The Hotwife Games Ch. 00

The following is a very brief prelude to the complete series 'The Wife Games' (AKA/FKA 'The Hotwife Games'), a story about a kinky game-show for naughty wives and their willing husbands. You can view the rest of the series by tapping on my username.

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OVERTURE

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Fingers.

Keyboard.

A tumbler of aged, peated whisky.

Where should she begin?

The fingers hover over the keys. She thinks.

She supposes she should start with the body...

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Lifeless eyes stare at a darkening sky. Jagged pellets of rain pepper two perfect cheekbones. Firm, naked flesh buoys in a hot tub like a baby in the womb, arms akimbo. Steam crawls off the water's surface in slow, ghost-like fingers.

And the blood, a deep crimson bloom, spreads across the lit jacuzzi like a scattered bouquet of roses.

There's been a murder.

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Lawrence Änswer called again. He insisted that she starts there. In a way, she understands it: that beautiful, flambéed, water-logged corpse - that's where all of those elaborate Games ultimately wound up.

Yet she suspects Änswer is pressing the opening with a somewhat more venal aim. It isn't merely the striking fact of the hot-blooded homicide; as usual, the gruff producer just wants to kick off the proceedings with an ascending crane shot. All his films begin that way. It's practically his signature.

But what if she starts with the sex?

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A wiry man watches. Parched lips. Racing heart. Jibbed cameras crane, spiral, and whir. Bright lights angle in on a beautiful woman, anxiously bracing herself to cross every boundary engirdling her marriage.

Another man, his body gleaming and muscular, steps forward.

An audience cranes frontwards in their seats.

The husband and wife lock eyes.

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A little tease, a little masala. Änswer might approve - But does she really care?

She's stalling because she knows where she wants to begin.

She wants to start with physics...

She chuckles. He's going to detest it. At the development meeting, he listened to her proposal. Then he'd delivered one directive, in eight emphatic words: "Do not. Start my movie. With fucking physics."

She sighs in resignation.

After all, this is smut.

This is to be a piece of lurid, erotic pulp. A ribald tale about filthy, hot, kinky, nasty fucking , for crying out loud. It would be ludicrous to begin this story with a lengthy opening crawl, some pompous lecture on the nature of scientific motion, and its psychokinetic relationship to the human body.

Perhaps that big dolt Änswer is right. Physics have no place in a work of dirty erotica.

Her fingers hover over the keys.

Then she types.

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As an object approaches the speed of light, the laws of physics fall to the wayside.

At this impossibly rapid speed, all kinds of freakish, extra-scientific behaviors occur. Physicists talk about infinite mass, backwards causality, and even time travel. At light-speed, the regular laws of our universe crumble into dust.

The human body, too, has a light-speed.

As the sapien form approaches the point of peak sexual arousal, all the laws of society drop away like flies.

The closer a body rockets to orgasm-velocity, the less and less the rules of religion, gossip, dogma, education, etiquette, propriety, morality, family, marriage, and the thousand-and-one webs of convention that separate us from the animals, all the conditions we accept as the fabric of daily life, have any bearing on our behavior.

In the chase for this consuming apex, all kinds of freakish, extra-societal behaviors begin to manifest: kinks, fetishes, taboos, perversions, addictions, infidelities, unforgivable crimes...

But very few have the courage to follow this obsessive chase to its conclusion.

And yet, every one of us harbors a hidden chamber, locked inside us, full of secret fantasies... fantasies about what it might be like, just once, to give in.

How we would feel to wander the hermetic realm of our desires, to fall into its deep sanctums, to revel and scream and fuck with unbridled pleasure in its shadowed pathways... for just one week, one night, one secret hour...

This is a story about people who walk all the way to the end of such an alleyway.

Not all of them return.

And the ones who do, are changed forever.

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The fingers pause. She lowers them to the desk.

One last thing, she thinks.

It's the only lie she's going to tell.

She types.

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Breathe deep. Relax. And remember:

This is only a work of fantasy, designed for the dirty-minded...

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TITLE CARD:

Bright graphics.

Blue sky and dazzling white beaches. Palm-fringed coasts circle a small Pacific paradise named Kama'sueh.

Strange buildings protrude from its lush green peaks: a slim bronze statue of three intertwined female lovers, a glassy cuboid gymnasium, the gloomy dome of a medieval dungeon, boxy studio soundstages, a circus tent, the characterless office tower of a major world bank.

Nothing fits together. None of it makes sense.

Funky intro music plays and a title FADES OVER:

THE WIFE GAMES

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