Waiting for Erica

1:18 AM

She hasn't answered my texts for over four hours now.

The last text I received was this: "pulling into hotel...so nervous!!"

That was at 9:17.

I've texted her at least fifteen times since, but no reply. I must admit, I'm getting a bit nervous. I don't even know the guy she's meeting. She set it all up herself. That was one of her conditions—if I wanted her to do this, she would have absolute control over choice of the guy. I've only seen his picture and a brief bio. But she assured me that he seemed like the one, and I had no choice but to trust her.

God, the house is so weirdly quiet. The kids are with grandparents, and I'm sitting at the kitchen table wondering what to do with myself. I'm exhausted, but I feel too wired to sleep. No choice but to wait.

I was hoping she'd call me at some point, to give me an update, maybe even invite me to the hotel to join in. But no such luck, apparently.

2:09 AM

Still no replies.

Not sure what to do. What if there's a problem? Funny, I wasn't worried about this at all during the planning stages. But now that she's been gone for more than five hours, I've got an uneasy feeling about the whole thing. My god, what if he kidnaps or murders her or something? How the hell would I explain that?

How guilty would I feel if something bad happened? This was all my idea. Well, at first it was. But I surely can't take all the blame.

Erica and I had recently gone through a bit of a rough patch. Let's face it, fourteen years of marriage and two kids can take the sheen off even the strongest marriage. At least two dark years had raced by, during which we seldom made love, barely communicated, because the demands of work and kids had forced us into a rut. Luckily, we both realized it, and were both willing to work to improve things. The last thing we wanted was a divorce, and from my perspective, the circumstances were perfect to rejuvenate our sex life.

I had a little game in mind to spice things up a bit. It had been a personal fantasy for many years. But now that our relationship was in need of a reboot, I thought about mentioning it to Erica.

Here's the game: We'd each get to have one 'authorized' affair. That is, she could fuck another guy and I could fuck another woman. Just once. As long as everything was out in the open and agreed upon by both parties. At first, she hated the idea. She wouldn't even discuss it. Months went by, and I was sure she would never warm up to it.

But I persisted, and I would occasionally show her articles about couples strengthening their sex lives through consensual affairs. Now and again I would boot up a steamy 'cheating wife' porn scene on the laptop and let her find it. The goal was to loosen her up a little, to get her accustomed to a bit of kink.

I did this assuming my odds of ever succeeding were infinitely slim.

Imagine my surprise, then, when one random weekday night I caught her at the laptop surfing the Ashley Madison website. There she was, in her housecoat—down in the dark basement (where she never hung out), curled up on the LazyBoy chair, hunched over the laptop, secretly reading the profiles of other men!

I crept up behind her. She hadn't heard me descending the stairs. I watched her for a few minutes, scrolling through the personals, occasionally clicking on the profile of a guy who interested her.

Suddenly she shut the laptop and hopped up from the couch. She turned around to go upstairs, but was startled to see me standing there.

"Oh, hi!" she yelped nervously. Her face instantly reddened.

"Watcha doing?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"Oh, just looking on Pinterest. Ideas for Carlina's bedroom."

"Ahh, I see. See anything you like?"

"Yeah, a few..." she mumbled.

I didn't let on that I knew. But over the next few weeks it became obvious she was not meticulous about clearing the browser's history) that she was actively searching for a guy. She spent a couple of hours every night browsing various adult classified sites, sending and receiving messages. First thing each morning, I would check the browser's history; in addition to the adult sites, she was reading lots of articles about infidelity, one-night stands, etc. She was in full research mode: once Erica gets into a topic, she becomes obsessed. She's like this with everything—vacations, purchases minor and major, health issues. She gets something in her mind and she spends countless hours searching the net to learn everything she can about whatever she's into. Clearly this had become an obsession for her, albeit a private one.

One night she approached me, completely out of the blue, and dropped this bombshell on me:

"I found a guy."

My jaw dropped. It was nine o'clock at night, we'd just put the kids to bed, and there she was in her yoga pants and hoodie, leaning on the kitchen island, telling me this.

