It all began with role-playing with my husband, I thought. One thing leading to another until you're past the point of no return.
The sweet aroma of coconut lotion infused the room as the sun sank low casting long shadows across the floor from the balcony window. The tranquility of my environment couldn’t calm the anticipation bubbling beneath the surface of my poised demeanor. In front of me, my husband sat in a chair with his pants and fruit of looms bunched around his ankles. His only movement was his right hand massaging his stiff five inches of manhood.
A tear snaked its way down the front of my suntanned cheek. I felt guilty; however, my tear revealed years of frustration being released. A desire hidden deep in my subconscious for some twenty years of marriage now lay bare. To my astonishment, my husband was easily accepting the reality that I was Devonte's woman.
I sensed a puff of air on the top of my head which meant he was standing close behind me. He towered above me with his nostrils snorting warm air onto me like a bull ready to charge a crimson Muleta. I stood vulnerable wearing only a flimsy lacy bra and a thong. The silence was broken with a loud whack to my fleshy ass. I was startled. It stung and caused my pussy to inexplicably burn.
The distant sound of waves crashing onto the beach along with the rum cocktails warming my stomach failed to soothe my senses. Devonte dominated my mind as my hands reached behind to protect my exposed rump from another slap.
He effortlessly removed my lame attempt to prevent another slap. “Your wife should be spanked for being a married cheating slut.” Devonte’s deep voice proclaimed.
Twenty years of being a faithful wife and mother was down the drain. I was now a big cock slut. I shuddered at the thought of my two children discovering the fact I was a Jamaican man's slut to do with as he pleased and with their father watching in an aroused trance.
“You know it’s true. You don't want little dicklette.” Devonte swatted my ass for good measure. I was sure my pale skin was turning into a crimson shade. He waited. Another hard slap followed by another caused me to yelp and stumble forward. I knew the rules, it was forbidden for me to speak unless Devonte spoke to me. I waited for the next burning slap to my rear.
With my buns on fire, a chill coursed through my body as his fingers touched the tops of my shoulders. The thin straps of my bra were lowered over my shoulders and down to my elbows. I noticed goosebumps distributed across my breasts and stomach.
“Your wife is hot. Look at those nipples poking her bra.” Devonte seemed to enjoy taunting my husband.
I looked down at my poor excuse of a bra. The thin pink material struggled to support my large heavy breasts. Wearing intimates was my required dress code according to Devonte. My milky white cleavage contrasted sharply to the rest of my tan body. The Jamaican sun had baked my skin to a golden brown.
I tried to read my husband’s reaction. His face was expressionless as his eyes focused on me. His hand continued to stroke the tip of his cock which indicated his approval or perhaps his acceptance of the inevitable.
Devonte’s hands reached in front of me, his fingers curled over the front of my bra and with a hard yank my bouncing breasts were exposed. His large hands squeezed the tender flesh of my breasts accentuating my erect nipples.
“Damn, look at these juicy melons.” His hands lifted them up to my chin and let them drop. His palm began to slapped them side to side and up and down. “Seeing these tits is much better in person,” he commented.
Rough play was Devonte’s forte and he played his role well. He was physically strong and well built. His physicality and domineering personality contrasted sharply with my mild mannered husband.
My husband’s lips parted and he began to jack off with more vigor.
“Bend over slut,” Devonte barked.
I put my hands on my knees and obeyed. As I leaned forward my long brown hair formed curtains on each side of my face blocking my peripheral vision. Looking down I could see my breasts hanging and swaying. Lifting my eyes, I saw my husband watching eagerly.
I felt the strand of my thong violently pulled back and to the side making a tearing noise. My body stumbled backward into Devonte. He wrapped his muscular arms around my waist to steady me.
“Did you here that tearing sound?” Devonte asked my husband.
He nodded his head yes.
“That’s the sound your wife’s pussy will make when I plow it home,” he growled.
My throat felt contracted to the point where I couldn’t speak. Devonte was crude and disrespectful. A man I would normally despise but this was far from normal. I recalled slapping a boy’s face while in college for telling me I had a nice rack.
