Chapter One - The Turning Point
Some people like to skydive or go white-water rafting or bungee-jumping. None of these things appeals to me. I get my excitement another way. I just live for the thrill of having a fit, young, black guy between my legs, sliding his long, meaty dick irresistibly inside me.
It's a sensation like no other. By the time the head of his cock is pressing into the entrance of your pussy, you've relinquished all control, just like jumping out of an airplane. You wait, in a mixed state of anticipation and trepidation. Will he slide it in slow, or push in powerfully, or thrust in brutally? If he's a new lover, just how big is he? How much will he stretch you? How deep can he go? And once he's inside you, will he make love to you gently or fuck your brains out? And indeed - how do you
want
him to do it? Just in that moment, not knowing, but wanting - wanting so much - to be full of that thick, dark cock-meat, I can start trembling with excitement. For me, there's no greater thrill. Am I going to whisper 'please be gentle', or croon 'fuck me harder'?
I wasn't always like this. I met my husband at college, and we married before graduation. Both of us did well in our chosen careers, Zac especially. Within five years he'd left his first job, raised some cash to set up on his own - part of it through a remortgage of our home - and made his first million. In those days, Silicon Valley was the place to be, and we rode the tails of the dot-com boom and then weathered the crash that followed pretty well. By the time Ashley came along, when I was just 27, Zac had made twenty million and counting. We could afford for me to put my lucrative law career on hold and start a family.
Life was good. Zac found a lucrative niche in Miami and moved us all to Florida. We had an apartment in Miami, a beach house in Palm Beach and the family home in Boca Raton. Zac had bought himself a Porsche, and I had a gorgeous Mercedes 280SL. Ashley grew up as a typical Sunshine State girl, spending time at the beach, learning to ride and to surf, and taking skiing trips to Aspen. It was only last June that we'd celebrated her eighteenth birthday with a huge party at Palm Beach. I'd returned to work when she was seven, although we didn't need the money. I just wanted to feel useful again, especially when Ashley wanted to go to a boarding school with her friends. With Zac away, sometimes on the West Coast, sometimes in Europe or Japan, it could get lonely at home.
And Zac seemed to be spending more and more time away - but then, I guess, so was I. Then one Friday in April, a couple of years ago, I was driving to the airport to catch a flight to Seattle for a meeting when I got a call from the client to say that the people that we were helping them to sue had agreed to settle out of court, and my services were not required. I had a free day; maybe a free week.
I didn't want to go back to the Boca house and be there, alone, for yet another day, so I headed instead for Palm Beach. It was sunny, and I thought I'd hit the beach. I could start the weekend early, maybe even take a few days off work the next week, enjoy the spring sunshine and try to chill.
When I got to the house, I was surprised to see Zac's Porsche in the drive. He'd told me he was on a business trip to New York. I let myself in quietly, and was also surprised to hear noises from upstairs. By the time I got to the bedroom door, which was half-open, I was no longer surprised to see Zac's secretary Anneke writhing around in our bed. And Zac writhing around in his secretary. He was totally focused on pounding away, and she seemed to be enjoying it. She was making a lot of noise, holding him tightly between her long, skinny legs.
At first, I'd been puzzled, then hurt, then angry. But as a lawyer, you learn to control your emotions. You can't afford an outburst in court when someone says or does something you know to be dishonest or unfair. You have to focus, be logical. Almost cold.
I took my phone from out of my bag and videoed the action for a good minute or two. Zac seemed to be exercising better control than he felt necessary to do with me. Finally, when they both seemed about to come, I stepped into the bedroom.
"Sorry to interrupt, guys. I don't want to spoil your fun, but I just wanted to let you know that I'll be filing the divorce papers when I get back to the office. Carry on." The look on their faces was priceless.
And with that, I turned around and headed back downstairs, into my car, and drove a few blocks to a nice little bar I used to visit with Zac when we spent weekends at the beach. I parked, but before I could get out, it hit me. I was sobbing uncontrollably for a couple of minutes. Everything we'd done together was now in ruins. Sure, I could screw him for a shit-load of money, but what would I tell Ashley? She was away at school, and would be graduating in a few weeks. Would the shock damage her chances of getting good grades? What would I do as a divorcee in her mid-forties? I'd gotten used to being a mother and a wife as well as a lawyer. If my little girl went away to college and I no longer had a husband, I would be all alone for most of the year. And Zac's infidelity spoke volumes for what he thought of me - as a wife and a lover.
Finally, I got back some control. I dried my eyes, tidied my make-up, grabbed my computer and headed into the bar. I ordered a Margarita, sat at a table and opened up the laptop. First, an email to my secretary Emilia, telling her I wouldn't be in for a few days. I needed time to think. Then a note to one of my closest colleagues, Margaret, asking her to start drawing up divorce papers, but to be discreet about it. I explained that I'd caught Zac fucking his skinny young secretary, that I suspected that this may have been happening for some time, and that I wanted to make sure I got the Boca Raton house and a settlement of at least twenty million. I knew Zac was worth over fifty by then, so he could afford it. He could keep the fucking beach house, as it had become the beach house where he did his fucking and I didn't want to go back there anymore.