She seemed shy, yet determined. I could tell she'd probably been agonzing about telling me for days. I pressed her, and she admitted that the more she thought about the idea of "my little game," as she called it, the more she was interested. I pretended to be surprised about her sudden change of heart. In fact, I was surprised, even though I'd been monitoring her activities. Erica is a completely loyal wife—in our fourteen years together, I'd never suspected her of infidelity, and she'd only been with one guy before me, as a teenager. She was certainly not the 'slutty' type who would ever cheat. She was generally modest and conservative; she liked sex of course, and could really get into it, but she was not especially kinky. The kinkiest she got was 69ing, which we did sometimes in our twenties and early thirties, but we hadn't done that in years. She was uninterested in porn and didn't care for role playing. So needless to say, this was very out of character.

For Erica, this was a serious decision. She was undertaking the whole process with great care and consideration, making sure at every step that I was okay with it.

"So what next?" I asked.

She said she was willing, as long as I absolutely promised that I wouldn't be jealous or get weird about the whole thing. So I promised. She showed me the guy's profile, loading it up on the laptop and gushing about him with all the exuberance of a young lover. I was surprised by how excited she was getting as she told me about how he liked to jet-ski and that he was an avid traveler.

His 'name' was Mark and he was a few years younger than us—37. He seemed handsome, with dark hair and a muscular build. According to his bio, he was divorced. She told me that they'd exchanged several e-mails and even Skyped a couple of times, and she was certain that he was a good guy, not a creep.

Now I really was shocked. She really seemed to know him. I had no idea she'd been communicating with a particular guy, nor did I expect that she had actually Skyped with him! I asked her for details about the Skyping, but she was not at all forthcoming.

"Were these Skypes like innocent conversations, or more x-rated?" I asked.

She just blushed. "Never you mind."

I continued to push for details, but she revealed nothing. I spent the night asking her for explicit information about their exchanges—anything—what they talked about, how she felt, what they were planning. But she didn't tell me anything. Her lips were sealed. Her secrecy was driving me crazy.

I should mention, however, that our conversation that night must have put her in a state of high arousal. Later that night, while I was zoned out on the couch watching Monday night football, she called to me from the bedroom. I went upstairs and she invited me into the bed. The soft whirring noise from under the sheets suggested she was using her vibrator.

"Come in the bed," she said.

I instantly stripped naked and hopped into bed, spooning her in a matter of seconds. Her skin was hot. I reached between her legs and she was so wet that right away I slipped my cock in from behind—just like that!—and fucked her solidly while she moaned, pressing the vibe against her clit. I did not last long, unloading a hot stream of cum deep into her cunt within minutes. Even after I came, she asked me to keep fingering her while she continued to use the vibrator, and she came again and again before shutting off the vibe and imediately falling asleep with a big grin on her face.

For the next couple of weeks, she was in a very, very good mood.

Then, on Thursday night, she casually informed me that she had a 'date' with Mark the next night. They'd be meeting at the Hilton at 9:30 for a drink. I was speechless.

3:01 AM

Jesus, this is not good. She never stays out this late. For her, 11:00 is a late night. I'm not sure what to do.

Part of me wants to call the cops. I've texted her so many times now that I'm starting to feel like a stalker. But why the fuck wouldn't she respond, at least once? Can't she know that I'm dying to make sure she's okay? This is totally unlike her. She's normally an instant text responder. She can always be relied upon for a reply. This is fucked up.

God I'm so tired. I'm in bed now, but I can't sleep a wink. I keep looking at the pile of clothes on the floor, from when she was getting ready tonight. She must have spent two hours just getting dressed, practically trying on every outfit in her entire wardrobe (which is, believe me, a lot of clothes!) Every outfit she would ponder in the full-length mirror, trying different variations of shoes, necklaces, bracelets, skirts, tops, scarves, before deciding it wasn't good enough and dropping it in the pile.

I was getting jealous - normally she doesn't give shit what she wears for me. Her normal around-the-house attire is a sweatsuit or an old housecoat. But now here she was agonizing over the perfect outfit, just to please another man?

She finally decided on an outfit she'd bought a couple of years back, but had never worn because it was 'a bit too sleazy.' It was a tight purple dress with a low-cut V-neck that exposed lots of cleavage (her tits weren't huge, but average, and with the right bra could look very nice), and went down just above her knees. She must have tried that dress on ten times before finally going with it. She wore a tasteful silver necklace and silver bracelets, black nylons, and black heels. God she looked amazing. She'd just gotten her hair cut yesterday, and it was jet black, pin straight, shoulder length.

"You don't think I look too slutty?" she asked, earnestly.

