Hotwife Island Complete Collection

by Jewel Geffen

  “We couldn't ask you to go to all that trouble,” Vicky says, shooting a little glower in my direction, as if I'm interfering with something.

  “It would be no trouble,” he says smoothly over our objections. “Please, I insist. Fortune has brought us together. We should seize the moment... and anyway, it will likely be dark out by the time the storm ends. You shouldn't try a journey of that distance after dark. Stay for dinner. You can return in the morning.” He reaches out and clasps her hand in both of his, and her tanned skin looks lily pale against his ebony flesh.

  “Oh...” she says, “alright... If it's really not a bother...”

  He smiles and slowly lifts her fingers to his dark lips. He plants a soft kiss on the back of her hand. “No bother at all.”

  Oh boy.

  Chapter Four

  We spent the next few hours being shown around the endless halls and rooms of Antoine's so-called “summer house.” If this is his vacation home then I can only imagine how immense his regular house must be, but I don't inquire. I don't contribute much of anything, actually. Vicky and Antoine seem more than comfortable conversing amongst themselves.

  They tell me more than once that I'm looking tired and am more than welcome to have a rest in one of the many sitting rooms or bed chambers about the place. After our day of paddling I'm feeling like a wrung-out dishrag, and a bit of a sleep is extremely tempting. I take one look at the eyes they keeping making at one another, however, and I decide to stick around a little longer.

  Vicky's dried out now and has abandoned her towel. She's walking around the place now in her tiny bikini, bold as anything. What might have not seemed like a big deal on the beach looks totally different here in Antoine's mansion. In this new context it seems unbelievably sexual and inviting.

  Antoine keeps putting his hand on the naked curve of her expose back as he guides us about the place, all the while talking smoothly in that deep and silky voice of his. He's showing off his rare books and collection of Renaissance paintings, but never seems showy or ostentatious about it. It's as if the priceless artifacts had simply appeared in his mansion one day, and he'd had no choice but to learn about them and is now sharing the information as mere trivial, not boastfully.

  The moldering old books and landscapes all look the same to me, and I have to admit that I start to glaze over. Some of that's due to my physical tiredness, certainly, but the truth is that I can't really summon much interest in all this stuff.

  After what feels like hours of aimless wandering while the two of them talk intensely about art and finance and architecture and yoga and all that, Antoine invites us into the wine cellar. “Pick out a bottle,” he tells Vicky.

  Her eyes light up immediately, and she starts wandering through the cool and dimly lit wine cellar. It smells of cedar and alcohol; there are rows upon rows of bottles neatly organized along each wall.

  She touches one bottle, her eyes widening as she reads the label. “Is this...?” she asks, a little breathlessly.

  “Indeed,” he says with a little hint of a smile playing at the corner of his full lips, “you have excellent taste.” He takes the bottle down off the wine rack. “I've been waiting for a special occasion to open it.”

  “I couldn't,” she says, “it's too much.”

  “Nonsense,” he says, “Consider it a reward for your good taste. Not just anybody would have picked such a rare vintage. Most people would go for one of the more well-known bottles. You have a keen eye.”

  “Yes, but-”

  He puts a finger to her lips, “Non, ne parle pas.”

  She looks down, blushing silently. “Merci...”

  I blink dumbly at them. Great, now they're talking French. As if I wasn't already lost enough.

  We come back out of the cellar; Vicky's cradling the bottle as if it's somebody's newborn baby, but it doesn't look all that special to me. There's a little bar in the room above. Antoine sets out three glasses on the counter. Vicky hands him the bottle gingerly and he pops the cork. He's looking her straight in the eye as he sloshes a pour of the dark red liquid into each glass.

  “Victoria, Jason,” he says, and raises his own glass, “to our fortuitous meeting.”

  “Hear, hear,” Vicky murmurs, and takes a little sip.

  I try some. It's got a distinct flavor. I'm not a wine connoisseur or anything, but I can tell this isn't just any old box wine. Whatever delicate flavors might be working on my palate, I couldn't say, but it's good stuff. “Not bad,” I say, and lift my glass for another sip, “what is it?”

