Not So Reluctant Wife

I am living again with my ex-wife Camille, we are trying to work things out, trying to find a balance wherein we can both be satisfied, and both have realistic expectations. I know this start sounds a little cryptic so let me go back to the start when I first met Camille and unfold our story from there.

I am a manufacturing engineer at a large aerospace firm in the Midwest. Ten years ago, I was also the president of the company's management association, at the end of each year we would celebrate with an awards night, and Christmas party. The previous year I decided to make it a Vegas night and brought in dealers, blackjack, craps, and roulette tables, even leased a few video slot machines, it was a great hit and the membership decided to make it a yearly tradition. Planning for the event I schedules a major event venue with a catered dinning area, an open bar, multiple gaming rooms and a theatre room.

The hotel comped several suites as part of the package I took the one nearest the events plus it came with an adjacent suite and I gave the company President the other suite, which was in the penthouse (I haven't made lead engineer by being stupid.) The adject room was for the entertainment, along with the games I planned on a Las Vegas style show, the showgirls could prep and change in the other room and both rooms provided a backstage access so we could travel back and forth without walking the public corridors. Planning for the event began in February and the party was two days before Christmas. I contracted a local dance troupe to perform, had the wait staff contracted and everything planned well before summer. I checked periodically through the fall, then three days before the event checked into my room at the hotel, we had only two days to practice for the performance and set up the dining and gaming rooms.

The hotel staff had the dining room and bar ready in a few hours and the vending company didn't take much longer to set up the gaming rooms. With nothing else to do I sat in on the rehearsals. The morning practice was in workout gear after which I had a bite of lunch, made some phone calls and entered the dress rehearsal about ten minutes into practice. Now I am no choreographer but the line seemed to be incomplete, I wasn't the only one who noticed.

"Where the hell is Camille?" Janet, the studio owner who both designed and orchestrated the show, looking up from the media board, began to yell. "I swear I am going to fire that little bitch. She is will be late for her own funeral, which might be quicker than she wants, because I am going to kill her."

Being the gallant and helpful man that I am, I asked if there was any I could help.

Janet snapped at me, "Well Logan, can you put on a corset and take the stage?"

"What!" The immediacy and agitated tone of my response brought her back to reality instantaneously and she began to apologize both for her impoliteness and the sad shape of her troupe.

I then tried to soothe ruffled feathers and again asked her if there was any way I could be of assistance. She nodded her head and asked if I wouldn't mind checking the dressing room to see if "a short red-headed bitch who is about to be murdered is in there."

"I'm on my way."

I took the back hall and as I approached the suite they were using as the dressing room I could see inside as the door had been propped open. Sitting at the vanity was a diminutive girl (it was impossible to tell her age with the stage make-up on) topless, with the headdress draped across her lap, sobbing.

I covered my eyes with my left hand and knocked on the door then asked, "Miss, I am sorry to interrupt, and I apologize for not announcing my approach, but, are you okay?"

"No," she barked with a annunciation that expressed both anger and frustration, "If I put the bustier I can't bend over to put on the headdress If I put on the headdress first I can't reach back to button the damned bustier."

"May I help in any way?"

"That would be wonderful, but you can not help standing over there with your eyes closed."

"But your breasts..."

"You are not the first guy to see my tits, I have been a dancer since I was a little girl."

"You still are a little girl."

"I am legal, I am eighteen, if you really want to help please just come and help, I don't care if you see my tits, I need to get on stage before Janet rips my head off."

"She is a bit miffed."

"She has never been 'miffed' a day in her life, she is either pissed or furious."

"I think it may be the latter."

"Aren't you the polite one. Drop your hand. Look where you are going. Come over here and help me, let's do the bustier first."

