Marine

This is a loving wives story, but it has a healthy dollop of exhibitionism, and a lesbian scene inside it. I don't usually publish in Loving Wives. I have two previous stories in the rubric, The Smoker, and The Smoker Returns. Don't worry however: There's no smoking in this story!

*****************

I consider myself to be a lucky man. I'm lucky in my genetic gifts; I'm lucky in my education; I'm lucky in landing a financially rewarding career; and best of all I've been lucky in love.

I'd like to think it was some sort of fabulous feat of mine to land a woman such as Marine, but in reality I know the truth: Like everything else in my life it's just been good luck. Of all the nice things fate has bestowed upon me, nothing compares to Marine.

We met when I was 27 and she was 25. We had both been around the block, and in particular occasionally Marine would refer darkly and always obliquely to her "wild college years." I only gradually learned exactly what she meant, even if right from the beginning I knew it meant that she had been wild in the sexual sense. "Wild" however means different things to different people. I didn't mind, since I was sure I had done worse. I enjoyed a little kink as much as the next guy, maybe more. I was no saint on the sexual front.

Truth be told, I was turned on that she had a past history of being a bit of a slut in college. She had always resisted giving any details, and you know how it is: The imagination is always better than reality anyway. I have a vivid imagination!

I didn't want a slut for a wife. On the other hand, Marine knew more about sex, including kinky sex, than any woman I had ever met. I felt however that she wasn't a true slut, she simply enjoyed a period of being sexually liberated in college, like many coeds do. Now that she was out of college and in the work force, she was just another ordinary gorgeous woman but one who - shall we say - knew her way around a man. She knew her way all around a man, top to bottom, inside and out. I'm a man. It's to my advantage, I should think!

One aspect of Marine that I loved was her exhibitionism. She never spoke of it, but it was clear it was there. Even early on, it was obvious. Her apartment had no curtains, shades, or blinds. All sorts of people could see in. When I went to undress her the first time we got serious, taking off her clothes slowly, one lingering piece at a time, she just kept kissing me and made no move even to douse the lights.

Marine sunk to her knees, now naked except for her panties, and pulled down my pants and briefs. Unlike other woman I had been with, she made no comment on my cock (which is a bit unusual), she just blew on it, and then began to lick the head. She lovingly caressed my cock with her tongue, gradually letting, little by little, more of it into her mouth until her mouth was full. Her hand grabbed the base, and she pumped me with her hand while she caressed me with her tongue. I didn't last long under the intense onslaught of this living incarnation of Aphrodite.

I was not inactive while she was blowing me. I played with her boobs. I simply love her boobs. I've always had a weakness for a woman's boobs, a fetish if you will, and Marine's boobs - for my taste - were perfection itself.

When Marine finished blowing me, and yes, she had swallowed my cum, her phone dinged. She opened it, glanced at a message from some guy named Brian, and she giggled.

"Let me see it," I said.

Marine held the phone to me. It said, '8.9 - 9.4.' I looked at her, incomprehension in my eyes.

"Brian lives across the way. He likes to rate the men I bring home, and how well I please them sexually. You get an 8.9, and I got a 9.4 for the blowjob," she said, and she giggled nervously again. "Brian has binoculars."

Her phone dinged again. It was from another neighbor. Altogether she got four ratings.

"Do you know all of these men?" I asked.

"Of course. They're neighbors. I see them at the farmers' market, and at the shops in the neighborhood, and on the street. They're harmless," she said.

"Have you had sex with them, too?" I asked. Just how much of a slut was she still?

"Oh God no! Heaven forbid! They may be harmless, but they're creeps, don't you think? Peeping on me and watching me have sex? Really!" and then she giggled again.

"Doesn't it embarrass you when you run into the peepers on the street or at the market and you know they've seen you naked and engaged in private, intimate acts?" I asked Marine.

"Oh, honey, you don't understand, do you my sweet? Sure, it embarrasses me, but more importantly it turns me on something fierce. The way they look at me, the way they're in awe of me, even worship me, it turns me on. I love to watch them undress me with their eyes. They know they can't have me, and it makes my panties wet," she said. Marine stopped and looked deeply in my eyes "Oh my goodness! You do get it! You do understand me! And it doesn't bother you?"

