The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel (3 page)

“Excellent assets?” Anna offered.

I could feel my cock twitching to life, between Anna's unusual interest in the middle of the afternoon, and the way she was teasing me playing into my fantasy. I pushed my hand underneath her shirt.

“It w
ould
be convenient,” Anna mused.

“What's that?” I asked, hoping she would give me what I wanted.

“To have a nice young man around to pay the rent,” she said, and slapped me playfully.

I put my lips close to hers. Was she deliberately teasing me, with the promise of talking dirty about the neighbor and then switching off so quickly? Or was she just honestly not aware of how much it turned me on? 

“What would you do,” I said, and I let my lips graze hers, “if John couldn't pay the rent one month?”

She bit her lip, and brushed her lips against mine. Now the electricity between us was palpable, and I felt the old, familiar excitement of our younger days building. She waited the perfect amount of time, breathing softly on my lips, her body pressed against mine, before summoning her sexiest voice. “But he's a lawyer,” she said in a half-whisper. “He'll always be able to pay the rent.”

I moved my hand up her shirt, and under her soft bra. I found the little knob of her nipple and squeezed it lightly. “Pretend,” I said. “Use your imagination.”

Anna gave me a smile that made it seem like she knew exactly what I wanted to hear, and exactly how deeply I felt it inside. It was a smile of complicity, and it sent a near-orgasmic wave of pleasure through me. My cock was rock hard.

“A hypothetical,” she said.

“Yes.”

I squeezed her nipple a little harder, and her mouth turned up and down in both pain and pleasure.

“John can't pay the rent...” she said. “And I'm all alone in the house one night while you...”

I almost never did anything at night. “Go bowling,” I offered.

It almost broke the mood. Anna blew a laugh out of her nose and had to raise a hand to keep it from splattering me. “And you,” she repeated, placing her head back against the door, “are bowling...”

I was still serious. I was lifting my thigh to get it between her legs, and pressing her up against the door. Everywhere she touched me my skin was burning. I rubbed her nipple between my fingers.

She pushed away from the door and we began moving toward the bedroom. “I'm all alone, and I would call John and tell him he could work off his rent if he came up here to do some odds and ends,” she said.

She twisted past me, ran down the hallway, and jumped into the bed in the spare bedroom, like a young girl. She bounced on the bed. “He would have to start here,” she said. “This bed is very squeaky.”

I closed the door.

She threw herself down on the bed, and leaned over the side. “I think the problem is somewhere around here,” she said.

I wasted no time taking her cue, and I was so hot for her I had no more time to let this delightful game play out much longer. I went around to the side of the bed where her legs were and I yanked her toward me. She played along and let her legs open and her skirt rise up to her waist. I pulled her panties down and admired her beautiful ass, and the area between the two hills of her buttocks: brown, silky hair, shaved neatly into a rectangle for her revealing swimsuits. Her pink flesh in the center, wet with excitement.

Her fingers appeared between her legs, sliding along her engorged slit. “I think the problem is right here. I think John could pay the rent by paying special attention to this area, right here,” she said.

I could take the hint.

I lowered myself down, and when my face was still nearly a foot away from her body, I could feel the heat radiating from between her legs, and smell the tangy sweetness of her ripe cunt. It was unusual, nowadays, for Anna to be so ready, so willing, so wet, in the middle of the day. And I had barely touched her.

My cock was almost paining me, as I delighted in the thought that perhaps Anna was turned on by the same idea I was turned on by. Maybe really turned on, not just by the idea in the abstract, but by the idea of really going through with it.

I inhaled her scent, a mixture of ripe fruit and almost a spiciness, a flavor and smell that were totally unique to Anna and dissimilar to every woman I had ever known. She had none of the cloying sweetness of most women: she was less sugary and more tangy. I extended my tongue and traced it along her inner lips, then moved down to where her swollen clit was stretched with excitement and easy to find. I found the bundle of nerves in the center, and rubbed hard on them with the tip of my tongue. I was thrilled by the way Anna's body jumped lightly, and her muscles tensed with almost too much pleasure. She stopped talking and breathed heavily.

