The Essential Hotwife: A collection of 6 stories (Bundles of Short Stories about Hotwives and Cuckolds 1) by JL Sanders

Author:JL Sanders [Sanders, JL]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PMI
Published: 2022-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Cucked in her Childhood Bedroom

“You grew up your whole life in this house?” I heard Clay say full of contempt thinly disguised as wonder. Clay was this apparently famous artist — famous enough to use only one name — that my flight-attendant wife Hope met on her regular Seattle-Paris run, and who she wouldn’t shut up about ever since.

“Yep, right here since day one. Until I left for college, that is,“ she replied. I could hear her speak as though through a bashful grin from where I hid around the wall halfway up the stairs at her parent’s house

“I can tell you obviously had a happy childhood.” He spoke deep, slow, and resonantly as if he, and he alone, was able to discern these truths from, what, the colors of the walls? The orientation of the furniture? He said it wistfully, too, as though perhaps he wasn’t so lucky. I met him for the first time a half hour earlier, and already I recognized a master of pulling the heartstrings of the gullible, and if there was one word I would use to describe Hope, it was “gullible”.

“You wanted to see my old bedroom upstairs?” Hope said to him with an innocence that buckled my knees. I wanted so badly to bundle her up and hide her away, but at the moment, I needed to scram to avoid getting busted spying on her, again.

In the car on our way upstate to Hope’s hometown, he kept bringing the conversation about Hope’s old house and the town and her schools and her whole early cloistered life, back to the ground-zero of her childhood bedroom.

“Your bedroom can tell us so much,” he intoned, gazing out the window at the passing snow-entombed stubble-poking fields stretching out both sides of the vanishing-point interstate. “About you,” he added long after, and to himself more than to Hope or me in the front seat.

“Well you’re going to have a field day in my bedroom,” Hope chuckled over her shoulder to him. “I just wish I could have gotten ready for such an esteemed visitor.”

“Nothing looks more beautiful on you than come-as-you-are,” he said to her, keeping her eyes turned over her shoulder on his for far too long, I thought. “I mean the collective, impersonal ‘you’,” he said to the back of my head, implying that I might have been thinking he was flirting with my wife literally behind my back.

“And I meant my bedroom, silly, not me,” Hope answered shyly, glancing at the side of my face set like stone on the ice-patchy road stretching desolately off into the distant haze in front of us. “Clay was generous enough to show me his studio in Paris on my layover,” she felt compelled to explain to me.

“I thought it was in Seattle,” I said.

“Both,” he clarified. “New York too. I go through moods, you see,” he returned to the parallax-inducing side window.

“It’s the light,” Hope continued filling me in on all that she learned about our guest. “The light in Paris is romantic, the light in Seattle is futuristic.

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