House Arrest Can Be Fun Part 2

Husband on home arrest and wife takes the oppurtunity to explore

The next morning, the sun hung heavy over the pool as I lounged in the lounge chair, my body still humming from the night before. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel the ghost of Derrick’s hands on me, the way his fingers had traced my skin, the way his mouth had—God—the way he’d made me come so hard I’d had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. Just thinking about it sent a fresh wave of heat between my thighs, my pussy already slick with anticipation.
Derrick hung up from his call with his attorney, his jaw tight, his expression stormy. He dropped into the chair beside me, his broad shoulders tense. "The trial’s been delayed," he growled, rubbing a hand over his face. "The government’s dragging their feet—at least a year before we even get a chance to fight this. And until then?" He exhaled sharply. "House arrest. No freedom. No fucking anything."
I could see the fury in his eyes, the way his fists clenched at his sides. But beneath that anger, I felt a slow, wicked thrill. A year. A whole year of him, trapped—just like I’d been trapped in my own life before he came along. A year of him needing me, depending on me, of me being the only one who could touch him, the only one who could make him forget.
I reached out, my fingers brushing his thigh before I slid them lower, hooking them into the waistband of his swim trunks. His breath hitched when I gave the fabric a slow, deliberate tug, pulling it down just enough to free his cock. It sprang up thick and heavy, already half-hard, the tip glistening with precome. My mouth watered.
"Baby," he groaned, but his voice was rough, strained—half-protest, half-desperation. I didn’t let him finish. I leaned forward, my lips parting as I took him into my mouth, my tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of his shaft. He hissed, his fingers tangling in my hair as I hollowed my cheeks, sucking him deep.
"Fuck—Christ," he gasped, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. I moaned around him, the vibrations making his cock twitch. I loved the way he lost control, the way his body betrayed him even when his mind was still fighting. I loved that I was the one making him lose it.
I pulled back just enough to tease the head with my tongue, licking away the bead of precome before taking him back in, my hand wrapping around the base to stroke him in time with my mouth. His breath came in ragged bursts, his thighs tensing beneath my touch.
"Lena—shit—" His voice was a broken plea, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not when I could see the way his control was slipping, not when I could feel the way his body was already surrendering to me.
And that was the real victory.
His cock pulsed in my mouth one last time, thick and salty, before I pulled back with a slow, deliberate drag of my lips. I swallowed every drop, savoring the way his hips jerked at the aftershocks, his fingers still buried in my hair like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go. When I finally sat back in the chaise, my thighs pressed together, I licked my lips—tasting him—and let my gaze drag up his body, slow and deliberate, until I met his stormy eyes.
His chest was heaving, his cock still glistening, the head dark and swollen. "Fuck," he growled, his voice rough with something between shock and fury. "What the hell was that?"
I smirked, leaning back just enough to let the sun catch the curve of my breasts, the way my nipples were still hard from his mouth last night. "That," I said, my voice sweet but my words like a blade, "was me taking what I want."
His jaw tightened. "You’re playing with me."
I laughed, low and knowing, before reaching for my glass of wine and taking a slow sip. "No, Derrick. I’m not playing. You created this situation. You made your choices—your empire, your enemies, your stupid pride—and now you’re paying the price." I set the glass down and turned to face him fully, my legs crossed just enough to tease the hem of my bikini bottoms. "But me? I’m not waiting around like some obedient little wife. I’m free."
His eyes darkened. "You’re mine."
I tilted my head, feigning innocence. "Am I? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the one under house arrest. You can’t even leave the property, let alone stop me from doing whatever the hell I want." I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "And I do want, Derrick. I want other men. I want their hands on me, their mouths between my legs, their cocks inside me. I want to feel full in ways you’ve been too busy to give me."
His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to grab me. "You wouldn’t."
I laughed, sharp and unapologetic. "Oh, I would." I stood up, letting my bikini top slip off my shoulders just enough to expose my breasts, my nipples still peaked from his touch. "I’ll come home every night and tell you everything. Every detail. Every moan, every thrust, every time some other man makes me come on his cock." I stepped closer, my hip brushing against his thigh. "You’ll hear about it. You’ll know. And if you don’t like it?" I reached down and adjusted his still-semi-hard cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke. "Then divorce me. Walk away. But know this—" My lips brushed his ear as I whispered, "I’ll take everything. Your money, your house, your fucking name. And you?" I pulled back, my smile razor-sharp. "You’ll go to prison for the rest of your life."
His breath hitched. For a second, I saw the real fear in his eyes—not just the anger, not just the possessiveness, but the cold, hard realization that I was serious.
And that was the real power.
I stepped back, letting my top fall back into place, my voice dripping with honeyed venom. "So. What’s it gonna be, husband? Are you going to let me, or are you going to try and stop me?"
His chest rose and fell, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low, dangerous, and—God—so fucking turned on.
