Clothing Optional: An Interracial Hotwife Erotica Novel Read online

  CLOTHING OPTIONAL

  A Hotwife Erotica Novel

  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:

  Garetsworkshop/ DepositPhotos

  Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

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  Thanks to R. Again.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  More From Arnica Butler

  Chapter 1

  “I thought we said ‘no phones,’” I say.

  Jackie has paused at the edge of a set of steps leading down to the beach. She’s retrieved her phone from the depths of an enormous beach bag, and is swiping at it furiously. She holds a finger up to get me to be quiet. “I just…”

  I lean on my crutch, amused.

  I’m enjoying the view. Jackie is clad in a clingy red cover-up with a deep plunge between her pert breasts, which stand upright like conical grain silos in spite of her age. A warm Caribbean breeze has picked up the flared skirt in just the right place, opening a risque slit I did not realize is there. Her lean, muscled thigh peeks out all the way to her hip.

  We’ve only been in the Caribbean for about three hours (most of which consisted of hauling luggage around, searching for a shuttle, and being annoyed), but Jackie’s toasted-almond skin is already flushed with a pink glow. Her waves of chocolate, shoulder-length hair have been tousled by the sea breezes and gone a little curly in the humidity.

  She looks relaxed, and sexy as hell, even if she is on her phone. Maybe this whole vacation is not ruined by my lame foot, which requires me to use crutches and wear a medical boot. I look like a tool and I can’t even go swimming, but the tickets were non-refundable, so here we are.

  The worst part is that it isn’t even a manly break with a manly story. I stepped off the second-to-last step with (get this) the vacuum cleaner in my hands.

  I do have a made-up story, involving a motorcycle I don't own, just in case an attractive female asks me. Jackie has approved my use of this story, mostly because she's been married to me far too long to waste time fighting that sort of battle.

  “Oh my God,” Jackie says. “It is. It’s right here.”

  She looks up from the screen, biting her lower lip. She pushes a strand of whipping hair from her face and squints out at the beach.

  I laugh. “Well,” I say cheerfully. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

  Jackie grimaces and ignores my comment. “I guess this is why it was such a good deal,” she says.

  “Good deal” is a relative term. While this trip is a gift from Jackie, I have seen the credit card statement that reveals the “deal” she got on this trip, and while it may be a “good deal” given that the place is spectacularly luxurious, it’s not my version of a deal.

  That being said, things do seem to be getting interesting.

  “So are you going to... you know?” I say, trying to get back to the issue I find most alluring at the moment.

  Jackie looks at me like I am crazy, which she does a lot. Then she surprises me greatly by smiling, in an almost secretive way, and purring, “Who knows?”

  My eyes pop involuntarily, and I feel my cock twitching to life.

  Also involuntary.

  “Really?” I say, unable to contain my enthusiasm. I know she's joking, but I am also a man, and I live and die with unrelenting hope when it comes to nakedness.

  Jackie rolls her eyes. “Of course not, are you crazy?!”

  Not crazy, my dear, just hopelessly male.

  She squints at the bright beach, her forehead wrinkled slightly with worry. It’s the only wrinkle on her face. Jackie is forty-two, but she doesn’t look it at all. Nor have the kids taken much of a toll on her body, except to give her stomach a very pleasant roundness. She insists that her breasts, which were perfect, have been altered horribly, but I think they look the same as when I met her, for the most part. Like I said: conical grain silos. The only thing different about them is that her nipples are a bit larger.

  I’m thinking about all of this as I watch her take in the view: the cloudless blue sky, the gentle waves, the white sand.

  The lovely people lying on beach chairs, sipping from coconuts or tall glasses with fruity drinks, getting massages under cabana tents, playing paddle-ball in a little pool.

  Some of whom are doing these things completely naked.

  I take the phone from her hand – she’s nearly forgotten she’s holding it, and slip it into her beach bag. “I, for one, do not have a problem with this,” I say.

  Jackie gives me a look. It’s a look she’s sharpened to perfection in the fifteen years of our marriage. It’s like a cross between “shut the hell up” and “why did I marry an imbecile” and “I love you anyway.”

  It is at this moment that one of my wildest dreams actually comes true. A slender woman, probably in her thirties, approaches us. Her long brown hair is streaked blonde by the sun, and her skin is tanned and somewhat sandy. She has the longest legs I have ever seen, but possibly this is because I can see all of her legs, all the way to her completely shaved snatch.

  “Oh,” she says sweetly, and puts her hand on my arm. She looks down at my foot. “What happened to you?”

  This naked woman is standing like ten inches away from me now.

  Feeling a little sorry for me and my foot.

  My mind seizes.

  I have a story for this, is all I can think. What is the story?

  I look at Jackie, who is stunned, but also amused. She’s waiting for my big joke.

  “It’s just a little… a fracture on my tarsus. With a pin in it,” I blather.

