Where S My Bride

Where's My Bride?

[©2010 BY CLINTON09; ALL CHARACTERS OVER THE AGE OF 18; NO EVENTS DESCRIBED ARE TRUE; STORIES HAVE A 'HARDER EDGE' THAN MOST; BE WARNED; HERE BE DRAGONS]

[This story is fictional and is not meant to comment upon any book, real or imagined, that may or may not appear to be cited. It is not implied that any book supplies wrong or mis-information.]

My name is Mark. I am the type of guy you probably hated throughout high school and college. I was the star quarterback in high school and the starting quarterback in college (if not the star). Don't hate me yet? OK...I married the head cheerleader of our high school team who, yes, went on to become head cheerleader at my college. OK, NOW you hate me. That's cool...just get it out of your system. Once you read what happened, you will feel sorry for me...really.

My best girl's name was Heather. She was my first love. They say you should never marry your first love; that she would most likely take you for granted and end up treating you like crap. I never listened to those people...I should have.

It was a picture book wedding after our senior year of college. We were both 21 and, believe this or not, had actually saved ourselves for marriage! No, really. Most guys in high school and college thought I could bag any babe I wanted (true) but they also thought I was balling them by the dozen every weekend. Sadly, that was not the case. As to Heather, it was equally amazing that she was chaste, but husbands and doctors can tell, and everything seemed intact.

The problem started with Heather's best friend, Melissa. Melissa was a 'rules' girl. What is a 'rules girl', you ask? A book was put out by some really bitter women some years back. It told girls and women how to take control of their lives and not let men have the last say. Their 'great advice' (sic) was, for example, that when women were on a train (like BART in the Bay Area), they should put their nose into a book instead of looking around. Presumably, a man would rudely interrupt their reading and introduce themselves. Sure, like that ever happened. Well, Melissa had equally 'good' advice of her own to Heather about 'taking control' of the new marriage. She told Heather that right after the honeymoon night, the next morning, she should head out to the beach and find someone else!!! That was just to show her man that she was not going to be 'chained down'. Sage wisdom for the ages?

Heather and I were booked into the fantastic San Diego hotel right on the Pacific Ocean. Golf, tennis, movie theatre, it had it all, and hopefully, we would be too busy to use any of those facilities.

I had planned on carrying Heather across the threshold into our room, but the bellhop with our luggage (i.e. Heather's luggage, my overnight bag) was there and I felt uncomfortable. So, we settled in, he got us ice and scurried off with a $5 bill (thereafter, their service was really good.) Heather got ready in the 'powder room' while I grabbed a Bud out of the mini-fridge. Well, I grabbed it, then I saw the menu...that beer was $5 like the tip I just gave. Sure, I could afford it, but screw that. I just got ready, like Heather was doing. Of course, being a guy, my 'getting ready' took 45 seconds.

Now remember, we were dedicated and together thru high school and college. We had not fooled around, so this really was our first time. Heather finally emerged and I zoomed up to meet her. I was damned if I wouldn't carry her across some threshold. I picked up that lithe, healthy, perfect petite blonde as she wore a baby doll peignoir made of frilly pink gauze I could pretty much see through. Holding her in my arms, she was an exact copy of Heather Locklear in "Return of the Swamp Thing". Gorgeous nubile blonde nymph, creamy thighs, shapely tanned legs, and the cutest little bare feet. We were seconds away from our marital bed and our first total experience. Talk about revving your engines!

I laid my new wife down and lowered myself to kiss those pouty lips. Running my hands across her chest, I felt her perfect (35D) breasts, her nipples in atomic excitement mode. Running that same arm as far as I could reach, I followed the rolling hill that was her perfect tummy with rippling abs from cheerleader workouts. That was where her nightgown ended. Sheepishly, I was afraid to go further, but I did. I felt the marvelous flat expanse below her navel, the smooth straight blonde beaver fluff that covered her private area, and then the heat of that long dreamt of place.

