First time at Blue Moon Bay? Start at the beginning:
September 6 ~ Will
September 13 ~ Renee
September 20 ~ Will
September 27 ~ Anna
September 6 ~ Will
September 13 ~ Renee
September 20 ~ Will
September 27 ~ Anna
October 4 ~ Bruce
The “lunch ladies,” as I called them, placed their forks on the sides of their half-empty plates signaling the catering crew to immediately remove the dishes and begin washing them. Even a luncheon was conducted with clockwork precision. The caterer had worked with Martinique before. The moments before her final review of the meal were terrifying.
“I’m still not sure,” Dorothy wined like a woman who’d never sucked a dick. She was at least a foot shorter than Martinique and softer in every way. “What has Jackson done to deserve a swingers’ party?” She roughly pulled her hair back from her neck. “It’s not like he just sold a start-up for 80 million.”
“It’s not for Jackson,” Sydney chimed in. “It’s for us. Don’t you ever just want to fuck somebody else? Someone hot? Somebody who doesn’t snore?”
“These are our neighbors!” Dorothy practically yelled. "They probably snore.”
Sydney put her hand on Dorothy’s shoulder. “Don’t ruin the fantasy. This Halloween party is going to be the best night of your life.”
Dorothy looked at Sydney in horror. What had been suggested as a joke during happy hour weeks prior, had somehow turned into Saturday night’s plan. Dorothy never had the chance to catch up to the idea. Although, knowing her… it could take years to get onboard. If ever.
Martinique moved toward the front of the house while ushering the women she called her friends toward the door. She’d committed to the party and had no need for further conversation about the decision. “Just worry about what you’re going to wear,” she said.
“Doug wants to be able to pick who he’s with. He doesn’t think we should do the random room idea,” Sydney said.
“That’s not possible.” Martinique’s sharp response caught my attention.
“Why?”
My wife rested against the opened door. “Because if there is someone specific Doug wants to fuck, then this is not a good idea.” Those were her final words. A cold smile swept across her face that did nothing to put Sydney at ease.
“I don’t know…” Dorothy said again.
“It’s going to be fun.” Martinique had somehow coaxed them outside, but I could still hear her say, “Now go buy something black and slutty.” She added, “And a great mask,” as if it were an afterthought, but Martinique always thought of everything.
She closed the door behind them, turned toward me with a smug grin, and walked up the stairs. The view of the bay basking in the afternoon sunlight should have been the only thing I noticed through the two story windows surrounding the staircase, but Martinique was always the center of attention. My dick awoke in my pants.
A dull tone rested in the back of my throat in response to her unspoken invitation. Ours was not a talkative relationship. Martinique didn’t see the need for a lot of words. When she spoke, people listened the first time. She was brilliant and cunning and generally dissatisfied.
She was my wife and the complete opposite of my lover, Anna.
I followed her upstairs the same way I’d been following her since the day we’d met. I’d been selected. Chosen and purchased by Martinique Lawrence. It was as obvious as the Tom Ford oxfords she’d bought me for Christmas last year…or a tag dangled from a steer’s ear. I paused trying to remember the last pair of shoes I’d picked out for myself. The lack of an immediate answer annoyed me.
My attention wandered to Martinique’s fingers trailing up the zipper at the back of her skirt. She pulled it down and stepped out with legs that were at once impossibly long and perfectly proportioned. The creamy lace of the pencil skirt highlighted the delicate hue of her skin. The skirt was folded in half and placed on the corner of the garden tub. The clothes were taken care of the same way Martinique took care of everything.
She was beautiful, standing before me in a silk shirt and thong. Martinique reached up to unbutton her blouse, and her hip bone jutted out from under her shirt. Once, while training for the town’s charity 10k, I’d made the off-handed comment that she was perhaps “too thin.” That was the last year we ran it. Too anything was not perfect. Martinique’s frame supported taught muscles beneath well cared for skin. Three-times per week personal training sessions left her body lean and muscular without a hint of masculinity.
