The Hotwife Summer Read Online Free PDF Page A

rubbing my cock gently through the material of my pants.
    “Hey!” a voice yelled out in the dark. “ Andate voi a prendere una stanza !”
    Summer surprised me by waving her hand at the darkness in an obscene Italian gesture, and in a deep voice that mimicked a male baritone, which she always used to imitate Italians from Staten Island, she called out, “Hey! Vai all'inferno! ”  
    “Now,” she said, turning back to me, and it could have been anything that she had in store for me. I was feeling both incredibly excited, and afraid. “We had better get inside, just in case that guy is big.”
    That evening ended on a light note because of her flippant – and suspiciously good – Italian remarks.  We were laughing like two kids when we got back into the apartment, and she imitated the goon from downstairs several times. We both forgot about my being turned on by the idea of her with “the chef.”
    But it came up again, several nights later. She was late coming home, and I had waited in the darkening apartment for what seemed like an eternity, but was really only an hour.
    We hadn't gotten cellphones in Italy. It had been part of our plan to slow down and enjoy life more.
    I had no one to call, and I tried not to let my mind go to dark places. But I did. I poured myself too much wine, and began to get jealous in my living room at 8pm.
    I had begun to indulge in my own dark fantasies about Summer more and more every day. As she became more sexually vigorous, and adventurous, I started to think about what it was that had changed her. I knew that it could be Italy – the frescoes, the romance dripping off of every wall and restaurant and passer-by. I knew it could also just be that she had some free time, and she could finally relax.
    But I enjoyed glossing over those possibilities, and finding another reason. A darker reason.
    I liked to think that she was learning all her new tricks in her “cooking” class.
    Her chef asked her to stay late, to show her a new technique.
    Maybe she almost lit the kitchen on fire, and had no other way to make financial amends.
    Maybe she never even went to a cooking class. Maybe she was having an affair with a sexy chef she met in a restaurant. Maybe he wasn't even a chef; maybe he was just someone. Someone Italian and muscular, manly and rich.
    No, she called him “the chef” far too often.
    At first, in my fantasies, she and the chef would fuck against a wall. But the more she swallowed my cock and guided my fingers to make circles around her anus, the more I started to imagine her in dirtier, more contorted positions. Her chef got larger and larger in my imagination, and her pussy stretched out more and more to accommodate him. She squealed while he barreled his cock into her tight ass, and licked at the air while he splattered his cum all over her tits.
    The fantasies made me hard. It was clearly where my mind wanted to go, because I always went there. I sometimes went there while she had her lips spread around the base of my cock.
    But then the fantasies also made some sharp thing twist inside of me.
    My head felt like it was expanding and getting hotter with every second. Blood was pounding everywhere inside of me, knocking against my arteries, flushing my face, hardening my dick. Images layered on top of each other, and in every one of them Summer's holes gaped wider and were filled by an even bigger man, and her moans became exquisitely sexual, like her cum had turned
    I was losing it. I knew I was, even then.
    Around 9pm, which was not late in Rome and certainly not late for our new lifestyle, she came through the door. She had several grocery bags looped around her arms, and she stumbled a little as she pushed through the door. The bags fell to the ground and vegetables gave hollow thunks as they rolled across the tile floor.
    “A little help here,” she said, laughing and chasing after some tomatoes.
    In my self-inflicted fury, I had just sat in my chair, watching