Best Hotwife Erotica Vol.3: Caught! Read online

  I'm so close to catching her. So close.

  But this throws a real wrench in things.

  I've been on to Effy for months. She's covered her tracks really well, I have to say. Never a hair out of place, Effy.

  But Effy underestimates how closely I watch for these things. How much I observe her.

  Effy forgets I work in Special Investigations. One of the keys to catching people in lies is to scrutinize not so much what they're saying, but what they're not saying. People who commit fraud say all the right things, they dot their i's and cross their t's. They just forget to keep saying all the things they’d normally say. If they're observant, they become less so. If they're chatty, they clam up. If they tell secrets, they stop.

  As soon as I figured this out, I decided that I would stop being observant out loud, just in case I ever needed to commit large-scale insurance fraud. That was years ago.

  So Effy doesn't know that I pay any attention to her jewelry collection. Effy, in fact, thinks I pay no attention to it at all. Effy doesn't know I scrutinize her lingerie, that I know what brands she buys and how she washes them. She thinks I don't know that her striped blouse is way out of her professional wardrobe lines.

  She does, however, cover her financial tracks incredibly well. Which figures, since she's a finance person originally.

  I get out of the shower, leaving the water running, and fish her panties out of the hamper.

  I smell them. They smell like Effy, and Effy alone.

  I get back in the shower.

  So what is it? She just went to work last night?

  Could be. It would explain why John was so glum.

  Poor fucker. Effy is probably dragging him around by his cock as much as she is me.

  So what do I do, now that I think I have it figured out?

  The water gets suddenly, outrageously hot. I yell.

  “Sorry love!” Effy yells from the kitchen.

  She just can't remember to leave the dishwasher off while I shower.

  My skin throbs while I plaster myself to the wall until the water runs lukewarm again, and as I step back into the stream of water my whole plan sort of crystallizes.

  I have it by the time I get out of the shower, but I’ll need to wait until Monday to put it into action.

  I lean back in my chair and put my feet on my desk as I dial Dave in Financial Fraud. Fi-Fi to us working men in Fire and Theft down here.

  “Dave,” I say, when he answers the phone. My mood is jovial.

  Effy is way up the corporate ladder in Special Investigations, because she's a numbers person. She makes more than me most years because she deals with big, fancy fraud cases for which she gets paid a commission on recovery.

  Dave is Effy's supervisor, and you'd like to think we've come far enough in this world and this business that there's no Boy's Club... but there is. And so, I can call Dave up and have a chat with him about my wife’s workload.

  Oh well. All's fair in love and war.

  I chit-chat, shoot the shit with the sports, talk about beer, and then I plunge in:

  “Look man, Effy's telling me she has some file she's so deep into she needs to stay back from the retreat,” I say.

  Now, there's always the possibility that Effy has made this bit about the file up, out of thin air, but if I know Effy, she's covered her tracks and there is a file, somewhere, and she’s contrived to make it look like she can’t leave it for a weekend.

  Dave seems genuinely stunned. “She's... did she say she isn't going, then?”

  “That's why I'm calling man,” I say. I'm affable, I'm laughing. I have no fucking clue here, that's me. It's my shtick. (People love interviewing with me, I play the dumb cop. Not Colombo-dumb. I don't throw things all over the place like an idiot like that chick in The Closer. Just dumb enough that people feel like they’re getting away with something. Until they aren’t).

  “This was kind of... the only chance I was gonna get to see my wife at night, you know?” I say to Dave. Poor me, with a hot wife I never get to see because she’s up there finding lost numbers in piles of paper all the time.

  There is a pause on the other end, and it seems a little long. I hear Dave clicking and tapping on his computer, so I guess he’s looking things up.

  Then he laughs. “Look, I'll see what I can do. I can't see anything that pressing on her diary. Nothing that can't be moved around.”

  I give it a pause. Just long enough to sound surprised. “So... I can go ahead and keep this ticket booked?”

  Another pause. “Yeah. Yeah it’ll be fine.”

