Hale takes a deep breath now, looking at his cigarette again before tossing it into the red dirt of the courtyard. He nods slowly, frowning a bit. “Who do you have in mind?”
Now I take a deep breath and blink as I break eye contact. Truth is, I have no fucking clue who I can ask. “I don’t know,” I say softly, my eyes narrowing as I feel that burn of conflict rise up now. Am I really having this conversation? Am I really having a civil discussion about who’s going to be the first guy to fuck my wife, my Amy?
Hale nods, but he stays quiet. He looks at the still-burning cigarette in the dirt by his feet, and then he nods again. “You want it to be someone you don’t know particularly well, but still someone you think you can trust.” He pauses again, looks me in the eye, and then looks away. “Someone who you think will be discreet, someone who won’t tell the entire fucking world about it. Someone who will see this as a gift, a boon, a fucking present from the heavens.”
I nod slowly now. I have thought about this, and Hale’s hit it right on the head. For a moment I feel deeply appreciative of Hale’s support on this, and I briefly smile as I nod again.
Now Hale looks me in the eye. His look is focused, meaningful, filled with respect, brotherhood, compassion. But there is something else I see in his dark brown eyes. Yes, something else. Jealousy, maybe? Envy? Why?
As if he can read my mind, Hale breaks into a smile and pounds me on the shoulder. “You know, it gets better and better as you get bolder and more secure in this lifestyle. But there’s still something about that first time, the first time you see another man undress your wife, touch her breasts, pinch her nipples, push his cock into her mouth, fuck her until she screams. You only get one first time, and so I’m almost jealous, man! It’s going to be great. I promise you, Chris. You have no idea. You have NO fucking idea.”
9
AMY
My heart almost stopped when Chris told me he’s going to send two men over next Sunday evening. Thank God I was too stunned to say anything at first, because Chris quickly explained that he wanted the other guy to stay in a different room, sort of as a backup, someone to keep watch in case things got too crazy. It makes total sense, of course. Chris has always been my protector, my savior, my watchdog. Sure, he wouldn’t send anyone he didn’t trust in the first place; but Chris has had his wild days, and I know he understands that when it gets to pussy, you can never trust a guy one-hundred percent.
So thank God I didn’t say anything when he brought up two men. I mean, what if I had blurted out an agreement, said something like, “I don’t know if I can handle it, Chris. But I’m willing to try. One from above and one from below, right? One from in front and one from behind, yes?”
And I am laughing again now, feeling strange, weird, different. Who am I, suddenly? What am I turning into? One from in front and one from behind? Ewww!
But I don’t really feel disgust at the thought of a man taking me from behind (yes, THAT behind!). I can’t deny that over the past few weeks I’ve been pushing my own boundaries as I pleasure myself. On Tuesday I fingered my asshole as I came, circling my tight puckered rim with a lubed up finger as I flicked my clit and fingered my cunt with my other hand. It was strangely erotic, the sensation, and the next day I pushed the tip of my finger inside as I masturbated.
On Friday I pushed my entire finger up my asshole and simply held it there as I brought myself to orgasm with a vibrator, and the feeling was sublime, my ecstasy heightened as I imagined myself filled by two cocks. It felt so wrong, so filthy, so dirty, but I can’t deny what it did to my body, what it brought out in me.
Chris and I haven’t had much anal play in our time. For all his wildness, Chris has always been a gentleman with me, and although I’ve felt his fingers down there over the years, he never brought his cock close to my asshole. Maybe he thought it was filthy too? Or maybe he was waiting for me to suggest it.
Still, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I think as I walk over to my computer to check my email. I scroll through my new messages—junk, junk, junk . . . and then I see a message from Chris.
Chris doesn’t email me that much. He’s not much of a writer, and we talk on the phone several times a week, get on Skype at least once or twice a week, so that’s enough. Once in a while he’ll send me a forwarded joke or something, sometimes a short note in case he wasn’t able to call. But today I feel some excitement as I click on the email.
