Sun Kissed
Sorry it has been so long. Usual warning applies. This is a hotwife/mild cuckold story. If your version of 'Loving Wives' is romance and monogamy, just move on.
It all started with the job that I didn't particularly want. Everyone said I was crazy for not wanting it. They shook their heads and muttered in an exasperated way about how Tom was being contrary again, being
difficult.
Well fuck them, I thought. They won't be the ones screaming into the tropical night sky having had to sit on rolling conference calls spanning four continents. It was time-zone hell; trapped between one bunch of shithawks going to sleep and another bunch waking up. Still - the island looked a dream. St Martinique was everyone's fantasy of paradise: golden sands as soft as Egyptian cotton; foaming surf and gin-clear water that faded into a sapphire aquamarine to endless horizons; swaying coco-nut trees and verdant mountains of granite that hid quiet glades and cool streams and lagoons. One could not look at the glossy brochure that the company had sent us without imagining yourself propped up by one of the beach-side bars, sipping a cocktail and watching the sunset. Or, in my case, imagining my wife Annabelle sunbathing topless on the extensive balcony, wide as the deck of a ship, of the promised company house. And really, it was this delightful thought that made me sign the papers.
Annabelle - Anna - had that type of skin that bronzed in the sun. While I blistered and burned lobster red, she simply glowed. She is a sun goddess, albeit a short one. Just a shade over five foot tall, she had the proportions of a pin-up model from the fifties - and a million watt smile to match. Her eyes sparkled in an electric blue and her limbs were taut and lithe, supple in the way only a yoga instructor's could be. She was blossoming out of her twenties into a truly head turning specimen. Her fine golden hair, long to her waist, completed the fantasy package.
It was the thought of her, sprawled out on the tanning beds, wearing racy thong bikinis, walking about in floaty summer dresses with acres of flesh on show, that probably convinced me to give it a shot. We were young. We didn't have kids. We were well off. Why not?
Anna and I were a pretty dull couple in reality. We met at a wedding of a mutual friend who was an investment banker. Anna was your typical middle-class, pashmina wearing, posh-totty. She had a good degree from Cambridge but with my hefty wage decided to give up her unfulfilling work as a legal-aid solicitor and pursue her hobbies and help the community. She was the beautiful woman who smiles at you just for catching her eye on the way into the supermarket, or strolling in the park,or as you exit a train. She is always perfectly turned out and always memorable - but is never quite sexy because of how conservatively she dresses, how primly she sits, how controlled and polished her ideas and language are. She was a bit like a schoolteacher, or a nun, in the aura she projected.
The move was as chaotic and hellish as I feared. They lost half the luggage, last seen on route to Australia. There was a problem with Anna's visa and we had to wait for four hours in the airport while a parade of simpletons (each one fatter than the last) came in and asked us the same basic questions. Anna, bless her, managed to prevent me from murder and to charm the petty officals into hurrying along the recitification of their own mistake. She smiled her winning smile, she flipped her long, straight,blonde hair and wriggled her bare shoulders in an adorable way. It worked, and finally the fattest and most frog-like of the St Martinique immigration officers appeared waving a triple stamped form.
The house was something else. Set into the side of a steep hillside, it commanded a panoramic view over a postcard bay. We would spend evenings sat on the balcony, watching the sun dip and ripple across the breaking waves, with the silhouettes of the fishermen's boats bobbing on the sea. The house was surrounded by tropical forest. Our neighbour ran the local rum distillery and gave us free run of his pool.
The country was special. To properly picture St. Martinique you need to think of every tropical island you've seen on TV. Think Neverland and Hawaii, think Jamaica or Fiji in 'The Blue Lagoon', think of Phuket in 'The Beach' - think of all those places and then blow them away for Martinique was superior, and real. Alone for a thousand miles in any direction, blessed with verdant jungle and fertile seas, Martinique was awash with colour and light. Dazzling greens and jewel-like blues painted each vista, each horizon.
Six months passed in a heart-beat. Anna set up some classes and made friends in the witchcrafty way that she has, I worked until my eyes started bleeding and screamed into the tropical night sky when the Norwegians dropped the ball for the third time in a week. Our lives settled into a luxurious but monotonous routine. I would wake before sunset and lift weights on the balcony, then trudge off to work while Anna was still asleep, naked and intertwined in our satin sheets. She would jog, socialise, run her sessions and meet me for sundowner drinks at our favourite bars. I'd work again until the evening then we would read, talk, drink and fuck. We didn't have a TV in those early months so most of our evenings were wine-soaked affairs where I would read a novel listening to the fruit-bats come in to roost at dusk while I would steal glances at Anna propped up on her painting stool, brush in hand, her adorable face tensed up in concentration.