  “Dave,” I say, “Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”

  Blah, blah, more shit-shooting. Dave's an all-right guy but he can be boring as fuck.

  I hang up the phone, satisfied with my plan, and how it is shaping up.

  Now to see how Effy takes it. Maybe I can even work in watching John's reaction.

  I rub my hands together and pick up my phone.

  Any chance for drinks? I text Effy. And John. And Leticia, just to sprinkle some smoke around, make it a little hard for Effy to be sure I’m on her trail.

  Then I text Dave:

  Hey man. Can I be the one to tell Eff? I'd like it to be a surprise

  If Dave knew me any better, he'd know that's cheesier than I'd ever be, but in ten minutes he gets back to me:

  All clear. Fire away.

  I shall.

  Leticia came and Leticia went, but she was there just long enough to make the “meet-up” look as unstaged as I wanted it to. Unfortunately, she brought and dropped off some new kid named Danny who handles claims.

  Danny's getting wasted, and John's looking uncomfortable, and I'm watching Effy and John like a hawk. We’re at a place called Ice, which was Leticia’s choice and is maybe five to ten years below any of our playground-age.

  Effy's back in her typical white silk blouse get-up. This one’s a pretty number that hangs loose on her body and gives you the idea that it's going to fall open and let you see her lacy bra, but it never does, because Effy has mind control over her clothes and they are never out of place. She's typed a few messages while she's been here, and I keep staring at her while she does it. I’m trying to knock her off her game, make her give away what she’s up to with John. When she meets my gaze she just looks at me like I'm a weirdo or rolls her eyes.

  Oscar.

  (Unless, of course, she is just sending work emails, which is possible.)

  “So,” I say, when I've maneuvered myself into position with John and Effy both in my sights at the strangely-shaped table we found. Danny is slumped on a bubble of the table surface to my left. “I've got some news.” I’m yelling a little over the Funky House music, which is some kind of unintelligible techno I’m also really too old for.

  “Oh yeah?” Effy says, her face brightening. Effy likes “news.”

  I wait, hoping John will get off his phone and hear what I have to say, so I can trap them both at the same time. But Effy is looking at me expectantly, and I can't be too stage-y or it will all look fake and Effy will figure out what I’m up to.

  “Don't be mad,” I said. “But I talked to Dave, and I got you off the hook for that file.”

  I watch this sink in on her face. She blinks.

  It’s a pause just a little too long, a reaction just a little to... unsurprising? Something’s wrong with it, anyway.

  Which means I am right. I hope that Effy will look at John, but she keeps her eyes on me.

  “You're clear to go to the retreat,” I explain.

  I watch Effy. Her features stay in place, all of them suspended by her mastery for lies, as though frozen by some kind of plastic. She arches one eyebrow, only just a little, and her mouth twitches ever so slightly at the left corner. Then she is still as a mouse. A beat passes, and then she breaks into a smile. “Dave did that, did he?”

  She brings her drink to her mouth: a martini, stirred not shaken. Effy's drink matches her personality: undiluted, crystal-clea
r, unshaken.

  She looks over the rim of her glass, and it's one of those looks she gives me when she’s about to volley back. I'm just not sure if she's impressed with me, or herself, for the superb acting job she's doing.

  “That’s great,” she says.

  I can tell it’s not great, and I’ve unnerved her a little. Now Effy is watching me like a hawk. I smile and take a sip of my own drink. I nudge Danny with my toe. The kid is looking like he might puke.

  Effy types into her phone, leaning back so I can't see the screen.

  I look quickly to John, who is buried in his own phone. I wonder if there is a flurry of messages between them.

  Messages of disappointment.

  You heard that?

  Try to change it.

  I can’t.

  Oh, I’m so disappointed, I really wanted to put my cock in your slippery, hot pussy.

  I take a drink of Effy's drink, in victory.

  I've beaten her at her own game.

  I think.