I pulled two towels off the heated bar and turned to find Martinique’s shirt lying over the skirt. Her bra was placed on top. Steam clouded the shower door as Martinique turned to me. Her breasts stood at attention like every person who found themselves near her.
She twisted a hair tie around her blond hair that a salon in the city had added thousands of dollars in hair extensions to, then colored and cut. Like Jesus’ paternity or your mom’s sex life, the truth of Martinique’s hair was never talked about in public. I didn’t know the real color. She donned a shower cap and ruined the image of her fake hair.
Martinique turned and disappeared behind the steam covered door and left me to undress and follow her. As it should be. I stepped into the shower and around my wife. She was careful with the water. Her hair had already been professionally blown out that day. Water was its enemy. I, on the other hand, hid under the hot stream, knowing it would soon be cooled. Steam was also the enemy. Why couldn’t we just fuck on the bed and let me shower at whatever temperature I wanted?
Martinique’s hand on my balls soothed me. I closed my eyes and let the water wash over me. She pulled me from the stream, and a chill ran across my chest as Martinique licked my left nipple. (Nipple licking was a strong indication Martinique was ready to be fucked.) She kissed me on the lips, parting mine and shoving her tongue in my mouth…another indicator.
I was hard in her hand, but I didn’t know how I’d gotten there. Martinique was in charge of everything, and for the moment, I’d let her because when Anna replaced her, it would be my turn.
My wife was five nine, but still a half foot shorter than me. For most women this would have been a problem, but Martinique rose to her toes, pulled me down slightly, and slid me into her. Her eyes closed, and a tiny moan slipped from her lips. I knew it would be the last moment of peace—silence—in the shower.
Her nails dug into my shoulders. I calculated the cost of her weekly manicures and then refocused on my dick in her as she pulled my hips toward her. She bounced, setting the rhythm of our encounter and commanded me to follow her cadence.
“Fuck me, Bruce.” Martinique was already short of breath. Riding her giant Greek husband standing up was a workout, even for her.
“That’s it. Yes. To the right more, move to the right, Bruce.”
I shifted to the right. I missed the days before we were married, when she still gave me head…when I could come in silence.
“Harder,” she demanded, and I pounded into her harder. Martinique touched herself in the same way that used to drive me insane. She’d fingered herself at a dinner party with Dorothy sitting right next to her. I swore her performance was inspired by me inquiring about Sydney's new property in Anguilla. I forgot Sydney was talking, let alone answering me, when Martinique dug her nails into my thigh in a motion that mirrored her touching herself. When the dessert came, she put her finger in my mouth so I’d taste her instead of the crème brulee. That was back when she still cared if I came.
“That’s it Bruce. Faster…harder.” I did as I was told, but her bouncing tits stole my attention. I grabbed her breast, and the motion broke my concentration and my rhythm. Martinique’s sigh of frustration was loud and annoyed. “Bruce, keep going.”
Again, I fell in line and watched as she played with herself. My wife was stunning even when she was coming. She pinched her breast and breathed in a guttural way. I couldn’t wait to hear who got to be emasculated by her at the Halloween party. I half-wished it was Jackson from across the street. She would tear him apart. Martinique needed someone with a big cock and a good attitude… or perhaps a ball gag.
I should have been jealous or concerned, but Martinique’s coldness had distanced me years ago. It took away my need to possess her. I was only trying to survive her.
With two fingers, she rubbed her clit until I could feel her tensing around my dick. When she threw her head back, I knew we were almost done and I was glad. It was cold in the shower. I missed the warmth of my sweet Anna.
“Harder, harder,” Martinique commanded. “Harder Bruce. Harder. Faster.” She reached around and pulled me against her as she came.
Martinique didn’t see the need for a lot of words, unless she was telling you exactly how to fuck her.
“I’m still not sure,” Dorothy wined like a woman who’d never sucked a dick. She was at least a foot shorter than Martinique and softer in every way. “What has Jackson done to deserve a swingers’ party?” She roughly pulled her hair back from her neck. “It’s not like he just sold a start-up for 80 million.”
“It’s not for Jackson,” Sydney chimed in. “It’s for us. Don’t you ever just want to fuck somebody else? Someone hot? Somebody who doesn’t snore?”
