Don Jetman
Member
Posts: 3243
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Renaissance Fair
by Don Jetman
I learned a long time ago that L. always gets what she wants, one way or
another. This time it was a visit to a renaissance fair, on a Sunday afternoon,
in the middle of football seamister. She had whined about it for weeks, and I
cringed every time I thought about sacrificing my Sunday afternoon, fighting
heavy traffic, parking miles away, and slogging through endless rows of craft
booths manned by eccentrics with an obsession for times when people cuckolds brownie in the
woods and considered red-letting the gold standard of medical care.
L. was always the earthy one, even back in her college days. Her penchant for
organic food and peasant blouses was amusing to me, but I put up with it because
she was so damned cute, and looked so hot in those filmy cotton tops. I was the
techno-geek, with an eye for anything expensive and shiny. I knew how things
worked, and she knew how to work me. So here we were, ten years later. Little
had changed.
Finally, after working me for a few weeks with everything in her arsenal, she
brought out the big guns.
"I'll bet Dave would go with us."
Hell, I didn't even have to answer. She knew when I saw that wicked grin I'd
cave. I told her fine, but she'd have to call him. It took her about a minute-
and-a-half to get him on the phone. At least she hadn't memorized his number.
I was pretty sure Dave would pass. He leaned toward slick and sophisticated, an
intellectual, but with an overwhelming "man's man" aura. There was never any
doubt that after two minutes with your woman, you'd better be prepared to either
drag her off him or let him have his way with her. Hardly an artsy-fartsy type
guy. Exactly why I was so surprised when he accepted.
Dave insisted on driving, which was fine with me. No traffic hassles - I could
sit back and be chauffeured for the forty-five minute drive. I knew he wanted to
be in charge - but the upside for me was leaving a huge chunk of the afternoon's
headaches to him. Of course, on the way, L. sat up front with him, and I sat in
the back, feeling I had lost at least a little of the advantage I had counted
on. It wasn't a big deal, but I felt I had already been put in my place, at
least a little. He kept reaching over, sliding his hand beneath her hair, toying
with the back of her neck. She smiled at him and ate it up, mile after mile.
Finally, she reached over to him, put her hand in his lap, and squeezed his cock
over and over, teasing him through his pants. From my place in the back, I could
see her arm flexing rhythmically, but not her hand doing the dirty deed. I
shifted to get a better view, without trying to be too obvious. But just then
she stopped, turned to see me watching, grinned her evil grin, and settled back
into her seat. She was getting her way, with Dave, and with me. That evil grin
had an unmistakable hint of satisfaction about it, and it stung a little.
Once inside, Dave took her hand as we walked. She stayed between Dave and me,
but anyone looking at us would assume he was her husband or boyfriend. For some
reamister, I was feeling a little possessive. They were so damned friendly,
snuggling against each other, laughing and joking together, sharing private
little whispers now and then. Unless I spoke up, I was pretty much ignored. L.
was so happy she absolutely glowed.
We passed little shops selling weapons, crafts, and medieval clothing. L. spent
time at trinket shops, fawning over displays of handmade glass and pewter dust-
collectors. Finally, Dave insisted he buy her a piece of clothing so she would
"fit right in". I knew neither he nor I had missed the women there in
traditional dress, the thin blouses and low necklines, showing more cleavage
than I had seen since my last strip-club visit. He chose a cream-colored top
with big puffy sleeves and some small colorful embroidery around the scooped
neckline. I had to admit, it was very nice. She oooed and ahhed, he flashed his
credit card, and we were on our way. Almost. The sales-girl mentioned that L.
could go in the back and put it on, if she wanted to wear it around the fair. L.
was hesitant at first, but with some encouragement from Dave, she relented. And
of course, she looked stunning, but a little unusual with her turquoise shorts
underneath. She didn't seem to care though - she was so taken with her new gift.
