Book: Madeleine Plays: A Wife-Watching Romance

Previous: Eleven
Next: Thirteen


He found himself leaving the hotel and it was the middle of the night. Feeling confused, dejected somehow, descending in the elevator to street level, walking out of the entrance lobby onto the street, feeling out into the hum of people on Times Square, his vision swamped by the chaos of neon jarring and flashing from every available building to call his attention to this Broadway musical or that consumer brand.

What was her plan? Was she going to spend the night by herself, thinking about what had just happened?

Should he just get in a cab and head home?

His loins throbbed gently from the contentment of recent use—God, what a wild Date Night she had engineered. She could have done it so much simpler, too, by just inviting her husband out to a hotel, telling him they were going to imagine he was another man. Instead, she had lulled him into the belief that she would be sleeping over with Lucy, that Date Night had been canceled—and then made him think she might actually have called up Connor for a secret encounter, only the text had gone astray.

Well, maybe Madeleine did need the rest of the evening to herself to think about everything, to catch up on her rest.

He walked around Times Square, marveling at the sights as though he was merely a tourist. The extraordinary panorama and the multitude of other late night revelers proved a distraction for five, maybe ten minutes before his mind started wandering back to that room in the W hotel.

What was she doing in there? What was she thinking about? Was she asleep already? Had she drifted off to dreams of being taken by her crush from across the street?

Or was she lying awake, making the decision to actually cross the line, the line they’d both been thinking about for so long now?

To sleep with a man who was not her husband.

He checked his phone at least every minute, perhaps even only ten seconds apart sometimes. There was nothing from Madeleine. Did he call her? Should he send her a text message to check she was okay? What if she was asleep, and he woke her up?

What did she expect him to do? Wait for her in the bar?

Fifteen minutes out, he decided she must have fallen asleep. He was a little disappointed she hadn’t called or messaged him. He found himself missing her company, more than anything. This was supposed to be Date Night—their night to be together, to celebrate their rekindled passion, and more than anything spend time with each other, no distractions.

It had been an incredible experience, but God, he missed her. He’d left her mere minutes before, and now he missed her.

Was this going to be how he’d feel if she was out on a date with another man?


Eventually, he just hailed himself a taxi.

In the close confines of the cab, even with the smell of old leather seating and the incense or air freshener the driver appeared to like, Hugo kept catching the scent of sex on himself, the lingering evidence of their lovemaking.

It only took him until 23rd Street to figure he’d made the wrong decision. He shouldn’t have left her—or at least, he should have stayed at the hotel, outside her door, down the hallway, down in the lobby, the bar, wherever. Even hanging out in Times Square, in the Starbucks across the street.

She could very well feel insecure after what they’d just imagined. Maybe she’d call him, any minute, in floods of tears and he’d be downtown, a taxi ride away. She’d think he’d fled the scene, perhaps angry that she’d booted him out, or that her act had been so true to the fantasy of her having an affair with her crush this time.

Past 14th Street he finally sent her a text. Simple, straight to the point.

> You okay?

His heart in his mouth, he hit the send button.

After that, he had to wait to see what she would say in reply. He tried to reassure himself by thinking he’d done everything he could to keep her happy—she hadn’t told him what she wanted before he’d left, and certainly hadn’t afterward.

At last, her text came back, and though it made his pulse accelerate a little, it wasn’t initially helpful in determining what she expected of him.

> I’m fine, thanks. Had such a wonderful time. Disturbingly good, actually.

Staring at her message, he dwelled on the word ‘disturbingly’. It made him think she was considering how genuinely hot the idea of sleeping with Connor was.

But what did she want him to do now? Continue his journey home? He sent another text, but still refrained from actually asking what she wanted. He didn’t want her to feel pressured.

> I’m glad. You were so unbelievably hot tonight, can’t stop thinking about you.

The wait for her reply was not quite so long this time.

> I can’t stop thinking about you either. But I feel bad because even though he wanted this, I did it without my husband knowing.

Hugo was a little taken aback at this. She was still role-playing? Still imagining he was Connor?

He couldn’t help smiling. She’d really gone for this theme of adultery that evening. It hadn’t been anything they’d really talked about before—but now that Hugo had seen it for himself, there was something strangely attractive about the idea.

How could he possibly find the idea of Madeleine actually cheating on him attractive?

It was kind of sexy having a hot wife who got caught up in the whole temptation of another man, but couldn’t find a way to break it to her husband. Hugo had always thought it would be a break of trust for Madeleine to go behind his back—but somehow, if he knew she wasn’t doing it out of spite, out of any kind of malicious intent, but because she just wanted something for herself, to experience that thrill of the forbidden, the illicit encounter, somehow that wasn’t so bad.

