Our rented seaside villa gleams under the Mediterranean sun each August. Marble terraces overlook a private infinity pool merging with the azure sea. Crystal chandeliers sway in the breeze. Tonight, twenty elite guests mingle—CEOs, heirs, discreet power players. Champagne flutes clink, Veuve Clicquot bubbles on tongues, crisp and golden. My wife dazzles in skin-tight white jeans hugging her toned ass, high-heeled mules clicking on teak floors, a silver toe ring glinting. Her cropped tank top bares her flat, bronzed belly, pushes up full breasts. She laughs throatily with the men, eyes darting—wondering who I’ll pick.
The debate started months ago over a tabloid tale. She swore she’d know my tongue on her pussy blindfolded. Pride stung. I challenged her. She accepted, smirking. No libertines we, but after mutual infidelities years back, our sex reignited—wild, varied. Now, garden lights dim. Music pulses. Kids asleep upstairs. I lead her to our master suite. Ocean waves crash below open windows. Silk sheets cool her naked skin. I blindfold her with black Hermès silk, bind hands behind with a velvet robe cord. Legs spread wide, pussy exposed, glistening already.
The Privilege
I kiss her deep, taste salt and desire. ‘You’re exquisite,’ I whisper. Hand trails her curves. She shivers. Light off. I slip away barefoot, silent on plush carpets. Quarter hour later, I return—shaved smooth that morning, no familiar stubble. Door creaks. I fumble the switch like a stranger. Light floods: her pose perfect, knees bent, thighs framing slick pink folds. I lift legs high, fold thighs to belly. Pussy yawns open. Nail traces slit—she quakes, cries out. Wetness shines. Jealousy bites as my cock hardens.
Lights dim again. Tongue tip parts her lips. She moans, arches, thighs splay wider. Clit swells hard. I avoid her favorite spot, probe vagina deep, lick up slow. Hips buck. Finger circles anus—loose, eager. Saliva slicks it. She impales herself, second knuckle deep. Tongue flicks relentlessly. Breath rasps. Anus clenches. She cums sharp, high-pitched wail, bucking to flee yet grinding. I withdraw, watch her pant in shadows.
The Excess
No tenderness. Legs reset, ass lifted. Tongue rims her crack, probes anus. She yelps, wriggles— I pursue. Then her feet: arched perfection, pedicured toes. I suck each slow, savor polish tang. Back of hand grazes thighs, belly—body jolts electric. Finally, palms crush breasts hard. She screams. Stranger’s mark. I leave her limp, spent.
Downstairs, I rinse, smoke, sip cognac—erase her taste. Shoes on for heavy steps. Untie her. She nuzzles my neck, sniffing. ‘Was it you?’ ‘Guess.’ ‘No clue. Your skin, maybe… not your mouth.’ She came for a phantom. Rage and lust twist. ‘Excited by an unknown cock?’ Nod. We descend. She lies smoothly—checked the baby. I dance her close: ‘Just a game. I want you.’
A year on, same villa. Post-fuck glow, she proposes revenge: doggy on silk sheets, blindfolded, hands free. Await my cock—or another’s. ‘I’ll know you inside me.’ Vertigo. I fantasize offering her to him—a discreet guest, hungry, unfaithful. His thrust in our luxury lair. Discretion seals it: glass walls mute moans, ocean swallows secrets. August 15th looms. Will I?