  THE RETREAT

  When we get to the ranch, the first thing Effy wants to do is take a shower. It’s a hike out here to Montana, and there’s no choice once you’re here but to sit on a shuttle for an hour and a half, which Effy hates.

  I set my suitcase down and look around the room. Nice digs.

  I have to admit, I’m confused. I expected, all week long, for Effy to find some other lame excuse for staying back from the retreat. I had expected sniffles, or something clever and sudden, as only Effy could manufacture.

  Something that would guarantee that I would go, and she would stay. And then, my plan was to catch her in the act, after “missing” my flight.

  But none of those things had happened.

  I sit on the bed and bounce on it a little. Oh well. At least we can have a great time here. Maybe Effy isn’t cheating on me, after all.

  The bed makes Effy’s purse tip over, and her phone slides out of the leather handbag.

  Plop. Right on the floor.

  I pick it up and slide the configuration to unlock the screen in, almost out of habit, without thinking. I’m not especially interested, because Effy is really good about cleaning up her phone and deleting messages – not just messages from her lover but all messages.

  So it shocks the hell out of me when I see that there are three messages in her outbox.

  A message to Dave, work-related and dull, something about the H file and a bunch of gobbledygook I don’t understand.

  A message to Letty, who I assume is Leticia, thanking her for lunch.

  A message to Zed.

  I fumble with my phone, though I already know the answer: Zed’s number is John’s number. My heart stops for a moment, and the cold, slick syrup of awful victory coats my insides.

  I stare at the message.

  [Me] Sorry abt this wknd

  It isn’t a smoking gun, I tell myself.

  But it’s all the proof I need, and I know that. I bore into the screen, willing John to send a message back, right now, to finalize my proof so I can confront Effy right now. My face is burning and my heart is pounding. John. I knew it! I knew she was fucking that rugby-playing shit. Sucking his cock and licking his balls. And all the while the smug little fucker sat there having drinks with me, thinking to himself: I’ve had my balls in this man’s wife’s mouth.

  I bet he just loved that. Who wouldn’t love thinking about how he knew the secret that I knew? That Effy’s wrapping of immaculate suits and proper behavior actually hid the fact that she was a tremendously dirty little whore in bed?

  I’m so caught up in thinking about John, and Effy’s lips wrapped around his cock, that I stop listening to the shower – a very faint sound, only the water splashing on the Mexican tile through a heavy wooden door – and I hear the handle of the door turning.

  I throw Effy’s phone into her bag, and then I have a succession of rapid-fire thoughts: I don’t want Effy to know I saw this text, and her phone is on, and I don’t know how to turn the screen off.

  I whack her purse off the bed again.

  Effy stops short of the tipped handbag and looks at it. She’s stark-naked and toweling her hair dry with a white towel. She steps over it calmly, and if it occurs to her that she’s sent a text to John and forgotten to delete it, she doesn’t show it.

  She bends over to step into her panties, and gives me a nice view of her snatch and her ass, making me forget all about her phone and everything else.

  Well, sort of. I can’t help but think about how her pussy would gush with John’s cum if she bent over after he fucked her, and I can’t help that my cock is getting hard thinking about it. I reach for her as she stands up straight, and she slaps at my hand as though she expected me. “Not now, I’m absolutely famished.” She slides a black bra over her shoulders – a sporty one, a casual one, now that she’s far away from her lover John, I suppose.

  Into the bathroom again, and I listen to the hum of her hairdryer as she smooths and straightens her brown hair to perfection, which doesn’t take long. I sit on the bed feeling the twists and turns of my sexual arousal and my painful humiliation: it’s all real now, all of my assumptions. Now I know.

  Effy slinks back into the room and casts a quick look at me. “Cat got your tongue?” she says. She puts on a tidy black turtleneck and a pair of gray, form-fitting slacks, which is Effy’s version of “casual.” It gets no more casual than this unless she is actually running a marathon, which Effy does not do.

  Effy plays tennis, of course.

  “Thanks, love, for cleaning this up,” she says curtly, when she bends down to scoop the spilled items into her purse.

