A Football Player's Wife

"If everything is so damn perfect," Dianna muttered to her reflection
in the mirror, "why can't I get my own husband to fuck me?"

Dianna Marie Beauvais-Newton looked at herself in the mirror in the
master bedroom, wearing lacy lingerie, wondering where she went wrong.
Her husband had just left with his buddies -- without her.

She had the perfect house, the perfect husband -- a pro football
player, no less -- and she was the perfect wife, as his team mates had
so often told her themselves when they came to the house -- with a
hint of jealousy, sometimes.

Dianna Beauvais had become the perfect wife for her husband.

Her husband was a dark-colored handsome black man, husky built -- he
was a defensive tackle, after all, and she was proud of him for his
accomplishments on the field and off, too. He kept his frame stocky,
his head bald. But thanks to her Creole heritage, Dianna was slim,
slender, petite, with smooth skin just like latte or mocha, and long
shiny black hair, with deep mysterious brown eyes. Thanks to her
husband's money, she always had perfect hair, and always had perfect
nails.

She clicked those acrylic nails on the little table by the mirror,
faster and faster, getting more upset by the second.

Today she had gone to the lingerie store, to buy the most beautiful
bra and the briefest pair of panties she could find. She chose a
matching white lace set. The bra was practically see-through, and the
panties, were really a thong -- a small triangular strip of white
lace, in between some thin pieces of elastic.

She had hurried home, showered, slathered herself in mosturizing
bodywash, used the right shampoo to make her hair shiny, rubbed baby
oil on her skin, put on the lingerie, with a matching satin robe, put
on lipstick, even his favorite perfume -- the works -- all for him.

The thong panties fit like sin. They covered her feminine parts and
the small patch of curly pubic hair, but the elastic gripped her booty
like an invisible lover. The underwire bra with soft lace half-cups
felt like a pair of knowing hands on her deceptively small but full
breasts, cupping them firmly yet gently, pushing them together
slightly for cleavage.

She was offering up her personal treats to her husband. She looked
sexy, and even more, felt sexy.

And what did he do? she asked herself bitterly. He looked at her like
she was a child playing dress up, then asked when dinner was, because
he was going out with his buddies.

Dianna angrily put on a t-shirt and jeans over her bra and panties,
slammed down pots and pans, making him his damn dinner. He scarfed it
down without so much as a thank you, and then bustled out. His
friends, all fellow team members, looked like they felt bad for her.
Dianna got small comfort from that.

I should have known, she thought bitterly. Every year of their
marriage, it was the same thing. She would see him hardly at all
during the season. The press got to see more of him than I did, she
thought with a smirk. Then, during the off-season time, when he
finally got to have some semblance of a life and she got to have him
back, what did he do?

Ignore her.

Yeah, everything was so fucking perfect, Dianna thought sarcastically,
smirking at herself in the mirror.

Dianna Beauvais decided she would no longer be ignored.

She ate some of the dinner she'd made, surprising herself with her
appetite. After dinner, she put the leftovers away, then re-applied
her makeup. Then she slipped off her bra and panties -- before she
slipped on her skin-tight silver strapless dress and clear plastic
platform heels. She pulled the dress on and it clung to her curves in
all the right places, displayed some cleavage up top, and barely went
halfway down her thighs at the bottom. And no lines showed through the
fabric -- just curves.


Then she called a limo service. She was going dancing, and going in
style, even though she was going by herself. She didn't mind, because
football player's wives were like stuck records. All they could talk
about was, who bought what house and whose husband was traded to what
team and where they got their nails done, even the other black women.


And she didn't call any of her old friends either -- they were stuck
records, too, on the other end of the social spectrum. All they would
give her was a running account of how miserable their lives were,
because of their no-account, couldn't-hold-a-job, unsteady boyfriends.
And where they got their nails done.


She would not be able to keep her mouth shut tonight. So, no friends,
either.


While she was waiting for the limo, it started to rain. That made her
quiet. If her husband, the famous defensive tackle Edward Newton, was
at home right now, they would be taking advantage of the dark and
quiet, the rain accompanying the noises she would be making.


Or would have been making, she corrected herself. Should have been
making.


Her shiny black chairot arrived, tiny water beads all over the windows
and body. The driver, a pretty blonde woman, thoughtfully held an
umbrella over her head while they walked out to the car. She held the
door open for Dianna and she got in.


