The Cayman Proxy (Box One): An Erotic Hotwife Box Set

by KT Morrison

  The crowd cheered and she knew the man had killed the animal. Omar was pulled away from her and his cock slid out of her wetly. She turned and saw him accosted by a heavyset farm woman yelling at him, thrusting a finger at him, pushing it into his chest. She was dirty and poorly bred and she was very mad. Omar had his hands up and it looked like he might be smiling, his cock hung out of his fly and it glistened from her insides. The two men who were next to her who had touched her were laughing. Omar was mad now too and he was yelling back at her in French. He unbuttoned his pants so he could get his erection back in there, then he zipped it up, yelling back at her the whole time. She slapped him hard across his cheek and after the surprise left his face he laughed and smiled.

  A younger woman grabbed Kate roughly by the arm and she started to feel a bit afraid. People were looking over now to see what was happening. Someone yanked her hard and she almost fell over. A woman’s hand grabbed her wrist. Kate wrenched it away and she threw a fist into the crowd, hitting someone in the lips. She thought it might be one of the farm girls who'd been watching earlier.

  “Fuck off,” she yelled. She looked past one of the men who were getting in the way trying to keep the two girls separated but they were also laughing, enjoying this. She eyeballed the girl, saw her back there, her hand over her bloodied mouth. Kate pulled her panties up and turned back to Omar.

  Omar pushed the big woman back, carefully, not striking her but just creating space between them. Someone took a picture and a few people were laughing in the crowd. Kate covered her face. Omar took her wrist and pulled her to him. He walked her out of the crowd. Some woman yelled in her ear as she passed. She imagined they were calling her a whore but she didn't really know what they were saying. She put her head down and let Omar guide her out of the angry crowd with his hand on the small of her back.

  Kate was still mad when they made it out to the midway. She wasn’t going to shy away from a fight. They were in the wrong, she knew that, but that bitch should never put her hands on her. She looked over at Omar and he was watching behind them a big smile plastered on his face.

  The aisles of the midway were mostly empty, and the workers were packing up the games and closing down the rides. They stumbled through the grass, and Omar steadied her. They had to watch their step, the path was littered with bottles and trash.

  “That fucking cunt,” Kate said when they finally stopped. No one was following them and Omar leaned against a carnival game now and she could see he was looking her up and down, his white teeth smiling behind his full lips.

  “What?”

  “You handle yourself well,” he said.

  “I know.” She shook her hand, felt her knuckles throbbing. She held it out and saw she was covered in blood. Bright red splashes up the back of her hand and thick rivulets along her fingers and dripping from the tips.

  “Fuck,” she said. The skin of the knuckle on her middle finger was scalped right back and hanging by a stitch. “I think I cut my knuckle on that girl’s teeth,” she said.

  A goat ran past behind her and it made her jump. It seemed to come out of nowhere even though it had a brass bell around its neck on a leather strap. Then behind the goat half a dozen or more pigs barrelled past and she squeezed next to Omar to get away from them. She hated them, hated their smell and the noises they made. More came after those and she pushed back to get away from them and fell through a tarp that separated one carnival game from the other. She landed in the dirt, squeezed between the two hastily constructed games.

  It smelled like farms and cigarettes and urine and it made her want to retch thinking of this dirty place. Omar loomed in the gap, he wasn’t making a sound but he held his hand out to her and lifted her up to stand out in the air again. She was huffing and her heart was pounding. No one came after the animals, no owner, no farmer missing them trying to corral them. Probably some drunk louts let them out to have a laugh. One more lone pig ran past them squealing trying to catch up with its mates and she hugged herself into Omar.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, “this place is my worst fucking nightmare.” She bent over trying to compose herself, her hands on her knees.

  Omar put his hand on her back and she could feel him laughing through the feel of his palm on her. She stood up and saw him struggle to keep a smile from his face. His lips were trembling.

  “Fucking go ahead.”

  He put his hands over his face and she could see him try to control his laughter, letting it go but trying to be polite, respectful of her feelings. She watched his shoulders shake as he kept the giggling quiet and breathy through his nose. She shook her head at him and a smile broke out on her own face. She shook her hand again, and looked at the fresh blood streaming from the wound. She started to laugh too and he put his arms around her.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  He leaned over the counter of the carnival game and yelled in French over to a guy who was packing up the ride that was next to this one. He had paper money between his fingers and was showing it to the guy. He was young, black jeans and black t-shirt, long stringy hair under his black ball cap. He was expressionless but nodded amicably a cigarette bouncing between his lips. He opened a grubby plastic cooler behind the counter and pulled ice from it, wrapped it in a dirty handkerchief he had back there.

  Omar said something else and the kid looked around and found a half bottle of wine. He took the money from Omar and gave him the ice and the wine. He counted it and glanced at Kate, looked her up and down and winked at her. He went back and got the cooler and brought it over to them, he pulled out some cans of beer that were in there, then held the lid open for her. The ice had mostly melted, it was water with the rounded remains of ice floating in it.

