The Perfect Wife

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Fall in the Caribbean

On the last day of her paid Aruban vacation, his make-believe wife opened the glass balcony door and inhaled the Caribbean breeze. Was the diamond on her left hand ring finger genuine? The stone was larger than her little toe nail and glittered with specks of starlight. Had she played the newlywed wife part satisfactorily? From the hand holding, romantic dinners, and time in bed she and her make-believe husband spent together, she supposed she had. Did Senator Crenshaw and his wife Beebe fall for her make-believe husband’s charade, she wondered, as ten warm finger tips on two firm hands came to rest on her tanned and coconut oiled collarbones from the back? The bulge of his black swimming trunks closed the gap between his hands and the ass-crease of her red bikini bottoms. “Sorry to leave paradise?” Roy asked.

Roy’s make-believe wife sighed. Paula had never vacationed in Aruba, or flown on a private jet, or made love when love wasn’t even present. Still, for ten thousand dollars, Roy’s make-believe wife made love with her body, if not her mind. And she wondered if her make-believe husband was making love to her or just f*****g? Will Nathanial reacquaint her with the humiliating f*****g she craved when fall term began? She wondered.

The hands of her make-believe husband untied her bikini bra strings, neck, and back; let it fall. Pushing his arms under her armpits, he cupped the curves of her breasts with his hands, stretched his fingers and thumbs to her n*****s, and teased them to rigid erection. And when she attempted to turn into his arms, he held her steady. “Not yet.” Roy’s fingers left her breasts and traveled down her ribcage with slow, controlled eagerness. He loosened the bow strings on her hips, whisked her bikini panty away and dropped it beside the bra.

Roy’s play-acting wife remained motionless as his mouth moved to the base of her neck and licked lines of moisture across her tender skin with his tongue. Then he kissed lower; moved even lower and planted a kiss at the base of her backbone, where he chewed. Then he chewed higher, moved higher, nibbled higher, and sucked another purple bruise patch at the top of a crooked line of bruises. Whoever f****d her next would find a tapestry of backside bruises, put there by Roy Chambers, the last person she f****d.

Did he not witness her c**k sucking mouth engulf the makeup man’s c**k? Didn’t he hire a security team to follow her every move? Had not Bill and Ben researched her parents, her uncle, her childhood, her children, her s****l proclivities, and her many surreptitious indiscretions and paid for assignations. Had she not played suck slut for Steve Griffin? Roy hoped the next man to f**k her enjoyed the bruises he made.

He had made love to her in the low light of evening and in the deep black darkness of midnight. Drunk on Champaign, they made love in the hotel patio hot tub in front of random guests, both coming and going, and they had strolled arm in arm on the beach in the moonlight. He had never seen her lightly tanned skin warmed by cloudless morning sunshine, though.

Roy took a moment to measure her figure; the swell of her hips, the dimple where her butt cheeks joined, her petite waist, and her sculpted long legs. He spun her around and devoured her fine delicate face, her nearly closed, yet wild wide eyes, her full plump lips, her breasts, heavy but not hanging, and her waxed female fissure. Should she agree to his next proposal, he’d make sure she never again debilitated her pubic hair or, if she did, only at his command.

His make-believe wife came into his arms. Her hands firmly clasping his cheeks, her head tilted, her lips open, and her tongue reaching into his mouth to be suckled. If that f*****g makeup man were present, her make-believe husband thought he might murder him.

Roy’s make-believe wife nudged him backward to the bed, grasp the waistband of his black swim trunks in her slender hands and jerked it to his ankles; then see-sawed it off of his feet. His c**k sprung out and began an inherent reflex of thrusting. Paula dropped to her knees, took him in hand, and brushed her fingers along his length. At the tip, she passed her thumb back and forth across its slit and pushed him back on the bed. He groaned as she sat astride his vertical erection and f****d him into sublime submission. And a week later, the same Benjamin Bernstein who offered her the make-believe wife role noticed her the minute she walked into the club and prepared to offer her something far more preposterous. The girl’s skimpy clothes appeared brand new. Her hair was long and yellow and styled by the wind. Her sandals had thick rubber soles and soft leather ankle straps. With ten grand in her bank account, Ben expected her to look great, determined that she did, and intuitively understood why Roy wanted her for more than a weekend tryst.

Ben stood, caught the girl’s attention, and waved. Paula paused and glanced across the room; first, at the black-lighted whiteness of the tablecloths, second, the few scattered patrons waving money at the voluptuous dancer circling the pole on stage and then at Ben. Making her hips sway suggestively, she headed toward him. “May I sit?” she asked upon arrival, but without waiting for a response, sat, obliging him to sit too.