There is no subject line, and when I open it there’s not even a note in there. No, there’s just a link. A link to a Facebook page.
I click it and take a deep breath when I see that it is the profile of a man.
A soldier.
A Marine.
His name is Parker Stiles.
Parker Stiles, I think as I feverishly click through to the public photos attached to his profile and immediately feel my heat rise up as I stare shamelessly at the images of this stranger that my husband is sending over to fuck me next Sunday.
But he’s not a stranger, I tell myself as I sit down on the swivel chair and pull my panties down, the cool leather of the seat on my smooth buttocks making me shiver for a moment. No, he’s not a stranger because he has a name.
Parker Stiles.
10
CHRIS
Parker Stiles. The name is ringing in my head as I try to sleep. Parker Stiles. Parker Stiles. Parker Stiles. So this is going to be the guy. Well, this IS the guy, considering I’ve already sent Amy a link to his Facebook page.
Hale introduced me to him a couple of days ago. He’s not in our unit, but he’s a Marine, a brother, one of us. He’s maybe a couple of years younger than me—about twenty-seven or so. Built like a fucking tank, with tattoos both old and new all over his thick arms, arms that I can now picture holding my Amy, pulling her close, spreading her wide . . .
I smile in the darkness of the barracks. I can hear snoring all around me, someone coughing in the distance, the faint sound of music from someone’s headphones. The night is hot, but the desert air is dry and I am very comfortable, relaxed even. I am strangely at peace with what I know is going to happen. Well, I’d BETTER fucking be at peace—it was my goddamn idea!
I smile wider now, almost laughing at myself. I feel a lightness in my chest, like a great weight has been lifted off me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit nervous about putting a real man, a name, a face to my fantasy of watching Amy get fucked. I wasn’t sure how I’d react—would I burn with jealousy and anger the moment I saw him? Would I suddenly decide that there’s no way I could go through with this? No way I could allow this to happen? And what then? What would I tell Amy? Where would that leave us, especially now that we’ve gone this far in admitting that both of us want it? How could Amy and I look at each other again the same way?
Thankfully I didn’t have to deal with any of that. Part of it was because of Hale. He knows this guy Parker, and Parker knows Hale. Parker also knows Susan, it turns out, and so there was no need to explain anything to the guy. He understood. He understands.
Yeah, he understands, I tell myself as I think back to that meeting with Parker. We are the same rank, but I am a couple of years older with a few months seniority, and he showed me respect when we shook hands. Hale had already briefed him, and our meeting was just a formality, to make sure I was okay with it. Not quite an “interview,” but something like it. I mean, sure, I was evaluating him from the moment I saw him. Is he good enough for my Amy? Good looking enough? I mean, like I said, I got NO fucking insecurity in me when it comes to my girl, my wife, my Amy, and so if we’re going to do this, I want to send over a man who’s in the same league as her. It’s a sign of respect, love, appreciation . . . that’s the way I see it, yes?
And Parker seemed to fit the description. I asked around a bit, and everything I heard about the man reassured me that he is what Hale tells me he is: a Marine of high character, a brother
that any Marine would give his life for. That’s good enough for me, and it’ll be good enough for Amy.
So now, as the night gets darker and quieter, I slide my hands down and grasp my thick cock as I close my eyes and drift off into a fantasy so real that it shakes me as I come with silent urgency under the covers, my hot semen flowing down my hand in the darkness as I try to control my breathing.
Parker Stiles, I think as I turn over on my side, the smell of my cum heavy in the air around my bunk. Parker Stiles.
Make me proud, Parker, I think. Make me proud.
11
AMY
So today’s the day. It’s finally here. WE are finally here, Chris and I, me and Chris.
These past two weeks, ever since Chris sent me that link to Parker’s Facebook page, have been wild with emotion, crazy with arousal, filled with fantasies, overwhelming with erotic daydreams.
