Three Into Two Ch. 01

Chapter One - The Turning Point

Some people like to skydive or go white-water rafting or bungee-jumping. None of these things appeals to me. I get my excitement another way. I just live for the thrill of having a fit, young, black guy between my legs, sliding his long, meaty dick irresistibly inside me.

It's a sensation like no other. By the time the head of his cock is pressing into the entrance of your pussy, you've relinquished all control, just like jumping out of an airplane. You wait, in a mixed state of anticipation and trepidation. Will he slide it in slow, or push in powerfully, or thrust in brutally? If he's a new lover, just how big is he? How much will he stretch you? How deep can he go? And once he's inside you, will he make love to you gently or fuck your brains out? And indeed - how do you want him to do it? Just in that moment, not knowing, but wanting - wanting so much - to be full of that thick, dark cock-meat, I can start trembling with excitement. For me, there's no greater thrill. Am I going to whisper 'please be gentle', or croon 'fuck me harder'?

I wasn't always like this. I met my husband at college, and we married before graduation. Both of us did well in our chosen careers, Zac especially. Within five years he'd left his first job, raised some cash to set up on his own - part of it through a remortgage of our home - and made his first million. In those days, Silicon Valley was the place to be, and we rode the tails of the dot-com boom and then weathered the crash that followed pretty well. By the time Ashley came along, when I was just 27, Zac had made twenty million and counting. We could afford for me to put my lucrative law career on hold and start a family.

Life was good. Zac found a lucrative niche in Miami and moved us all to Florida. We had an apartment in Miami, a beach house in Palm Beach and the family home in Boca Raton. Zac had bought himself a Porsche, and I had a gorgeous Mercedes 280SL. Ashley grew up as a typical Sunshine State girl, spending time at the beach, learning to ride and to surf, and taking skiing trips to Aspen. It was only last June that we'd celebrated her eighteenth birthday with a huge party at Palm Beach. I'd returned to work when she was seven, although we didn't need the money. I just wanted to feel useful again, especially when Ashley wanted to go to a boarding school with her friends. With Zac away, sometimes on the West Coast, sometimes in Europe or Japan, it could get lonely at home.

And Zac seemed to be spending more and more time away - but then, I guess, so was I. Then one Friday in April, a couple of years ago, I was driving to the airport to catch a flight to Seattle for a meeting when I got a call from the client to say that the people that we were helping them to sue had agreed to settle out of court, and my services were not required. I had a free day; maybe a free week.

I didn't want to go back to the Boca house and be there, alone, for yet another day, so I headed instead for Palm Beach. It was sunny, and I thought I'd hit the beach. I could start the weekend early, maybe even take a few days off work the next week, enjoy the spring sunshine and try to chill.

When I got to the house, I was surprised to see Zac's Porsche in the drive. He'd told me he was on a business trip to New York. I let myself in quietly, and was also surprised to hear noises from upstairs. By the time I got to the bedroom door, which was half-open, I was no longer surprised to see Zac's secretary Anneke writhing around in our bed. And Zac writhing around in his secretary. He was totally focused on pounding away, and she seemed to be enjoying it. She was making a lot of noise, holding him tightly between her long, skinny legs.

At first, I'd been puzzled, then hurt, then angry. But as a lawyer, you learn to control your emotions. You can't afford an outburst in court when someone says or does something you know to be dishonest or unfair. You have to focus, be logical. Almost cold.

I took my phone from out of my bag and videoed the action for a good minute or two. Zac seemed to be exercising better control than he felt necessary to do with me. Finally, when they both seemed about to come, I stepped into the bedroom.

"Sorry to interrupt, guys. I don't want to spoil your fun, but I just wanted to let you know that I'll be filing the divorce papers when I get back to the office. Carry on." The look on their faces was priceless.

And with that, I turned around and headed back downstairs, into my car, and drove a few blocks to a nice little bar I used to visit with Zac when we spent weekends at the beach. I parked, but before I could get out, it hit me. I was sobbing uncontrollably for a couple of minutes. Everything we'd done together was now in ruins. Sure, I could screw him for a shit-load of money, but what would I tell Ashley? She was away at school, and would be graduating in a few weeks. Would the shock damage her chances of getting good grades? What would I do as a divorcee in her mid-forties? I'd gotten used to being a mother and a wife as well as a lawyer. If my little girl went away to college and I no longer had a husband, I would be all alone for most of the year. And Zac's infidelity spoke volumes for what he thought of me - as a wife and a lover.