Derrick’s face darkened like a storm rolling in, his jaw locked so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. He wanted to fight me. I could see it in the way his fingers curled into fists, in the way his voice dropped to a lethal growl. "You’re not serious."
I arched a brow, sipping my wine like this was just another Tuesday. "Oh, I’m very serious." I set the glass down and stood, letting the fabric of my bikini bottoms cling to my thighs as I walked toward the house. "You want to stop me? Go ahead. Try." I glanced over my shoulder, my smile slow and sweet. "But if you do, you lose everything. And trust me, Derrick…" I let the words hang in the air, heavy with promise. "You don’t want that."
He didn’t answer. Not right away. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough—like gravel underfoot. "You’re playing a dangerous game."
I laughed, the sound bright and carefree as I slipped into the house. "No, baby. I’m not playing." I grabbed my phone from the counter, my fingers flying over the screen. "I’m winning."
By the time I finished setting up my Tinder Gold account—paid for six whole months, just to fuck with him—I was already grinning like a woman who had just stolen the keys to the kingdom. My profile was perfect: a few strategic photos—one of me in a slinky dress, another with my hair down and my lips painted a deep, sinful red, one more where I was mid-laugh, my cleavage spilling over the neckline of a tight top. My bio was simple, but inviting:
"Married, but not yours. Looking for fun. No strings. Just good cock and better orgasms."
Within minutes, my inbox was flooded. Swipe right. Swipe right. Swipe right.
I took my time.
The first guy was a lawyer—tall, dark-haired, with a smirk that promised he knew exactly how to use his tongue. The second was a gym owner, all sculpted muscles and confident energy, his messages already flirty, his hands already imagining what they’d do to my body. The third was a younger guy—early thirties, with a boyish charm and a cocky confidence that made my pulse jump.
I matched with all three.
By the end of the night, I had three dates set up. Three nights. Three different men. Three different ways to make Derrick ache.
The next evening, I stood in front of the mirror, my reflection staring back at me with hungry eyes.
First, the shower—hot water cascading over my skin as I scrubbed every inch of myself clean. Then, the razor, gliding up my thighs, over my stomach, between my legs. I shaved slow, savoring the way my pussy felt smooth, bare, ready. After, I trimmed just enough to leave a little shadow, a little mystery—because some things should be discovered, not fully revealed.
I dried off, stepping into the tightest pair of blue jeans I owned, the fabric clinging to my ass like a second skin. The red blouse was next—low-cut enough that if I leaned over just right, my nipples would peek through, hard and begging for attention. And the heels—five inches of sin, strappy, black, making my legs look endless.
Makeup went on last. Dark smoky eyes, a bold lip, a dusting of perfume at my wrists, behind my ears, between my thighs. I sprayed it near the door, just in case Derrick was listening.
I knew he would hear me.
I knew he would smell me.
And I knew, when I walked out of that room, he would see me—really see me—for the first time in years.
Derrick was waiting in the living room when I came down, his expression a storm of fury and something else—something darker, something hungrier. He didn’t have to say it. I could see it in the way his eyes raked over me, in the way his throat worked like he was swallowing down something bitter.
"You look like you’re going to a funeral," he muttered, his voice rough.
I smirked, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. "No, baby. I’m going to a party."
His jaw clenched. "You’re not going."
I laughed, the sound sharp and unapologetic. "Oh, I’m going." I grabbed my purse, the one with the little black dress inside—just in case I wanted to really make an impression. "And I’ll be home late."
His fingers twitched at his sides. "Lena—"
"Don’t." My voice was steel. "You had your chance to stop me. You didn’t. So now you just have to deal."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
For the first time in years, Derrick was powerless.
And I loved it.
The bar was dim, the air thick with the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses, but the second I walked in, he noticed me. Michael—tall, lanky, with those thick-rimmed glasses that somehow made him look both smart and dangerously kissable. His dark hair was just a little too long, his shirt a little too tight over his broad shoulders, and when he saw me saunter in—five minutes late, just to make him wait—his Adam’s apple bobbed like he was already swallowing hard.
I didn’t rush. I let him watch me. Let his eyes drag over the curve of my hips, the way my dress clung to my thighs, the way my lips were painted a shade of red that promised trouble. He fidgeted with his drink, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t know if he should.
Good. Let him want it.
By the time we were at the bar, his nerves were palpable. His knee bounced under the table, his voice a little too high when he laughed at my jokes, his hands gripping his glass like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. I leaned in, my thigh brushing against his under the table, my perfume—vanilla and something darker—filling the space between us.
"You’re killing me," he muttered, his voice rough.
I smirked, swirling my drink. "Good."
He swallowed. "What do you mean?"
I set my glass down, my fingers tracing the rim before I finally looked at him—really looked at him. "I mean, you’re hard for me, Michael. I can see it." I leaned in closer, my lips brushing his ear. "And I like it."
