Read The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel Online
Authors: Arnica Butler
I got u
p
after a short nap, and sat in the kitchen with Anna in the latest hours of the night. She worked and I pretended to work, but all I was thinking about was the dildo in her ass, and her upcoming time with John.
I went to bed.
When I woke up in the morning, she was dressed and punching 1:11 into the microwave for her coffee. She looked well-rested.
I had an erection that was pushing against my underwear and my sweats. My very first thought in the morning had been the dildo in Anna's ass. I desperately wanted to say something about it now (well, I desperately wanted to bend her over the counter, to feel its small bump protruding from her little hole, to turn her around after I inspected it and get her to suck my cum from my cock).
The microwave beeped. She poured the coffee from a mug into her metallic canister for the car, unafraid of spilling it on her white blouse.
“Gotta run,” she said. She moved her fingers down my body, and brushed them over my cock. “Don't get too excited,” she said.
I smiled.
The thoughts going through my head at this point were so perverse and so lewd that I could barely retain an expression on my face that did not seem obscene.
I sat down at the kitchen table, where my computer was still waiting.
But all I could think of was Anna.
Anna sitting at her desk at work, squirming with a butt plug inside of her. Anna thinking about John. Anna's ass aching as she walked down the street, Anna screaming as the tip of John's cock passed the outside of her ass, because even though she had squirmed with a dildo inside of her all day long, it was still too big not to make her squeal…
I went upstairs and took a shower, my hands on the stone wall as I jerked myself off and came in almost no time at all.
It was going to be a long day of anticipation.
I sat starin
g
at the text.
Inside of me I felt like a wild animal had been set loose. I was actually going to start crawling the walls, banging my head, screaming and pounding my chest.
Calm the fuck down Brian.
I read it again.
[Anna]:
He can't do it tonight. Emergency depo. Take me to dinner instead?
I knew, from the way that my heart was pounding, that a dizzying rage was building up inside of me, that desperate thoughts were percolating from my mind – I knew at that moment, for certain, that I had a real problem.
Tell him to cancel his fucking deposition,
I actually wrote, but had at least the sense not to send it.
I paced the house.
I threw my phone and almost broke it.
I was losing my mind.
I went back to the shower to cool down.
I agreed
to Anna's dinner alternative, though I had no interest in it. I didn't want to see Anna in a restaurant, even if she did flirt with other men.
I wanted to see Anna on all fours on John's bed, turned around so that I could have a nice view as he spread her tiny asshole wide open and then fucked her raw.
I wanted to watch John's cum dripping out of her torn-up hole.
But after I cooled down, I could think more clearly. I knew these were selfish thoughts. The thoughts of an addict.
So I agreed to go to dinner.
I went in a daze, as I did most things now. Anna had arrived in the car, already changed into a tight red dress. She hadn't gotten out, and hadn't given me the chance to release any of the pent-up hunger I was feeling. She did it so casually, as though none of this had ever happened.
I was almost angry with her in the car, though I knew I had no right to be. She drove and talked about ordinary things, and seemed to have moved on completely from the idea of fucking John that night. She was not addicted. She didn't care or think about it at all.
And I was in the passenger seat, sweating with my obsession.
I followed her through the restaurant, watching her beautiful ass in a tight red dress, thinking of all the things I would love to do to her. Most of them were beyond obscene by then.
Memory, like I keep saying, is a funny thing. Sometimes when I remember this night, I think I knew it was coming. I embellish my memory of my own thoughts as I watched Anna walking through the restaurant. She had reserved a table, and it seemed like the kind of place that needed a reservation long before she could have made it, impromptu, that afternoon.
Did I even notice that at the time? It's hard to say.
In some memories of this scene, I had a sixth sense, a premonition that something extraordinary was gong to happen.
Other times, I remember myself as utterly clueless.
And still in other memories of my memory, I had a sense of foreboding.
I remember only that I felt as if I hit a brick wall when we rounded a corner and Anna collapsed into a booth. My entire body went completely numb. I turned my whole body, not just my head, to face the hostess who had escorted us there.
I must have stared at that girl forever, like maybe if I did that, she would take me out of this scene. I remember every detail of her face. She was a teenaged blonde, a girl whose jaw shape and thin, jutting lower lip revealed that there were many, many people in her family tree with the last name Fitzgerald, and that her voice would be nasal, like she always had a cold…
She was staring at me, blinking, annoyance making its way down her face like a slow drip.
I could feel my heart as I looked at her, this weird little girl. She waved the menus toward the table again. Big, leather-bound menus, for big, leather-bound restaurants.
My heart was kicking me from the inside, extra slowly.
One.
Two.
I wanted to explain to her that I could not sit down there, that I couldn't even look in that direction. Because in that direction, sitting in that booth next to my wife, was the man who had been fucking her.
Who? Yes, it's confusing. Fucking my wife, little girl.
I had this one-sided and unreal conversation with the hostess, and she was growing more than impatient. Now a look of fear mingled with her annoyance.
Anna tugged violently at my shirt sleeve, pulling me down into the booth as she simultaneously scooted around.
To the middle.
