Hotwife Island Complete Collection Read online

  Hotwife Island:

  Complete Collection

  by Jewel Geffen

  Copyright 2019 - Jewel Geffen

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Book 1: Hotwife Island

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Book 2: Hotwife in Bondage

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Book 3: Hotwives' Ball

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Also by this Author

  Book 1: Hotwife Island

  Chapter One

  “Think you can handle this, Jason?”

  I feel my throat go dry as I stared up at the breathtakingly beautiful woman standing in the doorway of the rustic little bedroom of our vacation cabin. The woman in question is my wife Vicky and, to be entirely honest, I'm sure if I actually can, as she puts it, 'handle her.' When have I ever been able to do that?

  She's dressed in a slinky red nightgown, a little wisp of hardly-there lace and silk that clings to her incredible body as if it had been painted on. Did I mention that my wife's a professional yoga instructor? She's more fit than I'll ever be and she has the body of a supermodel to boot – perfectly toned thighs and legs and arms, tight little tummy and full booty, all that. Heavy C cup breasts that make me feel a bit stupid with lust every time I see them. At the moment, she's showing off everything she has, hitting me with both barrels, so to speak.

  I don't even stand a chance.

  I tighten my grip on the hem of smooth cotton sheets of our little bed. “Hey honey,” I say, managing at least not to stammer, “gonna get some sleep?” Of all the pitiful beta male things to say...

  “Hm...” she says slowly, drawing out the sound as she takes a step into the little room. She bends down so that the top of her little nightie hangs low, showing off the shadowy cleavage beneath. She seems to tower over me as she crawls onto the bed to straddle me. “I was thinking we might get up to something a little more... exciting, first...” she grins at me, and licks her lower lip.

  Damn.

  “Yeah?” I ask, practically choking on the word.

  “Yeah,” she says, and hooks her finger over the sheet, slowly drawing it down off my body. I'm wearing on pajama bottoms, but it was too hot in the little cabin for a shirt. She traced her fingertip slowly over my bare chest.

  This was our first night in the little vacation cabin. I'd known that it was coming, but I still wasn't ready. How could a guy ever be ready for a woman like Vicky Dubois? There had been a time once when I'd still entertained the notion that I could be man enough for her. The five years of our marriage, however, had proved that to be less true than I'd hoped.

  I just couldn't keep up with her; I'd never been able to, right from the beginning. She used to tease me, call me Mr. Two-Minutes – the amount of time it usually takes for me to lose control and pop off when we made love.

  Lately, I haven't even been able to manage that much.

  She's stopped teasing me about it, but I know it's only because she's too disappointed to talk about it, which sucks. Being a continual disappointment to Vicky in bed just makes me feel... worthless. And guilty. Things have been getting bad lately. She's sad, and I'm stressed. She wanted to see a couple's councilor, but the thought of admitting my... problem... to somebody else just makes my insides tie themselves up in knots. I can't handle that, not yet.

  Thus: the secluded romantic cabin on the shore of Blue Flower Lake, out in the wilderness of the untamed Adirondack Mountains.

  I'm hoping a little time with just the two of us in this breathtakingly romantic environment will kick-start things for us a bit. If it doesn't work... well, I might just lose my marriage.

  That said, I was hoping for a little more time to prepare myself. We've only been here for a few hours now. And, after spending about ten hours driving up here from our place on Long Island, I'm honestly a bit wiped out.

  Vicky, as usual, hardly seemed phased. She's looking perky and energetic and goddamn gorgeous – again, as usual.

  She pulls the sheets down off me and she bends down and looks up with those big blue eyes of hers. I feel like I could get lost in them, just drift off into the deep blue pools and never come back. Her long blonde hair is tied back in a complex French braid, and it gleams like flaxen gold in the light of the electric lamp beside the table. “You think he wants to play?” she asks, the faintest hint of her French accent coming through, as it does sometimes.

  I try to put on a bold face. “How about you take a look down there and find out?” I say, and I'm actually pretty impressed with myself. It's not a bad line, I don't think. I'm not really one for sexy-talk, much to her continual frustration. It just feels awkward and forced when I try it. She says that stuff as if it was completely natural, but it's always been a lot harder for me. I feel like I'm playacting, putting on a character that isn't me. I suppose the truth of the matter is that it's not me.

  She grins and arches a perfectly shaped dark eyebrow in my direction, then bends low to touch her tongue to my belly, sliding it down as she pulls the band of my pants slowly off my hips.

  I shiver with delight, and even my worry about what's to come isn't able to overcome the genuine excitement that I feel.

  Come on, little guy! I want to shout down at my own penis, Get it together! This is what we always dreamed about, remember? A gorgeous blonde French woman is about to have sex with us, so don't blow it!

  I can already feel the pressure increasing, but for now I can push it aside. I'm getting hard. How could I not, with this kind of seduction happening? The tough part is to keep it going. If I can at least last those two minutes, make it all the way to... completion... that might just satisfy her. I'm never going to be her Romeo or Fabio or whoever women fantasize about, but if I can at least do that much then maybe we'll be okay.

