Nila's Long Con: A Hotwife Adventure Read online

  NILA’S LONG CON

  A Hotwife Adventure

  By Arnica Butler

  *********

  Copyright 2017 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:

  shmeljov / DepositPhotos

  Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

  READERS!

  Sign up for our newsletter and find out about new releases and hot deals!

  Go to My Author Page for a complete list of my hotwife erotica stories.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  To The Reader

  1: Old Acquaintances

  2: No Deal

  3: Slightly Off

  4: Peter

  5: Trap Her

  6: Trapped

  7: Confrontation

  8: "The Tape"

  9: In The Bag

  10: Convincing

  11: Barro

  12: The Plan

  13: The Last Video

  14: Bravo

  T O THE READER

  This is a bit of a departure from the stories I’ve been writing lately, in that it’s sort of a blend of genres – suspense, mystery, and hotwife - in a similar vein to my own A Well-Laid Trap and Ben Boswell’s Whatever It Takes. I assure readers that this is very much still a hotwife story at its core, but there is a parallel story of intrigue running along with it. I have fun writing these stories, so I hope you enjoy reading them as well.

  Because of the nature of the plot in this book, I can already feel the breath of the “reality police,” on my neck (oh, I love you guys – you keep me honest). Anticipating some points readers may make about the plot itself, I have an opportunity to address not only the elements of realism in this book but a question I get frequently from readers: where do you get your ideas?

  While I don’t want to reveal too much of the plot, I can say this much: the idea for this adventure comes from an article I read about a very similar incident. Details and certain aspects of the drama have of course been significantly changed, and modified to be a hotwife story primarily, and an adventure secondarily. But the “grift” described in this story is based on something real, as unbelievable as it may seem.

  As always, I want to thank my beta readers very profoundly for their sharp eyes (and wit).

  I hope you all have a thrilling read.

  1: O LD ACQUAINTANCES

  “I like this place a lot better than I thought,” Tennile said, leaning back in her chair and pushing her silky black hair into a loose pile on top of her head. The humidity was just barely tolerable, and I knew her thick mane of luxurious hair was like a blanket on her shoulders, but she had let it down at my request. She smiled as the ocean breeze caressed the damp back of her swan-like neck.

  “I told you,” Bob declared, raising his glass for yet another toast. Bob was thirty sheets to the wind, as he had a tendency to get when he was on vacation, and he seemed to perpetually forget that he had just raised his bottle for a toast minutes ago. “To a close call!” he said, for the third time.

  Gamely, Tennile and Monica raised their bottles and clinked them to Bob’s. Monica was struggling a little to remain in “vacation mode,” I noticed; her lips were tense with the effort of smiling at her husband’s endless toasts. “You haven’t had the food yet,” she said wryly, to Tennile.

  Tennile smiled at me and set her bottle down without taking a sip of her beer. If we kept up with Bob’s toasts we’d be unconscious.

  The “close call” Bob had referred to was our escape, on a boat in the afternoon, from an incoming storm. The bad weather was now brewing over the water in the distance, but seemed to be headed back out to sea. The lightning on the horizon was creating a dramatic scene as we ate at the restaurant Bob had chosen: a divey fish place way outside of town. An archipelago of cheap white plastic chairs and tables were set out on the beach, tiki torches whipping in the ocean breezes, and a shabbily dressed cast of waiters materializing from the darkness to take drink orders for hours while we waited for the food. Somehow, the atmosphere was perfect: the storm far out on the water added excitement to the humid air, the breeze, when it picked up, was playing with all the women’s skirts, and there was something immensely satisfying about drinking beer in bottles on cheap plastic furniture.

  I felt Tennile’s bare foot on my leg under the table. Bob had started in on a long monologue about how he had discovered this restaurant, and Monica seemed to have abandoned all hope and started to chug her beer. Tennile pulled at a strand of her pretty hair – slightly wavy, salty with sea air – from her face and grinned at me.

  A shout, the kind of drunken shout that signals the scene is maybe going downhill, broke out behind us, on the porch attached to the restaurant. Tennile and I turned to look. Two guys, obviously pretty well in to the booze, were arguing with a waiter who was emerging from the kitchen laden with trays of food. We watched the exchange for a moment, one of the guys obviously swinging between an angry drunk and a joking one. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his tone carried across the beach.

  “If that’s not ours,” Tennile said quietly, bringing her beer to her lips. “I say we can the food and get out of here. This place is getting sketchy.”

  I was a little on the drunk side, so it took me a few minutes to catch the change in Tennile’s mood. I looked over at her and raised my eyebrows.

  “Sketchy,” I said, amused. “It’s Palm Beach.”

  Tennile cast a final glower at the porch, seemed to change her mind, and set her beer down.

  It didn’t matter, because the waiter was coming right toward us.

  The food, as Bob had promised, was delicious in a street-vendor kind of way. We were so hungry that we devoured everything in silence, only the crunching of cabbage in Monica and Tennile’s fish tacos breaking the silence. Food seemed to machine-gun out of the kitchen, and the clientele scattered on the porch and the beach went quiet, eating. Even the boisterous guys on the porch.

