by Jewel Geffen
She takes a delicate bite of some sort of exotic dish topped with fluffy egg whites, and her eyes roll up in rapture. “My God, this is delicious,” she said, “is there anything you can't do?” she laughs.
He chuckles softly. “Oh, may things, I'm sure. What excitement would there be in life if we were not always challenged by the prospect of new challenges and... new opportunities.” His eyes glide over her hungrily.
I help myself to a pile of bacon and sausages and flapjacks. They're welcome to their new challenges. As for myself, I'm content with the comfortably familiar.
“We, um... we talked, Jason and I, about your, uh, your proposal.”
“Oh?” Antoine eats standing up on the opposite side of the bar from us. Now he leans forward and plants his hands firmly on the counter, looking back and forth between the two of us.
“Yeah,” I say, and drizzle a little syrup on my plate. I can feel the blush on my cheeks.
Vicky take over, then trails off, “Yes, we, um...”
Antoine chuckles. “I didn't get where I am in business without having a clear sense of people. That's what it is to make a deal, after all. You see an opportunity which will be mutually beneficial to all parties and, if you've read the other person correctly, you know before you make the proposal what they're going to say.”
“Oh? And what are we going to say?” I ask, and shove some pancake in my mouth.
“You're going to accept. You've already accepted.” He reaches across the bar and he touches Vicky's cheek. She blinks, gazing up at him in a state of flummoxed arousal, like she's not sure how to process the intensity of her desire for him.
“We have,” she says quietly. “There's just one thing...”
Antoine's dark eyes find mine. “He wants to watch.”
“Is that... okay?” she says.
“Of course.” Antoine takes a long drink of fresh-squeezed orange juice, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “I have nothing to hide. I... enjoy the exhibition. Whatever makes the two of you comfortable. Remember what I said the other day. It's my business to facilitate other people's dreams...”
“I just...” she shakes her head, as if trying to clear a spell from her mind, “I just don't entirely get it.”
He sets down the empty glass on the counter-top. There's a building sexual tension in the room, it seems to be growing by the minute until every word and glance feels heavy and charged. “In what sense?”
“Why... me? I mean... you could have anybody.”
He smiles. “Don't sell yourself short, Victoria.” He nods to the closed door behind which his collection of nude paintings resides. “You are a singularly charming and attractive woman, an equal for any of those depicted in there. I knew from the first moment I saw you there in the rain that I wanted you. And, after we spoke some, I knew that you wanted me, and that Jason would be amiable to it, given time to adjust to the idea.”
“So you've been planning this from the beginning?” I ask, shaking my head in wonder.
“Nothing so sinister,” he laughs. “But I know what I want. And I am a man who will do anything to get what he wants,” as he says this his eyes focus once more on Vicky, holding her with such intensity that it's almost intoxicating just to witness it. I can only imagine how it feels to be held by it.
My wife squirms in her seat, trembling with obvious desire.
“I ask only one thing in return,” he continues, slowly coming out from behind the bar to stand over my wife, “that, before you return to your boat... you allow me to paint you.”
Vicky's eyes go wide. “Wait... all those woman in there...?”
Antoine smiles. “Lovemaking, just like painting, is an art which requires constant practice if one is to master the talent.” He reaches down and cups her chin in his powerful hand, lifting her eyes to meet his own.
I take another bite of my breakfast, and wonder how many other husbands have sat where I'm sitting now and watched this man seduce their wives right in front of them. I can only imagine. But the truth is, I've become somewhat seduced myself.
A pregnant silence fills the air between us all for a long moment, then Vicky nods slightly. “O-of course,” she stammers, “I'd be honored.”
“To be painted by me or to make love with me?” he says, his voice quietly amused.
She blushes, “B-both, to be honest...”
He brushes her cheek with his thumb, caressing her and holding her, as gently as if she were a kitten in his hand. “Well then, in that case,” he says, “if everyone has finished eating, I suggest we three retire to my bedroom for substance of a more sensual nature.”
