tagLoving WivesWhat Fools These Mortals Be

What Fools These Mortals Be

bydtiverson©

I'm a hopeless romantic and I know less about sharing than I do about Schrodinger's cat. But Randi's the den-mother and she's challenged our little group to write a sharing story -- nothing could possibly go wrong with that... right?! It's been ages since I've posted a typical LW fantasy and I have to admit that it's been fun to let the wolf out for a meaningless frolic. Hope you enjoy - DT

*

The DC housing market sucks. It's so ridiculous that you're likelier to get mugged, than find a suitable home in any neighborhood you could actually afford. Of course, you can get reasonable prices if you're willing to go far enough out. But, the daily commute from Pennsylvania would be mind-numbing.

That's why my wife and I live on a houseboat. We chose a 66-foot Riverchase, which is docked at the Marina on the Washington Channel. The price was less than a crack-house in Anacostia. and the mooring fee is just over eight hundred a month. That includes all the amenities, sewer, water and electricity. Plus, you don't pay DC's exorbitant property tax.

The Marina is like a small town. The network of docks interconnects dense packs of liveaboards, just like city streets. There are restaurants and bars along Wharf and Maine. So, in effect we're a tranquil river community right in the middle of the insane hustle-and-bustle of the City.

The Riverchase is more like an upscale home. It's loaded with high-end touches and it's spacious. Best of all, the Waterfront-SEU Metro stop is just a five-minute walk and the Green Line runs right to where I work. So, I make the commute without the hassle that the poor shmoos in the rest of the City endure.

Flip and I are in our mid-thirties. That's older than average for newlyweds. But she's my second wife. Both of our starter marriages epitomized the adage about "fool me once." We were dedicated to never getting to the "shame on me" part.

Marriage number one was based on mutual disappointments. She thought she had a meal ticket. I thought I had somebody who would support me in my career. I didn't go into the high dollar tech business and she spent her time fucking the people who did. The resulting divorce made us both happy.

Flip's real name is Flavia. She was born in the GWU Hospital and she is an American citizen, even though her dad is with the Italian Diplomatic Service. She speaks accentless English and Italian. But when she was a little girl, she couldn't pronounce Flavia. It kept coming out "Flip." That cute little nickname stuck, and it has been Flip ever since.

I met her at the Howard House. The Howard House is the former residence of the guy who gave the school its name. He was a semi-successful Union General and the Head of the Freedman's Bureau. Now the place serves as a processing plant where the university squeezes money out of rich donors.

Howard is located on a hill in the Northwest part of DC. Anybody who's been up there is amazed by the sight of the Federal monuments laid out at their feet. It's like getting a panoramic view over ALL of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Flip was at the event because of her interest in minority business development. I was there because my Dean made me go. I was tenured. But I still had one step left on the promotion ladder and so kissing his ass was de-rigueur.

Flip was wearing a relatively modest light silk flowered print dress. The breeze made it hug her lissome body and revealed a lot of leg. That was what drew my attention. She has incredible legs, long, full, and shapely. Like most Italian girls, dance is her heritage and you don't get muscular calves like Flip's if you haven't spent a lot of time at the barre.

Flip's features are practically Alpine. Her family comes from the Como area. So, there are probably a few Huns in the family tree. She's dusky enough to be Italian. But she's a dirty blond rather than dark haired and she puts new meaning to the term "brick shithouse."

She was surrounded by a flock of male admirers, playing Scarlett O'Hara at the Twelve Oaks barbeque. I joined the pack. It was mainly because I was bored, and she was pretty. However, I also soon realized that she was the smartest person in the group. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence, she had classic rapier wit and a fabulous sense of humor.

Of course, she also had the hottest rack in Christendom. I'm a sighthound and boobies do to me what a badger does to a dachshund. I stood there in awe. It was like viewing the Alps for the first time. I knew then-and-there that I had to have this woman.

Fortunately for me, the folks who were throwing the party began clearing us out. I made it my mission to walk out with Flip, chatting about the event. I told her that I was there because I was the computer science department's designated hostage. I asked her why she was there, and she spent a half hour telling me about her fascination with social justice.

