Chapter XXIII
Ibiza
The children were long asleep by the time Erin arrived through our front door, hauling her case behind her. We kissed, my hands slid around her waist as our tongues interlocked in a passionate embrace.
She changed into her nightie and I poured her a glass of wine; she pulled my trousers down to "check" that I was wearing panties and giggled as her fingers gently stroked my erection through the lacy fabric. "I s'pose you want to hear about my weekend."
She noticed my keenness; our cuckoldry and relationship was founded on the honesty between us. I took a deep breath as she gulped her wine. I made myself comfortable on the sofa, my bare legs stretching on the couch and my head resting by her lap.
She looked down at me, smiled and began.
She had flown out of Liverpool late on Friday afternoon; by the time I was getting ready to attend Michael's Party, she hadn't even touched down on the island of sin. The delays on airline and at the airport had meant she didn't arrive at her hotel until nearly midnight.
Christina had chatted up a waiter in the restaurant they ate, and the two women had hit the town with a small pocket full of Euros and dresses that were scandalously short.
She showed me the pictures on her phone, but she wasn't the only woman flirting with decency; the background of her images were stuffed full with skin and flesh.
I loved the description of Ibiza, and her lips curled into a smile as she recounted her trip to sleazy bar. "So many hands," she giggled, allowing her fingers to dance lightly over my unfettered genitals.
She left the club a couple of hours later with Christina and a lesbian couple: four women drunk on lust and vodka, staggering through the streets to their suite in a large hotel.
Hands gripped my wife's top the moment the door closed and lips became intertwined. She was pushed against the wall, groaning as the rampant lust engulfed them and clothes was wretched from their bodies.
They fucked; Christina's strap-on dildo rammed against Erin's cunt as her orgasms swirled around their debauched lesbian orgy and delivered waves of climaxes.
She recounted her story with two fingers buried in her cunt, detailing every thrust into her slippery pussy as her lips wrapped around another's clitoris.
The pictures taken were sent to me; I remember the twisted array of limbs and lips pressed against genitals clearly. Her eyes glazed as her fingers swirled against her sex, subtly denying my pleasure while she fingered her intimate areas for a delicate hue of arousal.
"They were insatiable. Only two of them but they went on and on and on. I was getting sore when they finished pressing against my G-Spot and forcing me to cum over their naked bodies. They glistened; a sheen of my sex showered them and they loved it. They adored the feeling of wetness against their skin and they looked so sexy. So fucking sexy, I wanted that night to never end. I came so many times like never before."
She grinned as I mewed; she teased me with her long fingers dancing delicately over my cock.
But that night finished late into the morning and as the Sun illuminated the island of sex and sand, her partners slipped into the Ibizerian daytime.
"And then you sent me pictures of my husband being a rampant homo. You sucking some guys cock." Her eyes twinkled as she made me explain about Michael and Sandy and the bet with Billie followed by the gay sex party. Her hand gripped my cock harder; she watched me writhe as my Saturday antics with the gorgeous masseur made her fingers strum her clitoris with fervour.
