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A Different Kind of Hotwife Adventure Story
When Carlo, a mob fix-it man, finds out his wife has been kidnapped, he assumes it’s payback for a job. Little does he know, the gang of black men who took his wife have no interest in retaliation. Their interests lie strictly in pleasure—the pleasure that comes from reprogramming captive wives and turning them into insatiable sex slaves.
When Carlo is also taken by the same group of men, he discovers a darker side of himself that he never knew existed. Handcuffed to a chair while his innocent wife behaves like a sex-starved animal, he’s forced to watch her degrade herself for her captors.
Once the couple is finally able to escape, will he lose her completely to her newfound fetish? Or will he find a way to accept her and make their marriage work, even though his wife is no longer the innocent woman she once was?
I was sitting in a chair, naked, arms handcuffed behind me, my erection throbbing despite my emotional pain. I was being forced to watch my wife, naked and dripping, humiliate herself for a large black man.
She begged him to fuck her. She sucked his cock in an animal frenzy as he slapped her ass and tits. With her arms also handcuffed behind her back, her face was suddenly dropped into my lap. She was told to suck my cock.
“Do you know this guy?” she was asked.
As she slurped, her drool pooling on my balls, she nodded yes before begging her captor to make her cum again. Before I could finish in her mouth—something I’d never done during our marriage—she was pulled off and given her wish. I had to watch my wife get fucked while she was forced to put a finger in her own ass—to feel the black cock inside her. Screaming, she orgasmed again. I lost count of the number of times she came in front of me.
The humiliation of my loving wife, formally so naive about sex, continued for hours. It continued even after I was led back to my cell, even as I was forced to listen to her being gang fucked all night. She begged to be used, to be stretched, to be fucked in all her holes.
I’m not a nice man. In fact, I’m a criminal. Nobody in law enforcement knows my name but they know my work. I’m a fixer; my tools are influence, money, and sometimes a weapon. I only work for one man, and I’m not for hire.
When Mario has a problem, he comes to me to “fix” it. Most of the time I simply need to explain things to the “problem” and it goes away. I’ve found that telling stories works best. People understand stories better than they understand threats or declarations. I have a soft, non-threatening voice, except when I have a gun in my hand. If I don’t want to use violence, money works well too. But if everything fails and we still have a problem, then I become a cleanup man. It’s in those situations that violence is used. I have two guys who work with me, William and James, but more on them later.
Other than my work, I’m completely ordinary. I look normal—respectable, even. I have a wonderful, beautiful wife and a house in the suburbs. Since I only work a few months a year (for a lot of money), we’re able to have a very comfortable life together.
Julie is perfect for me in every way imaginable; we’re soul mates. We met while we were still in college, before I went into the Army, when we were randomly assigned as partners in a chem lab. I’d never met anybody like her before and, at first, I was attracted to her face and body. It was only as we worked together that I discovered her lively personality. After that, we spent hours together talking about important things and nothing. Though she looked like she wasn’t old enough to have graduated high school, she was one of the most mature women I ever met. A smart, personable, beautiful woman with a fantastic body—I’d hit the jackpot.
I took Julie’s virginity in my old dorm room. It was the sweetest moment of my life, this wonderful, beautiful woman giving herself to me. The more we did it, the better we got at it.
By our junior year, we were living together and talking about marriage. We planned the wedding during the school year and, that summer, we got married on the beach at her grandfather’s house. My family gathered for the wedding and to meet Julie for the first time. They were wowed by her. My father didn’t think I had it in me to land a woman like Julie (honestly, I didn’t think I did either). I’d never been happier, and that happiness has continued for eight wonderful years.
We spent our honeymoon fixing up our first apartment. We wanted to live using just our own limited resources, though Julie wouldn’t allow any of my furniture to be reused. In the end, she was right; she had better taste than I did.
Julie knew that the army was something I wanted to do, an experience I wanted to have, and she accepted it just as she accepted me. I had been ROTC in college and I went into the Army right after graduation. The Army taught me much of what I know. I also learned a lot from the first guy I worked with, and the remainder I picked up the usual way: by making mistakes—none of which were fatal, thank God. I never told Julie what I trained to do or what I actually did. That was one of only two secrets that I kept from her. But are they really secrets if she knew they existed and chose not to know the details?
When I went to work for Mario, I didn’t tell Julie what my job was, but she’s an intelligent woman. She knew that Mario walked the “other side of the line” and she knew that I could not make as much money as I did, working only a few months a year, by doing anything legal. She also knew that the safe I kept in the garage was full of weapons. Still, she never questioned me. She never asked me about anything I didn’t want to tell her. She didn’t even make a big deal of the fact that I sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time. She loved me, and that was enough for her.
* * *
Knowing some things about Julie is important to understand everything that happened to us. I already mentioned that she’s beautiful—auburn hair, a perfectly flat stomach, a young woman’s face on a slender body, except for her soft, balloon boobs. She hates when I call them “balloon boobs,” but they are. Her breasts remind me of a porn star from the 1980s. She stands 5’4”, and sometimes three inches taller in those heels she likes to wear. She’s absolutely perfect for me in every way.
Despite her good looks and education, my wife was naive about sex. But she was also very daring and definitely had a kinky side. We were usually conventional in bed—a little oral, then either missionary position or, if we felt adventurous, she’d get on top and I’d play with her sensitive breasts. Sometimes we’d fantasize during sex. We’d talk about Julie exposing herself or even picking up a stranger to tease. For some reason, those imaginary men were always black. We never did any of the things we talked about in real life, but I noticed that Julie’s orgasms were more intense when we used fantasy. Julie liked to take my flaccid cock in her mouth to lick and suck. She loved the feeling she got from making me hard, working her tongue on me. It made her feel powerful. It was another good time for me to talk about our “black lover” fantasy. Julie would give me incredible blow jobs when I did that, though I never finished that way (not that it wasn’t often a near thing).