"Au contraire, Marine. It gets me hard," I said.

Marine giggled, this time happily. "Mark, you're one in a million."

"The worst are the women peepers. They're judgmental and when I run into them they act as if they want to spit on me. I just smile and say hello and walk away from their negative energy," she said. "Sometimes I can feel their pious judgmental eyes following me too. Then there's the creep who keeps leaving me anonymous notes."

"Anonymous notes?" I asked.

"Yeah, saying things like, 'Slut! Who are you going to fuck today? How about a gangbang?" shit like that. Obviously the creep is an unhappy man, unlucky in love, maybe feeling betrayed byy a woman, and taking it out on me," Marine said.

"What are you doing about it?" I asked.

"I had a wall safe installed, and I put the notes in the safe. When I know who it is I'm going to nail the bastard," she said. Our conversation paused as this news sank in.

"Getting back to the four voyeurs who just rated me, how many other men have your neighbors rated?" I asked.

"Don't worry, Mark. Not that many. My seriously slutty days are forever gone. I'm actually in the market for a man to love, a man who gets me, my perversions and all. But to answer your question, only five or six or so. By the way, you got the highest rating of all of them. My peepers seem to approve of you. That's a good sign," she said. "Now give them all a wave and then kiss me. Do what you will with me. I'm yours tonight."

She was, too. I was hooked.

It took me a while to understand Marine's logic. Once I did, she made sense to me, kind of, even if she was far from being normal, whatever that is. She had even once told each of the peepers that if they were going to continue to peep on her, she wanted ratings. She herself had created this perverted game!

Obviously, she was the girl for me. No question about it.

We married a little more than a year after we met and shortly thereafter my company proposed transferring me to their new outpost in the south of France for around a couple of years. Marine was enthusiastic since her mother was French, she was fluent in French, and she understood the culture on a profound level. To put it simply, she loved France. She used the occasion as an excuse to quit her job, which she had soured on in any event. We moved from New York to the south of France without any regrets.

I worked in the French high-tech industrial park known as Sophia-Antipolis, located in the hills behind Antibes, a charming small town on the French Riviera, in between Nice and Cannes. We found a house to rent in Antibes and we were living the American dream. On the weekends we would go to the beach or drive around the Riviera absorbing the scenery and architecture, visiting museums and famous churches, going to concerts, gambling in Monte Carlo, and for Marine there was always shopping in Cannes.

Once we were settled in France Marine easily found work. She made good use of being bilingual in French and English. She interviewed to work in an English language school on the Riviera, for little children of mostly non-French parents, and she was offered a job as a teacher's aide. She did not have the French credentials to work as a full-fledged teacher. She also spoke, in varying degrees of proficiency, three other languages: German, Spanish, and Italian. This made her highly useful to the school due to her interactions with some of the parents and nannies of the school's children. Marine loves children, so this job was a natural for her.

Before the school year began, in the summer she found seasonal work as a waitress at one of the grand cafés of Juan-les-Pins, a small beach town/playground contiguous to Antibes. Marine makes friends easily, and she made two friends right away at the café she worked at: another waitress, Chantal, and a bartender Pierre. Since Marine's mother is French, there were no issues related to her authorization to work. Avoiding paperwork in France is a big thing.

***************

I was pleasantly surprised when we went to the beach and I began what I thought would be a long campaign to get Marine to go topless like a few of the French women also sunbathing at the beach. Already she was wearing a little nothing of a string bikini and she looked hot! Her body is flawless and most of it was on display at the beach. I entered into a state of shock when she replied to my request in her sweet little voice saying, "Okay, Mark." She promptly removed her top.

Seeing Marine topless in front of everyone at the beach made me hard, and Marine giggled when she saw what she was doing to me. That night we made love with a passion we had missed of late.

"Have you ever gone topless at the beach before, Marine?" I asked, in our dreamy post coital state. I knew she have done so, since she was so casual when she removed her top. I had expected a little drama.

"Yes, my Mom and I used to vacation here when I was in high school and occasionally when I was in college, too. Both Mom and I went topless at this very beach," Marine said.

