A Man of the World

This request came from a gentleman in Spain. He went to the trouble of sending me an extensive plot scheme.

It was a cuck story. And I told him that I didn't write those things. But after thinking about it, I decided I needed to move out of my comfort zone. And of course Lit. has 50,000 examples of the exact same plot if I needed a template. So I thought I would put my spin on it. And thanks for the idea oan17. This one's for you buddy...

Oh - and by the way... I am now officially out of the request business. Like my hero - I had no idea what I was starting and life is way too short. The title is Hemingway's - as usual - DT

*****

OSCAR

Caldetas d'Estrac is a sleepy little Catalonian town 30 minutes north of Barcelona. Irene and I were there to visit a place from my past, which was the Hotel Colon.

I had stayed there back in my younger days. The memories I had were of a dusty old building out of a Carlo Ponti movie, where I spent two weeks on the sun-filled terrace drinking Pernod with a bunch of even dustier Brits.

They tore down the old building in the almost 20 years that have passed. And they replaced it with a new hotel. But the beach was as I remembered it and the sight of Irene in a modest; by her standards, bikini was worth a few days in the sun.

She's an American, like me. But her entire family hails from this region. So her huge huge dark eyes, combined with her thick auburn hair make her look authentically Spanish. Her Catalan origins probably also explain her "Agustina de Aragon" warrior mentality. She is passionate to her core.

Her glory is her face. Her features are so perfect that she doesn't have to enhance them with makeup. And there is also that body. The bikini hugged her perfect round bottom and those dancer's legs are spectacular.

Nonetheless, the first things that any male who isn't totally flaming will notice are her absolutely awe inspiring breasts. Irene has very wide shoulders and a deep chest. But her tits are disproportionately even larger.

Some women would be self-conscious with bouncers that big but they are still very firm. And Irene has no problem corralling her breasts with a scrap of cloth that covers so little of them that the only question is the color of her nipples.

Her boobs are set close together on her chest, which gives her an impressive amount of cleavage in any outfit. The nipples on each of those beauties push out like little fingers. And they would be impossible to disguise. But, since Irene likes attention she encourages them to poke.

Every man's eyes swiveled to watch her as she marched along with her beautiful skin bronzed like a Greek goddess.

We have forged a special bond in our eleven years of marriage. And frankly I have never questioned her loyalty. Skeptics would probably say "yeah right", given that physical package. But you would really have to understand her to know why I give her my implicit trust.

Fundamentally, she is a person of high intelligence with the judgment, maturity and personal integrity that you would expect in a totally well-rounded person.

She is also an incredible sexual being. She was a virgin when I married her; while I have had more lovers than you could count on both hands. Maybe it was that total lack of experience that allowed her to abandon herself so thoroughly on our wedding night.

Of course you would have to be severely autistic if you didn't notice all the male attention focused on her. The bikini was dark blue and her skin is golden brown.

Lying on her back in a beach chair with her top off in the European fashion, her boobs tended to slide off to each side covering part of her upper arm. That kind of bounty probably gets in her way when she is reading. But it does wonders for the male population.

So there was a regular parade of local guys walking back-and-forth past her as she lay there soaking up the hot Mediterranean sun. She knew that they were checking her out, so of course my little exhibitionist had to subtly open her legs a little bit further to make her pose seem MORE alluring.

The move itself was neither particularly slutty, nor even that suggestive. But, the amused glance that she shot me from behind her Bulgaris indicated that she was playing her favorite game, which was winding up the male population.

She has been a dancer her entire life and so she has no issues or inhibitions when it comes to displaying her body. She told me that it gives her great personal satisfaction to make guys stare knowing that her bounty is forever reserved for me and only me. But - seriously??!! The erection she was giving me was almost painful.

~

IRENE

Oscar had it in his head that he wanted to stop at a place up the coast. He had visited there while he was a young man. It wasn't a place where we would normally stay but he said it had a nice beach and that was all it took to convince me.

