This is a loving wives story, but it has a healthy dollop of exhibitionism, and a lesbian scene inside it. I don't usually publish in Loving Wives. I have two previous stories in the rubric, The Smoker, and The Smoker Returns. Don't worry however: There's no smoking in this story!
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I consider myself to be a lucky man. I'm lucky in my genetic gifts; I'm lucky in my education; I'm lucky in landing a financially rewarding career; and best of all I've been lucky in love.
I'd like to think it was some sort of fabulous feat of mine to land a woman such as Marine, but in reality I know the truth: Like everything else in my life it's just been good luck. Of all the nice things fate has bestowed upon me, nothing compares to Marine.
We met when I was 27 and she was 25. We had both been around the block, and in particular occasionally Marine would refer darkly and always obliquely to her "wild college years." I only gradually learned exactly what she meant, even if right from the beginning I knew it meant that she had been wild in the sexual sense. "Wild" however means different things to different people. I didn't mind, since I was sure I had done worse. I enjoyed a little kink as much as the next guy, maybe more. I was no saint on the sexual front.
Truth be told, I was turned on that she had a past history of being a bit of a slut in college. She had always resisted giving any details, and you know how it is: The imagination is always better than reality anyway. I have a vivid imagination!
I didn't want a slut for a wife. On the other hand, Marine knew more about sex, including kinky sex, than any woman I had ever met. I felt however that she wasn't a true slut, she simply enjoyed a period of being sexually liberated in college, like many coeds do. Now that she was out of college and in the work force, she was just another ordinary gorgeous woman but one who - shall we say - knew her way around a man. She knew her way all around a man, top to bottom, inside and out. I'm a man. It's to my advantage, I should think!
One aspect of Marine that I loved was her exhibitionism. She never spoke of it, but it was clear it was there. Even early on, it was obvious. Her apartment had no curtains, shades, or blinds. All sorts of people could see in. When I went to undress her the first time we got serious, taking off her clothes slowly, one lingering piece at a time, she just kept kissing me and made no move even to douse the lights.
Marine sunk to her knees, now naked except for her panties, and pulled down my pants and briefs. Unlike other woman I had been with, she made no comment on my cock (which is a bit unusual), she just blew on it, and then began to lick the head. She lovingly caressed my cock with her tongue, gradually letting, little by little, more of it into her mouth until her mouth was full. Her hand grabbed the base, and she pumped me with her hand while she caressed me with her tongue. I didn't last long under the intense onslaught of this living incarnation of Aphrodite.
I was not inactive while she was blowing me. I played with her boobs. I simply love her boobs. I've always had a weakness for a woman's boobs, a fetish if you will, and Marine's boobs - for my taste - were perfection itself.
When Marine finished blowing me, and yes, she had swallowed my cum, her phone dinged. She opened it, glanced at a message from some guy named Brian, and she giggled.
"Let me see it," I said.
Marine held the phone to me. It said, '8.9 - 9.4.' I looked at her, incomprehension in my eyes.
"Brian lives across the way. He likes to rate the men I bring home, and how well I please them sexually. You get an 8.9, and I got a 9.4 for the blowjob," she said, and she giggled nervously again. "Brian has binoculars."
Her phone dinged again. It was from another neighbor. Altogether she got four ratings.
"Do you know all of these men?" I asked.
"Of course. They're neighbors. I see them at the farmers' market, and at the shops in the neighborhood, and on the street. They're harmless," she said.
"Have you had sex with them, too?" I asked. Just how much of a slut was she still?
"Oh God no! Heaven forbid! They may be harmless, but they're creeps, don't you think? Peeping on me and watching me have sex? Really!" and then she giggled again.
"Doesn't it embarrass you when you run into the peepers on the street or at the market and you know they've seen you naked and engaged in private, intimate acts?" I asked Marine.
"Oh, honey, you don't understand, do you my sweet? Sure, it embarrasses me, but more importantly it turns me on something fierce. The way they look at me, the way they're in awe of me, even worship me, it turns me on. I love to watch them undress me with their eyes. They know they can't have me, and it makes my panties wet," she said. Marine stopped and looked deeply in my eyes "Oh my goodness! You do get it! You do understand me! And it doesn't bother you?"
"Au contraire, Marine. It gets me hard," I said.
