She's a Star (a Hollywood Hotwife story) (2 page)

I sat there trying to figure out how I could possibly care more about my wife and her attempts to kick-start her career. What was I doing that was somehow insufficient? The trouble was, Hayley had never been the type of person who spoke up about what she needed, what she wanted. She wanted to get on and do it herself.

I left her to spend some time alone in our bedroom, and racked my brain as I cleared away the dinner plates and the mess in our tiny little kitchen, trying to figure out what I was supposed to have done to show I cared.

Was I supposed to have suggested she go back to school, study some new aspect of performing that might give her more opportunities? Was I supposed to become her manager and start working on signing her up for more auditions? Networking to get her some big break in a Broadway musical, when I had no contacts in the entertainment industry whatsoever?

When it came to me, it seemed suddenly so damn obvious I could have kicked myself. What was the major challenge Hayley had been facing all the time we’d been together, when it came to her career?

We lived in New York.

At that point, I took a deep breath and went into the bedroom.

I said, “Look, I’ve been thinking.”

She was lying there in the bed, her eyes red from crying, a small pile of tissues next to her, one in her hand. She looked up at me, and I could see from her expression she was regretting backing me into a corner, but that her pride had made it impossible for her to back down.

She was waiting for me to go on. I said, “I think it might be better for us to move.”

“Move?”

I shrugged. “It can’t be impossible for a young lawyer to find some kind of job in Los Angeles.”

Her face broke into open surprise. Los Angeles.

“What—” she said, unsure about whether she’d heard me right.

“Don’t you think it would be better all round if we moved there?” I asked.

With that, she was leaping up and squealing and flinging her arms around me, and that was the end of that particular argument.

But it didn’t put an end to that strange little response I’d had to the thought of Hayley having a little flirtatious fun with another guy. The next day I found myself zoning out a number of times, wondering how her shoot was going in Central Park. I’d find myself staring out of the window from my office overlooking Columbus Park, imagining how it might be going for her.

In my imagination, she definitely liked the guy she had to spend all day kissing. She felt her heart flutter every time they had to lean in and touch lips together, she felt all warm and syrupy inside at how nice it felt. And maybe, she started feeling a little sticky down below at the wickedness of kissing a stranger, a man who was not her husband, and the first man other than her husband since we had started dating.

Why did I feel that way about her?

The most obvious thing was that after being miserable for so long, it was nice to think that something pleasurable might happen to Hayley, something she could enjoy. And perhaps she needed someone else, other than her husband, to tell her how beautiful she was—to show her how beautiful she was.

Of course, subsequently, my reading around the subject has suggested all kinds of other reasons fitting in with my strange desire. For example, the fact that some heterosexual males respond to the knowledge their mate is being unfaithful by stepping up their own desire for her so that they can then mate with her afterward, thereby improving the chances of conceiving with her instead of the rival male. In this day and age, the aforementioned male might not consciously want a baby with his partner just then, but the biological urge would increase his attraction to his mate—and perhaps he would interpret his increased feelings of sexual desire as being tantamount to actively wanting his partner to be unfaithful.

But at the end of the day, back then, it was just a hot thought to me to have my wife responding sexually to some naughty little encounter with another guy.

The feelings I had went into overdrive toward the end of the day when Hayley sent me a text stating:

>Going out for dinner with a few fellow extras—probably be home late, eat without me! Xx

I was rock hard as I read that text message over and over on the way home to our little place in the East Village, having replied to her that I’d be fine eating on my own that evening and that she should enjoy herself. Dreaming that her day of kissing might have turned into something more, that maybe I wouldn’t even see her until late into the night as her dinner with a few extras turned into some kind of first date.

I really did like the idea of my wife coming back to me sexually fulfilled by actively being unfaithful. Crazy.

When she did eventually come back, it was only ten-thirty, and I felt strangely disappointed that she hadn’t stayed out late with her new boyfriend.

But there was a glow about her when she came back from her day’s movie shoot, and it wasn’t just the couple of glasses of wine she’d had with her meal.

“How was it?”

“Nice,” she’d replied to me as she came in the bedroom. Not ‘good’ or ‘okay’ or ‘as expected’, but ‘nice’.

“So you had a good time?” I prompted. “You liked him, the guy you had to kiss?”

She smiled, and gave a coy little shrug as her cheeks flushed a little pinker. “He was nice.”

There: I was hard again. I couldn’t help it. It probably didn’t help that she was looking gorgeous, wearing a little white t-shirt and dark blue shorts.

“He was a good kisser, then?” I said as I approached her, more hungry for her touch than I’d been for a while.

She smiled. “You really aren’t jealous, are you?”

I leaned in to kiss her, gently, feeling her soft, warm lips hesitate for a moment on mine, as though she was worried I’d discover some little secret she was holding—and then she was kissing me back, perhaps repeating what she’d been doing in Central Park all day, perhaps going further now that she was with a man she was permitted to go as far as she liked.

“Why should I be?” I said as we broke apart. One hand roamed her warm curves, tracing out her trim body, toned by daily runs. “I trust you, right? Just because some guy gets to kiss you all day, I know he’s not going to steal you away from me.”

“Mmm….” she moaned, curling a hand around my neck as we kissed again. “You don’t normally do this when I come home from work.”

I kissed her neck and stepped behind her to pull her t-shirt off over her head, then held her tight in my arms, my hands splaying over the white lace bra covering her breasts. I said, “You don’t normally spend all day kissing some guy in Central Park.”

She giggled, “And that’s got you all worked up?”

