Hotwife Island Complete Collection

by Jewel Geffen

  I shake my head and drink my coffee. Later. This is supposed to be a vacation, after all. I'm not meant to be working. The doctors think I'm pushing myself too hard, but what do they know, in the end? What can one person every really know about another? It's all just a matter of supposition and educated guessing, when you get right down to it.

  I could have a heart attack today and keel over in my bathrobe, and they might never know why. People did strange things... unpredictable things. And, unlike numbers, people sometimes lie.

  I take the little golden key from the pocket of my bathrobe and head back out into the hall. There's no sound of movement from Victoria's room. Still sleeping, I think. I go all the way to the end of the hall and slip the key into the lock. The door swings open and I step out into the main area of the mansion, then turn back and lock the door again behind me. These rooms, this one wing of the vast island estate, are mine alone, and I guard that privacy jealously.

  So why did you let her inside? You've never let a woman in here before.

  I shake my head, as if trying to physically dislodge the nagging voice. I won't let myself be dragged down by self-doubt or second-guessing. What's done is done, no reason to dwell upon it.

  I walk into the huge halls of the mansion, listening to the faint clattering of activity about me. The house staff are all on the island again. It's strange to hear them, after a week of utter silence. I try to make do with minimal personal, but a house of this size does require significant upkeep, particularly if one intends to entertain, as I am – and to entertain lavishly, as I have become known to do.

  The strange and sudden arrival of Misses Victoria Dubois has thrown everything off. This past week was meant to be one of quiet contemplation, and the upcoming party to be my chance for a sexual encounter. Now that she's stumbled in here, I'm almost tempted to call the whole thing off.

  For several years now I've been throwing my Hotwives' Balls, a chance for myself and those who share my predilections to show off their conquests and be among likeminded peoples. There are usually a few dozen couples, men who have come with other men's wives in tow, their own sexual paramours and playthings. Occasionally the husband is brought along as well, to twist and writhe in the delicious agony of the cuckold forced to watch his woman lavish her charms upon another, superior, male.

  What is it that makes a woman stray? For Victoria, it was lack of satisfaction. I could give her something which her husband was unable or unwilling to provide. And it's due as well to the natural chemical attraction which can occur between two people, and cares not at all whether one or both of them wears a ring or not.

  She wanted to be fucked by me; she wanted it more than she wanted to be faithful to her husband. With just a little prompting, she allowed herself to submit. She gave herself to me.

  But what else? What could drive a woman from a man who was able to satisfy her? Whom she claimed to love dearly and deeply? What was it that could make her leave him?

  Some mysteries are beyond what I can answer, that is all I can think.

  My feet have brought me, as if of their own accord, though I suppose it stems from a subconscious desire of my own, to the room of portraits.

  Painting has long been a hobby of mine, the truest passion of mine beyond sex and money. I've made it a sort of project to paint a picture of every woman I've slept with in the last five years. I reach out and turn the knob, then step inside the room.

  A hundred faces look back at me. A few are brunettes or redheads, an Asian or Black woman here or there, but by and large the faces belong to pale white women with curling golden hair. Victoria's portrait is still in my studio, awaiting the finishing touches before going on display. At the far end of the room, set neatly in the center of the wall, is the first portrait I painted.

  I walk to it, slowly through the room, feeling the eyes of the hundred naked women following me as I go. I reach that first and most important portrait and I study it in a way I've not done for years, searching for some clue captured in the expression, perhaps.

  She really does look a great deal like Victoria. The resemblance is almost uncanny. There was a moment, when Victoria first appeared, soaked through and dressed in that tiny bathing suit upon my doorstep, when I'd thought it was her. That she had come back to me.

  The woman in the portrait, her blue eyes gazing serenely back at me, is Angela Moreau. My wife.

  It's impossible to say why she left me, what it was that the other man could offer which I could not. I've seduced these hundred other women away from their own husbands, and still I cannot fully understand it, not matter how hard I try.

  Some mysteries, I think to myself, are beyond my ability to solve.

  For a long while I stand there and I study the painting. I remember weeping when I first touched the brush to the canvas, recalling with pristine clarity every curve and detail of her face and body. It had been like an exorcism, a cleansing ritual. By the time the picture was done, I had no more tears.

  I touch my finger to the canvas, following the delicate swirls of thick oil paint down from her pale pink lips, down the shoulder and over the breast and nipple, over the belly and thigh, down to the almost impressionistic pink of her slit.

  I touch her there, but this inanimate image gives no response, only looks back at me with those cool blue eyes, eternally serene.

  Chapter Two

  “It's so beautiful... I can hardly believe it really exists.”

  I smile at her rapture. “It is quite a view, I'll give you that.”

  “No kidding,” Jason says, his hands on his knees as he looks up and out from the top of the overlook. He's breathing hard, looking rather winded by the hike.

  Victoria appears hardly effected, but then it must be said that she's in peak physical condition. As for myself, I've made this journey dozens of times, and the strain no longer troubles me. We've come to the peak of a wild crag out high above the lakes. It was a long hard row in the canoe, Victoria in the front, Jason in the middle and myself at the back, and then a significant hike after that, but well worth it for this view I think.

