Shared Wife: An Erotic Novelette

That night—the night that was never to be spoken of—began in a routine fashion. They were staying in New York and Philip had received an unexpected dinner invitation from one of his old school friends.

“Would you mind?” Philip asked.

“Of course not.”

The Broadway tickets she had been trying to obtain were proving elusive. The revived production of Paint Your Wagon she wanted to see was sold out. Off Broadway didn’t have anything that appealed to her and the chance to meet one of Philip’s old school friends sounded entertaining and, if she was honest with herself, more than a little intriguing. Even though they had been together for seven years—the trip to New York was a combination of business trip and anniversary celebration—there were still things that Annabel didn’t know about her partner’s life from before they met. Dinner with one of his old school friends promised to give her a rare insight into Philip’s life from prior to their marriage.

Philip left the email open on his laptop so Annabel could read the time and location for the invitation.

“Eight o’clock at the Amor,” she murmured. “Isn’t that the plush hotel on the Upper East Side, near the Guggenheim?” The names of these places, familiar to her ears from a lifetime’s enjoyment of American movies and TV shows, sounded strange and exotic when she said them aloud in her English accent. Remembering the prestigious façade to the Amor, Annabel smiled approval and whispered, “That place looks swanky.”

Philip laughed. “Roger always did like to throw his parents’ money around. I suspect he’s still doing his best to drain their resources. We shared a room during the first couple of years at…”

Annabel wasn’t listening. She had noticed a disconcerting detail in the email.

“Why does he sign himself SS?” She looked up from the computer and frowned at Philip. “If his name is Roger…” a glance at the email gave her the surname “…Roger White, why does he sign himself SS? He’s not some sort of racist or bigot is he?”

Philip laughed.

“I’m serious,” Annabel protested. “I’m not going to dinner with one of your old university friends if he’s some sort of bigot.”

Philip’s laughter grew louder. He was an imposing figure: tall and broad and blessed with the sort of chiseled features that made him look like the manly hero from the cover of a pulp romance novel. His dark hair and dark eyes combined to make him look menacing or masterful when either mood took him. But, on this occasion, he just looked like her wonderful, handsome husband, wrapped up in a moment’s maddening mirth.

“Roger’s not a bigot,” Philip said between chuckles. “SS was just his nickname at uni. It has no sinister overtones. Certainly not in the way you’re thinking.” He paused and added, “He’s not a Nazi, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Annabel wasn’t entirely satisfied with Philip’s explanation. She didn’t think he was lying. They never lied to each other. It was one of the reasons their marriage had been so successful. But she did get the impression Philip was keeping something from her.

“Why did they call him SS?”

Philip shook his head. He reached over to the laptop and closed it. “I’m not telling you that. Ask Roger when you meet him. Maybe he’ll explain. Maybe he won’t.”

“But…”

“No.” Philip said the word with a firmness that told Annabel he wasn’t going to discuss the matter any further. “I haven’t seen Roger in the best part of a decade. He could be really embarrassed about that nickname.”

So embarrassed he still uses it as a signature, Annabel thought.

She didn’t say the contentious words. There was a full day ahead of them and Annabel didn’t want to spoil a moment of the vacation with a pointless argument. Philip had made sure all his business meetings left this day free for them. Nevertheless, she promised herself that as soon as she met Roger White, she would ask him about his nickname.

They visited Ellis Island first, where Annabel took snap after snap of the Statue of Liberty. They found a passing tourist who was happy to take photographs of her and Philip embracing with the pale green figure of a giant Liberty looming behind them. However, while Annabel shared a kiss with her husband for the camera, she couldn’t help but wonder: Why does your old uni friend sign himself SS?

After Ellis Island they went to Central Park and had a late lunch at the Boathouse Café. The weather was glorious and the park was lush and verdant and everything she had hoped it would be. The sounds of traffic were muted to a faraway drone, drowned out by the excited shrieks of children and the whirr of cycles and skaters. The sights were rich and varied and Annabel watched passing joggers with the interest and attention usually reserved for state-sanctioned tourist attractions.

