The Jetmans' European Vacation
By Don Jetman
It had been a stressful and busy year so far for L and me. We'd both been traveling more than usual on business - short, last-minute trips that left little opportunity for playing. Trying to take on responsibilities of laid-off coworkers had been frustrating enough, but our long and overlapping work hours and frequent absences had begun to chip away at our sex life. Forget hotwifing - what little sex we had was grabbing a quickie here and there when both of us weren't too tired.
July 4th passed without an invitation from Dave, L's first playmate, to his annual party. It's where I get to watch him parade L around in public, igniting suspicions among the guests from "Is there something going on between them?" to "My God, he's fucking her and her husband knows it!". It's one of the few times L and I get to "play near the edge", leaving it to Dave to take the lead on pushing the envelope in public. L loves the attention Dave shows her in public (and the attention of the other men there staring at her), and I love watching her glowing smile as his gentle touches and suggestive conversation seems to taunt the party-goers with questions about their relationship.
An email to Dave sent just after the holiday was answered a few days later - he was traveling, on business. There was no party this year. Although it was a relief he hadn't excluded us, it was still a huge disappointment at a time when we needed a distraction, and some hot "take my wife" sex. Although L tried not to show it, I knew she was crushed - I felt the same way. We were both weary, thirsty for sex, and the oasis in the distance had become a mirage.
The solution was to get away. It seemed our survival depended on it. We made the decision to take some long-overdue vacation time. I arranged a three-week trip through Europe, including L's favorite destinations. Although we had stayed in various cities throughout Europe, it was usually on business, and seldom together. L was glowing again. It was as though an oppressing weight had been lifted from us, and there would be time for as much sex as we wanted. My thoughts turned to L finding a friend or two along the way. Was she thinking the same thing?
~*~
Heidelberg wasn't a place we expected to find a playmate - a few years ago it was mostly tourists and older residents. It was much the same this visit, but we still found the narrow, winding streets of the old downtown enchanting, and this time were able to shop at our leisure. L finally found a cuckoo clock she loved, and we bought some unique Christmas ornaments for gifts. Climbing the hillside to the Schloss had our heats pumping (a little harder than on our last climb, for me at least!), and wandering the giant castle was as romantic as we remembered. It was in the gift shop where a young college student struck up a conversation with L. We were browsing separately on opposite sides of the shop, and I kept my distance as his chat turned to obvious flirtation. When he left, I couldn't wait to get the details.
"Find a new friend?" I asked her.
She grinned. "He found me. I saw you watching us."
"So, what did he want?"
"Um, me - until he saw my wedding ring."
"So he wasn't up for it?"
"Oh, he was up for it. He wanted to take me to a party tonight. When I told him I'd ask my husband, I think I scared him. He wasn't so sure you'd be that understanding. I didn't tell him you were watching us, but he still got really nervous after that."
"He looked like he was barely out of his teens - younger than the guys you usually find."
"Mmmm - younger and cuter," she came back, flashing her "I know what I want" grin.
There was no denying she had loved the attention - and that she just may have fucked him if given the chance. But we agreed that we would be completely open on this trip - no deception. And that meant letting L's potential lovers know very early that she's married, and that I encourage her to play when she finds the right guy. The Holy Grail would be to find someone who not only understands, but who knows the game, and would let me watch. I know - fat chance. It was worse than a long shot, but it made for fun fantasies together in bed at night.
After all, this trip was about us spending time together. If nothing exotic happened, it was fine with us. We weren't exactly looking for playmates for L, but every time a guy stared at L or chatted with her, I couldn't help wondering what she was thinking, or if, just maybe, she was the slightest bit wet when I thought she was flirting back. Night after night, L had great fun shooting holes in my fantasies when I asked about the men who approached her in public and struck up a conversation. I was sure she was flirting, at least a little, with a few of them. L would just smile at me and shake her head...
"Him? Seriously? You really thought I'd have sex with him?"
...which left me feeling clueless yet again, another fantasy crumbling, with no foundation whatsoever.
"But did you see the cute guy that smiled at me at lunch? At the next table?"
I'm no longer surprised that I can't pick L's "type" out of a crowd, because as far as I can tell she doesn't have a "type". I almost never notice the guys she's attracted to. I do try to practice, but I never seem to get better at it. L's always amused, as though she finds some satisfaction in knowing that, after so many years together, there's still a private part of her I haven't figured out. But she always tells me about the guys she's attracted to, partly because she's come to enjoy the power of her sexuality over other men (and me, as well), and partly because she knows it gets me hot. Still, tall men with dark hair and beards with "cute butts" is always a good place to start.
"We can pretend I'm with him tonight. I really would have had sex with him - I mean, if he would have wanted me."
Sex after candid admissions like this (accompanied with a wide-eyed innocence and hint of authentic excitement) make up for missed opportunities. But afterward, our pulses and breathing slowing as we lie side-by-side and recover, there is a sense of unseen energy in the space around us, a subtle spice in the air that takes each of us back to what might have been. Later, she cuddles beside me, delicately fondles my cock with her fingertips, and nuzzles her face against my neck. When she tells me, "Mmmm, I should go back to my husband...," I know exactly what she's thinking.
~*~
Paris seemed ripe with opportunities, although early on, neither of us spent any time talking about hotwifing, or making plans for what at least I was hoping for. L loves Paris. I appreciate and enjoy it. If Paris was a woman, I would feast my eyes on her, succumb to her sexy accent, have a fun-filled, fuckfest for a few days, and take my memories home with a satisfied smile. If Paris was a man, L would adore him, refuse to leave his side even for a second, make love to him endlessly, and ultimately fall deeply in love. I doubt she'd leave me for him, but I'd have to share her with a man she would possibly love equally.
We've always liked the Concorde Saint-Lazare. Its mix of opulent old-world European style and clean, modern convenience appealed to us immediately on our last visit. The large, luxurious rooms are bright and comfortable, sophisticated, without a hint of pretentiousness.
The first night, L christened the city by opening the large double windows facing the street below and fucking me like a wild-woman. She started on top and finished on top, moaning and crying out loudly enough for anyone on the street below to hear. The lights in the room were on, and I was sure that people in the distance below could see her - hair thrashing side-to-side, back arched, her delicious breasts rebounding from each downward thrust - if they happened to look up at the tiny keyhole of light coming from our window that night.
L's "sex in public" fantasy had surfaced again, as it does at the most surprising times. My practical side thought about looking into French public indecency laws, but my hot-husband libido was imagining her and a lover in a much more public place. After all, no one knew us here. No one cared if my gorgeous wife let a stranger fondle her in public as I watched approvingly. It could happen, right? L wasn't talking - the night was ours, but was she thinking what I was thinking?
