Before dawn on the sixth and final day of their honeymoon, John lay in bed listening to the soft spray of water far below their window. He could make out conversations in Spanish and the sound of metal scraping on asphalt. He envisioned the ground's crew, dressed in their green shorts and polo shirts with the resort's name written in gold script over the breast pocket, hosing down the pool area, aligning chairs in curved rows along its kidney shape and covering them with the foam pads that are stacked each night in a shed behind the snack bar.
The workers clean the pool area early because vacationers flock from their rooms at daybreak to save the best locations around the pool. Chair hoarding is serious business at the resort, and its mix of competitive intensity and inconsideration gave John a bemused chuckle all week. Each morning he'd look down from the balcony as men and women scurried to and fro, marking territories with a multitude of personal items--books and beach bags, sandals and sneakers, towels and T-shirts--and then meander back into the hotel, presumably for a few more hours of sleep. They'd return later, well rested and ready for another afternoon in the sun, while other guests had been relegated to the second row all morning.
John didn't go to the balcony this morning. He and Heather had been up late. He stayed curled on his side, his eyes closed and the sheet pulled to his chin. With the scent of institutional detergent filling his nostrils, he made a correlation between the chair saving ritual and his own decision early on to ask Heather to marry him. He'd dated her only a year, but that was long enough to know she was the one for him. To John, Heather was that coveted lounge chair by the pool, the one worth getting up early for. Her pledge to wait for marriage before sex didn't dissuade him. He knew a good thing when he saw it; so he did as the chair runners do...he pounced early, marked his territory and waited for his time in the sun.
John uncurled his six foot frame and stretched, the crisp white sheet sounding like a sail in a breeze as he unwrapped and re-wrapped himself in it. He was excited, thinking of the night before, thinking of the sexual firsts he and Heather had accumulated during the week.
Their third day had been a cornucopia of initiations for Heather... swallowing, being exposed on the beach, having anal sex, getting her cute butt spanked, being watched. The list went on and on. He was amazed at how excitedly she'd taken to it all. Now, as he lay in bed on their last morning, day three seemed like a long time ago.
Asking Heather to be his "love slave" had turned out to be a savvy idea on John's part. It provided her with a reason to go wild, and an excuse for doing so. No matter how kinky they got, she could claim she was doing only what her husband wanted her to. They had many adventures over the week, and whenever John asked about the excitement he saw in her, she insisted her pleasure was derived not from satisfying her own needs but from her strong desire to please him.
This sounded good in theory. But when John thought about it, which was many times a day, he saw Heather's rationalizations as half truths. No doubt she liked pleasing him. That much was apparent. But it was also apparent she got off on their adventures as much as he did, and not because of the satisfaction she saw John getting from them.
As he thought back on the week, he realized many of the things they did on day three and beyond happened with very little prodding from him.
He remembered how she'd welcomed him back to their room after his archery class, with the side strings of her bikini pulled high and her inflamed pussy lips making lumps in the suit. She'd scrunched the cups of the top too, letting her breasts practically spill out.
He thought of her standing proudly before the Frisbee players and disrobing down to her see-thru lingerie, her erect nipples clearly showing through her bra. She could have removed her sundress more discreetly sitting on the towel, but she hadn't.
He thought of her spreading her legs and burying her heels in the sand as the voyeur walked by them on the beach. She had spread her legs as he passed without any prompting from John, giving him a view of her thong pulled deep into her gash.
And he remembered her stealing a look at the voyeur when he was hiding in the palm grove, and asking John to come in her mouth when she knew the man was watching. It wasn't until a lengthy and evasive conversation the next day when Heather would finally admit to seeing the man there, which to John validated his point that she hadn't done it for his benefit.
And then there was everything that happened last night, their last in St. John.
John rolled over toward his bride and blinked open his eyes for the first time that morning. Dawn's first light seeped through a crack in the curtains, throwing a dull illumination into the center of the room while leaving the corners of the walls obscured in shadow. He looked at Heather intently, making out the steady rise and fall of the white sheet over her naked form. He listened to her breathing and noted how still she was.
Her dark hair spilled from the pillow like a waterfall. He reached over and trickled his fingers through it ever so gently, not wanting to wake her after a night of doing things to please him. He loved her with all his heart, and found he was comfortable crossing boundaries with her. He wasn't mad at her for the night they shared and he wasn't jealous. He had loved every part of it, especially watching her excitement. When his hand found a spot in her hair that was matted he didn't jerk it away. Instead, his cock began to stir, visualizing how it had become so crusty. He knew he'd want more adventures. He just wanted Heather to be honest about her excitement for them.
He rolled over, away from Heather, his newly sharpened spike carving into the bed as he turned. He pushed his cock into the mattress, remembering night three's dinner conversation, when he'd admitted getting excited watching Heather suck his fingers, pretending it was another man's cock in her mouth. Heather had sipped her wine, turned away and fidgeted in her seat when she heard his admission; she did everything but look at him. Then she reminded him she was his love slave and would do whatever he wanted.
The curious thing for John, the exciting thing, was knowing "love slave day" would be over in just a few hours and she had elected not to mention that.
John continued pushing his cock against the mattress while letting his mind wander ahead to day four...the day he taught Heather to deep throat him. Since sucking him on their wedding night it was evident she had a natural talent. She was enthusiastic and loving, selfless and eager, not shy about body fluids. Best of all, sucking seemed to excite her immensely. Many times while sucking him she'd masturbate, timing her orgasm to his, and sometimes she could even come without touching herself at all.
Day four had been rainy--their only bad weather day--which was okay by them as they each were fried by the sun by that point. John was sitting in a chair in their room by the sliding door leading to the balcony. Heather was on her knees before him, naked, looking up like a puppy wanting a bone.
John put his cock in her mouth and watched Heather take it as far back in her throat as she could. She got about three quarters of it in and waited, hoping her gullet would acclimate to the sensation and open more. When it didn't, John pushed her head down and she gagged.
Heather stayed kneeling with her head hanging as she gathered her senses, her hand gripping the base of his cock as if it was a lifeline. Then she lifted her head and went down on him again, just as devotedly.
