Blowjob

Valentine’s Day, 1994. Redondo Beach, California.When I got home from the dealership, my wife, Suzanne, was not there. Instead, there was a note on the kitchen island, written in her girly, flourished handwriting on a monogrammed note card, the ones she used for the thank-you notes after our wedding three years ago.“Happy Valentine’s Day, lovey!” it said. “Your gift is outside by the pool.”She punctuated the note with a saucy lipstick kiss surrounding her name. The card was laying atop a black lace thong. I picked it up and held it to my face, giggling like an excited teenager, expecting to inhale my wife’s unmistakably sexy, girly, pussy aroma.Instead, a jolt went through me; that’s not Suzanne’s perfume … It was Dahlia Divin. I’d never bought that for her and I’d never known her to wear it, but the spicy, racy, hooker-y aroma of Givenchy’s best seller was unmistakable. And it could only mean trouble.“Babydoll?” I called out nervously from the kitchen. No answer. The panties and the perfume had knocked me off guard completely.“Suzanne?” Still no reply as I slowly walked up the grand staircase to our bedroom. Nobody home.OK, let’s just take this at face value, I told myself. So Suzi’s outside, she wants me to fuck her in the hot tub or something. I undressed from my work clothes and grabbed my bathrobe off the back of the master bath door — the one with no belt, of course. I descended the staircase, my big dick dangling sınırsız gaziantep escort out from my parted robe, and went to the wet bar for a bourbon on the rocks. Then I walked out the sunroom door and down the marble staircase to our Olympic-sized pool and spa, and prepared to fuck my wife.Instead, I dropped my rocks glass. It shattered on the marble deck and my mouth hung open in abject terror.“Hello!” Sophie said from the middle of the pool, waving cheerfully at me.Sophie is a Hungarian pornstar and the escort I had been boffing weekly on the regular for the past 10 months. Sophie is the one who wears Dahlia Divin. I gave her a bottle during our Christmas fuck-fest while Suzanne was back home in Baton Rouge with her Mom.“Sophie!” I hissed, trembling. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”“I am Valentine!” Sophie purred, tucking her chin into her shoulder and rubbing her hands along her body the way she would one of the photo sessions at the studio I had quietly opened on Figueroa Street. She was wearing a pink lamé slingshot bikini that only nominally covered her enormous, plastic 34DD tits — the ones I paid for right after she arrived in the U.S. on a camp counselor’s visa. Sophie’s mid-neck length bob was completely wet, but she was still fully made-up, smoky eyes, intoxicating lashes, full, ruby, blowjob lips, nothing running or smearing.Still, gaziantep sınırsız escort bayan the danger was unmistakable. Oh no, my wife didn’t invite Sophie over to fuck me for my Valentine’s present. “Sophie,” I said urgently, throwing off my robe to enter the pool, wearing only my medallions and aviator sunglasses. I took her by the hand urgently. She was actually wearing her goddamn clear plastic stripper heels in the pool, and she wobbled and stumbled as I tried to take her out to safety.“You need to leave now,” I said. “This isn’t safe. Suzanne is my wife, and she might … she might hurt you.”Sophie’s bright expression dropped. She seemed confused more than frightened. “Hurt? But we spend whole day together!”“You … you what?” I said.“We get tan, then we do hairdo, then lunch,” Sophie said. “Then come back and fuck in shower, on bed, in sauna …”“Jesus Fucking Christ!” I exclaimed, exasperated. Sophie stopped in the middle of the shallow end and resisted my pull.“We play cowboy and indian, too!” she giggled. She what?! That was our favorite costumed role-play; Sophie would put on a head-to-toe feathered headdress, I’d wear chaps and a Stetson hat, and she would ride me while a tom-tom drummed ritually over the boom box I’d set by the motel bed. It was now clear that Suzanne knew everything. She must have hired a P.I. or gaziantep sınırsız escort something. I realized I probably wasn’t going to be living in this house after today. If I was living at all.Then Sophie looked over my shoulder and waved. “Hello!” she said brightly. “Hello, Miss Suzanne!”Oh fuck, I thought.Slowly, I turned, and saw my wife — my all-American good girl bride, Miss Photogenic at Miss Louisiana USA 1990, LSU homecoming queen, descend the staircase to the pool, her high heels banging out gunfire on the pink travertine. She was wearing a black, flat brimmed stetson and black leather chaps, with an enormous, metallic gold strap-on dildo dangling beneath their belt. She was wearing nipple clamps and had her hair pulled back tight into a fierce bun.Most threateningly, she was wearing a holster with my .357 — the one I bought after we opened the gentlemen’s club where I met Sophie. Suzanne also carried a bullwhip, coiled up in her left fist. I have to admit; the contrast in how she was dressed and how I had known my beautiful trophy wife up to that point was powerfully erotic.The fear was also pretty fucking real and powerful, too.I positioned myself in front of Sophie as Suzanne strode over to the edge of the pool and stuck her hip out in a devastating, ultra-bitchy pose, looking down her chin at us both. She patted the pearled handle of my revolver. Suzanne could do whatever she wanted to me; Sophie deserved none of this. She would have to kill me first to get to Sophie.“You don’t even know how to shoot that, babydoll,” I said with false bravery. “It weighs more than you.”“It might,” Suzanne said, “if it were loaded.” She snapped open the cylinder and grasped it by the barrel, showing me there was no ammunition inside. Then she tossed it in the pool with a loud ker-ploosh. I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

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