His breath hitched. His cock twitched against his zipper.
I stood, my voice a velvet command. "Let’s go somewhere private."
The hotel was sleek, modern—expensive. The kind of place where the sheets smelled like money, and the air conditioning was just cold enough to make your skin pebble. Michael’s hands shook as he swiped the keycard, the elevator ride up to the sixth floor painfully silent. I could feel the tension rolling off him in waves, his body coiled like a spring, ready to snap.
The second the door clicked shut behind us, I pounced.
My mouth crashed onto his before he could even process what was happening, my tongue forcing its way into his, my hands already working at the button of his pants. He was hard—painfully hard, his cock already straining against the fabric, leaking through the fly like he’d been waiting for this all night.
I didn’t waste time.
I dropped to my knees in front of him, my hands gripping his hips as I yanked his pants down, his boxers following. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already glistening with precome. I didn’t hesitate. I took him into my mouth in one smooth motion, my lips sealing around him as I hollowed my cheeks, my tongue swirling over the sensitive underside.
"Fuck—shit—Lena—" His voice was a broken plea, his fingers tangling in my hair as I took him deeper, my throat fluttering around his cock as I owned him.
I pulled back just enough to smirk up at him, my lips glistening. "You like that?"
He groaned, his hips jerking forward. "I—I love it."
I took him back in, my hands wrapping around the base as I stroked him in time with my mouth, my other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently in my palm. He was mine now. His body was mine to play with, to ruin.
And I was just getting started.
The second his cock hit the back of my throat, I moaned around him, my fingers digging into his thighs for balance. The way he growled when I hollowed my cheeks, the way his hips jerked forward like he couldn’t help himself—it was perfect. I loved the way his fingers tangled in my hair, not gentle, not rough, but just enough to make me whimper. I took him deeper, my lips stretched around his girth, my tongue swirling over the sensitive underside as I bobbed my head, my free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently in my palm.
"Fuck—shit—Lena, you’re—fuck—you’re gonna make me come already," he groaned, his voice rough with need.
I pulled back just enough to smirk up at him, my lips glistening. "Good," I purred, my voice husky. "I want you to come in me. Everywhere."
His breath hitched. He didn’t argue. He didn’t have to.
We stumbled onto the bed, his hands roaming my body like he was memorizing every curve, every dip, every place that made me moan. His mouth crashed onto mine, his tongue demanding, possessive, and I loved it. I loved the way he tasted like whiskey and sin, the way his fingers traced the waistband of my jeans before he yanked them down my thighs, leaving me in nothing but my heels and his hungry gaze.
"God, you’re beautiful," he murmured against my lips, his hands sliding up my thighs, his thumbs brushing over the bare skin of my pussy. I arched into his touch, my back bowing off the bed as he dipped a finger inside me, curling it just right to hit that spot.
"Michael—fuck—" I gasped, my nails raking down his back. "Don’t tease me."
He chuckled darkly, his breath hot against my ear. "Who said I was teasing?"
His fingers worked me open, slow and deliberate, before he added a second, stretching me, filling me. I was soaked, my juices coating his hand as he pumped them in and out, his thumb circling my clit in slow, maddening circles. I could feel my orgasm building, coiling tight in my belly, but I wasn’t ready yet. Not until I had everything.
"Condom," I breathed, my voice a needy whimper. "Now."
He didn’t hesitate. He reached into the nightstand, tearing open a wrapper with his teeth before rolling it on in one smooth motion. Then he was over me, his body pressing me into the mattress, his cock dragging against my slick folds, teasing, tormenting.
"Tell me you want this," he growled, his hips rocking forward just enough to make me beg.
I grabbed his face, forcing him to look at me, my eyes dark with desire. "I need this," I whispered, my voice raw. "I need you to fuck me."
He didn’t need to be told twice.
He drove into me in one hard, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt, his balls slapping against my ass. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders as he owned me—body, mind, soul. He set a brutal pace, his cock pistoning in and out, each snap of his hips sending pleasure radiating through me, my walls clenching around him, trying to drag him deeper.
"Harder," I gasped, my voice breaking. "Fuck me harder."
He obeyed.
His hands gripped my hips, lifting me just enough to change the angle, hitting that perfect spot inside me that made my vision blur. I could feel my orgasm crashing over me, waves of pleasure crashing through me as I screamed his name, my body trembling beneath him.
But I wasn’t done.
I reached between us, my fingers finding his cock where it was buried inside me, and I squeezed, my nails scraping over his shaft as he thrust into me. "You’re mine tonight," I whispered, my voice a dark promise. "And I’m not letting you go until I’m satisfied."
He groaned, his rhythm stuttering for just a second before he lost it, fucking me like a man possessed. I could feel him swelling inside me, his cock pulsing as he came, his release dragging out as he buried himself deep, his teeth sinking into my shoulder as he rode out the last of his orgasm.
But I wasn’t finished.