The Hotwife Trainer 4: My Wife, My Boss & The Hotwife Harem by Tinto Selvaggio

Author:Tinto Selvaggio [Selvaggio, Tinto]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2022-01-31T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Joe

“We should have told him to go to hell,” I swipe the screen of my phone so hard that it nearly flies off our high table in the coffee shop. I frown at the time. “You’re supposed to be at Traders in a couple of hours to show Kev’s wife around.”

“I know, but this won’t take long,” Rachel returns her coffee mug to the table and reaches across, strokes my hand.

With Talbot? She’s got to be kidding. That creep will wring every last second of perverted enjoyment he can get out this. Drag it out as much as he can.

“It’s better to get it over with, Joe. We’ve put him off the shopping trip for days. I don’t want to upset him any more. Not when he’s got those videos of me. And of Mom.”

She wouldn’t care quite so much about her Mother’s reputation if she knew what I’d seen Sophie doing with Phil earlier in the week.

Shouldn’t I tell my wife the truth?

And does Rachel honestly believe there’s a threat of Talbot sharing the videos, or is this all about her getting off role-playing her blackmail fantasy? Most wives would surely insist on going to the police if they felt ‘pressured’ by genuine coercion. What does her reaction say about the kind of girl I married?

I glance at my beautiful wife in her tight cream jumper, pale jeans and little leather jacket. I drain my drink, peer at the door again. Just in time to see him arrive.

“Hello, hello,” Talbot smooths his sparse gray hair down on one side of his head. Looks a bit flustered. “Sorry, I’m a couple of minutes late. I was driving round and round looking for a parking spot for ages.”

“Come on then,” I indicate for Rachel to finish her drink, “let’s get on with it if we’re doing this. And remember Talbot: discrete.”

“Yes, of course,” Talbot nods then stands back. He watches Rachel climb down from her stool.

She adjusts her jumper and Talbot eyes her breasts, her tight jeans.

“So I thought we could try the department store first,” he says, “they have a selection of corsets and bodices,” his tongue licks one corner of his mean mouth.

This isn’t a mall Rachel and I use much but Talbot seems to know it well. He leads us to ‘Henderson’s’ department store, and up escalators toward the second floor. Every so often he turns around and smiles at us. Almost like he can’t believe we came with him and he wants to check we’re still here.

He probably can’t believe his luck. Probably pinching himself even now.

And who could blame him? How did this happen? A decrepit old weasel like Dennis Talbot should be nowhere near a female like my wife.

High school returns to my head. And I try to imagine what the guys there would make of this. Rachel Machin (as she was then), one of the hottest girls in her whole year - if not the whole school, - now letting a dirty old man with his wispy gray hair and his round, silver glasses, dictate the kind of underwear she wears.

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