We met Vittore at the Louvre. While my tastes run more to sculpture, L loves Monet and Renoir, essentially most of the Impressionists. While bemoaning the absence of more of their works, a well-dressed man beside us looked over at L and smiled. When she smiled back, he told her she should visit Musee Marmottan Monet, and that he shared her taste in art. That led to ten minutes of conversation between them, including an offer to show us the museum, if we were interested. L asked with that look she gets that says "please, please, please...". How could I object? But was her interest more in the art or our new tour guide?
Vittore was an Italian living part-time in Paris. A VP for a German based pharmaceutical company, he had everything L was attracted to in Dave - intelligence, good-looks, with a sly but warm and affectionate sense of humor. It was as though he and L had known each other for years during our cab ride to Musee Marmottan Monet. We were squeezed together in the back of the cab with L between Vittore and me, and I could almost feel the electricity flow through L. It just seemed right. I could see them as a compatible couple already.
It's fascinating these days to watch L with a man she likes - hotwifing has made her so much more comfortable in her skin, so free to engage a man she's attracted to, so unafraid to reveal a refined sexuality that teases and tempts on the surface but boils underneath. Part of it is honestly her, the mix of girl and woman that I fell for instantly, years ago. Yet, there is another part that's evolved from hotwifing, a developed sense of who she is and how to orchestrate an irresistible counterpoint that baits men and sets the hook. Well, at least men like Vittore and me.
Once inside the museum the three of us browsed for a while, but eventually I drifted away in the interest of giving them private time together. It wasn't hard to keep an eye on them from a distance - they were totally involved with the art, and apparently with each other. As compatible as they were together, physically they were an odd mismatch. He towered over her, his large frame an almost overwhelming contrast to her 5' 3" petite body. I imagined how tiny her hand would be in his, and finally, should she ride him the way she rode me that first night, how she would mount a much different beast. Finally, predictably, I wondered if he was that large everywhere, and if L was wondering the same thing.
Vittore would make her laugh, put his hand on the small of her back, and she would look up at him with that look that I've seen before, the one that says, "it's OK - I'm already yours." I'd check back again later to see his hand placed just an inch to the right, enough to allow his large fingers to wrap ever so slightly around the opposite side of her waist. I knew how sensitive her skin was there, and that each tiny squeeze of his fingertips, intentional or not, would send shivers over the smooth skin beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. She moved against him, then away again as they walked, each time allowing his hand to cup her waist more firmly. His touch was no longer tentative - his hand was on her, guiding her along, pulling her closer, letting her escape a little, then reigning her in again. It was no longer the casual touch of a stranger. L knew it, wanted it. Hell, she was practically begging for it - her dazzling smile as she laughed at his jokes, a split second of adoration when she looked into his eyes just a little too long - had Paris become a man for her?
When at last the three of us became a threesome again, Vittore invited us to dinner. He had taken his hand off her, but L was still glowing. Her eyes begged me accept. I could see she wanted more of him. So, I politely begged off, claiming the effects of jetlag and too many days of shopping had me a little under the weather. L frowned a little - until I suggested she go with him. They both tried to change my mind, but only half-heartedly I thought. I just smiled, gave L a peck on the cheek, and told them to enjoy their "date". Yes, I really said "date". With a grin. And they chuckled too. A little levity, right? Well, I knew what "date" meant, and I'm sure L did too, but did Vittore?
I took a cab back to the hotel, paced the floor for an hour, then went downstairs for a few drinks where I chatted with a very sexy older woman seated next to me at the bar.
"So where is your wife on this beautiful evening? You haven't left her alone tonight, no?" she said with a delicious French accent and mesmerizing stare.
"She having dinner, with a new friend," I told her.
"And, you're not with her?"
She was squinting and smiling at me, a teasing technique I knew all too well. I had a few drinks, and, well, decided to have some fun.
"It's, ah, kind of a date," I confessed with a sly grin.
She didn't flinch. Not for a second. The same enticing smile was beamed straight at me. Was she going to proposition me?
"And you approve of your wife dating other men?"
Oh, what the hell. I grinned right back. "Yes - in fact, I do." I sipped my drink.
Then, again without a pause, she leaned closer, "I was with many men before my husband passed away. In fact, my husband encouraged it. He was like you, I think?"
I was stunned. Stunned and speechless. She was so disarming, I had all but forgotten we were in a very busy public bar. It was the first time I had divulged that I was a hotwife husband in public. I did a quick look left, then right, then up straight into the bar tender's face directly across the bar. There was no doubt he had been listening. Like my drinking companion, he showed no trace of embarrassment or retreat. They both seemed to be patiently waiting for my answer. But I had outed myself for the first time to two strangers in a foreign country, and suddenly felt very uneasy about it. Granted, there was no hint of derision, no evidence that I was the butt of an opportunistic joke, but for some reason, I panicked. Too much to drink? Building excitement and angst as L's date dragged on, hour after hour? To this day, I'm not entirely sure. I didn't make a scene, but I did excuse myself, said goodnight to my companion, and bolted for the elevator.
Yet, on my way up to our room, alone in the ornate elevator, the sense of uneasiness intensified. Finally, with our door closed and locked behind me, I expected a sudden wave of relief, a rational pause to sort out my strange reaction. Nope. The empty room suddenly seemed foreign, as though I had never been there. All four walls seemed to deny that it was the very room where L and I had made love with the windows open for the entire world to see and hear. Very, very weird. I kept telling myself it must be a bad dream, and that I'd feel really silly when I woke up. It wasn't. But I did feel really silly when I calmed down a little while later.
Fortunately, L returned soon after, about 11:00 PM. Her presence rejuvenated me, and I gladly shed all feelings of, well, whatever they were. There was no sign of having been manhandled, no mussed hair, wrinkled blouse or skirt, or smeared makeup. She thanked me for giving her time alone with him, but insisted she would have liked me to be there. Their dinner was delicious, and very proper. Vittore was slow to make his verbal moves, but eventually his generic compliments turned more intimate. L dropped a few hints, then explained that she was free to be with any man she wanted, that she had been with her share of men during our marriage, and that I was fine with it. More than fine. He asked the usual questions about our relationship, the questions most men ask for two reasons - pure curiosity, and assurance that an angry, vengeful husband won't show up on his doorstep one day.
When I asked if they had sex, L suggested we talk about it in bed. That's always a good sign. But my hopes faded a bit when she skipped the obligatory post-sex shower and snuggled in beside me. Did they have sex? No - well, not really. They went for a walk after dinner and ended up at his apartment near the restaurant. There, Vittore made his move, kissed her, and they spent some quality time on his sofa. I was surprised when L told me they had oral sex, but nothing beyond that. L has never been wild about giving head, but now and then seems to get the urge when she's with someone new. Still, it was their first date, and she usually waits till she knows the guy better. But, it's Paris, right?
"So, why didn't you fuck him?" I asked, hoping she hadn't yet told me everything. L still does like to tease me by conveniently omitting some of the juiciest details, then surprising me at the just right time. I was convinced there were riddles within riddles here.
"I told him I wanted to ask you first."