  I brought her back to her cabin late on the morning of the fourth day, meaning to turn back around and come home afterwards, and yet... For reasons unknown to me I found myself lingering. She invited me in for tea and I stayed with her, just sitting on the couch in the rustic little cabin. We spoke in French, our voices low and amused while Jason sat on the edge of the conversation, ignorant of what was passing between us.

  We talked about wine and art and France and sex and anything. We were like two lovers, lost in one another's arms content to say anything to one another, even if only for the pleasure of hearing words in the other's voice.

  Then our conversation turned to the local environment. The wilds of the Adirondacks have always held a special place in my heart. Though the memories are bittersweet, I recall the summers Angela and I spent here with the fondness which most reserve for their treasured childhood recollections. I told her about this place, this high crag from which one could look out and see the twisting beauty of the lakes spreading out before you miles and miles.

  She asked if we could go, and I agreed without thinking. My responsibilities were forgotten immediately, my plans discarded. She asked, and I acquiesced. I don't know why.

  Jason goes to the edge and he stands there with his hands on his hips, swaying slightly from exertion.

  I feel a momentary flash of concern. He's not going to fall off, is he? Just slip and tumble over the edge two hundred feet down to the rocks in the water below, it would be so easy… I can almost see it. I say nothing, though. A man makes his own choices, he takes his own risks.

  Finally, he sits, feet dangled over the edge and face turned up towards the sun.

  He seems a simple man, but there's something about him that I can't quite put my finger on. Do I care to find out? I'm not sure. What's he to me, anyway? Just an attachment to the woman who's caught my fancy in the moment, just another husband to hu
miliate and deprive. I bear him no ill-will, but I can't say I have any particular fondness for the man. We're bonded, in this moment, the two of us linked by the line drawn in Victoria's heart and mind.

  “So, Antoine,” she lowers her sunglasses and looks at me over the tops of them, “tell me more about this party of yours.”

  Jason turns back, not leaving the edge, but giving me his full attention.

  “It's a kind of celebration, really. A chance for those like us to come together.”

  “Like us?” she says, her voice teasing as her long legs kick slowly through the air. She's laying down on her belly on the smooth warm rock. Her shapely bottom is beautifully displayed by her barely-there thong. The strap of her top is a thin red line around her neck and back, tied in a little butterfly knot.

  “That's right,” I say, “Men and their married lovers... and those lover's husbands, sometimes. You're both welcome to attend, of course. It would be lovely to have you there.”

  “What do you do at the ball, though? Just... chat?”

  I shake my head slowly, smiling just a little. She knows what she's doing. Fishing for salacious details. Trying to make her husband jealous? Trying to turn me on, or embarrass me? She wants to provoke something. “Not exactly.”

  Now Jason has turned around a little more, though he's still dangling his feet over the edge.

  “What? Exactly? I mean... if I'm going to be coming along to your little party, I'd like to know a bit more about what's going to happen. I know how you are with your little... surprises. Not planning to tie me up again, are you?” She holds her arms out to me, her wrists pressed together, and she moves sinuously on the rock.

  “I might,” I say, still keeping my distance, not committing to anything. If she wants to get a rise out of me, she's going to have to try harder than that.

  “Maybe you're going to tie me up in front of all your rich friends,” she purrs, “and have your way with me in front of all of them... use me as your own personal little doll while everybody watches us... sees that you own me...”

  “You make a strong case.”

  “What if I say no?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked.

  I laugh softly. “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?” she murmurs, and reaches back, as if only incidentally, and she takes hold of one end of the knot and gives it a slow pull. It comes apart easily, the nylon strands sliding away and falling from her neck, though the bikini top is still largely attached. If she were to sit up, however, it would fall easily away…

  “Depends,” I say, my voice slow and deliberate, “if you actually mean no, or if you're just trying to provoke me.”

  “And what if I was?” she says, “Trying to provoke you? That would be awfully naughty, wouldn't it?”

  “It certainly would. I don't think I'd have any other choice but to discipline you for something like that.”

  “How? How would you discipline me?” she asks, and her voice is a little breathless, a little quicker. I can see Jason's back tensing where he sits, no longer looking at us but clearly hanging on every word.

  She rises slightly, up onto all fours, and the top of her swimsuit drops away from her, freeing her full and luscious breasts. They hang heavy and firm, soft pale orbs aching for my touch. Her pink nipples are soft in the caress of the sunlight as she starts to crawl slowly towards me.

  “Well now... I couldn't just tell you that, now could I? It's the sort of thing you'd have to... experience, now isn't it?”

  She's close to me now, close enough that I can smell the mint on her breath. Her lips are moving towards my own, parted so that I can see the pink of her tongue. She leans in close, breathing on my ear for a moment. “Would it go... something like this?” she asks, and nips at my earlobe, one hand sliding up my thigh, along the leg of my shorts. Her fingers wrap over the shape of my hardening cock.

  “Maybe more like this,” I murmur back, and push her head down towards my crotch.