Running my hands over her shapely figure, it almost seemed as though I’d had my eyes closed for months, unable to see just how exquisite my wife was. I kissed the back of her neck and now fumbled with the button on her denim shorts, and it wasn’t hard to tell that she was just as worked up as I was after her day on that park bench.

She turned her head to kiss my mouth as I forced her shorts down her thighs.

“Mmm…. Maybe I should do it more often,” she joked. “Sitting on park benches, kissing strangers.”

With her shorts dropping to the floor, now I slipped one bra strap over her shoulder, then the other, before it also fell to the floor revealing her full breasts and nipples that were hard as pebbles.

“Maybe you should,” I said, and she moaned again as I touched her soft breasts, cupping them, fondling them.

She said, “Oh, I think you’d get jealous if I did that for real. If it wasn’t acting.”

One of my hands skirted down over the velvet skin of her stomach, and now found the soft white lace of her panties, and the heat that lay beneath.

“So what’s the difference?” I asked.

I stroked her burning sex through her panties, and as my fingers found the tantalizing topography of her pussy, it became abundantly clear that she was already very, very wet. More so than if we’d just started playing like this.

She caught her breath for a moment, then seeming distracted, asked, “Difference?”

“Between sitting there kissing some guy on a bench when you’re actors, and kissing some stranger for real?”

Hayley gasped as my hand slipped under the waistband of her panties, and dove into the sticky heat of her pussy. The soft patch of red hair over her mound, her tender lips, her underwear—all were saturated with her juices. She must have spent all day feeling increasingly turned on.

“Physically…I don’t know….” she said. “I guess we’re not using tongues. Some of the principals do, if the camera’s right on them, if it’s that kind of scene.”

I brought my hand up to caress her breasts, tracing some of her wetness over her soft mounds before I moved around to kiss her there, to lick her, to swirl my tongue around her stiff buds where I could now taste her arousal.

“You didn’t with your man today, then? Tongues, I mean?”

She shook her head, but seemed doubtful somehow. “I…don’t think so,” she said.

“Don’t think so?” I prompted, sucking increasingly firmly on her nipple.

She looked nervous, like it was some kind of admission, and it only made my cock throb in my pants.

“It was…I don’t know…kind of a blur, most of the time,” she said.

“But you said it was ‘nice’, he was ‘nice’.” I sat down on the corner of our bed, leaving her standing there before me.

“Are you mad at me?”

I smiled. “Does it look like I’m mad at you?”

I leaned in and kissed her lower stomach, peeling her damp panties down over her thighs. I kissed my way down to that tidy little triangle of soft red hair, and ran the tip of my tongue up her soaking groove, tasting her day’s excitement.

“Oh God….” she groaned as I lapped at her as long as she was able to stay on her feet.

I didn’t say anything more to her then, about her kissing another man in Central Park, though as she knelt before me and drew my hard cock from my pajama pants and took it in her hot mouth, I found myself wondering how I’d feel if she’d found a quiet place in some wooded part of the park to do this with her fellow actor that afternoon. And I have to report back that it only turned me on even more to imagine that she’d been so wicked, swirling her tongue around some other guy’s cock while pumping it with her hand.

And later, as she went on all fours on the bed, and I slid my cock deep into her beautifully tight pussy from behind, fucking her like some animal, I found myself curious about how it might be to watch someone else doing this to Hayley—would I get jealous then?

Holding her, claiming her, squeezing my particularly swollen manhood inside her, pumping my semen deep within her—I had to conclude that theoretically, at least, I wouldn’t object to my wife having a little fun like this with someone else, if she was ever tempted.

How reality would compare, however, was anyone’s guess.

Chapter One

We didn’t talk about Mr. Central Park again, or about how I’d been so turned on by her having such a ‘nice’ time with him during her movie shoot. I guess I wasn’t entirely comfortable with just how to talk about it with her—after a little more time to think about it, I became fearful that she would think me a freak, or that I didn’t love her after all, or some such nonsense.

But the main thing was the maelstrom of effort it took for us to wrap up our lives in New York completely, and move thousands of miles to another coast—and find me a whole new job in the process.

I think compared to a lot of folks, we were quite lucky. In the end, inquiries made through my law firm in NYC led me to a not-too-dissimilar role at an affiliated firm based out in Santa Monica. It wasn’t such a large company, and it wasn’t such a large salary as I’d been on, but it was something to get us started—and something to underpin the rent on a small but comfortable house not too far from the waterfront, just down the road in Redondo Beach.

Los Angeles was not a sudden short-cut to fame and riches, however.

If anything, the sense of moving out west, away from all our friends and family, pushed both of us to work even harder—and for Hayley that meant three waitressing jobs while she attended every possible open audition for which she could get her name on the list. She also made it to whichever acting workshops she could squeeze into her packed schedule—and every movie industry event that would have her, in the hope that a little networking might get her to the next step.

I admit that I ended up burying myself in my work, ostensibly to make sure we made the rent each month, but also because it was hard to watch Hayley slogging so hard without really seeming to get anywhere.

She was so unhappy, and I couldn’t undo it. No matter how many compliments I gave her—about her acting, about how beautiful she looked even when she was downcast—she would only ever thank me. Her eyes, however, said: you’re my husband, it’s your job to pay me compliments, so it doesn’t really validate me at all.

I’d sit in her restaurant or diner sometimes, when she had a late shift to do and I was concerned about her state of mind, and I’d see the other customers trying to flirt with her. I’d point it out to her, but she’d think I was kidding, or I was making things up to try to prove my compliments.