The Vacation Wife by David Stone (best selling autobiographies TXT) 📕

her face, Marci stood and took my hand, swinging it back and forth like we were school children.

I walked to the shower with my new vacation wife.

What could go wrong there?

Chapter 21: Come Fly Away

SIX WEEKS LATER

“What’s say we get this vacation going with some drinks,” said Marci. We’d barely taken our seats in first class, and she was fussing like a fidgety child with the armrest buttons and screen controls on the seat-back ahead of her.

“It’s not even eight am. We’re still at the gate.”

“What’s with the early flight anyway? I hate getting up so early.”

“This way we’ll get into Tulum around two pm, assuming we don’t crash or end up hijacked.” The flight attendant arrived with complementary champagne. Marci took a big gulp, draining her glass, then took possession of mine while suppressing a burp.

“Bubbly,” she said.

“Champagne is often like that.”

The plane quickly filled with fellow vacationers, most of whom dressed like they were heading to a mall’s food court. On the other hand, Marci was wearing a lovely green floral print midi dress that wrapped and tied in front. It was quite open at the top and bottom. When she crossed her legs, her thigh was bared nearly to her panties, a feature I much admired. She looked sexily elegant, in other words, like she was heading off to Europe for a movie premiere.

Instead of Europe, our flight’s destination was Cancun. From there we’d drive an hour and a half to reach Tulum.

“So, hubby,” said Marci, fully stepping into vacation wife mode. “What are your hopes and dreams for this little escapade?”

Susan and Greg had flown down two days earlier to get his new condo settled. They would stay there while Marci and I took up residence in a hotel on the beach, the one I had scored at the charity auction. We agreed we were having separate vacations insofar as the day-to-day but were scheduled to rendezvous with them that evening at the condo, and then for dinner midweek and one beach day. This was all Susan’s idea, who felt the “vacation wife” scheme wouldn’t really work if we spent all of our time together.

“Ryan?”

“Ah, yes. Hopes and dreams. I can’t say I’ve have any, really, other than hanging out together, following our whims.”

“Like old times, eh?”

“Right.”

“We used to have a lot of fun hanging out.”

“Still do.”

“Let’s bang a lot, okay? I have to make up for six years of us not banging.”

I felt I could manage that.

∞∞∞

In the six weeks since that tawdry weekend, when Susan first slept with Greg and I enjoyed my reunion with Marci, we hadn’t fallen into a sordid frenzy of lovemaking. Far from it. Our lives resumed their normal pace and texture, though there were a couple of exceptions, plus the two days Marci and I had just spent together after Susan and Greg’s early departure.

Of course, Susan and I had talked about that weekend endlessly, especially when we were making love. The topic couldn’t come up without us both soon mauling each other. Normally, we’d always taken our time when we occasionally made love. Now, we were exploring every possible time-frame, from impromptu quickies virtually anywhere in the house to marathon sessions in bed.

Every time I caught a glimpse of Susan naked, which was occurring much more frequently than before her “fling” with Greg, I simply had to have her. Once, she came into the kitchen wearing only panties, and I thought of her maneuvering around Greg’s house in the same condition, meaning in this form of wifely casual nudity, and I couldn’t help myself.

Without offering a preliminary clue of what I was about to do, I bent her over a counter, pulled off her panties in a brutish way, and had my way with her. Her response had been agreeable. “Oh fuck yes, Ryan! God YES!!!”

There was a lot of that, including once more in the yard in broad daylight, and at much risk of our other neighbors having a show.

Without a doubt, our experiment had dialed things up considerably.

I wasn’t with Marci again until Greg’s birthday arrived. This was three weeks after that fateful weekend. I arrived home after work one day and, while enjoying a glass of wine with Susan, she delivered some news.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Friday is Greg’s birthday,” she said. “We’re all going out for dinner.”

“All meaning with Marci?”

“Right. Is that okay?”

“Sure. I’ll look forward to it.”

“And after, I’ll be going home with Greg. I’ll sleep with him that night.”

There was no “okay?” appended to her statement. She was giving me the facts. It would be a lie to say it didn’t sting. I envisioned our dinner ending and the bill paid, and Susan and Greg getting up from the table with the clear intent of going to his place to have sex. There was no need to spell it out, but my mind went there anyway, and I felt the same spark and fury of desire that accompanied the first time I imagined Susan making love to another man.

It was potent stuff.

On the occasion of his birthday, surely the least I could do would be to let Greg take my wife home and have sex with her. It would be selfishly rude of me to think otherwise.

“And you’ll be with Marci that night, okay?”

There was the aforementioned missing “okay?”. It seemed like a fair bargain, and I felt no need for further negotiation.

“Is Marci up to speed?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s excited.”

When the evening came, Marci and I were both so full of anticipation we rushed through Greg’s birthday dinner. It would have been bad-mannered of us if it weren’t for Susan and Greg’s sharing similar ambitions.

That night didn’t fit the “vacation wife” scheme. It was Susan’s idea to keep our extracurricular marital activities away from home, but she appeared flexible on this point. I never thought we’d completely adhere to it anyway. It was a good idea, but only if it permitted exceptions for special occasions like birthdays and the