"How old were you when you first went topless?" I asked.

"I was fifteen. My boobs developed early, before you ask. A lot of men leered at me, but I didn't mind," she said. I was getting hard.

"Your Mom was okay with you going topless at the beach at age fifteen?" I asked, just a bit incredulous.

"Mark, my Mom is French." Marine paused, to let that sink in. "Also, it doesn't have sexual implications to be topless on the beach if you're French. It just means you get a nicer tan," Marine said.

"Maybe so, but you were an American girl. What were your thoughts?" I asked.

"I was constantly turned on and wet most of the time," Marine said, giggling nervously at the memory.

"I thought so!" I said, smiling at my sexpot of a wife.

"What about in the states. Ever gone topless in America?" I asked.

Marine gave me a withering look. "Of course, Mark."

"Where'd you go topless in the states, my love?" I asked.

"Oh, lots of places, Mark," she said, and then again clammed up. "You mean beaches, right?"

"Right. Where?" I asked. Marine could see my cock coming back to life just by this discussion, and she kissed it.

"Is this talk getting my best friend hard?" she asked, gently stroking my member.

"Yes, it definitely is. Now where did you go topless for the first time in the states?" I asked.

"You mean at a beach, right?" Marine asked again. Where else, I wondered? Well, one thing at a time.

"Yes, at a beach," I said.

"Lakeside or ocean beaches?" she asked.

"Are you going to want me to specify the coast next, too?" I asked, a bit of sarcasm creeping into my voice.

"You know, you can't just go topless because your partner asks you to do so. I had to be at a beach where it's acceptable and other women are going topless. Otherwise you could cause a scandal and get in trouble. I don't like trouble, Mark," Marine said.

"You're equivocating. Answer my question please, my love," I said.

"Okay. Boy, you are relentless, aren't you? Oceans it is. There's a beach in La Jolla, that's part of San Diego, called Black's Beach. It's hard to get to it, you have to climb down a cliff, so not that many people ever went there until it became known as a nudist beach. Most people there were nude, so going topless was no big deal I thought, although I was the only one of our group that did it."

"Your group?" I asked.

"We were six friends, three boys and three girls. The boys went nude of course, and I went topless," Marine said. "Probably it was a mistake."

"Why? Pray tell!" I said.

"Well, when we went in the water all three of the boys were kissing me and feeling me up. I didn't object since after all my boobs were out there for all to see. How much harm if one of my friends touched them up? I had no idea how thorough their exploring hands would be, however. They even pushed down my bikini bottoms and I lost them in the water. Luckily Susie found them when they washed ashore, but by then I too had been nude for a while, so I just stayed nude," she said.

Lost in her recollections, Marine continued, "The girls made a big fuss about my being bottomless, but I didn't see the big deal. Everyone now knew I am a natural blonde, for example." Marine giggled at the memory. "I learned, however, that my friends had a point. Boy did I learn."

"What did you learn?" I prompted.

"Well when we all went back in the water later, it sort of became open season on me, and the three boys were fingering me at both ends and kissing me and playing with my boobs, all at the same time. I mean, they had a naked 18-year-old college freshman bimbo to play with, didn't they?"

Marine saw my face, and a little indignantly, or perhaps defensively, she added, "No I didn't protest or tell them to stop. I enjoyed being the center of attention and it felt good. I'd never had six hands touching me up at once before. I don't know if it's every girl's dream to have such an experience at least once in her life, but it should be!"

"I had my first orgasm of my young life. It was lovely. Then Mike ruined it by trying to stick his cock inside me. I managed to push him away from me. I screamed bloody murder! You know, in retrospect, as I look back on it, it was kind of funny. I was no virgin, anyway, but I sure hadn't given consent!" she said. She added, after a moment's reflection, "Although I can see how he might have thought consent was implicit, given the way I was acting..." Then she paused again, as if debating if maybe she had been too hard on her molester.

"You're going to ask why I wasn't a virgin, aren't you? Come on, Mark. What college girl is still a virgin, anyway?"

I wanted to learn about how my wife got deflowered, but she clammed up. Oh well, maybe another time?

