La Rubia Gringa

Not my usual by any means; this is a tale of revenge, and more revenge. There is some sex in it.

As usual, the place names are real, but the characters are entirely fictitious, and any resemblance to any actual person, living, dead or undead, is entirely coincidental. No one under 18 is depicted in this story.

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How many years did I have left? It was pretty hard to say: HIV can be controlled now, but it's expensive as Hell, and health insurance? Shit, I have it now, but didn't for a couple of years after I contracted this disease, not with what my asshole husband did to me. Of course, if it hadn't been for him, I'd never have gotten HIV.

Sure, it was my fault, at least in the beginning, but what he did to me was so out of proportion to what I had done that only a sadist could have come up with it.

My name is Mary, Mary Chatworth, or at least it was. I was married to Pete, a guy I met as a senior at William and Mary. Yeah, I'd slept around some; what coed hasn't? Williamsburg is a pretty little town, kind of a tourist trap, and college life? Heck, lots of well-off guys and girls, mostly handsome guys and pretty girls, and I was one of the pretty girls. Petite at just 5'3, and skinny, with blue eyes, but my most striking feature was my hair, blonde hair, real platinum blonde hair, complete with blonde eyelashes and eyebrows. Heck, I had to use an eyebrow pencil and mascara just to keep my eyes from disappearing completely, but on a campus full of bottle blondes, I stood out.

So, I'd had my share of lovers, simply because I pretty much had my pick of them. Like any girl, I met a lot of guys who were average in the sack, more than a few who were complete duds, and a couple who were absolute sex gods, with a bit bigger than average equipment, though one guy had a full nine inches of man meat to go along with a muscular, ripped bod.

Pete Chatworth wasn't a sex god, but he was decent, a B+ guy in bed, not a C. He was good looking, and on the tall side at 6'1, with a decent bod, even if he hadn't been pumping iron all through college. What he had going mostly for him was that he was real husband material. So many of the guys on campus were just looking for pussy, and while they were fun to be with, marriage material they definitely were not.

But Pete? He was focused on his career following school, getting solid internships for two summers in a row, getting good grades, making the right friends, pledging the right fraternity, really doing everything a guy needed to do to score the best job on graduation. Yeah, his sense of humor was kind of on the subtle side, but he did have one.

I could see myself having babies with him.

A couple of my friends kept nudging me, what did I see in

him?

They thought that Pete was kind of dull, finally conceding that yeah, he might make a good husband, but a girl didn't really need one of those, at least not this early, and predicting that if I really did marry him, I'd be wanting a boyfriend on the side.

Trouble is, they weren't wrong. Pete landed a top-notch engineering job at Newport News Shipbuilding, and I secured one with the city of Hampton public schools. With our combined incomes, we were able to stretch to afford a nice home on the Back River, a home certainly too big for two people, but one into which we could start and grow our family.

We graduated from William and Mary in 2001, and got an apartment just outside of Newport News, over the line into Hampton. It wasn't much, but we knew that it was very temporary, a place to stay while we looked for a house. Then September 11th happened, and the recession started, which sucked for a lot of people, but not for us. As a lot of people lost their jobs, housing prices fell. We both kept our jobs, and had passed our probationary periods. Pete's job required a security clearance, and that meant his wife had to pass as well, so we were both vetted by the FBI. Pete had maintained a perfect credit rating through college, when a lot of kids fuck up, and mine, well let's just say that I had daddy's credit card, not my own, so I didn't mess up either.

The perfect house came up on Adriatic Drive, at the end of Beach Road, one with a boat dock and Grandview Nature Preserve across the canal. The owner had gotten in trouble due to the recession, and had to sell, or just plain get the place foreclosed under his ass, and we snapped it up. Prices were down, and after some negotiation with the bank, he got out from under the mortgage and we were able to get a good one.

Still, despite the fact we'd picked up a waterfront home at a damned good price, it was still a stretch, so Pete and I decided that making babies ought to be put off for a few years. Good thing, that!

