Bull's Eye 2: Exploring the Hotwife Fantasy

By Kenny Wright

Hotwives. They’re not just women in open relationships. They’re not just women who cheat on their husbands. And they’re certainly not just myths.

Now that Paul Sharpe has discovered them, it’s time to explore, and Eleanor Heller is the perfect first-time hotwife to do it with. Beneath her cultured, proper exterior hides a wild side ready for Paul to unleash. Does she have a limit? Are there any lines that they will not cross?

Find out in book two of Kenny Wright’s Bull’s Eye series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenny Wright
• Release date: Mar 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463251898

Kenny Wright

Kenny Wright is just a guy who writes what he likes to read: steamy, explicit erotica that’s just crazy enough to be true. Husband to his beautiful wife, father to his rambunctious daughter, and food slave to his needy cat, he squeezes writing in when he probably should be sleeping. Kenny believes in a world where men read and appreciate erotica, and hopes to contribute to it word by word.

Book preview

Preface

This is the second of five planned books in the Bull’s Eye series, and the first full length novel. If you haven’t already, I’d recommend reading Bull’s Eye 1: Discovering the Hotwife Fantasy. It’s only $0.99 on most marketplaces and will set the context for what you’re about to read here.

Most books are written from the perspective of either the wife, the husband, or both. Rarely can I think of one written from the POV of the other man. When I began this series, it was more of a writing exercise than anything else. What I ended up creating was a story with characters that I kind of, sort of, maybe fell in love with.

I know that this is somewhat of an author’s cliché—that all writers end up really liking their characters. I’ve felt this way before with Dani (Just Watch Me) and Katie (the Forbidden series) and Erin (Training to Love It). But this feels different. I’m really rooting for them, like someone sitting in a movie theatre munching on popcorn as I watch a Rom-Com.

The series has one more book left, and I’m still on the edge of my seat. Hopefully you will be, too.

1

Bull

[Unknown Number]: You were right. He’s into it.

[Unknown Number]: This is Eleanor, by the way.

Two weeks have passed since the gala, since I took Eleanor Heller back to my room and officially made her a hotwife. Which, I guess in the parlance, makes me a bull.

I chuckle at the term. I’ve been with a lot of women over the years, but I’ve never thought of myself as a bull. Not until this past week, when I started reading about the hotwife lifestyle. The idea has grown on me. Elie was fun. The blonde from the Marriott, Manhattan, would have been fun, too. Why not give this thing a try?

I enjoy fucking. I get off on the wrongness that comes with taking another man’s wife, as surely as Elie got off when I kissed her for the first time. That the husband knows—that he, too, gets off on it—introduces an added challenge to the mix, sparking a sense of competition in me.

These husbands want me to do something to their wives that they cannot. That’s not the challenge, though. I know I can do that. No, the challenge is to make their wives believe it, too. To convert them from just humoring their husbands’ fantasy to craving it themselves.

I add Eleanor Heller to my contact list, but wait until the end of the day to respond. She needs to stew.

[Me]: Elie! I was wondering when I’d hear from you.

She responds almost immediately. I imagine the English woman sitting in her home in a short, silky nightgown, staring out at the moon-drenched gardens of her inevitably large estate. I think of her nipples pressing hard and visible through the thin material. I think of her swirling her fingernails along the pale, white skin of her inner thigh.

She was hot, and not in the way that my one-night stands normally are. There was a sweetness to her, an innocence to her freckled cheeks. Even her body, despite her full breasts and curvy ass, was slender in a soft way that spoke to good genes more than hard work.

[Elie]: :P That’s not my name, you know.

[Me]: It’s not the name of the proper woman I met downstairs at the gala, but it’s definitely the name of the girl who begged for me to come inside of her later on.

I stir at the memory. I can still feel her newly shaved pussy wrapped around my cock as I hammered her from behind, as she cried out, moaned, gasped, begged.

[Elie]: I can’t believe I let you do that. Ronald was so pissed!

And then, immediately after, a follow up text:

[Elie]: Well, at first, anyway. Now he seems to get off on it. It’s...odd.

From what I’ve read, that sounds about right. The husbands in these arrangements always seem so conflicted. Like they can’t seem to make up their mind whether they want it or not. That’s part of the excitement, though—the sense of being out of control.

I like things ordered. I’m a huge fan of being in control. It’s probably one of the reasons I’ve never fallen in love. Takes a certain level of insanity to do that. These guys take the insanity further. I don’t understand it, but I’m willing to take advantage of it.

[Me]: Send me the photo. I want a copy of my own.

For example, Eleanor Heller, wife of Ronald Heller, would never send a man she barely knows such a lewd picture. Ronald Heller, husband of Eleanor Heller, should have made her delete the photos immediately after seeing them. But I’m not dealing with Eleanor and Ronald. I’m dealing with their wilder personas—wild because of me.

[Elie]: You can’t share it with anyone.

[Me]: Of course I won’t.

I won’t. I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t need a trophy room to enjoy receiving trophies.

The photo comes through a moment later, and it’s just as pornographic as I remember. I took the photos at the very end of the night. She was on her knees, staring up at the camera where I held it. Her soft brown hair was tied back into a tight ponytail, keeping it out of her face as I buried my cock to its shaved hilt in her mouth. It took some work, but we got her to take me fully, all nine, hard inches of my maleness. Her mascara had begun to run and tears glistened in her large, bright eyes, but she looked so fucking pleased with herself.

[Me]: So hot. Can’t wait to feel that again.