I love the sun. They say exposure to it causes premature aging but the feeling of it on my mostly naked skin makes me horny - not that I need to be encouraged to have sex.

But somehow making love in the late afternoon with the remnants of the sun tan lotion and sweat still on our bodies has a very basic animal appeal. And I'll worry about the leathery skin in 20 years.

I chose the Bendito Naval because it has less of a tendency to disappear up my butt when I walk. My hips are so wide and my ass is so firm that almost anything I wear tends to ride up into places I would rather not highlight. So even though it costs a lot more, the tailoring on the Bendito Naval ensures that things stay "presentable."

There was a time when I was very shy. I didn't want to be noticed by anybody, let alone be scoped out by every guy on the beach. But that shyness evaporated like the morning dew when the hormones started bubbling. And, over the subsequent six years the thought of male eyes checking out my nubile teen body made me go all warm and liquid inside.

But the thing, or perhaps the correct term is "things", that separated me from the rest of the "nubies" were my breasts. They started growing when I was twelve and basically didn't stop until I was almost nineteen. I hated them at first, since they killed my dream of eventually being a professional dancer. On the other hand, they had other advantages.

The sensation of causing some boy to cum spectacularly in his pants just by letting him squeeze my bra and sweater gave me teenaged delusions of grandeur. I also finally accepted the reality that if there was a scale for horny women I was a "one percenter" in more ways than my wealth.

A lot of women hate sex. Most women tolerate it. Many women even like it. I am in a special category way beyond liking it. I love every aspect of sex, the physicality, and the sounds the sweat pooling in my belly button as I throw my pussy up to meet a penetrating cock and even the smells. I have been that way since puberty.

At first I didn't understand the feelings. Then I was terrified by them. I was brought up Catholic and I remember my middle teen years kneeling and praying for hours to be delivered from this awful "curse". Then, two weeks after my eighteenth birthday I experienced being fucked for the first time.

The boy was nobody and it was a two-minute event. But I was transported to another plane of reality where my skin cleared up and all I could think about was doing it again.

It is an understatement to say that I was a little out of control after that. But, I had too much personal pride to just fuck anybody. So once I had "learned the ropes" - so to speak - I settled down to my one true interest which was using sex to get what I wanted.

Oscar and I met in my early twenties. He had no idea about my sexual history. In fact, I told him that I was a virgin. And he believed that outrageous lie. I made that up because I love him. And he is very rich. More importantly, I understand about the male ego.

In actuality, he wasn't even my twentieth man. But he seemed to want to think that I was "unsullied." And who was I to spoil his delusions. Later, I would have thought that he would have been able to tell that I had a LOT of practice by my performance. But men are eternally naive when it comes to women in general ... And their wives in particular.

For instance, he thought that the eight-year age difference between us was going to be an impediment to our getting together. That record was actually held by my 53-year-old French tutor who I started fucking just a month after my nineteenth birthday.

I thought he was "the one" and needless to say I did very well academically from that point on. He eventually filled me in about his wife, he was French after all. But that experience DID introduce me to the difference between fucking and love. And as a side result I also learned how easy it was to put any man, no matter what his age, under my spell.

Until I met Oscar I never had a concept of what it felt like - or even meant - to give myself totally and exclusively to one man. And I came to love the deep bond we formed. So, putting on a skimpy bathing suit and driving the locals wild is just a pleasant diversion. Especially when the person who you have chosen to actually GIVE that body to is sitting three feet away from you in a beach chair.

~

OSCAR

The group of guys who were sightseeing Irene were part of a collection of locals who were sitting in a pack up the beach. Finally, an older Spanish guy detached himself from that group, came down and politely invited us to a party that night, inland.

I am not a socializer but seeing Irene in an expensive designer gown is always worth whatever painful small-talk I have to endure for the sight. So we made plans to motor out to the party that night in our new convertible Bentley GTC.

Irene's shoulder length dark auburn hair is one of her best features. It is very thick. And it is perfectly styled to frame her beautiful oval face; with her huge compelling "bedroom" eyes. Her hair never seems to need care. In fact, she could probably go through a hurricane and then pat it back into place like.

