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

could empathize with Meg’s anecdotes. It was a light, first-world chat. At no point did they slip into their concerns over North Korea or refugees drowning in the Mediterranean.

As Harold tipped the third bottle of champagne upside down into its bucket, Greg arrived. Susan jumped up to give him a warm, topless embrace, Harold stood to shake his hand, and Meg beamed her approval, her eyes taking a quick and appreciative inventory. Greg sat next to Susan and Meg shifted to lean into Harold’s lap. Chloe arrived with a fresh glass for Greg, and Harold poured from the last bottle of champagne, then requested two more from Chloe.

Greg filled us in on his AC repairs, stating all was well back at the condo, and Susan applauded his handiness.

“Oh, it was so hot, really. We couldn’t wear any clothes.”

This led to Marci’s account of Greg the superhero at the cantina where the bloke fondled her boobs. I felt she was embellishing the whole thing but didn’t mind. Had I not been in the restroom I could have been the hero. Some things were simply a question of timing.

“I could really use a swim,” said Greg.

“Me too!” said Susan. “Meg? You haven’t been yet.”

“Okay!” The three of them headed for the water. Marci took this as an opportunity to stretch out when she realized she still wanted her massage. She tossed me the bottle of lotion Meg and Susan had been using and laid on her tummy. I understood what she was aiming for, sat on her rump, and dribbled oil up and down her spine without warming it up.

“That’s cold!”

“Nonsense. It’s room temperature. It’s ninety-degrees.”

She moaned her approval once I commence kneading her back.

“Harold,” she said. “You can do my legs!”

I wasn’t expecting this. Perhaps she worried Harold might feel left out. He didn’t protest. He situated himself alongside Marci’s lower half, picked up the lotion, and rubbed a fair amount between his palms to warm it up, thus highlighting my prior failure to do so.

I couldn’t actually see whathe was doing. I kept working Marci’s back, neck, and sides, but when she moaned once more, I wasn’t sure which of us she was responding to. Harold or me?

I loved Marci’s long legs and was suddenly feeling possessive, but, of course, I didn’t want to switch. I was sitting on her bottom and had control of her upper half. Harold had only her legs. Just as I consoled myself with this outlook, I felt Harold’s hand reaching into the upper reaches of Marci’s thighs, encroaching on their terminus.

Marci moaned afresh and this time it sounded deeper and more intimate. Though this confounded me, I was also excited in that now familiar and beguiling way. Did she want to have Harold’s hands on the upper reaches of her thighs? Was she hoping he would perform a meet and greet where they met? Or was she simply responding to the massage, meaning generically?

“That was great!” she said, summarily ending the posterior portion of her massage. She lifted her torso, twisted and gave my knee a tap. “Let me turn over.” I gave her room to maneuver and she laid on her back mimicking Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. I wasn’t sure what she was expecting. I didn’t think a breast massage was on the table, so to speak. We were surrounded by people who might view such a thing as inappropriate. Even I was on the fence.

A quick survey indicated no one had their eyeballs on us, and the pillows, now mounted around the perimeter of the canopy bed, did provide some cover. I re-straddled Marci with my bum sitting on her mons veneris, dribbled lotion over her torso, and commenced to massage her tummy, sides and between but not over her breasts.

Now working the topside of Marci’s legs, Harold’s hand bumped my bum as he massaged the insides of her thighs, meaning he was once more becoming familiar with that part of her body often referred to as her “private parts”. She moaned, and as I was temporarily occupied with getting more lotion, I knew she was responding to Harold’s hands. There could be no doubt about this.

Knowing Marci’s love of having her breasts fondled, I put caution aside and zeroed in. This startled her. She opened her eyes and lifted her head so she could look around, then relaxed and put her head down.

“You naughty boy,” she said.

“What? You said you wanted your front massaged.”

“I didn’t think you’d do my tits. I thought you’d do my arms and stuff. We’re kind of in public here.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I like it. Just do it a little more. Maybe I’ll come.” She gave me a devilish grin and laughed.

As Harold was within earshot, I wondered if he would take this as a cue to slip a finger inside her suit, but before that could happen we were interrupted.

“Oh, that looks fun!” said Meg, now dripping beside us. Susan followed and then Greg. Marci sat up, gave me a kiss, and swung her legs over the edge.

“That was great, boys!” She smiled at Harold. “Ryan, let's have a  swim. I want to rinse the lotion.” She slipped into her sandals and I followed her to the water.

Chapter 29: What Was That?

NO JUDGMENTS

We dove in the water and separated to take care of our urgent bladder needs, swam out until we couldn’t touch the bottom, treaded water for a few minutes, then returned to shore and sat. As we were quiet, I knew we both had stuff on our minds. The silence was always a clue.

We leaned back on our arms with our toes sipping the waves. The sun was beginning its descent and a strong breeze licked up whitecaps beyond the cresting waves.

“So,” I finally said. “What was that all about?”

“What?”

“You know.”

“The massage? I know. That was crazy.”

“You surprised me when you invited Harold to join in.”

“I thought that might get your attention. I don’t know... I thought it might inspire you.”

Marci reflected some