Courtesy Returned

Prologue.

I was baching it when it started. My wife was in the British Virgins, with her friend Thea, for a captained and crewed charter of an 80 foot yawl. It was supposed to be me with her, instead of Thea, but a glitch in a multi-million dollar merger sucked me in at the firm.

It wasn't my client, but it was important to my partners. The charter company was sympathetic, but unbending in its assertion that we could neither reschedule nor get a refund. It turned out that our travel insurance didn't cover business problems, so Thea took my place.

I was asleep when my phone beeped. It was a text from my wife. That, in itself, was unusual. She never texts. Says she doesn't know how, and doesn't want to learn. It came at 2:43 a.m. That worried me. But it was the message that commanded my full attention:

"It will be story time when I get home."

No way I was getting back to sleep after that.

About two years ago, she wanted a story from me. I had imposed some minor physical restraint on a drunken fellow passenger on an airliner, earning the gratitude of the flight attendant upon whom he had focused his attentions.

When I jokingly told my wife that I seemed to have been offered a chance for something more than a verbal expression of gratitude from the lady in question, she told me to go for it. She gave me permission to bed her if I could, and adamantly demanded that I return with a good story to tell her when I got back, whether I was successful or not. I did return with a story, set forth in my prior posting entitled "Courtesy."

The condition upon which I accepted her quest, however, was that she must agree to do likewise in the future. Since she was conservative, I had expected her to withdraw her mission and permission, rather than accept such a commitment. She surprised me by agreeing.

Knowing her as I did, I assumed that she would never actually make good on her part. Now it appeared that I may have been wrong.

It was a very long five days until she returned, for she refused to give me a clue about the events underlying her text until she got back. Oh, she called, and we talked about the normal things, but not a word about the text.

In between the occasional surprise erections, embarrassing when they happened at work or in public, attempts to deal with the erections with almost OCD level bouts of masturbation, and out-of-body fantasies about what my wife might be doing, I worried. I worried that she might have found someone else, or that even if she hadn't found someone to steal her away, she might have experienced things that would leave her unsatisfied with me: handsome, romantic Latin lovers, mystic eastern techniques that drove her to unmatched orgasms, or more mundanely, some chiseled young guy with a tireless, huge cock.

The pictures made it worse. That first text was followed the next afternoon by a picture message of a chiseled guy with an erection. He looked young, with smooth swimmer muscles, and an average cock, fully erect, apparently taken in a hotel. The accompanying text said, "We played strip poker. He was one of the losers."

This was followed by a picture of a chiseled guyin his thirties, maybe, with an erection, although it was covered by his jockey underwear, taken indoors, maybe at a hotel. The accompanying text said "He did better than most."

Two days later, another picture message. Another chiseled young guy with a watch cap and an erection. A bigger one. The text said, "He lost too." This picture was obviously taken on the deck of a yacht.

The next day, the picture was of a naked Thea, her slit hidden behind the winch between her legs. Apparently, she lost too.

Almost immediately thereafter, a picture of a chiseled young guy pushing down his Speedo to reveal a, well, the only word I could think of was "handsome," erection, while standing at the rail of a boat.

A couple of hours later, another athletic young guy. This picture was taken on a beach, and the guy was covered with sand from his rib cage down, except for an average erection that poked up through the sand.

The night before she was due back, she sent a picture of just her hands. Handcuffed.

But the one that really worried me was the one she sent the late on final night she was there. It showed a handsome guy, not so chiseled but in good shape, about my age, or just a bit younger. He had a bit of salt and pepper at the temples, and a huge erection. He was laying back on a bed. He was wearing a wedding ring. The text said he lost too.

My gut said he didn't. If my wife were going to take another man to bed, he looked like the guy.

Somehow, the younger guys didn't worry me. I'm sure that she could lust after a young, cut body, especially ones with cocks like those in the pictures, but I just couldn't see her pursuing them on the basis of the visual alone. Putting aside the huge cock, the older guy had presence, even through a mere picture. He radiated substance, and maybe danger.

I had seen his look in faces of a few of my buds in the military. The real warriors, not the pretenders. I could see my wife going for him in a big way. That scared me.