“These are our neighbors!” Dorothy practically yelled. "They probably snore.”
Sydney put her hand on Dorothy’s shoulder. “Don’t ruin the fantasy. This Halloween party is going to be the best night of your life.”
Dorothy looked at Sydney in horror. What had been suggested as a joke during happy hour weeks prior, had somehow turned into Saturday night’s plan. Dorothy never had the chance to catch up to the idea. Although, knowing her… it could take years to get onboard. If ever.
Martinique moved toward the front of the house while ushering the women she called her friends toward the door. She’d committed to the party and had no need for further conversation about the decision. “Just worry about what you’re going to wear,” she said.
“Doug wants to be able to pick who he’s with. He doesn’t think we should do the random room idea,” Sydney said.
“That’s not possible.” Martinique’s sharp response caught my attention.
“Why?”
My wife rested against the opened door. “Because if there is someone specific Doug wants to fuck, then this is not a good idea.” Those were her final words. A cold smile swept across her face that did nothing to put Sydney at ease.
“I don’t know…” Dorothy said again.
“It’s going to be fun.” Martinique had somehow coaxed them outside, but I could still hear her say, “Now go buy something black and slutty.” She added, “And a great mask,” as if it were an afterthought, but Martinique always thought of everything.
She closed the door behind them, turned toward me with a smug grin, and walked up the stairs. The view of the bay basking in the afternoon sunlight should have been the only thing I noticed through the two story windows surrounding the staircase, but Martinique was always the center of attention. My dick awoke in my pants.
A dull tone rested in the back of my throat in response to her unspoken invitation. Ours was not a talkative relationship. Martinique didn’t see the need for a lot of words. When she spoke, people listened the first time. She was brilliant and cunning and generally dissatisfied.
She was my wife and the complete opposite of my lover, Anna.
I followed her upstairs the same way I’d been following her since the day we’d met. I’d been selected. Chosen and purchased by Martinique Lawrence. It was as obvious as the Tom Ford oxfords she’d bought me for Christmas last year…or a tag dangled from a steer’s ear. I paused trying to remember the last pair of shoes I’d picked out for myself. The lack of an immediate answer annoyed me.
My attention wandered to Martinique’s fingers trailing up the zipper at the back of her skirt. She pulled it down and stepped out with legs that were at once impossibly long and perfectly proportioned. The creamy lace of the pencil skirt highlighted the delicate hue of her skin. The skirt was folded in half and placed on the corner of the garden tub. The clothes were taken care of the same way Martinique took care of everything.
She was beautiful, standing before me in a silk shirt and thong. Martinique reached up to unbutton her blouse, and her hip bone jutted out from under her shirt. Once, while training for the town’s charity 10k, I’d made the off-handed comment that she was perhaps “too thin.” That was the last year we ran it. Too anything was not perfect. Martinique’s frame supported taught muscles beneath well cared for skin. Three-times per week personal training sessions left her body lean and muscular without a hint of masculinity.
I pulled two towels off the heated bar and turned to find Martinique’s shirt lying over the skirt. Her bra was placed on top. Steam clouded the shower door as Martinique turned to me. Her breasts stood at attention like every person who found themselves near her.
She twisted a hair tie around her blond hair that a salon in the city had added thousands of dollars in hair extensions to, then colored and cut. Like Jesus’ paternity or your mom’s sex life, the truth of Martinique’s hair was never talked about in public. I didn’t know the real color. She donned a shower cap and ruined the image of her fake hair.
Martinique turned and disappeared behind the steam covered door and left me to undress and follow her. As it should be. I stepped into the shower and around my wife. She was careful with the water. Her hair had already been professionally blown out that day. Water was its enemy. I, on the other hand, hid under the hot stream, knowing it would soon be cooled. Steam was also the enemy. Why couldn’t we just fuck on the bed and let me shower at whatever temperature I wanted?