Vicky gulps audibly. I reach out and take her hand to give it a reassuring little squeeze. “Okay,” she says, and together we go, without another word.
Chapter Seven
Antoine's bedroom is huge and lavish. A giant bed stands in the middle of the room, a large mirror suspended from the ceiling overhead. There's a seat at the foot of the bed that seems as if it might be meant for me.
“Please,” he says, crossing the room to a little fridge, “make yourselves comfortable.”
Fat chance of that. I feel a slight edge of panic as I look around the big room. Just get comfortable and watch your wife have sex with a man you've known for less than twenty-four hours. Right, I'll get right on it.
“Drink?” he says, taking out a bottle of chilled white wine. “Something to take the edge off?”
“Yes please,” Vicky says eagerly.
“Yeah, alright,” I put in, and he pours three glasses and passes one to each of us.
There's a low couch in front of the window. He settles himself comfortably into it, then laughs a little and shakes his head. “This is strange,” he says, and takes a sip of his drink.
“How so?” I ask.
“I've done this so many times... but never like this.”
“How do you mean?”
He seems to search for the words a moment. “You've just... appeared here. As if out of nowhere. I'm not used to that. Usually this sort of thing is arranged ahead of time. I so rarely have such... unguarded interactions with other people.”
“How do you mean?” Vicky asks, cradling her wine glass in her hands and biting her lip as she nervously prowls the edges of the room.
“Well, I'm sure you can imagine, being as wealthy as I am has its disadvantages. I'm not complaining or anything, but... it does tend to isolate you. This has been a... purer experience of seduction than I'm used to. Now that we're here, I'm almost...” he laughs, and takes another drink.
“Maybe I can help,” Vicky says, and she sets her glass aside, then slips the robe off her shoulders. It falls softly to the floor.
Antoine and I stare breathlessly at her, enraptured as she comes across the room. Her incredibly toned and fit body looks unbelievably good here amid the opulence and luxury of the billionaire's room. Her bottom twitches from side to side, hips rocking sensually with every step. Her high breasts are full and perky, the luscious orbs beautiful and soft as anything. She stands over him, legs apart just a little, and she grins down.
“That does help, I think,” he says, a bit sardonically.
Vicky takes the glass from his hands and lifts it slowly to her lips. I watch wordlessly as she throws her head back and swallows every last drop of the chilled white wine. Then, the glass drained, she gets slowly to her knees and takes hold of Antoine's belt.
She pulls the end slowly out of the loops and unhitches it, then gives it a long smooth tug until it comes free of his pants. My breath catches in my throat as I listen to the sound of the button popping open and the zipper being pulled down. She groans with satisfaction as she reaches into his silk boxers and withdraws the huge black length of his manhood.
My wife starts to stroke the massive black cock with both hands, working it with long motions up and down. I can hear the slight wet sound as a bead of precum squeezes out the ebony tip and drips down. She leans forward and gives it a playful lick.
Antoine groans softly, and then he looks up and his eyes meet mine as he takes hold of my wife's head, his huge black hands sliding into her thick blonde hair as he guides her downward and puts her mouth onto his cock.
All I can do is look back, mouth dry and lips parted as I stare at the scene playing out in front of me. Our eyes are locked together as he uses my wife's mouth, almost casually, to pleasure himself, guiding her motions and sliding his hips against her face.
I can't even remember the last time my wife gave me a blowjob, a real blowjob and not just a little tease like the other night. She never wanted to risk wasting one of my rare erections on oral when she could have been fucking it instead. Somehow I doubt that's going to be a problem for Antoine; he looks like he could fuck for hours without stopping, if not longer.
“That's so good, Victoria,” he says, his eyes still locked with mine, “I love feeling your sweet little mouth on my cock.”