"Why? You know you don't have to do that, especially when I gave the two of you time alone."
"I know...but, well, I just didn't want you to feel left out. I know you like to watch sometimes, and it is our vacation. Remember? Time together? Besides, I wanted him to understand how we do this, to be sure he knows it's OK."
I would have been more disappointed, but L sensed it before it happened, eagerly straddling me, slipping me inside her. As she began to ride me, slowly, wide eyes peering through sheets of chestnut hair, she told me, "He wants to see me again tomorrow night. Would you like that?"
Oh shit. Things were suddenly looking up.
"Would you like that?" I asked her. "Would you have sex with him this time? Do you want him?"
She was moving in slow motion, her hands resting on the bed just above my shoulders, her pussy sucking me inside each time her hips ached downward.
"Mmmm - yes, I'd like that. Would you like to watch us? Would you like to see me do this, with him?"
"Yes," I croaked, but knew she was just stoking my fantasy.
"He wants you to be there, Don. He wants to take us to dinner, then back to his place. He wants to understand how you can watch me with him - how you can watch a big, gorgeous man make love to me. You can do that, can't you?"
Now she was teasing me again. Grinning. Pumping me. Uuuup. Dowwwn. Uuuuup. Dowwwn. I didn't care if she was playing me or not - she was pounding my ultimate fantasy button, and I was going with it, true or not.
Less talk from there, more panting, moaning, and wet, squishy sounds as her cute little butt worked me over like a jack-hammer. Then...
"God...oh Don, oh God, he was big. So big, Don."
Huh? Um, OK, if she wanted to go there, but this was a rare direction for her. The size thing wasn't usually part of our role-playing. But, no way I'm raining on this parade...
"How big? How big was he?"
"He was huge, Don. My God, so huge. Huge, like - like - like Steve..."
Gulp. Steve was a notorious past lover, a JAG with the most monstrous cock L or I had ever seen. THAT big? Sure. But, I'm going with it, because L is on fire.
"You loved Steve's big cock, didn't you? You want it again, don't you? One like Steve's? A giant cock to make you come? To come inside you?"
That's pretty much all it took - thirty seconds of that and she shivered a little, moaned once, and exploded. I wasn't far behind. It was the ultimate night of truth and fantasy. But sorting out which was which would have to wait for daylight, a long, hot shower, and an outrageously expensive French breakfast in our room.
~*~
"So, tell me about Vittore."
We were eating breakfast, and L was absolutely glowing.
"Well, you know what I like - tall, dark and handsome." She paused for a while to eat, smiling, knowing every second she stalled was torture for me. Her robe had fallen open a bit, and the view of her breasts, "innocently" *******, tortured me as well. I imagined his hands on them.
"I thought you might stay with him all night. Then, when you came back so early, I was afraid things didn't work out. What happened?"
"I told you, Don, last night. Since this is our vacation, I wanted you to be part of it too. I just felt I should ask you first. I don't know why, exactly - I just did. I wanted him to understand that too - that I love you, and that this is something we enjoy together."
"So, you liked him? You wanted to have sex with him?"
She sighed, a little exasperated. "Yes, Don. I really, really liked him. And I really, really want to fuck him."
Saying "fuck" doesn't come naturally for L, and I could sense it was her little jab for having to reassure me of something that was pretty obvious. At least she was still grinning at me. But it was plain to see that this was one of those times when I was going to have to drag the details out of her. Except these days that was intentional. At times she likes to make me beg. Evil, evil L.
I asked why she brought up the penis size thing in bed - it's not something she ever does on her own. I was intrigued when she told me it was true, that he was built every bit as big between his legs as he was all over. It was a delicate subject for us. She had compared him to Steve, a well-hung former lover whom she became infatuated with after a short time, early in our hotwifing days.
"I'm sorry for that," she confessed. "I just wasn't in control of myself last night and it slipped out." I assured her that I was over her "JAG affair", and that I could see how she would be excited to get a chance to be with a man who physically satisfied her so completely.
"Still, I'm sorry," she told me again. "But it's not just about Steve - I don't want you to think I only want guys with big penises. I don't want you to think I'm not satisfied with yours. I love making love with you, you know that. I love your nice, average penis. I - "
I stopped her there. My "average penis" and I had had enough. She was beginning to sound like she was trying too hard, as though she needed to make excuses for "losing control" over a bigger cock and being "contented" with mine, and for "making love" with me and "fucking" him. A little angst on my part I guess. Maybe it did bother me a little. Maybe I worried that she'd discover she was easily infatuated with big cocks, and that the second one would add fuel to the fire. But I wasn't worried enough to erase that teasing, tempting smile off her pretty little face. Time to go down another path.
"What about tonight? You said he wants to take us to dinner? Then, after, maybe we'll - "
"He's interested, Don. He wants to talk to you. He wants to know how this works, and that you're OK with it. He's a nice guy, Don. You'll see. If our dinner goes well, he's agreed to do it, to let you watch while we have sex at his apartment."
"And you think he'll go through with it?" I asked in disbelief. Lots of guys think they can fuck someone's wife in front of her husband, but many find they aren't wired that way when show-time rolls around and the curtain goes up. Her JAG was one of them. I didn't want another incident like that. I knew L didn't either.
"I think he might," she told me, her expression now more serious. "He's an intelligent, reasonable guy, from what I can tell. He seems genuinely interested. And I know he wants me."
That led to sorting fact from fantasy about their evening together. L claimed everything she told me was true - the dinner, his apartment, the blowjob, his enormous cock - everything.
"You blew him, but you didn't have sex?" I asked.
"I just felt like it, I guess," she explained. "There was something about - well, now I have to bring it up again - how big he was. I mean, I had this huge "thing" in my hand. I wanted to feel it, to play with it, to look at it up close. Then, I just wanted to take it in my mouth. At that moment, it was something that I wanted. I don't know why. I just did."
"Sooo, did you..."
"No Don. He came in my hand - not in my mouth. I wasn't that brave. I mean, it was hu-, oh never mind."
Yeah, I remembered. He was huge.
"And that was it?" I asked, almost satisfied with fact vs. fantasy. "You didn't come?"
"He used his mouth on me. Almost everywhere, I guess. I played with his curly black hair while he licked me, down there, between my legs. I think I might have pulled too hard when I came - I hurt him a little when I pulled his hair. He didn't seem to mind though. We cuddled for a little while afterward, then he brought me back in a cab. It was sweet of him to stay with me in the taxi, to bring me back. I liked that."
A long silence followed as we continued to eat. L was lost in her memories of the night before, and I was lost in the process of rebuilding it in my head, word by word, piece by piece. The breakfast was worth every franc.