Once again, this was the first time for both of us. We hopefully were not naïve, but I imagine we weren't very good at it either. Heather was particularly inept or inactive. She basically decided that I would know or figure out everything, so she'd just be there for the ride. So, I did take command. It was pretty hot to get between the smooth, tanned legs of this babe. Only last week she was seen during a football annual highlight reel, the rude ESPN camera work showing her doing a handstand, her skirt down. Now I had gotten on board this goddess and my honest nine inch cock was bearing down on that hymen of hers. With my powerful, blunt cockhead pushing against her sacred virginity, who should call? No, I am not making this up...the room service wanted to remind us that they were closing up in one hour! I felt like ordering tube steak with white sauce and cherry soda to chase it down. As it was I had to restrain myself and thank them. With a manly grunt, in one solid lunge, I proudly introduced myself and Heather to the 'wide world' of sex, her hymen now a part of ancient history.

Heather's eyes welled up with tears (in joy? Pain? She never told me...) Still not being very adept at this thing you call 'love', I grabbed her rock hard behind, pushing myself inside her with my full 9 inches. Showing my naivety, I had no idea about her cycles, her birth control protection or other pertinent questions. This was our first and only honeymoon so I presumed she would not be purposely sterile. With thoughts that this could be starting our family in some sort of picture book 'kodak moment', I pressed up and then downwards with all the force I could find before letting loose a lifetime of seed. You better believe that every part of her presumably unprotected womb received a deluge of my hopefully potent seed. I kept cumming for what seemed like hours, though it probably was only one or two minutes. Still, it was literally a lifetime of frustration and pent-up passion. When I rolled off her, totally spent, the white lava that spewed forth from her opening leaked out in massive waterfalls. The bed was a mess. Was the waiting worth it? Well, nothing is ever what you imagine it to be, but this was close. Imagine, just imagine, saving up your excitement for years, then having the privilege, the right, the honor, of venting it all out in one night, and into the most beautiful and loving place in the world. What, oh, NOW you hate me again? Sorry.

Through all of this, Heather basically was just there. Oh, she gave as good as she got at times, but no initiatives, nothing of hers was attempted or even brought up.

She quietly got up to clean up about 30 minutes after we had finished. She came back fresh as a daisy, resplendent in her Liz Claiborne frills and Joy perfume. With a warm embrace, we settled in for the warmest, most sensual night of rest we had ever had.

The next morning, I was awakened by my new bride. She was laying her day's attire out on the bed. It was a signal moment. Ah, dear Melissa and her personal set of 'rules'!

Seeing her laying out a terry robe, flip flops and a string bikini, I said: "Sweetheart, were we planning to go to the beach first thing, or try out the buffet?"

With the shock of my life, Heather informed me: "our married life is NOT going to be scripted by you. If I need some quality time alone, I will take it. I understand if it leaves you confused, even uncomfortable. You should be understanding and ready to welcome me back after my brief foray alone. I should be back tonight sometime, but don't wait up."

I was so thunderstruck, that my ravishing beauty of a wife should be going out wearing only a risqué string bikini she had never even modeled for me. Worse, she snuck out the door and took out these appliqué's. Melissa told her it would be devilish fun to put some 'cute temporary tattoos' on her so that guys would know she was 'hip and with it'. Melissa had gone to one of those sleazy store fronts in downtown LA and purchased 4 patches, giving them to Heather.

So, here was Heather, new bride, ex-cheerleader and virgin, ready to have a one-time, one-day fling, to show her new husband that she wasn't going to be his housewife/stay at home 'prisoner...that she would dictate the tempo of their lives.

Heather applied the stencil fruit dye tattoos just where she said to, right above her 'bikini zone'. Let's see, there were a cute black "ace of spades", "BBC", some sort of dragon, and a big black letter "Q". She had no idea what any of that was, but Melissa said it would be hilarious and a great conversation starter.

Back in our room, I was still in shock. I threw on some regular clothes and went out in search of her some 15 minutes after her dramatic exit. The hotel building had a long walkway overlooking the ocean, so I had a bird's eye view of the whole scene. A bald guy, maybe 55, had binoculars. I asked him what he was looking at.

He said: "Would you believe: the stars. [No, I wouldn't believe it] Holy shit, get a load of this babe! That bathing suit was drawn on her with only a Magic Marker!"

I said: "Wait a minute! Is that a blonde wearing a brown string bikini, carrying pink flip flops?"

He said: "How did you know that? Do you have a telescope somewhere?"

I said: "No, that's my wife. Look, can I borrow that for a while; I'll take good care of it, I swear!"