And she is a totally unaffected wild-thing when it comes to convertibles. So we drove out to the hills by Sant Vincenc with her dressed to the teeth, the top down and her hair blowing in the wind. It was one of those classic Catalonian evenings with the air so soft and sweet smelling you could almost feel it on your skin and red-gold highlights all over the sky.

She was wearing a modest little amber number that probably set me back a couple of thousand dollars. It only showed about a yard of cleavage and emphasized her beautiful full hips and muscled legs. Needless to say it was likely to stop the hearts of every male at the party.

My wife's need to overtly control men is another special feature. I love it when some poor fellow goes gaga over her right there in front of me. And oddly enough it makes me as hard as an iron bar to see her give the guy a little something in return.

If she likes the man she will let hands roam while she is dancing with them. And if the guy is particularly good-looking she will even slip him a little tongue once in a while. She always comes back to me. But watching another guy fall under my wife's spell turns me on.

In fact, I have asked her a number of times if she would be willing to take it a step further; and actually fuck the guy - of course with me there to observe. I am aware that is a sexual kink. But I don't care. Irene loves me and she is an incredible sexual being.

All men are fascinated by female sexuality. We know that a woman will make captivating sexual music if her body is properly played. Nonetheless, the quality of the tune is directly related to the excellence of the instrument. And in that respect Irene has always been a Stradivarius.

So, watching her in the throes of passion would be like listening to a perfect concerto. The fact that I was letting some poor soul find out what it feels like to play my Stradivarius was a huge turn-on for me. I knew that she was mine and mine alone.

She has told me in no uncertain terms that she didn't want to fuck anybody else - PERIOD. But I honestly believe that was because she hadn't found the right guy. Since there were a lot of good looking guys in this afternoon's group - and they would all be at the party - I hoped that tonight might be the night Irene gave me my heart's desire.

Irene is so breathtakingly beautiful that she gets everybody's attention when she enters a room. The host himself rushed over to do the introductions. I met a number of people I would never see again. But one of the women caught my interest.

She was almost as world-class attractive as Irene. But, she was like a photographic negative. Where Irene is short, dark and voluptuous, this woman was tall, fair and lithe. She had very long, thick beautiful sheaf of blond hair that fell down her back almost to her ass.

She also had a killer tan with huge cornflower blue eyes in a round "girl next door" face. More significantly, she had the same kind of sensual mouth as Irene's, which hinted of fires burning somewhere below the surface.

Her body looked like a tennis player's, wide shoulders, long strong legs slim waist and perfectly shaped very tight hips. There was little to speak of in the way of boobs, but what she had was well displayed in a low cut turquoise number.

We had time to talk because Irene was already on the dance floor. You don't marry a dancer and go to parties not expecting her to dance. And I am a terrible dancer, which is probably due to the fact that I hate every aspect of it. So, many years ago we came to an accommodation; she would handle the dancing, and I would handle the standing around and drinking part.

Irene moves tremendously well and she is extremely erotic when she dances. So every male at the party was lining up for the chance to boogey with her. I have to admit that seeing her dancing as sexually as she does has always fed my exhibitionist thoughts. That's because, I want other guys to know first-hand what a truly hot woman my wife is. And my being her one-and-only man is one more proof of my innate superiority.

~

IRENE

I don't know whether I have to dance because it has been an all-consuming part of my life, or whether it was the NEED to move that led me to become a dancer. But the description from a Chorus Line applies, "Lord I'm a dancer and a dancer dances". That urge to move has always been a part of me. So, whenever the music starts I have to dance

I could hear the beat as we walked up the brick inlaid path to the house. The house itself was very impressive. And when it comes to wealth, I am a person who has seen it all. It was built into and along the top of one of the rolling hills that are part of the landscape in Catalonia, two stories of whitewashed and oak beamed exterior, with large rocks forming the foundation.

