Wife's Trip Back To Jamaica

You know what they say about sweet kisses and the taste of wine. Well, I will tell you my wife's kisses are genuinely intoxicating. I know it sounds cornball, but I do actually get drunk on those sweet, sweet kisses that she gives me while our bodies are pushed tight against one another and I can feel her heart beating against my bare chest. It was not the kisses that did it, but the view that came just before them. Like a painting of the Rockies, her scenery is spectacular and her topography is magnificent, and like Julie Andrews sang, her hills are alive with the sound of music.

Yes, I am smitten. Claire is what I have always thought the perfect marriage partner would look like. She is a couple of inches above five feet tall, with long blond hair, a Michelle Williams smile, a body with just the right amount of curves to keep your attention, and a playful attitude about sex that makes her a perfect bedmate. I knew shortly after first meeting her that I wanted her to know me better. I knew her well enough from just a few minutes of being around her, but I was sure I wanted to be around her quite a bit over the next few decades.

I asked her to marry me after six months of learning about her strengths and good points, her temperament and character, and she said yes, on one condition: that I promise to love her as she is, accepting her flaws and foibles. I said she would have to work at accepting mine more than the other way around. She said she had a blemish that would be hard for most men. I waited to hear about this terrible flaw. "I love sex and can't imagine not having intercourse with men I am not the wife of. In other words, I can't promise I will be faithful."

I listened, nodded, and said, "That's not a problem. It would be a shame to deny other men the pleasure of your sexual company." She looked at me a long time and smiled.

"How did I find someone like you?" she asked. "Are you sure?" she said. I told her I had long felt sex was not a good reason to marry, and that I felt feeling possessive was a catastrophe and it worked against a good trusting relationship.

"If you will love me," I said, "I can tolerate a great deal of latitude, and I can give you the liberty you want. Just promise to come back to me," I said. She kissed me, we cuddled, and made love. It was a gentle love, the kind that loving wives and husbands share. "I have read about Hot Wives and husbands who share, and I am willing to try it," I told her.

I asked her to tell me about some of the men she'd been with. She paused, thinking about what she was going to say. "Well, what do you want to know?" she asked, looking serious and introspective. I thought about it.

"Well, who was your first?" I asked, deciding on a way to go.

She quickly smiled. "That would be Marcus," she said. "He is a very nice person, good in bed, but he just isn't husband material. I had fun with Marcus," she said. "He taught me a lot." Then she looked away, dreamily. "He loved oral so very much. My, I had forgotten how good he was at eating pussy," she said with a wistful expression on her face. "He really did make a girl come nicely," she added.

"If you could have anyone of them, tomorrow, who would it be?" She thought for a minute and then looked at me and smiled.

"Wilson," she said thoughtfully, without even having to think about it. "Yes, Wilson. He is a very virile man," she said. "Wilson is very tall, very strong, and very black, but he can make a woman scream out her orgasm and cry for more. He is, what do you say, gifted in the equipment department," she said with an nostalgic smile. "Yes, Wilson would be my choice, if I could pick one to have again."

"Where does Wilson live?" I asked.

"Jamaica," she said. "I was on a holiday, and I stopped in Jamaica for a.... break. He was my break," she said with a laugh.

"He probably couldn't come here," I said. "You want to go to Jamaica? We could tour the islands and, see Wilson," I said. She brightened immediately.

"You would do that?" she asked. "You would take me to Wilson to fuck his West Indian brains out?"

"You think you could?"

"I could try," she said with a wink.

We planned for a summer trip and had six months to prepare and set things in motion. The first thing was to make sure Wilson was even there. I made contact with him, let him know what we were planning, then made sure he knew that I was okay with them getting together. I explained in my email that ours was an open marriage, that I approved of her seeing him again, and that I wanted him to show her a good time.

His answer simply said, with almost a Calypso twang, "Oh, you can be sure of that, mon. She will love her trip back to Jamaica."

I showed her his email and I could easily see the eagerness in her face. She leaned in and kissed me her thanks and took my hand. "You really are special," she said. "Not many men would allow their wife this kind of freedom," she said. "I am so grateful and I love you so much," she said.

Over the next few months we talked a lot about our trip to the Caribbean for her West Indian reconnection. She told me about her first time with Wilson and how astounded she was that she could take his massive size. It didn't bother her at all to talk about her sexual past, and it actually excited me to be able to listen to the woman I love talk about sex as openly as she did. It was like I was taking part in it with her, sharing the experience, if you will.

There is something very liberating about talking with your wife about her sexual history, seeing the flush in her face recalling it, the excitement in her voice at the memory of good sex, and the heaving of her breasts as the excitement grows in her from the recollection and the heat of her past moments of sexual happiness.

When I first saw Wilson waiting for us at the curb I knew it was him even before she spotted him standing next to his cab. "You didn't tell me he was a cab driver," I said.

"The greatest car ride I have ever had," she said with a smile. "You would be surprised how big the backseat is in a Jamaican Yellow Cab." Her grin widened. "I rode all over Kingston for free," she said. "And he knows the best places to park."