I kept going, sensing that she was wet enough and riled up enough, whatever the reason, that she would come quickly. I was right. Her thighs squeezed inward, tight against my ears, while her ass rocked lightly. I grasped her with both hands to keep her still, and kept going. She began to mewl, and I did not relent. Her pussy was dripping all over my face now, and making her inner thighs wet. I felt her grow as hard as stone everywhere in her body, and begin to squeal.

When she came she bucked away from me, and I let her shriek and grasp the sheets, but I held her ass close to me as I stood up on my knees and guided my cock to her opening. I wanted to be inside of her while she was still shuddering and clenching from her climax.

Anna collapsed in submission, and I glided into her pussy easily. She was drenched, and the walls of her flesh were squeezing still in uneven rhythm as she rode out the last of her orgasm.

Which was fine. I was so hard I almost came as I slid into her.

“Will that do it,” I asked. “For the rent? Or do you need more?”

But Anna was done. She was done talking dirty, and she was especially spent after her orgasm. She balled the sheets in her fist and moaned.

I slammed inside of her, imagining I was John, filling her up with my huge, black cock.

In no time, I was groaning and gripping the flesh of her ass as hard as I could. “Fuck!” I yelled.

We collapsed on the bed, and gave a shared laugh for the fact that we had messed up the spare bedroom – a room that, until this moment, had gone utterly unused.

At the time, it was just a game. I don't think there was any part of me that really believed things would get as serious as they did.

3
: MOVING IN

The next da
y
, Anna was watching John with her arms folded. “He doesn't have much stuff,” she commented.

I looked at John warily. He was wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped out of it, giving any woman around a lovely view of his enormous biceps. They were constantly flexed to grip the large boxes he was unloading from a small rental van.

I was looking for ways to make him seem like less of the handsome, clean-cut, all-around nice guy he seemed to be. When I found it, I pounced on it: Why didn't this guy have any buddies?

Probably because men hated the fucking guy. He was probably an asshole, I thought.

“God, he must not even know anyone here since he just moved,” Anna murmured, and as always, whenever she seemed to have read my mind, I felt a shiver of fear sneak through me for her uncanny abilities.

I said nothing.

“We should go help him,” Anna declared.

I knew what was coming.

“Well,” she corrected herself, “
You
should go help him. I'm just a girl.”

She looked down at her nails in sarcasm, because she loved saying this kind of thing (Anna was anything but 'just a girl'). She crossed the kitchen to make coffee.

“It's three pm.,” I said involuntarily.

“It is. And I'm making a coffee for myself because I want a coffee,” she snapped. “I'd ask you if you wanted one but you'd probably tell me this is why I have insomnia, or some other shit I don't give a damn about.” Anna had no tolerance for me, or anyone else, even insinuating that she should do something besides whatever she had decided to do.  The more trivial the activity, angrier she got. If you wanted to see Anna really blow up, you could keep bugging her about whether or not she was too hot or too cold, like so many people have a tendency to do.
I know exactly how fucking hot I am and it's not your fucking problem!
she would scream at anybody's grandmother.

I smiled at her flare-up. She would kill me, but I found it sexy.

She looked out the window again. “Now go help that poor boy move.”

John was balancin
g
a box that appeared to be very heavy on top of his muscular thigh, and reaching for something in the van with his hand. His face was strained by the effort of it. He didn't notice me at all.

I stood awkwardly and waited for him to pick up the box with two hands.

“Hey, John,” I said. “Uh...you need any help out here?”

He shoved the box onto the floor of the van. “Man,” he said, but it seemed to be unrelated to whatever I was saying. He panted for a second. “I've been wondering when your wife was gonna come out here with some lemonade or something.”

An image of Anna in a fifties-housewife dress, carrying a tray of lemonade across the small yard, right after sweating herself into a frenzy watching John through the window, took up all of the space in my mind. I didn't answer.

John grinned. “Just kidding,” he offered, taking my silence for discomfort. He looked over his van, which was half-empty. “You think you can help me with this couch?”

