don_jetman
Moderator
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 okay."
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.
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 okay."
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.