Afterward, we cuddled together and talked about our love for each other, our plans. We talked about having kids and, someday, grandkids. Growing old together. We were as conventional a couple as could be—boring, even, compared to most people.
* * *
When I grabbed my go bag and told Julie I’d be gone for a few days, she would smile and tell me to be careful, then give me a good-bye kiss as I headed out the door. She never asked me what I did. She was very clear about not wanting to know. Her only comment was, “Don’t get caught.”
I made sure that Julie never found the combination to my safe, which contained, in addition to a full arsenal, most of my alternate IDs (except for the one hidden in my bag, of course). While the safe contained everything from M4 rifles to several pistols of various calibers, my weapon of choice for close work was a .22 revolver. At close range the .22 is very effective, and a revolver leaves no shell casings to chase down. It’s also relatively quiet. If I needed a silencer or more power, I had alternatives.
I worked for only one man. I understood his business and I knew what had to be fixed. Sometimes it was just to straighten out a misunderstanding, sometimes it was to help somebody see our point of view, and sometimes it was to make a problem go away. Mario saw to it that I was paid very well for being his “consultant.” I received a W-2 at the end of the year from some corporation I’d never heard of. We even had an annual Christmas party.
Surprisingly, Julie and Mario got along like long lost pals. At the parties I’d see them talking and laughing together, even occasionally dancing. Though Mario was at least thirty years older than Julie, they developed a real friendship. Mario was protective of my wife, and that feeling helped me when I was out of town for extended periods. I knew that somebody was looking out for her while I was gone.
Mario was very careful when arranging our meetings. He assumed that he was being watched and maybe even listened to, always. He didn’t want the authorities to become too aware of me. He had prepaid cell phones for me to use, and after each conversation the cell phone would be thrown away. Pain in the ass keeping five or six cell phones around, but the precaution made good sense.
Other than all that, I’m just a normal suburban guy. You’d never pick me out of a crowd. It isn’t unusual to find me on a Saturday cutting the grass. As far as the neighbors knew, I worked out of the house and traveled to meet clients. I did some strange accounting thing, something that wouldn’t help them with their taxes. They soon lost interest in me, though all the wives were friends with Julie.
No one knew the hours I put in at the gym with a former Special Forces instructor. The gym, along with the running I often did with Julie, was to build muscle and to stay in shape. The time spent with my instructor was to learn and practice close quarters combat, hand-to-hand as well as fighting with various weapons, even how to improvise if I was caught without a weapon. I was usually bruised, sore, and sometimes bloody after we were done, but it was well worth the trouble.
Julie’s sister Faith was getting married in Los Angeles, on the other side of the country. For whatever reason, the wedding was held in a moderately undesirable part of town—a part that hadn’t gone totally downhill, but was on its way.
We booked a room a few miles from the site of the wedding at a chain hotel that I thought would be safer. We’d just have to drive a little farther than the others in the wedding party. Because we were going to California, I carefully checked only one gun, a Glock 19, a 9mm pistol that I kept in a locked case. I claimed it was needed for target practice only (and hoped that the hollow nose bullets wouldn’t be noticed).
When we checked into the hotel I was surprised by the look of the neighborhood. The hotel itself was fine. Part of a large chain that all looked pretty much the same, it was six or seven stories high and rectangular, with a large open area in the middle of the atrium where breakfast was served every morning. Outside the hotel was a different story. We were in a dark rundown office park, one that offered inexpensive space to companies that were either down on their luck, just starting up, or in a shady business. Parking was at a premium during the day, but at night the only cars in the lot belonged to hotel guests and employees.
Julie and I rode the elevator to our room, not knowing what to expect. Thankfully, it looked like every other hotel room I’d been in with this chain. Two rooms, a bedroom and a sitting room separated by a bathroom. Nothing fancy, just practical.
We had several hours until we needed to be at the wedding. I embraced my wife from behind, my hands automatically going to her breasts. Her hands covered mine, holding them in place as she smiled and turned her head to be kissed. Her lips felt wonderful against mine. My wife has large lips, puffy and soft, and as we kissed I ran my tongue over those bee-stung lips. It elicited a soft whimper. The first time I’d kissed her and used my tongue, she told me that nobody had ever done that before. In fact, no male had ever kissed her softly before. She liked it.
It was a wonderful way to turn her on. Once she was ready, she liked it hard. She wanted me to demand that she respond, but not at first. At the beginning, she liked it slow and soft. My hand found its way under her loose t-shirt to softly caress a nipple. Julie was the same way in bed. She liked to be caressed, lightly touched at first, then hard and demanding. She wanted to be forced to orgasm.
My wife looks like she’s no more than twenty years old. Her face is clear and smooth, with small features, dimples, and large green eyes. Her body is well shaped, her breasts large with just the slightest sag, and her areolas are almost too light to be seen against her pale skin.
As I stripped her, I kissed her neck and upper chest—again, so softly she could barely feel it. I knew I had it right when I felt, more than heard, her moans. As I worked my way down her body, her moans became louder and my kisses more demanding. As I moved between her legs, I made Julie spread herself wide for me. The skin on her thighs is almost too soft to be legal, but her muscles are hard, strong from swimming or running every day. She spread her legs even further as I licked her pussy.