She moans, and he pushes her further down, so far that she starts to gag slightly. I can hardly believe she's letting him do that to her. What is it about him that has reduced her to this state of total sexual submission? She's practically choking on the massive black cock, but she's making no effort to struggle or loosen her grip.
He interlocks his fingers, and pulls her against him, burying the entirety of his cock inside her mouth. It must be halfway down her throat now. I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. My dick is rock hard in my trunks. It's hard to resist the impulse to take it out and start stroking myself.
He lets her up and she comes off him gasping and panting, saliva running down her chin and dripping onto her breasts. I can see a trail of the shining liquid running down over her perky pink nipple as she stares up at the black man fucking her mouth.
“You like sucking my cock, don't you?” he asks, his deep voice smooth and cool, completely controlled.
“Yes,” she whimpers, practically squirming with agonized desire.
“More than your husband's, isn't that right?”
“So much,” she murmurs, “it's so much better...”
He pushes her head back down. “That's a good girl,” he says.
My cock is sticking straight up in my trunks now, stiff as a masthead. Antoine and I are still looking at one another. There's a strange kind of intimacy between us, a connection running from him through Vicky and into me that binds us strangely together. She's slobbering hungrily on him, licking and slurping and sucking desperately, groaning slightly while he and I look at one another – eye level while she kneels on the floor.
I'm torn between jealousy and arousal in a strange and enthralling combination that feels somehow more intense than any sexual experience I can imagine or remember.
I was nineteen the first time I had sex. Jenny Smith; she was a real cute little thing. I'd hardly been able to believe it when she agreed to go out with me. She'd just broken up with her longtime boyfriend, Kirk Wilde, a hulking football star and practically a local celebrity. I was her rebound, her shoulder to cry on. And then, all of a sudden, she was taking off her clothes and kissing me. I remember how good it was, the sweet feeling of her pussy lips sliding over my hard little thing, the warmth of her body as her legs wrapped around my waist, the taste of her lips against mine. But I also remember a strange sort of... dissatisfaction. A feeling of the experience being somehow incomplete. The thing I remember far more clearly happened a few days later.
It was a total accident, I was stopping by her house to give her a present for Valentine's Day, a rose and box of chocolates that I'd bought at the corner store. I was stupid, or maybe just naive, and thought that we were forever, Jenny and I. I thought she was mine.
I came in quietly, without any prior warning, my gifts hidden behind my back, and I crept up to her bedroom. Her parents were both out and I knew that her little sister would be at band practice, so I was thinking that maybe we would have a repeat of our earlier tryst. It was a faint hope, maybe, but I was crossing my fingers.
Then I'd heard her voice as I came slowly up the stairs towards her bedroom. The door was open a crack, and I heard her moaning softly, and the telltale squeaking of the bedsprings. I don't know why, but I decided not to call out, but instead crept up the steps without a word. Maybe I thought I was going to surprise her or something.
That's when I heard Kirke Wilde's voice. “This'll teach you, you little slut,” he was saying, his voice a deep growl, “this is what you want, isn't that right?”
“Yes sir!” she'd moaned, “I want it so bad!”
“And you're not gonna cheat on me again, are you?” he grunted.
“No, sir...” she gasped.
“I still can't believe you went with that little twerp. He have a big cock, Jenny? Is that why you did it?”
“No!” she's moaned, “it was tiny, sir, I could barely feel it inside.”
Kirk laughed. “Serves you right. This is the only dick you need, baby.”
“Yes sir!” she squealed, “your big cock is all I want!”
I'd slunk back out, the flower trembling in my hand, my head bowed in shame and confusion. At the time, it felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. But here's the thing... whenever I'm feeling horny, it's that moment that I think of. It's not the sex; it's the humiliation that turns me on.
This moment right now feels like that, but more so. A lot more so. This is Jenny Smith times a thousand.
My wife is down on all fours, her ass and pussy on display, while this man fucks her throat and mouth with long steady strokes, pounding himself against her over and over again with steady and powerful thrusts.
