I'm still not sure why Shiann said yes when I asked her to marry me. I was smitten, entranced, head-over-heels. She was cool, emotionally distant, self-absorbed. I thought she was hiding her true emotions from me, masking vulnerabilities. She enjoyed the things we did together during our three-month courtship, at least she seemed to enjoy them.
After all, my inheritance and my family connections got us into the most exclusive clubs, got us reservations at the restaurants with the longest waiting lists, took us on weekend getaways to exotic locations on a moment's notice.
I clothed her gorgeous body in Versace, Manolo Blahnik, Hermes ... and scented her with Guerlain, and bejeweled her with Tiffany's. But all that was nothing new to her. She had been born into comfort. Not wealth, like my family, but her parents had been able to afford private schools and in their social circles, she had always been at the top of the food chain. She wanted to climb still higher, though, and for that she thought she had to act even more elitist than the truly elite.
I guess I took her enjoyment of our whirlwind courtship as a proxy for her feelings for me. As we approached our fifth anniversary, and we unpacked our bags at the exclusive Jamaican resort, I wondered if she really ever loved me. I wonder if she really even knew me.
As she stood in front of the big mirror and appreciated her gorgeous figure--5'2" beautiful, natural 36D breasts on a trim, well-shaped 114 pound body. The pornstar Natasha Nice could be my wife's body double, a fact I have enjoyed on many an evening when my wife has denied me marital rights. I would imagine the men in the videos were violating my wife's ass and mouth, and pumping her pussy full of their cum, and furiously stroke myself to a spattering climax.
My own wife never allowed me to penetrate her unless I wore a condom, and never in any way except vaginally in the standard missionary position. Again, she thought it was part of the deal for a woman of her status. She thought that was the way that high society women had sex.
As I stared at her, I thought again as I had so many times before that she is every man's dream, and in many ways she was still just a dream to me.
The bellboy, a local boy of about 16 years, six feet tall with a nervous skinniness that made him seem smaller in stature, was still bringing in the bags and helping me unpack when my beautiful auburn haired wife started to prepare for our first beach excursion. She had worn a plain dark blue shift dress on the flight down from New York; paired with leather, summer low-heeled sandals it was an unusually practical outfit for her. She usually dressed to impress.
Don't get me wrong, she paired it with make-up done to perfection, hair pulled back in a ponytail that was carefully engineered to look carelessly gorgeous, "casual" jewelry that cost more than most people's dress jewelry, and a spritz of $800-a-bottle perfume. But still, for her, the overall effect was very laid-back.
The deferential young man was still helping me to hang her selection of evening dresses, sundresses and beach cover-ups—enough to last a month even though we only planned to stay a week—in the spacious walk-in closet when my wife, admiring herself in the large mirror over the dresser, took off all her spangley casual bracelets and necklaces, slipped off her shoes and untied her hair. She stood there combing out the flowing locks, where she could have easily seen us both in the reflection, standing in silent attention behind her. Instead all the while she managed to avoid even the briefest eye contact or provide the slightest acknowledgement of the presence of her audience.
When she seemed satisfied with her hair she reached behind her back to try to grab the zipper at the nick of the short dress. "Honey?" she called in my direction, again, without looking at me.
I stepped out of the closet and helped her start the zipper. "You sure you don't want to wait a bit to change, at least until we are alone?" I whispered in her ear.
"It's getting late, honey. We need to get ready if we're getting any beach time today before dinner." She finished drawing the zipper down to the center of her back and shrugged off one armless shoulder of the dress, then the other.
Still without having acknowledged either of us she let the discarded garment drop to the floor, exposing her matching "Winnie" bra and brief from Agent Provocateur. The sheer navy tulle with silk embroidered dots did nothing to hide her dark, erect nipples or the cleft of her perfect ass. She repositioned her breasts in the soft fabric of the cups, and ran her fingertips inside the leg openings to smooth the panties over her ass.
