Humiliated in Haiti

by neff trebor

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, NonConsensual, Reluctant, Coercion, Heterosexual, Wimp Husband, Cuckold, Wife Watching, MaleDom, Humiliation, White Couple, Black Male, Oral Sex, Size, .

Desc: Fiction Sex Story: Jenny is unwittingly used as a pawn by her husband, who wants to get his hands on the formula for creating a zombie. He gets caught and she pays the price in the bargain for their freedom

Jenny Marie Stevens was apprehensive as their boat skidded to shore. They had ridden in a small boat from Cordillera Central in the Dominican Republic down the Aribonite River through the Artibonite Valley to Gonaives, on the coast of Haiti.

They had taken the longer less conspicuous route rather than just fly in and attract suspicions of why they were there. Joe, Jenny's husband, did not want to have to answer any more questions than needed.

His wife, Jenny had been active for many years in the Red Cross helping to relocate homeless orphans and getting them adopted into better homes. It was kind of a waste of her talents as Joe saw it. His beautiful wife had done well in college sports and academics. She had gone through on a track scholarship and was smart enough to have gone through on a music scholarship. She was a late bloomer and had grown up through high school with a lack of self esteem.

She had met Joe by taking some elective classes she needed to get her degree. She had taken lots of music and art classes and had decided to take something she knew little about. Joe was a professor in Forensic Social Anthropology; trying to study and analyze how different societies act the way they do, and the similarities between vastly separated societies.

On this trip, Joe was taking advantage of Jenny's long-standing activities within the Haitian Society. He had a longstanding fascination with the Voodoo concept of Zombies. He had read the "Serpent and the Rainbow," seen the film, Zora Neale Hurston's story about Felicia Felix-Mentor, the Zombie, and also talked to Wade Davis, the Harvard ethnobotanist about his book.

Joe was convinced there was something there, but discussions with Jenny had ended ugly whenever he brought it up. She insisted there was nothing to it. Joe insisted on coming along with her on this trip to help her.

His lab assistant, Marcel Devereux had volunteered to help also. He had a good understanding of several of the local dialects and might make their trip a little easier.

Approximately 95% of the population speaks Haitian Creole, which is a blend of French, Spanish, Portuguese, English, and some African languages.

Nobody thought to ask Marcel how it came to be that he spoke Haitian Creole. They just assumed he must have learned Creole in New Orleans, which is also where they assumed he grew up.

When they got off the pitifully little boat, It was mid-afternoon, and Caribbean hot. The porter whisked up their backpacks as they took our first steps over the bridge into the city. A white jeep emblazoned with the blue hotel logo waited on the other side. They hopped in and watched Haiti unfold from their passenger windows.

Motorcycles, often heavy laden and carrying more than one rider, are common means of transportation in that area.

The sheer volume of people milling about the streets impressed the group. Each turn produced new and overwhelming sights. Motorcycles whizzed by carrying whole families, a woman in red sat beneath an enormous tree selling used clothing, brightly colored God-invoking phrases lined the sides of well-ornamented buses.

It was amusing to see small reminders of home. Within seconds of one another a boy and a man each walked by with t-shirts that read, "Ormond Beach Elementary," and "I heart Orlando Regional Medical Center," both cities they had visited recently.

Everywhere they turned, someone wore a t-shirt completely disconnected from the Haitian reality, "I'm so Brave I Vacation in Detroit" and "Seattle Supersonics Fan." Jenny explained that there is a huge influx of used clothing into Haiti, which is why most people are decently dressed despite the poverty that plagues the country.

They drove down the recently paved main road. It was unveiled a month ago to joyous fanfare. New roads bring progress, a means with which to get goods to market. It was once nearly impossible to get from Port-Au-Prince to Ouianaminthe. One leg of the road, which now only takes 40 minutes, used to take a stomach-lurching, back-twisting, head-lashing four hours. Road conditions in Haiti dictate economic growth. Increased traveling ease also means increased trade possibilities.

Jenny and Joe checked into a modest room on the top floor of the Roubidoux. Marcel had a room next to them. Jenny set her back pack on the stand next to the dresser holding the T.V as a couple of green lizards scurried up the wall over to the sliding screen door to the outside balcony. It was sweltering and Jenny could hardly wait to put on her swimming suit and beach dress.