Yes, the moment I saw those photos of Parker I felt a new respect for my Chris, a sense of that desperate love for my man that I know other hotwives feel sometimes. Because Chris isn’t sending over some average-looking guy. No, this guy Parker is a goddamn HUNK! He’s shorter than Chris, but God is he ripped! I mean, my Chris has a clear six-pack when he’s in shape, but this guy Parker seems to have an eight-pack or something! Is that even possible? How many muscles can one man possibly have?
There were a bunch of photos of Parker without his shirt, and I have to admit I’ve spent hours browsing through, staring at his tattooed arms, his chiseled face, his gigantic chest. I’ve imagined those thick fingers of his inside me, getting me wet, opening me up. I’ve fantasized about undressing him, seeing his erect cock spring out of his tight underwear, the tip of his penis brushing my cheek as I bend down to suck him. I’ve moaned my way to orgasm as I imagined his cock pushing its way deep inside me, exploding in my depths, filling me with hot cum, a SOLDIER’S hot cum. Oh, God, it’s been so long since I had that feeling of a man pouring his semen into me, into my mouth, dripping down to my tits and stomach, then finally deep inside my cunt.
And I am absolutely looking forward to feel the heat of this man pour into me, I think as I sit down in front of the mirror and stare at the smooth skin on my face. I am on the pill, and Chris told me how the Marines get tested frequently, so Parker’s certainly very clean.
I reach for my makeup and smile as I think about that for a moment, think about the fact that it was CHRIS who told me that Parker was clean and so if I was still on the pill I didn’t need to use a condom if I didn’t want!
Yes, because along with the escalating fantasies over the past two weeks, there have also been escalating CONVERSATIONS between me and Chris. We are talking about things I would never imagine bringing up in a million years! Stuff that would have made me cringe in horror just a couple of months ago! It’s crazy how much this has changed us—and we haven’t even DONE anything yet!
I force myself to stop smiling so I can apply some light foundation to my face, but inside I am happy like a sparrow on a spring morning. Everything is perfect, I think. My marriage is safe, my husband loves me, and I’m about to have some wonderful sex! Oh, how good it is to be alive!
I glance at the clock and realize that it is almost noon. Parker is supposed to be here by twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Chris and I decided we’d do it in the daytime, partly because the sunlight in the room would make watching the scene a lot easier for him on the webcam.
But there’s something else about doing it in the bright light of day, I think as I walk over to the bed and look at the simple yellow sundress that I’ve chosen to wear today over my black bra and matching panties. Yes, I think as I slip my robe off and pull those panties up over my hips . . . yes, there’s something symbolic about the first time being in the middle of the day. It’s almost like a reminder that we need to let go of any ideas of shame or guilt, that we’ve made this decision together, for our PLEASURE, and there’s NO need to hide, no need to do it under cover of darkness, in the black of night. This is good and it should feel right. Or else why do it?
So I hitch my bra on and take a look at myself in the mirror. My skin is smooth, although there are slight hints of cellulite around my thighs and ass, I know. My boobs are still quite perky, though, and my gut is visible but just fine, I think.
I run my finger under the elastic of my panties, touching my pussy gently. I have cropped some of my hair, but I am by no means clean shaved. Chris always liked my dainty little bush of light brown hair, and so it stays.
Now I smell my fingers quickly, feeling slightly relieved when they smell fresh and clean, and with a deep breath I slip my yellow sundress over my head and smile one last time in the mirror. I am ready, I tell myself.
Am I ready, I ask myself.
Yes.
Yes.
I am ready.
So bring it on, Parker Stiles. Make me howl like I know Chris wants you to. Make me howl like I know I want you to.
Make me into a hotwife.
12
CHRIS
Today my Amy becomes a hotwife, I think as I check my computer’s Internet connection in one of the private reading rooms in our makeshift library just off from the mess hall. This is it, man. This is fucking IT!
