The Hotwife Summer Read online

  “So good-looking,” she said. “A real Italian man.”

  “Oh yeah?” I repeated. I didn't mean to sound like an idiot, but when she said things like this it got me really hotted up. I wanted her to repeat it, again and again.

  I tried to extract this kind of teasing from Summer all the time. She was rarely game for it. There was nothing, it seemed, I could do to convince her that I really wanted her to say things like this.

  I was feeling brave. “Tell me more about this new chef.”

  I was hoping for more sultry short sentences about how he was so handsome and so dark, but instead she set the wine glass down and began to speak in earnest. “You know? I think he's actually a more reputable chef. He's really famous, apparently, in Bologna, and he has like three or four restaurants and he has a Michelin star...”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “Wonder what he's doing at your cooking class?”

  She turned from side to side flirtatiously and batted her eyes. “Maybe he heard that I was in town,” she said, “and I was too hot to resist.”

  My cock was coming alive, as though it were a toy being slowly wound into place. I loved hearing her talk like this.

  When Summer said things like this, she did it tongue-in-cheek: all her life she had been a little clueless about her attractiveness to men. She made jokes about it, and in her mind, they were jokes. I think she really viewed herself as less-than-desireable.

  Summer's sister was a former model. She was long-boned and thin, had naturally platinum hair, and her face was cheery and perfect. She was as interesting as box of unsalted Saltine crackers and it wouldn't be entirely unfair to call her half as smart as Summer.

  Summer, on the other hand, had grown up with mousy-brown hair that had become, almost as if by an act of magic, a peculiar shade of brown that looked like highly varnished oak. She was a full-figured girl: thick but not fat, with generous curves that were neatly proportioned. Her features, rather than being carefully arranged in porcelain teacup perfection on her face, were jarring and angular, or oversized and plump; but all together, they orchestrated perfectly into a stunning and interesting face. Summer still thought of herself as the mousy, chubby girl who had been outshined by her sister for so long, and it was true that a lot of men gravitated to Cora when they were together. A lot of men, though, gravitated to Summer – and I saw how they moved around her and darted into conversation with her, like bees to a rich, nectary flower.

  It turned me on that she was so oblivious to her powers of attraction. She never understood that guys were actually putting the moves on her, so she often completely devastated them when she put her arm around me and introduced me.

  I enjoyed watching how let down they were, how the kindling fire of hope was crushed. I liked that she was so unaware of what she was doing that she often ground the disappointment into them like finely crushed glass. I knew it was mean of me, but it was a secret pleasure I had.

  I often let my imagination run away with me when I saw her interacting with other men. I thought about what she must look like to them, touching her shoulder when she frowned in thought. Adjusting the straps of her shoes around her ankle, her full breasts forming two creamy mountains and dark amber valley over her knees as she leaned over them.

  Then I liked to imagine what it would be like to feel my wife for the first time. To touch her hair, and see the dark pink circles around her nipples for the first time.

  As my imagination kept going, it often turned on me, until I was watching another man touching her. Another man would place his fingertips on the velvet circles around her pert nipples, and then lean down to taste them. His other hand would find its way to her brown curls, and pry them open, and then his fingers would disappear into the flesh of my wife's pussy...

  From there, things could really go wild. I might end the fantasy panting in the shower while I watched my cum spray all over the wall, imagining another man's cock spreading her pussy open, his fingers embedded in her ass, his seed spurting from her swollen hole while she rode him frantically screaming yes yes yes!

  I wasn't entirely sure why my mind always went there.

  But it did.

  A lot.

  Back in the kitchen in Rome, I set my wine glass on the table and moved my hand down the length of her body, which was smoothed out by the tight clothes she was wearing. I let my hand rest on her full, round bottom, and I squeezed gently.

  She was responding warmly to my advances. She even placed her forearms on my shoulders, letting herself move closer to me. I could smell a puff of her deodorant, and nothing more than her very specific scent, the smell of her skin. Summer was decidedly unperfumed at all times but I could always smell her. She smelled like honey and something mildly feral.

  Her pussy smelled like that, too, but more sexual. Mixed with the sweet scent of a woman.

  The idea drifted through my mind and my cock pulsed against her leg.

  She gave me an inviting smile. “Well,” she said, and her eyes dropped down, as though she could see through her plump breasts to where my cock was tapping at her leg. “Looks like you heard I was in town, too.”

  It was a silly pun, but the kind we used to make so long ago, for the fun of it. Puns that were not even puns.

  I felt a kind of vigor starting to pulse inside of me. It was sexual, but it was also something else. Since we had arrived in Italy, Summer had been so much more youthful. More adventurous, and carefree.

  Okay, maybe it was all just sexual, because her sense of adventure and carefree attitude were most obvious to me with regard to sex.

  Case in point: she hopped up on the counter herself, and pulled her skirt up in one neat movement as she did it.

  It took me no time at all to discover that she wasn't wearing underwear. The honeyed scent of her pussy drifted up to my nose before my excitedly probing fingers, expecting to bump into a wall of cotton over her soft curls, found instead dampness and flesh.