If she had been at home she would have spoken with one—or both—of her sisters. If she had told them about Philip’s friend having such a foreboding nickname, either Helen or Sarah would possibly have been able to shed some light on the situation and offer her some advice. Helen, Annabel knew, would have been overly cautious and warned her against going on the dinner-date. Sarah, the antithesis of Helen, would have urged her to attend, find out all the juicy gossip, and report back—ideally with pictures from her mobile phone. But, a continent away from her siblings and reluctant to break the holiday spell by phoning them, Annabel could only brood on the implications of the nickname.

They finished the day with a trip to the top of the Empire State Building. The vertiginous thrill of being so far from the ground—and seeing a vast and breathtaking cityscape spread out before her—finally helped Annabel to stop brooding about Roger White. She clutched tight against Philip, reassured by her husband’s manliness, and savored the view of faraway bridges and buildings and horizon. Her heart raced. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She felt dizzy and light-headed from the thrill of the experience.

“I don’t think I’m going to get this sort of excitement again whilst we’re on holiday,” she told Philip.

***

Later that day, preparing for their dinner date, Annabel slipped into her favorite black silk Armani. The dress looked simple and sophisticated, yet remained appropriate for the night’s balmy warmth. It was short enough to show off her dancer’s legs; hugged her slender hips and narrow waist; and revealed an enticing glimpse of cleavage. Her strawberry blonde hair was cropped into a utilitarian fashion which, with the aid of a little moulding wax, was quickly shaped into a style that was spiky enough to be trendy, but not so youthful as to make her look like she was trying too hard. Considering her reflection in the mirror as she fastened drop earrings into place, Annabel decided she looked sufficiently elegant for dinner at the prestigious Amor.

“You shouldn’t wear that in front of Roger,” Philip cautioned. “That dress will be like a red rag to a bull if Roger sees you wearing it.”

Annabel didn’t bother looking at Philip to see if he was serious or teasing. She had known him long enough to tell his mood from the inflection in his voice. “Do you want me to wear a burqa?”

“No,” Philip replied. “I’m just warning you that Roger is an outrageous flirt. He’ll see you as a potential challenge when he catches sight of you in that outfit.”

She turned to face him and saw she had been wrong in thinking he was trying to tease. He was considering her with a serious, almost worried, expression.

Annabel kissed Philip. “I’m a happily married woman,” she reminded him. “It doesn’t matter how outrageous a flirt Roger might be, I am not a challenge he can ever hope to win.”

Philip’s frown softened as he returned the kiss. “You’re right,” he agreed. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I haven’t seen Roger for so long and…and he used to be such a…” Philip shook his head. “Never mind.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me about Roger, isn’t there?”

“There are lots of things I’m not telling you about him.”

Annabel gave Philip a sour smile. She enjoyed being married to him for countless reasons. He was attractive, considerate, and her best friend. But he also retained enough of an air of mystery to keep her constantly intrigued. She didn’t know many married women who could honestly say that much about their partners. She certainly knew it wasn’t true for either of her sisters.

“What is it?” she insisted. “What should I know about him?”

Philip shook his head. “Roger is an old friend from university. We used to share rooms when we were young and reckless. We were good friends back in the day and I’m really looking forward to meeting him, catching up, and introducing you to him.”

Annabel pouted. “That tells me nothing.”

“Just as I intended.”

He placed a hand on her rear. The sensation of his broad, strong fingers against her buttocks was comforting and vaguely erotic. She wore a thong beneath the Armani so that the silk of the dress could lie uninterrupted over her backside. Philip’s fingers slid against the smooth fabric and it was almost as though he was caressing her bare flesh. The desire to melt for him was close to being irresistible but, because she knew they didn’t want to be late for their dinner-date with Roger, Annabel resisted the urge and allowed Philip to put his hand to the small of her back and guide her from the hotel and out toward a waiting yellow cab.

The cab took them into slow moving traffic, and they enjoyed a few minutes of comfortable, companionable silence. Annabel stared out of the window, straining her neck occasionally to try and see the tops of the passing skyscrapers. When they had stood on the observation platform of the Empire State Building, most of the surrounding buildings had looked small and faraway. Now the skyscrapers were huge, impressive, and more than a little daunting.

Philip pressed his lips against the lobe of her ear. His nearness made the muscles in her stomach flutter.

“What are you going to do if Roger flirts with you?”

His breath tickled her neck.

Annabel shivered, “I’ll probably flirt right back.”