With the possible exception of some members of Congress, the only place where that hogwash is featured on the menu is with the Jesuits. So, I said, "What do you teach at Georgetown?" It turned out that she was one of the Hoya's new social work faculty. She'd just moved back to DC after a brutal divorce and was getting to know people. I made it a point to become the guy she knew best.

Going immediately "all-in" on Flip was a weird state of affairs. Maybe I'd watched too many TV Westerns. But I was a cowboy not Romeo. Hence, the act of divorcing the first wife had been more like a particularly satisfying bowel movement. My only feeling was profound relief.

But Flip was the positive polarity to my negative one. She didn't just attract me. It was like our getting together was a law of nature, an inevitability. I relentlessly pursued her until she agreed to be mine.

That was uncharacteristic behavior, but I knew that Flip was a one-in-a-million woman. She ticked all of my physical boxes; big tits, check; pretty face, check; sensual mouth, check; nice round butt, check, and fabulous legs, check. I particularly liked the fact that she had a massive fondness for pork.

I have always equated sexual performance with intelligence and Flip was a genius when it came to carnal knowledge. Smart women are in touch with themselves. They understand the act and they're creative. Plus, dance had built a sturdy female frame. So, she had all the endurance in the world and you never needed to be gentle.

In fact, Flip was an absolute insatiable animal in bed, greedy and giving in equal measure. The vision of her hard-little body arched into a bow, mouth wide open, hands frantically gripping my ass, and neck muscles outlined with effort as she loudly came, is permanently etched on my brain.

Flip and I have plenty of free time to just enjoy each other. Hence, we go everywhere and do everything as a couple, just her and me. That's the advantage of being university faculty. Our six-figure salary only obligates us to a nine-hour work week, for about thirty weeks a year. The remaining twenty-two are all ours. Sigh! Yes, I realize it's a scam!

It was the summer solstice and Flip and I were sitting up-top enjoying a fine Barolo along with each other's company. Flip is a beautiful and sensual woman. But her real appeal is her mind. It's omnivorous and Flip loves to laugh. That's the basis of our bond.

I'm a lot more average than she is. But we are both on the same wavelength when it comes to how we think. Flip's a tornado of intellect, sarcasm, nuanced humor and fabulous insight. She has told me that she needs to "connect" that way in order to develop feelings for a person and that's hard for her to do.

She told me that was why her first marriage failed. She wanted to be with somebody who could stimulate her with his mind, not just his little winkey and that was all her first husband had. The same was true with my first wife. She was beautiful, but she was fabulously stupid. Life with her was excruciatingly boring; notwithstanding her inability to keep her legs closed in the presence of money.

We knew that we were made for each other as soon as we began to date. Rather than the usual boring chatter we were constantly bantering, throwing out concepts and batting them around. We'd exchange jokes and innuendo and we had some knock-down-drag-out arguments, mostly about topics that people would consider downright odd.

The arguments illustrated the difference between social work and computer science. Flip's a leftie with the sensibilities of a 1960s Flower Child. The glass is always half full for her. I'm a nerd. For me, the glass just has to be re-engineered to correctly fit the volume of the liquid it contains.

Flip doesn't take well to my pragmatism. She thinks I'm "insensitive." I think she's "clueless." That doesn't make the slightest difference in our loving relationship. But it DOES make for some very "vigorous" political discussions.

Since it was the solstice we were talking about the party. Specifically, the annual midsummer bash. The Marina is like a small town. So, of course there are social groups. Flip and I are in a pack of thirty-somethings who throw elaborate theme parties. Since we are all water-borne, we build the party around our ability to navigate our residence to interesting places on the river.

The Fourth was still three weeks away and the summer solstice is as good an excuse as any for a little Druidic excess. So, rather than Yankee-Doodle and fireworks, this one was built around A Midsummer Night's Dream.

We were going to dress in costumes that reflected the ambiance of that Shakespeare play. Our group had all been to college. We knew the story. So, we planned an overnight excursion to Rosilie Island. It was kind-of cosplay for nerds, without the superhero outfits.

Rosilie island is a short trip down the Potomac just north of National Harbor. It's the first heavily wooded area you hit once you clear the clutter of Alexandria. It's actually a peninsula that was created by the material they dug up when they built the Pentagon. But the feeling is isolated, because the concrete pier that supports the I-95 overpass blocks access to most of the neck of the peninsula.