  “Ready then?” She stands up and gives her hair a shake. It falls into place like a silk curtain, and she looks superb.

  I’m wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and next to Effy I sort of look like a slob, but that’s kind of our thing. I should change, and I can see by Effy’s expression that she hopes I will. I stuff my hands into my pockets and stand up. “Ready, Freddy,” I say.

  Effy’s face tells me nothing as we head out the door.

  But something mysterious is moving around behind Effy’s eyes, and I get a bad feeling about it.

  “So,” I say, holding up a champagne flute. “Aren't I a wonderful husband for getting you here after all?”

  I’ve helped myself to two gin and tonics, so I’m feeling a lot better. I feel like I can relax and enjoy the weekend with my beautiful wife, and get to the bottom of this thing with John some other time.

  Effy's lips move over each other, like two sliding plates, and she smiles. “You are” she says. She toasts me with her own champagne flute, and winks at me.

  I’m feeling victorious. I have my proof about John, I’m back in control. I’m going to bang my wife all weekend and when we get back, I’m going to confront her.

  Or maybe I’ll set it up to catch her in the act. I have all sorts of fun plans brewing around in my mind.

  We’re sitting on a large porch overlooking the stunning view from the ranch, which is basically a hotel-sized compound that the company owns and loans out to the CEOs most of the time, and us dregs once in a while. This weekend is mostly free time and only a few “motivational” meetings. And drinks. So many drinks.

  “What are we toasting?” Dave says, pulling up a chair by scraping it across the stone floor and relaxing into it. Rick, another guy from Effy’s department, sits down with him.

  “You, actually,” Effy says. “You and my husband, working it out so that I could make it here this weekend.”

  They start talking about some financial fraud shit and gossip from their office that I can’t really follow, and my attention wanders. The view is stunning, I’m enjoying the thought of John’s face when I throw the door to my bedroom open while his dick is still buried in my wife, and I’m enjoying thoughts of spanking Effy good and hard tonight for being such a naughty girl. I’m enjoying that fantasy a little too much: my cock is getting hard.

 
; An eagle is soaring across the sky, and I am turning my head back to join the conversation and dull my libido, when the thought hits me like a ton of bricks. It’s before I even take in the scene, before I am fully turned and see Effy grinning at Dave, her eyes twinkling.

  You actually, I hear Effy saying. Her eyes twinkling. You and my husband, working it out so that I could make it here this weekend.

  I look at Effy’s turtleneck. The material is slightly transparent. A little risqué for Effy, on a semi-business trip. She has a little lipstick on, and her lashes are full and thick with brown mascara.

  She pulls on her turtleneck, bringing it up to her cheek. Her flushed cheek. She’s swinging her leg a little under the table, unable to sit completely still. Her eyes are twinkling.

  Dave.

  Is it possible?

  Effy leans toward me, and puts her hand on my arm. She’s been talking and my ears have been ringing, and I have a new cold feeling sinking through me. My head is swimming, thinking of John and the message and Dave and what he said to me on the phone, and all the times Effy has done suspicious things...

  “... isn’t that right, darling?”

  Effy is looking at me, her hand on my arm. Her eyes are wide and her pupils dilated, and I know she’s only had the one flute of champagne and a club soda. She is smiling at me, and I see it as a challenge. I can’t think of what to say. My stomach twists.

  “I’m afraid I was thinking of something else,” I say.

  Effy lets her head fall slightly, and she makes a face like she just can’t believe it.

  “I need another drink,” I declare. “That will straighten me out.” I point at everyone at the table, and the men nod. Effy surprises me by requesting a martini.

  “With an olive,” she adds.

  And I feel certain I see her look at Dave right after she says this.

  I am burning up while I make the martini, staring at their interactions through the window, from the bar in the next room.

  Oh sure, it looks innocuous enough, but she’s up to something.

  I knock back a shot of something – I don’t even know what – before I take the drinks over to the group.