Martinique’s hand on my balls soothed me. I closed my eyes and let the water wash over me. She pulled me from the stream, and a chill ran across my chest as Martinique licked my left nipple. (Nipple licking was a strong indication Martinique was ready to be fucked.) She kissed me on the lips, parting mine and shoving her tongue in my mouth…another indicator.
I was hard in her hand, but I didn’t know how I’d gotten there. Martinique was in charge of everything, and for the moment, I’d let her because when Anna replaced her, it would be my turn.
My wife was five nine, but still a half foot shorter than me. For most women this would have been a problem, but Martinique rose to her toes, pulled me down slightly, and slid me into her. Her eyes closed, and a tiny moan slipped from her lips. I knew it would be the last moment of peace—silence—in the shower.
Her nails dug into my shoulders. I calculated the cost of her weekly manicures and then refocused on my dick in her as she pulled my hips toward her. She bounced, setting the rhythm of our encounter and commanded me to follow her cadence.
“Fuck me, Bruce.” Martinique was already short of breath. Riding her giant Greek husband standing up was a workout, even for her.
“That’s it. Yes. To the right more, move to the right, Bruce.”
I shifted to the right. I missed the days before we were married, when she still gave me head…when I could come in silence.
“Harder,” she demanded, and I pounded into her harder. Martinique touched herself in the same way that used to drive me insane. She’d fingered herself at a dinner party with Dorothy sitting right next to her. I swore her performance was inspired by me inquiring about Sydney's new property in Anguilla. I forgot Sydney was talking, let alone answering me, when Martinique dug her nails into my thigh in a motion that mirrored her touching herself. When the dessert came, she put her finger in my mouth so I’d taste her instead of the crème brulee. That was back when she still cared if I came.
“That’s it Bruce. Faster…harder.” I did as I was told, but her bouncing tits stole my attention. I grabbed her breast, and the motion broke my concentration and my rhythm. Martinique’s sigh of frustration was loud and annoyed. “Bruce, keep going.”
Again, I fell in line and watched as she played with herself. My wife was stunning even when she was coming. She pinched her breast and breathed in a guttural way. I couldn’t wait to hear who got to be emasculated by her at the Halloween party. I half-wished it was Jackson from across the street. She would tear him apart. Martinique needed someone with a big cock and a good attitude… or perhaps a ball gag.
I should have been jealous or concerned, but Martinique’s coldness had distanced me years ago. It took away my need to possess her. I was only trying to survive her.
With two fingers, she rubbed her clit until I could feel her tensing around my dick. When she threw her head back, I knew we were almost done and I was glad. It was cold in the shower. I missed the warmth of my sweet Anna.
“Harder, harder,” Martinique commanded. “Harder Bruce. Harder. Faster.” She reached around and pulled me against her as she came.
Martinique didn’t see the need for a lot of words, unless she was telling you exactly how to fuck her.
Come back next week for October 11th ~ Sydney.
The rules were simple.
Both members of each invited couple had to participate.
Couples were randomly assigned.
The encounter, in fact the entire night, would never be spoken of again.
The safe phrase was Blue Moon Bay, and if spoken, whatever a person was doing ceased immediately without discussion, defense, or excuse.
Both members of each invited couple had to participate.
Couples were randomly assigned.
The encounter, in fact the entire night, would never be spoken of again.
The safe phrase was Blue Moon Bay, and if spoken, whatever a person was doing ceased immediately without discussion, defense, or excuse.
Book Spotlight ~ The Devil's Playground (I love this book!!)
THE DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND (Book 1, The Faraway Series) Former U.S. Attorney, Meredith Walsh, took some time off to raise her children. But the time took away everything she once trusted about herself. She’s lost within the mundane confines of her children's schedules of lacrosse, soccer, Cub Scouts, and math facts. Desperate for a sliver of her former passion, and isolated in the small town her corporate husband relocated her to, she counsels herself on risking her family for the rush of a fling. But Vincent Pratt, the local chief of police, weakens Meredith’s abhorrence of affairs and her dedication to her family. With him, she finds a new version of herself, one capable of contributing in her new world, and thriving in her lonely home. In spite of the fact, she’s not the kind of woman who has an affair. |