Three more years passed, and the economy was doing fairly well, when we started talking about that again. Pete thought that he was ready, but now I wasn't. Why? Because my friends had been right about one thing: good old B+ in the bedroom Pete was still pretty good, but we'd settled into something of a routine. Life was kind of boring, even with me teaching summer school for extra money. While second shift at the shipyard started at 3:00 PM -- and you should see the mad rush as the first shift workers spilled out of the gates! -- Pete was a salaried engineer, and he didn't leave at three; it was pretty rare for him to get home before six.

"Our" hobby was really Pete's hobby: sailing. It was sort of fun, but it was still mostly Pete's fun, and I was just along for the ride. With my pale complexion, I had to slather on the sunscreen, because the sun reflecting off the water meant doubled exposure, and I could lobsterfy in like fifteen minutes if I wasn't careful. We bought a sailboat, used of course, since we had our own dock. It did have a motor, for getting out of the slip and Back River, but we'd cut that once we got out into Chesapeake Bay.

It was Friday, July 23rd, and summer school was wrapping up at noon for the day. Long John, last name of Golden so naturally we called him Long John Silver -- the guy was 6'5 -- came up to me and suggested that hey, it was sunny and hot, and I lived near Grandview, so why don't we head out to Grandview Beach for a couple of hours before my husband got home. I had planned on working on what little base tan I had laying out in our back yard -- the better to avoid getting burned while we were out on the water -- but that was kind of boring, so I said sure, I would.

That was a huge mistake.

You get to Grandview Beach via a nature trail at the end of State park Drive, and Adriatic runs off of State Park. There's a trail, maybe half a mile long, which eventually makes a ninety degree turn to the right and takes you to the beach. The beach is "unimproved," meaning no facilities at all, and the length of the walk to get there means relatively few people.

Well, Grandview isn't officially a nude beach, not by any means, and occasionally the cops patrol it, but if you hike far enough, past the turn to the northwest, past the Point, you'll see people making sure that they don't get tan lines; that was where Long John wanted to go. What the heck, he was carrying the cooler, and I'd never seen a nude beach before. He said that I could keep my bikini on.

You know, if I had any fucking sense, I wouldn't have agreed, but yeah, life was in kind of a rut, and Long John was a great guy and all, so I took the long hike with him. We passed a couple of guys who were just obviously gay, and naked, and I kind of snickered, but John reassured me that there was nothing to worry about, with people being so few and far between.

The one thing about Grandview: the dunes area is covered with scrub, and while there were rumors of people fucking back in the dunes, there were also biting flies that hung out in that scrub; you're better off away from the dunes, close to the water.

That's where we set up, maybe ten feet from the water -- high tide had just passed, so that was the extent of the wet sand -- and settled down. Naturally, John was more than willing to slather the sunscreen on my back, and his big hands felt nice. I had on my orange bikini, which contrasted well with my pale skin, and John, well, John very quickly had no swimsuit at all to contrast with his much deeper tan.

And that's when I discovered that Long John had earned his nickname! Sticking out of his thatch of black hair was a cock that must've been eight or nine inches long, and he wasn't even hard.

"Oh, my God," I said at the sight of that monster. It was darker than the rest of his skin, the way most white guy's cocks are, and his skin was already well tanned, without tan lines. He was circumcised, and, to be honest, if a cock can be said to be pretty, his was. It wasn't the thickest I'd ever seen, but it wasn't skinny, either. It was just, well, impressive. No wonder he liked to show that thing off!

"Do you want this off?" he asked me, touching the back of my bikini top while he was sunscreening me. I hesitated a bit, knowing that I should say no, but I didn't want to say no. I finally got out, "Go ahead," my voice a bit softer than usual.

Of course, while my skin was pale, my tits were even paler, since I hadn't been laying out topless before. There isn't a lot to my tits, as calling them a B cup would be generous, but I did have one thing -- or perhaps I should say two -- going for me, a pair of outrageously puffy pink nipples, nips with enough contrasting color that they really stood out against my milky white tits, nipples that every guy who had ever seen them really, really liked.

That Long John liked them became obvious, as his cock stiffened and started rising up from where it had been laying against his left thigh.

John was a "shower," not a "grower," as his cock didn't get that much bigger as his erection stiffened, but it got even darker red, an almost angry looking purple red, and it was pointing straight up to the sky.