“Thanks for being prompt,” he said

“Another client looking for a long weekend…?”

“Same one…”

“More than a long weekend…?”

“Cocktail?” he asked. No way could this little slip of a thing have two kids, he thought. She didn’t look a day over jail bait; yet he knew she did, and she was, and he felt as ridiculous in her presence as Captain John Smith must have felt when he subverted Pocahontas.

“What you’re having,” the girl said.

“Rusty-nail…”

Paula shrugged.

Bernstein held up two fingers.

“Why are we meeting in a strip joint, Mr. Bernstein?”

“I do the taxes, Miss McGregor.”

Paula gasped and a moment later, two Rusty-nail cocktails slammed on the table not long after the strip word was said and the joint expression had silenced. “No charge,” said the topless server. “What’s up?” she said to Paula. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

Did she know this server? Paula wondered as the server backed away. She guessed she didn’t, though she served topless here when she needed extra cash. She had cash now. Paula paused and looked caught in the act, shaken. Everyone on the street knew her as Paula without a last name, but without careful searching, no one knew her as Paula McGregor. “What’s this about; Mr. Bernstein?” she asked, ignoring the server’s departure.

“Marriage, Miss McGregor…”

“What, are you crazy?”

“Mr. Chambers has empowered me to offer you anything.”

“He’s old.”

“You’ve had older.”

“I attend school.”

“You’ll finish. He’ll set you up in a pleasant apartment. He’s remodeling a house for you.”

“Why, so he can come over and f**k whenever he chooses.”

“So you can finish school uninterrupted, get a teaching credential and get a job…”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“Roy Chambers knows everything about you,” Bernstein said, the glint in his eye showing.

“The s*x wasn’t that good.”

Bernstein reached into his inside suit jacket pocket, pulled out a blue velvet flip-top box, and flipped it open. Inside sat a wedding ring larger than the imitation diamond she wore in Aruba. “This one’s real,” he said. “And Roy’s willing to abide by any rules you want, even sign a contract.”

Paula chugged the drink. “No way…”

Bernstein sipped. “He’ll adopt your kids. Think of the benefits.”

“I addicted to men.”

“He’ll conform.”

“Why?”

“He enjoyed your company, the Senator loves you, and his wife, Beebe, loves you, too. Besides, Roy needs an actual wife on his arm; not one making believe. He’ll agree to an open marriage if he must, or even acceptable trysts if you prefer.”

“Can’t he speak for himself?”

“He wishes to take you to a Whitehouse dinner next weekend; dancing afterward.”

“In Washington…?”

“With the President…”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not joking, Miss McGregor?”

“I don’t have a dress.”

***

“By the authority vested in me by the District of Columbia, I pronounce you man and wife. Roy, you may kiss the bride,” informed the Navy chaplain the following Friday night.

“One moment, please.” The President of the United States interrupted before his friend had time to draw his new wife into his arms and seal the marriage with a kiss. “I made all this happen. I get the first kiss.” The five formally dressed men attending the oval office ceremony, including the officiating chaplain, applauded as the leader of the free world pushed Roy Chambers aside and drew Roy’s new wife into his arms. The President plundered her mouth with a not so chaste kissing invasion and passed her to the others for similar treatment: her husband, the Secretary of State, the chaplain, and the Senator from the great state of West Virginia.

At the end of the line, Senator Symington Crenshaw lowered his right hand to Paula’s newly purchased sequined silver wedding dress, squeezed her left buttock familiarly, and glanced quickly at the other men, no longer clapping. “Congratulations honey,” Crenshaw whispered. “Had I known you were a paid for escort in Aruba, I’d have ditched my wife and found the time to f**k you myself? Roy’s a great catch.”

Fuck you myself … great catch, thought Paula, congratulations? Not a week had passed since Paula agreed to Roy’s terms, signed Roy’s contract, and moved into the apartment Roy provided without strings. Am I still a paid escort? Paula wondered. Did she not notice the gleam in Roy’s eyes as she moved among these men? Had not the President of the United States plunged his tongue down her throat? Did the Secretary of State not finger a thigh up high near her p***y?

Had Roy not hurried her from the White House and into the backseat of a waiting limousine as the chauffeur closed the privacy widow? Did he not do what the Senator threatened? Paula supposed she had not been so completely f****d in her life. Nor did she expect the honeymoon passion begun in Washington and continued in Paris, to end so quickly in Morgantown. At her new apartment door, tepidly, Roy Chambers kissed his new wife, Paula, on the forehead and then walked away without a second glance. “I’ll collect you after your graduation,” he said.