  Having sent out the food, the many, many waiters of the establishment disappeared into thin air, and no more drink orders were taken. Bob stared sadly at his empty beer and picked it up to drink out of it more than once.

  I was suddenly overcome by an intense thirst.

  “I got it,” Tennile said, reading my mind. “Mon, you need another beer? I think those guys are never coming back.”

  Monica nodded.

  Bob handed his empty bottle to her and asked for a gin and tonic.

  “Sure thing, Bob,” Tennile said, winking at Monica to let her know she’d come back with a tonic. Then she smiled at me. Classic vacation with Monica and Bob.

  I watched her walking to the bar beneath the canopy over a small porch that served as the restaurant proper. A wind broke through the stagnant air and whipped up her skirt, really a bathing suit cover, revealing the curve of her pretty bottom and the little patch of black fabric of her bikini. Tennile had long, slender legs, a pert but tiny bottom, and an elongated torso of very tan skin, her touch of Egyptian heritage coming through in all the right ways, especially out here in the Palm Beach sun.

  Monica scowled at the storm. “Do you think we’
re going to get rained on?”

  Tennile leaned on the bar, and I enjoyed watching the waiter jump to attention. Tennile’s pretty, round breasts, peeking through her crocheted cover-up, and her large, exotic brown eyes had brought all of the missing waiters to life, and three of them were there to take her drink order. All smiles, ready to get Tennile whatever she wanted.

  It also gave me a little, perverse thrill that Tennile had dragged the gaze of more than one guy at the restaurant with her as she walked over there. The tall, craggy man with a criminal aspect and darting eyes who had been yelling at the waiter earlier even turned his head, making no attempt to hide that he was looking at her ass. I glared at him, in case he turned back my way, but he gave my wife a long stare and then turned back to his companion, finishing off a drink by throwing his head back to dump it in.

  Tennile came back, her hips sauntering accidentally as she tried to walk on the sand.

  “Everything okay?” I said. Her lips had dropped into a bit of a scowl.

  She didn’t answer me for a moment. Her eyes were unfocused, boring a hole through the white of the table.

  “Nila?” I said. I waved a hand in front of her face.

  Her eyes floated slowly up to meet mine, still distracted, and then she snapped back to reality. “Man,” she said. “Sorry, I’m... I think I’m drunker than I thought. How about we pack it in after this?”

  “Yes,” Monica said, without hesitation. She looked at Bob’s drink and then at Tennile. Tennile winked. It was alcohol free.

  Bob was crunching on his ice and staring out to sea, so evidently he didn’t notice.

  “I think we’re getting too old for this” I said.

  “You know, I always thought that was the -” Monica began.

  “Well slap my ass and call me Sally.”

  The voice was masculine, cutting through our conversation like the growl of an animal, a Southern drawl with a little edge – more slick than monied. Monica kept talking, too drunk to pick up on the way the voice was elbowing into our conversation.

  But our table was ten feet from any other, and the voice had come from a figure no more than two feet away. No doubt it was meant for us. For someone at the table.

  Tennile’s face, I remember, started to change at that moment. Her eyes seemed to get dark as her pupils swallowed up the brown of her irises, and her mouth turned down again.

  But only for a second. She plasticized her smile, the practiced art of a longtime contract lawyer, and her gaze in my direction turned into a stare.

  “Ten. It is you, ain’t it.”

  Ten. It took me a moment to recognize the nickname, a long- buried pet name for Tennile from her college days. She went by Tennile exclusively now, maybe “Nila” to a handful of close friends and her mother.

  “Tenny Wright,” the voice said, and two figures took shape as they emerged from the darkness. I recognized the criminal-looking blonde guy from the restaurant porch. My eyes went quickly to the porch to confirm it.

  Tennile looked up, and her plastic face never faltered. She squinted at the man. “It’s Mathews now,” she said, her voice so even you could skate on it. “Tennile.”

  “I knew it was you,” the man said, waving his bottle in her direction. He had the deliberately careless, big movements of a thug-type of guy, the kind of guy you’d find pacing outside a bar at four a.m., looking to pick a fight – really pick a fight. He was thin, but his arms were wiry with a sort of wound-up strength, like a lightweight boxer. Blue-green tattoos crawled over his firm biceps.

  He snapped his fingers at his companion, a dark, shifty guy who looked like a bouncer. Muscled even in his neck, blank in the eyes. “Grab us one of them chairs, Ri,” the blonde man said.

  Tennile was silent, and she looked back at me. Her face said nothing.

  My heart had picked up a little, I noticed. The man had “dangerous” sort of oozing out of him, in his quick movements and his sharp words. “Ri” handed him a chair and he turned it around backwards and sat in it.

  “Oh I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, turning to me with the quickness of a rattlesnake. All at once he seemed to be looming over me, his hand extended. “I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Shane.”

  I took his hand, and he crushed mine in his, shaking for just a bit too long. His eyes were brown and mean-looking, smart eyes, the eyes of a scammer. “I’m an old acquaintance of Tenny’s here.”

