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By Thomas Roberts
Artwork by Moira Nelligar
Copyright © 2017 Thomas Roberts - All Rights Reserved
THIS IS AN EROTIC WORK OF FICTION. Any resemblance to persons living or deal is accidental and damned amazing. THIS WORK IS NOT MEANT FOR ANY PERSONS UNDER THE AGE OF 18.
The hotwife genre appeals to me. These are the books I like to read and these are the stories I like to tell, so thank you to the people who read my books.
Be warned, there is sex in this book, lots of it. If that offends you, please don’t read any further. But if you are looking for a fun, dirty read. This is it.
** This book was previously titled “I Bet My Wife – The Beginning” **
It was a very long weekend for me as I watched my wife get ready to pay off the bet I’d lost. She’d be staying with Larry, my black boss, for an entire week. A week in which he could do anything he wanted with her.
Kristen went out Saturday to have her pussy waxed and to have her hair done. On Sunday, she packed all her beauty products—but no clothing—and she was ready to go.
That day she gave me a present, a box so nicely wrapped it even had a bow. Inside was a soft vibrator. It was shaped to fit against a man’s cock and inside his tight underwear. The bulbous head would nestle against the sensitive underside of my cock while its long tail curved down the length of my shaft and (depending on how soft I was) against my balls. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with this, and I looked at her in confusion.
“Put it on honey,” she instructed. “Just stick it under your cock and hold everything in place with your tighty whities.” It wasn’t difficult to get into place; it fit my cock perfectly, even the bend in it was in just the right place. It was very soft and could be bent to fit me in any situation.
“Now,” she said, picking up her cell phone, “I have installed this app on my phone, and every time I press it…the vibrator will turn on.” I just about jumped out of my underwear when my cock started to vibrate. After I settled down I had to admit, it felt very good.
“So, what I’m going to do is press this button and vibrate your cock whenever Larry and I are having sex.” Kristen beamed at me. “And, if I hold the button…” (when she demonstrated this again, the vibrations became almost unbearably intense), “…you’ll know that it’s really good and that I’m cumming. I want you to wear this vibrator the entire time I’m at Larry’s house. There’s an extra box of batteries in there for you, just in case.”
I wanted to cry. It would have been the wrong thing to do and I knew it. Not only was I giving my wife to a man I hated, a man with a legendary prick, but she was so into it that she wanted me to know whenever he fucked her. Whenever he fucked my wife!
I acted like I was enjoying it all, but I felt something break inside me.
I graduated from college with a degree in accounting and was hired for my first job by an accounting firm in San Francisco. My new employer even moved me from the other side of the country in exchange for signing a three-year commitment and a non-disclosure agreement. The three-year commitment said that if I left within that time frame I had to pay back the costs of moving me. The only out was if I was fired without cause or something happened to the company. The NDA should have been my first clue that something was wrong. They did offer the incentive of paying for the move if I signed but, really, the Bay Area has no shortage of first rate universities. So why was my new employer willing to recruit someone from thousands of miles away and fresh out of school?
The firm had beautiful office space in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. First-class mahogany wood everywhere, great offices with views of the Bay, a receptionist that gave me dirty thoughts…but it was all an illusion. The receptionist wouldn’t give the time of day to anyone below Vice-Presidential level, and the office where I worked was just one big room equipped with old steel desks and a linoleum floor. It was so many floors below the main reception area that it might as well have been the basement. I guess the theory was that, if you lasted, you would eventually be promoted higher in the building.
The reality was that most people quit long before that could happen. A senior partner had to die—or be indicted—before there was an opening. No senior partner wanted to promote anybody that would further diminish the size of the executive bonus pool.
My entire job was doing the work of those senior members of the firm, checking work that they’d done (on the fly, after drinking their lunch) or work that had been farmed out to associates who were senior to us. It was mind-numbing and demeaning. I was in a new city where I didn’t know anybody, in a job that was not as advertised, with a boss who was a narcissistic prick.
He was a charming narcissistic prick when he wanted to be, which was why I took the job in the first place. Of all the pompous jerks I interviewed with, I felt like I could talk to him. I looked forward to his phone calls!
Later I learned that Larry had these conversations all scripted out. He’d talk about such and such on the first call, a certain number of days later he’d call again and talk about so and so. Never mentioning the job directly, he’d just ask how the search was going and cast a shadow of doubt on each prospective employer. “They’re pretty good, but I heard a rumor that they were going to be acquired.” It was something to make me wonder if maybe Larry was the right pick—my new best friend, looking out for my interests.
He never missed an opportunity to let me know how connected and powerful he was. He told me about the huge deals he’d done, the companies he’d run, the people he knew, the country clubs he belonged to. He let me know he’d been drafted by “the Pros,” and not just because he was a big black guy. He told me about the important people that had worked for him. I found out that, while some of what he said was true, he didn’t know anything about the work we did. He couldn’t do it, but he presented that as a strength, not a weakness.
He was good at projecting a powerful image, at memorizing important-sounding buzz words and throwing them into conversation. Since they often had nothing to do with our work and were used in the wrong context, they simply confused people.
But, back to his recruiting. He’d wait another week and call again to talk about his dog, or your dog, sports, or whatever the script called for. Again he’d ask about the search, which he’d already sabotaged. He was easy to talk with, funny, personable. I’ve since learned that many narcissists are like that—chameleons, able to adapt their persona to obtain whatever they want in the moment. Larry was a master because he did his homework and he had no conscience. He even bragged that he slept with most of the married employees’ wives—at least the ones he found attractive. He claimed he could get any woman he wanted.
By the time I met Kristen, I didn’t care for the company. I didn’t like their poor reputation and I hated Larry. I had no respect for the guy. I’d sit at my desk and ask myself, what have I done? I was stuck for three years getting experience that would not be valued by any other company. My new boss—my new best friend—was totally insane. He would yell at me, make senseless accusations, accuse me of mistakes that happened long before I started at the company, even blame me for mistakes he made.
All of this was accompanied by swearing and sometimes physical threats. He threw things, including personal objects, off my desk. It turned out, this was his normal behavior. A week later he’d take credit for the work that had “been an embarrassment to me personally,” the last time he lowered himself to talk to me.
I talked to my family and even to my college friends before I realized that I couldn’t expect any real help, just condolences and happy sounds from my mother. I was becoming seriously depressed. I needed a lifeline.
Worse than anything, perhaps, was my love life. I didn’t have one. I couldn’t get past the depression I was in, and when I did get past it for a night, I couldn’t perform. I couldn’t do three years like this. I’d either need to sell my soul and become the person I hated or fight it every day, which would ruin me emotionally. I had to find something to do when I wasn’t at work and basically stop giving a shit. That was what most of my co-workers seemed to be doing. Why work 60 or 70 hours a week, when you only had to do 40? They couldn’t fire me because then they’d lose the money they spent moving me.
So I did the only logical thing: I started drinking. Not serious falling down, sleeping-in-the-gutter drinking—San Francisco had enough people like that already—but far more drinking and staying out late than was good for me. On the plus side, I did meet a whole new class of people. A better class, as it turned out. I even had some dates with women who were partying as much or more than I was. Those are the women one tends to meet in a bar or a club (aside from the hookers, that is).
Bars are everywhere, so I became more familiar with the city, and the people I met lived all over town. Some of the guys whose paths I’d crossed turned out to be decent people. Fun to talk sports with or just hang out with.