He said: "Hell no; this beach is lined with babes. It's the only 'sex life' I have; if you saw my wife back in the room, you'd understand. No, I can never give this up!"

I said: "How about $20 for the day?"

He said: "Sold! Just wipe down the lens and leave it on the doorstep of room 205."

This was painful work, but at least the binoculars were Nikon's, really high quality. I could see Heather and even those odd new markings occasionally covered up by those ridiculously flimsy bikini strings. She sat on a chaise cushion that one of the hotel flunkies had gotten her. Men walked by, eying her, her incredible body on display in that get-up. Funny thing, though. White guys would walk by, their heads on swivels, scoping her out, making mental pictures in their minds to remember when they're huddled in the cold, back east. Black guys, on the other hand, were stopping to talk. Every time, she would lift the bikini string

and start talking about whatever those markings were (OK, if you were wondering, part of Melissa's godforsaken sense of humor, those were all LA gang 'toos, saying she was a blacks only, big cock loving bitch. Some sick joke, considering that Heather had never done it with a black dude and was 'intact' for me just the previous night.)

I had to take a break. This was just too much to take. I went to that breakfast buffet. I choked down some rubber sausage and nuclear reactor made burnt bacon. All the while, I wondered what I would come back to. Next to me were those black Nikon binoculars, sort of like a movie projector that would be showing me this private painful movie.

Getting back to my place on the railing, I saw no one but some seashell gathering kids, a bald white guy with one of those beach metal detectors, and another newlywed couple (though oddly enough, THAT couple were spending their honeymoon together...fancy that.) Where WAS the love of my life?

Quick, what is the worst thing you can imagine? Nuclear war? Thanksgiving at your mother-in-law's? The president being re-elected? How about this: I saw this cabana (tent) set up by the beach. The very strong ocean breeze made the flimsy tent side billow. There, my God, my gorgeous new bride was beneath this black dude, and he wasn't discussing the alarming decline of the Euro. No, he seemed bent on replicating and topping my performance the previous night, between my beautiful blonde ex-cheerleader wife's shapely, tanned, showgirl legs. When she locked her ankles around him and they kissed, I dropped those $400 Nikon binoc's. Fortunately, I had put the leather strap on and they just hit me in the chest...hard. It wasn't nearly the body blow I had just received thru those eyepieces, though. My gorgeous new bride, accepting another man's potent seed. I had played my whole adult life with black and white players; it didn't piss my off any MORE (or less) that the dude was a 'brother'; I'd have been as angry if it were a white dude, an Asian, or an Eskimo.

Now what was I supposed to do now? I noticed that one of those amoral flunkies from the hotel's beach services had offered them and brought them drinks. I was of course delighted that they didn't go thirsty. Saying a few choice words, I dropped the Nikons off at room 205 (with clean lenses) and slinked back to my room. As I closed the door, I noticed that the special "no maid service please—newlyweds!" door hanger had been put on our door. Furious, I balled it up and threw it away, slumping onto 'our marital bed'.

I was stewing in my own juices, as they say, when 25 minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Before I could get up, the door opened. I thought it was my lovely new bride: Jezebel. No, it was the maid! She asked if she could clean the room.

I said: "Sure, why not. What else should I be doing today?"

The maid was a small woman, about 40 years of age. She was clearly wearing a thin gold wedding band. Somehow, I didn't see that. I noticed that in spite of her modest stature, and station in life, she wore her uniform well. This hotel was not run by fools; they hired only Hispanic maids. Not only were they better workers, but unlike other potential maids they could hire, just about every male guest would find Hispanic maids acceptable, even, ahem, hot. To be honest, I was so frustrated about my once and future bride that this maid was looking better and better to me.

I spoke to her briefly. Her English was terrible (or so she pretended?) Ok, I learned Spanish in high school and never forgot it. She was 37, a widow, with two small children she was supporting. She had worked at the hotel for 11 years. As she bent and twisted, changing the bedding, I was ashamed of myself for trying to ex-ray under that flimsy maid's outfit. It wasn't a 'french maid's' outfit, but again, the hotel knew that male visitors would prefer their maids fit, attractive and scantily attired. I knew fitness, having been an athlete for 12 years and dating a female 'bedroom athlete' (my soon to be ex-wife Heather.) Well, from years of long hours of hard work, Lupita (her name) became as solid as a rock, built like a brick sh-thouse.