L. began to get her share of attention from oncoming men. I could see them sneak
quick glances at her as they passed us. But Dave still held her hand, and he's
the kind of guy that tends to intimidate anyone with even a few seconds of
wishful thinking. Still, I found it hard to keep my eyes off L. as well. The
neckline was scooped pretty low, but L.'s breasts were no match for some of the
older women there flaunting huge mounds of jiggling flesh, pushed up,
overflowing the tight bodices of their costumes. L.'s blouse was gathered below
her bust, lifting her slightly. She had taken off her bra and placed it in the
bag with her t-shirt - the new top bared her shoulders and bra straps would have
ruined the look. As a result, her firm, tastefully medium-sized breasts rested
in mouth-watering pockets formed by the fabric that clung to her. They bounced
ever so slightly when she walked, enticingly free, cupped and molded by the thin
top. Each time she bent over slightly, the fabric fell away, exposing her
breasts, hanging and swaying gently inside her new gift. I didn't even try to
look away. In fact, I stared more than anyone, and Dave seemed to get a kick out
of catching me ogling her. He just held her hand, pulled her closer, and smiled.
We had lunch at one of the small outdoor cafes dotting the winding paths cut
into the wooded countryside. Our waiter was an older man, in his fifties I'd
guess, in full costume, complete with bushy white beard. Staying in character
allowed him to get away with much more than anyone might tolerate under normal
circumstances. He hit on L. repeatedly, outrageously, relentlessly. L. was
visibly embarrassed, and that seemed to encourage him. He made remarks to Dave
about "taking his wench out to show her off." I tried to hold back the little
snort that escaped. He looked down at me with a puzzled frown, then came back
with, "Well, don't feel so bad - maybe he'll share this wench if you buy him
lunch." Both Dave and L. burst into laughter. He obviously didn't get it after
seeing my powerd smile take a few seconds longer to materialize.
So, we sat and ate. Dave and L. cuddled across from me, taking turns feeding
each other bits of their sandwiches. I watched them with my usual mix of
possessiveness and excitement whenever Dave did this in public. Sharing her in
public was so much more intense than in private. Here I sat, cringing inside as
I fought off little stabs of embarrassment and jealousy, yet I was hard as a
rock, wanting more, yet not wanting more. By now they acted so familiar with
each other, so free to touch, caress, and kiss. I could feel the attraction
between them, the electric spark of lust that comes with new infatuation. I
could see her nipples harden after her first glass of wine. Dave and the waiter
both had ample time to look down her blouse, and I wanted more than anything to
see what they saw. But I was a spectator, on the opposite side of the table. It
was frustrating, and a little painful, but my dick wasn't getting that message.
I found myself daydreaming, thinking about Dave and L. together as a real brute
and maiden five-hundred years in the past, how he might fondle her breasts
through the thin blouse before ripping it off her, how she would struggle at
first, closing her legs tightly and holding her arms across her breasts, her
eyes wide with both terror and subdued lust. He would grasp her slim arms in his
meaty hands and pull them to her side, holding her at arms length as he
inspected her, taking in every inch of her firm, helpless body. "No need to be
coy with me, sweetie," he'd tell her, amused at her attempts to cover herself.
She would shiver in his clutches, knowing she was no match for his size and
strength. Red with shame as her nipples hardened, knowing inside she ached for
his touch, she would surrender herself to him, softening as he drew her nearer,
but still embarrassed that she gave in to him so easily. "Please," she would beg
softly, "not in front of my husband. If you must have me, then have me, but
spare him the memory of it." He would grin at me while he pawed her breasts, and
I could hear her sudden gasp, then the quiet little mews rise reluctantly from
her delicate velvety throat. "Let him watch," he'd tell her. "It's time he
learns how easily his woman swoons for the first sturdy cock she sees. Let him
watch." He'd strip her roughly, throw her to the ground, and fuck her in the
dirt before my eyes, and she'd cum before he would, moaning, bucking wildly
against him, taking every inch of his huge, rigid...
"Don...Don...Don!" L.'s tapping impatiently on my hand, rudely returning me to
reality. "Hello...earth to Don...will you pay the check so we can go?" When I
pull out my credit card and lay it on top of the bill, she tells me, just barely
holding back the giggles, "Remember, Dave might share me if you buy him lunch."
Dave looks at me, smiles, and shrugs, like maybe he'll share my wife with me, if
he feels like it. They snicker a while longer, playing it much funnier than it
really is.