The real capper was the picture of my wife. In bed. With only her panties on. Obviously not self shot.

That last night, I tried to keep from masturbating so as to have something left with which to greet my wife the next day, but my cock rose of its own volition to an insistent vision of my wife impaled by that huge erection. Loving it. Loving him. I was worried sick, but I stayed hard.

She arrived back at 4:55 p.m. on that Thursday. She looked sexy as hell. It was cool out. She was braless under her thin cashmere sweater, and her headlights were definitely on high beam.

Although she had all the right stuff to carry it off, I hadn't seen her braless in public since we had our first child. I hoped she would do it a lot from now on.

After a passionate welcome home kiss, I looked down at her nipples. She must have recognized the look in my eye. Before I could say anything, she said, "Not until bedtime, Big Boy. Let's pick up some Chinese, and then take me home."

"Big Boy?" I thought to myself. Not hardly, after seeing those pictures.

She spent the rest of the trip home from the airport telling me about flirting with some guy who had been on the Amazing Race, a TV show she adored. She said he kept her amused with behind the scenes stories, and that she kept him amused by touching his hand and thigh, or letting her breast "accidentally" touch his his upper arm, while she feigned fascination with his narrative.

I almost wished I that I had watched the show, so that I could visualize the guy she was talking about, but all of the "reality" shows that used the "confessional camera" ploy required an ability to suspend incredulity that I couldn't muster.

I was not sure I believed that she would engage in such physical teasing in public, but it was exciting that she claimed that she did. A sexy step up from her usually reserved demeanor.

When we got home, I tried to pump her for the story of her trip, but she would have none of it. "Patience, my sweet man, until bedtime."

Gammy left as we arrived, saying she was late for a date with her paramour. She had been widowed two years before, and had just reentered the dating scene. She was obviously the source of my wifes good looks; I knew she would have no problem keeping her dance card filled.

Our daughters came bounding out of the den to vie for hugs from their mom. She quite properly ignored me while she bonded with her girls, delighting them with trinkets she pulled from her suitcase.

After a while, the maternal charms were overshadowed by the call of Ariel from the TV, and they went back to the den.

The food was laid out on the coffee table and we ate from the containers. Months ago she had bought some Chinese lychee wine, and we broke it out. It was very sweet, like a dessert wine, but it went well with the food.

We ate in silence, with unspoken gestures of affection: quick touches, hand holding, and the like. There was a short break as the girls were put to bed.

As we neared the end of the meal, she said, "You may wish to clean this stuff up quick, because afterwards I plan to give you a blow job to remember."

I jumped to my duties posthaste. When I returned, I was naked. So was she, and she pointed to the big leather chair. I sat, and she said, "I've got plans for that thing that don't include premature ejaculation, so let's get the first one out of the way."

I was tempted to protest her characterization of me as a premature ejaculator, but for tonight, this first time, I knew she was right. Especially looking at her tan lines.

Where she had been imprinted with a very white image of her one piece swim suit when she left, she was now a pale tan. No suit lines other than the ones that had begun disappearing. My wife tanning nude. No way.

But I didn't really ponder it. Instead, wondering who had taken the hotel picture made my cock pop up in record time.

She didn't say anything more, just engulfed me in her warm, soft mouth. Usually, on the relatively rare occasions she gives me head, she bobs up and down enthusiastically, holding the base of my cock, both to jack me as she pushes her mouth down, and to limit the depth of penetration.

This time she crossed her hands behind her back, and moved slowly up and down, taking me deeper than she ever had. After a couple of these exquisite moves, during which she swirled her tongue around my cock, I couldn't sit still. My hips bucked, and I went too deep. I thought she would back off then, but she just gagged once, and went back to it. I tried not to jam her, but when I couldn't stop the flex, she just rode with it, still keeping her wrists pinned together behind her back.

The sudden question, and likely answer, of who taught her to do this, got me very excited. My mind flashed to the picture of her hands in the cuffs, caused me to ejaculate without warning to either of us.

I usually try to give her warning, because I know she doesn't like come in her mouth. She usually flattens her tongue, letting me come against it, with the ejaculate sliding down without entering her mouth.

