EXTRACT FOR
A White Wife's Week - On Loan
(Author Unknown)

     CHAPTER ONE

    

    I was sitting by the phone, waiting for a text, photo or call from my wife Katie. I was at home. She was at that moment at the beach in our timeshare condo, with her black lover Dion. 

    I wasn't sure if she was naked on her back with her long slender legs spread while Dion lay between the V of those inviting legs, pumping his dark black cock in and out of her wet pussy, that tight sheath of her pussy around his cock and slick with her aroused juices, the wetness adding more sensation to the frenzied in and out of the black cock appearing and disappearing inside her. 

    Or maybe they had finished with their lovemaking and my wife was now lying on the bed alone, her dark hair fanned out behind her on the pillow, her legs still spread wide, eyes half closed, catching her breath through barely parted lips swollen from Dion's hard demanding kisses, watching him dress as his recently injected seed oozed from her pussy in long tendrils, her pussy lips still puffy and swollen in arousal, her nipples wet from his sucking them and still rock hard in the cool room air.

    Dion may have even cuddled my wife for a while, more hard kissing that she says she loves, cupping her full breasts and sucking on each hard nipple, spooning until my wife wanted more and moved to envelope his cock with her mouth, raising him hard again for another round. 

    I imagine all that because I've observed that happening in front of me in past encounters with her black lover. This time was different. I didn't know and wouldn't know exactly what was happening until I heard from her-and the waiting was misery. 

    My wife alone with her lover was new ground for us.

    This was the first time Dion was fucking Katie, my wife of over 25 years, without me there watching and using my camera. 

    My wife had asked for the total freedom this week, the freedom of not only being available to her black lover whenever he wanted, but, as she termed it, a week as a black man's woman, a vacation from being my wife, available to him for dates, meals, and most importantly for fucking-a lot. 

    Finally at 9:30 she called. Dion had been gone for only a few minutes. It had been an over a four-hour date. "How was it?" I asked.

    "Great," she said, adding nothing more, adding they had not gone out in public but stayed in the condo and went straight to the bedroom.

    "That it?" I asked, awaiting more details. 

    "Yeah. It was sweet. Not hurried." That was when she confessed, she had consumed a bottle of wine awaiting his arrival, and they had more drinks after he arrived. She was drunk when he arrived and could not remember the details, other than it was great.

    "How many times did you cum?"

    "I don't know, three or four, I soaked the bed though, when I squirted."

    How many times did he cum inside you?" I asked.

    "Twice, I think. Yeah, twice." Nothing more in detail. I was hungry for the details.

    "Any dirty talk, anything out of the ordinary?" I prompted.

    "No, the usual." That meant he would call her Daddy's little slut and talk about putting his seed in her pussy, ask her to tell him how much she loves his black cock, and toward the end she would loudly beg him to cum inside her. I've witnessed that before, but again, no details this time.

    "What? You kissed, he went down on you, you went down on him, you fucked him on top, then he got on top and finished inside you?" I thought at least that blunt description might pull more details, it didn't. 

    I was awaiting photos too. I had sent a small camera and asked both her and Dion for some nudes and sexy shots of her. "I want to see how someone else sees her through a viewfinder," I said to him. 

    "Yeah. We didn't get any pictures though; we were in too much of a hurry. It's been a long time since we have been together. There's this hunger there, you know," Katie explained. In other words, I was completely forgotten about. I had not expected that.

    "OK."

    "He's coming back day after tomorrow," my wife said, adding, "So there's no need to hurry back, do not come earlier than Friday."

    I hung up disappointed. But I had asked Dion to call me on his way home. I waited another hour for his call and nothing. I was beginning to realize that this was not going to go as I had envisioned. 

    An hour later as I gave up waiting and prepared to turn in, I received a text from Dion. "Good evening, sorry it's so late. Left about an hour ago. We talked. A lot. And fucked. A lot more. Katie is an amazing woman-she wore me out. I'll give you the details in an email tomorrow. Thanks for everything." I went to bed but it was a fitful sleep.

    



    

     CHAPTER TWO - THE BACKSTORY

    

    This is getting ahead of the story. What was culminating in the night described in Chapter 1 started about a year and a half ago.

    Katie has been a hotwife for several years. Her introduction into hotwifing was losing her black cherry to a former NFL defensive end. 

    We had evolved from high school sweethearts to a traditional marriage soon after high school, married while we went to further education, then child rearing, with a constant effort to keep things fresh sexually between us. 