"Given the circumstances..." I slowly replied.

She laughed, realizing the irony of her question. Surely if there was any time she should want to look slutty, it was for purposes of seducing her adulterous lover.

So after deciding on the outfit, she laid it out on the bed, and then disappeared into our ensuite bathroom for a shower. After about half an hour, she re-emerged, glistening naked, with a towel wrapped around her head. I tried to grope her, but she wouldn't let me touch. She's always like that when getting ready to go out—doesn't want to be touched. I'm used to that.

But there was something else I wasn't used to. Looking down at her crotch, I noticed it was unusually hairy—not exactly 1970s hairy, but pretty damn wild compared to her usual clean-shaven snatch.

"Forget to shave?" I asked.

She blushed a little.

"I did shave. Look," she said, gliding her fingers across her calves. "Smooth and silky."

"I wasn't referring to your legs!"

She grinned, with downcast glance.

"Mark likes it hairy."

"Seriously? You guys talked about that?"

She instinctively covered up her crotch with her hands.

"Look, you promised you wouldn't get all jealous, David."

I laughed. "I'm not jealous. Just surprised, is all."

She winked. "I don't want him to be disappointed."

I watched her dress, licking my lips. She was clean and fresh and she'd rubbed some lemony skin cream all over her body, so she smelled like a lemon meringue pie. She pulled out a Victoria's Secret bag she'd stashed in the closet, from which she pulled out a brand new, matching turquoise pair of bra and panties. She slipped on the panties, incredibly skimpy G-strings, no more than a shoelace covering the crack of her ass. Then she snapped on the bra, slid on the dress, and pulled up a pair of shiny black nylons. The final touch: the heels. She looked amazing. I don't know if she had ever looked hotter in her entire life. I wanted to fuck her so badly, or at least make out for a bit, but she firmly resisted all of my attempts to touch her! God, I thought to myself. I must be totally insane.

She asked me to leave the room. I pleaded with her to let me stay, because I was enjoying watching her dress. But she insisted, saying she needed some privacy. (I suspected that she might have been 'priming' herself a little with her vibrator, because she locked the door and was up there for about ten minutes. After she left, I investigated, but she had carefully put the vibe in its usual spot in her lingerie drawer, so I couldn't be certain).

At any rate, I went down to the kitchen and fixed her a Martini.

When she finally came downstairs, I offered her the drink. She gratefully took the glass and sipped.

"Stronger, please," she ordered, pointing at the Vermouth bottle.

"It's pretty strong already," I cautioned.

"I'll need some liquid courage tonight, David."

I did as she ordered, and poured some more Vermouth into her glass.

She drank that first Martini remarkably fast and then asked for another as she brushed her hair.

"You sure?" I asked. Erica has a low tolerance for alcohol, and I don't think she fully understands the power of hard liquor. But she insisted, so I poured her another. We sat on the living room couch for a few minutes, drinking our Martinis, before the doorbell rang.

"Must be the cab," she said. She downed her Martini in one quick gulp, before going to the powder room for one last primp. With the cabbie waiting at the door, she gave me a deep, wet kiss, her breath sweet from the gin and Vermouth. "Don't wait up," she said, giggling. She reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of gum, which she popped into her mouth and kissed me again. I gave her a quick ass-grab as she walked out.

My last image is her trotting down our porch steps in her high heels, opening the back door of the cab and getting in, the cab reversing and disappearing from view. Oh my god, I thought to myself. I was nearly convulsing with a weird blend of excitement and fear.

For the next few hours, all I could do was wonder what they were up to. My imagination was piqued. I tried to surf some porn, but nothing could compare to the powerful thoughts in my head. I couldn't wait for her to get home.

4:16 AM

I'm woken from a light sleep by the sound of car doors slamming and headlights shining through my window. I get out of bed. Groggily, I descend the stairs and peer out through the front window.

Illuminated by the garage light, she is handing money to the cabbie. The cab reverses, and she walks up the porch stairs, tipsy on her heels, holding the railing. I secretly watch her from the dining room window as she fishes through her purse for keys. For a while I listen to the sound of keys fumbling in locks; it takes her a while to get the door unlocked. When she finally opens it, I watch her enter the foyer. She drops her purse on the floor and staggers a little, leaning against the wall for support. She squats down to pick up the purse, which she then places on a hook on the back of the closet door. She clicks across the hallway into the kitchen, where she gets a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water.

