Sun Kissed

Sun Kissed

Sorry it has been so long. Usual warning applies. This is a hotwife/mild cuckold story. If your version of 'Loving Wives' is romance and monogamy, just move on.

It all started with the job that I didn't particularly want. Everyone said I was crazy for not wanting it. They shook their heads and muttered in an exasperated way about how Tom was being contrary again, being difficult. Well fuck them, I thought. They won't be the ones screaming into the tropical night sky having had to sit on rolling conference calls spanning four continents. It was time-zone hell; trapped between one bunch of shithawks going to sleep and another bunch waking up. Still - the island looked a dream. St Martinique was everyone's fantasy of paradise: golden sands as soft as Egyptian cotton; foaming surf and gin-clear water that faded into a sapphire aquamarine to endless horizons; swaying coco-nut trees and verdant mountains of granite that hid quiet glades and cool streams and lagoons. One could not look at the glossy brochure that the company had sent us without imagining yourself propped up by one of the beach-side bars, sipping a cocktail and watching the sunset. Or, in my case, imagining my wife Annabelle sunbathing topless on the extensive balcony, wide as the deck of a ship, of the promised company house. And really, it was this delightful thought that made me sign the papers.

Annabelle - Anna - had that type of skin that bronzed in the sun. While I blistered and burned lobster red, she simply glowed. She is a sun goddess, albeit a short one. Just a shade over five foot tall, she had the proportions of a pin-up model from the fifties - and a million watt smile to match. Her eyes sparkled in an electric blue and her limbs were taut and lithe, supple in the way only a yoga instructor's could be. She was blossoming out of her twenties into a truly head turning specimen. Her fine golden hair, long to her waist, completed the fantasy package.

It was the thought of her, sprawled out on the tanning beds, wearing racy thong bikinis, walking about in floaty summer dresses with acres of flesh on show, that probably convinced me to give it a shot. We were young. We didn't have kids. We were well off. Why not?

Anna and I were a pretty dull couple in reality. We met at a wedding of a mutual friend who was an investment banker. Anna was your typical middle-class, pashmina wearing, posh-totty. She had a good degree from Cambridge but with my hefty wage decided to give up her unfulfilling work as a legal-aid solicitor and pursue her hobbies and help the community. She was the beautiful woman who smiles at you just for catching her eye on the way into the supermarket, or strolling in the park,or as you exit a train. She is always perfectly turned out and always memorable - but is never quite sexy because of how conservatively she dresses, how primly she sits, how controlled and polished her ideas and language are. She was a bit like a schoolteacher, or a nun, in the aura she projected.

The move was as chaotic and hellish as I feared. They lost half the luggage, last seen on route to Australia. There was a problem with Anna's visa and we had to wait for four hours in the airport while a parade of simpletons (each one fatter than the last) came in and asked us the same basic questions. Anna, bless her, managed to prevent me from murder and to charm the petty officals into hurrying along the recitification of their own mistake. She smiled her winning smile, she flipped her long, straight,blonde hair and wriggled her bare shoulders in an adorable way. It worked, and finally the fattest and most frog-like of the St Martinique immigration officers appeared waving a triple stamped form.

The house was something else. Set into the side of a steep hillside, it commanded a panoramic view over a postcard bay. We would spend evenings sat on the balcony, watching the sun dip and ripple across the breaking waves, with the silhouettes of the fishermen's boats bobbing on the sea. The house was surrounded by tropical forest. Our neighbour ran the local rum distillery and gave us free run of his pool.

The country was special. To properly picture St. Martinique you need to think of every tropical island you've seen on TV. Think Neverland and Hawaii, think Jamaica or Fiji in 'The Blue Lagoon', think of Phuket in 'The Beach' - think of all those places and then blow them away for Martinique was superior, and real. Alone for a thousand miles in any direction, blessed with verdant jungle and fertile seas, Martinique was awash with colour and light. Dazzling greens and jewel-like blues painted each vista, each horizon.