    Katie has a couple of old friends who would visit for a girl's night out and they would regal her with tales of their varied past sexual exploits-and were in disbelief that I had been her only sexual partner. 

    On her return from one of those dinners she was often irritated, and finally told me the reason. She felt as if she had missed something important by not having an active dating life. 

    The more she thought about it, the more her mind twisted things around that I had "robbed" her of her dating life by marrying her so young. 

    I am an enabler. My wife enjoying a dating life now was out of the question, I reasoned-however in my mind came the thought we could enjoy the idea of other people, with toys, role play, reading erotica, an occasional porno. Katie resisted enjoying the pornos as the guilt she felt afterward was not worth the sexual high. Still, the idea of sex with someone else began to take root in her mind as a possibility. 

    Over the next couple of years things slowly escalated toward the opening of our marriage. There was no holdback for me. I found myself reading more and more stories about hot wives, spent more and more time on slut wife websites, and while I learned quickly that my pushing meant push back from her, and adapted. 

    I took a softer approach, sitting back, letting her work through the possibilities that this was something she could do, and eventually letting her mind work process that this something she could allow herself to do.

    

    Katie's enthusiasm grew and with my suggestion and encouragement she was trying chat rooms, camming, and interacting sexually with other men via the internet. We were enjoying regular trips to New Orleans and Mardi Gras where the exhibitionism side of my wife emerged, discovering the world didn't end when she displayed her boobs in public. Each trip Katie would be a little bolder, encouraged in part because whenever her tits would come into view someone would comment where she could hear, "Nice ones."

    My wife stopped wearing a bra in New Orleans, it got in the way of her flashing. Aided with a heavy dose of alcohol during a flash for beads she would sometimes let a man cop a feel, and occasionally allow a nipple kiss, smiling and laughing and the two of us rushed back to the hotel room to relieve the sexual tension, often reliving the out-of-bounds moment as we were fucking, with Katie's "I cannot believe I did that" spurring her on.

    One late night we paused in a Bourbon Street gift shop and saw a sheer pullover on a mannequin. The saleslady helping us overheard Katie asking, "Should I wear it back to the hotel?"

    The saleslady interrupted. "No, she doesn't want to do that."

    In response Katie pulled the top she was wearing over her head, briefly topless in a public gift shop, pulled the sheer top on, handed me her coat and walked out the door and turned toward our hotel, seven blocks away.

    Katie was walking fast, and I had to run ahead to get a couple of photo of my wife in a sheer top walking down Bourbon Street. 

    One of the hawkers on the sidewalk urging people to come into his bar saw her, and as she passed, he pulled her to him, wrapping one arm around her and cupping her breast for a good squeeze. I managed to get the photo. She was all over me in the room, excited to a new level by her exhibitionism and how daringly out of character it was for my wife.

    Katie does have exceptional breasts, a bit larger than one would expect for her frame, B-cup when she has been stringently dieting, a C-cup most of the time. Her nipples are perfect, light brown with a darker nipple in the center, areolas that are a little larger than a silver dollar (we once put an old silver dollar up to her nipples to check, there was a rim of brown areola visible outside the dollar). Her nipples themselves are about one and a half times the thickness of a pencil eraser-and can easily go rock solid with little stimulation. They are sensitive. I have brought her to orgasm by simply sucking on her nipples.

    Katie pierced her nipples for a few months, first bars then loops, but after six months gave up as they refused to heal completely, in part I think because of the thickness of her nipples.

    Our sexual talk at home often occurs sitting naked in a hot tub with drinks, often a lot of drinks. There is something about alcohol that allows us to talk freely in a manner that sober is more difficult. One night she admitted, "I think the idea of fucking someone else is really hot, but I don't think you could handle it."

    "I could handle it," I said. There was no further conversation along that theme that night, but the conversation reoccurred in various forms after that.  

    Later, in the hot tub with drinks after the untimely death of a good friend, the conversation drifted to sex, and I asked Katie, "If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, would you have any regrets?"

    "Yes. I would regret not doing Menard." Menard was the lead singer in my high school rock group.

    "He's black," I said, a little shocked. She had never expressed an interracial curiosity.

    "I know," she said. "It's always been a fantasy."

    "I would object to him," I said, "because it would be impossible for him to keep quiet about it and word would get back to our hometown. Even now it would be a scandal." I paused. "But if you wanted to be with a different black man, I'm good with that." She said nothing more but spent long moments in silence as that sunk in. That night we moved closer to my wife taking the big step of becoming a hotwife.