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  The big red ticket for me was spending time with Lane. The part about being dressed up like a naughty school girl gone awry did earn a few stars on its own accord. But, my flesh colored carpet was rolled out for the main star of the evening, Lane. I viewed the fetish party as an overblown, over-the-top, Halloween-inspired party with a sexual twist. That event was definitely sans the pigs in a blanket and mini quiche. Although, there were many other skin-flavored appetizers at that adult get together.

  A Dominant Mama or a Submissive Sally, I clearly was not. Although, I still held my ground and got my groove on in a sultry, come-hither way. The hedonistic pleasure zone had sure beat the heck out of a PG-13 movie, or a yawn-infested Saturday night surf and turf dinner at some local chain restaurant.

  I found myself to be a willing and ready spectator at an extreme mating game—the creamy icing on my red velvet cake just so happened to be that I was lucky enough to have an Adonis of a man by my side all night. The “cave of darkness” had a very outside-of-normal, sadistic and sex-filled theme that was crackling all around us. With my girl-shelf hanging out every way but Sunday, it made me think maybe that way of life was something I could dabble in every now and then?

  The crowd kept growing more and more amplified as the evening went on, and so was I. A glammed up sex kitten is what I became in the midnight hours. Lane’s spell had seduced me to stay longer than any guy-spell that had ever fallen over me before. I followed Lane around like a hungry alley cat on the hunt for her prey. Anything and everything was on the menu at that party—especially Lane. My feline blue eyes were locked on him. I was ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

  Lane firmly grabbed my hand and whisked me into the bathroom. I quickly realized we were in a unisex bathroom, not that it mattered anyway, because the building was filled with every sexual situation known to mankind. There were many daunting figures standing around inside of the creepy bathroom. They were making out and doing a laundry list of dirty deeds—things that only super-charged fiends could muster up.

  Lane pulled me into a bathroom stall with him. I thought that he wanted to protect me from the crowd, but he really wanted to keep me all to himself. We were standing inside the stall and I turned away from him. I thought that I should at least play fake hard-to-get for a few hours. Forget it, his forcefulness overtook my lofty intentions, and I soon got the drift that it was not even possible to play fake anything with that man. So, in the dirty lair, I abruptly threw caution to the wind. Feeling the strength of his manhood growing in his pants as he brushed up against my honey bucket did not help matters either.

  He grabbed me and kissed me with a force so powerful, it was as if he owned me—and I wanted to be his. The second Lane’s lips grazed mine; I felt such an enormous surge of electricity between the two of us that it overtook me. Lane pressed me against the stall door and grabbed both of my hands. I wanted him so intensely that I felt an ache burning deep underneath my skin for him. Before I knew what was happening, he threw a pair of handcuffs on me and said, “Hold still, this will only hurt a little, I want to run my fingers over every inch of you.” That did it—I wanted all of him right then and there in that very delectable moment. I had an extreme flash of heat that ran up and down my aroused body and my girl-nectar started flowing.

  His hands forcefully examined my entire body. Lane tugged my hair and I felt deliciously dominated by him. I stood there helpless with burning thighs that were overpowering my senses. We soon realized that the tiny stall was quite a tight fit. The thin walls shook each time we bumped around. Lane nibbled on my ear and whispered to me that we needed to wait until later. Needing a timeout and some fresh night club air, we ran out of the water closet, gasping for a few cold cocktails.

  Lane pulled up a seat for me at the bar and we continued our kissing frenzy with wild abandon. His tongue tasted like warm mouth-watering bourbon. I had never locked lips so hot and heavy in public before. When Lane kissed me I melted right into him. I had throbbing surges inside my wet butterfly every time his skin touched mine. Lane reached in his pocket and pulled out a tiny key to unlock me. He teased me and said that he wanted to save the cuffs for later—but only if I behaved badly! That was a public display of affection that was light years beyond “get a room."