  (I am aware, for the record, of how lame I sound.)

  Then this woman leans in, and kisses me on the cheek. Her lips are dry and soft. “Oh,” she coos. Her hair slides over my face and shoulders and I catch the scent of her skin: coconut, flowers, something else. My cock is tingling. “Feel better,” she tells me.

  And then she walks away, her hand drifting down my torso in a goodbye gesture.

  I look at my wife.

  Unsurprisingly, she has folded her arms across her chest. “What the hell was that?” she asks. She doesn’t sound angry, or even perplexed. She’s using the voice we use to ask the dog rhetorical questions (“Baxter, what’s this?” when he’s ripped up the trash, for example).

  “I have no idea,” I murmur.

  And ain’t that the truth?

  Jackie then surprises me by turning back toward the beach, stepping down the steps, and mocking me as she goes: “‘I have a fracture on my tarsus’...oh, my God, that was lame.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Have I heard right, and “what the hell was that?” was actually directed at my stupid answer, not the a
ttractive woman flirting with me?

  She turns at the bottom of the stairs, and looks up at me. “Can you get down these okay?”

  I contemplate the pros and cons of asking my wife why she has nothing to say about a naked woman kissing me on the cheek, and decide the whole thing is a fantasy that took place in my mind only.

  Asking about it will only make me look crazy.

  I hobble down the steps. I’ve gotten pretty good with these things. Anyway, I’m on a high from getting kissed by a naked lady.

  Don’t get me wrong. The woman at the bottom of these steps is the only one I have any real interest in.

  In fact, any proclivities toward “others” go the other way: I fantasize about Jackie with other men.

  Still, it’s nice to be kissed on the cheek by a woman who is not wearing any clothes and has bright pink nipples melting on a hill of incredibly firm, sun-kissed skin.

  “The sand is going to be tricky,” I say.

  But actually, it isn’t really that bad. I smile, and Jackie sighs. “Well,” she says. “I hope this doesn’t ruin the trip even more than your foot. I didn’t even… oh my God.”

  Jackie was about to say that she failed to read the final line of the description of Jaguar Bay Resort in Belize, which states that it is “Clothing Optional.”

  The reason she has cut herself off is because a man is walking in our direction. He is large, tall, well-sculpted, with dark hair ever-so-gently peppered with gray.

  Between his legs, a semi-hard cock, dark pink and enormous, slaps against his thighs and his dangling balls. We see this, because this man is exercising the “optionality” of the clothing at Jaguar Bay.

  He smiles at Jackie, who just stands there, mouth open.

  He passes us, overtly turning as he passes, to look at Jackie’s ass.

  This whole time, we’ve been eking through the sand, so hopefully we don’t look as shocked as we feel.

  “What I don’t understand,” I say, to break the tension, “Is how everyone keeps the sand out of their privates.”

  Jackie’s mouth slowly closes.

  We walk a little more. I can see that she is studying the scene, looking for a place where there is not too much skin hanging out.

  Not everyone is naked. I see a black bikini, a lot of swimming trunks.

  A lot of naked, though.

  “I want to go over there,” Jackie whispers, pointing at an umbrella at the far end of the beach, where no one has bothered to go. “Can you make it?”

  “What’s wrong with here?” I say cheerfully.

  Jackie closes her eyes and presses her lips together. “It’s just…” she whispers.

  “A lot of dong,” I offer.

  She loses it. Her laugh, which she tries to keep in, is a wet snort. She has to cover her face.

  I start to hobble out to the distant outpost of beach chairs. It’s nice that there are a lot of naked women around, but like I said, I’m mostly into my own wife. And if it makes her happy to hide away at the end of the beach, so be it.

  Jackie sighs when she reaches the lounge chair. It’s a fancy resort, so the chairs are good quality, which I’m happy to see because with this foot, I’ll be spending a lot of time in them.

  She lifts her cover-up by pulling on the sides and slinking out of it, and I doubt she’s aware of what a sexy spectacle she’s making of herself.

  Inch by inch, her lean body is uncovered. A plain black bikini covers her from waist to the very top of her thigh – it’s more sporty than deliberately sexy, because she likes to swim – but it’s still very eye-catching. Also, I happen to know that she’s gone to the spa and gotten a wax, leaving only a landing strip of soft, dark hair just on the verge of curling.

  She’s been working out lately, now that she has more time on her hands (the kids have become not only more independent but rather insistently so). Her efforts show in the line of toned muscle on her inner thighs.

  I whistle as the cover-up makes its way over her head and her breasts, bouncing lightly in a sporty bikini top, are freed.

  “Lookin’ good, Mrs. Price.”

  Jackie treats me to a smile, gives another glance at the partially-naked beach, and spreads her towel out on the chair. She adjusts it, and I see that she is pleased with how easy it is to do so. We have some at home that truly suck.

