“I think so, too.” Dubois turned me, slowly pulled me to his chest. “I know we just met—officially—so…why not take it slow? Let’s get to know each other before we jump into sex,” he whispered against my neck.
Oooh. He’d read me well. Dubois and I had corresponded regularly, so I felt as though I knew this man, could trust this man. But I have to admit, I wasn’t a jump-in-the-bed-at-a-moment’s-notice type of girl. The fact is, the wedding night and what I would actually do had bothered me quite a bit. Yes, this was a far-fetched idea—one which I’d paid for dearly with my hard-earned money—but still, an unfamiliar penis just didn’t sit well with me. So I was a bit relieved at the offer to go slow instead of consummating the marriage upon sight…even if my starving pussy was screaming for some hardness to marinate in its wetness. “I think that’s a great idea.”
I felt his smile spread on my neck. “I totally agree.”
Fingers brushed against my lower back, sending frissons of excitement down my spine. “But…there are some…skills…I didn’t mention.” My dress was bunched in the back as his large hands roamed up and down my spine.
“Really? Like?”
“Making love to a woman with her clothes on.”
I shivered in joy. I was happy I would actually get a “preview” of the sex, and thus his true character, before the actual sex.
His lips pulled at my earlobe, hands roamed across my back. My nipples puckered, clit began a slow throb. Dubois’s tongue slid from my earlobe to the back of my neck, and he began to lick across my shoulder. Firm hands held me as his tongue reached the indentation in my throat, swirled around and around. I moaned.
Dubois turned me, let my back rest against his broad chest. My nipples, unmashed now, rose like frozen buttons in the cool room air. Dubois saw. I watched his hand slide upward, cover the stiff points, warm them with his fingers. I covered his hands, wanting to feel him milk my tits. He took his time strumming the soft mounds, teasing my nipples, whispering unidentifiable words in another language.
This felt better than I could have ever imagined. My head rolled around; my body hummed in anticipation of his next move.
Fingers tap-danced across my belly and down a thigh. He squeezed, then stroked my thigh, causing my dress to ride up. He hesitated when he felt the exposed flesh between my garter and hosiery. I smiled as he looked down.
“You weren’t expecting that, huh?” I teased. No high-waisted pantyhose for this chick. The garter and hose might cost more, but heck, I’m worth it.
“Definitely not.” The dress was lifted higher until my panties peeked out. His eyes roamed over me appreciatively. “God, woman, you are beautiful.” He licked his lips, causing my clit to jump.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He groaned then, both hands rubbed up and down my thighs, agonizing rubs. I felt on fire. He nudged my chin, captured my lips beneath his. His tongue sizzled inside my mouth, taking me higher on this ride. His fingers grew bold, sliding over the skin before resting just beneath the level of my panties. I knew my panties would reveal how wet I was for him.
I held my breath as I felt his finger brush against the thin material, then my body lurched as he flicked across my clit. He leaned back, looked into my eyes. “Found your spot, eh?”
I nodded in assent. The fingers drove a torturous path around and around my clit, never touching but promising, nevertheless. My breathing was rapid, my pussy leaking copiously. I wanted this; it had been too long since I’d enjoyed this.
Dubois suddenly changed gears, let his hands drift to cover my tits again. My clit protested, but as he pulled at my stiff points, I growled deep in my throat. I loved having my tits milked and he was doing a damn good job.
His hands began moving downward again. I widened my stance, wanting to make sure he had room to work.
He noticed….
I felt the smile in my hair as he cupped my mound, thumb stroking my clit. Soft kisses rained across my ear. I slid my hands over his bald dome, wanting the connection while he loved me. His cock was like an iron pipe pushing into my hips. My pussy began a steady stream down my inner thigh as he took his time. My clit throbbed furiously, wanting, no, needing Dubois’s touch to soothe it.
He heard the wordless pheromonic call….
His fingers reached out, covered my stiff clit. I panted as he diddled, stroked, and plucked. I held on to his head as a finger slid into my leaking pussy. He stabbed my hole constantly, made me juice all over his hand. Fingers pulled my nipples, made my head roll. I moaned, undulated on his hardness at the double assault on my body. When Dubois reclaimed my clit, I felt the pinpricks surge up my legs, across my shoulders.
I screamed.
My pussy geysered.
The marriage was officially under way!
4
We started out early the next morning. We had a five-hour drive before we reached my—or rather, our home. Dubois snored quietly as I navigated through the rush-hour traffic. I was not surprised. Neither of us could sleep last night. We talked—and lightly stroked—long into the night. I glanced over at his strong profile, still shocked at how this whole adventure seemed to be working out so well. I took the quiet time to reflect on how I got from there to here, conventional and conservative to unconventional and running with the wild mustangs.
It all began quite innocently: the latest blind date gone wrong and my determination not to be the sad sister everyone was trying to “hook up”…for the umpteenth time. For some reason, once I’d reached a certain level of success, I was unable to find suitable counterparts to date. It was like I had a sign on my forehead: SHE’S TOO RICH AND INDEPENDENT FOR YOU, MAN! And those not reading it and having the courage to ask me out should have. I tell you, if another man invited me to dinner and we pulled up to another buffet—Chinese, Japanese, Ryan’s or its counterparts—I would have screamed.
And my God! What’s up with the men with poor manners: letting me help myself into cars, walking in front of me, letting me open my own doors, and the casual ease with which they asked me for sex? Like sex was as meaningless as grabbing a glass of water. Not me. I wanted sex to be the mind-numbing, commitment-driven act I always felt it was intended to be between partners.
So when I spotted this small ad in a women’s magazine, it piqued my curiosity. It said simply, WANT THE MAN IN YOUR DREAMS? CONTACT US. 150-555-4398. I dialed the number, thinking it was probably a gag. But it was no gag. The representative was courteous and quite knowledgeable about the entire process. I gleaned as much information as possible, then visited their Web site.
Their site provided much more information. Each potential husband spoke at least three languages, was in perfect health, and had received “advanced training” in husbandship. I wasn’t sure what the husbandship training included, but I figured it was a class in understanding a wife and his marital obligations and expectations better.
I viewed the photos of available men, read their profiles and biographies, then narrowed my search down to three prospects, kind of like the Match.com stuff I see on television, only with me completely in control of the selections.
I’d spoken at length to each contender before settling on Dubois. There was something in his voice that scratched at my soul, made me want to know him much better. Further conversations cemented this feeling and so, after much meditation, I filled out the contract and selected Dubois as my mate. I was hoping and praying I’d made the correct choice.
“Second thoughts?”
Dubois’s question startled me because of the similar thoughts I was having about him. “Not really. You?”
“Definitely not.” He smiled before continuing. “Honestly, I’d heard horror stories