I surveyed the contents of the van. There was a small leather loveseat in the van, along with a flatscreen TV. It was bachelor furniture. Nice, tasteful, but not meant to really be used by anyone much of the time.

“Sure,” I said. “You don't have a bed?”

John rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. “I never sleep,” he said.

He looked at me with the same friendly smile that he had used so many times already, and I realized it was a joke.

“It's being delivered,” he said. “IKEA.”

“Okay,” I said, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I was acting a little bit like an idiot. I wasn't sure why. John was disarming in some way.

I reminded myself that John had no way of knowing that I had fucked my wife while thinking about my wife fucking him.

Still, I was having a hard time playing it perfectly cool.

“Great,” he said. “Let me run this in and then I'll come back for it.”

I stood by the van, trying to look collected, while John bounced easily with the heavy box down the steps to his apartment. I looked up at the kitchen window. Anna had a cup of coffee to her mouth, and I could almost see the grin on her face behind it. She shook her head and disappeared.

We moved the couch and the flatscreen together, and then I helped John with the remainder of his boxes. Nearly all of them were filled with books.

After the last box was in the house, John opened the refrigerator and took out two beers. He uncapped them using the move I had never perfected, of hitting them with his closed fist against the counter. He did it casually, and handed me a beer.

I was mildly out of breath, and my arms felt strained, but I was trying to look as relaxed as John, who was not even remotely winded. I held up the beer instead of saying thanks, just in case I ended up huffing as I spoke.

It was a throwback to man's descent from primate groups, this ritual of showing or faking physical prowess, but what can I say? John was intimidating with his huge biceps and great looks.

By his proximity to my wife.

“I really appreciate the help, man,” John said. “I don't know a whole lotta people here still, and everyone I
do
know had some mysterious thing they had to do today.”

Even though there were plenty of reasons to dislike John, or at least feel intimidated by him, he really did seem like a nice guy. He had a way of speaking that made me feel like less of a dick. I recovered my regular personality a little and said the least stupid thing I'd said so far. “I had a buddy who ran a marathon just to get out of helping me move.” This was true story.

John gave me a wide, appreciative grin and looked down at his beer, shaking his head. 

A small knock on the open door made us both turn. The lightness of the footsteps indicated that it could only be one person: Anna.

John almost instantly produced a beer from the fridge and handed it to her. She took it absent-mindedly, looking around. “This place is a lot smaller with stuff in it,” she said. Her eyes fell on the sleeping area. “No bed?”

“He doesn't sleep,” I said, surprised by my own quick thinking. Anna's comment had threatened to turn a little awkward.

Anna held her beer toward John as though for a toast. They clinked their bottles together. She did not turn to me after her cheers. “Well, welcome, and hope you like it here,” she said. “Listen, I've made way too much food for dinner, and since you just moved in, we'd be happy to share.”

I squinted at Anna.

Anna wasn't exactly in love with cooking. I was fairly certain that she hadn't made anything for dinner in three years, let alone
too much
of something, in the middle of the afternoon and in only forty minutes.

John's eyes shifted from me to Anna, and he opened his mouth to hesitate. “Uh...”

“Oh don't worry, we won't make it awkward or anything,” Anna said. “And we won't start doing it to you all the time.” She let the comment hang in the air by itself, long enough for everyone to get a whiff of the innuendo, and then she smiled. “Inviting you to dinner, I mean.”

I watched this unfold, and even though I had been, just seconds ago, baffled by Anna's invite and a little angry at her for inviting him without asking me (or even having made any food, as she had just promised), I abruptly said:

“We have wine.”

John set his beer on the table and pointed a finger at me. “Done,” he said.

“How about around six?” Anna said. “Or are you starving now?”

I looked at her again. She was really bluffing it. There was no way she had anything made, and the more I thought about it, the more I doubted there was any food in our house at all.

“I
am
starving,” John said, and I got nervous, as though I had told the lie myself and was about to get caught in it. “But I have to straighten a few things out here, take a shower...” he looked at his watch. “Six. Yeah, six is fine.”