"Hey," I say.

With a start, she looks behind her. "Heyyyyy," she says, with a big, guilty, uncertain, smile spreading across her face. Her voice sounds hoarse, raspy.

She's still wearing the purple dress, the jewelry, the heels. But her hair is messy and her face is flushed, eyes bloodshot, makeup smudged.

"How was it?" I ask.

She looks away, slightly shy. "Well, I guess that depends on how jealous you're gonna be, sweety."

She's noticeably drunk, slurring and swaying back and forth as she speaks.

I laugh. "Remember—no jealousy. That's the deal. You can be totally honest. Don't spare any details."

She takes a drink of water. "Okaaaaaay. If you promise not to get mad. Seriously, you've got to promise." She walks over to me and presses her finger against my lips as she says that. She's weirdly tall in her high heels, almost the same height as I am. Her smell is strange, unfamiliar - very boozy, perfumy, and sort of musky. I inhale deeply, and find myself irresistibly aroused by her scent. I impulsively lean over and kiss her neck, pulling her in close, grabbing her asscheeks.

"Mmmm," she coos. "I'm a popular girl tonight."

"Oh, is that right? How popular?"

"Mmm, I don't know what it is. Guys really seem to want me tonight."

I pull up her skirt, expecting to find her underwear, but she is pantyless.

"You didn't lose your new panties, did you?" I ask.

She feels under her dress, and then stares down at her crotch with a quizzical look. "Hmmm. I don't know." She thinks it over for a minute and then giggles, pointing towards the front hall. "Ohhhhhh, I know. Pretty sure they're in my purse."

I grope her for a few more minutes before she stops me.

"Sorry, babe. I've got to pee."

She walks to the bathroom, trying her best to walk straight, but her tipsyness is obvious. She doesn't close the door and I hear the sound of her pissing—a long, unusually drawn-out stream of piss echoes in the halls of the quiet house. I quickly go to her purse and unzip it; sure enough, her turquoise panties are crumpled up in a little ball underneath her wallet. I pull them out and untie them - they are completely soaked with warm liquid. Holy shit.

She comes out of the bathroom.

"Found your panties," I say.

She looks at them.

"Oh good!"

"What happened to them?" I ask. "They're soaking wet."

"Hmmm," she says, feigning modesty. "I have no idea!" She pulls them from my hand and inspects them. "Now how could that have happened?"

"Let's go upstairs," I say, taking her by the arm. "You can tell me about your night."

She smiles and presses up against me. "Okay. You sure you won't be jealous?"

"No jealousy. I promise."

I sweep her off her feet, picking her up and carrying her up the stairs. She laughs all the way.

4:32 AM

Upstairs in the bedroom, I make a request.

"I want you to tell me everything that happened. From the moment you met him."

"Hey, that wasn't part of the deal," she replies, teasingly. "I thought I was just supposed to fuck him, not tell you about it."

Those words coming from her mouth—"supposed to fuck him"—hit me like a Mack truck. For one thing, she never talks dirty like that. Moreover, if there was any doubt about what they did, she'd pretty much admitted it.

"Come on," I insist. "I waited up until four a.m. That's the least you can do for me."

She laughs. "Okaaaay. I'll tell you."

"And another thing."

"Whassat?"

"When you tell me the story, I want you to get totally naked—except for your anklet and your jewelry-and play with your pussy as you tell it."

She laughs. "Okaaaay. Whatever you say, baby. It's your lucky night."

With some difficulty, leaning against the wall, she pulls off her dress and removes her heels. She unclasps her bra and walks over to the bed, sprawling on her side. I prop up some pillows and reposition her so I can get a good view as she tells the story.

Now she's sitting upright, her right leg extended, her left leg bent upright and slightly spread. I can get a decent view of her pussy now. Her pubic hair appears matted and wet, slightly tangled, in contrast to how it looked after the shower, when it was freshly clean and coiffed-looking. And her labia are noticeably red and inflamed. Her entire crotch just looks—different. Like her pussy lips are way more puffy and sticking out than they normally are. I'm not used to seeing what it looks like down there after she's been fucked (assuming she actually fucked the guy) because I'm usually the one doing the fucking, and falling asleep after it's all over. I find it quite amazing to see how beautiful her snatch looks right now, as she has obviously been—or perhaps still is—extremely aroused.