  My cock had been stiffening since she sat on the table, but the feel of her wet pussy slammed it into a solid rock. I left my hand between her legs and fumbled with my belt. I didn't want to take my fingers away from their exciting exploration – peeling away the outer layers of her dewy flower, they were in search of something that would make her tip her head back. My other hand was having a hard time with the belt buckle and the button of my pants.

  Summer had brought her face close to mine, along the side of my jaw, and was breathing into my skin. Her hot breath caressed my neck, and then my ear. Her fingers were working their way up to my hair, raking against my skin, sending chills down my spine that pulsed right into my cock.

  One of her hands slid between my pants, and she leaned forward to get it down to her goal: her fingers squeezed the base of my cock, crushing my balls against the shaft.

  It was painful but it felt good. This was a new thing she had just started doing. I don't know if she read something somewhere, or a girlfriend had passed the advice on to her, but she did it with a hand that almost seemed practiced. I could feel the tip of my cock getting sticky and wet with precum.

  Her lips were close to my ear, and I think I stopped breathing as I waited to hear what she was going to say. This, too, was fairly new since arriving in Italy. Sure, Summer had talked dirty to me a few times, after too many glasses of wine, but now she did it in the afternoon, in the evening, every chance she got.

  “I want you to get your whole cock wet in my pussy,” she breathed, and slap those balls against my ass hard.”

  It was stuff like that. Sweet Summer, mother of my children, baker of cookies, the brown-haired sister who did not fully comprehend her sexuality. Asking me to fuck her hard while she grasped my balls.

  There was more, though:

  “And then,” she said, and she teased me with a long pause as she ran her tongue along the outer edge of my ear, “I want to taste my own pussy on your cock.”

  I hastily pushed back and used two hands to unbuckle my belt and let my pants drop t
o the floor. I pushed her thighs open and she scooted toward me, her hands guiding my cock with her firm grip toward her dripping slit.

  I looked down to see her trimmed, feathery curls – the exact shade of her reddish-brown hair. They glistened with moisture. I caught a glimpse of her pink flesh, swollen with desire and coated in her creamy juices, just before she aggressively pulled me inside of her.

  Her soft flesh encased my cock in its heat. She was so wet.

  She put her hands on my ass, and dug her fingernails into my skin as she pulled me deep inside of her, until my balls were creamed by her wet pussy. They stuck to her skin, and for a moment she just twisted a little on the table, squeezing me inside of her, ball-deep in her flesh.

  “Now fuck me,” she said, and she leaned back on the table with her legs spread.

  I started to move in and out of her, watching my own cock disappearing and withdrawing.

  Summer treated me to a moan – and this, too, had improved in sound and quality since coming to Italy. Before, she had moaned as though under duress. Acting out a part that she knew I wanted her to play. After so many years of marriage, what could you expect?

  But now her moan seemed to come from her abdomen, and it seemed to squeeze out of her like another creature, coated in her pussy juices. It was a sticky, wet, throaty moan – and there was nothing fake about it.

  “Harder,” she breathed. She put her hand on my shoulder and started to pull me in and out of her faster.

  She tipped her head back, and her white throat was exposed to me as she opened her mouth and moaned again. It was almost like I could see the moan in her throat, like a cock, like my cock was going to be...

  “Pound me harder,” she mewled.

  She began to move her own hips to get me deeper inside of her. She pulled and tugged until we were slapping against each other furiously, and the smacks of our skin were echoing around the room.

  The boiling water began to spill over onto the stove, and sizzle on its hot surface. I looked over at the stove, and Summer gave it a quick glance, but she looked back down at my cock without giving the stove much thought. She threw her arms around me, grasping my ass and imprisoning me in a vice grip with her legs.

  “Don't stop!” she said.

  Summer of only two weeks ago would never have let water boil over onto a natural gas stove while she clutched me with her legs and pulled my cock deeper and deeper inside of her. She twisted and tossed her hair. Sweat was gathering on her forehead, on her upper lip, on her cheeks. Her pussy was getting tighter, and her stomach was crunching up into a tight ball. She was no longer looking at me, or anything in the room – her eyes closed and her face contorted as she thought only of herself, pulling her pussy up and down my shaft with her legs.

  When she came she screamed. She didn't try to hold it back, even though the kitchen window was open and everyone in the building would hear her. The scream was not a scream that could be mistaken for any other kind of scream, either: it was coated in sex like my cock was coated in her juices.

  The pot continued to sizzle as water splashed out onto the surface. I concentrated on this sound, because I didn't want to come just yet.

  Summer's promise still invited me, and I hoped she hadn't forgotten it.

  She leaned forward on my cock, ceasing her pumping. Her pussy spasmed around me, a fist of flesh squeezing and releasing my shaft. The scent of her cum, and her body, filled the kitchen and drowned out even the onions.

  She slid down between us, without my cock even coming completely out of her until her feet hit the floor, and then she escaped quickly. She hopped to the stove and turned off the burner.

  It was prudent, I realized: the flame had gone out and we would blow up the apartment if we weren't careful. The scent of natural gas reached my nose.