  She moans against me, nuzzling my clothed body as hungrily as a kitten mewling for milk. Her hands move to my button and slip it open, then pull down the zipper. She reaches into my pants and pulls out my enormous black cock.

  It stands up out of my pants, dark against the pale color of her fingers as they wrap eagerly around the shaft. “Suck on it for me,” I say, and lay back.

  She obeys eagerly, pulling her hair back with one hand as she lowers her mouth down onto me. Her little mouth with sweet and wet as it slides over the bulbous head and then down. She takes it deeper and deeper, until she's almost gagging on it, then comes up gasping and gazing at me through her eyelashes.

  I put my hands back behind my head, reclining on the warm smooth rock, feeling utterly at peace. Maybe I've been worrying too much, taking too much on. This is supposed to be a vacation, after all. I shut my eyes and bask in the warmth of the sunlight while she works.

  She cups my balls in one hand and grips the bottom of the shaft with the other, sliding slightly up and down while her mouth stimulates the sensitive tip. She knows what she's doing; she works my cock expertly.

  “Hm... that's good... make it wet for me, baby...” I reach one hand down to stroke her hair. She complies.

  I feel like I could almost drift off to sleep right here, fade away into the quiet of a dream. I remember coming here years ago with Angela. We discovered this place together after a long day exploring. She sucked my cock right here on this crag. Now, all these years later, a woman who looks just like her is doing the same.

  It's a confusing blend of feelings, a kind of sorrowful sweet nostalgia.

  I need to stop thinking of her. My life is better now than it ever was with her, so why does she have this hold on me? Why do I keep thinking of her? Can't I just enjoy this without her ghost hounding me even here?

  I open one eye and glance down. Jason is furiously jerking off on the edge of the cliff, turned away from us but getting off on the sound of his wife sucking another man's cock. The sight of it puts me over the edge. I reach down and hold Victoria's head, thrusting my hips up and down fast, fucking her face as I get closer and closer to my orgasm.

  Then I'm there, and I'm pulling out to shoot thick spurts of pearly white cum onto her breasts. “God!” I grit my teeth, my whole body tensing as the moment of my pleasure sweeps almost violently through me.

  She moans with pleasure as my issue spills out onto her. She looks at me, and I see my own face reflected in her mirrored sunglasses. There's a strand of cum hanging from her lower lip. Slowly, she puts her tongue out and licks it up, then swallows.

  Jason groans on the edge of the crag, and I catch the sight of his own cum spilling in the sunlight, falling freely through the air to land in the water far below.

  Chapter Three

  “Glad you're back, sir.”

  “Something going on, Melody?”

  “The caterer canceled.”

  “They canceled? Pertwig's? Did they say why?”

  “Nope. Something about not being able to afford the transportation.”

  “We pay extra for the transportation, and handsomely. They've never complained about the cost before.”

  Melody Johnson shrugs slightly, and reaches back to tug a stray lock of curly hair back under her bonnet. It seems that she's been nominated by the house staff to be the assigned bearer of bad news. Anytime that something goes wrong it's always Melody who lets me know about it. Not that I mind, I trust Melody more than some of the others.

  She's quick, clever and committed, but not so committed that she feels it necessary to engage in the petty gossip and nonsense that the rest of the house staff waste their time going on about. If she were more my type – and wasn't an employee of mine – I might almost be interested in her. I've thought of it, from time to time, and judging from some of the looks I've caught her throwing my way, she has too.

  Best that we keep things professional, however. Once a line like that is crossed, there's no going back, and everything gets more complicated. S
till, it doesn't mean I can't occasionally admire the way her shapely rump fills out her uniform, or the way her bust stretches the buttons of her blouse.

  “Should I try calling them?”

  She sniffs. “You could try sir, but they were... less than polite about the cancellation.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

  She leans in close, holding the clipboard against herself. “Yes, ah... they said something about, well...” she blushes quite prettily, a rosy pink rising in the cheeks.

  “About what?”

  “About not wanting to cater any of your, ahem, well, the phrase she used was 'perverse sexual escapades,' sir.”

  I smile slightly. “Ah, of course.”

  “I called my sister, and she says that Misses Pertwig had some kind of religious experience. Big time conversion. Probably thinks that Jesus wouldn't approve of your... activities,” she says, rolling her eyes at the notion.

  “And what about you, Melody? Do you approve?”

  She looks at me, eyes wide. “Me, sir?”

  “That's right.”

  She shifts uncomfortably, squirming just a little. I don't know that I could explain exactly why, but I adore the sight of a woman squirming. The discomfort as they are forced to confront something that makes them consider just what they're comfortable with.

  “I don't see that it's my place to approve or disapprove either way, sir,” she finally answers, eyes downcast a little. “What a person wants to do in the privacy of their own home, well, that's up to them, isn't it?”

  “Precisely my thoughts on the matter.”

  “And anyway, it's only sex, isn't it?”

  “Only sex?”

  She shrugs again, trying to keep up a brave face over her discomfort. “I mean, not that important in the end, is it?”

  I laugh softly. “Darling Melody, what could possibly be more important?”

  She doesn't have a response for that, and for a moment we just walk together in silence, her head down and her brow furrowed thoughtfully.