My connection is fine, but Amy isn’t online yet. We’ve still got about thirty or forty minutes, and I’ve already told Amy to only turn on the camera when she’s feeling comfortable. I mean, although I feel a strange pit in my stomach when I think about it, I figure she may want to just relax and talk to Parker a bit before they get into it. And I don’t necessarily need to see all that. In fact, in a weird way the idea of imagining what’s happening when the camera is off is arousing too! Holy FUCK, I can’t believe how far I’ve come with this!
Now my cell phone rings and I answer it immediately. It is Jason Miller, my “backup” guy. Jason is in my unit, and I know him reasonably well, though we didn’t train together. Still, Hale suggested Jason along with Parker, and I suspect Jason “knows” Hale’s wife Susan too, just like Parker does. It surprised me at first, and I am embarrassed to admit that for a moment I thought, “Wow, Susan must be a slut!” Of course, that feeling was quickly chased away by the knowledge that Amy and I are heading down the same path, the path where we leave behind these sexist, old-fashioned ideas of what a slut is, what sex is all about, what MARRIAGE is all about.
And my marriage has already changed. I can fucking FEEL it. I feel it in the way Amy and I have been talking, connecting, communicating over the past two weeks, ever since the introduction of Parker Stiles made this REAL. Yes, my marriage has changed, WE have changed—and all of it is for the better, I know, despite the feelings of conflict, fear, uncertainty, even rage that pass through me every so often as I mentally prepare myself.
“Yo,” I say to Jason over the phone. “Where you at, brother?”
“Just pulling into your driveway, man. I’m a little early. You want me to wait outside before knocking? Or I could take a drive and come back in thirty, if you want,” he says.
I take a deep breath now, a tiny voice in my head saying that you can still call this whole thing off, still back out. But I shake it off and remind myself that I WANT this. I remind myself of what the Marines has taught me—that you need to follow your fear, because your fear will always point true north. Conquer your fear by doing what scares you, and the battle is yours, soldier. The victory is fucking YOURS!
“Nah,” I say. “Just ring the doorbell. Amy’s expecting you first, anyway, so you might as well get settled.”
“Yup. Will do,” says Jason. “Cool.”
I blink now, swallow once, and then, in a low voice that carries an emotional seriousness that surprises me, I say, “And Jason . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you, brother.”
13
AMY
“Oh, hi, you must be Jason,�
�� I say as I stare at the tall, handsome Marine standing outside on my porch.
He has short, sandy brown hair, and he’s wearing his green-and-khaki service uniform along with some dark Aviator sunglasses. There is some light brown stubble on his face, and I notice that his teeth are very white as he smiles.
Jason is tall, and he stoops a bit as he walks through the open door and takes off his sunglasses. He is still smiling, a warm, gentle smile that puts me at ease immediately, chasing away that nagging feeling of “Ohmygod, what does he think of me, of what I’m about to do!” Of course, Chris told me that Jason’s been there and done that, that he understands what we’re about to do, perhaps even understands it better than we do at this point. Still, I am grateful at the way he has immediately made me relax with his non-judgmental smile.
“Can I get you something?” I ask as I lead him into the living room and point at the couch. “Coffee? Water? A beer?”
Jason smiles and shakes his head. He is still standing in the middle of the room, hat in his hand like he is waiting for me to sit down first. “No, Ma’am. Thank you. I’m just fine, Ma’am.”
“Oh, God,” I say, smiling wide without realizing it. “Call me Amy. Please.”
He smiles again, and I can see that he is blushing even through his tanned skin. “Thank you. I prefer Ma’am, if you don’t mind.”
I just shrug and smile as I look into his light brown eyes for a moment and then walk across the room to where my computer and webcam are set up on the dining table. Our couch is pretty big, so Chris and I decided to do it here in the living room instead of the bedroom because of the better light.
The dining table is by the window, its longer side facing the couch, which is bathed in sunlight right now. I fiddle with the camera for a moment before managing to turn it on and get the feed on my computer screen so I can check the angle. Of course, I checked and double-checked the angles and all that with Chris many times last night, but I do it again anyway.
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