Southern California’s endless summer eased the sting of my husband’s absence during September and October. The anticipation of dreamy autumn stars and a harvest moon – suspended in a cobalt sky like an animated studio logo before the start of a movie – made his “Welcome Home” a joyful one.
I had rationalized during Jeff’s void that my husband’s success convincing a jury to side with his client after a two month, out-of-state trial was worth the long workweeks of preparation and nights away from home. When Jeff’s law firm gifted us with an unexpected November getaway, my reasoning was validated.
My mother arrived early to housesit our youngest child along with the two golden labs. And after loading the RX Hybrid and waiving goodbye, Jeff and I drove off on a glorious Los Angeles morning, headed to the San Marten Resort on Pacific Coast Highway, reputed for its lavish guestrooms and impeccable, ask-no-questions service.
Our love life had grown as predictable as west coast sunshine. With dual careers and teenage children, we needed a mini-vacation at the ocean to jumpstart the sexual chemistry that attracted us 13 years ago. I was taken aback, however, when, not only did my husband ask to fulfill a sexual fantasy, but also to film the experience for posterity.
“Come on, honey. You can do it. It’ll be something special for both of us,” Jeff politely appealed.
Throughout our marriage, we enjoyed occasional adult videos and DVDs that culminated in evenings of incredible sex, but performing a pornographic-like facial with my husband in front of our camcorder was a whole new level of sexual experimentation.
“Well, let me think about it,” I answered. “Who’s going to film us?”
“Whom did you have in mind besides me?” Jeff rhetorically asked.
I fashioned myself as a skilled fellatrix and craved the sensation of my husband’s erection pulsing between my lips, but Jeff’s pleading to videotape our lovemaking was unpredictably edgy and daring. My preference during oral sex is to enjoy bursts of his ejaculate shooting in my mouth like liquid roman candles, not ribbons of sperm splashing over my nose and in my eyes. A latent streak of exhibitionism – something I never shared with my husband – piqued my interest in Jeff’s erotic proposal, however, and curiously excited me.
A valet whisked away our SUV upon arrival and, pre-registered by Jeff’s law firm, we were promptly directed to a private express elevator up to the foyer of the seventh floor in the Resort’s South Wing. A doorway was accessible via a private key-entrée, and led to a concierge reception area where a youthful, male attendant greeted us.
“Welcome to the San Marten, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart. I’m Robert, your personal butler,” the concierge welcomed us. “You’re guests on the Astor Floor where, along with the staff, I will assure privacy and meet your every need.”
Robert escorted us to a Tuscan-style suite overlooking ocean-side golf holes on the property’s links adjacent to Monarch Beach. The butler was blond, buff, and tanned, wearing khaki cords, a long-sleeved, teal button-down, and black cashmere, V-neck sweater vest. With a pleasant smile, Robert wished us a pleasant stay and closed the double doors behind him as he departed.
Fresh flowers next to an iced sleeve surrounding a bottle of Dom Pérignon awaited us, and we wasted little time toasting our arrival with flutes of the vibrant champagne.
“I have a gift for you,” Jeff revealed. “Let’s get comfortable between the covers and open it!” He glanced, with a lustful smile, at the elevated king bed.
“Why don’t you unpack, and like a good Steven Spielberg scope out our lovemaking scene,” I replied with a grin. The luxurious goose-down pillows and sumptuous sheets appeared inviting, but I wanted to at least look the part for my foray into amateur porn.
Not one to disappoint my hardworking trial lawyer spouse, I made up my face; put on a bone necklace and earrings purchased for the occasion; and modeled a new flyaway cut camisole with matching pink flutter thong. Then I closed the sweeping window-length plantation shutters, despite a spectacular view of the mid-November sun beginning to descend over the Pacific.
After indulging in more champagne that made us giddy, my husband untucked a new, long-sleeved, pumpkin colored polo, and then indifferently removed his pleated olive slacks along with grey briefs. Eyeing his partially erect organ, I felt the pleasant urging of sexual anticipation.
Ever the perfectionist, I suggested repositioning some lamps and removing their shades. “If we’re filming a movie, let’s have some adequate lighting along with the camera and the action,” I joked.
Dutifully, Jeff obliged, and then readjusted the height of a tripod with our camcorder already in place.
“I was serious about giving you a present,” Jeff reiterated. “I have a surprise for you.”
Ejaculating on film over my face wasn’t a surprise – it was a bombshell! What next? I thought. Wrapped with a ribbon and bow, Jeff handed me a gift box, which I hesitantly opened. Inside was a flesh colored, dildo-like vibrator with simulated veins, along with a pink, pocket-sized power clit toy topped with steel nubs.
“You can add these to your collection, honey. I think we wore out your old vibrators,” Jeff mused.
“Thank you, love,” I said with a heightened level of excitement and, grasping his neck with both hands, tenderly kissed him, pressing my tongue between his lips.
After Jeff loaded a Euro-produced DVD that he had packed into the San Marten’s video player, he forwarded on the disc’s menu to a scene of two hunks in business suits penetrating from behind a smiling, lingerie-clad porn goddess in both her vagina and anus.