When we got to where Wilson stood, he took her in his arms and lifted her off her feet. Then, with the intensity of From Here To Eternity, they kissed next to his cab and it went on for sixty passion-filled seconds. People turned to look, and people smiled at the intense black and white kiss at the curb in front of the Norman Manley International Airport.

When they finally broke apart, he put our bags in the back of his cab, shook my hand, and helped her into the backseat. He talked like a tour guide as he drove through Kingston and pointed out things we should not miss seeing. "Can you get some time off?" I asked him.

"I am off tomorrow," he said with a side West Indian grin. Claire looked at me smiling, saying clearly, 'Can you find something to do?' I told her I would find plenty to do.

"Some husbands who share like to watch," she said. "Any interest in that?" she asked. I kissed her and nodded, said I might like to see what she had swooned at when she first met Wilson. "You will be amazed," she said.

"At the size, or that my wife can fit it in?" I asked.

"Both," she replied with a wide and enthusiastic smile.

The next day I prepared an itinerary and planned to rent a car and drive to the beach, see Kingston, and meet them back at our hotel for an afternoon of watching Jamaican sex on my bed in the hotel room when a large Calypso gentleman fucked my wife Caribbean style. I could hardly wait.

When I left her it was clear Claire was as excited as a cheerleader at her first varsity game. She had spent over an hour in the bathroom preening and preparing for her first time with Wilson in nearly three years. I asked her if he liked a shaved carpet or was more of a natural look devotee.

"He likes a bit of a runway, but mostly smooth and hairless," she said with a wink. "Wilson eats a very nice pussy," she said.

"Well, you have one for him," I said.

As I held her and kissed her, she said," You seem as excited as I am."

"The thought of my wife having a good time," I said, "thrills the hell out of me." She grinned at me and I took her hand. "Especially if it's with a man with a phallus the size of Louisville Slugger." Her grin told me she felt the same way.

As I drove around Kingston, I couldn't help thinking about what was happening between my wife and Denzel Washington. I pictured them on the bed in the Kingston Hyatt, with him between her lovely thighs, his face pressed tight against her splayed vaginal slit and his tongue embedded deep in her love canal. I imagined him holding her legs open with each hand, his head bobbing as he licked and sucked and kissed her pussy.

I knew Wilson was a connoisseur of slick, white pussy, and he made a faithful pastime of eating as many as he could as often as he could, and that he remembered Claire's little beaver fondly. She had asked me if I wanted to watch, and I could hardly wait to see him gratifying her with that wonderful black salami of his. I pictured it sliding into her, relishing the sight of his thick piece of black steak pushing her lips apart as it shoved into her.

When I parked at the rental car business my pulse rate was sky high and I walked fast to the hotel lobby where I intended to call the room and ask about coming up. She had been there with him since morning and I hoped they would not be worn out. I rode up the elevator as excited as a kid with a new bike, and I counted the floors, excited to get to number eleven. They were in room 1125 and it seemed to take forever to reach that level.

I stood in front of the door at 4:45. I had told her I would be there at 5 that afternoon, but I could wait no longer and I knocked lightly on the door. The door opened and no one was there but I could see Claire's shadow behind the door and I went in. I felt bad about interrupting them, but she had invited me to watch, so I felt better about being there.

When the door closed Claire was standing behind it naked, smiling. She sure looked good, although she did look well-fucked by that time of the day. Her hair was not combed and her lipstick had been smeared off with lots of lip work over the course of the day, but her smile was the same radiant one I fell in love with and had pledged to live with for the rest of my life.

Wilson was on the bed, naked, his limp cock draped over one leg reaching nearly to the bed, what I guessed was about ten inches soft. I kissed Claire at the door and dutifully took a seat in the corner, motioning with my head toward Wilson, letting her know she should get back to him. I didn't want her ignoring the reason we were there.

She went back to the bed and he moved aside and she climbed on. Without any further talking she lay back and opened her legs. Wilson raised up and I could see he was beginning to get hard. In less than a minute he was stiff as a crowbar and just as hard. She lifted her legs up and he moved his larger-than-life frame between her knees, positioning himself at her wet opening and sliding into her. She let out a groan as he slid in and pushed up with her hips.

For the next twenty minutes he fucked her with long slow strokes, picking up the pace gradually until he was nearly a blur. It was amazing that my little wife could take that foot-long salami in her pussy even a little bit at a time. She matched him stroke for stroke, pushing up so fast I could barely see her hips move, and I began to get more and more turned on the more I watched them in the king-sized bed in Kingston.

When she came it was with a shout, and soon after he was filling her with his Jamaican sperm. She had had her tubes tied or we would be having a little West Indian baby with dreadlocks and big feet. I watched her tremble when her climax was finished, and I felt like applauding them when she calmed and settled against his chest.

She had fucked her black cab driver in front of me and I was ecstatic over being able to watch it. I cannot explain why I love watching her get fucked, but I can only say, for whatever reason, I love seeing it.

I left shortly after she came and came back in the morning to pick her up. The manager at the main desk asked me if I was friends with the couple in room 1125. "That's my wife," I said, leaving the desk clerk staring after me, not sure what to say. I figured she was not the first white wife with a black Jamaican at their hotel and she wouldn't be the last. If a white wife goes black she definitely will want to go back, back to Jamaica, that is.