  A pretty, half-naked girl walking by us had a burning hunger to get in on our lip action. The sultry looker slithered up and asked me to kiss her. I had never been asked that question by a woman before. She had long black hair and extremely white skin. Lauren was her name and she wanted me. Lane remained calm and watched how I would handle the tricky situation. I caught glimpses of him watching us from the corner of my eye. I felt flattered and yet intensely uncomfortable at the same time. As she leaned in to kiss me, I held my breath. Her lips were soft and her crimson lipstick tasted unusually sweet. Kissing Lauren felt dangerously erotic. It had the sensation of biting into a sticky caramel apple on a smoldering hot August afternoon.

  The forbidden sensation of tasting another woman turned out to be an unexpected turn on for me. Lauren pulled me on top of her and grabbed my cleavage as she gently played with my hair. She ran her tongue down my neck as if to leave her scent on me. After kissing Lauren, I was ready to be set free from her seductive spider’s web. A quick taste of her was enough to make me realize Lane's lips were all that I needed. Lauren whispered in my ear that she wanted to be our love slave and follow us around all evening. Lauren begged me for a minute or two, thinking that I’d cave in to her soft lips. She was extremely alluring and I could tell she was used to getting her way. I politely said, "No" in a kind, but firm tone. I had only kissed the girl after all. Lauren pouted and stormed off, annoyed that we did not invite her inside our inner sanctum of private delight.

  A gent like Lane was a rare shooting star that only happens once in a silver-glitter-moon. The thought of sharing him with some random club girl was simply not happening on my watch. The arrows of Lane's affection were pointing solely in my direction, and it was my burning intention to keep it that way! A few moments later, Lane glanced over at me and smiled with a mischievous grin over our threesome near miss.

  There were dusky, cavernous rooms with various domination artists performing their strong-armed skills upon their willing and submissive slaves. Those club goers put the “kink” in kinky without any hesitation. My curious side wanted to have a peek and personally check out the evil-doings stirring in every dark room. I was a total fetish party rubbernecker! A deer in headlights had nothing on me that night.

  Lane was the owner of an international surfboard company. He started his career as a pro-surfer, retired at thirty, and became a sought-after surfboard designer. Lane was the type to have Miami social climber cling-ons dangling by his side like shiny, skinny ornaments. Everything about him was dripping in sexiness. Lane was so copacetic that he couldn’t care less about the abundance of flesh that performed all around us. Lane had a relaxed demeanor and was not at all impressed by the many shocking acts fluttering about. He was a guy who was shaken, not stirred, with a dash of sinister. My date had just enough roughness to make him over the moon scrumptious—yet, he balanced it flawlessly with his wholesome good looks.

  The sexual tension could have ripped my fishnets to smithereens all over the sticky dance floor! We spent most of the night dancing with an overabundance of groping and intense kissing. I kinesthetically sensed that Lane’s intensity would boil over between the sheets. The music was smashingly loud and the heavy techno sounds completely filled the smoky air. Lane and I danced right in the middle of the packed dance floor. We focused only on each other's grinding moves. We were booty dancing to the ninth degree. The dance was on the verge of being X-rated and I licked it up like a bubble gum lollipop.

  It was full-on sexual seduction in the middle of the cold, concrete dance floor. Our sweltering dance was made up of a dash of rum, a heaping helping of butt shaking, and a salt-shaker-mix of crotch grinding. We put all the ingredients in a passion blender and it was pure dir
ty and delicious! I wanted to wrap my ankles around his sweaty neck and make him press my “down-button” with his chin.

  Just as my legs were starting to give from all the dancing, Lane took my hand and dragged me out of the club. By that time, the crowd was finding their own hidden dwellings to retreat to. It was way past the darkest hour, and we were ready to find out what really turned each other on. The fetish party was a long evening of luxurious foreplay, but I desperately needed something more to bite into. For me the fetish party was a giant sex appetizer. Lane, my main course of the evening, was as ready as I was to take it to the next level. Just to be a tease, I had taken off my sopping wet panties and stuck them in Lane’s pocket at the bar earlier in the night. It was finally time to get more organically acquainted with each other in our own private place.