He never asked me if I wanted to take my bottoms off, he just reached over and pulled them off of me. Still, I had to lift my butt off of the beach towel for him to do that, which I guess was consent. The sight of my blonde pubes made him actually gasp.

His gasp actually broke something within me. Even though I'd seen a cock that big before, back in college, I had been virtually mesmerized by John's. You know how women can sometimes look at a man, and just know that he'll be an amazing lover? Well, that was how I saw Long John at that moment. I got absolutely dripping wet, in seconds.

John never asked, and I didn't say anything, but he put his hands on my waist and moved me, moved me up to sitting on my haunches, right into the position I'd be in just before I would have put my leg over him and straddled him, impaling myself on that cock of his. He knew, knew full well, that if I was in that position, it would be up to me to make that final move, and he must've been pretty sure that I'd do it.

I did. I did just what he expected, getting on top of him, and more than just sitting down on that magnificent cock, I took my hand and guided it in. In just the space of a minute I had gotten absolutely dripping wet, and John slid into me easily.

With the configuration of the land, I was on top of John, facing southwest, almost directly into the sun. I had my sunglasses on, which helped, and I put my arms out and hands down, on his chest, and started riding him slowly. It was just fucking amazing.

John's skin was glistening with a sheen of sweat, and I'm sure mine was as well, his a dark tan, mine only slightly so, my tiny tits and hips a bright white in the blazing sun. My hair was down, and John reached up to pull it around me, as though wanting to look at my nipples through a parting screen of my long hair. I could feel the tension in his hips as he would rise slightly, but still strongly, his hips meeting mine as I made the downstroke.

My need was rising in me quickly, and that soon led me to speeding things up. I wasn't slamming up and down hell-for-leather, but it was faster now, just the right speed and friction inside me to get me to the boiling point. I'm not a screamer during sex, but I could hear myself grunting,

ungh, ungh, ungh

, as we were making love.

No, not making love, we were just plain fucking, and it wasn't a case of him fucking me; I was fucking him. I came like a freight train smashing through a car stuck on the tracks.

And John? His hands were on my hips by then, adding force to our fuckfest, and when he saw me coming, he pressed up harder with his hips, his legs straining, his body stiff as a board, as he let loose inside of me.

As we came down from our orgasmic highs, we really didn't say much. Surprisingly, the one thing we didn't do was kiss. I had just fucked a man I had never even kissed! How messed up is that?

The very aptly named Long John helped me to my feet, and we both went into the water to wash off; we were covered with sweat and sex and sand, and cleaning up was necessary. By mid-July the bay water is plenty warm, and we played around a bit, but it wasn't long before I was starting to realize the seriousness of the situation . . . and starting to feel really guilty. I told John that we needed to get back.

Back at our house, with John long gone, I started taking stock of just what I had done. I stripped naked, threw my bikini and cover up long t-shirt, plus my beach towels into the washing machine, and then got in the shower myself. There were surges of hot and cold, as the washer kept taking additional spurts of cold water -- I'd never wash my bikini in hot! -- but I stayed in the shower a good, long time, as though trying to wash the shame away along with the dirt and grime and sunscreen and sex. I knew enough to take the hand-held shower and wash myself out inside as well, so if Pete wanted to make love tonight, he wouldn't be getting sloppy seconds.

It was a couple of hours later that Pete did get home, with the usual Thank-God-It's-Friday smile on his face. I had been puttering around the kitchen for a while now, concentrating on making dinner for my husband, my wonderful husband, as a way of taking my mind off what I had done that afternoon. I had roasted some thick pork chops in the oven, with salt, pepper and olive oil, and made rice and asparagus, plus even some dinner rolls, for a very nice dinner. A chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio -- I guess that pork counts as a white meat, not red -- and it was a nicer dinner than I usually fixed. Pete took a quick shower, and was down for dinner.

Could Pete tell that something was wrong? I thought that I had done pretty well in acting completely normally, and Pete was excited about taking the boat out in the morning. As the evening wore on, his excitement in thinking about sailing turned into excitement in the bedroom as well. I did my absolute best, but it was fortunate that Pete started by eating me, because I knew that I wasn't getting wet as well as I normally do; the guilty feelings I had were getting in the way.