And if it really turned her on, the secret encounter, then it turned Hugo on, too.

He’d told her she could play around with other guys, after all. He’d made it clear that he wanted to know about it when it happened, but the important thing was he’d given her the green light to play around. So what, now, was the harm in her pursuing a little fantasy of cheating on her husband behind his back?

Hugo found himself thinking: if he ever discovered she’d cheated on him, well, not only would he have to forgive her based on the things he’d been telling her to do—he might even find it a thrill to find out.

Maybe he was going genuinely crazy.

Returning to his role as faux-Connor, Hugo texted her back:

> You don’t have to tell your husband if you don’t want to, you know. If you’re not ready.

Back came her reply:

> I’m sorry, but he’s too important to me. I can’t really believe what I’ve just done. He said he wanted me to be with another guy, but his one condition was that I tell him.

Hugo was impressed that this central tenet of his fantasy had registered with her so firmly. He replied:

> Maybe your husband would be okay with not knowing right away, as long as you tell him eventually, when you’re ready.

He thought she might read a little more into this statement than just that it was a line from her role-play boyfriend. It was kind of like a new policy statement from her husband, too. A new policy based on the realization that though they were sharing this fantasy of Madeleine sleeping with another man, Hugo’s version was a little different from hers.

While he wanted to watch her taking full enjoyment of strange cock, perhaps her version of the fantasy focused on the forbidden part of an adulterous encounter. The secrecy, the independence, the game of keeping things away from hubby’s eyes. She liked playing the naughty wife in more ways than just physical transgression of the wedding vows.

Jesus, the whole sexual fantasy thing seemed so fluid, so changeable.

Another text came through from Madeleine:

> Maybe. But this time, I have to tell him right now. Thanks for a lovely time, Connor. Have a good night xx

He replied simply:

> You too xx

That text exchange left him feeling slightly nervous, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

By the time the cab pulled into their familiar street, and he saw up ahead the entrance to their apartment building on one side of the street, and the entrance to Connor’s apartment building on the other, Hugo felt a cold suspicion that he’d just given his wife permission to actually cheat on him.

Jesus, that was such a big step, so much bigger than merely the prospect that one day she might sleep with someone else with him watching. This new anxiety stemmed from a further loss of control—and yet he wasn’t feeling he’d made a mistake. He didn’t want to change his mind.

On the way up to the apartment, he reassured himself with the thought that if this didn’t work, then they’d move on. It couldn’t break their trust, could it, when he’d given her permission?


When he got back to the apartment, he sat himself down on the window seat to see the guy they’d Christened Mr. Portly playing around in his apartment with a little beagal-cross puppy. The guy seemed to have accepted the new addition to the household now, the cute little thing seemed to be house trained. The college students in the apartment above were currently out, so far as Hugo could see. For once. Connor’s apartment was also dead to the world.

He wasn’t really concentrating, his tired mind reeling a little from everything that had happened.

How long was he sitting there? Perhaps he even drifted off for a little while. He jerked awake to the sound of a key sliding into the lock of their front door, and the thing opening.



She was all smiles as came in, and he was instantly up on his feet, pulling her to him for a long slow kiss, swamping him in the clean scent of a recent shower. She’d changed out of her slutty evening wear, which somehow disappointed Hugo a little, though she looked lovely in a loose cream top and tight jeans. Her make-up had been reapplied after her shower, but subtly this time, almost trying to make it seem as though she wasn’t wearing any.

“God that was amazing,” he said as they broke apart at last.

She was grinning like a minx. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“You should get some kind of acting award—I got the real feeling you thought you were with Connor in that hotel room.”

He could see she was wearing a black bra, her cleavage nicely on show with her low neckline, despite her attempt at a casual dressed-down appearance.

“I guess at times I found myself thinking it,” she said, her tone half-apologetic, as though she was going to get in trouble for fantasizing about another man.

Hugo felt his manhood stirring at the thought that she might have lost herself that evening in her pretense of an adulterous affair with Connor.

She said, “You were pretty into it yourself, weren’t you?” And her hand had found its way to his loins, pressing against his growing hardness.

“I’ll say.”

“In fact, I’d even say you were getting off on the idea that it was actually Connor there making love to me.”

Madeleine quietly squealed as she felt his shaft throb at the ideas she was implanting in his head, and her pretty face broke out into another of her enormous smiles, her eyes glinting with the knowledge that she’d confirmed her husband was turned on by the idea of her sleeping with another man.

Hugo could only shrug, he could hardly deny it.

Madeleine laughed, and then pulled back from him, moving through to the bedroom in a clear hope that he would follow. She was lying on the bed as he got there, like some Middle Eastern harlot wanting to entice a Sheikh into bed.