Finally, I got back some control. I dried my eyes, tidied my make-up, grabbed my computer and headed into the bar. I ordered a Margarita, sat at a table and opened up the laptop. First, an email to my secretary Emilia, telling her I wouldn't be in for a few days. I needed time to think. Then a note to one of my closest colleagues, Margaret, asking her to start drawing up divorce papers, but to be discreet about it. I explained that I'd caught Zac fucking his skinny young secretary, that I suspected that this may have been happening for some time, and that I wanted to make sure I got the Boca Raton house and a settlement of at least twenty million. I knew Zac was worth over fifty by then, so he could afford it. He could keep the fucking beach house, as it had become the beach house where he did his fucking and I didn't want to go back there anymore.

And then what? I still needed time to recover from the shock, time to think. I wasn't going to spend it at home. For one thing, Zac might decide to come back and try to talk me out of the divorce, and I realized that I wasn't interested. It might be scary, facing life on my own, but I didn't want to remain shackled to a man who I knew had cheated on me at least once, and probably many other times.

I pulled up a browser and started searching for last-minute vacations. There wasn't a lot available, but I found a room in a nice-looking boutique hotel on St Lucia, at a place called Rodney Bay. As they had availability, starting the next day, and the case I'd been working on was now defunct, I felt I could take the whole week off and kick back. There was a flight leaving from Miami in the morning. A half-hour - and another Margarita - later, and I'd booked the whole trip, including taxi transfers to and from the airports at both ends.

I drove back home, selected some things I'd need for a week away and packed efficiently. I watered all the plants and called Maria, our domestic help, to explain that I'd be gone for a week. I then spent some time going through the pockets of Zac's clothes. I found a few interesting receipts, and a pair of thong panties. They didn't look like Zac would wear them. He was many things, but not a cross-dresser.

The cab arrived next morning on time, and I unwound over a drink in the airport lounge, waiting for my flight. I took out a paper notepad - I'd normally use my laptop, but I wanted to get away from that for a week - and wrote 'What next?" at the top of a blank page.

The obvious thing would be to keep on working as a corporate lawyer. But I really wasn't feeling fulfilled by helping large, wealthy organizations screw settlements from little guys who had - often inadvertently - used something resembling some obscure logo or slogan belonging to them. Usually, that trademarked item meant nothing to my client but was a core part of the small outfit's brand. Even a 'cease and desist' outcome would mean expensive re-branding for a small company. I knew one or two corporate bullies who seemed to think it was a sport to seek out little guys who could conceivably have infringed something they thought they owned, and then screw their victim until they'd been driven out of business. When I'd helped them win, it made me feel sick, despite the fees I got paid.

I could just throw in the towel and live off my husband's money. There was plenty of it, and I never really needed to work again. If I decided that I liked St Lucia enough, I could afford to rent an upscale house, live there for the rest of my life, take business-class flights back to see Ashley any time I liked and still have enough to leave a few million for my daughter in my will. But I wasn't the kind to be a beach bum, retire at 45 and do nothing. So many possibilities; but what should I do next?

*****

When we touched down at Hewanorra International Airport (not exactly JFK or Miami), I still hadn't added any new thoughts to my 'What next?' page. It was Saturday morning and the place was busy, but Maurice, my driver, was waiting, and he gave me a potted history of the island and a brief orientation during what could otherwise have been a very tedious 90-minute drive to Rodney Bay. I resolved that, if I should come back again, I would use a helicopter transfer. This was no disrespect to Maurice, who made the journey as pleasant as he could. But the roads! They wind, dip and weave through rain forest, over what was once the caldera of an extinct volcano, through isolated villages and around the edges of small towns. It seems like there's barely a hundred yards of flat land anywhere on the island, and the roads are narrow and increasingly busy, so it's not a fun trip.