After Pete had tongued me into a couple of climaxes, I had managed to put the memories of Long John Golden out of my mind, and I returned the favor with Pete. I went at it with some gusto, but that was when the feelings returned: as I slurped and slobbered and tried my best to take Pete deep, I couldn't help comparing the seven uncut inches in my mouth to that beautiful, circumcised nine inch purple-headed monster John was packing. How much of John could I get in my mouth, I idly wondered.

While I often brought Pete to climax by giving him head, I didn't that night. Instead, I got up on my knees and, just like this afternoon, threw my leg over the top of a man, took his cock, and guided it into my pussy. Pete was loving it, and I can't say that I blamed him.

Thing is, I wasn't. Oh, it was certainly good enough, but doing the exact same thing with Pete that I had done with John seven hours ago was too much of a reminder. I got off of Pete, got on my hands and knees and told him, "Fuck me, fuck me hard!"

That did the trick! This wasn't the first time I'd made a move like that, but it wasn't all that usual, either. It was something done often enough that it wasn't completely out of character, and infrequently enough to be a real turn-on for my husband. Pete did as he was asked, and really pounded me into submission. My climax was pretty strong, and Pete enjoyed seeing me get off as much as he enjoys his own climax.

Saturday morning began with the sun rising in a deep blue sky, with only a few fluffy white clouds floating above. The forecast called for a slightly cooler day, in the low eighties, with some decent breezes.

Pete was whistling as he packed the cooler with soda and beer -- not too many, because you can get a DUI on a sailboat -- and I grabbed the towels, sunscreen and other stuff. I decided on my navy blue bikini, which is the skimpiest one I own, even though it isn't a thong.

Then I changed my mind. I was going to blow Pete away today, so I kept the blue bikini top on, but pulled off the bottoms, put on a grey cotton thong from my underwear drawer, and pulled my blue jean shorts on over them; I was going to wait until we were out on the water to surprise Pete.

After we got out onto the bay itself, Pete was planning on running close to the wind, which would have taken us to the mouth of the bay and out onto the ocean itself. I pulled off my t-shirt and told him to sunscreen my back first, which he did, and then I shocked him. After he had done my back, I took the SPF 50 from him, pulled off my bikini top, and sunscreened my front, including my tits. Pete got a huge smile on his face with that. Then I shrugged off my Daisy Dukes, and Pete saw the thong I had on underneath, as I put some sunscreen on my ass. I wasn't sure that he'd be much able to handle the boat today!

Well, he was able to handle the boat, and I kept wondering if anybody on the artificial island could see me as we sailed under the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. It didn't seem likely, but I kind of fantasized that I could be seen.

We were past the Bridge-Tunnel when I pulled off my thong, too, and told Pete to heave to. By now I was really worked up, and I told Pete that it was time for him to fuck me, fuck me hard, out here on the boat. I'd never done this before, and to say that Pete was surprised would be an understatement.

Surprised, but also really delighted, and he had his way with me, hard and fast, bending me over the hatch. As I was coming, Pete stuck the tip of his thumb into my ass, which surprised me and intensified everything, and I came like a stick of dynamite. We'd never done anal before, but, out of lust as well as a bit of guilt, I decided -- though I kept it to myself for the time being -- that I was going to ask Pete to fuck me in the ass sometime.

I was an idiot. Yeah, my one afternoon stand with John had been spectacular, with his great cock, the erotic situation, the novelty of fucking on the beach, and the thrill of maybe getting caught. I'm pretty sure that we were seen, from a distance at any rate, and that was mind-blowing. Still, if John had been pretty much of a sex god, Pete wasn't exactly chump change. And who knew; if I screwed John again, maybe it wouldn't be as spectacular as that first time.

I had gotten away with it. I had a wonderful time with John, but, let's face it, the only sensible thing to do was do my best to forget about it, and leave it at what it was, a one-time event. After all, Pete took pretty good care of me in bed, too, and we had a strong, loving, lasting marriage both behind us and ahead of us.

Thing is, I saw John every day at school, and there was no way to forget what had happened, not with him around all the time. He really did want to get together again, but I had kept putting him off.