  I groan as she takes me in her mouth. She able to easily handle the whole of my not exactly mind-blowing four inches. I've always felt self-conscious about it. It's not what you've got, they always say, it's how you use it. But then, I've never known how to use it all that well, either. Vicky always tells me it's big enough, but I can't help but feel she wants more.

  At least I've managed that four inches tonight, though. There have been times when I couldn't even... well, never mind. Can't think about that now, can't jinx it.

  She manipulates my penis expertly, sucking and licking, using her tongue and lips in all sorts of exotic ways, her slender fingers delicately playing with my balls while she does.

  This right here? This is heaven.

  My gorgeous wife is sucking my dick, and I'm staying hard. Everything's going to be alright. I can do this. The hard part's coming up now, though. I've gotta stay focused, but not too focused. Can't psych myself out.

  Her bright red lips are wrapped around my little dick, and we're going to fuck. That's fine, it's good. Men do this all the time, they have sex with their wives, their girlfriends, whatever. You can handle it, Jason. Come on, step up.

  I reach down and I put my hand on her head. It's a pretty timid gesture, but I'm wo
rried it might be too much. She's always telling me to be more assertive, more aggressive... dominant is the word she keeps using. Sometimes I wonder if she's got a kinky side to her that I've never really seen before.

  There have been hints, over the years. She's never pushed it, but I'd have to be really dumb not to pick up on it at least a little. I don't really see myself tying her up and spanking her or anything like that, though. I don't think I'd have the nerve to even try it.

  But this is something.

  “Hm, that's good, baby,” I say, feeling like an idiot, “Uh... suck that... so good. Um...”

  Casanova, I am not. I'll admit that. Still, gotta give a guy points for effort, right? She's certainly prepared to, after the way things have been lately. She moans softly and goes a little lower down on me.

  It's time to swing for the fences. Don't pussy out, Jason! My marriage is at stake here, and if I don't want to lose her – and I don't! – than I'm going to have to do this. I lift her face so that we're looking each other in the eyes, and I say, “Let's go.” Just that, trying to do my best tough guy voice.

  She either doesn't notice the cheesiness of the act or, more likely, she's willing to overlook it. “Really?” she says, and she sounds so hopeful that it breaks my heart. If I disappoint her tonight, she's never going to forgive me for it.

  “Yeah,” I say, and I put my hands behind my head – very alpha, I think. “T-take your panties off.” Only stammering a little. I'm still keeping it together. The little guy, shiny with her saliva, is still hanging in there, swaying back and forth a little but erect without a doubt.

  She stands up, ducking just a little to keep from bumping her head against the ceiling of the cabin, and she looks down at me with a grin.

  I swallow as I look up at her. The little red nightie barely comes down to her thighs. I can see her panties, black silk, hugging the curve of her down there. She hikes up her nightie just a little bit and hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her thong. They come slowly down, and she steps out of them.

  I can't look at her pussy, it's too much. I stroke her calf and murmur admiring nothings. She lowers herself slowly back down and, when she's close, she takes hold of my dick. “Fuck me, Jason,” she says, her eyes gleaming, “fuck me hard.”

  “Oh yeah,” I growl, fairly sure that I sound like a total idiot, and I reach down to grip her hips with my hands.

  She puts me inside herself, and I'm all at once overwhelmed by the warm and slippery tightness of her. She feels so good! It blows my mind a little every single time. Whenever I enter her there's a moment at the beginning where I feel again like I did when I was a virgin collage kid and I had my first experience. Physically, at any rate. The less said about that particular encounter the better.

  The point is that it feels unbelievably good.

  I already feel like I have to hold myself back to keep from cumming. But not too much! If I try and hold back too much I might just kill my timid erection. It's a fine-line, a balancing act that I've never been any good at. How do other guys manage this?

  She puts her hands on my chest and starts moving up and down. Her silky nightie is pooled on my chest a little, smooth and warm as anything. I'm holding on for dear life, my brain popping with a sickening combination of pleasure and anxiety as she rides me.

  “Oh yes, baby,” her voice is a low purr, “that's so good... you fuck me so good, baby, oh yeah... yeah.”

  Keep it together, Jason.

  She's only gone a couple strokes up and down on me, but I'm starting to think that I might actual manage this. Then the worst possible thing happens: I feel myself getting soft.

  I'm losing it; with every stroke my erection fades a little. No, no, no! I bite my lip hard, trying to force myself to stay hard. But it's no good. The process, now that it's begun, is irreversible. I feel like I'm going to cry.

  Vicky tries to keep going; she shortens her motions, stays on top of me, basically just grinding at this point. Even that's no good. Within a half a minute I'm completely limp, and I slip out of her with a miserable little plop.

  She sits there for a long moment. I can't bring myself to meet her eyes. Finally, she sighs. She gives me a little pat on the belly, like, good try, sport. The casually demeaning nature of it stings, but it's not like I haven't earned it.

  “I... I'm...” God, I can barely speak.