~*~
The day was spent in nervous anticipation by both of us. We were committed to making this work, every action, every word would be an investment toward a Parisian hotwife evening we would never forget. We shopped for a dress for L that afternoon. It had to be special, and I was willing to pay any price for L's dream dress, a dress that would make Vittore's mouth water, and one that would transform L into the ultimate sex goddess to any man in sight with a pulse. L's choice was stunning, shocking, even to me. A wisp of black material on the hanger, it was dangerously low-cut and scandalously short. It may have been fine in Paris, but I doubted she would ever be able to wear it in public back in the states. And the price was heart-stopping. But when I saw her in it, the price didn't matter. We took it back to our hotel in a tiny little silver bag, our pulses ratcheted up yet another notch.
Watching L get ready for a night with a lover has always been special for me. It's not only the anxious anticipation, it's the attention to the smallest detail, my eyes like lasers, scanning her face and body for the tiniest hint of what she might be thinking:
Does she step into the tissue-thin panties with a little extra grace, aware that her lover will soon be removing them? Does she imagine his fingers brushing her thighs as he slides them down her bare legs?
Does she take more care with her makeup, her movements noticeably more precise as she applies the lipstick and mascara?
Does she linger there a little longer, before the mirror, nude except for her black panties and makeup, peering not only at what her eye sees, but at what her lover will see when he unwraps her?
Does she stand a little taller, hold her breasts a little higher, sway her hips more invitingly as she turns before the mirror?
As she passes by to get her dress, and glances at me, are her slightly parted lips, intoxicating wide eyes framed by silky hair so perfectly done it takes my breath away, meant purposefully as a sign to me, a thank you for the gift most husbands would never give? Or are they an involuntary prelude to the first touch of her lover, her mind racing to be with him, her body wet and juicy, over-ripe with physical lust?
Does she know how closely I watch her? What each shred of evidence does to me?
I think she probably does. Probably. Maybe my not knowing, or at least a fleeting uncertainty about these things is what makes her mating-dance so mesmerizing. Perhaps...
We stood just inside the door to our room, paused, letting the excitement and nervousness settle, holding each other like newlyweds. For the very first time, I wasn't sure I wanted to share her. As my wife, I've seen L in every state, from "wantonly naked" to "formal princess" attire. I had never seen her as she was that night. So desirable, so elegant, so outwardly sexually confident. I still struggle to describe it. She seemed to radiate a very palpable sexual force that was dangerously irresistible, a siren song that advertised her availability, but only to a very worthy few. There was so much skin. Almost nothing was left to the imagination. Yet, there was no sign of modesty from her. She was as comfortable in the dress as she was in her own skin.
We kissed. I wanted her, then and there. I just couldn't help myself. Finally. L stopped me, holding me firmly at a distance just before I ripped the dress from her perfectly prepared body.
"Do you still want to do this?" she asked, with a puzzled expression.
I stood there, frozen, unable to answer. I wanted to say "yes" more than I ever have. But I wanted to say "no" just as much. Finally, I answered with every bit of strength I could muster.
"Yes. I do want this. But I want you too."
She hugged me, and whispered in my ear, "You can have me, later tonight, tomorrow, any time you want. But this can only happen now."
She had taken control in more ways than one, and had brought me back to earth with a few simple words. That's who she was, is, my sweet wife.
"I'm OK," I told her. "Now I'm OK. I'm sorry - "
"Shhh," she answered, putting a finger to my lips. "I'm ready."
As I closed the door to our room, she walked a few steps in the hallway, stopped, and turned toward me. Vittore, I hope you appreciate what a lucky, lucky man you are tonight. With a lump in my throat, I took her hand and we headed for the elevator.
~*~
We waited in the hotel lobby. Vittore was to pick us up at 6:30 for a dinner reservation at 7:00. Although we chose a quiet corner of the lobby, L had her share of gawkers. It was nearly impossible for her to sit without showing at least a hint of her black panties, even with her constant tugging at the hem of the dress. Most of those who stared noticed her cleavage more, I guessed. Her white skin practically glowed, even in the dim, warm light, and the contrast against the black dress was startling. After some time, I guessed she could have had any number of men in the lobby that night, many of them young, well-dressed, and good looking. L made eye contact with a few and smiled, but her thoughts were elsewhere.
6:30 came and went. 7:00 passed as well. L caused some major head-turning when she went to the ladies room, and again when she returned. I couldn't keep my eyes off her myself. Jesus, she was really pushing the envelope in that dress. Seeing her ******* in public quieted my former angst, for some reason. I was never more proud of her as she strolled across the lobby - sexy, confident, and in control. It was just what I needed. Now, I was ready. For anything. Bring it on.
7:30, then 8:00. No Vittore. By 8:30 we assumed the worst, that he had lost his nerve, or had never intended to show up. I also began to worry that the hotel staff might think L was a ********** and I her pimp, although I was hardly dressed for the role (what do French pimps wear, anyway?). L wanted to go back to our room, but I had other ideas. We left word at the front desk that we would be in the bar if a certain "Vittore" asked for us. It was time to rescue L's ego, and the night was still young.
There was no scarcity of attention paid to L in the bar, but no one actually approached us. Lots of ogling though, by old and young men alike. We played "who would you fuck" as we sipped our drinks. L didn't seem down at all, and as usual, fooled me completely at our game - well, most of the time, but I picked a few winners. I wanted to bolster her ego, but she didn't seem to need it. There we were, having a good time, together, in Paris. Not a total loss, even for an evening with such great expectations.
In the end, Vittore never showed. We never heard from him, never found out why. Maybe he was honestly delayed or had an unexpected conflict, maybe he was married, or maybe he decided it just wasn't his game. Fortunately these days, we're both experienced enough to let it pass without much regret. Neither of us was about to let it ruin our trip. It didn't.
No one likes unhappy endings. Apologies to those who read this far expecting a full-blown fuckfest between L and a new lover. We feel your pain, or rather, now you feel ours. But L did get lots of cock that night. Not the huge cock she expected, but cock nonetheless.
I left her in the bar when I returned to our room. A few minutes later she came back to me with a "story" of how a "young, big-cocked Parisian lover" had picked her up and fucked her senseless in his room that night. Her hair was mussed, her lipstick a bit smeared, and she dragged me into the shower to help her "freshen up". She opened the windows again, straddled me in bed, and fucked me senseless as she turned what "might have been" with Vittore into a torrid confession of how her "French lover" took her over and over in shocking, depraved ways she would always remember.
"I didn't bother to ask you first," she panted. "I just saw him, wanted him, and begged him to fuck me."
"Was he good?" I panted back.
"God...oh Don, oh God, he was big. So big, Don."
"I want you to suck his cock, L. I want him to fill you up, to stretch you, to take you with his cock. I want you to take all of his big cock inside you and cum."
"He's doing it, Don - fucking me - making me cum, with his beautiful - big - cock..."
In the end, he was there in the room with her all along. The onlookers from the street below couldn't see or hear him though - only L could do that. As I listened to her rave about his astonishing skill as a lover and his impossibly huge cock, I did my best to try not to be "average", probably failed, but hoped L never noticed.