L.: "Maybe I don't want to be shared."
Dave: "Maybe I'll share you with our waiter."
L.: "Mmmm, better be careful - he might be better than both of you!"
I paid the bill and we left, L. and Dave again hand-in-hand, L.'s tits
absolutely glorious in the afternoon sun. Dave gave me another little smile when
he saw me looking, telling me those glorious tits were all his. Judging by the
look on her face, I had no trouble believing him.
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Don Jetman
Member
Posts: 3243
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We happened by a small stage where a skit of some sort was just beginning. L.
reached for my hand and towed both of us to the front row of a cluster of long
benches that stretched eight or ten rows back from the low wooden stage. A
hundred people dotted the seats, about half of them sporting costumes of the
period. A middle-aged actor came into the audience just as we found our seats,
looking for a volunteer. He spotted L. and wouldn't take no for an answer. He
had seen the three of us arrive together, and asked L., "So who are these guys -
your boyfriends, or did you just pick them up here today?" She turned ten shades
of red, I cringed thinking of how she might be tempted to answer in front of all
those people, and Dave was laughing, having the time of his life. Finally, she
told him, "Boyfriends." At least she didn't say "husband and boyfriend". I was a
bit relieved, but was still a little worried about what might be coming.
Every time L. would lean forward, the neckline of her new top would fall away,
giving the guy an easy peek inside from where he stood above her. I could see
his eyes lower each time, staring down inside her top. I knew all too well what
he saw, but I was a spectator again, and could only imagine her breasts shifting
and coming to rest with a brief bounce, two perfect globes of fleshy Jell-O on
display for his leisurely enjoyment. It wasn't that I minded showing off my wife
- hell, for years I had watched guys stare at her, and had even grown to enjoy
it. But it was her attitude that had changed. She was accepting sexual innuendos
as if they were compliments, and showing off her body in ways that would have
disgusted her years ago. She had to have known this guy was staring down her
blouse, at least from my perspective. And she just kept leaning forward again
and again as he joked with her, shifting so easily from embarrassment, to
flirting, then back again, as though he had her under some kind of spell. That
was supposed to be Dave's role, but here was this good-looking guy with a gift
for improvising seduction, playing her like a rock star plays a giddy teenager.
Or, was she playing him? Who was the Svengali here, the actor, my wife, or Dave?
All I knew was that whoever was running the show, it wasn't me. I sat quietly,
hoping that I'd get through this without becoming the butt of a very
embarrassing public joke.
It wasn't much of a play, really - L. played "Svengali's" wife, the very tasty
half of a well-to-do couple that has an unexpected encounter with pirates,
played by two bronzed, shirtless guys in their twenties. L. had no lines to
speak of. The pirates took L. primisterer, sparing no opportunity to cop a feel as
they held her, passing her back and forth as their "swooning" prize. There was
some unconvincing swordplay between Svengali and the pirates, and some half-
baked stunt work cloaked as a rough-and-tumble fistfight. Through all the
costuming and threadbare plot, I couldn't help being keenly aware of how L. was
enjoying it all, or at least the manhandling by the two bare-chested pirates.
One of them always held her tightly, around her waist, his arm or hand
repeatedly moving higher, cradling her breasts with a forearm, brushing her with
his hand where her nipple rested beneath the thin top. She would turn and smile
at them for an instant, completely out of character, like she was telling them
that not only was it OK, but that she wanted more. It was pretty obvious they
got the message, and took delight in grinning at each other as they continued to
pass her back and forth while the other was busy fighting.
Was the audience aware of how they took more liberties with her as time went on?
Did they notice, as I did, the little squeezes they gave her when they passed
her off, or how much more tightly they held her, whether they restrained her
face-to-face, or pressed their hips into her tight little ass? Was all this so
subtle that I was the only one aware of the secret knowing smiles passed back
and forth between the lean young pirates and their now ever-more-willing
captive? I looked over at Dave for his reaction, and he rolled his eyes and
laughed. "You'll have to thank them later," he told me. I gave him a look that
meant I didn't understand. He gave me a look that said he wasn't buying my look,
and said, "You know what I mean, for the foreplay." So he saw it too. And I knew
damned well what he meant. But was I going to go to them and thank them for
bringing L. to a simmer so Dave could later take her to a full boil? No way in
hell. Seeing was believing, and those horny pirates already had their reward. As
did anyone who was able to discern the subtle heat that went far beyond acting
on that tiny wooden stage.