Six months passed in a heart-beat. Anna set up some classes and made friends in the witchcrafty way that she has, I worked until my eyes started bleeding and screamed into the tropical night sky when the Norwegians dropped the ball for the third time in a week. Our lives settled into a luxurious but monotonous routine. I would wake before sunset and lift weights on the balcony, then trudge off to work while Anna was still asleep, naked and intertwined in our satin sheets. She would jog, socialise, run her sessions and meet me for sundowner drinks at our favourite bars. I'd work again until the evening then we would read, talk, drink and fuck. We didn't have a TV in those early months so most of our evenings were wine-soaked affairs where I would read a novel listening to the fruit-bats come in to roost at dusk while I would steal glances at Anna propped up on her painting stool, brush in hand, her adorable face tensed up in concentration.

Or she would be practicing her on her harp, her fine fingers echoing the music of the spheres as her legs straddled the eye-wateringly expensive instrument. Thank fuck they hadn't lost that enroute. When she played, her face an adorable mask of concentration, she would look very much like an actual angel and I'd tease her about it. But then my phone would go off and I'd be screaming at some fuckwit once more.

Sometimes I would work out on the small home gym set up I'd installed in a corner of the vast acres of our balcony; duelling mosquitoes as worshiped at my iron shrine. While Anna was the clear and obvious ten in our relationship, I wasn't a complete slouch - I kept in shape and my shoulders were wide and my back straight and strong.

Anna would shop at the local markets, buying fish straight from the nets and fruit straight from the trees. She got to know which sellers had the best mangos, which ones scale and gut the fish for her the fastest. She was supposed to haggle but she never did, and so the market-sellers loved her.

We became comfortable. We had routines and preferred shops. We hung out in expat circles and attended parties and social gatherings. We did charity runs and posted every picture perfect moment on our social media to shock and awe the audience we left at home.

We had plenty of visitors. Everyone jumped at the chance of a visit to an island like St. Martinque with free accommodation. To my dismay, Anna's mother had a prolonged visit, followed by her harridan older sister. When they left it was my best man and then Anna's maid of honour with her three kids. I wasn't devastated when we drove them finally back to the airport.

It wasn't a bad life exactly, it was just that it was essentially what we had been doing back in London, albeit with shit weather and shit views. It started to chafe. The long shadow of monotony crept over us and I felt a hopeless gloom, one amplified by the carefree 'paradise' that surrounded me. It was a potent mix: the boredom, the relaxed holiday feel, the pressure of work and, everywhere, my sexpot wife wearing very little.

I began to dream. As the airconditioning hummed and paradise slept, I dreamt of filth. It was always the same - some stranger and Anna locked in an embrace. Them undressing. Ann sucking his thick, veined, dark-brown cock on the bed as his hand snaked down her body and his fat fingers entered her ass as she moaned and her blue eyes rolled.

I would wake up in a sweat, my cock harder than the granite cliff on which the house was built. I couldn't get over it. The pure vivid realism of the image was astonishing. Each lock of her hair, the look of pure lust, the glistening of his pre-cum, the sounds of her slurping - all of it was as real as cold tiles under my feet. I would wake up with raging hard-ons and found each work day more and more interminable.

Once the idea was planted in my mind it grew like an invasive species, colonising and seizing control in fertile soil of my bored and frustrated brain. Each person I met I imagined paired up with Anna. Each time she left the house I imagined her getting slammed somewhere, while I watched. She started volunteering at the small local school, teaching dance and gymnastics and all I could imagine was the fat, black, sweaty headmaster sliding his cock into her arse with her summer dress pooled up by her hips, her grunts synchronized with the slow clipped sounds of the rotating ceiling fan above his desk.

The pressure felt relentless. We would go to barbeques on the beach and Anna would wear her conservative bikini and a sarong around her waist, a wide brimmed sun-hat framing her wide and open face. She would be laughing and chatting with Jim, our friend who was a diving instructor, or Phillipe, who ran the deep sea fishing charter company, and my mind was ablaze with filth. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't deal with it.

On the plus side, our sex life was suddenly unbelievable. We fucked like Olympic athletes. I came like I was hooked up to the fire-hydrants. Anna was taken aback by the power and ferocity of my ardour, and was also a bit dazed by how frequently I wanted to jump her bones - that frequency being every time we got back into the house. Inevitably, as we lay intertwined one day, covered in sex, in cum, in each others hair and the twisted bedsheets, she asked me about it.