A flute of champagne in one hand, I reached for Jeff’s cock with the other and, feeling for the split at the tip of its rubbery helmet with my thumb, spread his viscous secretions down the length of a full erection. He gently kissed me, spread open my elastic cami, and caressed the nipple of one of my breasts until it hardened. With fingertips slippery from his copious pre-cum, I diddled the teat of my other breast, causing it to similarly swell.
Blushing with the stirrings of pleasure, I removed my thong and reclined on the L-shaped leather couch. My head rested on an oversized Turkish pillow within eyeshot of the flat-panel monitor mounted on the wall where the threesome onscreen continued to fuck and moan.
After twisting its switch, I parted my moist labia and eased half the length of the new humming dildo into my excited pussy. Then I rotated the slimmer pocket vibrator and positioned its buzzing top so the steel nubs slightly touched the hood of my erect clit. Jeff removed his shirt, revealing his nakedness, and stood next to me, my face nearly eyelevel with his familiar hard-on.
“Feed me your dick,” I said, and with two fingers, my husband tilted his engorged member downward until its sculpted glans met my inviting mouth. A glance at the illuminated indicator light on our camcorder established it was time for my close-up.
The intensity of dual vibrators accelerated my orgasm, but I lovingly suckled Jeff’s manhood, allowing my pleasure to peak at a more deliberate pace. Sensing my impending climax, Jeff grasped the end of the purring dildo in my quim and held it in place while I took hold of the clit massager with both hands.
“Work it, honey,” Jeff implored. “You’re almost there.”
My lips gripped Jeff’s cock while my tongue pressed against its sensitive underside, and when my body extended and legs stiffened, I began mewing and then panting as pleasure consumed me. My eyes rose in their sockets and toes curled when, no longer able to mouth his erection, I grimaced, releasing staccato-like screams as my torso shook with sexual bliss.
Slowly withdrawing the vibrators from within and around the fleshy folds of my sex, Jeff again stepped closer, positioning his swollen, saturated penis just above my face. I watched and waited in anticipation as my lover gripped his thick and slippery shaft about an inch below its circumcised head, rhythmically pumping it in time with the heaving of his stomach.
My eyes wide open and riveted to his performance, my husband sighed, “I’m coming.” The first pearly, double-spurt of semen erupted from the slit of his cock, striking my cheek and extending to my forehead. Then, like icing on French pastry, four, maybe five, more jets of warm ejaculate streaked across my chin up to the crest of my nose. Jeff groaned as his phallus exploded, writhing like a pink salmon trying to elude his grasp.
What should have been a pleasurable dénouement to our memorable climaxes quickly escalated into horseplay for the benefit of the video camera. Jeff partially knelt and straddled my head with his still-rigid, glistening organ lowering his body until the length of his penis was suspended just above my lips. I remained supine on the couch, silky bands of sperm coating my face, and peppered his tumescence with kisses while excited voices on the DVD’s soundtrack digressed in the background.
“You’re incredibly sexy,” my husband said as he helped me stand up.
Stooping and starring into the camcorder’s lens, I circled my tongue around the outer perimeter of my mouth, then licked and swallowed the reachable residue of Jeff’s semen. We exchanged sloppy kisses and drank more champagne, giggling over the state of our spent sexuality.
“Love you,” I whispered, and walked into the spacious marble-accented bathroom ,admiring my husband’s bodily deed splattered over my face in the mirror.
I noticed in the reflection that Jeff was holding the camera, still filming the episode. I again clowned for the lens, turning and looking directly at it, gleefully exhibiting my cum-covered features.
“You’re nasty,” My husband opined. “Please wait. Don’t wash it off yet!”
“Do you want to go to dinner with your semen all over me?” I asked rhetorically.
“I have an idea,” Jeff exclaimed. “I’ll follow you to the reception area with my camcorder and you can ask the concierge for some Kleenex.”
“Oh my God,” I laughed. “You can’t be serious!”
After finishing off partial flutes of the remaining Dom Pérignon, Jeff quickly dressed and held open for me a luxurious San Marten bathrobe that he had removed from the closet. We sauntered down the deserted hallway to the Astor Floor’s private lobby and, turning my pasted face backwards, I saw my husband following me camcorder in-hand.
Robert was seated at the 7th floor reception desk, engrossed in a magazine while the evening news played across the room on a flat-screen TV. The double sliding door behind Robert was open, exposing a stretch of coastal highway meandering alongside the moonlit ocean, illuminated periodically by the headlights of passing cars.
Tipsy on champagne and within the butler’s line of sight, but far enough so he would not sense the distinctive musk of sperm on my face, I stood in the entranceway seductively wrapped in the resort’s plush robe.
“Hello, Robert,” I said. “My husband and I checked into Suite 714 this afternoon. I wondered if you had some extra Kleenex I could use.” Then Jeff approached the area, camcorder filming at eyelevel. “We’re making a video. Do you mind, Robert, if we include you?” I explained.
Looking up, the butler appeared stoic but amused as he reached in the drawer to his lower right. “Hello, Mrs. and Mr. Stewart,” he calmly replied. “Of course I have some Kleenex. I see you’re enjoying your stay at the San Marten.”
“You’re a sweetheart, Robert. Would you also please send over another bottle of Dom Pérignon?” I asked as the butler stood to offer me an opened cube of floral facial tissues.
“Mrs. Stewart,” Robert whispered as the video camera continued to roll in my husband’s hands. “You’ve been a very naughty guest!”