Robin's Fix: A Hotwife Novel Read online

  ROBIN’S FIX

  A Hotwife 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:

  bartekwadziak / DepositPhotos

  Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

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

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1: Arrival

  2: Nightlife

  3: Second Thoughts

  4: A Long Week

  5: Early

  6: Try Me

  7: Down The Rabbit Hole

  8: Through The Looking Glass

  9: Do-Over

  10: Gracious Winner

  More From Arnica Butler

  Thank You

  Independent publishing is a marvelous thing, because it allows authors like me and the gang I’m lucky enough to be affiliated with (Ben Boswell, Kenny Wright, Kirsten McCurran, Max Sebastian, and yes, the wild mind of Jason Lenov, who is my partner in more than one crime) to write quality stories for a readership that is not large enough to sustain the profit margins of “real” publishers.

  But independent publishing is not entirely independent. I rely on loyal readers, who also help spread the word about my books and keep coming back for more.

  And I rely on BETA readers to do the jobs that publishers ordinarily undertake (at great expense): editing, suggesting, and helping to shape the final work. I’m very grateful for the supportive community of BETA readers in this genre.

  Special and sincere thanks to “American R” this time, especially for being so tolerant of my wild time demands.

  Enjoy!

  Arnica

  1: ARRIVAL

  “It’s the next turn,” Robin said dryly, sweeping her fingers over her phone. “Uh...”

  I slowed down, waiting for her to confirm the turn. We were on a two-lane highway heavily frequented by large trucks, and I’d seen more than one driver lifting a rather large cigarette to his lips. This was a part of the country where men were serious men, and truckers were men who were often stoned. I glanced at the rear-view mirror and then at Robin, who was sweeping her fingers over her phone, frustrated.

  “Is this it or not?” I said. A street sign appeared to have been plunged into the muddy road as an afterthought, and while a vehicle was still moving. It tipped practically 45 degrees and whatever the writing announced was obscured by an overgrown Linden tree.

  “It’s too late,” I muttered.

  “My phone is... I can’t get a signal,” Robin snapped. She craned her neck behind her. “Was that it?” she mused aloud. She leaned forward on the dashboard, phone in hand, and squinted ahead of us. “Morton’s Garage,” she mumbled. “Is that before, or after...?”

  I sighed and eyed “Morton’s Garage” warily. I knew it would be the most logical thing to pull in to the parking lot while we straightened things out, but the place was giving me the creeps.

  Robin turned her head as I passed the place without stopping, her mouth open in mock disbelief. She waved her phone-hand at my window. “Whatareyou...?” she intoned.

  I sighed, and set my sights on what appeared to be a diner, about half a mile down the road.

  Robin sighed and leaned back in her seat, trying out her phone again. “No signal,” she groaned.

  Things had been like this for all of our marriage, to be sure. Whose hadn’t? Stupid fights about driving, stupid fights about who knew how to read a map and who didn’t. Fights about dishes and the proper way to clean a recycling bin; discussions about the “tone” with which I asked questions and gave directions; fights about who spent more than the other on stupid shit, and angered existentialist musings on whether stupid shit from the Pottery Barn was more or less stupid than stupid shit from Home Depot.

  Married stuff.

  But lately, it had been a little more than that. Seven years’ worth of that, and I was starting to feel like Robin was more annoyed with me than usual. It seemed like we spent more time bickering, and much less time laughing about our fights.

  And then there was this. This godforsaken bullshit part of the country, and this trip to her parents’ cottage at, of all things, some campy campground place. She had inherited the thing and was getting ready to sell it, but that didn’t mean we weren’t going to be out in the vast wasteland of mosquitoes and no cell reception for weeks.

  I turned on the turn signal well before the diner, just to let her know I planned to turn, to keep her from getting more annoyed with me than usual. For the whole six-hour drive, she’d been accusing me off and on of sabotaging the trip with my shitty attitude, which, if I were to be fair, wasn’t so far from the truth.

  I didn’t want to be here.

  There was no lying about that.

  But, I didn’t want to make my wife unhappy. I looked over at Robin. She was thirty-one, about ten years younger than me and twenty-years younger at heart and in appearance. She had one long, tanned leg propped up on the dashboard and her caramel thigh was exposed to mid-thigh. A shaggy line of cut-off dangled between her legs. A close-fitting red tank top hugged her slim waist and pert, perfect-handful breasts. She had her dark brown hair pulled up in a ponytail, and it swished along her shoulder as she turned from the window to the rear-view window to her phone in circles, trying to figure out where we were.

  Annoyed with me or not, I loved Robin.

  I pulled into the parking lot and came to a stop. The pavement was cracked, almost volcanic in places, and no lines were visible on the gray-black surface. A tire thudded sharply into a huge pothole.