Don
By Don Jetman
It had been a stressful and busy year so far for L and me. We'd both been traveling more than usual on business - short, last-minute trips that left little opportunity for playing. Trying to take on responsibilities of laid-off coworkers had been frustrating enough, but our long and overlapping work hours and frequent absences had begun to chip away at our sex life. Forget hotwifing - what little sex we had was grabbing a quickie here and there when both of us weren't too tired.
July 4th passed without an invitation from Dave, L's first playmate, to his annual party. It's where I get to watch him parade L around in public, igniting suspicions among the guests from "Is there something going on between them?" to "My God, he's fucking her and her husband knows it!". It's one of the few times L and I get to "play near the edge", leaving it to Dave to take the lead on pushing the envelope in public. L loves the attention Dave shows her in public (and the attention of the other men there staring at her), and I love watching her glowing smile as his gentle touches and suggestive conversation seems to taunt the party-goers with questions about their relationship.
An email to Dave sent just after the holiday was answered a few days later - he was traveling, on business. There was no party this year. Although it was a relief he hadn't excluded us, it was still a huge disappointment at a time when we needed a distraction, and some hot "take my wife" sex. Although L tried not to show it, I knew she was crushed - I felt the same way. We were both weary, thirsty for sex, and the oasis in the distance had become a mirage.
The solution was to get away. It seemed our survival depended on it. We made the decision to take some long-overdue vacation time. I arranged a three-week trip through Europe, including L's favorite destinations. Although we had stayed in various cities throughout Europe, it was usually on business, and seldom together. L was glowing again. It was as though an oppressing weight had been lifted from us, and there would be time for as much sex as we wanted. My thoughts turned to L finding a friend or two along the way. Was she thinking the same thing?
~*~
Heidelberg wasn't a place we expected to find a playmate - a few years ago it was mostly tourists and older residents. It was much the same this visit, but we still found the narrow, winding streets of the old downtown enchanting, and this time were able to shop at our leisure. L finally found a cuckoo clock she loved, and we bought some unique Christmas ornaments for gifts. Climbing the hillside to the Schloss had our heats pumping (a little harder than on our last climb, for me at least!), and wandering the giant castle was as romantic as we remembered. It was in the gift shop where a young college student struck up a conversation with L. We were browsing separately on opposite sides of the shop, and I kept my distance as his chat turned to obvious flirtation. When he left, I couldn't wait to get the details.
"Find a new friend?" I asked her.
She grinned. "He found me. I saw you watching us."
"So, what did he want?"
"Um, me - until he saw my wedding ring."
"So he wasn't up for it?"
"Oh, he was up for it. He wanted to take me to a party tonight. When I told him I'd ask my husband, I think I scared him. He wasn't so sure you'd be that understanding. I didn't tell him you were watching us, but he still got really nervous after that."
"He looked like he was barely out of his teens - younger than the guys you usually find."
"Mmmm - younger and cuter," she came back, flashing her "I know what I want" grin.
There was no denying she had loved the attention - and that she just may have fucked him if given the chance. But we agreed that we would be completely open on this trip - no deception. And that meant letting L's potential lovers know very early that she's married, and that I encourage her to play when she finds the right guy. The Holy Grail would be to find someone who not only understands, but who knows the game, and would let me watch. I know - fat chance. It was worse than a long shot, but it made for fun fantasies together in bed at night.
After all, this trip was about us spending time together. If nothing exotic happened, it was fine with us. We weren't exactly looking for playmates for L, but every time a guy stared at L or chatted with her, I couldn't help wondering what she was thinking, or if, just maybe, she was the slightest bit wet when I thought she was flirting back. Night after night, L had great fun shooting holes in my fantasies when I asked about the men who approached her in public and struck up a conversation. I was sure she was flirting, at least a little, with a few of them. L would just smile at me and shake her head...
"Him? Seriously? You really thought I'd have sex with him?"
...which left me feeling clueless yet again, another fantasy crumbling, with no foundation whatsoever.
"But did you see the cute guy that smiled at me at lunch? At the next table?"
I'm no longer surprised that I can't pick L's "type" out of a crowd, because as far as I can tell she doesn't have a "type". I almost never notice the guys she's attracted to. I do try to practice, but I never seem to get better at it. L's always amused, as though she finds some satisfaction in knowing that, after so many years together, there's still a private part of her I haven't figured out. But she always tells me about the guys she's attracted to, partly because she's come to enjoy the power of her sexuality over other men (and me, as well), and partly because she knows it gets me hot. Still, tall men with dark hair and beards with "cute butts" is always a good place to start.
"We can pretend I'm with him tonight. I really would have had sex with him - I mean, if he would have wanted me."
Sex after candid admissions like this (accompanied with a wide-eyed innocence and hint of authentic excitement) make up for missed opportunities. But afterward, our pulses and breathing slowing as we lie side-by-side and recover, there is a sense of unseen energy in the space around us, a subtle spice in the air that takes each of us back to what might have been. Later, she cuddles beside me, delicately fondles my cock with her fingertips, and nuzzles her face against my neck. When she tells me, "Mmmm, I should go back to my husband...," I know exactly what she's thinking.
~*~
Paris seemed ripe with opportunities, although early on, neither of us spent any time talking about hotwifing, or making plans for what at least I was hoping for. L loves Paris. I appreciate and enjoy it. If Paris was a woman, I would feast my eyes on her, succumb to her sexy accent, have a fun-filled, fuckfest for a few days, and take my memories home with a satisfied smile. If Paris was a man, L would adore him, refuse to leave his side even for a second, make love to him endlessly, and ultimately fall deeply in love. I doubt she'd leave me for him, but I'd have to share her with a man she would possibly love equally.
We've always liked the Concorde Saint-Lazare. Its mix of opulent old-world European style and clean, modern convenience appealed to us immediately on our last visit. The large, luxurious rooms are bright and comfortable, sophisticated, without a hint of pretentiousness.
The first night, L christened the city by opening the large double windows facing the street below and fucking me like a wild-woman. She started on top and finished on top, moaning and crying out loudly enough for anyone on the street below to hear. The lights in the room were on, and I was sure that people in the distance below could see her - hair thrashing side-to-side, back arched, her delicious breasts rebounding from each downward thrust - if they happened to look up at the tiny keyhole of light coming from our window that night.
L's "sex in public" fantasy had surfaced again, as it does at the most surprising times. My practical side thought about looking into French public indecency laws, but my hot-husband libido was imagining her and a lover in a much more public place. After all, no one knew us here. No one cared if my gorgeous wife let a stranger fondle her in public as I watched approvingly. It could happen, right? L wasn't talking - the night was ours, but was she thinking what I was thinking?