L. and Dave stayed pretty cozy on the walk back to the car. I walked a few steps
behind them, watching as they held hands, shoulder to shoulder, looking every
bit the loving couple, both expectant and golden in the light of the setting
sun. As usual, as much as I loved seeing L. enjoy herself with a man she likes,
I juggled the whys and whynots in my head as I squinted into the blazing disk on
the horizon. How could seeing her enjoy a very sexual, intimate attraction to
another man excite me when all the while, random eddies of jealousy and
possessiveness rose from an unpredictable current beneath it all. But then I'd
catch a glimpse of her dazzling smile, hear the melody of her girlish laugh, and
her uninhibited joy would chase all question from me. I had never seen her more
beautiful.
Dave tossed me the keys when we found the car, then opened the rear door for L.
I got the message, so I sat up front and drove while he and L. cuddled in the
back. I was dog-tired, and didn't look forward to the drive back, but the big
leather seat in his Lexus felt pretty good. I found some low-key jazz on the
radio and settled in, keeping the music low enough to hear at least a little of
what went on in the back seat. All was relatively innocent for a while, but
eventually L.'s giggling stopped, and a quick glance in the mirror told me that
innocent had turned to steamy. From what I could see, the clothes stayed on, but
I caught flashes of them kissing deeply - tongue-wrestling, sloppily feasting on
each others mouths. Then they'd stop, L. would giggle a little, they'd tease
each other with "what-ifs".
Dave: "So, still having pirate fantasies?"
L.: "I don't have pirate fantasies!"
Dave: "Right. And you wouldn't have gone off with those guys if we wouldn't have
been there?"
L.: "No! You really think I'd have sex with a bunch of pirates I don't even
know?" (giggles)
Dave: "Well then, if not a bunch, what about the guy with the black hair, the
one you were flirting with on stage?"
L.: "I wasn't! I was just nervous! He was holding me so tight I could feel his
penis. I was afraid someone would see. Couldn't you see? He was really hard."
Dave: "Um, he was wearing a codpiece. That's what you felt. But you get points
for wishful thinking."
L.: "Then why did it get bigger the longer he held me?" (more giggles)
Dave: "OK, so if you were keeping track of how his codpiece was 'growing', any
chance you were also thinking of trying it out?"
L.: "Well, he did have a cute butt! Would you share your wench with him too?"
Dave: "I'd let him fuck you if he bought me lunch, if that's what you mean.
Everything has a price."
L. "So, you'd sell my body to a pirate for a sandwich and a beer? What do you
think I am, some horny wench who has sex with anyone with a cute butt?"
Dave: "We both already know the answer to that."
Then more silence, more sloppy kissing and groping, oblivious to whether I
watched them or not. When the sun went down, I couldn't see a thing. Talk about
cursing the darkness. But I could hear the heavy breathing, the rustle of his
shirt against her new top, and the occasional "ohhs" and "ummms" that told me
most of the talking was probably over. So I aimed the white Lexus into the
night, kept an ear toward their foreplay, and shifted in my seat every thirty
seconds to accommodate a boner that waxed and waned, but never found a
comfortable resting place. I wondered if she had freed his boner, her small hand
squeezing it gently as I watched the mile markers crawl by. And more than
anything, I wanted her small hands on me, but knew that I'd be second in line. I
suppose I could have been third - after the pirate with the cute butt.
When I finally pulled the Lexus into our driveway, Dave thanked us for a great
day and said his goodbyes. But L. wasn't having it. She threw a minor hissy-fit,
insisting he come in. He declined a few times, until I began to get it. He
wanted her to beg - which she did, shamelessly. So I'm sitting in the front seat
while my wife begs this guy to come in and fuck her. Well, she didn't say that
in so many words, but we all knew what she wanted after making out in the back
seat for so long. Of course, I'm thinking all along that whatever L. wants, L.
gets. Even from Dave.
