It was a warm summer afternoon when Nix returned from a day of shopping in Cambridge with her best friend, Louise. They'd popped into her favourite boutique she had found recently before heading out for a lazy lunch, where one cocktail had turned into two, and then three. Slightly tipsy from the indulgence, she kicked off her sandals at the door, the soft thud echoing up the hallway. Nix made her way upstairs to drop off her bags, intending to slip into something lighter and a touch more comfortable.
Upstairs, she pushed open the bifold doors onto the Juliet balcony in our bedroom, letting the cool evening breeze drift in and sweep over her. As she did, she heard my voice from outside. At first, she assumed I was on the phone until she looked down over the balcony and realised I was deep in conversation with a man she didn't recognise.
She paused. Rather than changing into her usual lazy vest and soft cotton shorts, she unhooked her bra from beneath her shirt with practised ease, tugging it out through a sleeve, sighing at the relief as her breasts relaxed beneath the fine fabric. She left her jeans on, redoing the top button after a little tug to pull them snugly back onto her hips and over her curvy arse. Barefoot, she padded back downstairs, curiosity already stirring about who I was talking to.
Joining us in the garden. I was catching up with a guy called Jason, someone I'd bumped into at work recently. He'd been felling a tree nearby, and out of nosiness, I'd wandered over for a closer look, thinking I recognised him. Turned out I did we'd gone to school together. We'd had a laugh, shared a few memories, and I'd invited him over to give me a quote... and a cold beer.
"This is Jason," I said with a grin, recalling old school days. "We were in the same year."
Jason stood to acknowledge Nix.
"A gentleman, I see," she joked.
A plain white T-shirt hugged the bulk of his chest and arms, biceps and triceps taut beneath the cotton. His jeans were sun-worn, dusty at the knees, and his Timberlands carried the honest scuffs of a man who worked with his hands. There was an effortless masculinity about him quiet, capable, and unbothered by money or the estates he worked on.
Nix smiled softly. "That's nice, love," she said, tone light, but I didn't miss the way her eyes gave him a slow, measured once-over. Appreciative. Not overt, but there. A flicker of something.
A moment later, she muttered something about suddenly feeling like she needed a Diet Coke break and slipped back inside. I thought nothing of it. Nix had always been cheeky flirtatious.
In the kitchen, she indulgently popped the cork on a bottle of champagne. She was still feeling frivolous. Spontaneous. She poured herself a generous glass and took a seat at the breakfast bar, the bubbles tickling her lips as she sipped.
Her gaze wandered. My laptop sat where I'd been working before Jensen had come round, still open. Her eyes wandered to the screen. Something among the folders caught her attention.
For a moment, she hesitated. Was it merely the heat of the day? the alcohol?... or was she still distracted by the lumberjack in the back garden? But the name stood out, unmistakable among the others. There it was again "Naughty Vixen."
She blinked. "It can't be..." Her voice was a whisper, barely audible even to herself. But as she leaned closer, the names of the folders confirmed it. The Horny Housewife. Me and My Three Boyfriends. And The Naughty Vixen.
Her pulse gave a little jump. Why did I have such a file? Her hand hovered over the touchpad intrigued. She hesitated. This was private. She knew she shouldn't. But still curiosity got the better... she clicked.
She skimmed past the first page it was just full of descriptions and backstory. Then the second unfolded filthy, shameless, and deliciously detailed.
The "naughty vixen" was fearless and unashamed... One tale described her pleasuring two men for the first time, striding in wearing a short skirt with no knickers, settling onto a leather chair with legs wide apart, and letting her skirt rise high enough to reveal her soaking, eager pussy.
Nix read on, utterly mesmerised. Before long, she'd become distracted, her hand slipping between her thighs, rubbing the seam of her jeans. She popped the top button, fingers slipping beneath the waistband, finding herself already slick and aching utterly soaked and desperate.
Suddenly my voice broke through from outside, offering Jason another beer. My voice was clear, close even loud intruding on her moment. Panicked. Flustered. Nix undeniably aroused and turned on in a way she hadn't expected darted upstairs. But something had already taken hold. If I wanted a "naughty vixen," I'd bloody well get one. And maybe... just maybe, Jason would too.
Upstairs in our walk-in wardrobe, she rummaged for her shortest skirt, carelessly throwing items of clothing onto the floor until she found it, tossing it onto the bed. Next came the top but she knew which one she wanted: her black halter top. I'd always liked it. The fastening was around her neck the tighter it was, the more it hugged every inch of her gorgeous curves. Normally, she'd wear it with a strapless bra, but not today. Today, she wanted to feel every touch, every move of the fabric.
Standing before her vanity mirror, Nix sifted through her makeup drawer, brushing aside anything that didn't match her wicked mood. With quick, confident strokes, she applied dark eyeliner, a quick curl of her eyelashes before applying mascara, then finishing with smoky eyeshadow and a slick, glossy red lipstick that made her lips look utterly devourable. A smirk in the mirror what stared back was no longer my sweet wife. She was her. The vixen I'd written into existence on a word document.
Then, with a sultry calm, she peeled off her tailored shirt and let it fall to the floor. Her hands dropped to her waistband, hooking her thumbs in. With a little shimmy, her jeans and thong were around her ankles. She kicked them aside without a second thought. The very idea of knickers hadn't even crossed her mind; the story had already decided they were redundant.