  “That's a fifty thousand dollar bottle of wine, Jason,” Vicky hisses under her breath.

  I choke spectacularly, and sputter a few hundred dollars of the dark red stuff down my chin.

  Antoine just smiles calmly, as if amused by some private joke, and he takes a delicate sip.

  “I need to sit down,” I say, feeling suddenly lightheaded. Jesus, there's rich and then there's rich. How much is this guy worth, anyway? I was assuming that my wife was exaggerating when she called him a billionaire.

  “Of course,” he says, and comes out from behind the bar, cradling his own glass in his large dark hand.

  I stagger over to a little settee at the other end of the room and flop into it, holding my glass up so I don't spill any of the precious wine. It seems too precious to drink now, so I just sit there staring at it and marveling. Antoine leans casually against the bar beside Vicky. They make quite a sight, the black billionaire in his finely tailored suit and the blonde yoga instructor in her tiny bikini.

  They look at each other for a long moment, then my wife blushes and turns away, clearing her throat and taking another sip from her glass. “What's through that door?” she asks, nodding at the other end of the room where there stands a high black mahogany door.

  Antoine follows her gaze, then lets out a little laugh, looking half embarrassed. “Ah, yes...” he says. “Art.”

  She leans a little closer, clearly intrigued. “What sort of art?”

  “My... private collection,” he says. “Perhaps you'd like to see?”

  A smile is tugging the sides of my wife's lips despite her efforts to keep a straight expression. “Perhaps I would,” she says.

  He offers her his arm, very gentlemanly, and escorts her across the room. His hand pauses on the door knob. “You're sure?” His brow is cocked daringly.

  She giggles. I can't remember ever hearing my wife giggle, not about anything. “What's the big secret?” she asks.

  He grins, and opened the door.

  She pauses a moment before stepping inside. “Jason?” she asks, a touch reluctantly, if you ask me.

  “Go ahead,” I say, waving them on. The couch feels incredible now that I'm finally off my feet, and I'm not getting up again just look at a bunch more boring paintings.

  The two of them vanish into the room. I hear my wife gasp, and Antoine chuckles.

  “My God,” her voice floats back into the room, “These are all.. yours?”

  “I suppose you could call it a... passion of mine,” he says, his voice a low purr.

  “They're quite... bold,” she said, sounding a little bit stunned at whatever she's looking at.

  “I'll admit to a predilection towards the... female form,” he says, “I am a man who appreciates beauty... when I see it.”

  She gasps. “Mr. Moreau! I... please, my husband...”

  “What about him?”

  Now I'm on my feet and following after, that twisting feeling back in my gut. I step into the room and am immediately floored by what lies before me. The room is filled, floor to ceiling almost, with art. It's of the same fine quality as all the Renaissance paintings I've seen throughout the mansion, but the subject matter here is very different. Each one of the paintings depicts a nude woman.

  The room is a vast array of canvases, each depicting a pale-skinned woman in a state of total undress. Some are reclining, others standing boldly, a few in positions that seems far more sexual in n
ature. Some paintings depict mythological scenes, while others were portraits of women in seventeenth century sitting rooms, others in obviously modern contexts. I've never seen so many immaculately rendered breasts in my life, dozens of the beautiful smooth pale orbs, pink nipples depicted with skillful sweeps of the long-dead artist's brushes.

  The sight of it is so astonishing that I didn't notice right away that Antoine Moreau's arm was looped around my wife's waist, his large black hand holding her naked hip firmly, keeping her body close against his.

  Vicky didn't seem to be fighting it, quite the contrary. She's leaning into him, pressing her nearly naked body against his side as if offering herself in supplication to him. The glass of ludicrously expensive wine sways in her hand. She's only had a few sips, but she seems drunk, tongue tied and swaying.

  Drugged? No, I'd seen the pour, and we were all drinking the same thing. This was something else, and in my heart of hearts I know what it is: pure unadulterated lust. She wants the towering black Frenchman, and she wants him bad.