There was no warning here. I exploded in her mouth. Only when my paroxysms were over did I realize that she had accepted all my come in her mouth, and to judge by the lack of spillover, had swallowed it. Who was this woman? And what had they done with my wife?

"Come to bed, my sweet baby, and I will tell you a story while you massage my aching feet."

As we got to the bedroom, she stopped, and took a step away. She looked down and said in a tiny voice, "If I was naughty on my trip, will you still want me? If I was much worse than you were in your story, will you still love me?"

I couldn't tell if she was just jerking my chain, or if she was really worried. I wasn't sure what "much worse" was going to mean. But I decided to treat the questions seriously.

I said, "Short of malicious and purposeful attempts to hurt me, nothing you could have done would diminish my love for you. I admit that I never expected it to happen, but if you did have some intimate fun, it was because you owed it to me, because I required you to reciprocate one day, when I agreed to bring you a story. And remember, since we couldn't have a specific target on this trip, I gave you permission for anyone you wanted. I love you, and I won't go back on my word. Always remember that.

She looked up at me, not with some meek or worried expression, but with a wicked smile. She said, "No, Big Boy, *you* better remember that when I tell you my story."

We walked arm in arm to our bedroom. She lay on her back, with her feet over the edge of the bed. I pulled up a chair, and I began her massage.

My Wife Tells Her Story:

The trip was an unmitigated disaster at the beginning. They had oversold the flight to St. Thomas, and they bumped Thea to a flight, six hours later, on a different airline.

The guy they put into Thea's seat was obese and obviously believed in the healing powers of garlic. The only saving grace was that the frequent coughs and choking sounds he made prevented him from talking to me.

On the ferry to Tortola, some hygiene challenged guy kept trying to chat me up. For some reason, the wind was swirling, delivering exhaust fumes to supplement the B.O.

Then, when I finally got there and checked in at the hotel, I called the charter outfit, only to learn that my cruise had been cancelled. They asked me to come down to their offices to discuss alternatives.

It turned out that a couple of hours before, some guy who thought he was a hot sailor because his card was from the New York Yacht Club had misjudged the inertia, and the lack of power, in the 50 foot sailboat he had chartered. He had rammed the rudder of the boat I was scheduled for, tearing out one of the supports. It would require a couple of days in the yard, with sea trials and government inspection afterwards, before it could be returned to service for carrying passengers.

They didn't have any crewed vessels available, nor did the other two charterers in town have any open spaces on their crewed boats. We were offered a bareboat charter, but as you know, I can crew, but I wouldn't do as a captain. And you weren't there, dammit.

Thea's idea of sailing was Isaac making drinks for her at the pool bar, to be delivered to her sun bed by Capt. Stubing. She wouldn't even have been good as crew.

In the alternative, they offered to put us up free in the resort hotel for the first three days, and then give us four days of cruising when their boat went back into commission. I accepted that offer.

Miles interrupted. "You didn't tell me any of that when you phoned."

Well, what would you have done? Come down and sued em? You had enough to worry about with your merger, and their offer was okay. You like sailing more than I do, and a couple of days in a luxury hotel was not hard to take. Ya' wanna hear the story or not?

The first day, I lounged in the sun at the pool, drinking sweet tropical cocktails with little umbrellas in them. Thea arrived about six, and we had a wonderful dinner. We were both beat, so we turned on a movie in the room, and we both fell asleep before it was over.

The next afternoon, the charter company called to tell us that the damage to our boat was more extensive than initially thought, and they offered to refund our money, or to keep us in the hotel for the rest of the week. We asked them to let us give them an answer in the morning, and they agreed.

We had spent the day at the pool, being subtly and very, very politely hit on by six fit guys who were there together. We flirted, and found out that they were military, in the same unit, taking a few days to decompress from a recent deployment.

We told them our sad story, and they told us that they would begin a four day bareboat charter the next day. I was a little disappointed. I could get to like being ogled by six studs, and I enjoyed flirting.

