Hotwife Key Party: Willow (Intro & Chapter 1)

For the next week or so, I'm taking a break to regroup from the emotional nightmare called Devil In The Waters (whew!), and in that time I'm going to be publishing here for you all my entry in the Hotwife Key Party series, featuring books by Paul Garland, GK Grayson, Anya Knightly, Delores Swallows, Jordan Riley, Kirsten McCurran, Lacey Cross, Max Sebastian, and Zoey Adams.

Each of the books from one of these writers tells the tale of a Malibu hotwife key party centering around their own couple. Some of the other authors have been bringing back old characters some are new ones. My couple are folks you haven't read about yet: Adrien and Willow McKay. I won't give you a preamble on them because you're going to read the story and the story will tell you all you need to know about them.

The series is under way and we're getting close to the publication of my book—but you'll get to read it here first before it's out!

Let's begin!:

CHAPTER 1

Adrian watched his wife from the mansion’s media room.

He’d been thrilled by much watching over the last several hours. Micro-watching, though, in scaled comparison of what he now witnessed on the media room’s provided screen.

So far, this sunny California day, he’d seen Willow flirt with many handsome men, any one of them a possible partner with whom his beautiful wife would share her most intimate self. God, that had weakened his knees. Could it be super-tall Alex, he of the imposing stature and smoky gray eyes? Could it be that powerhouse football player, that confident black guy with the tattoos, Braylor? How about that squat roguish thuggee, the Irish boxer one, Seamus? . . . The possibilities did something keen to his insides, like a chamois cloth polishing a chrome globe. He’d gone lightheaded many times. His thoughts had attenuated to ethereal whispers. The sight of Willow so free grew pregnant with danger. The danger was exhilarating.

Now here he was, separated from Willow, the two of them among strangers at a peculiar sex party in Malibu. Willow had drawn her key—the ninth wife to do so, and, god, the angst would have crushed Young Werther!—and they’d parted ways to engage in the lubricious act they’d both come for. Husband Adrian sent to watch the action remotely via tablet screen, as he’d chosen, and Willow off to Bedroom 10 to find out who her sexual partner would be this evening.

What a brave soldier Willow was. She’d never requested this insane act. It had all been him. And the catch: part of the thrill was the worry that maybe a secret part of Willow loved the idea of her husband watching her with more accomplished and better endowed lovers. I thought you’d never ask! What a fantastic idea, Adrian!

The party was in Malibu, off the PCH, overlooking the Pacific. The mansion’s architecture was Spanish Revival; white stucco, terracotta roof. Big pool, gardens, tennis court. Exclusive. The decor was sparse and pristine. Hygienic. Good thing—a fraction less than that and Willow claimed she would bail.

With trembling hands, he raised the padded high-end headphones to his ears and sat back on the sofa.

There was his wife. His cute, sexy, funny wife, tugging down at the hem of her skirt as she approached the door to the room where she would live out his fantasy for his enjoyment. He’d bothered her all day about tugging the hem of that skirt, saying she looked like a nervous high schooler going out to a club for the first time. And she would say the skirt was too short, Adrian. “Impossible,” he’d told her. “On a day like today, Willow, there is no such thing as a skirt too short.” And in front of that couple, the ones from Philly, Dave and Dana, she shimmied the skirt higher so he could see the black crotch of her sexy panties, and she’d said, Oh, really, like this, this isn’t too short? Heh, and from behind them, that husband, Dave, piped up, “Not even close.”