When she finished, Lupita asked if there was anything else that she could do for me. Really turned on for obvious reasons, I took her hand and said: "Mariposas de Amor" which either told her I was feeling butterflies of love for her, or that I had an STD. She squeezed my hand and smiled, so I guess I said the right words.

You never saw a man pawing away at these huge white plastic buttons as she had on that uniform. It seemed only one minute before we both were on the bed, with me between her short, dark as a good tan, legs, with my angry, steel hard cock, looking to have an affair out of sheer spite. I was clearly out of my mind, but I kissed her warm, pliant, lips. Then I locked my powerful hands around her granite firm-from-honest-work bum. My next act was to pump and pump and pump my very potent seed deep inside Lupita's welcoming, receptive and (I prayed!) fertile vagina. I was so furious at my betrayal today, that I wanted to find something real, something tangible, someone I could trust. I knew nothing of this humble maid, but at that moment, I thought her fertile cunt a much safer place to plant my seed than that treacherous bitch that I just said "I DO" to.

I guess at some point during our sojourn in bed, I let it slip that I was going to work for my wealthy father at his firm. I don't know if my Spanish communicated that I was not the millionaire my dad was, at least not yet. But, a funny thing happened. Lupita got dressed as I slipped under the covers, catching my breath. She left, smiling to me, saying she looked forward to seeing me again. I wasn't sure what that portended for the future. It was noon and Lupita was heading for the commissary where all the dozen maids congregated.

I had fallen asleep after servicing Lupita; I was awakened by the usual scratching on the door and maid service door opening. Another brunette Hispanic maid came in, this time she was 18. This was her 1st year of work at the hotel. Lupita was her mentor/trainer. In broken English, she said that Lupita had told her there was a crazy gringo in my room who was extremely wealthy and loved Latinas.

Some of that was true, I guess. I was about to correct some of her misconceptions when she undid her maid duds. Whereas Lupita was firm, athletic, strong, this young maid (I'm ashamed to admit, I didn't care about her name at this point) was just plain hot. If Kelly Ripa were Hispanic, she'd look exactly like this.

This young woman was already of a mind to do my bidding, so when she was free of her maid's uniform, I only had to point to the center of the bed. When she lifted her oh-so-shapely like-a-good-tan legs up for me, I didn't need a printed invitation to get on board. My cock had only had last night's and today's 'adventures' to judge it by. I had no idea if I could perform again. Well, once again it was sheer anger that drove me onward. This heavenly 18 year old was being serviced by me during the full light of day, and I was delighted to vent my passion deep inside her open, inviting, hopefully fertile, young pussy. Once again, I fell over even more exhausted than after Lupita. This young maid kissed me as I gasped for breath, laughing at my fatigue. In broken Spanish (spanglish?), she told me I better catch my breath, and fast.

Believe it or not, this young beautiful house maid got neatly re-dressed quickly and left. At the doorway was another maid, this one about 31 but even foxier.

My delightful, charming, adventuresome wife chose that precise moment to return. She was kind of, what, surprised, to see a literal line of maids stretching down the hall, all waiting by our door. Heather sat in the chair by the elevator, watching the procession inch forward. She did that for two hours, by which time I had finished with all ten of the maids that came by. Everyone of them, somehow, left that room with a cuntful of potent seed, babymaking sperm.

My wife returned, saying angrily: "Well, you sure had a busy day in my absence, didn't you!"

I retorted: "Sweetheart, after seeing your display under the tent in that cabana by the ocean, anything I did would be regarded as fair and in self-defense."

She said: "Well, I took the 'morning after' pill just to be sure my diaphragm didn't slip up. I take it you were as careful with your 'conquests'?"

I said: "Frankly, I wouldn't mind knocking up one or two of these maids. Some of them are hot, and I bet that NONE of them would start dating on the second day of their marriage. Oh, and now that I can see them, none of the maids had or would ever have, gangsta 'toos like the ones on your hip. I recognize them from the talk I hear in the locker room from the bro's."

Heather looked down at the temporary tattoos. She ran to the bathroom and rinsed them off, almost driving the scrub brush into her abdomen in her desperation to be shed of them. She was thinking of the unbelievable violence that she'd like to do to her former friend Melissa. Gathering her composure, she made the dreaded walk back out to me.