Surprisingly, there was very little haring off after other women. They seemed to like me and Thea, and I did overhear a couple of the younger ones mention the word milf. Not that I know what that means, of course.

They invited us to dinner and to party with them that night, and we gladly accepted. They were quite the gentlemen, and we had a great time. But by the time they were rolling up the dance floor, those rum punches were sneaking up on both Thea and I. We both found ourselves plastered to our dance partners with only desultory attempts to corral wandering hands.

We somehow ended up in our suite, talking and drinking, when one of their phones went off. It seemed like it took and extraordinary number of key punches to take the call, the one who wore a dark blue watch cap, or rapper thing, or whatever it was, everywhere, listened for a while, said "Aye, aye, Sir," and hung up.

He pulled the oldest one aside, near me, and I overheard a few words to the effect that Mac and Solomon needed to return to the stockade tomorrow. I wondered then whether these guys were prisoners on furlough or something, and whether we should be worried about them. But they were all so nice, and I was a little drunk, so I shrugged it off.

Again, Miles interrupted, "Those guys were probably SEALS."

Yeah, well, you should know.

The next day, when I could think straight, I sort of remembered that one of the characters in a W.E.B. Griffin book was assigned to Delta Force and that they hung out some place called the stockade. But I wasn't sure. The book made it sound like Delta Force was all Army, but a Navy wife knows "aye, aye" is Navy terminology.

I figured all that button pushing on the call probably had something to do with encryption. In any event, all those guys became more attractive, knowing that they were special forces types. Maybe coming back from having killed people. I know that sounds crass, but it added a frisson of danger that got me going.

But you and I were both wrong. They were supporting cast members for some upcoming movie. When I was checking out to come home, I heard one of the front desk clerks telling her girlfriend about how one of them offered to get her an autographed picture of George Clooney, who was to be the star.

I inserted myself into the conversation, sounding skeptical, and she allowed as how they were here to learn to sail for their part in the movie, and that older one had produced a commercial sailing masters license to rent the boat.

I said that they had said they were special forces, and that I had never seen actors with hair so short. She just laughed and said she thought they used the military story to get girls. Well, maybe. They got me.

But who knows. The movie thing makes an attractive cover story to attract starlet wannabes, if they actually were, whatcha' ma call em, operators. I don't know why they would need any cover story though.

Now shut up and let me continue. And you can move the massage up to my calves.

Anyway, when the other guys heard the news, one of them said, "Hey, Skipper, we've just had two berths freed up, and we have two stranded damsels who came here to sail..."

"Quite so, Jonesy." With a sweeping bow to us, he said, "Arrrgh, me beauties, dast ye leave the surly coils of dirt and earth to sail the Seven Seas with me and me and me bloodthirsty band of cutthroats?"

Laughing much to loud, and hardly slurring my words at all, I asked if they were serious.

Indeed they were. And raucously persuasive. Only Mac and Solomon advised us against it, their argument seeming to be that without them to protect us, our virtue would be in peril.

I was not in a highly analytical state just then and impulsively agreed to go. I'm sure the combination of alcohol and your pointed emphasis on giving me "permission" had nothing to do with it.

Thea looked surprised but jumped in to concur.

I did point to my ring and told them not to get their hopes up, but I really wasn't worried. I knew I wouldn't be raped by this crew, although I was sure they wouldn't pass up any opening I gave them... so to speak.

The Skipper, his name was Quint, quieted everyone down, and then turned to us with a serious expression.

"You know," he said, "We will be living in close quarters for four days. If you ladies are shy, you might wish to reconsider. I'd be surprised if y'all weren't accidentally exposed at sometime during the cruise."

Thea piped up, "Oh, we're not shy." I wasn't so sure, but I kept quiet.

Quint then said, "Arrrgh. Best we be certain o'that afore we cast off. Be ye ladies agreeable to a tankard of rum and a bout of poker? That be Strip poker, if ye darst."

I laughed at this transparent attempt to get something going. I thought about my story, and decided to raise the stakes. "You're on, Big Boy, but only with the following stipulation: game ends with the first person nude, and we take a picture of everyone in the state of dress they are in at the end of the game. With my camera. But I will email everyone who wants copies."