The windows on the main room of the house, which was to the left of the tiled and terrazzoed vestibule as we entered were floor to ceiling. And they offered astonishing views of the sun, which was just then disappearing in the distance. The music was provided by a professional DJ, through a sound system that must have needed a nearby nuclear plant to power it.

The music was intoxicating and I instantly headed for the middle of the floor arms already over my head, undulating happily from the tips of my fingers, through my body down to my "kicky" 4 inch pumps.

When I dance, I don't select partners as much as they select me. I start out dancing by myself and a guy, or several guys, or even women will just join in. That was the case here. My immediate partner was a very good looking Spanish guy, maybe a couple of years younger than me. He had been part of the group on the beach. He told me that his father, who we had met, was the one who owned the house.

My partner was an incredibly yummy specimen of manhood. More importantly, he was an outstanding dancer. He was very sensitive to the music, fluid and limber and he put a lot of himself into his dancing. And in fact, his wonderful graceful movements were beginning to really turn me on.

I dance to express myself. And if you watch me you will get some idea of my underlying passions. The same is true with men. This fellow moved so smoothly and sensually that I just knew that he would be a marvelous lover.

We danced facing each other and then facing somebody else. A number of guys cut in. But he kept ending up in front of me. I got the impression he was more than a little interested. That was what I was shooting for. Since I had already decided that I was going to fulfill Oscar's fantasy tonight. And it was going to be with this man.

~

OSCAR

From long experience I knew that Irene would not miss a beat for the next 4 or 5 hours. So I had time to kill. Fortunately, there was plenty of good unblended scotch to occupy my time and a beautiful blond woman to partner with.

I might be besotted by my gorgeous wife. But that didn't mean that I couldn't while away the hours with a very pretty lady. And this woman was a stunner, in a healthy, clear-eyed, round faced, college cheerleader, best sorority on campus sort of way.

She was also an American. Her name was Eve. And she had a quirky sense of humor, which actually made the small-talk enjoyable. Plus, the sight of those long beautiful legs, supple hips and tiny round ass was like a faultless vision.

We talked a little bit about our backgrounds. She was from Chicago. She was there with her husband who I had met earlier. I don't throw the term "douchebag" around lightly. But in my humble opinion; if you check the dictionary under the term "asshole" it will say, "see him".

Eve's husband was there to peddle his products to the guy who was hosting the party. I am probably richer than the host. So I don't have to hustle for money. But Eve's husband reeked of desperation.

From the time that we arrived, he had been attached to the older Spanish guy like a limpet. He was laughing uproariously and generally trying to dominate the small talk of the pack of men gathered in a corner of the room.

He had probably been a guard or a linebacker in college. Now he had gone to paunch, with a very short haircut to hide his encroaching male pattern baldness. My new blond friend was obviously embarrassed by his behavior but she kept her end of the conversation up.

She told me that they didn't have kids but she wanted to have one before she turned 35. She was presently Irene's age, 32. She had spent a hitch as a Marine nurse prior to meeting her husband and had risen to the rank of First Lieutenant. She had also done a couple of tours in Afghanistan.

Her ability to prosper in such a foreign and dangerous setting was very impressive. Irene has never been outside of the privileged world that she was born in. But I make my own money in the shady domain of cybersecurity, so my new friend and I had something in common to talk about.

Eve said that she liked the military and she had a few regrets about getting out. But she didn't want to go back to the sandbox any more. After her separation from the service, she had worked at a hospital in Chicago. That's where she had met her husband.

Based on her story he seemed to have bullied, rather than wooed her into marriage. When I asked her whether his brand of aggressive courtship should have told her something about their subsequent life together, she just looked sad.

We had been drinking and chatting for a while when it dawned on me that my little Marine would probably like to dance. They had just begun a slow tune, and although I am spastic on the dance floor I can stand there and shift from foot-to-foot with the best of them.

So I offered and she accepted with a shy ironic "thanks". I glanced around. Her husband was still loudly holding forth with the lights glittering off his sweaty forehead. And Irene was dancing in the middle of the floor with some lucky fellow.