  She thanked him and then put her hand inside, swished it around and tried to wipe some of the blood off with her other hand. It felt so good to numb the throbbing even though the wet cold stung her skin.

  Two men came up behind them, so drunk they could barely stand. They were drawn by the cans of beer. Omar and the kid in black both told them to fuck off and waved them away with the back of their hands. The one closest to Kate looked her up and down weaving while he did, his face sullen and sunken his drunk eyes dead to the world. She told him to fuck off too in her best French.

  He grumbled something to them, his face mean but powerless and his friend pulled him away. It just made him more aggressive, but he was all bluster and soon they were both headed down the grassy aisle hunched over with their hands in the pockets of their dirty polyester pants.

  Kate and the two men laughed when they were gone and Omar talked briefly to him in French before he got back to work. Kate got her hand out of the cooler and looked at it. It wasn’t bleeding any more so she dumped the ice out of the handkerchief and rinsed it out in the ice water, squeezed it dry and wrapped her hand around the knuckles with it. Omar tied a knot for her in her palm and she squeezed it, made a fist around it. He held up the wine looked at it with a light bulb behind it, uncorked it and smelled it. He shrugged and took a swig from the bottle and handed it to Kate and she did the same.

  Omar held his right hand out for her and she took it with her uninjured hand and he walked her down the grassy aisle. The noise from the bullfight behind them got louder. The crowds were letting out and people were streaming back into the midway. They looked back and could see hundreds of people coming back into the fair.

  “Come on,” Omar said, and he led her behind the darkened merry-go-round and they walked quickly through the bushes there and into the dark. They stood and watched the people shouting and banging things as they passed on the other side of the trees. They were all heading back to their cars it looked like but none of them seemed sober enough to drive right now.

  Omar pulled her away and she turned to follow him deeper into the woods. He held her hand as they ducked under branches and squeezed around big old gnarled tree trunks until they came to a section of tall iron fencing. Omar passed the bottle through the bars o
nto the other side. He said, “This way, Kate,” and he climbed up, sitting across the top now steadying himself with one hand. He held his other out to help her up. The fence was only about six feet tall, but the bars formed points along the top. She pulled herself up without his help and she straddled the top bar sitting face to face with him. She watched Omar lift himself down, his muscular arms bulging as he struggled to keep himself safely away from being snagged on the points. He got underneath her put his hands up to help her down. She turned and lowered her rump to him, his head practically going under her skirt. She could hear him laughing between her legs. He lifted her away from the fence and she was laughing now too as he carried her on his shoulders and she struggled not to lean too far and bring them both to the ground. “Omar,” she hissed and she slapped at his shoulders. He let her down and she stood in front of him looking up into his smiling face. He kissed her forehead and she closed her eyes.

  “Come, let’s take a walk,” he said and he bent and picked up their bottle. He uncorked it and handed it to her and she took a long drink from it.

  They walked together and Omar held her hand. It was dark but they could see where they were going very clearly. Away from the artificial light of the fair she was amazed how much the almost full moon lit up the night. She could see the ancient stone path they walked on washed in royal blue, she could see columns climbing up into the night that lined the walkway, the black bushes against the rocky hills that went up high on either side of them. Ahead there was the remains of a temple. Three lone Corinthian columns holding up the broken quarter of what was once a beautiful marble temple roof. Now it was a blackened clump of rock held up in the night sky. You had to look carefully to see the beautiful details that still remained on it. They stopped underneath it and she looked up at its black silhouette against the indigo night. He put the bottle down on the ground and stood with her looking up at the ancient pediment.

  “Can you imagine what it was like here two thousand years ago?” she said.

  “I think it wasn’t much different.”

  “You don't?”

  “Well they didn’t have cars,” he laughed.

  “Or iPhones.”

  “But they were just like us. They loved, they had families, they had fights. They had this city, politics, armies, culture. You know they even had dams and aqueducts. That must have seemed like they were from the future to the Gauls back then. Technology like no one had ever seen…” he didn't continue, he put his hands on her waist and lifted her up to sit on a broad stone altar under the ruined columns. She was face to face with him.

  “Imagine all the human dramas that have been played out here. All the loves lost, all the love found, they were just like us…” he kissed her on the lips and she breathed him in. She bit at his lower lip and ran her hands over his back. He was hot, she felt his heat coming through his damp shirt. She pulled it up with her fingers then peeled it off him. She put her mouth back over his and he leaned into her guiding her back until she was flat on the altar. He unbuttoned her shirt and slid his hands under the material to unhook her bra. She used her toes to pry her flats off and she heard them fall to the stone. He kissed down her neck and her chest and put his mouth over her nipple. She arched her back and pulled her shirt open, then got herself right out of it while he kissed her chest and her belly. She lay back again, the cold stone stinging her back.