And then what? I still needed time to recover from the shock, time to think. I wasn't going to spend it at home. For one thing, Zac might decide to come back and try to talk me out of the divorce, and I realized that I wasn't interested. It might be scary, facing life on my own, but I didn't want to remain shackled to a man who I knew had cheated on me at least once, and probably many other times.
I pulled up a browser and started searching for last-minute vacations. There wasn't a lot available, but I found a room in a nice-looking boutique hotel on St Lucia, at a place called Rodney Bay. As they had availability, starting the next day, and the case I'd been working on was now defunct, I felt I could take the whole week off and kick back. There was a flight leaving from Miami in the morning. A half-hour - and another Margarita - later, and I'd booked the whole trip, including taxi transfers to and from the airports at both ends.
I drove back home, selected some things I'd need for a week away and packed efficiently. I watered all the plants and called Maria, our domestic help, to explain that I'd be gone for a week. I then spent some time going through the pockets of Zac's clothes. I found a few interesting receipts, and a pair of thong panties. They didn't look like Zac would wear them. He was many things, but not a cross-dresser.
The cab arrived next morning on time, and I unwound over a drink in the airport lounge, waiting for my flight. I took out a paper notepad - I'd normally use my laptop, but I wanted to get away from that for a week - and wrote 'What next?" at the top of a blank page.
The obvious thing would be to keep on working as a corporate lawyer. But I really wasn't feeling fulfilled by helping large, wealthy organizations screw settlements from little guys who had - often inadvertently - used something resembling some obscure logo or slogan belonging to them. Usually, that trademarked item meant nothing to my client but was a core part of the small outfit's brand. Even a 'cease and desist' outcome would mean expensive re-branding for a small company. I knew one or two corporate bullies who seemed to think it was a sport to seek out little guys who could conceivably have infringed something they thought they owned, and then screw their victim until they'd been driven out of business. When I'd helped them win, it made me feel sick, despite the fees I got paid.
I could just throw in the towel and live off my husband's money. There was plenty of it, and I never really needed to work again. If I decided that I liked St Lucia enough, I could afford to rent an upscale house, live there for the rest of my life, take business-class flights back to see Ashley any time I liked and still have enough to leave a few million for my daughter in my will. But I wasn't the kind to be a beach bum, retire at 45 and do nothing. So many possibilities; but what should I do next?
*****
When we touched down at Hewanorra International Airport (not exactly JFK or Miami), I still hadn't added any new thoughts to my 'What next?' page. It was Saturday morning and the place was busy, but Maurice, my driver, was waiting, and he gave me a potted history of the island and a brief orientation during what could otherwise have been a very tedious 90-minute drive to Rodney Bay. I resolved that, if I should come back again, I would use a helicopter transfer. This was no disrespect to Maurice, who made the journey as pleasant as he could. But the roads! They wind, dip and weave through rain forest, over what was once the caldera of an extinct volcano, through isolated villages and around the edges of small towns. It seems like there's barely a hundred yards of flat land anywhere on the island, and the roads are narrow and increasingly busy, so it's not a fun trip.
But finally, we arrived at Rodney Bay around 3pm. It's not the prettiest of places; a couple of malls specializing in duty free booze and jewelry, a few shops and cafés, and then a long strip of small hotels, bars, restaurants and clubs, heading down to a pleasant beach. My hotel was a quaint, two-story place with an ocean view from the upper rooms. My junior suite was cool, airy, nicely furnished and spacious; everything I needed to just chill out. It had a balcony with a couch and a hanging chair, looking out over the Caribbean. The staff were friendly and smiling, and genuinely seemed to want to make my stay pleasant.
I showered, put on a robe and sat in the hanging chair, pad on my knee, thinking. Apart from the job, there were so many other considerations. Where would I live? Florida had been my home for most of my life, but was I happy with Boca Raton and all the associations there? I had a few friends in the area, but no-one I was really close to. Did I want to be near Ashley? She was in her freshman year at FSU at Tallahassee, but what if she decided to go to the West Coast or maybe to Europe when she graduated? Would she get married? Was I interested in being close to any grandchildren she might have?
Then there was the question of who I would spend the rest of my life with. It wasn't like I was a widow in her seventies. I was a fit and, I thought, still attractive soon-to-be-divorcee in her mid-forties. I enjoyed male company - including in bed - but I now realized that I'd had very little of that over the past few years, either sexually or otherwise. Zac and I had both gotten into a work-focused rut and had let our relationship slide, though I didn't think that was the cause of his infidelity. I suspected that he fucked other women because he found he could. I guess there were times when I also could, perhaps, have seduced someone I'd met at a conference or while working on a case. Looking back, there were definitely a few men I'd found attractive, and one or two who'd flirted with me, but I'd always thought I should stay faithful to my husband, whether that was a good idea or not. It seemed, on balance, to have not been such a great idea after all.
Around six, I decided that I needed a drink, and probably something to eat. My future planning didn't seem to be going anywhere; almost an infinite set of possibilities, but no clear path. Time, I felt, to just switch it all off and sample the island's cuisine. And maybe also get drunk enough to sleep.