The hang-up was that somebody had to pilot us there. Several of our friends live on the barge-type houseboats. Those float. But they're pigs in the open water. So, everybody rides with people who own proper vessels. The Riverchase has a couple of MerCruiser engines and it was our turn to provide the transportation, which meant I had to stay sober.

We have the onboard capacity of a small home. So, there was plenty of space for the four couples in our group. We planned to leave in the early evening and then party until we dropped. After that we'd find a place to crash on our boat and then motor back upriver the next morning. It was wonderfully convenient for everybody except the poor sucker who had to do the driving.

I'd planned to anchor tucked into the hook of the peninsula. But nobody in his right mind would get smashed enough to leave his vessel completely unattended. Especially if the Coast Guard showed up. So, I was more-or-less condemned to a golden state of sobericity for the entire party.

It didn't stop me from dressing the part. I got to pick the character because I was the one being shafted by circumstance. I chose Oberon King of the Fairies. And let me stop you right there!! In Shakespeare's time that didn't imply what it does now.

Because I was Oberon, Flip chose his wife Titania. I was admiring my legs in my costume; doublet, hose, kingly crown and cape, when Flip stepped out of the master stateroom. She was wearing an outfit that was made of diaphanous pieces of silk. It was her interpretation of how a Fairy Queen ought to look.

The costume was designed to convey ethereal. But I almost had palpitations. You could see every inch of Flip's supple dancer's body underneath the silk. There was a distinct outline of the crack between her big round buns and a minor camel toe, not to mention her jutting nipples. Then I realized she that was covered shoulders-to-ankles by a nude-color body stocking. She wasn't actually naked.

Even so, her costume was off the charts alluring. Flip's huge dark brown Italian eyes had far too much makeup on them and she'd ratted her long blond hair into a primal array, with parts of it colored blue. The impression was along the lines of post coital bed-hair.

The fact that my wife had made herself up to look like a fertility goddess was really no big deal. She was just going along with the spirit of the party. I mean, I'd painted my whole face blue. But the costume was guaranteed to make her a target for every dirty-old-man at the party.

Flip's naïve. She treats everybody with respect. So, why wouldn't guys treat her the same way? Hence, she doesn't flirt as much as she puts herself in situations where her stunning sex appeal attracts the wrong sort of fellow. A lot of smart women do that. They're thinkers. They live mostly in their own head. So, the potential consequences of their extreme sexuality don't register.

To Flip, the decision to have sex involves factors like emotional connection and long-term consequences. Whereas, most guy's only thought is, "I want to HIT that!!" Consequently, there have been instances when I've had to chase off a stalking predator; while Flip just toddled blithely along, not realizing that she was being hunted. Like I said, she's civilized to a fault.

There was also one additional complication. Although Flip's a lady in public, she's an absolute slut in the bedroom. She'll try anything, and she'll do it over-and-over again with earth-shattering gusto. Only the few people who've fucker her know her secret. The problem was that tonight's outfit provided a disturbingly intimate glimpse of the sexual fires that lurk in the depths of Flip's soul.

She said concerned, "Is it too much? I don't want to look indecent?" I whistled and said, "You're going to inspire extreme lust in a lot of hearts if those silk strips move around." I added with a loving chuckle, "That's not my opinion. It's a simple statement of fact."

Flip yelped and disappeared into the bathroom. She emerged twenty minutes later with the sheer blue silk attached in a way that ensured her modesty. She said concerned, "Is that better?"

It was a marginal improvement. There was nothing too revealing now. But she wasn't wearing anything underneath the bodysuit. So, anybody dancing with her would be aware that they were holding Flip's hard little body, with very little in between.

I told her that. She said dismissively, "I'm just going to drink and talk. I hate dancing at these parties anyhow."

It isn't that Flip doesn't dance. It was just that social dancing doesn't interest her. Flip was in the corps-de-ballet when she was a teen, before she grew those huge boobs. After that, a lot of her options in dance were taken off the table; except perhaps pole-dancing. Still, the thinly veiled dry humping at our parties is as boring for Flip as playing in a Thursday night beer league would be for a Major League All-Star.

