A Hotwife Beginning
Thomas is an average guy hitting far above his weight with a glorious, raven-haired, blue-eyed wife. Sure, he has some fantasies about her, but he knows when he has a good thing, and he knows not to screw it up. April is beautiful and sweet, and definitely not "that kind of girl."
But Thomas is in for a surprise when he meets April's oldest and dearest friend. She's wild, sexual, and sexy... and intrigued by the idea of converting April's prudish ways. And she has a friend who specializes in introducing "girls like April" to new... ideas.
All that remains is to find out what April is really like, deep - deep - down inside.
You might say it all began in Mexico.
Not all of it, of course.
The fantasies always seemed to be there. They were still pure fantasy at that time, something I tucked away in my mind, buried on my Kindle, slinked around on the internet for - always, always, in a private browser.
I suppose I never even thought of broaching the subject with my wife for a few reasons.
The first was the most obvious. There was always a question within myself: how much did I really want this to come true?
It was one thing to imagine this sort of thing in the shower, jerking off, or to let it flit through my mind as we were having sex. It was one thing to read about a fantasy in erotica stories, superimposing my wife or myself over the written characters. To occasionally browse through the vast pages of the gray backwaters of the internet, lurk about in forums, read the conversations and stories of men who claimed to have done it.
But I'm a guy who thinks ahead. It's a thing I pride myself on. Thinking of consequences, planning ahead for any eventuality. I'm a logistics guy, for fuck's sake. I think about logistics. It's a matter of course that I'm supposed to think of everything that could go wrong.
But the internet was always there, a sea of shiny lures, drawing a guy like me into the promises of happily fulfilled sexual fantasy. There were long threads from men who needed to be coached into finally telling their wives or girlfriends, but then - lo and behold! - the ladies had been receptive to it. Not just receptive, of course - enthusiastic. Men who claimed to have had countless pleasurable nights watching their wives have sex with other men, with guys they'd plucked, together, from the virtual orchard of dating sites and forums on the internet, the way the rest of us common folk select a movie to watch on Netflix.
I didn't really believe those guys.
Okay, maybe I believed some of them, the way men believe in pillow fights at women's slumber parties and other such mythology. Every sensible fiber of your being tells you it doesn't happen, and every woman you know will confirm that.
But if reality and the laws of physics alone guided the male mind, action movies would be boring and we would probably still be living in caves.
So imagination, I suppose I have, but there was another major obstacle to me becoming a guy like one of those guys - an obstacle that had nothing to do with me, per se, or whether or not I would roll the dice on the dangers of opening up my marriage to a guy specifically chosen for his physical and sexual superiority.
That obstacle was my wife.
The nature and character of my wife.
I'll start where I always do: my wife's real-life true name is April Snow.
She is exactly what you expect from a girl named April Snow. She is like the April snow, and I shall burden you for a moment with an analogy you might find a little overwrought: April is clean and white, both physically and in personality. Her skin is a sort of insanely flawless, unfathomably soft, magical material, almost the color of snow. Just enough pink to keep her from looking vampiric, which was a fortunate calibration of her genes, because she is also raven-haired. Her eyes are a hue of purpled blue that, if you know her name, you cannot help but compare to periwinkles. To drag this anecdote out to a ridiculous level, her eyes and her natural cherry-colored lips remind even the least poetic person of spring flowers poking out from the snow white of her skin.
It's a cliché. I know. But more than one person has said this sort of thing, and that group includes a guy named Dan, a barely-literate truck driver who opens beer bottles with his teeth. I'm just saying: if a guy like Dan starts waxing poetic about something... it's, well... probably closer to literally true than not.
April Snow is like April snow in other ways, too: there is a freshness to her, and a cleanliness. She is chilly and sunny at the same time. Her unexpected coolness is dotted through with bright spots of quirkiness.
You guessed it. Like the flowers.
Anyway, the point is... you don't go telling a girl like April Snow that you have visceral fantasies about her sucking two dicks at the same time, or taking it in the ass from some guy with a huge cock while you watch.
It was just... sort of unimaginable. The look on her face, the way her thick, naturally black eyelashes that required no mascara would drop over her purple eyes, and then, most likely, she would start crying.
No way I was going to cause that sort of scene.
Because I am not an idiot.
I'm a guy named Thomas Roberts, and everybody calls me Thomas. Not Tom. Not Tommy. Not "'Mas" like this Chicano kid I knew in high school.
There's a certain kind of person you have to be if your name is Thomas and no one calls you Tom, or Tommy. It's a much-too-serious guy, a guy with a blue-collar friends who make fun of him for actually being smart enough to play, and weird enough to like, chess. And that's it, that's the whole shtick with his buddies: Thomas. Chess guy. Played-any-chess-lately-Thomas? Thomas.
A guy with sandy brown hair, a decent physique, a guy who is slightly short at 5'8." You know, not enough to actually call him short - no one ever calls Thomas Roberts "that short guy," but all Thomas Roger's girlfriends have to be tiny or not wear heels, and that's a thing that's generally known.
Thomas is a guy who is probably "okay" in bed, "not bad" to look at. Personality-wise, he's not easily tossed into the "friend zone" by legions of girls who walk all over him, like his friend Tubs, but he's also not a guy like his buddy Sebo, who has tattoos and plays the guitar and has about thirty grown women claiming to have a crush on him.
So when a guy like this, a guy like me, gets a girl like April Snow to tip her head to the side and form a slight smile on her ruby-red lips, and then say, "Yeah, sure, you know, why not?" and then gets her to go not only on that date, but many more after, and then gets her to agree to marry him... well, let's just say that the Thomas Roberts of the worlds are also the kind of guys who know this:
If a girl like April Snow lets him touch her, he should not do anything to fuck up anything about any of that.
So that's what I was doing, this Thomas Roberts. Squirreling around on the internet when April wasn't home, letting dirty thoughts wander through, boil up some cum, and spurt it out, and planning to never, ever, ever, say anything to April about any of it.
I'm a lot of things.
But " fucking idiot" is not one of them.