She wasn't quite ready to lounge in the pool, but it was a way to beat the heat. Jenny looked right at home, with her bronzed complexion. Joe, on the other hand, looked like the typical 60 year-old college professor that he was. A little paunch, no tan, balding head and thong slippers that flapped when he walked.

There was a knock on the door. Jenny went to open it and was a little stunned at what she saw. It was the first time she had seen Marcel in casual, or beach clothes. She had known he was tall, but never dreamed he was so athletic looking.

He stood there, with a button-front oxford cloth shirt; unbuttoned, and some form-fitting boxer-type spandex swimming shorts on. His leather thong slippers almost looked too small for his size 12 pigeon toed feet. She knew in the back of her mind that he was slender and athletic, but she tried not to stare at the rippling muscles of his abdomen. She could tell his biceps were just as well defined as the rest of what she could see.

"Bonswa" the almost naked black savage said with a big smile and outstretched arms. Jenny smiled weakly and opened the door to let him in. Her husband was a pitiful sight when he emerged, with his slight paunch pushing the sides of his unbuttoned aloha shirt open and his milky white legs poking out of the bottom of his Bermudas. Joe pushed some dark glasses up on his nose as he reached for a beach towel.

"Let's go see how the pool looks." He said as he started out the door. Marcel followed as Jenny closed the door behind her. She was too embarrassed with her husband to walk beside him. Marcel waited as Jenny closed the door. He stood back to let her walk in front of him. He was determined to watch this middle aged woman whom he had never seen in anything other than denim Levis and a man's oxford cloth button-down long sleeved shirt.

Her little sun dress did little to cover her long legs. The green, almost transparent garment barely covered her butt. That was okay. Her splendidly long legs tensed and rippled as she clip clopped in front of him in medium height cork sandals. Her long reddish brown fishtail braid bounced back and forth with each step she took. Jenny had the feeling his eyes were burning through her skimpy one-piece suit. She wondered now whether she should have brought something else a little more modest.

The suit was not a bikini; thank god for that. The top was not cut outlandishly low, but the sides of her suit were cut quite a bit higher than she realized before she had put it on. She did not know they would have any company when she bought it.

They went down to the pool and flipped their beach towels down on the pool chairs. Jenny adjusted hers so she was almost sitting up on the full-length chair. Joe laid his out so he was laying down flat. He rubbed himself down with r-80 sun tan lotion.

Marcel didn't need any. Jenny pulled about an R-10 tube out of her beach bag and nervously started rubbing it into her legs. She wasn't really quite sure what Marcel and Joe were talking about. She was too engrossed in trying to hide her nervousness of being almost naked in front of this French-Creole speaking monster in front of her. His 6'-6" frame seemed to block out the sun as he sat next to her on the next beach chair.

Jenny's breath almost stopped when he moved over onto her chair and took the tube from her. He never lost a beat in his conversation with Joe as he began rubbing the lotion on her back. Jenny was too stunned with his closeness to register any protest. He was doing it right in front of her husband, wasn't he? Why should she be nervous about that? Soon he was done with her back. His massive hands moved down to her legs; rubbing it on the bottom of her feet. "You can get sunburned on your soles too" he chuckled. Joe peeked over when the conversation shifted to Jenny.

Joe seemed to chuckle a little as he laid his head back down and adjusted his dark glasses. Jenny's heart seemed to skip a little as he moved his hands up her ankles. He resumed his conversation with Joe as he paused to add more lotion to her legs. If he had just added it to his hands, Jenny might have been able to assume it would stop at mid thigh. Instead, she felt the cool liquid being applied from the base of her ankle all the way up to the crack of her ass. It was cold. The lotion was cold and the implication of where his hands were going to go to rub it in startled her.

"What should she do?" her mind screamed as she felt the massive fingers rubbing the oil into her. Marcel rubbed; he massaged her legs until the ointment was gone, inching slowly up.

Finally, his hands were inching up within millimeters of the juncture of her legs; creeping up between them. Her face turned red as she felt his hands pull her legs apart. Her cheeks burned as he massaged her inner thighs.

"Okay, Miss Stevens. Turn over so I can get the front." He said as he slid the zipper down her back so innocently between sentences with her husband. Jenny didn't know what to do, and felt powerless to resist as his hands helped her turn over so she was on her back. She couldn't struggle much as she desperately held the top against herself as he turned her over.

.... There is more of this story ...

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