We met Vittore at the Louvre. While my tastes run more to sculpture, L loves Monet and Renoir, essentially most of the Impressionists. While bemoaning the absence of more of their works, a well-dressed man beside us looked over at L and smiled. When she smiled back, he told her she should visit Musee Marmottan Monet, and that he shared her taste in art. That led to ten minutes of conversation between them, including an offer to show us the museum, if we were interested. L asked with that look she gets that says "please, please, please...". How could I object? But was her interest more in the art or our new tour guide?
Vittore was an Italian living part-time in Paris. A VP for a German based pharmaceutical company, he had everything L was attracted to in Dave - intelligence, good-looks, with a sly but warm and affectionate sense of humor. It was as though he and L had known each other for years during our cab ride to Musee Marmottan Monet. We were squeezed together in the back of the cab with L between Vittore and me, and I could almost feel the electricity flow through L. It just seemed right. I could see them as a compatible couple already.
It's fascinating these days to watch L with a man she likes - hotwifing has made her so much more comfortable in her skin, so free to engage a man she's attracted to, so unafraid to reveal a refined sexuality that teases and tempts on the surface but boils underneath. Part of it is honestly her, the mix of girl and woman that I fell for instantly, years ago. Yet, there is another part that's evolved from hotwifing, a developed sense of who she is and how to orchestrate an irresistible counterpoint that baits men and sets the hook. Well, at least men like Vittore and me.
Once inside the museum the three of us browsed for a while, but eventually I drifted away in the interest of giving them private time together. It wasn't hard to keep an eye on them from a distance - they were totally involved with the art, and apparently with each other. As compatible as they were together, physically they were an odd mismatch. He towered over her, his large frame an almost overwhelming contrast to her 5' 3" petite body. I imagined how tiny her hand would be in his, and finally, should she ride him the way she rode me that first night, how she would mount a much different beast. Finally, predictably, I wondered if he was that large everywhere, and if L was wondering the same thing.
Vittore would make her laugh, put his hand on the small of her back, and she would look up at him with that look that I've seen before, the one that says, "it's OK - I'm already yours." I'd check back again later to see his hand placed just an inch to the right, enough to allow his large fingers to wrap ever so slightly around the opposite side of her waist. I knew how sensitive her skin was there, and that each tiny squeeze of his fingertips, intentional or not, would send shivers over the smooth skin beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. She moved against him, then away again as they walked, each time allowing his hand to cup her waist more firmly. His touch was no longer tentative - his hand was on her, guiding her along, pulling her closer, letting her escape a little, then reigning her in again. It was no longer the casual touch of a stranger. L knew it, wanted it. Hell, she was practically begging for it - her dazzling smile as she laughed at his jokes, a split second of adoration when she looked into his eyes just a little too long - had Paris become a man for her?
When at last the three of us became a threesome again, Vittore invited us to dinner. He had taken his hand off her, but L was still glowing. Her eyes begged me accept. I could see she wanted more of him. So, I politely begged off, claiming the effects of jetlag and too many days of shopping had me a little under the weather. L frowned a little - until I suggested she go with him. They both tried to change my mind, but only half-heartedly I thought. I just smiled, gave L a peck on the cheek, and told them to enjoy their "date". Yes, I really said "date". With a grin. And they chuckled too. A little levity, right? Well, I knew what "date" meant, and I'm sure L did too, but did Vittore?
I took a cab back to the hotel, paced the floor for an hour, then went downstairs for a few drinks where I chatted with a very sexy older woman seated next to me at the bar.
"So where is your wife on this beautiful evening? You haven't left her alone tonight, no?" she said with a delicious French accent and mesmerizing stare.
"She having dinner, with a new friend," I told her.
"And, you're not with her?"
She was squinting and smiling at me, a teasing technique I knew all too well. I had a few drinks, and, well, decided to have some fun.
"It's, ah, kind of a date," I confessed with a sly grin.
She didn't flinch. Not for a second. The same enticing smile was beamed straight at me. Was she going to proposition me?
"And you approve of your wife dating other men?"
Oh, what the hell. I grinned right back. "Yes - in fact, I do." I sipped my drink.
Then, again without a pause, she leaned closer, "I was with many men before my husband passed away. In fact, my husband encouraged it. He was like you, I think?"
I was stunned. Stunned and speechless. She was so disarming, I had all but forgotten we were in a very busy public bar. It was the first time I had divulged that I was a hotwife husband in public. I did a quick look left, then right, then up straight into the bar tender's face directly across the bar. There was no doubt he had been listening. Like my drinking companion, he showed no trace of embarrassment or retreat. They both seemed to be patiently waiting for my answer. But I had outed myself for the first time to two strangers in a foreign country, and suddenly felt very uneasy about it. Granted, there was no hint of derision, no evidence that I was the butt of an opportunistic joke, but for some reason, I panicked. Too much to drink? Building excitement and angst as L's date dragged on, hour after hour? To this day, I'm not entirely sure. I didn't make a scene, but I did excuse myself, said goodnight to my companion, and bolted for the elevator.
Yet, on my way up to our room, alone in the ornate elevator, the sense of uneasiness intensified. Finally, with our door closed and locked behind me, I expected a sudden wave of relief, a rational pause to sort out my strange reaction. Nope. The empty room suddenly seemed foreign, as though I had never been there. All four walls seemed to deny that it was the very room where L and I had made love with the windows open for the entire world to see and hear. Very, very weird. I kept telling myself it must be a bad dream, and that I'd feel really silly when I woke up. It wasn't. But I did feel really silly when I calmed down a little while later.
Fortunately, L returned soon after, about 11:00 PM. Her presence rejuvenated me, and I gladly shed all feelings of, well, whatever they were. There was no sign of having been manhandled, no mussed hair, wrinkled blouse or skirt, or smeared makeup. She thanked me for giving her time alone with him, but insisted she would have liked me to be there. Their dinner was delicious, and very proper. Vittore was slow to make his verbal moves, but eventually his generic compliments turned more intimate. L dropped a few hints, then explained that she was free to be with any man she wanted, that she had been with her share of men during our marriage, and that I was fine with it. More than fine. He asked the usual questions about our relationship, the questions most men ask for two reasons - pure curiosity, and assurance that an angry, vengeful husband won't show up on his doorstep one day.
When I asked if they had sex, L suggested we talk about it in bed. That's always a good sign. But my hopes faded a bit when she skipped the obligatory post-sex shower and snuggled in beside me. Did they have sex? No - well, not really. They went for a walk after dinner and ended up at his apartment near the restaurant. There, Vittore made his move, kissed her, and they spent some quality time on his sofa. I was surprised when L told me they had oral sex, but nothing beyond that. L has never been wild about giving head, but now and then seems to get the urge when she's with someone new. Still, it was their first date, and she usually waits till she knows the guy better. But, it's Paris, right?
"So, why didn't you fuck him?" I asked, hoping she hadn't yet told me everything. L still does like to tease me by conveniently omitting some of the juiciest details, then surprising me at the just right time. I was convinced there were riddles within riddles here.
"I told him I wanted to ask you first."