If I didn't know better, I would have thought she was oblivious to the effect she was having on the young bellman and me. But I did know better. Her remote affect, seemingly unaware, was really judiciously planned and rehearsed to wrap every man in her presence tightly and permanently around her carefully manicured fingers. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, happy with the crackling sexual power she had released into the room, and fully conscious of my own weakness as she toyed with my jealousy and affection yet again.
She turned and breezed into the walk-in closet right next to the tall, flustered boy, with a quick "pick that up" cast over her shoulder instructing me to collect her dress from the floor. Her collection of swimwear hung on clip hangars directly behind him.
She walked right through him, brazenly brushing her firm breasts against the rough canvas of his shirt, as he nearly tripped over himself and her open travel trunk trying to avoid contact. Flipping through the collection of Eres, Parah, Agent Provocateur (her favorite brand) and La Perla, she finally settled on the V-i-X "Betsey," a black and white bandeau and a side tie bikini bottom.
The boy had just finished hanging the last of her evening wear, and closed her trunk as she completed her selection. He was trying to chart a course past her and the trunk to the closet door when she reached up and without a moment's consideration of her surroundings or her audience, unsnapped the clasp of her sheer bra. She brushed the straps casually off her shoulders and the expensive lingerie dropped to the floor right at his feet. I could see a bead of sweat form on his forehead as he contemplated her exquisite, topless form. I could also see a bulge developing in the front of his shorts.
His eyes darted to me, almost pleading for a way out. She, on the other hand, was utterly in control. She blocked his path without acknowledging that he was even in the increasingly confined spaced with her. Before he could react, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and unceremoniously dropped them to the floor, kicking them of with her foot so that they landed on his brown leather loafers. The practically weightless garment had glued him solidly in his place. He couldn't move without disturbing it, and he hardly dared to breathe for fear he would break the spell she had him under.
She reached back and rested her hands on the shelf of her naked ass, just below the dimples, and jiggled the firm globes of tanned flesh saucily as she reconsidered her bikini selection. Her breasts bobbed with the motion of her arms, and in the only hint she gave of self-awareness, her nipples hardened to pert little points.
She murmured acceptance of her own decision and picked the tiny swimsuit off the hangar, turning to place it on the trunk behind her, and right next to the hyperventilating bellman. Now he had a perfect full frontal view of my wife's shaved pussy, her crinkled, dark, inner lips pendant and visible between her smooth thighs as she slid one foot, then the other into the leg openings of the tiny bikini.
And just like that, my wife's sex was no longer visible to the boy. She bent forward and rested her round breasts into the cups of the bandeau top, wiggling to settle herself comfortably into the garment. She brought the ends of the tie together and put a bow in them as she stood. She tossed her auburn locks over her shoulder and stepped out of the closet toward me, grabbing a long, white, fringed beach wrap from a hook on the closet door and tying it around her waist as she slipped her sandals back onto her beautiful feet.
I could hear the bellman finally take a deep breath as she strode toward the door of our hotel suite. "Get your trunks on quick; I'll meet you at the pool bar and we'll find a beach."
I watched her swaying hips as she exited and left the two of us, flustered and jittery, unable to believe the amazing vision we had just witnessed. My heart was thumping. No matter how many times my wife twisted my matrimonial emotions—and it happened in various ways, usually far more subtly, over the course of our marriage—it still left me feeling enervated and helpless every time.
"Sorry," I apologized to the bellman, stepping into the closet and handing him a crisp $50. I bent down to collect my wife's discarded lingerie and placed it gently into the hanging "delicates" laundry bag. The scent of her arousal was subtle, mixed with the exotic, perfume, but it was clear to me by the scent and dampness of the silk paned at the crotch of the sheer panties that her show was purely a ploy to satisfy Shiann's personal need for attention.
.... There is more of this story ...
Ma/Fa / Mult / NonConsensual / Reluctant / Blackmail / Lesbian / Heterosexual / Wife Watching / BDSM / DomSub / FemaleDom / Spanking / Humiliation / Gang Bang / Interracial / White Couple / Black Female / Black Male / Oral Sex / Anal Sex / Squirting / Exhibitionism / Voyeurism / Double Penetration /