  “Jesus,” Robin said, and she peered past me and down the highway in the direction we had come from. I couldn’t tell who or what the “Jesus” was directed at, so I just shut up and squinted into the sun, admiring the view of Robins legs in my peripheral vision.

  “I have no idea what I’m looking at,” she muttered. “Everything’s so different.”

  “Really?” I quipped. “Because all this stuff looks like it’s been abandoned here since 1985.”

  Robin gave me a quick snort. I was relieved to hear that she hadn’t completely lost her sense of humor. She looked behind her, back at her phone, and then down the highway, in the direction we had been headed. “I just have... this thing is saying we’re somewhere we’re not. I don’t know...”

  Robin, I should note here, was one of the least technologically reliable people on the planet. It was unlikely that she was even looking at a map, and it took everything I had to keep from snatching it out of her hands.

  Because, again: the “tone” would not be received favorably.

  I looked down the highway.

  “Well, at least if we get stuck here we can stay at the Gold Medal Hotel.”

  This was a joke, because there was no chance in hell I was staying at The Gold Medal Hotel, and the large structural cracks in the stucco that I could see from half a mile away had almost everything to do with it.

  “Oh!” Robin said, slapping my thigh. �
�That’s... I remember that. It’s past that. I know it is. Go down there, I’m sure it’s just a few roads past.”

  She smiled at me.

  “It’s tempting to stay there, though,” she added, and I was thrilled when she gave me a wink. It was nice to get some friendly, mischievous banter out of Robin these days, because more often than not, that wasn’t what happened.

  The thing about our marriage is that it wasn’t bad or anything. I wouldn’t say, for example, that we were on our way to divorce or separation, or even being one of those quiet couples who don’t talk to each other at restaurants. But we had been married for seven years, and I was starting to get the impression that things were getting a little dull for Robin. She laughed a little less at my jokes, touched me a little less often. We were slowly drifting into our own orbits with our own lives more than we were in each other’s.

  Or rather, I would start thinking these things, and then Robin would do something and I would be convinced that everything was actually just fine. That may be the reason I never really acted on this gradual slowdown of passion.

  I suppose it’s why most married couples may not.

  I pulled out of the parking lot and drove toward the hotel, and then, gratefully, past it.

  “There,” Robin said. “It’s just up there.”

  I looked skeptically at the road, and considered pretending to miss it. While there was a brightly painted sign with an arrow declaring that Camp Taghkana was five miles this way, trees hadn’t been pruned away from it and the whole things looked as shady as if we had made a wrong turn in the Appalachians.

  I turned anyway, and was immediately rewarded by a clunk as the car dropped into one of numerous potholes.

  “Great,” I said. There goes the suspension.

  Robin rolled her eyes, because she hated any complaints I made about the car. Especially “what’s that noise?” and “You smell that?”

  But she lightened up quickly. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You only have to stay the night. I’ll get this place cleaned up and then we won’t have to think about it again until it’s sold. Okay?”

  She smiled at me.

  “This place is creepy,” I said.

  She grabbed my arm and gave me a little hug, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Wait until you see the neighbors.”

  “Are they clowns?”

  “Worse. They’re all old and play cribbage.”

  I laughed. The car bumped along the road.

  Robin’s parents had left her their cottage in a small community called Camp Taghkana. It was one of those fifties-era constructs, and the residents were all old-timers from back in the day. Robin hadn’t been there for almost twenty years, and she was sure that the cottage was in a state of disrepair. But a real estate agent had assured us that it could be sold for a good price if we just fixed up a few things. Robin didn’t seem to have any huge sentimental value attached to it, and she’d agreed to the idea of selling it right away. With the money, we could put a down payment on a better cottage or a house.

  Driving down the crazy dirt road, my suspension clunking away to smithereens, I doubted the agent’s assessment of the value of the cottage. Who on earth would want to be stuck out here, except old people?

  I sighed and told myself it didn’t matter. Whatever it sold for, it was a windfall, and Robin was going to deal with it, anyway. I had to go back to the city to work, and she was going to clean things up and take her own little vacation for two weeks.

  I’d agreed to come back on the weekend, but I’ll admit that as the car hobbled down the road, I was looking for a way to get out of it.

  Little did I know I’d be more than ready to come back in a week’s time.

  *

  “Hmm,” I said, and this was one of the most genuine “befuddled” mumbles I’d ever uttered. I shut the car door and leaned against the vehicle, propping myself up against it with my arm extended. “This isn’t exactly what I pictured...”

  Robin was frozen with her hand on the open car door, her mouth slightly open, her brow furrowed up in confusion. “Um...” she said. She glanced over at me and shrugged before shutting the car door. “This is definitely not the place I remember.”

  Camp Taghkana had been portrayed to me by Robin, in a series of short memories about the place, as a place lodged in the fifties, like – and she had described it this way on several occasions – the camp in Dirty Dancing. Bad karaoke with Elvis songs, a lot of frumpy moms in one-piece suits, and lawn games.

