It's 1994 and my wife Rochelle is 32 years old and has brown straight hair down to the middle of her back. She's 5'6" and 125 lbs. She has a lighter brown bush which she keeps trim but never shaved. Her boobs fill out an 32A bra nicely.
I am 31 years old and have dark brown hair and eyes. I am 5' 10" and 155 lbs. I don't workout but my body is in great shape. I have a 6 and 1/2 inch cock that is nicely shaped and very functional with a moment's notice.
She is a professional at work but a lioness in bed. She pretends to be all prim and proper, but she is a naughty girl with a lot of secrets that she keeps to herself sourcing me to fill in the blanks.
She likes to sext me from work when she is lonely or bored, or invite me to meet her at a bar, hotel or just a fuck date in our home. She usually dresses up for our sexual encounters. One time she wore a black teddy and carried a black riding crop. I ended up taking the crop from her and punished her for being naughty. She loved it.
Sometimes are eyes just meet, and we both run into the bedroom and lock the door. We would close the shades, pull down the sheets, crank up the music and fuck like bunnies.
So, on many Fridays, she drives the Firebird Formula to work. It has a great sound system, and a convertible top. She says that the 5.7-liter V8 engine vibrates in such a way that it results in her often-having orgasms.
This Friday was no exception. On the way home from work she puts the top down, cranks up the stereo, and drives the beast back to our home where I am waiting for her. She arrives looking a little disheveled from her ride home, or maybe from an orgasm or two.
Rochelle slips off her tailored black suit coat, revealing a sheer, delicately naive blouse that hints at the elegant bralette beneath. Her ensemble continues with a sleek, black mid-length skirt, sheer stockings, and understated black low-heeled shoes. A string of luminous pearls graces her neck, perfectly paired with an engagement ring that quietly declares, I'm taken--and you couldn't afford me.
We sit outside by the pool and share a Molson Golden Ale together, a Canadian classic. Knowing my wife, she would rather be wearing a bikini than her work ensemble. After excusing herself, she goes inside to change. In our bedroom, she removes all of her clothes, including the bralette that she bought at Nordstroms. She feels her boobs and contemplates whether they are big enough. "They are," she thinks.
Rochelle has a brand-new blue bikini, just like the ones she used to wear during her college days in San Diego. She looks stunning in it, and she knows it. The bikini barely contains her curves, teasing with every movement. The top clings to her chest, and the bottom hugs her hips, leaving little to the imagination. If she skips trimming her bikini line, a sharp eye might catch a stray hair peeking out, adding an unintentional touch of daring.
Rochelle returns to the pool and sits down next to me; but not before she does a turn around so that I can see the bikini.
"You like?" she asks playfully.
"What is not to like. Is it new?" I ask.