  She stretches out on the chair and lets out a sigh of contentment as she places her sunglasses on over her eyes. “There we go,” she says.

  “Did you put sunscreen on?”

  “Pretty much.”

  This means yes, because Jackie is a sunscreen dictator.

  “I could rub some in for you if you need.”

  She just smiles. I know all she wants to do is rest. It was a hassle getting on the flight because of the pin in my foot, which required me to carry x-rays and go through extra security. We almost missed our flight, and then our luggage was misplaced. We missed the shuttle from the hotel and had to wait for another one. Small problems, but still: annoying.

  Now this, I thought: a nudist hotel.

  I pull a magazine out of her beach bag and settle into the chair. Mine is in the shade, hers in the sun, because there is nothing Jackie likes more than lying around in the sun. She always wears sunscreen, so she isn’t even doing it to get a tan. But she loves it.

  “You’re not even going to take your top off?” I asked.

  I can’t help myself. I am looking out at the water, where two lovely ladies are playing paddle ball with their tops off, their big breasts bouncing with every swing. Splashing, bouncing, their nipples wet with seafoam...

  My imagination is getting the better of me.

  “I don’t have any sunscreen on my boobs,” Jackie says dryly, in response to my question.

  She’s actually taking the whole thing pretty well, I have to say.

  I decide to stop being a jerk and try to focus on my magazine.

  As you can imagine, it doesn’t go well. While Jackie seems content to close her eyes and take a nap, I myself am unable to put the scantily to not-at-all-clad people to my left out of my mind. My eye keeps wandering from the page to take in the scene.

  There are the two ladies playing paddle ball. They’re both tanned with platinum blonde hair and billowing breasts (not my type, but lovely to look at). They look like they could be sisters.

  There is another woman with long dark hair stretched out face-down on a beach towel. Her bare bottom is lamentably turned toward the water, but the shape of it from where I sit is still nice to contemplate.

  And under the massage tent...

  I squint. It would appear that a very young, well-toned man in only shorts is giving a massage to an openly naked woman. But more importantly, two men are sitting in beach chairs, facing the tent and not the ocean, and watching.

  My cock twitches.

  How I would love for that to be my wife. Watching another man’s hands kneading her muscled thighs, sliding through the shiny oil on her skin. Kneading her flesh, a finger slipping into the dark tangle of her curls – I correct my imagination, because Jackie’s dark curls are now a trim landing strip – maybe even into the moist folds of her pussy...

  I look back at my magazine. My pulse is elevated.

  “Hello!” A cheerful voice calls out, startling me. I look up and see a hotel employee approaching us. I had been too caught up in my massage reverie that I hadn’t seen him.

  He is a dark man – kid, really, probably no older than twenty-five. Probably half-black, with a mop of curly dark hair and the peculiar green-brown eye color that people of mixed race sometimes have. His teeth are so white they almost glare. “You really have come as far away from the action as you can,” he says cheerfully. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  He is looking at my wife, and I’d have to say he’s doing it in an openly... shall we say, appreciative?... way. His eyes travel the length of her body, not once but twice, as he smiles at her and crinkles his eyes.

  Well, my inte
rest is piqued.

  Jackie props herself up on her elbows. Her eyes are hidden behind her dark sunglasses, so I have no idea if she sees what he is doing. Her mouth, with its full lower lip and the pronounced bow-shape of her upper lip, is partially open in a neutral expression.

  She says nothing.

  I indulge in imagining that she is quite taken by the cabana-boy, whose musculature is evident through the white polo shirt he is wearing, both buttons undone to reveal a peek at his smooth chest.

  “I can make you my special drink,” he offers, with a smile. His eyes twinkle, or something like it, again. “It’s very, very tasty.”

  The guy is standing at the foot of her recliner now, and he’s a good two feet away, but the way he says this (“very, very tasty”) makes it seem like he is trailing his tongue from Jackie’s ankle to her knee, with his eyes trained on the center of her legs, where he will go next.

  My cock is, officially, hard. I set the magazine down over it.

  I wonder sometimes what’s wrong with me, why I let my mind run away with this particular fantasy so often.

  I love to picture other men with my wife. I love to think about them fondling her, stroking her, making her gasp and arch her back.

  And worse things than that, you can rest assured.

  Jackie’s a very attractive woman, who, like I said, doesn’t look her age. So I’m used to men hitting on her, or flirting with her. They don’t normally do it so blatantly and in front of me like this, but I am hardly complaining.

  Jackie’s mouth falls open a little. “I... what... what’s so special about it?”

  Cabana-boy has a tray in his hands, and he tucks it under one arm. He raps his fingers on it. His smile transforms again, more mischievous now than anything. “I make all of my drinks e-specially for the ladies. I bet you like sweet things,” he says. “But not too sweet. And maybe just a taste of something different. Not too exotic.”