She looked so fucking beautiful in this moment on his screen. More so to him than during the day, because she was in the hall by herself, just being herself. Dressed up like a sultry movie star, a real femme fatale, but her posture was stooped, she wasn’t doing her confident, sexy walk. She was acting like she would around the house on a Sunday morning wearing her PJs, only she was wearing about ten-grand worth of couture, and high heels that made her calves flex. She was a leggy girl, and he didn’t often get to see her dressed up in quite this fashion. Dress was Gucci, a mini in black with sculpted cutouts on the sides that showed the bare skin of her ribs and narrow waist; thin leather belts raced both hips, cutting across her bare skin, the belts with crystal G-emblem buckles. Shoes were studded pumps, also Gucci, three straps on the ankle, the toe with those steel spikes you saw punk rockers wear on their wristbands when he was in high school. They’d had a night that night, driving into Beverly Hills, him watching her trying outfits on, sitting in a comfy leather chair with his legs crossed to hide his boner, knowing they were trying on an outfit for another man to strip off her. When they’d got home he’d tried to trick her into putting the outfit on and at first she was keen, then she’d stopped and said, “Wait a minute,” scrutinizing him. She’d told him no, that this outfit wasn’t for him, it was for someone else. Gol-ly, Willow was one savvy player.

“Hang on a sec, babe,” he said to the screen and swiped open a different camera view, leaving his wife alone for a moment, preening before she entered, so he could get a look at who her handsome stranger might be. This was where it could go south. Willow could open the door here and find someone she didn’t like. Willow would have no qualms rejecting the man.

So, who was the man in her room? Who was the man who would experience the softness of Willow’s skin tonight, the smell of her neck, the caress of her plump lips?

The new camera showed the interior of the room she would enter in a second. It was stark, austere, lots of neutral colors. The only soft edges were the comfy bed and two formless chairs that looked like toffee candies. He panned across to the left. At the foot of the bed there was a set of patio doors in jet black, looking out to a patio garden. Jesus, why was he watching through a screen when he could lurk outside the window?

You wanna be known as a peeper, buddy? You want Willow calling you “Peeping Adrian” around the house when you’re all done here? How will your dogs ever respect you again?

No, with those exterior lights coming from the tennis court, he’d have to cup both hands around his face to see into the bedroom. That would look great from Willow’s point of view.

He panned to the right and found the man he was looking for, sitting in an upholstered chair with his legs crossed, waiting for Willow’s arrival.

He squinted, brought his eyes closer to the screen. “Who’s this guy?”

The man in Willow’s special room was unfamiliar to him. Not one of the men who they’d spoken to during the daytime event. The guy wasn’t any of those guys, and it was easy to tell right away, because this guy was huge. A giant. Not some hulking, brooding fellow, thick with muscles or anything. No, oversized but in proportion. Legs so long he barely fit in the upholstered chair properly, his knees up higher than how any other man would sit. His massive hands held the ends of the arm rests and the guy’s fingers looked as big as bananas.

There was only one place to where his mind would now go, racing ahead and connecting the dots: how big was this guy’s dick?

It was an unfortunate and juvenile path, but shit, he didn’t have those thoughts on a leash and those thoughts liked to do what those thoughts liked to do, run around in the scrub and try to scare up some bunny rabbits.

Fuck, he knew Willow. Willow would think the exact same thing he’d just thought. She would see this surprise stranger and, knowing she was there in that room for one specific thing, her thoughts would look to scare up some trouble from the brush. He could hear her voice in his head, trying to sound confident and always resorting to humor when she was challenged, saying, “Well, howdy doo, Mr. Long Dong.”

And then that made him laugh, knowing they shared a telepathic joke, using their funny voices they used around the house when no one was around and it was just them and their dogs—who also had their own voices.

He said to the man on his screen: “Who are you, Mr. Long Dong?”

Behind him, a man spoke and it made him jump in his seat: “You don’t recognize your wife’s partner, Adrian?”

* * *

The hardest thing was turning the door lever. Not that it was stiff or stuck, or required the effort of someone blessed with beefier muscles, more that the turning of the lever required the proverbial Leap of Faith. A whole different kind of muscular resolve. Standing at this door with her wedding-ring hand laid over the gold lever was the point of no return. It turned out bravery was easy right up until the moment you stood at the precipice, ready to plunge into dark, cold water, or off a high ledge, or, say, out of a plane for the very first time. It was the leap that took the greatest courage, not the agreement that you would make that leap.