"Why? You know you don't have to do that, especially when I gave the two of you time alone."
"I know...but, well, I just didn't want you to feel left out. I know you like to watch sometimes, and it is our vacation. Remember? Time together? Besides, I wanted him to understand how we do this, to be sure he knows it's OK."
I would have been more disappointed, but L sensed it before it happened, eagerly straddling me, slipping me inside her. As she began to ride me, slowly, wide eyes peering through sheets of chestnut hair, she told me, "He wants to see me again tomorrow night. Would you like that?"
Oh shit. Things were suddenly looking up.
"Would you like that?" I asked her. "Would you have sex with him this time? Do you want him?"
She was moving in slow motion, her hands resting on the bed just above my shoulders, her pussy sucking me inside each time her hips ached downward.
"Mmmm - yes, I'd like that. Would you like to watch us? Would you like to see me do this, with him?"
"Yes," I croaked, but knew she was just stoking my fantasy.
"He wants you to be there, Don. He wants to take us to dinner, then back to his place. He wants to understand how you can watch me with him - how you can watch a big, gorgeous man make love to me. You can do that, can't you?"
Now she was teasing me again. Grinning. Pumping me. Uuuup. Dowwwn. Uuuuup. Dowwwn. I didn't care if she was playing me or not - she was pounding my ultimate fantasy button, and I was going with it, true or not.
Less talk from there, more panting, moaning, and wet, squishy sounds as her cute little butt worked me over like a jack-hammer. Then...
"God...oh Don, oh God, he was big. So big, Don."
Huh? Um, OK, if she wanted to go there, but this was a rare direction for her. The size thing wasn't usually part of our role-playing. But, no way I'm raining on this parade...
"How big? How big was he?"
"He was huge, Don. My God, so huge. Huge, like - like - like Steve..."
Gulp. Steve was a notorious past lover, a JAG with the most monstrous cock L or I had ever seen. THAT big? Sure. But, I'm going with it, because L is on fire.
"You loved Steve's big cock, didn't you? You want it again, don't you? One like Steve's? A giant cock to make you come? To come inside you?"
That's pretty much all it took - thirty seconds of that and she shivered a little, moaned once, and exploded. I wasn't far behind. It was the ultimate night of truth and fantasy. But sorting out which was which would have to wait for daylight, a long, hot shower, and an outrageously expensive French breakfast in our room.
~*~
"So, tell me about Vittore."
We were eating breakfast, and L was absolutely glowing.
"Well, you know what I like - tall, dark and handsome." She paused for a while to eat, smiling, knowing every second she stalled was torture for me. Her robe had fallen open a bit, and the view of her breasts, "innocently" *******, tortured me as well. I imagined his hands on them.
"I thought you might stay with him all night. Then, when you came back so early, I was afraid things didn't work out. What happened?"
"I told you, Don, last night. Since this is our vacation, I wanted you to be part of it too. I just felt I should ask you first. I don't know why, exactly - I just did. I wanted him to understand that too - that I love you, and that this is something we enjoy together."
"So, you liked him? You wanted to have sex with him?"
She sighed, a little exasperated. "Yes, Don. I really, really liked him. And I really, really want to fuck him."
Saying "fuck" doesn't come naturally for L, and I could sense it was her little jab for having to reassure me of something that was pretty obvious. At least she was still grinning at me. But it was plain to see that this was one of those times when I was going to have to drag the details out of her. Except these days that was intentional. At times she likes to make me beg. Evil, evil L.
I asked why she brought up the penis size thing in bed - it's not something she ever does on her own. I was intrigued when she told me it was true, that he was built every bit as big between his legs as he was all over. It was a delicate subject for us. She had compared him to Steve, a well-hung former lover whom she became infatuated with after a short time, early in our hotwifing days.
"I'm sorry for that," she confessed. "I just wasn't in control of myself last night and it slipped out." I assured her that I was over her "JAG affair", and that I could see how she would be excited to get a chance to be with a man who physically satisfied her so completely.
"Still, I'm sorry," she told me again. "But it's not just about Steve - I don't want you to think I only want guys with big penises. I don't want you to think I'm not satisfied with yours. I love making love with you, you know that. I love your nice, average penis. I - "
I stopped her there. My "average penis" and I had had enough. She was beginning to sound like she was trying too hard, as though she needed to make excuses for "losing control" over a bigger cock and being "contented" with mine, and for "making love" with me and "fucking" him. A little angst on my part I guess. Maybe it did bother me a little. Maybe I worried that she'd discover she was easily infatuated with big cocks, and that the second one would add fuel to the fire. But I wasn't worried enough to erase that teasing, tempting smile off her pretty little face. Time to go down another path.
"What about tonight? You said he wants to take us to dinner? Then, after, maybe we'll - "
"He's interested, Don. He wants to talk to you. He wants to know how this works, and that you're OK with it. He's a nice guy, Don. You'll see. If our dinner goes well, he's agreed to do it, to let you watch while we have sex at his apartment."
"And you think he'll go through with it?" I asked in disbelief. Lots of guys think they can fuck someone's wife in front of her husband, but many find they aren't wired that way when show-time rolls around and the curtain goes up. Her JAG was one of them. I didn't want another incident like that. I knew L didn't either.
"I think he might," she told me, her expression now more serious. "He's an intelligent, reasonable guy, from what I can tell. He seems genuinely interested. And I know he wants me."
That led to sorting fact from fantasy about their evening together. L claimed everything she told me was true - the dinner, his apartment, the blowjob, his enormous cock - everything.
"You blew him, but you didn't have sex?" I asked.
"I just felt like it, I guess," she explained. "There was something about - well, now I have to bring it up again - how big he was. I mean, I had this huge "thing" in my hand. I wanted to feel it, to play with it, to look at it up close. Then, I just wanted to take it in my mouth. At that moment, it was something that I wanted. I don't know why. I just did."
"Sooo, did you..."
"No Don. He came in my hand - not in my mouth. I wasn't that brave. I mean, it was hu-, oh never mind."
Yeah, I remembered. He was huge.
"And that was it?" I asked, almost satisfied with fact vs. fantasy. "You didn't come?"
"He used his mouth on me. Almost everywhere, I guess. I played with his curly black hair while he licked me, down there, between my legs. I think I might have pulled too hard when I came - I hurt him a little when I pulled his hair. He didn't seem to mind though. We cuddled for a little while afterward, then he brought me back in a cab. It was sweet of him to stay with me in the taxi, to bring me back. I liked that."
A long silence followed as we continued to eat. L was lost in her memories of the night before, and I was lost in the process of rebuilding it in my head, word by word, piece by piece. The breakfast was worth every franc.