  He looked at me for just a little longer, his eyes moving over my face in search of a reaction. He let his whole scuzzy alpha-male stare sink in, and then he made another attack, this one directed at Tennile, who seemed to have turned into a mannequin, beer hovering an inch off the table in her hand. “Fancy us running into each other after all this time,” he said to her.

  His voice was dripping with insinuation.

  Insinuation of what, it was impossible to know.

  Tennile recovered, and brought her bottle to her lips. She gave it a tiny snap to drop a mouthful of beer into her mouth and then set it down. “Imagine that,” she said. Her voice was still smooth as glass, but I caught her eyes in a quick shift down and to the left.

  Monica was also frozen, her mouth hanging open and her beer halfway lifted to her mouth. Only Bob was unfazed by Shane’s presence. Monica looked from Tennile to me, like she was waiting for the punchline, and there was a long, tense moment while Shane kept us all suspended like this.

  I’d always hated guys like this, and I had more than a few of them on my mom’s side of the family. More than a few who ended up working for me, the kind of guys you had to send someone to bail out on Mondays if you wanted your concrete guy back in time to finish the job.

  I was racking my brains for the right thing to say, something that would keep the guy calm but send him away. I couldn’t make out if he was drunk or not; he was the kind of guy who would move quickly while drunk and smoothly while sober. Tennile shifted in her seat and moved her hands over the plastic table as though she were smoothing a tablecloth.

  “To old acquaintances!” Bob said suddenly, lifting his beer.

  The ladies gave Bob an appreciative and nervous round of laughter. Silently, I thanked him for being a drunk.

  But Shane didn’t budge. He didn’t toast, either. He just brought his own drink to his mouth and took a sip.

  “So, where do you two know each other from?” I said. I made sure to look Shane in the eye. You can’t back off a guy like that, they’re like wild dogs.

  Tennile cleared her throat. “It was, uh... you know, the place I worked in college. Shane was a bouncer.”

  She shot a very sharp look at Shane at this point, and he smiled as he tipped his drink back into his throat. “That’s right,” he said, before pouring the liquid into his sharply cut mouth. “A bouncer.”

  My stomach was going cold. It was partly rage, partly a sympathetic cool for Tennile. Monica’s quick little eyes had started moving, her ears were turning into satellite dishes. She turned to Tennile. “What was this?” she said. “You never told me you worked at a bar.”

  “Well, not a bar,” Shane said deviously, and there was an exchange between Tennile and him, and Tennile shook her head, very rapidly and microscopically.

  Shane set his drink down. He was nodding now, a sinister nod, an agreement-from-the-devil kind of nod. “It was a lot more upscale than that!” he said, his voice a lot louder than it needed to be. Then he turned and leaned on his elbow, looking at me. “Tennile was more of a... what would you call it?”

  He was looking at my face, trying to see how much I knew.

  Well, fuck off, I thought. “Cocktail waitress,” I offered.

  Shane let out a laugh. A kind of squeaky sound, gave a rap of his knuckles on the table. “Cocktail waitress,” he said, as if trying on the words in his mouth. “Well yes. I guess that is what you’d call it.”

  Tennile rubbed her forehead with the back of her thumb, leaving a little white mark in her tan skin from the pressure with which she did it.
She turned to Monica, who was looking perplexed. There was obviously something here, and she wasn’t the kind to let it go.

  “It was a strip club,” Tennile said, and I admired how coolly she did it. “That’s why Shane is being so funny here, isn’t it, Shane?”

  Shane had taken a toothpick out from somewhere and he was poking it into his teeth now. “You ever end up finishing law school?” he asked, changing the subject.

  At this point, his tone had softened. I even felt a little ebb in the tension, like it was all going out to sea. He wasn’t going to tip Tennile’s hand, he actually seemed interested in the question.

  “I did,” Tennile said.

  “So you’re a lawyer now,” Shane said, chewing on his toothpick. The statement hung ominously in the air, and the sinister feeling came rushing back in. Tennile said nothing and didn’t break eye contact with him.

  He turned abruptly to me, moving all of his wiry mass at the same time, making himself bigger, sucking air in through his mouth. “And you, Mr. Mathews, is it? What do you do?”

  “I’m an engineer.” And then I remembered not to let my guard down. You have to poke back with a guy like that. “And you?”

  Shane looked amused. “Engineer,” he repeated, ignoring my question. He looked from me to Tennile and back again, then at Monica. He winked at her, which made her jaw drop even further. “Well. You two have it all wrapped up then, I’d imagine. Nice house, nice car, maybe two?” He looked to me sharply. “Two cars. You drive a Lexus?”

  He was pointing his toothpick at me now.

  “I work construction,” I said, trying to keep it cool. I didn’t like that this wacko was unnerving me.

  Shane smiled and chewed on his toothpick.

  “Well,” Tennile said, her voice small at the other side of the table. “It was... a coincidence, running into you Shane. But we were just leaving, have to... have an early day tomorrow. So...”