  I clear my throat aggressively.

  Antoine looks back at me, and his face reveals not a flicker of shame or guilt, and he makes no motion to remove his hand from my wife's skin. “You like my work, Mr. Thomas?” he asks smoothly.

  “Very... nice,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “It's a hobby of mine. I find painting to be quite a relaxing activity.”

  Vicky gasps. “You mean... you painted all of these. But... but they're incredible.”

  He nods modestly. “I'm a mere amateur, in truth, but I like to think I have some skill for it.”

  “Have you ever shown these? I mean... they're really quite good, Antoine. People would pay real money for this kind of work.”

  He laughs. “No amount of money could convince me to part with them. They've far too much... sentimental value to me. Besides, the agreement I've made with the models prohibits me from selling them.”

  There must have been more than a hundred portraits in the room, each one clearly depicting a different woman, though they were all Caucasian and of similar builds, most of them blonde too. Clearly, the artist had a type. A type, I couldn't help but notice, that fit my own wife to a T.

  “Maybe we should be getting to bed?” I say with a little cough.

  “So early?” he asks, “Ah, but I suppose you're tired after your travels today. Let me show you to your room.”

  Vicky tears herself away from the paintings with obvious reluctance, allowing him to take her by the arm and lead her gently towards the door.

  And then we're leaving the room full of nudes and heading out to the hall and up the long winding stair towards the bedroom in which we're going to be sleeping. All the while, his hand is interlaced with hers, and she gives no impression of wanting to let go.

  Chapter Five

  I fall asleep in the huge four-poster bed almost the instant my head hits the goose-feather pillow. I'm exhausted from the day's adventure. I don't even bother changing out of my clothes, which have at least dried out.

  Vicky lies beside me, still wearing her little bikini. The last thing I remember before I fall asleep is the sight of her sitting up in bed beside me, staring up at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression on her face as she caresses the hand which Antoine had been holding.

  And then I'm drifting off into a long and dreamless slumber.

  * * *

  I wake with a start to the sound of thunder crashing outside. The storm is still raging. It seems like it's only getting worse. Who knows how long it's going to keep up, we could be stuck here for a while longer than we'd planned – assuming Antoine Moreau will have us.

  I roll over with a sigh. Little chance he's going to kick us out, if the looks he's been giving Vicky are any indication. I'm a bit shocked at how blatant he's being about the whole thing. He wants my wife, and he's not hiding it.

  To be honest...I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. My gut instinct, of course, is to hate the guy. Who does he think he is, anyway? Rolling in and sweeping her off her feet right in front of me?

  On the other hand... there's that strange feeling I get in my stomach when they're gazing into each other's eyes in front of me, looking like they're just on the verge of starting to do it right there. I couldn't blame her, really, it's not like I'm satisfying her... like she said, she's still in the prime of her sexual years, and she's been having to make do with nothing.

  How can I compete with this gorgeous, rich, intelligent man with his own private freaking island? Not to mention... well, I don't want to traffic in stereotypes or anything like that, but if she really is disappointed by my size, it couldn't hurt that he's a black man. I'll bet he's got a huge cock, probably makes mine look like a pathetic little nothing...

  I roll over, my eyes shut, and I try to picture it: Vicky on all fours with her head thrown back while he fucks her from behind, his huge ebony cock sliding tightly into her little pink slit, her mouth opening in ecstasy as he grabs hold of her hips and thrusts inside her.

  I groan into the pillow as I feel myself getting hard. God, what's wrong with me? I shouldn't be turned on by the thought of Vicky with another man, should I? It should make me angry, furious even. But... it doesn't. It's just making me hard. Harder than I can ever recall getting at the thought of having sex with her myself.

  Maybe... maybe there's a part of me which secretly believes that she deserves better than I can offer. Maybe I want to see her with another man, a... well... superior man. God, what would my friends think of me if they knew what I was thinking? They'd call me a loser beta male, or a cuck.