But finally, we arrived at Rodney Bay around 3pm. It's not the prettiest of places; a couple of malls specializing in duty free booze and jewelry, a few shops and cafés, and then a long strip of small hotels, bars, restaurants and clubs, heading down to a pleasant beach. My hotel was a quaint, two-story place with an ocean view from the upper rooms. My junior suite was cool, airy, nicely furnished and spacious; everything I needed to just chill out. It had a balcony with a couch and a hanging chair, looking out over the Caribbean. The staff were friendly and smiling, and genuinely seemed to want to make my stay pleasant.

I showered, put on a robe and sat in the hanging chair, pad on my knee, thinking. Apart from the job, there were so many other considerations. Where would I live? Florida had been my home for most of my life, but was I happy with Boca Raton and all the associations there? I had a few friends in the area, but no-one I was really close to. Did I want to be near Ashley? She was in her freshman year at FSU at Tallahassee, but what if she decided to go to the West Coast or maybe to Europe when she graduated? Would she get married? Was I interested in being close to any grandchildren she might have?

Then there was the question of who I would spend the rest of my life with. It wasn't like I was a widow in her seventies. I was a fit and, I thought, still attractive soon-to-be-divorcee in her mid-forties. I enjoyed male company - including in bed - but I now realized that I'd had very little of that over the past few years, either sexually or otherwise. Zac and I had both gotten into a work-focused rut and had let our relationship slide, though I didn't think that was the cause of his infidelity. I suspected that he fucked other women because he found he could. I guess there were times when I also could, perhaps, have seduced someone I'd met at a conference or while working on a case. Looking back, there were definitely a few men I'd found attractive, and one or two who'd flirted with me, but I'd always thought I should stay faithful to my husband, whether that was a good idea or not. It seemed, on balance, to have not been such a great idea after all.

Around six, I decided that I needed a drink, and probably something to eat. My future planning didn't seem to be going anywhere; almost an infinite set of possibilities, but no clear path. Time, I felt, to just switch it all off and sample the island's cuisine. And maybe also get drunk enough to sleep.

The hotel recommended a little place a couple of blocks away. It was warm, so I dressed in a clingy little black number and heels. I've no idea why I didn't just stick to jeans and sneakers, but there seemed to be a need to assert myself, my femininity - be noticed. I suppose I just wanted to see if I could turn a few heads, to give me back the confidence that Zac's infidelity had taken from me. I was confident as a lawyer, but not as a woman, and I wanted to see if I could get a flirtatious smile, even from a waiter or a bartender.

The restaurant was already busy when I arrived. The hotel had phoned ahead for me, recommending a reservation as it was a popular place. A very pretty local girl with big eyes and a broad smile showed me to my table and presented me with a menu, and a few minutes later provided the necessary Margarita and a bottle of water. As I looked down the list of unfamiliar dishes, she returned with some steaming bowls that she served to the two guys at the next table. The aroma was intoxicating.

"Excuse me," I said to the one nearest to me, "what are you eating? It smells fabulous."

The young, black guy turned to me with what seemed to be the standard St Lucian greeting - a broad, white, winning smile - and said "Well, ma'am, that's the house specialty. It's Jerome's Special Fish Stew. It's very good. Raúl and me always eat it when we come here."

The other black guy facing him also smiled broadly at me. "Your first time here?" he asked, politely.

"Yes. It seems a very nice island."

"Nice? It's beautiful! OK, so Rodney Bay isn't too exciting, but you need to see more of it to appreciate how lovely it is. Have you been to Pigeon Island yet?"

"No. I've only just arrived."

"And how long you here?"

"A week."

"Wonderful. You can see a lot of the place in a week. Just get yourself a good driver. Ernie here, he can offer you a really good rate." The young guy I'd first spoken to smiled again and nodded.

"You waitin' for your husband?" Raúl asked.

I smiled back, maybe a little wanly. "No. I'm here on my own."

Raúl's face showed shock - feigned or not. "That's not right. You can't sit there all alone on your first night on our paradise island. That's just not hospitable. Come over and join us. Ernie, help the lady with her chair."

It seemed that I had no say in the matter. The younger guy got up, and I realized how tall he was. He helped me to my feet, lifted my chair to face their table and told me to sit down, as he gathered up my drinks and cutlery and set them out before me. He signaled to the waitress that I'd now joined them, and she smiled back.