I wriggled and evaded, unwilling to really admit it; she persisted, nestling into the crook of my arm and tracing her hand down my torso to play with my flaccid dick as she slowly kissed my neck. "Come on," she urged between kisses, "tell me - I won't mind."

I froze for a moment. "Fuck it." My cock reared back into life as I took the plunge. "I can't stop thinking about you fucking other men, while I watch." There. Done. Out in the open at last.

The pleasing strokes stopped on my cock and a puzzled, concerned look descended onto her angelic face. Oh shit. I watched, queasy, as Anna sat up and pulled her dressing-gown across her shoulders and bowed her head.

"Is that how little you care?" she nearly croaked, "about our vows?"

I sighed. This was going well. So much for "I won't mind". I pulled her close, pitching my voice to maximum reassurance and started explaining away. I talked about how it was precisely because of how much I did love her that I wanted to do this. How I wanted her to feel pleasure, to live life, to experiment and grow with me. How it wasn't about wanting other women, or feeling like she would then owe me. No, I wasn't secretly gay. No, I didn't watch too much porn (I probably did). And so it went on. I held my own, digging for victory - after all, bullshit and talk were what I used to bring home the bacon.

It worked after a fashion. Anna calmed down and chose as her response a curious form of amnesia and a mild dose of the cold shoulder. I didn't think this was fair, but I knew enough to shut up and just take it.

Months passed without so much as a whisper of that admission. My obsession only grew, as did my frustration, but I couldn't see what to do. I couldn't force her - she was iron-willed and that would be no fun in any case. So I just left it and decided to try and keep it in my sick mind as much as I could.

And so when we found ourselves in need of a double celebration, the idea was one of those little simmering regrets that I couldn't change - like how I'd never taken the chance to try being a professional footballer when the pathway had opened up in my youth. I'd never get over it, but it didn't help dwelling on it either. We were celebrating because I'd crushed my enemies and driven them before me in a landmark deal that meant I didn't have do a single thing for at least six months. Anna was celebrating because she'd just been promoted at her school.

Anna didn't usually drink much. She was a notorious light-weight and didn't always enjoy the lack of control that booze brought on. However, she was drinking well this night. I'd splashed out on some proper champagne, not the cheap shit. This was unbelievably difficult to find on St. Martinique and I'd only managed by bribing someone at one of the sprawling five star resorts. A crate of the finest at more than quadruple the price. It was worth it. Anna and I were due to attend a masquerade ball at our favourite haunt. It was carnival weekend and the whole island was gearing up for one type of decadence or another. It wasn't Rio, but they had a parade and a number of beach events. The one we were going to was at "Piers' Pier", a swanky and sprawling bar set next to an island of luxury houses. It was a mooring spot for super-yachts and charter boats. The plan was to start at Piers and then move to an annual party in the hills with a couple that Anna had made friends with from the school. We were looking forward to it.

For the early parts of the evening, I just enjoyed watching my wife get ready and topping up her flute when required. She looked extraordinarily ravishing. She wore a dark red dress that clung to her skin like pouring wine, accentuating the curve of her hips, the pert angles of her tits and the blaze of her blue eyes. She wore heels, arching her back and thrusting her chest forward, elongating the sway of her walk as she clip-clopped across the kitchen floor and pressed her lipsticked lips against my cheek. "I'm ready." So was I. I was ready to throw her on the floor, hike up the dress, pull her thong aside and pump her full to bursting. I resisted, with some difficulty, and we bundled into our car, the scent of the evening tide fresh in the air, the dusk cacophony of nesting birds silenced as the heavy engine roared into life.

Anna was in a bubbly, flirty mood as we drove around the twisting island roads, sheer granite on one side, crashing waves and fatal drops on the other. She was relaxed and chatty and in the mood for dancing, her shoulders moving when a song she liked came on the radio. At length we reached the bar, driving across the narrow bridge and onto the reclaimed land island. The neon shimmered on the calm sea as the expensive boats bobbed slowly, a forest of furled masts and silent outboards.

