The Finishing House
An Interracial Hotwife Fantasy
Fresh from a gold medal win at the world-famous Kreutzhoffer music competition, Arthur and Hillary arrive at their first performance, a private concert at a wealthy sponsor's mansion. Dismayed at first that they'll be billeting, they quickly change their minds at the first sight of their opulent surroundings and embrace the experience.
But the Franklin's have secrets they're not very good at keeping. Turns out their house helper, the formidable Walter, doesn't just chauffeur and wash dishes. Arthur is stunned when he finds Walter engaged in far more intimate responsibilites. The revelation sends Arty and Hill barelling into a world of lust and pleasure. Will they be able to keep their eye on the prize they've so coveted for so long: an international touring career?
“We’re being billeted?” Arty squawked, staring at the screen of his cell phone as they waited for their luggage.
“I told you that three days ago,” Hillary hissed. “See? You never listen to me!”
He looked down at her. Her pale face had turned a delicate shade of pink and her adorable blonde ringlets bounced on her shoulders as she fumed. He couldn’t resist the smile that formed on his mouth. “Sweetie I’m sorry,” he said, leaning down and kissing her forehead. “I must have been with a score or something. You’re always talking to me when I’m trying to concentrate.”
“You were not with a score,” she snapped, bonking him on the arm. “We were having tea and those scones from Lizzies. Do you even remember that?” She asked, eyes wide, glaring at him.
“Of course I do. We were talking about…” He paused and snapped his fingers in the air three times, hoping she’d bite.
“We were talking, Arthur, about how we have to stay at someone’s house and not a hotel.”
He scowled. “I hate being billeted,” he muttered.
“I know!” she snapped, balling her hands into fists and pounding them against her slender thighs. “I know that! Which is why we were having the conversation! Ugh!”
He tilted his head to one side and smiled at her again. She was perfect. Adorable. And a brilliant pianist to boot. He couldn’t believe his luck. “There’s the suitcase,” he said, reaching out and plucking it off the conveyor belt. He extended the telescoping handle, tilted it onto its wheels and took Hillary’s hand. “Are they sending a car? Or do we have to find a cab?”
“They’re sending a car,” she muttered.
She wasn’t really mad. He knew that. She didn’t really get mad when he didn’t pay attention. He was her tortured artist, his head forever in the clouds dreaming up new ways to interpret the old masters. It was one of the reasons she’d married him. She’d told him as much.
When he looked at her again she rolled her eyes, shook her head and let out an exasperated huff.
Adorable. Tiny little Hillary with perfectly shaped eyes and petite frame. Just five foot five. What was that word he’d seen the other day? Started with an N. Nubile. That’s what she was. Nubile.
He took a moment to wonder whether there’d be a chance for intimacy, given they were going to be staying at someone else’s house. They’d been so busy since winning the Kreutzhoffer they’d barely had any time to spend together outside of rehearsals.
The doors to arrivals slid open and the din of the space washed over them, pulling his attention away from Hillary and toward the crowd. He scanned the space, watching for a sign with their names on it. At least the organizers had had the good sense to send a car. Spare them the indignity of getting into a grubby taxi cab. “There he is,” he said, letting go of Hillary’s hand and pointing to a large African American man in a black suit and white shirt holding a sign with the name Banes printed on it in large letters.
He broke into a brisk walk across the lounge, with Hillary trotting after him to keep up. Held out a hand as he approached the man. “Arthur Banes,” he said.
The man smiled and shook his hand. “Walter,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. Right this way. The car’s just outside.”
“Wonderful to meet you as well, Walter. I’d prefer if you didn’t call me sir, though. I’m blind to class and besides a struggling musician is more or less in the same boat as you I think?” He smiled and chuckled at Walter. Was pleased when Walter chortled back. Arty made it a point of pride to be able to relate to anyone, no matter their background. “This is my wife, Hillary,” he said.
Walter turned to regard Hillary. He was a large man. About six foot four or five by the looks of it. Slightly taller than Arty but an absolute mountain towering over Hillary. He looked at her with kind eyes and smiled. Extended the same meaty paw he’d greeted Arty with.
And then something funny happened.
Hillary looked up at him and her eyes seemed to sparkle a little. A smile lit her face. A wide, wondrous, kid-at-Christmas smile that Arty wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on her before.
And when she reached up and put her dainty hand in Walter’s a very funny warm sort of tickle wormed it’s way through Arty. It started in his throat and snaked down through his chest and belly before settling right underneath his unmentionables. He stared at their conjoined hands and something stirred within him. He glanced up at Walter.
“A pleasure to meet you as well, miss,” Walter said.
Arty looked to Hillary. She looked…bedazzled. And now there seemed to be a slight halo surrounding her. An angelic glow that made her look like a little cherub. Or was that just his imagination? And why was this happening? He shook his head, trying to shake the strange sensation, out.
“Please call me Hillary,” Hillary said quietly.
Walter gave a slight nod. “As you wish,” he replied. He gave her hand a gentle shake, then let it go.
As it fell, Hillary seemed to stiffen slightly. As if she were suddenly a little more self-conscious or something.
Arty looked back and forth between them. What a strange little moment. Life was such a funny thing sometimes. The way people found connections in the most unexpected places. From the way they were acting it looked like they could have been friends in another life.
“If you’d like to follow me?” Walter asked.
“Of course!” Arty said with a little too much enthusiasm. “To the car!” He pointed a finger up in the air trying to alleviate some of his own awkwardness.
Hillary giggled and rolled her eyes. She always did when he did something like that. She loved his eccentricities and he loved that about her as well.
Walter led them out to the curb. To a large black Mercedes that was already idling, warming up against the chill. He took the suitcase and put it into the trunk, then extended a hand for the violin on Arty’s back.
Arty swung it off his shoulders, hugged it against his chest and patted the rectangular case. “The mistress rides with us,” he said.
Walter raised an eye. “The mistress?” he asked.
“It’s what he calls his violin,” Hillary explained. “Just…don’t mind him. Get in the car, honey.” As she reached for the door handle Walter deftly stepped between them and the car, opened the door and swung it open and waved them inside.
Arty flashed a delighted smile at the man’s professionalism. “Splendid!” he said as they bundled into the Mercedes.
Hillary arranged herself on the seat next to him, flattening her jacket against her stomach. She hated it when it bunched up.
Arty set the violin on his lap as Walter closed the door. He watched him jog around the car and get into the driver’s seat. Glanced at Hillary, who was staring out the window. He had the itch. Same one he always got when unable to interject a key detail about the mistress into the conversation. Hillary would probably get a little annoyed about it. Actually annoyed. It was the only thing about him that truly annoyed her. But deep down inside he knew she probably liked it on some level. Another one of his quirks, it was.
As Walter pulled away from the curb Arty bit his tongue. He bit his tongue as they pulled out onto the highway. Bit it as the stunning vista of the mountains unfolded in front of them. The glorious Rocky Mountains he’d spent so many summers practising amongst in his time at the internationally renowned Banff Center for the Arts. And now he was back to serenade some very wealthy patrons who had funded the Kreutzhoffer competition. To make beautiful music for them with his wife and his mistress. His Amati.