  She gets up, a slight wet sound between her thighs. She was turned on, aroused, ready. She wanted this bad. She just shakes her head, and her long blonde braid sways slightly, like some horrible pendulum counting down the hours to my doom, and she walks slowly out of the room, her bare feet padding on the hardwood floor.

  “...sorry...” I finish, hardly able to choke the word out. I can feel a single tear slip down my cheek.

  I've let her down again. After promising...

  I turn over and I stare at the wall, the clean white pine wood, swirling grain going in ever-expanding circles outward from a hard knot. I stare at it, and I listen, trying to hear what my wife's doing in the next room over.

  Finally, overcome with shame and resigned to a lonely night, I reach over, click off the switch, and let the darkness roll over me.

  Chapter Two

  The morning is tense and quiet. I don't know, maybe it's all in my head, but she seems withdrawn and upset. I can't blame her, not after the way I've let her down.

  She'd slept in the other room, at least for a while. When I woke up she was in bed with me, but curled up on the far side of the queen-size mattress with her back to me, clad in shapeless woolen pajamas. It was a far cry from the erotic negligee she'd had on the night before, but at least we were in the same bed. She doesn't utterly hate me, at least I don't think she does. But it's going to be hard to come back from this if I can't change things soon.

  We eat breakfast in silence across from one another at the little wooden table. It's just cold cereal, as I'm not confident enough to try cooking on the wood-stove. The soggy flakes swimming limply on the surface of the milk look pitifully back at me.

  “I was thinking we might try going out on the water,” she says, still not meeting my eyes. Not that I have the nerve to meet hers.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Hm. I've rented us a canoe. It's going to be a little cloudy, but I don't think it'll rain. The lakes around here are beautiful this time of year.”

  “That sounds... nice...” I say, and swallow

  “They're all connected by little shoots and rivers and things. You can go for miles without ever coming on land.”

  “Great,” I say, not altogether convinced that it is. Miles and miles of canoeing doesn't exactly sound like my idea of a great time. I don't have my wife's fitness or endurance. I mentioned that she's a yoga instructor, right? She'll be going strong for hours after I've wilted. But I can't exactly back out now. This is an olive branch, and I have no choice but to take it.

  The flip side, of course, is that it's another opportunity for me to embarrass myself and make things even worse. But I have to try.

  We don't talk much. She buries her nose in the local paper and busies herself reading over the goings on at the nearby town of Adirondack Hallow. A bunch of tourist stuff, looks like. Nothing she'll be interested in, probably. Vicky's more the outdoorsy type. The wilderness is her passion, not the kitschy shops and overprices restaurants that I'd rather go to.

  The canoe is waiting for us next to our car when we go out half an hour later. There's a trailer, apparently, which makes the rounds in the morning to drop rentals off or pick them back up when the rental's up. Vicky tells me that she called to have it delivered first thing after we arrived the previous afternoon.

  It's a long sleek aluminum thing, maybe fifteen or twenty feet long, I don't really know. I'm not much good at measuring by estimate. There are two long wooden paddles sitting inside. I pick one up and find it surprisingly heavy. The treated and polished wood is smooth in my hand.

  I look back to see my wife coming out of the cabin i
n a dazzling outfit. She's got on a gauzy little wisp of a shirt over a tiny micro-bikini. The shirt's tied up in a knot above her bellybutton, and the little bottom shows off her curves and figure to an almost scandalous degree. She's got big sunglasses and a large floppy sunhat perched atop her golden hair, and wears leather sandals with straps that wind up her ankles. She looks as if she's stepped off some sunny beach in the south of France, or out of a movie or magazine shoot somewhere. As always, she's breathtakingly gorgeous. “You ready?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, and feel a little stirring in my swim-trunks. Where the fuck were you when I needed you last night? I think bitterly to myself, crossing my legs just a little to keep my excitement hidden.

  I feel dowdy and unfashionable in my button-down short-sleeved shirt and Yankee's cap. I'm wearing a pair of flip-flops so my shoes don't get wet in the boat, and they seem childish now. She sets a little hamper in the canoe and gives me a peck on the cheek.

  We carry the canoe down to the water together. It's surprisingly heavy, and I stagger a little as we head down to the shore. She doesn't seem to have any problem holding up her end, the muscles on her tanned arm flexing impressively. I'm already breathing hard when we finally drag it into the clear water of the lake.

  What can I say? I'm a computer systems analyst, I spend forty-five hours a week sitting in a cubicle. Don't exactly have the time to be out there pumping iron. Vicky's always trying to get me to exercise more, but after a full day's work who has the energy? And I certainly wasn't going to spend my weekend sweating it out in the gym.

  Still, I can't help but regret that I've not kept myself in slightly better shape.

  “You can go in front,” I offer, thinking she'll probably want the point position, or whatever it's called.

  She just shakes her head though, no. “The stronger rower should take the back,” she says, and that's final. I could protest that we don't really know which one of us is the stronger rower, given that we've never done this before, but I'd be kidding myself. We both knew there's no contest.