“Okay,” Anna chirped. She had slammed her beer, somehow, without anyone noticing, and she set the empty bottle on the table. “We'll see you then.”

Anna made wa
y
for her purse as soon as we were through the door, and pulled a light crocheted sweater over her arms, tossing her hair over her shoulder and rattling keys. “I have to go,” she said. “I have to get something for dinner.”

“I thought you made something. So much food we couldn't eat it,” I said, in a mocking tone.

Anna shrugged, unaffected by my teasing. “He wouldn't have come if I...” she let her voice trail off as she dug through her purse for something. She looked up at me. “What do you think? Chicken? Steak?”

I channeled my inner valley-girl and placed my hand on my hip. “Oh, John, my hot neighbor, come over...I just made too much steak on accident...there were two people and I lost count and just threw, like, ten steaks on the grill...two hours before we were going to eat...ohmygaaaahd.”

I was being a little bit of an asshole, I could hear it in my voice. Part of me was joking, light-heartedly, but there was a knife's edge of dumb, animal jealousy.

Anna could go either way with this kind of thing. Sometimes it set off her powder-keg temper, and sometimes she just laughed.

I waited for her reaction.

She rolled her eyes. “Okay. Yeah, you're right.” She placed her hand on my chest, in mock-seduction. “You're
always. So. Right.
” She was annoyed by my comment, but she was in a good mood. She hopped out of the door, her hand up silently in a gesture of goodbye.

I stood in the kitchen.

Anna was not a friendly, invite-the-neighbor-to-dinner type.

And
why
was she in such a good mood?

And why did I find myself thinking of the evening ending with Anna and John pouring me glass after glass of wine, until I passed out in my chair, while Anna lowered herself discreetly under the table, inch by inch, until she was gone. And then John's face contorted with pleasure as she put her mouth around his cock...

What in the actual fuck was wrong with me?

Anna purchase
d
insane amounts of prepared food from the deli at an overpriced local market, and ripped open the containers, dumping them into our dishes. She was mildly frantic, ordering me around and then waving me away, the way she did when she really wanted things to be perfect at a dinner party or a presentation.

I burned with jealousy as I watched her. She seemed not to care that she was acting like this, or care if I noticed. She made no effort to hide that she was fussing about the dinner, or that she was hurrying because she wanted enough time to go upstairs and perform the elaborate beauty rituals that would lead to her coming down the stairs in a t-shirt and jeans, looking very, very natural but having orchestrated the whole look as though it were a photo shoot.

Anna, after all, was in marketing, and she marketed every single thing. She knew a complete package was the key to sales.

What in the fuck are you talking about, Brian? Your wife is not
selling anything
here.

But did I want her to be?

A little bit.

She disappeared upstairs after fretting about whether or not the pesto dish would seem authentically homemade or not if she reheated it, and then she pointed at one of the several bottles of wine (expensive) she had purchased. “Get one of those in the decanter,” she said in parting.

I knew that I should be suspicious of my wife's behavior, and therefore jealous, and therefore inclined to confront her about what she was doing and how transparent she was being about it. She was flirting, with her food and her wine, and her desire to get everything 'just so.'

I mean, people did not make this big of an effort for other people unless some small part of them wanted to bang the other person. Even if it seemed out-of-reach, even if it was only a sliver of a chance. I myself was the person who always said this, especially when any man was nice to Anna and helped her out.

“Just trying to get in your pants,”
I would say.

“Nah, this guy was married..fat...he had no chance with me...he was old...”

“There needs only to be the smallest chance,”
I would explain to her
, “like, that a meteor will strike us all dead right now except for you and him, and you will have no choice but to fuck him or let the human race die out...and that small chance, is enough.”

“Or a man wouldn't be friendly to a woman?”

I always looked like I was thinking it over.
“No,”
I would say.
“No, I do not believe they would.”

“What explains men being helpful to other men?”

“The slightest chance of gay sex being the only thing left on earth after a meteor kills everyone but you and him, or you get locked in prison together for some reason.”