What Lola Wants

Chapter One I wouldn’t say that Lola is a slut, exactly. Let’s just say that she has an accommodating cunt. Almost all men like her, by which I mean of course that they want to f**k her, and by and large she endeavours to oblige them if they are polite and presentable, and strike the right note; a difficult thing to define, but Lola always knows when it happens. Although, just to avoid things being too simple, every now and again she will refuse a man even if he seems to meet the criteria. It’s not exactly to preserve her self-respect, because she has plenty of that. It’s rather than she doesn’t like being taken for granted, so on occasion she will disappoint a suitor. And she never feels obligated to give him a reason. I remember that before the wedding we had a lot of conversations about how things were going to be. I knew that before I met her she had had a lot of affairs, though some of them would properly be described as flings or one-night stands. During our courtship, if you want to call it that, she took a rest from other men. At least, I was reasonably reassured by her promise that it was so. But the marriage service included the words “forsaking all others.” Could she keep it up? Could Lola really refrain from other men for ever? So I asked her what her idea of marriage was. Did it demand monogamy? She said she’d been thinking about this and rather thought that it should. I said I agreed, so we resolved that we would be faithful. Whether either of us seriously intended this I’m not sure. Perhaps we did initially. It was soon clear that this was unrealistic. Lola has a healthy, some might even say voracious, s****l appetite. At first, after the wedding, I managed to keep up with it. But although my stamina was good, I began to realise that what she craved was not just lots of s*x, but variety. I did my best by going through the various s****l positions and then we looked at a lot of porn and tried a lot of perversions (as we thought of them, though I’ve since come to believe that one man’s perversion is another’s bread and butter). And then, perhaps inevitably, she had s*x with another guy. She confessed it almost immediately. She’d been at a party and said she’d had one drink too many and found herself talking to an attractive man and he had offered her a lift home. On the way he’d taken a detour into a small park and stopped the car. She told him she was married and wanted to remain so. He said that was fine. All the time he had his hands on her, one squeezing her breast, another up her skirt. The one up her skirt finally reached its intended destination. She protested but, she admitted to me, not very forcefully. He manhandled her into position and then pushed her skirt right up and pulled down her knickers and f****d her, from behind. At least, she said, he put on a condom. Once he’d finished (she said he was quick) he started the car and drove her the rest of the way home. She told me this the next day, because when she got home I was asleep in bed. She said she was sorry and asked if I would forgive her. I asked her if she had enjoyed it. She didn’t say anything, so I concluded that she had. I asked, did she intend to do it again? She said, no, not with that guy, from which I concluded she might repeat the act with someone else. There was silence for a while, then she said, “The thing that worries me most of all is that you will use this as a valid reason why you can have s*x with other women.” “You think I shouldn’t?” I asked. “I think it would kill me,” she said. She was occasionally given to exaggerations; I could hardly believe what she had said was literally true. But I got the point. I was pleased, in a way, that she regarded my fidelity as that important. We didn’t discuss such things any more for a while, and I assumed that we were at least notionally still living in a state of monogamy. But obviously she had been brooding on it, hence two months later she brought up the idea of being a hotwife. We were lying on the bed one Sunday afternoon after a bout of energetic but relatively vanilla s*x. She had a hand between her legs, slowly touching, and another hand on my c**k, just holding me, not moving. It was something we would often do when we had time, talking dirty, putting ourselves in the mood for something spicier. I remember I was hoping I’d get to spank her. I hadn’t done it for a while. She wasn’t really into it, but she let me do it now and again. Then she said, “You remember you once asked me if I had any s****l fantasies I hadn’t told you about?” “And?” “There is one.” “Yes?” “Do you know what a hotwife is?” “Yes, I think so. Is that what you want to be?” “Do you think it’s silly?” I thought for a moment. “Not silly, no. But it needs a little consideration.” “Yes, because I’m not sure it is a fantasy in the normal sense. It’s more like a change of lifestyle.” When she raised this my initial response was to be realistic. If she was thinking about it, then it wouldn’t be long before she took a step towards it. I decided that the best way to handle it was for me to entertain the idea, not rule it out but on the contrary try to manage it. I said that in principle I was not against it, but that we needed to be agreed about the rules. She said of course, and she proceeded to enumerate several right away, making it obvious that she had been thinking about it a lot. First, she said, I wasn’t allowed to use this as an excuse to avail myself of other women. I was to continue to be monogamous. It was unfair, of course, but I didn’t mind. It gave the thing extra spice, and anyway I was so much in love with her I didn’t think about other women. All my s****l fantasies centred on her. She was enough woman for me. She said she would choose the guys. I’d have no say in who it was. I said I did have one reservation; it mustn’t be anyone we knew. She agreed to that. She said she knew that in such arrangements some guys liked to watch, but she said she wasn’t going to allow that, at least not for a long time. But she said she would describe to me what happened when she got