I couldn't help but stare, her exposed breasts were perfect. I don't know if it is true but I read that the flat champagne glasses, the Champagne Coupe, were modeled after Marie Antoinette's 'bol sein'. This young lady had such breasts, standing out from a visible ribcage almost as if they were glued on, an unbroken circle all the way around, with tight extended strawberry colored nipples mounted in exquisite symmetry. It wasn't until she placed the headpiece on the counter before her and stood that I realized how short she was. Not quite five-foot tall, strawberry blonde hair done up in a bun, a wasp waist that I could almost encircle with open fingertips. She had a dancer's body; high firm buttocks, well defined calf, thigh, abdominal and arm muscles, and tiny feet. She looked like the ideal Vegas showgirl, in miniature.

"You must be Camille?" I forced a statement to try and not come of as some pervert.

"I am. How did you know...Janet!"

"Yes, we need to get you out there right now."

I buttoned up her corset, placed and pinned the headdress and she rushed out the door, calling back "thank-you" as she rushed down the hall. I returned to observe the rehearsal, enjoying an excellent production that differed from every showgirl show I had ever seen in that instead of all the girls being tall and of similar height, this production has a sloped increase in height from the shortest girl (Camille) to the tallest, who was at least six-foot. When she dismissed the troupe I sat and talked with Janet awhile, who again apologized and thanked me. I informed her that no apology was needed, I understand the stress of final preparations.

The dinner, the show and the gambling went off without a hitch. I held back a couple of bottles of Krug Grande Cuve'e Brut to enjoy for myself when I was finally able to wind down after the party began to wind down. As I sat at the bar feeling rather proud of what I had accomplished, at least a hundred people had came to me claiming it to be the party, or time, they had ever had, Camille walked up and asked if she could join me. Her hair was down, now flowing past her waist, and she wore a silky black one-shoulder cocktail dress that was well suited for the occasion, even with the stiletto heals she didn't stand as tall as my chest.

I guess I should describe myself: My name is Logan Driscoll, I stand six feet two inches tall, weigh around 260, brown shaggy hair and brown eyes, with a dad-bod, spending way more hours working than working out. My dress coat is a 56 regular and my trousers have a 34 inches inseam and a 36 in waist. I was 32 at the time, had never been married, was engaged in my early twenties, but thankfully realized she wasn't the girl for me. I am not unattractive, I have never longed for female companionship, and I have never dated a girl who wasn't extremely attractive. I am not rich but have a good salary and have managed my money wisely, I owned my own home, have a cabin on the lake, my car was less than two years old. I have a classic Indian motorcycle, a boat, two jet-skis and a healthy bank account. I was content and content to be so. My life changed that night.

Camille climbed up onto the barstool next to me and said, "Janet told me that had you not intervened that she would have fired me, thank you for Janet, and thanks for helping me get suited."

"It was my pleasure; you couldn't know how much I enjoyed it."

"What did you enjoy most, the costume, the show, my flying routine?"

"Those were all delightful..."

"My tits?"

"Uhhhh.." Observing my discomfort, she burst out laughing, and her laughter was contagious. The ice was broken and sat there and talked until the bar closed.

I was perplexed by Camille, in some things she was innocent and naïve, in others quite well informed and articulate, she had graduated high school that year and was trying to get into a dance troupe but having no success because of her height. She was offered several scholarships both for dance and for cheerleading but had turned them down because she wanted to be on stage, and loved that I had saved her first really big performance.

We still had half a bottle left, but had to leave, I offered to order her an uber, but she said she would rather spend a little more time with me and finish the bottle, perhaps back in my room and later she could spend the night in the adjacent suite that they had used as addressing room. Both ideas sounded good to me so off we went, she staggered a bit on her high else stepping down from the barstool, I caught her and once righted she took my hand and we walked together to my room. We talked through the night and finished the second bottle. Somewhere near dawn she fell asleep. I picked her up and carried her to her room, placed her in bed and covered her with a blanket. I slept in my room alone but my dreams were filled with a little red headed nymph, I couldn't remember the last time I had experienced a wet dream.

I slept in until ten and had a late checkout for all the rooms so there was no rush. I met with the hotel events planner and manager to settle up the account, I didn't get back to my room until almost noon, I packed my bags and knocked on Camille's door to thank her for a lovely evening, when she didn't answer I used my key to open the door, She was gone and it was empty. In all our conversations I had failed to get her last name or a phone number. I was off on vacation until after new year, I busied my hands with maintenance tasks around the house, my thoughts remained busy with Camille.