Marine and I got in the habit of telling each other about the sexual escapades we had each gotten up to before we met and fell in love. Ever since we've been together, though, all of our stories are the same, because our occasionally wild sexual antics involved both of us. The lone exception was Marine's weakness for exhibitionism.

Marine told me about a recent time she was shopping in Cannes, and she knew some woman's partner was spying on the changing rooms, trying to be subtle about it, while his wife or girlfriend tried on clothes. Seeing this, Marine grabbed a cute little summer dress and took it into the neighboring dressing room, leaving the curtain only half closed. She had the peeper's attention.

Since she was giving a show, she decided to model the dress with no underwear, and she stripped nude, as the voyeur's mouth fell open. She had her back to him, but she could see him in the dressing room's mirror. She turned around to give him a full-frontal view, and pretended to use the mirror to inspect her back, looking backwards over her shoulder for some nonexistent mole or something. Then she put on the dress, leaving it bunched at her head for a full minute or so in order to let the voyeur get a nice, long view. She could see his lecherous face checking her out right through the thin material of the dress, even when it was bunched up!

The dress now on her supple body, she looked at herself in the mirror and she could see her boobs, nipples, and areolas right through the dress, as well as her nicely trimmed bush further south. She left the dressing room ostensibly to look for the saleswoman, but in reality, to show herself off to the three men who were in the store. They got some nice, lingering looks. Finally, she found the saleswoman who assured her it was the right size.

"I'll take it!" Marine said, and she gave a credit card to the saleswoman. "Hey, Mark. Want to see me model the dress?"

I nodded.

Marine put it on for me and holy shit, I was ready to fuck her again! Marine giggled up a storm as I chased her around our small apartment. Finally, I bent her over the side of the couch and lifted the short dress to around her waist, and plunged my cock once again into the closest approximation of heaven I've ever been lucky enough to enjoy. Marine moaned out her pleasure.

******************

We had been in France for three months enjoying our little games when we got the call. He called my phone, using WhatsApp. It was George. George and Rebecca are our best friends back home in New York. It took some doing to figure out what George was trying to tell me because he was so upset that it was hard for him to speak coherently.

Marine grabbed the phone from me. She has a calming, patient manner. We had been getting ready for bed, and she was naked, having undressed but not yet put on her nightgown. She often spent an hour or more either naked or only wearing panties before bed, to my great delight. Very few people had the right angles to see into our third-floor apartment, so her nudity was, for the most part, discreet and just for me. Since it was hot and we had no air conditioning, nudity in front of our fan is a comfortable state to be in. I ate it up.

I listened to her part of the phone conversation and saw her face turn ashen. Tears began to roll down her face. I became concerned. Then I saw her nodding her head, and she said 'of course,' a few times, and she urged George to 'go on, tell me more' and she ended by insisting George come to the Riviera and stay with us. 'It will be therapeutic,' I heard her say. We had a study I occasionally used for work in the evenings, but she said he could use it as his room.

She got off the phone and sat down. She gestured for me to sit as well. Tears were flowing freely down her soft cheeks as she tried to gain control of her emotions, at least enough to be able to tell me what was going on. All I knew at this point was that it was clearly upsetting, whatever the news was. She was breathing deeply and her breasts were heaving seductively as she tried to talk through her tears.

"It's Rebecca. There was a car accident. Rebecca didn't make it. George is a wreck. He's coming here to visit in around ten days, after he deals with her funeral and the like, the Jewish period of one week of mourning, and he handles his affairs re work and gets a vacation due to the extenuating circumstances," she said.

I was stunned. How could Rebecca be gone? She was so beautiful, so lovely, so everything! There had to be some mistake! It couldn't possibly be Rebecca! Could this be a prank? I sat down heavily, staring off into space.

When I recovered I suggested we go to New York and to the funeral.

"We can't. Rebecca was Jewish and Jewish rules are that people must be buried within 24 hours after death. She's already buried six feet under. The best thing we can do is to be there for George. Rebecca would like that. She loved him so much," Marine said. "The sun, the beauty, and the calm of the French Riviera will be a tonic for George."