Between us.
Get fucking control of yourself, Brian.
I looked at John.
He was looking at me with a similar face to the one I imagined I'd been wearing.
He looked surprised, and surprise – real surprise – is a hard thing to fake.
He looked really uncomfortable.
He looked like I did.
We looked at each other's faces, and then we both slowly turned. To Anna.
Anna had her chin propped up on her palm, and she tapped her lips with her fingertips. Her mouth was open, and she was smiling.
Anna was unsurprised. Anna was unafraid.
Anna was in control of everything. The realization dripped over me like the hostess's annoyance.
She wasn't looking at either of us, though. She was looking at the hostess.
“Three whiskeys for now,” she said.
The hostess was looking at Anna now with a mixture of fear and admiration. She had no idea what was going on here, but it was plain to see that whatever it was, this one woman had both of the men on either side of her by the balls.
And she was having fun.
The hostess nodded and went away, probably to get someone old enough to actually serve whiskey, and Anna did not take her eyes off her.
The air was thick with tension. Anna tapped her teeth. Without looking at either of us, she said:
“Gentlemen. I've been very, very bad.”
Anna waite
d
for the whiskey to come. It seemed to take an unusually long time.
I wonder what John thought about, in those moments. I myself had no idea what Anna was going to say. Why she had brought all of us together, why her single proclamation was that
she
had been very bad.
I had a few thoughts during that time. The thought that Anna had some perverse desire to see me get angry at John, as part of our game. There were women like that, weren't there? Women who wanted to see men fight over them. Only John would easily kick my ass.
Also, why the elaborate game? Why the tricks, and the lies?
After all, Anna knew that I knew she was “having an affair” with John. I wasn't going to jump across the table and punch him in the face.
I felt myself getting angry at Anna. Now things were going too far.
Anna's face was calm, so whatever she was planning to say didn't trouble her terribly. She had proclaimed to have been bad with a hint of sexy mischief in her eyes, and I was starting to feel all of the excitement and all of the sinking, terrible pain of watching her with John all over again, like it was fresh.
I looked at John. His eyes were already on me. They were moving slightly from side to side, scanning my face for what I imagine were the same things I wanted to know. Namely: what the hell Anna was up to.
John looked as ignorant as I was. He did not have the smug expression on his face of a man who is pulling one over on someone.
Was his face the face of a man who has just been caught fucking another man's wife? I gave this some thought. Did he look scared? Did he believe that Anna was going to tell me, and that it would be the first I heard of it?
I had all these thoughts in the silence that hung over the table while we waited for our drink order. Anna had complete control of the conversation, because neither John nor I wanted to break in and start revealing just how little we knew about what Anna was about to do.
The whiskey came. We all lifted the glasses to our lips.
A comical aside in all of this, is that the sophisticated Anna had forgotten to tell the teenage hostess what kind of whiskey she had wanted, and the girl had evidently served us a nameless well whiskey. The three of us made very minute scowls, but we drank it anyway. Such was the gravitas of the moment.
Anna set her glass down. She twisted it with her fingers.
“The whole thing,” she began, “has gotten a little out of control. And it's my fault.” She raised her hand to her neck and nestled it beneath her hair. She looked up and her eyes were glittering. Not with any true remorse to match her semi-apology, but with an excited, almost sinister glee.
My chest tightened. Now this was a different kind of tightness.
Anna looked down at her drink. She was attempting to look remorseful, but the performance was falling flat on me. Too much of a smile remained on her lips.
“So...” she cleared her throat. “John has been watching us, darling. And John, Brian has been watching
us
.”
The sentence fell on everyone but Anna like a blanket of lead.
I looked at John, and his mouth seemed to be eternally forming a “w,” as in “what?”
As in,
what the fuck.
He sat back, his eyes narrowed, his mouth still making that shape, his gaze flickering from me to Anna.
I was primarily concerned with Anna's confession that we had been watching him. For a moment, self-preservation took precedent as I thought about the legal ramifications, the ways we were going to get sued, the possibility of getting home faster than them and covering up the hole as if it had never happened. Ways to get away from John's fists, which were going to start pummeling me at any moment.
And then the
other
thing that Anna said sunk in.
John has been watching us, darling.
Now it was my turn to form soundless
w'
s and look from Anna to John.
My heart, I think, had actually stopped in my chest.
Anna turned to her left and dug into her purse.
Her voice was muffled by her hair and the table as she searched for something.
“The problem, I think, is that everyone had gotten a little bit out of control. Everything was fine for a while but...” she left her sentence dangling in the air. She emerged from the depths of her purse with a small video camera, a very expensive piece of equipment, small enough to fit in a purse. “I'm the one,” she said, “who has gotten the most out of control. I can't stop making videos. Neither of you can stop watching them.” She thought for a moment. “But...there would be nothing to watch if I didn't make them,” she added, as though she enjoyed being at fault.
At this point, she turned to me, and her eyes delivered a very sharp warning. It would take a few seconds for the full idea to make its way through my mind: whatever she was confessing to in this confession, she was not telling John about the hole in the wall.
She pushed the video camera into the middle of the table.