I considered calling Janet at the dance studio but decided against it fearing that I would come off as some perverted stalker. Camille was only eighteen, a fourteen-year difference was a lot. I convinced myself that Camille had only been polite and couldn't possibly be interested in an old guy like me.

The Tuesday I returned to work was slow. I was setting at my desk going through the multitude of emails that had accumulated during my vacation. The phone rang around three in the afternoon. I didn't recognize the number and didn't recognize the voice in our exchange of greetings. I finally asked, "to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Don't tell me you have already forgotten me, I had hoped I had made a better impression, it's not everyone who sees my bare tits the first time we meet..."

"Camille!"

"That's me, my self confidence is now not totally shot."

"You have monopolized my thoughts since that night."

"Keep going, I'm beginning to feel more appreciated."

"I had, perhaps... no not perhaps, I had the best time of my life that night. I so enjoyed your company, our conversation, your performance."

"My boobs."

"Well the uhh. Yes, them... them."

"I had a great time too. I called because I thought we had a connection, but then you left without saying goodbye, and you haven't called..."

I interrupted her to explain that I didn't leave, that I was closing the hotel accounts and she was gone when I returned, and that I had never got her phone number or even her last name. I told her that would have called otherwise and explained my concern about our age difference. In the conversation she admitted that she had no idea how old I was and didn't care, she enjoyed our time together and hoped we could spend some more. Since it was a slow day I informed my director that I was leaving early and drove to the address Camille had given me, stopping first to pick up a bouquet of flowers. The neighborhood was a modest, blue collar community with large yards and culverts. Most of the homes showed a little, or a lot, of neglect. I pulled into the gravel driveway of the address given and before I could even shut off the car Camille came out and went immediately to the passenger door and got in.

I showed her the flowers and she asked if she could give them to her mom. The question surprised me because it had not occurred to me that an eighteen-year-old was probably still living at home with her parents. I told her the flowers were hers and she could give them to anyone she wished.

She said thank you and rushed them inside and was back out and in the car in moments. I drove to a quiet little bistro where we talked until closing. After that we spoke frequently and saw each other almost daily. Over the span of the next year I learned a lot about her and her family, most of whom grew to like me after a awkward start (the age difference). Her father, who was closer to my age than I was to Camille's, and her cousin Eric, who was Camille's age and had attended the same high school and graduated with Camille, and who obviously had a thing for Camille, both hated me, making it easy for me to hate them back.

John, Camille's father, was in his mid-forties and was a refuse worker for the city having never completed high school and somewhat of a bully. At well under six feet the first time he had tried to bully me I just stood up and looked down at him, my expression was enough to let him know I wasn't going to play his game, he rarely spoke to me after that. Eric on the other hand was sneaky and creepy, he would act like my best friend then say untrue things about me to other family members. What bothered me the most about him was that he would talk like he and Camille were romantically involved. Milly, Camille's mother and namesake warmed up to me rather quickly and warned me to stay clear of Eric and his friends as they were "bad news." Milly was still in her thirties yet Camille was her fourth child, having given birth to Camille's oldest brother Johnie when she was still in junior high school, she too had never finished high school.

In high school Camille had been captain of the cheerleading squad and a flyer on a competitive squad that had won regional competitions, she was also the Homecoming Queen, Salutatorian, and captain of the gymnastics team, and had lettered in cheerleading, track, swimming, and gymnastics. She and her dance squad had also won regional and national competitions. She was extremely competitive and excellent at everything she put her mind too. Yet, I learned she had a fragile self-confidence, and an obsession with being liked.

She had applied to the fine arts programs at some prestigious schools including Juilliard, all had expressed interest until they met her in person, afterwards the interest waned, she thought it was because of her stature, I had to agree having seen her perform and knowing her other accomplishments. Every rejection was a tremendous blow to her ego and for a time would cause her to sink into depression.