Philip winced and pulled away.

“Is that the wrong thing to do?” she asked.

“No,” he said quickly.

Too quickly, she thought.

“Not if you think you can handle him,” Philip allowed.

A prickle of apprehension tickled down her spine. Annabel glanced uncertainly at Philip and wondered how this simple dinner-date with one of his old school friends had become something that sounded dangerous and somehow depraved. She was about to insist that Philip tell her what was going on when the cab pulled up outside the Amor. The opportunity for conversation was almost gone. As Philip led her toward the hotel door, she turned to him and placed a hand against his chest. If there was going to be a chance to discuss her apprehension, she knew it would be now or never.

“I’m anxious,” she admitted. “I don’t know what to expect from this friend of yours and I have no idea what’s going to happen tonight. Who is this Roger? Why does he sign himself SS? Why have you built him up to sound like such a…such a…”

“Philip?”

There was no chance for Annabel to find the right word to finish her question and no opportunity for Philip to supply any answers. Roger White stepped from the hotel doorway, greeting his old friend with a hearty handshake and then a companionable, almost ferocious, bear-hug.

“Phil! You old bastard!” he bellowed. “I can’t believe it’s been so long.”

“Too long,” Philip agreed.

Annabel felt some of her reservations slip away. Her worries about Roger’s nickname were instantly appeased. His skin was a rich chocolate brown: the opposite color she would have expected to find on any white supremacist. The remainder of her unease dissipated as soon as Roger graced her with his broad, beaming smile. When Roger released Philip, Annabel realized that the man was boldly appraising her. The gleam in his eyes seemed to suggest he liked what he saw.

“This must be your wife.”

“Annabel,” Annabel supplied. She extended a hand.

Roger ignored the hand and pulled her into an embrace.

For an instant, Annabel was smothered by his imposing presence. His arms encircled her so she was held intimately close to his body. She was pressed against a suit that was expensive enough to make her Armani dress look like a thrift-shop cast-out. Then she was drinking in the fragrance of Roger and his cologne. It was an exciting and vaguely exotic scent that made her think of forests and fantasies and passion. Her breasts were crushed against his large chest.

“I need to hug you,” Roger explained softly. Even at a whisper his voice was a rich and velvet baritone. “I need to hug you because I never thought I’d meet a woman who could tame Clinton.”

Uncertain of how to respond, Annabel giggled. When Roger finally released her from his embrace she stood on legs that trembled slightly. Annabel glanced warily at Philip and then turned back to face Roger. “You used to call my husband Clinton?”

Roger frowned. “You mean he hasn’t told you?”

Annabel shrugged. “I never knew Philip had a nickname.”

“He’s had plenty of nicknames,” Roger chuckled. “And the reputation to go with them all. But Clinton is the one that stuck. And for good reason.”

Philip held up a hand and Annabel could see her husband was trying to steer the conversation away from potential embarrassment. Quickly, not sure she would have a chance to touch on the topic if she didn’t exploit this opportunity, Annabel said, “Philip won’t tell me why you’re called SS.”

Roger’s ever-present smile grew wider. Taking Annabel’s hand he said, “Come with me into the Amor. We’ll get a drink and I can tell you all the names we called your wonderful husband back at college. If you ask me real nice, and we all get drunk enough, maybe I’ll tell you why they called me SS.”

Intrigued, and more than a little enchanted, Annabel followed.

Chapter Two

It turned out that Roger hadn’t arranged for a table at the Amor’s restaurant: he owned the hotel. This stunning piece of news was delivered to Philip and Annabel as they stood with Roger in the lift and were headed up toward the Amor’s penthouse suite.

“You own the hotel?” Philip gasped. “Why hadn’t I heard about this before?”

Roger rolled his eyes. “If you’d heard about it before you would have been tapping me for free rooms whenever you hit the Big Apple.”

“Damned right!” Philip agreed. “The place we’re staying at now is a fleapit and way more than we can afford—and that’s with my company picking up the brunt of the expense.”

Roger glanced at Philip’s Versace suit and Rolex wristwatch. He nodded solemnly and then said, “You poor, impoverished bastard. I’ll ask my accountant to organize a financial aid package for you.”

Annabel grinned.

Philip laughed.