  It was dangerous, but Summer seemed unaffected by it. She turned to me, and approached me. My cock was still throbbing, and my mind was humming with the promise she had made: the promise of her mouth enclosing my cock. The promise to lick her own pussy juices off of my shaft.

  She smiled at me, and for a moment she teased me. Just using her eyes, which somehow smiled mischievously.

  She knew that she had me, utterly enslaved to her at that moment. It was an unusual thing for Summer, to take control this way. She swayed from side to side, and she ran her tongue along her teeth.

  She knew that all I wanted was for her to touch my cock, in any way. To drop her eyes and look at it.

  She teased me a little longer, and then she looked down. A faint smile appeared on her lips. She moved closer, and her hand moved, palm upward, beneath my stiff cock. She didn't enclose her hand around it, like my cock was screaming for her to do. She met my eyes, and her jaw shifted slightly – cockily – before she smiled again, and kissed my chest. Her hands trailed down my shirt, which I had never taken off, and she kissed me through the fabric. Once, on the nipple. Again, on my chest. A third time, her body sinking down achingly slowly, on my abdomen.

  A fourth time, and this time her lips pressed to my skin right on my pelvis.

  So close.

  Her lips touched my thigh.

  I looked down. She was looking up at me, her eyes filled with a combination of lust, mischief, power, hunger. I sucked in my breath.

  Her hand was around my cock now, and she moved her lips just half a centimeter from the dripping tip of it as she moved to the other side of my body and kissed my other thigh.

  She pushed her hand back to the base of my cock, exposing the long shaft, and she stroked it with her eyes, her mouth just in front of the tip.

  I was screaming in pain by now, but I was enjoying watching her. Watching her watch my cock with such interest.

  Her juices were drying now, clinging to my cock. I could smell her, still, a layer of honey stuck to my dick. I knew she could smell herself, and that she would have her own slightly sour, mostly sweet taste in her mouth soon...

  She began by placing the flat of her tongue at he very base of my cock, and then licking outward. One long lick, to the tip of my cock. I shuddered.

  Another.

  At the tip of my cock, she opened her mouth wide, as though she were going to take me inside of her.

  But she went down the side of my cock instead, running her tongue along it like cat cleaning up its fur. Again and again, until I thought I would burst.

  She pressed her lips together, like she eating an ice cream cone.

  Then she looked up at me, and paused with her mouth open near the tip of my cock.

  “Say you want it,” she said.

  I placed my hand on her head, and pushed her forward gently. She smiled as my cock disappeared into her red, wet mouth. Inch by inch. She closed her lips around it, and without taking her eyes off mine, she let me move her head back and forth, all the way to the base of my cock as she had never done before.

  She was still looking at me when I let out a mangled statement: “I'm going to come,” I said, and the muscles of my abdomen squeezed tightly.

  Instead of pulling away and jerking me off onto her tits, as she had surprised me by doing the night before, she grasped my ass with both hands and drove me deeper into her mouth than I had ever been before.

  I tried to pull out, but she held me firmly in her throat, her hair falling over her face and my cock buried all the way to the very base.

  I yelled as I burst inside of her, and could not stop myself from giving a few thrusts into her face. But she simply closed her throat and her lips over me, and took me in, all the way, and swallowed my seed.

  When she pulled her mouth from my cock, she gave her lips a quick little wipe, and stood up in a bouncy, girlish way. She straightened her skirt out, and smoothed it against her skin.

  I stood, shocked, and made no effort to do anything with myself. She gave me an amused looking-over, turned to the stove, and began to finish her dinner preparations.

  After I got myself back together again, I approached her, and reached around h
er waist. Usually, if I ever managed to catch her cooking at home, she pushed me away hurriedly. Now she paused, and let herself absorb the kiss I delivered to the nape of her neck. “What was that?” I said.

  She shrugged, as if it were something she did all the time, like adding raisins on a whim to a salad. She held a string of spaghetti up and inspected it.

  She flung it toward the wall, and it missed. She laughed, and fetched another one. She tilted her head back, and slowly dropped the spaghetti into her mouth.

  Knowing full well, I am sure, that I would think of the way she had just swallowed my cock.

  CHAPTER 3: Not My Wife

  In the Biblioteca Angelica, a golden-white light bathes the main floor. It is yellow from the old glass that fills the window, and it is yellowed by the dust in the air. There is a solemn, mildewed, academic air to the place. It was perfect for doing research, and I had been desperate to come here and spend my time in Italy absorbed in the old documents of the archives. For me, there was no greater pleasure than handling the real documents, sitting with them among the dusty shelves, and occasionally extracting a secret from the wizened archivist who fetched them for me.

  I had arrived later than I had hoped to, charmed back into bed by my wife. I had still managed to seize a lovely work area. But try as I might, the things I should have been enjoying – watching the yellow light, smelling the annals of history – were doing almost nothing for me. I was having a very hard time concentrating on any of it.

  I tried to force myself. After all, at the end of this excursion, I had to have more to show for my grant money than a memoir of great sex with my wife. I screwed my face up in concentration. I even resorted to an old trick I had used to get myself through university: if I read twenty pages diligently, I could have five minute of time to think about whatever I wanted.

  And what I wanted was easy to conjure.