Or she would be practicing her on her harp, her fine fingers echoing the music of the spheres as her legs straddled the eye-wateringly expensive instrument. Thank fuck they hadn't lost that enroute. When she played, her face an adorable mask of concentration, she would look very much like an actual angel and I'd tease her about it. But then my phone would go off and I'd be screaming at some fuckwit once more.
Sometimes I would work out on the small home gym set up I'd installed in a corner of the vast acres of our balcony; duelling mosquitoes as worshiped at my iron shrine. While Anna was the clear and obvious ten in our relationship, I wasn't a complete slouch - I kept in shape and my shoulders were wide and my back straight and strong.
Anna would shop at the local markets, buying fish straight from the nets and fruit straight from the trees. She got to know which sellers had the best mangos, which ones scale and gut the fish for her the fastest. She was supposed to haggle but she never did, and so the market-sellers loved her.
We became comfortable. We had routines and preferred shops. We hung out in expat circles and attended parties and social gatherings. We did charity runs and posted every picture perfect moment on our social media to shock and awe the audience we left at home.
We had plenty of visitors. Everyone jumped at the chance of a visit to an island like St. Martinque with free accommodation. To my dismay, Anna's mother had a prolonged visit, followed by her harridan older sister. When they left it was my best man and then Anna's maid of honour with her three kids. I wasn't devastated when we drove them finally back to the airport.
It wasn't a bad life exactly, it was just that it was essentially what we had been doing back in London, albeit with shit weather and shit views. It started to chafe. The long shadow of monotony crept over us and I felt a hopeless gloom, one amplified by the carefree 'paradise' that surrounded me. It was a potent mix: the boredom, the relaxed holiday feel, the pressure of work and, everywhere, my sexpot wife wearing very little.
I began to dream. As the airconditioning hummed and paradise slept, I dreamt of filth. It was always the same - some stranger and Anna locked in an embrace. Them undressing. Ann sucking his thick, veined, dark-brown cock on the bed as his hand snaked down her body and his fat fingers entered her ass as she moaned and her blue eyes rolled.
I would wake up in a sweat, my cock harder than the granite cliff on which the house was built. I couldn't get over it. The pure vivid realism of the image was astonishing. Each lock of her hair, the look of pure lust, the glistening of his pre-cum, the sounds of her slurping - all of it was as real as cold tiles under my feet. I would wake up with raging hard-ons and found each work day more and more interminable.
Once the idea was planted in my mind it grew like an invasive species, colonising and seizing control in fertile soil of my bored and frustrated brain. Each person I met I imagined paired up with Anna. Each time she left the house I imagined her getting slammed somewhere, while I watched. She started volunteering at the small local school, teaching dance and gymnastics and all I could imagine was the fat, black, sweaty headmaster sliding his cock into her arse with her summer dress pooled up by her hips, her grunts synchronized with the slow clipped sounds of the rotating ceiling fan above his desk.
The pressure felt relentless. We would go to barbeques on the beach and Anna would wear her conservative bikini and a sarong around her waist, a wide brimmed sun-hat framing her wide and open face. She would be laughing and chatting with Jim, our friend who was a diving instructor, or Phillipe, who ran the deep sea fishing charter company, and my mind was ablaze with filth. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't deal with it.
On the plus side, our sex life was suddenly unbelievable. We fucked like Olympic athletes. I came like I was hooked up to the fire-hydrants. Anna was taken aback by the power and ferocity of my ardour, and was also a bit dazed by how frequently I wanted to jump her bones - that frequency being every time we got back into the house. Inevitably, as we lay intertwined one day, covered in sex, in cum, in each others hair and the twisted bedsheets, she asked me about it.
I wriggled and evaded, unwilling to really admit it; she persisted, nestling into the crook of my arm and tracing her hand down my torso to play with my flaccid dick as she slowly kissed my neck. "Come on," she urged between kisses, "tell me - I won't mind."
I froze for a moment. "Fuck it." My cock reared back into life as I took the plunge. "I can't stop thinking about you fucking other men, while I watch." There. Done. Out in the open at last.
The pleasing strokes stopped on my cock and a puzzled, concerned look descended onto her angelic face. Oh shit. I watched, queasy, as Anna sat up and pulled her dressing-gown across her shoulders and bowed her head.
"Is that how little you care?" she nearly croaked, "about our vows?"