I kissed my wife on her British-blue lips, and said, "It doesn't matter what you do. I have the same faith in you as you have in me." She got that melting look that she gets when her emotions are riled and said with deep sincerity, "God! I love you so much Ziggy." They could have named me Darren, or Chad, or Todd, but my parents have a sick sense of humor.

*****

At exactly six o'clock I disconnected and eased us out of the slip. It was a major pain in the ass to separate the electrical, water and sanitary hookups. But Mark and William helped. Counting Flip and me, there were four couples on the boat; my best buddy Mark and his wife Michelle, William who was a guy I worked with and his wife Dotrice and a younger couple from a small liveaboard next to us.

Those kids, Donnie and Beth, partied with the twenty-something crowd. But Beth had to work that day. So, the two of them rode down with us. They knew that all of their friends had been hard-at-it since noon and they were as frantic to get there as a Jack Russel with a squirrel outside the window.

I didn't particularly like either of them. Donnie was dressed as Puck. That was because Shakespeare didn't create a character named "Douchebag." He was a skinny guy, way too hipster for me; ubiquitous porkpie hat, waxed handlebar mustache, large gauge in his earlobes, tattoos and a soul patch.

His wife was slightly more Goth than Kristen Stewart. She even looked like the actress and IMHO she was twice as big a slut. She was dressed as Mustardseed, that is if Shakespeare had envisioned that particular character as a suicide girl in a see-through yellow wrapper.

The eight-mile trip takes about three hours. Mark kept me company as I navigated down the Georgetown Channel. Mark's like that. He's a good guy. He'd retired as the Captain of one of the U.S.'s 688 class submarines. So, he was a man of honor and respect. It was hard to visualize him on a sub, since he's six four and perhaps two-twenty. Still, he is the steadiest and most imperturbable guy I know, and we have always meshed as buddies.

His wife Michelle is also Flip's bestie. They've been inseparable since they met. They're like Mutt and Jeff. Flip is short, lithe and busty, Michelle is tall and willowy, with nice well-formed titties, like a model. Flip's an ex dancer. Michelle played varsity tennis at Vassar. They are both gorgeous females and they are also both equally intelligent and strong-willed. That's the real secret of their bond.

They were below in the main room whooping it up with the rest of the party. It sounded like it was already getting quite drunk down there. Up top, Mark and I sipped a beer and talked about life. I appreciated his company as we motored the eight miles to the island.

I ferried the group in, with our little Zodiac. There was every flotation device known to man on shore; row boats, jet skis and even a couple of big inner tubes. It was shaping up to be an epic debauch.

I decided that our boat could sit unattended for a while. My big old dog Buster would ensure it was well protected. He's a gentle giant, even though he looks like the Hound from Hell. But, his motto would be, "You might get in... But you won't get out!!"if an intruder was actually stupid enough to come on board.

There were a couple of bonfires. The ambiance was wanton flavored with a pinch of licentiousness. The groups had self-segregated along the lines of youth versus old age. Being in our late thirties, we were keeping space between us and the bacchanalia that was brewing over there among the kids.

We stood around the fire and talked with Mark and Michelle and William and Dotrice. It was a hot, humid DC night and there was dancing, drinking and more sexual innuendo than an episode of Sons of Anarchy. Many of the younger partiers were already fornicating in the bushes. Our little group had gotten happily buzzed on the way down. So, Flip was hanging drunkenly on me.

Donnie and Beth were into hard partying. So, they'd immediately wandered over to the other fire. I killed a beer. But I was cognizant of the Coast Guard's attitude toward drinking and driving. Mark was a bit buzzed. He isn't much of a drinker. However, he was among friends.

Michelle was trying her best to make up for Mark's relative sobriety. So, she and Flip were cruising at a far higher altitude. It was full dark, and the crowd had gotten bigger and rowdier. That was when Donnie showed up. He said that some of his friends were smoking a little weed over at the other campfire and asked us if we wanted to join them.

I never smoked cigarettes. So, I didn't get into marijuana. The prolonged coughing fit after the first drag is just so NOT cool. Mark was far too "officer and a gentleman" to have even tried it. I looked at him inquiringly and he shook his head "no."

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