Once inside, L. scurried around, lighting a few candles, turning the lights
down, and bringing Dave and I our first beer. I did my part by adding some
music, a CD with my own sex-mix of Gato Barbieri, Cassandra Wilmister, Ricardo
Silveira, Eliane Elias, and a few other favorites that always get the red
pumping to the right parts. Dave and I sat and chatted while L. "freshened up".
I've always wondered what women do when they do that, and how they pick the
moment. I guess it's a hygiene thing. Or mental preparation. Anyway, Dave wasn't
showing his Dom permistera, at least to me. He's become more of a friend to us by
now, when he's not in character. I wondered if it was becoming harder for him to
play the role as he grew to know us, or if his friendly manner was meant to
contrast what was to come. With Dave we never knew.
L. finally joined us, heading for her place by Dave on the sofa. I sat on the
loveseat, a few feet away. As she approached, Dave asked her, "So, you must like
your present." She was still wearing the top he bought her, and as he spoke, she
stopped and modeled it for an instant, turning once to show him the goods and to
thank him, and to tell him, yes, she loved it. Then it started.
"If you want to thank me, give me your panties," he told her. I settled in for
the show as she unzipped her shorts and slid panties and all down over her bare
legs. She stood there, nude, except for the top that fell just short of her
crotch. I saw her in profile, her bare little ass peeking out from under it, and
the nest of fine hair exposed and inviting to him as he enjoyed the view between
her legs. She took a step toward him, holding out her white panties as an
offering, a thank you for her gift that day. He took them, put them on the sofa,
and reached out for her hand. When she gave it, he pulled her down into his lap,
straddling him, her bare thighs to either side of his.
"Do you think that's thanks enough?"
"No," she told him, quietly. I could tell she was playing the pirate's wench
again, all defenseless and girly, a strong man's booty in her peasant blouse.
"Then show me how thankful you are."
She unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open, running her hands over his chest.
"I'm very, very thankful," she purred.
She unfastened his pants, pulled them over his knees to his ankles, and
straddled him again, his cock just inches from her sex.
"Then thank me properly, wench," he told her, smiling.
I watched her slid onto him, guiding him inside her with one hand while
steadying herself with the other hand on his bare shoulder. She began a slow,
steady rhythm, up, then down, both hands now on his shoulders, her head lowered,
eyes closed. I was mesmerized. There was no emotion this time, no intimacy in
the sex I saw, only raw pleasure that came with taking him inside her, over and
over. It was as if she was concentrating on the gratification he gave her, and
nothing else. It was pure, uncluttered with shame, worry, or fear. She was
taking everything, giving nothing in return. This wasn't love-making - it was
fucking. And once more, she was getting her way.
He played with her breasts, pulling hard on her nipples, rolling them between
his fingers, waiting for a response. She gasped now and then, but refused to
give up anything more. She didn't move faster, just at the same regular pace,
trembling, sweating, and making a little moan now and then, still concentrating,
clutching tightly every level and kind of sensation she could find as she
impaled herself on his cock.
Finally she was so close, trembling, gasping, her head even lower, down, between
her shoulders, trying to cum, or not to cum? She settled on his lap with his
cock inside her, rotating her hips in little circles while pressing against him.
I knew that move. I knew the familiar motion of her hips, the grinding that
signaled the inevitability of her orgasm, and ultimately, the tight fist that
closes around my cock when she slips over the edge. She came a few seconds
later, still keeping her hands on his shoulders, her head down, making a series
of short little moans as her body twisted and shuddered on his lap.
L. had her way with all of us that day - me, the horny pirates, and finally
Dave. Later, when I told her so, she rolled her eyes.
"Ohhh, right," she told me, summoning some faux-sarcasm. "I didn't have the
pirates!"
"Sure, like you would have," I teased.
"He wanted me to lose you two and come back. Like I was going to lose both of
you long enough to..."
"To fuck him? That kid you didn't even know?"
She put her arms around me and looked up at me with her cat-that-ate-the-canary
grin.
"See? I don't always get everything I want."
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