I helped Anna out of the car, making a real show of being a gentleman and we walked, my arm around her thin waist, down the boardwalk and towards the thumping music. Inside, there was a nice buzz of people. The crowd was young - a mixture of tourists, locals and ex-pats. The music was lively and already the dance-floor, which was small and adjacent to the bar, was filling up already.

I found a table in an out of the way spot and ordered a round of cocktails from a harassed looking waitress. Anna took the opportunity to go to the ladies room and I took the opportunity to watch her ass swing in her tight dress as she wound her way through the crowd.

The drinks arrived and I lost myself in a deep swallow and idle people-watching. It was a humid night and I unbuttoned my shirt further. I scanned across the bar, looking at some of the prettier girls before doing a quick double take. There, by a pillar near the entrance, was Anna. She was paused, purse in hand, on her way back from the ladies (I assumed). What caught my attention was that she was engaged in conversation with a tall black local lad. He had short dreadlocks down to his very broad shoulders and a wide, predatory smile, that showed more than passing interest in Anna's sunny demeanor. She was being chatted up.

Instant hard on and fluttering heart-rate. From my vantage I could see that Anna was laughing and looking up; not sold, but not brushing him off or switching to her surprisingly effective bitch mode. Her long hair was cascading down her back in golden strands and her tanned skin provided contrast to the dark black of the man's thick arms as he towered over her. My stomach lurched as she threw her head back in a laugh, touched his arm and flowed away, his dark eyes following her through the crowd and back to me.

"Made a friend I see," I asked, my face a teasing smile.

"Just trying his luck. You know what the Martiniques are like at carnival." She winked at me as she picked up her drink and sucked on the straw.

"Made you laugh though."

She smirked at me over the salted rim of her glass. "He was funny. And sort of hot. You jealous?"

I laughed. "Should I be?"

Her response never came as the DJ switched tracks to a very popular, up-beat floor-filler. "Yes! I love this! Come on!"

Up she popped and made a smooth slide onto the dance-floor, her shoulders wiggling, which made her tits bounce. It was a sexy song but I hated to dance and I cried off. It was a common game between us, her trying to entice me to the floor and me politely refusing. Dancing was a talent of hers, a real joy. Often these little stand-offs would end with her dancing on her own, eyes closed, oblivious to the world as she found the rhythm of the music.

That wasn't what happened this time. This time, as she raised her hands above her head to shake her ass, they were grabbed by the massive black bucket hands of her previous admirer, who obviously had fewer qualms about strutting his stuff on the dancefloor. She looked up in surprise, looked at me with a laugh on her lips, then twirled around in an elegant pirouette to lean in closer to our new friend.

I was as hard and excited as I'd ever been, my cock straining painfully against my trousers, my neck drenched with anxious sweat. I nervously sipped at my drink as I watched Anna slide closer to her new friend, her back nearly against his chest. She was swaying her shoulders and body in rhythm with his and she briefly caught my eye with an amused expression. I gave her a thumbs up.

The music abruptly changed; an island song, endlessly repeated, wildly popular, came on to a general cheer and Anna found herself being whirled into the center of the dancefloor, her legs straddling one of her friend's thighs as they did a grinding sway to the beat. Anna had not danced to this before but she was a quick study and her lithe body found the matching motions in a heartbeat. I stared, open mouthed, as her dress rode up her legs and a big black hand enveloped the small of her back with little difficulty. They moved well together - really, sensuously, well. His oversized features and her petite frame complimented each other in juxtaposition and, for what seemed a week, they swayed: grinding, sweating, pulsing against each other as the music blared and the island spun around them.

Then the song was over and Anna put a small hand up against his chest. He leaned into her ear and she laughed, pushing him away. My heart was hummingbird fast as she strolled over, unhurried, a wide smile on her face.

"That looked fun," I managed to breath and she scooted into the booth next to me.

"Mmm. He was good. He could move."

"Come here," I demanded, pulling her into my lap and covering her sweet mouth with mine. Her eyes widened as she felt my hardness, felt the ferocity of my kiss and the searing heat of my ardour.

"Woah," she managed when I finally pulled away. "That REALLY got you excited."

I didn't reply; I didn't need to - my body spoke for itself. I dragged her in again and snaked my hand up her dress, eliciting a hiss of surprise. "Tom! Not here! People can see!"