It kind of started going wrong for Annette when Alfredo yanked down his shorts and revealed shaved balls. Chests she understood. Armpits even. All the local men were hairless, deep bronze and lithe; all six packs and sleek muscle. That she understood. But the balls thing. Yeesh.
With a soft creak of raffia, Annette shifted in the "Emmanuelle" chair- which ironically was not that comfortable on a bare bottom - and a Mediterranean breeze rolled across the hotel's private terrace, kissing her nipples taut. Alfredo posed in the sun, naked but for mirror shades; his thick, lacily veined member rigid as a tree trunk and entirely brown. Just like his ass. He must have been swimming butt-naked in the lagoons even before he could walk.
Despite the Hollywood balls, and the dumbass aviators, Annette's mouth watered.
He squeezed his jewels in one meaty fist. "You like," he rumbled.
All things considered, she supposed she did. She hooked her leg over the arm of the chair, lifted her husband's smartphone, and started filming.
#
"Good girl!" Gregor licked his lips at the screen later that afternoon, sitting in the same chair on the terrace. Tinny gasps and moans filled the silence between them and, on the little screen, the back of Alfredo's brillo-pad head nuzzled between Annette's spread thighs.
She was pretty pleased how the video turned out. It wasn't up to Gregor's multi-Oscar winning standards but the light was astonishing and she was still quite buff from filming Wondergirl. Annette was her worst critic, but reckoned she looked as good as she ever did in his movies. Her blonde bob bleached by the sun and her fresh-faced features all sex-blushed. And Alfredo, well, shaven or not, he was...
"Cumshot?" Gregor was already winding it on to the end. Her heart sank. She had tried to do all her husband's favourite hardcore things and had sincerely climaxed three times, each time staring into the camera, panting "Gregor."
"He came twice," she said.
"Twice? Ha!" Gregor's eyes shone, "not every day he gets to fuck a film-star, eh?"
"I don't like that word, darling."
"Nothing wrong with being a film-star- Christ you're not shitting me. The kid cums like the Trevi fountain!"
"He was very keen."
"And look at you girl! He really taste that good?"
"Gregor!"
"I'll take that as a yes."
"Son-of-a-bitch! I didn't do it for... I did it for you." She swiped at the phone and he snatched it away, cackling.
"Doll, I ain't complaining."
"So you forgive me, we're quits, now?"
A soft knock had him heaving his bulk out of the chair. "Room service at fucking last," he gasped, slipping the smartphone into his suit pocket. "You've already eaten, it seems."
"And you believe me now?" She trailed him to the door, ignoring the veiled insult. "That I love you? Not her? Not anyone else?"
Gregor flung open the door and bellowed at a waiting maid, "Couldn't be slower if you..."
The maid was sobbing already and, in one trembling hand, held a knife. "Motherfuckers!" she screeched and lunged at Gregor, he leapt backwards with startling grace. The belligerent woman - black curls crazed and for some reason in stocking feet - charged into their suite. "Where she! Where is whore who fuck my husband! You!" She jabbed at the air. "Fucking Wondergirl! Where it is?"
She clearly didn't care that the hotel's dainty maid's outfit - not to mention her almond-eyed, petite stature - kind of undermined her scariness. Even the knife she brandished was some sort of ornate butter knife. Gregor and Annette had their hands in the air as if it was a shotgun, anyway.
