The Insatiable Wife: 6 previously published erotic short stories about hotwives and the cuckolds who want to watch (BUNDlES of stories about Hotwives and Cuckolds 1) by Dylan Chase

Author:Dylan Chase [Chase, Dylan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PMI
Published: 2022-04-23T22:00:00+00:00

She Just Needs To

I wanted to surprise my wife. Nora has a successful psychiatry practice practically atop the centre of the financial district’s forest of glass and steel high-rises. We hadn’t crossed paths much since my new role as chief team medical doctor for road trips during the season. But I was a moment too late and just caught sight of her airstreaming from the office tower bank of elevators to the parking lot elevators across the lobby.

I ran back to my double-parked car and caught her emerging up the ramp from under the building. I chuckled because I thought, this way, I can roll up beside her and toss the flowers through our windows. How romantic could I get, anyway?

But she took a right, not a left toward home, and lit into old town with its brick apartments and shabby diners. I knew exactly where she was going — it was one of her apartments that she rented out for income. She must have had a call or needed to check something out. I took a different route and sped ahead of her to beat her to it. That way, I could still happily startle her in front of her building.

I waited in my car with my hand on the handle until she parked and got out. But she didn’t get out. Some huge, loping man with a black watch cap, black-and-blue checkered flannel work jacket, and heavy boots came out, spied a glance up the street and right at me, then glanced down the other way, before opening the passenger door on my wife’s Boxster. I thought he was paying his rent. But the black duffel bag he stuffed over the seat into the back was a bit big for that, and he climbed into the car himself, and not like it was his first time, either. As I frowned deeply in puzzlement with my face pressed up to my windshield and my jaw on the steering wheel, her fire-yellow Porsche roared away leaving vortices of dust and leaves behind her.

My wife was high-end everything. She even told me once that being a doctor was the first qualifier for her when I crossed her sights as a potential husband. Her wardrobe was nothing but designer. She even had a separate room for shoes whose combined net worth probably exceeded the GNP of smaller countries. “People trust success,” she explained. Besides, she said, her clients — the movers and shakers of 9th Street — had expectations for which appearances were key. “It’s all tax deductible,” she shrugged. “I mean really.”

I yanked my stick shift into drive and took off after her before those leaves sashayed their way back down to the pavement. It was to the airport we appeared to be heading. But at the off-ramp to departures, she stayed on the freeway one more exit — the exit to the hangers, the food prep companies, and the cargo carriers. My mind calculated and envisioned as rapidly as a quantum computer, but I was coming up with no good theories.

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