The lift took them to the top of the building and Roger provided a guided tour. He explained that using the penthouse suite had a lot of advantages: Aside from the prestige of the Upper East Side address, it also kept him close to the hotel and allowed him to live with a little more style than would be afforded by a regular home.

“I had thought of inviting you to a meal in the restaurant,” Roger said. “But I reasoned we could have a better evening up here. I’ve got one of the hotel chefs working in my personal kitchen tonight and we’ve got a waiter for the evening too.”

As he said the words, a waiter appeared and Roger told him to bring a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal.

“Champagne?” Annabel asked.

“No,” Roger corrected. “The best champagne in the world.”

He spoke with an air of smug superiority that Annabel thought was both annoying and appealing in equal measures. She made no complaint when Roger rested a hand on her arm and said, “Now, you have to tell me: how did you manage to domesticate Clinton?”

“What makes you think I’m domesticated?” Philip protested.

Roger waved a silencing hand at him and continued to stare at Annabel. “Are you going to share your secret?”

“If you’re going to keep referring to my husband as Clinton, you’re going to have to tell me the story.” Annabel said.

“Has he truly never told you?” Roger sounded amazed. He glanced at Philip and said, “Have you never told this woman your darkest secrets?”

“We don’t have secrets,” Annabel assured Roger.

Roger laughed. “Maybe you don’t have secrets,” he began softly. “But Philip has been keeping a big secret from you if he’s never told you about the things we used to get up to.”

Annabel glanced at Philip, expecting him to laugh at Roger’s suggestion or assure her that their host was teasing and that there really were no secrets. Instead, she saw he was blushing.

“I was president of the Students’ Union,” Philip said quickly. “Bill Clinton was the American president at the time, so that was how the nickname came about.”

Roger’s laughter echoed from the walls of the penthouse. “It had a lot to do with Bill Clinton’s presidency,” he admitted. “But not in the way you’re claiming.”

Philip glared at his friend. “I’ve said it before,” he muttered quietly. “And I’ll say it again, Roger. You really are a bastard.”

“Tell the woman,” Roger demanded. “Be honest with your wife and put her out of her misery.”

“Yes,” Annabel agreed. “Tell me.”

Philip drew a deep breath before beginning.

Chapter Three

A Decade Earlier #1

Clinton

Tina was drunk and naked and, it seemed, desperate for sex. She snatched the bottle of Lambrini from Philip’s hand and swigged a mouthful. Her lips were full and wet. Her face was shiny with perspiration but Philip couldn’t work out if the glow came from embarrassment, arousal, or too much cheap wine. He only noticed that she was blushing because he was concentrating on her face and studiously not looking at any other part of her exposed anatomy.

“I really owe you for all the help you gave me with that coursework,” Tina whispered. With a heavy wink—so heavy it would have been comical under other circumstances—she added, “I really owe you.”

Philip shook his head and tried to modestly protest, but he suspected it would do no good. When Tina had arrived at the flat she had not seemed disappointed that Roger wasn’t there. When she complained about the heat and started to undress, she had ignored Philip’s comments about decorum and his anxious question, "What would Roger think?" As he opened his mouth to speak this time, Philip felt certain Tina wouldn’t listen as he explained that she didn’t owe him any favors.

“You don’t owe me anything, Tina. You’ve helped me too.”

Tina shook her head. She lazily straddled him on the sofabed and began to tear the belt from his Chinos. Her bare thighs were pressed against his legs. If he had dared to look down, Philip knew he would have seen the shaved flesh of her hairless pussy. In the background the local radio station played its way through the classic rock hour. The room’s lighting was made ethereal by the ambience of Roger’s retro-chic lava lamp. Philip told himself he was going to resist Tina’s advances.

Even when she had unzipped his Chinos, and then rummaged artlessly inside his boxers to find his semi-erect penis, he drew a deep breath and continued to believe that he remained in control of his responses.

“Found it,” Tina murmured.

Philip had to concede that Tina was one of the sexiest girls on campus. She was darkly attractive, slender, and according to the confidences Roger had shared, agile and adventurous enough to try most things. According to Roger, Tina apparently had a sexual appetite that was like nothing either of them had encountered before throughout all their years at university.

“Ooh! It’s getting hard for me!” ...