On the other side of this door waited a strange man who wasn’t her husband. Who wasn’t her husband, but who would perform some of the nastiest, sweatiest husbandly duties.

And do it while her real husband watched.

Right now, her beloved Adrian was sequestered elsewhere in the mansion, watching her through security cameras like a wealthy, high-tech pervert. But one that loved her. Not once during this arousing sexual odyssey had she ever thought of herself as Adrian’s entertainment or as a piece of meat. The way Adrian had put it: I want to watch you, Willow. You’re so beautiful. I want to watch you.

That was six months ago, and the time seemed like a blip now that the moment was here.

With one last plucky breath, and with clenched jaw and gritted teeth, she turned the door lever and stepped through the breach. On the other side, she raised her chin and faced her adversary—relaxing her facial features because no lady looked her best with compressed lips.

The door eased closed behind her on whispering hydraulics. She expected the door to lock, sealing her inside this warm, ambient sexual chamber. It merely clicked closed.

Wow. There was a man waiting for her in this room. No surprise there. But this man was striking. He sat in the corner of the room, a few feet from the bed—what a gentleman, not laying naked on the sheets stroking his erect member—fully clothed in an excellent midnight-navy suit. Shirt collar open, resting his chin under the casual support of an enormous and masculine hand, thumb and first knuckle bracing a clean-shaved and broad chin. He had longish, dark chestnut hair, thick and wavy, brushed back from his angular face and held in place by shiny hair product. The human-scale leather-upholstered chair which he sat on was made toylike by his size; not bulk or burly muscle, but long-limbed and sinewy big-boned grace. His icy blue eyes seemed to glow within, like he’d sat under the lamp light for just this magical effect. Something fluttered inside her, not low and sexually atavistic, but high, near her heart, a glorious appreciation, the way it would at the Louvre, in front of a masterpiece.

There were many men at the party she’d met. Many men she’d been attracted to—attracted enough she could imagine sleeping with them. There was only one she’d hoped wouldn’t be her key-partner.

The man sitting in the room waiting for her with his smug yet seductive expression wasn’t that man. This man was none of the men she’d met at the party.

Yet he was a man familiar to her.

From the look on his face, studying her, assessing her, she was wounded, seeing no sign of reciprocal recognition. Only a sort of honest, stoic desire. At least he wanted to fuck her.

But what if he recognized her? Would he still want to?

And then amidst the cavalcade of ensuing thoughts, ones brought closer to reality by force of gravity or whatever dreamworld facsimile there may be, something occurred to her: this was too crazy to be a coincidence.

She inclined her head in an oh-come-on-now angle, hipshot, assuming a more cynical expression than one of a wife here for a special kind of naked swinger date.

The man noted her changed demeanor, steeling his eyes on her and smirking broader.

This guy still didn’t recognize her, only knew now that he had himself been recognized. How selfish, how narcissistic, how egocentric.

She broke the silence. “So we meet again.”

At last she had rattled the man’s confident sexual panoply. The steely look went molten and re-formalized now into scrutiny, his luscious mouth smirking to the complete opposite side, and the mildest swirl of doubt recasting in this metallurgical change. “Again,” he repeated, not a question, not a statement—no, a ploy, the cunning of a famous man who had bedded countless women and drew noncommittal answers from a hidden holster with the speed of a weathered gunfighter.

“Dragan Kursan,” she enunciated, slow and firm, with a fair attempt at his name’s Yugoslavian pronunciation, putting a hand on her cocked hip. She was a gunslinger herself. Try outsmarting that interplay, Dragan, without revealing the shame you don’t remember me.

Though, wasn’t the shame her own?

Her confidence faltered for a moment, and the pose she’d struck felt suddenly inappropriate, or at least flimsy artifice.

Dragan Kursan raised his face higher, letting his chin go, the lamp light now painting the stark angles of his beautiful but rugged features in sharp strokes of amber. Those blue eyes still beamed their magic she knew from long ago.