“Would you really have done all that on a first date?” he asked her while moving up alongside her on the bed, his fingers finding their way up her leg, adoring her smooth skin, those irresistible curves.

A shrug herself. “I don’t know. It would depend on how the date went, I guess.”

He kissed her neck, breathing in the soft scent of her perfume—one of her regular fragrances this time, not a new one designed to dispense with normality. As he tasted her clean skin, he enjoyed the warmth of her body,

He tasted her clean skin as he enjoyed the warmth of her body, the sight of her exposed flesh.

“So how was it for you?” she asked him softly. “I assume it didn’t put you off this whole fantasy of yours.”

“It didn’t,” he said. “I love the idea of you starting dating again, maybe finding a guy who drive you so wild you have to get a hotel room, maybe even the first night.”

She laughed. “You know it must be every married woman’s dream to have a secret permission slip to go out and sleep with whoever she wants, guilt-free. And here you are telling me I’m living that dream.”

“I like making your dreams come true,” he smiled, and leaning over her shoulder, kissed her long and slow, sucking gently on her bottom lip, as she reached to stroke his cheek, and he cupped her breasts, his fingers teasing her stiff nipples.

“I just find myself thinking it’s too good to be true - there’ll come a point when you’ll decide it was all a bad idea. But that hasn’t happened yet.”

“I don’t see why it should,” he said.

She lay back as he moved to slip the button on her hot pants, then haul them off over her hips and those smooth thighs, past her knees, calves and the little white socks covering her feet.

Then he was dropping her little pile of denim on the floor. Kissing his way up her legs, loving the feel of her skin on his face, the way her scent strengthened as he ventured up her thigh.

She was highly aroused again, he could tell. Her hips shifted awkwardly as his hand gently closed over the front of her panties, finding out just how wet she was.

“You were so hard when you were imagining me with him,” she said, becoming a little breathless.

“It was from the way you were responding to the idea.”

Tracing two fingers along the line of her pussy, which was covered by the soaking black cotton of her underwear, he kissed his way down her stomach.

Madeleine was impatient, slipping her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, urging him to take them from her.

“You were so wet,” he said, peeling her panties down over her thighs, her knees, her shins. And then he was kissing his way up her inner thigh, seeing extraordinarily wet she was again. “Much more than normal.”

“Did that make you feel bad? I think I’d get so jealous if you were responding that way to another woman. Even just the thought of her.”

He smiled, hovering over her dewy folds, sampling her bouquet like a connoisseur swirling red wine around his glass. “I didn’t feel bad. Jealous, sure, but not in a bad way.”

“Not in a bad way?”

She groaned as he began to nibble on her labia, loving how his senses were saturated by her flavor, her aroma, her sighs and moans, the heat and softness of her most intimate parts.

“It’s not a negative experience if you embrace it,” Hugo said. “I think to myself that this is all an experience I am giving you—even if it was Connor sleeping with you, it would still be something I have given you.”

She gasped as his tongue coursed through her pussy, and up to her clit. “Careful,” she said, then dropped a little joke. “I’m still a little sore from… from him…”

Her little joke made Hugo groan, feasting his eyes on the pink folds of her pussy and how puffy and red she was. Imagining that it was another man that made her this way made his heart jump a few beats.

She lay back and allowed him to take his fill of her sweet nectar, but not so long that he made her come again that way.

After a while, she was up on her hands and knees, presenting her delectable rear to him, allowing him to take her and drive his hard cock straight into her with the full animalistic power of his need to reclaim her—even from merely the idea of another man.

“Oh fuck…” she hissed, her breasts shaken with every thrust he took, her hair swaying, her well-used pussy squeezing him as he buried it inside her time after time.

Both of them panting, sweating, pulsating with wave upon wave of sexual energy as Hugo made her his. His huge erection was so slick with her juices that there couldn’t be any way she was in pain, even if she’d been sore before.

She came harder than he’d ever seen before—harder than she’d ever seen before—all red-faced and straggly hair, beads of sweat mottling her brow, mascara running, breasts quivering, hips shuddering as she let out a great scream.

Then he was coming inside her, pitching himself forward, holding her tight, locking his twitching shaft deep within her as he finally let himself go, feeling his burning seed coursing through his full length before pumping out inside her.

Afterwards, it took a long, long time for their breathing to get back to anything that resembled normality.

He asked her, “So you think you’d want to do that for real some time? With Connor?”

“I might want to,” she said, then added: “But I’m not sure I actually could with Connor.”

“Not so keen on him any more?”

“Too keen, maybe,” she said, her words fanning the flames of exquisite jealousy inside him.

Previous: Eleven
Next: Thirteen