  2). Orchid

  Lane and I made out at every red light on the way home. I gave him a seductive rub down—all over. Lane gave the speed limit a run for its money. We hardly made it inside the front door with our clothes intact. The smoking, late-night scene must have resembled a low-budget porno. The only thing we needed was seventies music to make it truly authentic. We stumbled all over each other, as we ripped our clothes off in an overheated race toward the back of his house. Lane's bedroom was an island man cave with an ocean breeze blowing through the windows. He had a massive king-sized bed right in the middle of the invitingly serene room. Above his bed he had a giant blue surfboard suspended from the ceiling. His room was filled with bamboo plants and exotic trinkets from his travels. He even had an entire wall that was a saltwater aquarium “with vividly colored fish and aquatic creatures that softly lit up the dim room.”

  Lane started undressing me in such a way that it made my skin tingle. His hands slowly melted my clothes off. His lips overtook me as we fell hard into his bed. Lane pulled my legs apart to make room for his beautiful body as he leisurely climbed on top of me. The warmth of my lady-skin gently stretched as he slowly entered me. The sensation of him inside me made my back instantly arch as his body merged with mine. Lane was a total missionary man and mounted me like a tidal wave. I was lost in a skin maze of pure bliss. We lavishly lingered in the sheets—totally mesmerized with each other for hours. I was imprisoned by Lane’s sheer mist of manliness that I could not see my way out of. We were consumed by our mortal urges in an unusually heady and passionate way. The last thing I remember hearing was the ocean breeze blowing the palm trees back and forth before I drifted to sleep.

  I suddenly awoke a few hours later and realized that I was handcuffed to a long, black surfboard. I thought, Holy shit, what are my arms doing strapped above my head? I tried to move, until I felt the sensation of Lane's lips kissing my skin. His face was buried between my legs. Lane looked up at me and said, this is what I wanted to do all night. I was floating when Lane was kissing my wild-orchid. Lane had a gifted way to say good morning to a sleeping woman. He was such a real man to head down to my southern region right after sunrise. I wrapped my legs around his back and let him take me on a tropical journey. I kicked back to enjoy the tender fleeting moment and allowed Lane to deliver me beyond the threshold of splendor one last time.

  That evening with Lane, I was on my hot-bus. A hot-bus can only be described as a perfect storm of hotness. It’s like falling into flawless circumstances where the universe says, “Yes, you are invited.” My spirit was beaming. I was almost at my ideal weight. My hair was behaving and my outrageous outfit was snug in all the right places. That Saturday night my hot-bus drove directly into a divine parking lot and parked right beside perfection. Hot-bus days are as fleeting as a sighting of Big Foot trying on a pair of six-inch, peep-toe heels at the mall. These days, I can only see the taillights on the hot-bus as it is driving into the fog. Catching up to the damn thing is somewhat challenging, especially because I keep skimming crumbs off the bottom of white cheddar popcorn bags and inadvertently drowning my inner skinny diva!

  That night, I was at the right place at the right time with Lane. There was something spectacular about stepping gracefully into an evening of extraordinary circumstances. Some things in life are a pure delight—simply because they exist.

  It’s not like I am ready to surrender my dusty lady-crown yet, even though it’s missing a few sparkles these days. Who cares? I am so over trying to be perfect anyway! Perfection is a destination that resides a million miles away. Geez, the only way that I could ever visit perfection would be to take a free bareback ride on an out-of-control meteorite. Besides, having a spark in your eye is much better that skinny thighs any day of the week—well, at least that’s the notion that I delude myself with on a daily basis. It has always seemed like my mascara wand has never been long enough to land anything that even remotely resembles the intangible planet of perfection. Although, I will never give up hope that my locks will once again be crowned with sparkling tanzanite QVC jewels, no matter how the years may find me.

  Being forever guilty of trying to rock what I’ve got and somehow keep it hot, I must in good conscience give an honorable mention to a couple of oldies but goodies— false eyelashes and hot rollers—vanity’s little life vests! I also must halfheartedly throw in the fact that the only good thing about wrinkles is that along with those little bitches comes wisdom. Besides, wrinkles and all, you can't keep a good sexpot down for too long. Okay, maybe for ten minutes, with pink satin ties and a box of frozen mini Charleston Chews—like I said before, I am so not perfect!