“Take off your clothes, Jason,” Antoine says. “I want you to jerk off to this.”
I nod silently as I lower my pants. I don't think I have the ability to speak just at the moment.
Antoine lifts my wife by the chin. She gazed up at him, dazed and adoring, her mouth sloppy with drool and precum. “Is that good, daddy?” she murmurs.
Daddy? I feel like I'm going to cum, and I haven't even touched myself yet. She would never call me that, not even if I'd begged her. Maybe that's why. Antoine would never beg. He just tells her what to do. I couldn't do that, not a chance.
“Very good,” he says, and pats her cheek approvingly.
Instead of slapping him and swearing at him for treating her in such a demeaning fashion she only beams gratefully up at him.
“Are you ready to get fucked?” he says.
“Yes, daddy...”
“Jason,” he says, and rises his eyes to mine. “Is she ready?”
I swallow hard. “Uh... what do you mean... exactly?”
“I mean, Jason, that I want you to get down on all fours and put your face in her pussy and tell me if it's wet enough to take this fat black cock.”
“Oh... right. That.”
Chapter Eight
I crawl slowly across the floor, my erect cock waving stiffly between my legs. My wife trembles where she is, down on all fours with her ass raised in the air. I cup her bottom in my hands, holding it firmly for just a moment, staring at her exposed holes.
I feel as if I'll be breaking a taboo of some sort by touching her, like he's allowing me to transgress upon his territory rather than the other way around. Already it feels to me, at least one some subconscious level, that she belongs to him instead of to me. She might be my wife, but her body is his – wholly and completely his.
I tremble weakly as I put my hand on her pale inner thigh. There's a single drop of clear liquid lust rolling down the inside of her leg. Her arousal is so intense that she's literally dripping for him. She's never responded that way to me, never. I'm shaking uncontrollably as I slip my hand up between her thighs and press my fingers against the puffy mound of her pussy, swollen slightly now with arousal.
Her lips part with a sopping sound. She's soaked with her
juices, the arousal so powerful that it seems to have completely drenched her. She moans slightly as my hand pressed against and then between the soaking wet folds, her back arching a little against me.
All this, with no foreplay. He never touched her, never did anything to arouse her physically. This was all in her mind; the incredible lust wasn't just a response to his touch. He had seduced her very soul.
“S-she's wet,” I murmur, “v-very wet.”
“I didn't just ask you to tell me, Jason.” His voice is calm and even, but implacable. He's a man used to giving orders and having those orders carried out.
“R-right,” I stutter, and I lean tentatively forward with my tongue extended. She tastes sweet and musky, heavy with the scent of her own arousal. She groans as my tongue presses slowly into her, parting her vulva and sliding against the silky smooth opening of her vagina. It tastes so good that I almost cum right there. I can feel my cock twitching.
My wife presses slightly against me, pushing her ass to my face. I can hear the slurping sounds of her taking his cock in her mouth again.
“Hm... suck those balls,” he instructs evenly.
“Yes, daddy,” she says softly, and I can hear her do it, suckling and licking the black man's heavy hanging balls while his cock slaps against her upraised face.
I groan, twisting with jealous ecstasy, and I plunge my face deeper into her parted folds.
We remain that way for a time, me licking her as she sucks him. He just reclines there on the couch, watching us kneeling and submitted to him.
“I'm going to fuck you now, Victoria,” he says. “I'm going to slide this naked black cock raw inside you, flesh to flesh and naked. I'm going to fuck you, and I'm going to cum in you.”
“Yes, sir,” she moans, with no evidence of hesitation or even a thought of denying his desire.
But that's against our rules, I think to myself, but I can't imagine raising an objection. We've come too far to try and pull back now. This is happening, and neither Vicky nor I is capable of stopping either ourselves or each other. We are both on a new plane of arousal than we've ever before experienced.