She shared that during one particularly low period she had taken a job as an exotic dancer (stripper) and how the attention that the men gave her would boost her moral instantly, and that she found it titillating how easily she could turn men on, and how turned on she would get by their lustful stares. She had to quit that job when her father found out about it and gave her the choice of moving out or finding some other employment. She then went to work as a receptionist for a large legal firm, where she still works today.

Her figure and beauty alone would garner the amorous looks of strangers, both male and female. She multiplied that probability in her choice of wardrobe. She dressed very provocatively almost always bordering on slutty. I don't think she owned a bra, not needing one for her firm "b" sized breasts and her nipples were always noticeable, She was a "free-the-nipple" advocate before the movement existed. Her skirts or shorts were always short, sometimes micro short, showing off her fantastic legs. She wears a minimal amount of make-up, which is perfect for her girl-next-door, tomboy look. When she wants to impress and does her make-up to the extreme, she could easily pass for a model. She is that cute/gorgeous kind of gal, most of the time cute, which suits me fine.

She admitted that she was still a virgin weeks into our dating and offered that it wasn't for any moral or religious creed, she had just never found anyone she wished to be that intimate with. At that time our dates usually ended with a heavy make-out session, including breast play and manually stimulating each other but had yet to have sex. That didn't happen until late May. We planned a weekend together at the cabin and had been on the water all day. I could not pry my eyes from Camille's body even though by now I had seen and touched, even kissed and licked, most of it, something about being in public with her as close to nude as one could legally be, her micro mini bikini consisted of three postage size pieces of metallic blue cloth. The bits of fabric were connected by a string so small it was almost a wire and the top swatches more resembled pasties than a swimsuit. If her nipples weren't so tiny, they would be visible on every side. The butt was non-existent, from behind she appeared to be naked. The front sat so low her clit was visible, it was obvious she had shaved her red pubic hair. Oh how I wanted to chew on that nubbin.

Late in the afternoon, both a little sun-burnt and tired from an active day. She went up to shower and start dinner while I stowed and covered the boats. I could hear the shower running as I entered so I drank a quick glass of water then showered in the guest bath, expecting her to be at the dining table when I came out. Wearing only a towel around my waist, I dropped my swim trunks off in the laundry as I headed to the master suite. I opened the bedroom door and was greeted by a nude Camille reclining on the bed.

"This is a nice surprise." I offered.

"I decided that if I was ever going to get fucked, I would have make the first move. I am horny and I want you, need any more invite?"

"Nope," and I dropped my towel, "What about dinner?"

"I would rather eat you."

"You look quite edible yourself."

"Then come over here, kiss me, eat me, fuck me, anything you want, just do it to me."

I literally jumped on the bed, amazed it didn't collapse. After a long passionate kiss, I nuzzled her ears and neck causing her to mew. I moved my left hand to her crotch with my fingers gathered and flat I rubbed my palm over her slit, the muscle at the base of my thumb pushed hard against her clitoris. Immediately her labia began to swell, and moisture emanated from within. I bent my middle finger slightly to further part her lower lips and it was soon slick from her excretions. When my lips touched her erect nipple, she quivered forcing her hips up and my finger to venture inside. Barely into the first joint of that finger I bit down on one nipple and pinched the other. She screamed and shuddered in orgasm. Fearing I had hurt her I raised up removing everything that was touching her and asked, "Did I bite too hard?"

"If you don't bite me again right now, I am going to bite you so hard. Damn, I've never cum like that in my life. Bite. Bite!"

I bit without touching her anywhere else, she came. I reached over to bite the other breast, she came again, moaning "please don't stop, this feels so good."

I licked my way down her torso (a short trip) and across her little man. Again, an orgasm. I reached up and pinched both nipples and buries my tongue in her pussy, the bridge of my nose pressing against her sweet spot, I lapped, suck and tried to probe as deeply as my oral muscle would reach. Her taste reminded me of honeysuckle, and I was happy to suckle her honey, which I did for almost an hour. I took my time and studied the folds of her temple, each bump and color variation I wanted to know, I had never seen an intact hymen, and teased it with my tongue. I sucked and nibbled at her clit until she begged me to stop.