  (Not that there’s anything wrong with lawn games.)

  A woman in a blue bikini – a tanned, long-limbed beauty who did not look old enough to be anyone’s mom except on a technicality, rolled by on a bike. She dinged the bell and gave me a mysterious smile. Her hair was down, streaked by the sun, and she gave it a toss before standing on the pedals and riding away quickly. When I turned to follow her I got a nice eyeful of her pretty ass. Her bike joined up with another pretty girl – this one blonde like a Swede, a little bigger but delightfully curvy. They dinged bells and greeted each other cheerfully.

  I turned back to Robin, who made a small harrumph. “Well,” she said, but she was grinning. “Camp Taghkana just went up in someone’s estimation.” She shut the car door and surveyed the scene in front of us: a lot of twenty and thirty-somethings were intermingled with a few people who might have been in their forties, playing Frisbee and horseshoes or just sunning themselves on towels. Music reverberated from the other end of the central yard. The place felt more like a college campus than a “campground.”

  “What. Has happened to this place?” Robin asked aloud.

  Then she shrugged again and turned on her heel to skip up the steps to the office, which was duly marked as such by a sign that, at the very least, did not seem to have changed in fifty years.

  I took another look around the lawn that stretched out in a big square and ran up against some of the cottages, and all the pretty girls and fit men lounging around on it, before following her inside.

  *

  It was a half-mile drive down a very bumpy and narrow dirt rode to the parking lot near the cottage, and from there we had to hike up a steep set of dirt and log steps into a mosquito-filled forest area, to the enclosed porch of Robin’s parents’ cottage.

  Robin set down the box of supplies she’d carried up with a huff. “Well, nothing here’s changed all that much,” she said. A cloud of dust was still billowing around the box she’d set down. The air in the enclosure was stuffy. She leaned over a table and opened a window.

  The inside of the house was typical cottage fare – plaid couches, dust, and a card table. All the furniture was straight out of the seventies, and the drapes were brown and avocado with wacky flowers on them.

  “This is.... hideous,” I said, laughing a little. “What are you going to do?”

  Robin shrugged. “Put everything in trash bags, and then ask you to bring me some paint?”

  I nodded.

  She slid her arm around my waist. It was an unexpectedly tender gesture from her. “In the meantime,” she said suggestively, and I felt my cock twitch to life. “We should go check out... the amenities.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, kissing her mouth. Her lips moved sensually against mine and I got a little more worked up. “That is not how I wanted that sentence to end...”

  Robin smiled and put her hands over my shoulders. She stroked the back of my neck with feathery touches. “Oh no?”

  I had my hands on her waist, and she was turned toward me, her body moving closer to mine instead of wriggling away, as she would ordinarily have done in the afternoon.

  She kissed me, and I savored the feel of her firm, full lips and the way they gave in beneath my own. I explored her mouth with my tongue, and found her playful. Why didn’t we kiss like this more often?

  Robin surprised me by reaching for her own shirt and pulling it up and over her head. Her skin was damp with sweat already, and the skimpy, transparent material of her bra
clung to her. I moved my hands up to her breasts, and rubbed the pads of my thumbs over her nipples. A satisfying arousal moved through me when they hardened at my touch.

  I felt an urge to ask what had gotten into her, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.

  She backed away, tugging on my shirt. “Come on,” she said.

  I followed her upstairs, enjoying the steep slope of the stairs and the vantage point they gave me to look up her cutoffs and play with my fingers along the line of her bottom.

  The upstairs was just one large room with a double bed on either side of where the stairs joined the area. It was hot as hell, but my balls were aching and I paid no attention to the heat, pushing Robin gently over to the bed on the left.

  There were no sheets, just a plastic cover, but to my surprise Robin bounced onto the bed and arched her back to unbutton her shorts and slide them off. I pulled my shirt off and shimmied out of my shorts and boxers.

  Robin propped herself up on her elbows, and gave me a fetching look. She was still in her bra and panties, charmingly mismatched. I got onto the bed on my knees and edged closer to her. She hooked her fingers under the hips of her panties and slid them down, slowly peeling them away, revealing her neat landing strip of straight, soft dark hair.

  I put my fingers on the strip and slid them slowly toward her pussy. The downy hair was shiny and slick, and my fingers slipped right off the end of it and into her pussy folds. Her clit was hard under the pads of my fingers, and around the ridge of her nub, her folds were moist and hot. It was an unusual state of arousal for Robin to be in, so immediately, but there in the dense air of the attic it somehow made sense. A trickle of sweat snaked down my spine as I knelt over Robin, my fingers exploring her aroused cunt, wondering what to do first – taste her sweet nectar, or just plunge right in and feel the sheath of her pussy around my cock?