A minute later, she responds that she can’t wait, either.

[Me]: How about next Saturday night. I can keep the night open if you promise to show me a good time.

[Elie]: Let me check with my husband.

[Me]: Don’t keep me waiting. My calendar fills up pretty quickly.

It’s a cruel thing to say, but my cock is doing more of the thinking than it should. I really can’t wait to see her again. I’m already thinking of new and exciting things I want to do to her.

[Elie]: I won’t keep you waiting.

She gets back to me an hour later. We’re on.

2

Saturday Night

Sequel hookups, as I like to call them, come with more pressure than the initial. There’s more expectation. There are questions that weren't there when things were organic. Will it be as good as the first time? Was it even as good as I remember? What should I wear? Casual? Formal? Will we still want each other? And what do we even talk about?

To be clear, I don't have these questions. I'm doubt free. But some women do. So I try to alleviate them as much as possible. To set expectations. To remove doubt.

[Me]: Wear a dress. Something easy to take off. High heels. And nothing else.

[Elie]: lol. Should I now?

[Me]: You don’t have to wear the dress if you don’t want to. ;)

[Elie]: I’ll keep that in mind.

I straighten up my apartment, which isn’t so hard. A little vacuuming, a little sweeping. I try to keep a tidy home—never know when I’m going to bring someone back here. Besides, it was easy since I don’t spend much time here.

After a quick shower and a longer bite to eat, the most difficult part of my day arrives—the waiting part. Women have stood me up before. I don’t take it personally. Everyone’s wrestling with their own demons, and I don’t like to judge. I enjoy fucking more than anyone, it’s the persona that I like to project after all, but it’s far from the only thing in this life.

Still, I have a feeling that Elie is going to show. I’d be surprised if she doesn’t because she’s got her husband urging her on.

I researched the Hellers after the gala just to understand who I was getting tangled up with. Ronald Heller is an exec for a major angel investor, specializing in healthcare startups. Eleanor Heller comes from a family of money and privilege. The two are shrewd in the world of investment and business, and neither has simply sat on their wealth. While they don’t reach Gregory Hamilton donation levels, together they’re in the upper tier.

I try to imagine that life. They take vacations to exotic spots around the world. They charter private jets. Their children—I still can’t believe that Eleanor has children at all—will grow up richer than they did. For a family, they want for nothing. As a man, Ronald Heller can have whatever, or whoever, he wants.

Yet here he is, sending his wife to my little apartment, where I plan to take photos of just how slutty she can be.

Life is so strange sometimes.

Her knock comes just a little after nine, tentative and quiet. I could almost miss it had I not been listening for it. I check myself in the hall mirror one last time. I considered answering her in just a robe, but that felt a little sleazy, even for me. So I put on a pair of jeans and a black button down shirt, rolled at the sleeves and with the top buttons undone. My dark hair is still damp from the shower, combed and styled like the Wall Street fox I try to project.

I open the door with a strange sense of deja vu. We’ve done this before, back at the hotel after the gala. This time, there will be no soft seduction, no drinks by the window, no slow undressing. I have a much fuller night planned.

Elie is more dressed up than I am in a pale blue halter dress that looks designer. If her chestnut brown hair wasn't pulled back in a high ponytail, she could pass as a bridesmaid. Even her heels, matching blue sandals, make me think of wedding parties, which in turn reminds me that the beauty in front of me is married.

Hi, I say, stepping forward to gather her into my arms. She's so slight against me, as delicate as a bird, and when I dip in to kiss her, she gasps. Her hesitation only lasts a moment, and then her lips part against mine and we’re swept away.

I shut the door behind her, pin her against it, pulling her knee up to my hip as I kiss her. Her hand snakes up behind my neck, clutching the short hairs as she moans down my throat.

Did you do as I told you? I wonder aloud, sliding my hand up her thigh over her ass. I feel nothing there, no panties, nothing but warm flesh. Good little slut.

She tenses at the slur, but doesn't protest. Must be hard for her, who's always lived a controlled and proper existence, to be debased like that. But at the same time…

You don't like that word? I ask, pulling back to look at her.

It's… Her eyes slide away. I reach up with my free hand and force her to look at me.

Tell me that you don't want to be my slut and I'll let you leave.

Fear flashes across her face. She shakes her head.

I slide my hand beneath her thigh, edging it closer to her pussy. I can feel her heat, feel the balmy excitement even before I reach those smooth lips.

"You don't want to be my slut?"

No. It's like the word is ripped from her, then, quickly she adds, "I mean yes. I do."

Yes, what?

There's no hesitation or defiance. That's gone as I press my fingers against her wet cunt. She moans, takes a ragged breath, and says, Yes, I want to be your slut.

Give me your phone.

She looks confused, but does so, reaching into her small purse. I flip on the video camera and point it at her. Her beautiful face fills the screen. Say it again.

Her lips curl up at the ends as she realizes what I'm doing. Perfect. With more confidence, she repeats, I want to be your slut.

Watching her shift in attitude is like opening the blinds and letting the sunlight in. All of a sudden, we become co-conspirators. What we’re about to do is more than just an act of passion, more than a booty call.

Are you going to suck my cock? I ask.

She lifts a brow. Can’t wait.

Then what are we waiting for? I end the video. She giggles before sinking down to her knees. I navigate to her text app and find her husband, quickly scanning the last exchange they shared—because it’s right there and I can’t not. She tells him that she’s just arrived. He tells her to have fun. They tell one