  With all of my wrinkles and wisdom lingering on this side of the Mississippi, I knew that Lane was too beautiful and fleeting to even dream of capturing. He was also too damn irresistible for his own flipping good. Lane was a stray dog that I could no longer keep. I was absolutely positive that every single woman with a wet hoo-hoo, living within in a hundred-mile radius of him, had her porch light on, a key under the mat, and a glass of Jack Daniels waiting patiently for him to show up at her doorstep. Lane was emotionally dangerous for me—an unconquerable man. Hell, when you’re beat you’re beat, sometimes it’s better to toss your white bra in the ring and skip away with your heart still intact—even if your glorious sugar cookie is broken up over it.

  Lane and I did go out a few more times after our unforgettable second date. Living decidedly different lives, we came to the realization that other than taking a spin on the wild side, vertically we heard crickets in the grass. I wanted to be happily married someday and he wanted to be a lifetime bachelor—searching for the perfect wave and the perfect babe. No regrets here, I will always have a soft spot in my strawberry-patch for Lane.

  My glorious spin around the Ferris wheel of lust with Lane gave me a long overdue clean man-slate. Spending time with Lane had taken a giant washcloth soaked in high voltage tarnish remover and polished me right back up to my prior glory. Then instantly, I had my "sex-dazzle" back in full-force.

  Just as my girl tiara was starting to glisten again, I discovered that looking for men online was quickly becoming my favorite new pastime. Meeting men through natural causes was on the verge of becoming a cloudy distant memory. Lane was my last thrill du-jour before I logged on to a new dating website. I will affectionately refer to that site as “a whole lot of Mr.Wrong.com.” Before I ever knew what electronically hit me, I’d be speeding down an Internet collision course to meeting my first husband. The unforeseen future for me would soon be full of mishaps, misadventures, and marriages.

  3). Miller

  Seriously, where the heck is my bling? These were the thoughts that were swimming around in my head by my early-thirties. Where was the two-carat rock that should be weighing down my ring finger—why not me? Old, yes, old is how I felt. My third decade of life had blown right by me with no wedding ring on the nearby horizon—it stunk. I was the fun girl with a string of long-term relationships. The girl that never won the blue ribbon at the county fair—yep, that was me.

  Way too many of my youthful years were spent treading water in shallow ponds with commitment-phobic men. Or maybe, I
was the commitment-phobic girl hiding in the murky water? Either way, I had the misguided notion that I should have been driving around four screaming kids in some innocuous grey minivan. Oh, the image would not be fully complete unless I was sporting a generic soccer-mom bob. Although, it seemed fate had different plans behind door number three for me. Slighted by my own hand, I spent numerous years shoveling the unforgiving sands of time right out of my very own size-twelve hourglass.

  It is so effing ridiculous to me now that I allowed my ankle to get caught in the transparent teeth of such a make-believe relationship trap. I was at the point in my existence where I found myself staring at every couple walking by and thinking to myself, “See they are married, why am I still single?” That was a hellish, slippery, emotional slope to slide down with a tight cocktail dress on. Once I started rapidly descending down that slick path, my decisions became completely scrambled. I ended up making rash choices with some seriously disastrous consequences.

  Luckily, I was already blessed with my daughter, Hope. I indulged in a whimsical fling when I lived in Steamboat Springs, Colorado during my mid-twenties. I moved to mountain country with my sister Lynn—looking for a high-altitude adventure—found it. I briefly became flirtatiously entangled with an adorable cowboy type. He was also a weekend ski instructor—that made him so much hotter, especially to a sunny Florida girl. Weeks before I arrived on my new frozen soil, I packed up my car and left my long-time boyfriend in the brokenhearted dust. I was ready to breathe in what life was like outside of the concrete jungle of South Florida—a place that I had always called home. I was on a mission to find snow, and more importantly, myself.