EXTRACT FOR
My Wild Trophy Hotwife
(Thomas Roberts)

I stopped walking, and Randy leaned against the wall, his hand on his stomach. What he had to ask must be important. After a minute of listening to his heavy breathing, I made a point of looking at my watch.



"So, here's the deal; I saw your wife coming out of the Comstock Hotel this morning." The Comstock was a huge place; besides the usual hotel fixtures such as restaurants, it also had gambling.



"What's the question, Randy?" I asked.



"It was 2:00 in the morning," he said. "Brooke came down the escalator, still adjusting her clothing, and switched to the garage elevator." This was news to me. I could only imagine what my wife was doing at the hotel that early in the morning. It sounded like Brooke had been caught.



"Did you say anything to her?" I asked.



"No, I didn't want to embarrass her," he sounded like he was starting to doubt himself.



"Why not?" I asked. "She knows you; next time, be sure to ask her yourself."



I walked away with knowledge I wished I didn't have. Who was my wife screwing at that hotel? I wanted to ask her, but I knew I couldn't.



Brooke was a great companion now. She was usually smiling; she seemed happy, stress-free, and glad to be with me. She even snuggled up next to me when we watched television together.



It felt good to have her body next to mine and to know she was smiling and happy. On the other hand, my dark side was dying of curiosity because of what I knew about the Comstock. I wanted to ask her the forbidden question.



A few weeks later, at the company's summer barbeque and softball game, I overheard Randy ask my wife the question I couldn't.



"So, Brooke. I happened to see you leaving the Comstock a few weeks ago," Randy was using the question as a come-on and doing a pretty good job of it. "You can tell me, who were you fucking?"



Brooke sputtered at first. "Randy, you can't ask me ... I mean, what a thing to ... shit, I'm embarrassed."



"Why can't I ask you, Mrs. J? There are only four people who know by my count," Randy started counting on his fingers. "You, of course, and whoever you were screwing, presumably he knew you were there. Then there's your husband and me. I told him, so he knows."



I peeked at them through the tiny ventilation opening in the wall of the concrete block men's outhouse. Brooke had a calculating look on her face. "What were you doing there?" she asked.



"I'm single. I don't have to account for my whereabouts," Randy lightly stroked her arm. "At least, not like you do."



Randy was now caressing my wife's back and easing toward her ass. "I have a few female friends, and some are even married. Did you know that about me?" He asked.



"No, I didn't." Brooke was close enough for Randy to put both arms around her.



"We should go somewhere, and I'd show you why."



Brooke laughed. "What would you show me that would be good enough for me to go somewhere with you?"



"I have an eleven-inch cock." His face had a serious expression. I didn't think he was joking, and apparently, neither did my wife, who dropped her hand to his swelling privates. "It's true, no bullshit."