"Hello?" I said.
"Where are you?" he asked.
He is not modest. He is not discrete. He is quite possessive ... Jean Paul.
Where are you? What are you doing over there?
He is not my husband, but sometimes he pretends to be my man. Not at all like you, John, you are my tolerant, open-minded, liberal spouse.
Jean Paul likes his women to obey him.
"I have lunch on the roof terrace, at Chez Paulette," I said.
"Jesus, lunch ... it's already after two o'clock."
"I'm free," I said.
He thought that was decadent. He found that restaurant too expensive.
Fortunately, I married you and not him, John.
He is more made to ... play with.
"There's a man peeking at me," I told Jean Paul. All of a sudden.
'What? Where?” he said.
"A man who sits opposite to me. He peeks between my legs. "
"Between your legs?"
'Yes! Or at my tits. Or at the lamp that hangs above my head, I don't know, he's wearing sunglasses. What do you men look at when you meet a woman? "
"Is your face in his direction?" Jean Paul asked.
"Yes, my face, my bosom, my legs, it's all on the same side with me."
I was kidding, but he wasn't smiling.
He was too excited, angry, jealous, and curious. His breathing changed. His voice became deeper, hoarse, unsteady. I bet his heart beat had gone up. I bet he had a boner.
Just like you have now, John.
"What are you wearing?" he asked.
"A white shirt with buttons ..."
"Below that?" he asked nervously.
"My denim skirt."
"Goddamn," he said. "Are you wearing panties?"
Silence on the other side of the line.
"Hello?" I said.
"Murielle ... Jesus … Fuck." he cursed.
"I am wearing panties," I said, "I was teasing you."
A new story in the Hotwife Monologue Series.