Marine giggled, this time happily. "Mark, you're one in a million."
"The worst are the women peepers. They're judgmental and when I run into them they act as if they want to spit on me. I just smile and say hello and walk away from their negative energy," she said. "Sometimes I can feel their pious judgmental eyes following me too. Then there's the creep who keeps leaving me anonymous notes."
"Anonymous notes?" I asked.
"Yeah, saying things like, 'Slut! Who are you going to fuck today? How about a gangbang?" shit like that. Obviously the creep is an unhappy man, unlucky in love, maybe feeling betrayed byy a woman, and taking it out on me," Marine said.
"What are you doing about it?" I asked.
"I had a wall safe installed, and I put the notes in the safe. When I know who it is I'm going to nail the bastard," she said. Our conversation paused as this news sank in.
"Getting back to the four voyeurs who just rated me, how many other men have your neighbors rated?" I asked.
"Don't worry, Mark. Not that many. My seriously slutty days are forever gone. I'm actually in the market for a man to love, a man who gets me, my perversions and all. But to answer your question, only five or six or so. By the way, you got the highest rating of all of them. My peepers seem to approve of you. That's a good sign," she said. "Now give them all a wave and then kiss me. Do what you will with me. I'm yours tonight."
She was, too. I was hooked.
It took me a while to understand Marine's logic. Once I did, she made sense to me, kind of, even if she was far from being normal, whatever that is. She had even once told each of the peepers that if they were going to continue to peep on her, she wanted ratings. She herself had created this perverted game!
Obviously, she was the girl for me. No question about it.
We married a little more than a year after we met and shortly thereafter my company proposed transferring me to their new outpost in the south of France for around a couple of years. Marine was enthusiastic since her mother was French, she was fluent in French, and she understood the culture on a profound level. To put it simply, she loved France. She used the occasion as an excuse to quit her job, which she had soured on in any event. We moved from New York to the south of France without any regrets.
I worked in the French high-tech industrial park known as Sophia-Antipolis, located in the hills behind Antibes, a charming small town on the French Riviera, in between Nice and Cannes. We found a house to rent in Antibes and we were living the American dream. On the weekends we would go to the beach or drive around the Riviera absorbing the scenery and architecture, visiting museums and famous churches, going to concerts, gambling in Monte Carlo, and for Marine there was always shopping in Cannes.
Once we were settled in France Marine easily found work. She made good use of being bilingual in French and English. She interviewed to work in an English language school on the Riviera, for little children of mostly non-French parents, and she was offered a job as a teacher's aide. She did not have the French credentials to work as a full-fledged teacher. She also spoke, in varying degrees of proficiency, three other languages: German, Spanish, and Italian. This made her highly useful to the school due to her interactions with some of the parents and nannies of the school's children. Marine loves children, so this job was a natural for her.
Before the school year began, in the summer she found seasonal work as a waitress at one of the grand cafés of Juan-les-Pins, a small beach town/playground contiguous to Antibes. Marine makes friends easily, and she made two friends right away at the café she worked at: another waitress, Chantal, and a bartender Pierre. Since Marine's mother is French, there were no issues related to her authorization to work. Avoiding paperwork in France is a big thing.
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I was pleasantly surprised when we went to the beach and I began what I thought would be a long campaign to get Marine to go topless like a few of the French women also sunbathing at the beach. Already she was wearing a little nothing of a string bikini and she looked hot! Her body is flawless and most of it was on display at the beach. I entered into a state of shock when she replied to my request in her sweet little voice saying, "Okay, Mark." She promptly removed her top.
Seeing Marine topless in front of everyone at the beach made me hard, and Marine giggled when she saw what she was doing to me. That night we made love with a passion we had missed of late.
"Have you ever gone topless at the beach before, Marine?" I asked, in our dreamy post coital state. I knew she have done so, since she was so casual when she removed her top. I had expected a little drama.
"Yes, my Mom and I used to vacation here when I was in high school and occasionally when I was in college, too. Both Mom and I went topless at this very beach," Marine said.
"How old were you when you first went topless?" I asked.
"I was fifteen. My boobs developed early, before you ask. A lot of men leered at me, but I didn't mind," she said. I was getting hard.
"Your Mom was okay with you going topless at the beach at age fifteen?" I asked, just a bit incredulous.