  He stood up and unbuttoned his pants and pushed them right down and stepped out of them. He was beautiful in the moonlight. She could tell he was looking down at her, admiring her, and there was something odd about his body language. Something telling in the slump of his wide shoulders, the submissive tilt of his neck. He wasn’t going to fuck her like a whore, he wasn’t going to do his dirty things. She could see all that in the way he carried his masculine body. The moonlight rimmed his shoulders and collar and his broad chest, she couldn’t make out his face very well, his eyes black shapes under his strong brow. But she could read him, read the emotion from him.

  His hands went to her waist and unbuttoned her skirt. She watched him do it. She softly covered his hands with her own, felt them while they worked the button out and undid the short zipper. She lifted herself up so he could slide the skirt and her panties down her thighs.

  He climbed up on the altar and got himself over her, the two of them completely naked now. She pulled him down to her and kissed him.

  They made love, him on top of her, mouths locked on each other, two soft figures writhing on ancient stone in the moonlight, their hips grinding into each other, feeling the other one move and responding. She was forced wide by Omar’s over-sized organ, painfully spread, but so wrought with pleasure the wounding became part of the rapture. How enormous he was between his legs was only part of who Omar was to her now, but it was the object of his sexuality. It was proof to her of his passion, and the pain it delivered was pleasure. She wanted to be hurt by him, that was the sacrifice to be with a man like him. It came with a wounding.

  She gave in to him, surrendered her insides to him, relaxed her grip on it and let it all go. She could accommodate him better when she didn’t try to fuck him. He was so big that any sort of squeezing on him became resistance that his girth would fight against, and he was so hard right now that his size would punish any dissent. So she gave herself up, let him pummel her soft insides with his unbelievable manhood hard as steel.

  They went on, mouths locked, his fingers clasped through hers, sweating and heaving in the night air for more than half an hour. After a long while her body had accepted him and she worked with him now, her hips bucking against his rather than retreating, wanting him deeper, even though he was painfully hard, taking him all the way, looking into his eyes while he made love to her, her hand moving on to his neck, her eyes wet with tears. She came when he did.

  When he erupted inside her, the wet feeling of his discharge, the roar he gave as it spewed from him and filled her up put her over the edge. She cried out once high and sharp and thrust her head back as he continued to drive into her while she could feel his hot seed still spurting from him. She pulled him deeper with her legs, encouraged his hips to sink his beautiful cock deeper inside her while he filled her right up with his boiling nectar. She scratched at his back while he collapsed on her groaning, suspending himself over her on his elbows while he panted in her ear. She was gasping too, covered in sweat, her own glossy sheen and Omar’s too, dripping from him and running off her. He was so incredible. She pulled him closer to her, running her hands over his slippery back, feeling his muscle under the skin as he gulped air. He kissed her wetly and she pulled his tongue into her mouth. She winced as he carefully pulled his cock out of her and rolled off to lay by her side.

  She looked up at the almost perfectly round moon in the deep blue night. They were enveloped on all sides by steep hills and the bushes that crested them reached up into the night like black hands trying to shield them from the rest of the world. Protecting them from the outside while they did what they needed to do with each other.

  Her chest still heaved, trying to recover from their astounding exercise in passion. She could feel his semen dripping from her and she closed her thighs up and turned her hips to him, felt his warm body against her knees. He was watching her, laying on his back with his head turned to the side, gazing at her through half open eyes.

  “You are incredible,” she told him.

  He turned to her and they both looked into each others eyes laying on their side on the ancient altar. He brushed a strand of sweaty hair from her face and rested his hand on her neck.

  “Come away with me.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Come with me to Italy.”

  Kate put her hand up on his wrist, but didn’t answer. When she opened her eyes a while later he was still watching her, she could see the moonlight reflected in his eye. She put her hand on his cheek, felt the roughness of his beard. He was so handsome. So masculine.

  She sat up and turned from h
im, let her legs hang off the edge of the stone altar. She breathed deep and stared into the ancient ruins. Omar put his big hand on her back and she closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth, the strength of his touch on her skin. She looked over her shoulder at him. His lean and muscular body dim in the night, his muscular edges lit up bright by the moon, the big dark shape between his legs hanging down and resting on the timeworn stone. He was looking at her, his expression uneasy as he watched her. He was a magnificent specimen, troubled like her, he’d done terrible things to her. But it was because he loved her wasn’t it? He wanted her so bad he didn’t know what to do to keep her. She wanted him too.

  Her hands gripped her knees as she struggled to comprehend this enormous decision. This was a turning point, a pivot in her life, appropriately made in the ruins of this Roman temple. She looked at her hands clutching her bare knees. Her right hand bruised and aching, the skin of her knuckle peeled back, the flesh raw and sore from the lightest breeze. There was dried blood between her fingers. Evidence of her night of drunken passions. Her left hand, clean and uninjured, a sparkling diamond glinting in the night from the shine of the moon.

  Afterword

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  Other Books by KT Morrison

  Losing His Wife Series

  Losing His Wife: Book One

  Losing His Wife: Book Two