~*~
The day was spent in nervous anticipation by both of us. We were committed to making this work, every action, every word would be an investment toward a Parisian hotwife evening we would never forget. We shopped for a dress for L that afternoon. It had to be special, and I was willing to pay any price for L's dream dress, a dress that would make Vittore's mouth water, and one that would transform L into the ultimate sex goddess to any man in sight with a pulse. L's choice was stunning, shocking, even to me. A wisp of black material on the hanger, it was dangerously low-cut and scandalously short. It may have been fine in Paris, but I doubted she would ever be able to wear it in public back in the states. And the price was heart-stopping. But when I saw her in it, the price didn't matter. We took it back to our hotel in a tiny little silver bag, our pulses ratcheted up yet another notch.
Watching L get ready for a night with a lover has always been special for me. It's not only the anxious anticipation, it's the attention to the smallest detail, my eyes like lasers, scanning her face and body for the tiniest hint of what she might be thinking:
Does she step into the tissue-thin panties with a little extra grace, aware that her lover will soon be removing them? Does she imagine his fingers brushing her thighs as he slides them down her bare legs?
Does she take more care with her makeup, her movements noticeably more precise as she applies the lipstick and mascara?
Does she linger there a little longer, before the mirror, nude except for her black panties and makeup, peering not only at what her eye sees, but at what her lover will see when he unwraps her?
Does she stand a little taller, hold her breasts a little higher, sway her hips more invitingly as she turns before the mirror?
As she passes by to get her dress, and glances at me, are her slightly parted lips, intoxicating wide eyes framed by silky hair so perfectly done it takes my breath away, meant purposefully as a sign to me, a thank you for the gift most husbands would never give? Or are they an involuntary prelude to the first touch of her lover, her mind racing to be with him, her body wet and juicy, over-ripe with physical lust?
Does she know how closely I watch her? What each shred of evidence does to me?
I think she probably does. Probably. Maybe my not knowing, or at least a fleeting uncertainty about these things is what makes her mating-dance so mesmerizing. Perhaps...
We stood just inside the door to our room, paused, letting the excitement and nervousness settle, holding each other like newlyweds. For the very first time, I wasn't sure I wanted to share her. As my wife, I've seen L in every state, from "wantonly naked" to "formal princess" attire. I had never seen her as she was that night. So desirable, so elegant, so outwardly sexually confident. I still struggle to describe it. She seemed to radiate a very palpable sexual force that was dangerously irresistible, a siren song that advertised her availability, but only to a very worthy few. There was so much skin. Almost nothing was left to the imagination. Yet, there was no sign of modesty from her. She was as comfortable in the dress as she was in her own skin.
We kissed. I wanted her, then and there. I just couldn't help myself. Finally. L stopped me, holding me firmly at a distance just before I ripped the dress from her perfectly prepared body.
"Do you still want to do this?" she asked, with a puzzled expression.
I stood there, frozen, unable to answer. I wanted to say "yes" more than I ever have. But I wanted to say "no" just as much. Finally, I answered with every bit of strength I could muster.
"Yes. I do want this. But I want you too."
She hugged me, and whispered in my ear, "You can have me, later tonight, tomorrow, any time you want. But this can only happen now."
She had taken control in more ways than one, and had brought me back to earth with a few simple words. That's who she was, is, my sweet wife.
"I'm OK," I told her. "Now I'm OK. I'm sorry - "
"Shhh," she answered, putting a finger to my lips. "I'm ready."
As I closed the door to our room, she walked a few steps in the hallway, stopped, and turned toward me. Vittore, I hope you appreciate what a lucky, lucky man you are tonight. With a lump in my throat, I took her hand and we headed for the elevator.
~*~
We waited in the hotel lobby. Vittore was to pick us up at 6:30 for a dinner reservation at 7:00. Although we chose a quiet corner of the lobby, L had her share of gawkers. It was nearly impossible for her to sit without showing at least a hint of her black panties, even with her constant tugging at the hem of the dress. Most of those who stared noticed her cleavage more, I guessed. Her white skin practically glowed, even in the dim, warm light, and the contrast against the black dress was startling. After some time, I guessed she could have had any number of men in the lobby that night, many of them young, well-dressed, and good looking. L made eye contact with a few and smiled, but her thoughts were elsewhere.
6:30 came and went. 7:00 passed as well. L caused some major head-turning when she went to the ladies room, and again when she returned. I couldn't keep my eyes off her myself. Jesus, she was really pushing the envelope in that dress. Seeing her ******* in public quieted my former angst, for some reason. I was never more proud of her as she strolled across the lobby - sexy, confident, and in control. It was just what I needed. Now, I was ready. For anything. Bring it on.
7:30, then 8:00. No Vittore. By 8:30 we assumed the worst, that he had lost his nerve, or had never intended to show up. I also began to worry that the hotel staff might think L was a ********** and I her pimp, although I was hardly dressed for the role (what do French pimps wear, anyway?). L wanted to go back to our room, but I had other ideas. We left word at the front desk that we would be in the bar if a certain "Vittore" asked for us. It was time to rescue L's ego, and the night was still young.
There was no scarcity of attention paid to L in the bar, but no one actually approached us. Lots of ogling though, by old and young men alike. We played "who would you fuck" as we sipped our drinks. L didn't seem down at all, and as usual, fooled me completely at our game - well, most of the time, but I picked a few winners. I wanted to bolster her ego, but she didn't seem to need it. There we were, having a good time, together, in Paris. Not a total loss, even for an evening with such great expectations.
In the end, Vittore never showed. We never heard from him, never found out why. Maybe he was honestly delayed or had an unexpected conflict, maybe he was married, or maybe he decided it just wasn't his game. Fortunately these days, we're both experienced enough to let it pass without much regret. Neither of us was about to let it ruin our trip. It didn't.
No one likes unhappy endings. Apologies to those who read this far expecting a full-blown fuckfest between L and a new lover. We feel your pain, or rather, now you feel ours. But L did get lots of cock that night. Not the huge cock she expected, but cock nonetheless.
I left her in the bar when I returned to our room. A few minutes later she came back to me with a "story" of how a "young, big-cocked Parisian lover" had picked her up and fucked her senseless in his room that night. Her hair was mussed, her lipstick a bit smeared, and she dragged me into the shower to help her "freshen up". She opened the windows again, straddled me in bed, and fucked me senseless as she turned what "might have been" with Vittore into a torrid confession of how her "French lover" took her over and over in shocking, depraved ways she would always remember.
"I didn't bother to ask you first," she panted. "I just saw him, wanted him, and begged him to fuck me."
"Was he good?" I panted back.
"God...oh Don, oh God, he was big. So big, Don."
"I want you to suck his cock, L. I want him to fill you up, to stretch you, to take you with his cock. I want you to take all of his big cock inside you and cum."
"He's doing it, Don - fucking me - making me cum, with his beautiful - big - cock..."
In the end, he was there in the room with her all along. The onlookers from the street below couldn't see or hear him though - only L could do that. As I listened to her rave about his astonishing skill as a lover and his impossibly huge cock, I did my best to try not to be "average", probably failed, but hoped L never noticed.
Don
