck and pump me. I was very quickly nearing the edge. As she moved her head, water streamed down her face, and she closed her eyes.

  Imagining Dave Emery's cock?

  I gripped her shoulder. A sign for her that I was about to burst.

  Jen looked up at me, and popped her mouth off the end of my cock. But she held the crown of my dick close to her mouth as she pumped my shaft furiously until I came.

  She let my cum spurt all over her chest. A little landed on her cheek.

  It all washed away with the pouring water, and then she smiled and leaned back into the water as I stood over her, panting.

  My cum slid away from her body and down the drain.

  “Okay, turn that off, would you? I'm going to kill myself trying to stand up with that on.”

  I reached forward and turned off the water, still shaking a little.

  Jen opened her eyes and looked up at me.

  “That better be some good Chinese food,” she quipped.

  Then she stood up, gave my cock a squeeze, and slid between the shower doors.

  And that is how it was. Me and my fantasies, and my suspicions, and no real conclusions to be drawn.

  That is, until she left her phone at home.

  C hapter 2

  LATE AGAIN

  “Hey,” Jen said. She sounded slightly out-of-breath.

  The back of my neck prickled with arousal. The familiar fingers of jealousy brushed over my spine.

  “Hi,” I said cautiously.

  Jen breathed into the phone. She was definitely doing something physical. She wasn't panting into the phone, but very low, I could her heavier, more rapid exhales. She didn't say anything for a moment, which made my imagination run wild.

  I pictured her in Emery's office, reclined on his fat beige couch. She had the phone to her ear, but her eyes were aimed between her legs, where Emery was nibbling on her pussy.

  Or else she was on her knees, her hands pressed to the wall, Emery's cock inside of her.