  A cuck. Cuckold. What did that mean, anyway? A man whose wife went with other men, a man who'd been supplanted.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I even thinking about this shit? And why is it making me so hard?

  I reach over to her side of the bed, not sure what I'm planning to do. There's a little whisper of desire in the back of my mind that's telling me maybe I should try and have sex with her. I know it would be doomed to failure, but maybe this time... Hope springs eternal, after all.

  The bed-sheets are cool and soft beneath my fingers. And empty.

  I open my eyes. Lightning flashes outside, crackling across the sky and illuminating the room with a sudden white flash. The bed is empty. I sit up. Vicky isn't here.

  That little twist in my stomach is back. She's with him.

  No, that was ridiculous. She was probably just going to the bathroom, that was all. Maybe she got hungry and went looking for a snack; maybe she just got restless and decided to go wander around the house. Antoine said we should feel free to poke about – with the exception, he'd said, quite casually, of the east wing, which was where his private apartments were located. What kind of guy has a private apartment inside his own house, anyway? Craziness...

  I sit up and rub my eyes, fighting back a yawn.

  Vicky will be back soon enough, I'm sure. Maybe I should find a bathroom myself, since I'm up. On the other hand... I'm still dead tired.

  I'm about to flop my head back down on the pillow when I see something that makes me sit bolt upright, suddenly wide awake.

  My wife's little bikini lies draped across the back of the chair by the door, and her gauzy shirt in a wispy pile on the seat. For a long time I just stare, not quite comprehending. Vicky's out of the room and she's... naked? Why would she leave the room without any clothes on?

  My erection gives another little throb.

  I picture her walking naked down the lush halls of this mansion, her body on display, to present herself to Antoine Moreau. I imagine him waiting, watching her slow approach with a cool smile on his features. I can see it in my mind, his dark hands sliding over her naked back as he pulls her against himself and presses his lips to hers, and she melts into his arms with a shudder of desire.

  There must be a logical explanation for this. You know, an explanation besides her going off to fuck our host. For the life of me, though, I can't think of
one. I crawl slowly out of bed, my limbs aching a bit, arms sore from the workout they received yesterday. I stand there by the bed, trying to think what I should do.

  Do I go after her? Try to find her somehow in the winding halls of the sprawling mansion? Or do I just... wait? The thought of getting back in bed now is more than I think I could stand. I'd never sleep a wink with all those thoughts swirling around in my head – thoughts of what she might be getting up to.

  But I'm not sure I want to see it for myself if she is making a cuckold out of me. I tell myself that, though my raging hard-on disagrees quite emphatically. If she is having sex with him, at least a part of me does want to see it, has to see. I don't know what I'd do about it, if anything, but I want to see.

  It's strange, I think most husbands who suspected their wives of cheating on them would want to see it just for the sake of having proof of the indiscretion. I wouldn't confront her about it, though, I already know that. I want to see it for my own sake. I realize this with a sense of more than a little shame, but there it is. I can deny it, even to myself, but I know it's true.

  I want to watch her get fucked.

  I slip into my flip-flops, then kick them off again. I'll need to be quiet if I don't want to alert them to my presence. I'll need to be stealthy. My heart starts pounding with a strange sensation of excitement as I slowly turn the doorknob and pull the door open. It swings in with a soft creaking.

  Did it make that same sound when my naked wife slipped out, with a glance back at my sleeping form sprawled on the bed? Was her heart hammering in her breast as loudly as mine is when she slipped out for her midnight rendezvous?

  I poke my head out into the dimly lit hall. Glass sconces glow umber all along the walkway, casting a strange and almost magical glow. I swallow hard and I step quietly out into the hall. The Persian carpet beneath my feet is soft and my steps upon it are utterly silent.

  Now then... where to look?

  I start wandering more or less aimlessly, retracing the path by which Antoine first brought us up to the room. I move silently through the huge empty house for what feels like an eternity but is probably closer to twenty minutes, and I don't see a single trace of a living person in all that while.