"Hi, I'm Raúl," the older of the two said, holding out his hand. "This here is my little brother Ernesto - Ernie, we call him. And you are?"

"I'm Melissa," I said, shaking his hand, and then Ernie's. "Delighted to meet you both. And Ernie doesn't look very little to me."

They both grinned. "Yeah, he seems to have shot up in the last few years. But he's the youngest of us three, so we call him little brother."

"Three?"

"Yeah, there's my big brother, Fidel. When I say big, he's not as tall as Ernie but he's a big guy." Raúl indicated bulk with his hands. "He's the gym manager at one of the major resorts here. He looks like a weightlifter. No-one argues with him."

"You both look pretty fit to me. Are you guys personal trainers or something?"

"No, I run a small construction company with an old school friend. Ernie here's just graduated from school and he's working his way through college, studying tourism. He does some chauffeuring and tour-guiding on his own until he has his qualifications. Fidel keeps him pretty fit. We've always had some gym equipment at home, and we all get to use it."

"Wait a minute. Fidel, Raúl and - and Ernesto. Those are odd names for St Lucia, aren't they? I mean, my driver on the way over told me this was an Anglo-French island, so why the Spanish names?"

Ernie laughed. "Yeah, our mum was a great fan of the Cuban revolution. Fortunately, nobody calls me Ché. Not unless they want to lose a few teeth."

Raúl took over the explanation. "Our great-grandpa was involved in the West Indies Federation. My grandpa stood for election after independence and he brought my mum up to be political. She wanted a daughter so she could call her Vilma, after Vilma Espin - an amazing woman - but instead she got three sons. She admired what Cuba had achieved, how they've defied America for sixty years - invasion attempts, blockades, crippling sanctions - and they're still standing."

"I think there are a few thousand ex-Cubans living in Miami right now who may not be as enthusiastic as she is," I replied.

"Yeah," Raúl replied, "but they're mostly there for economic reasons. You can't get rich in Cuba, and that's largely because the US has made it hard for the rest of the world to trade with them, and vice versa. Since the Soviet Union collapsed, it's been very tough for them, with no opportunity to export anything except skilled people. Now they have a tourism industry, things are picking up, but the US still won't let their people in."

I was about to start talking about the issues of personal freedom and human rights when my fish stew arrived.

"Here you go lady," the waitress said. "And watch out for these two. They're a couple of rogues."

Raúl and Ernie were still smiling, so they obviously considered her remark a joke.

"Well, you see, Molly, Melissa's so much prettier than you. And we prefer intelligent female conversation." Raúl's smile betrayed that this was banter.

"I don't know why. You two dumb-asses wouldn't know intelligent conversation if it was shouted through a megaphone. Enjoy your meal lady. Don't let these two put you off." She smiled and left.

"You know each other, I guess," I asked, looking at Raúl.

"Sure. Ernie is head over heels in love with Molly..."

"No, man, I'm not..."

"...but the problem is, she's already spoken for. She's married to Ambrose, me business partner."

"Oh, I see." I took a sip of my stew, which was excellent, then I looked at Ernie for explanation.

Ernie didn't respond to my inquisitive glance. Instead, he said "What about you, Melissa? You're here on your own, but you're wearing a wedding ring. Where's your husband - if you don't mind me asking?"

I realized that I'd become so habituated to the ring, I'd completely forgotten to remove it. Actually, I reflected, I was still technically married.

"My husband? Well, right now he's probably in bed with his secretary. That's why I'm divorcing him." I took a couple more spoonsful of stew. It was good.

The guys looked at each other, as if to say oh shit, we didn't want to stir anything up.

"Sorry to hear that," Raúl replied after a few moments.

"Oh, please don't be. I'm not. I'm pretty sure he's been unfaithful to me on several occasions. Possibly many occasions. I found a pair of panties in his suit pocket. They're definitely not his size."

The guys smiled. "You mean he's chosen his secretary over you? The man has no class."

"Thank you, Raúl. It's kind of you to say that. But she's twenty years younger than me."

"Isn't it illegal in your country to have sex with a child?" Raúl had a twinkle in his eye. I laughed.

"The girl is around twenty-three, and she's pretty. I can see the attraction, but that's no excuse."