back. She also said if I was very good she might take a picture or two. She added she would prefer it if I didn’t masturbate while she was with the other guy. I should keep myself “pure”, which seemed an odd choice of word considering how perverse the whole thing was. She said she would keep me informed about arrangements, giving me as much notice of her dates as she could, and when possible would text me to say when she would return. It was clear that in future she intended that s*x with other men was to be a planned, calculated affair, not random events such as with the man who had driven her home. She added (it was clear she’d got a lot of this worked out already) that it probably wouldn’t be all-nighters at first. She said, “I expect when I get back I’ll want you to f**k me, even if it’s the middle of the night”, and I readily agreed to this. In fact I was getting highly excited by the idea. f*****g her fresh (if that’s the word) from the arms of another man appealed to me, pervert that I am. I asked her if she had anyone in mind and she said that she did. It was a guy she’d met through work. She told me she fancied him a lot, and we talked it over as a practical proposition. Her main concern was how I’d handle it. She kept asking me if I was sure I’d be OK. Wouldn’t I be jealous? Of course I’d be jealous, I said. But wasn’t that part of the point? I had a whole theory about that, which I expounded to her eventually. We’ll come to that. There were certain practicalities I thought needed to be settled, First, I asked her what sort of contraception she intended to employ. She said immediately, another sign that she had been thinking about it, that she much preferred to f**k guys bareback, but that she thought that wasn’t always wise. She said she intended to use a condom first time with anyone, but would leave it off as soon as she felt comfortable doing so from a safety point of view. (She was on the pill at the time.) I asked if she intended to tell her friends about her decision. She has a best friend, Sally, whom she has known since her schooldays and who probably knows more about her than even I do. She said she might in due course tell Sally, but not for some time, until she felt completely comfortable in her new role. She said, suppose she met a really nice guy and wanted to go away for a weekend with him? I said, could we wait a while before that happened? She agreed. I asked her what if anything she would tell these guys about me. She said she hadn’t thought about that. What did I feel? I replied that I thought she should let them know that she was married but that her husband allowed her total freedom. But she should tell them nothing about me personally. She agreed. She said she didn’t want me to tell another living soul about the arrangement. “What, not even your mother?” I enquired innocently. She threw a cushion at me. “What if you fall in love with one of the guys?” I asked her. “I won’t,” she said confidently. “I’m in love with you.” I let it go at that. I thought there was little point in trying to cross every bridge before we came to it, and in the nature of the thing we couldn’t know in advance how everything would affect us. She did a little flirting with the guy she had in mind and eventually fixed up a date with him. I watched her get ready. After her shower she stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror doing her make-up. I remember there was plenty of eye-shadow and mascara and at the end some lipstick, but just pale pink. She said she might be a w***e but she didn’t want to look like one. She’d bought some new underwear. It was La Perla, I remember. Black satin, the bra balconette style, straps at the side, showing off her t**s nicely. Though she was slim, her bust was by no means negligible. The knickers were not much more than a thong, and at the back showed quite a bit of her cute ass. There was a suspender belt too; she knew how much men liked stockings. This went with a red dress, quite tight. OK, she didn’t look tarty, but she wasn’t a choirgirl either. Her heels were really high, showing off her very good legs. I thought she looked stunning. I kissed her goodbye; she made it be on the cheek, so as not to spoil her make-up. There was a taxi outside. “Don’t wait up,” she said with a laugh as she got in. I tried to keep myself occupied in the evening. I cooked myself something and watched a little TV and read a book, but my mind was on her all the time. Were they having dinner first? Was she flirting with him? Had he kissed her yet? I had asked her what she had told him about me. “Nothing,” she said. “You’re a mystery.” Sometime after ten I wondered if they’d got to it yet. Would he be good in bed? Would he have a big c**k? In which position would he f**k her? How many times? Around eleven o’clock I went to bed. Just as I was going to put the light off I got a text. It was from her. “Adultery is fun,” she said. I started to worry that she hadn’t taken more persuading. Had she been waiting all this time to f**k other men? Was she bored with me? I managed to get to sleep after half an hour of such thoughts. In the morning she still hadn’t come home. This surprised me a little, but it was Sunday, so there was no particular reason she should hurry. I mooched around all morning, trying to make the time pass until she came back. Around two in the afternoon she came in the front door, looking unruffled. She kissed me on the cheek; she wasn’t wearing make-up so it could have been on the mouth, but it wasn’t. She sat back on the sofa. I was agog to hear all about it, but I didn’t want to seem too eager. She asked if I would make her some coffee, so I did. I sat with her on the sofa, not saying much. Conversation was desultory. Then suddenly she said, “Do you want to f**k me?” I said yes and got to my feet. We went up to the bedroom and she quickly got out of her clothes and slipped between the sheets. She reached out and took me in her arms. “Don’t say anything yet. Just f**k me,” she said. So I did. My c**k was as hard as I have ever known it, and I think I did a good job.