During the limo ride over, she luxuriated in the fine leather
upholstery, and availed herself of a drink. There was a bottle of good
white wine in a bucket of ice. It cost a little extra, but she was in
the mood to splurge. Daintily, she poured herself a glass and savored
it. And she deliberately took off her wedding rings and put them in
her little matching silver purse. If the press of single men became
too great, all she had to do, was put them on again. The engagement
ring especially, was difficult to miss.

* * * *
Andrew Wendell James didn't arrive at the club by limo. In fact, he
walked.


The place was only a two-block walk away from his apartment, so walk
he did. It was a lot easier than driving over, and in case he had a
little too much to drink, all he had to do was walk straight. A lot
easier than driving.


In his black pants, white shirt, black jacket and black stocking cap,
with white socks and black sandals, he blended in with the unusually
cool and rainy night. He was about five-eight, with curly dark hair,
hazel eyes, with a lean, almost lanky build. People told him he looked
like the singer Usher, except that he was very Causcasian. Invisible
in the club too, he threaded his way between people and tables, and
over to the bar, where he ordered his usual drink -- a wine cooler --
and sat down with it.


Wendell kept his attention on his drink. He neither needed nor wanted
any company tonight, mainly because his girlfriend just broke up with
him and he wasn't in the mood for deep conversation.


He was better off without her, he concluded, but that didn't make
breaking up with her any easier. For one thing, the sex was beyond
great, it was fucking fantastic -- when Terri made up her mind to stop
being such a bitch.


Wendell sighed. He was white, but he was rapidly finding out for
himself that white women were more problems than they were worth --
way more costs than rewards. Terri was a lovely girl, but her rear end
needed work, as did a lot of her. She wasn't ugly by any means, just
not what he liked. He needed a change.


Then he rotated his seat around so he could watch the place while he
sipped his drink. He nearly spit out his drink when he saw the
goddess, dressed in silver.


She was about his height, thanks to the clear plastic platform heels,
which had five-inch heels. God, how sexy her outfit was. The whole
outfit was like, HELLO! The silver strapless dress, made of spandex or
the like, fit her lithe, petite frame like plastic wrap, pulled tight
across chest and hips and especially her booty. He watched her body
move under the dress as she walked towards the bar.


He felt his cock rise when the thought occured to him that a dress
that tight would show panty lines.


And her dress didn't show any lines at all.


Her dark brown, almost black hair, was shiny and pretty, and her eyes
were nearly as dark, with long fine eyelashes. Her hands were
beautiful too, small and dainty, with long slim straight fingers and
long acrylic nails, painted a brown color that went with her skin, and
matched the lipstick her full generous lips were painted in. Maybe she
was born with it, maybe it was Maybelline -- who cared? She was
beautiful.


But even from his spot at the bar, he could detect some coolness in
her gaze. Like she'd been hurt. He could relate to that. Wendell
didn't mean to, but he made eye contact with the silver goddess. Her
eyes changed, subtly, just enough to see, and her mouth curved upward
in as just as subtle a smile.


Wendell watched her walk all the way to the bar -- and sit on the
stool right next to his!


He took a slug off his drink, then turned to her and said, "Uh, hi."


The woman turned. Her mouth turned into a warm smile that reached her
eyes. "Hi."


"Can I, uh, buy you a drink?"


"Sure," she smiled. She told him what she'd like and he bought it for
her. As she sipped her drink, she turned on her stool to face his.
"Baby, what's your name?"


Wendell stuck his hand out. "Andrew Wendell James. Just call me
Wendell."


The ebony goddess put her hand out daintily and held his gently. "Hi,
Wendell. I'm Dianna Beauvais." She held his hand a long time.


"That's a lovely outfit, Dianna," Wendell said carefully. "I hope the
rain hasn't turned to steam yet."


Dianna laughed. "Thank you for your concern," she said. "And thank you
for saying that."


"Was it still raining when you arrived?"


Dianna nodded. Wendell thought she seemed sad again. "I like the
rain," she said softly. "What about you?"


"Yeah," he nodded. "I like rain, too. Helps me fall asleep."


"You look like you could use some sleep," she observed. "You look a
little tired."


Wendell took a sip of his drink. "Yeah, I am tired. But sleep isn't
what I need."


Dianna smiled an understanding smile. She sipped her drink.


They sat and chatted a long while, heedless of what was going on
around them. She moved her stool closer to his and sat facing him,
showing an entire club full of jealous would-be suitors that they were
too late. She laughed at his jokes, nodded seriously at his insightful
comments, touched him.


Then she said, "Would you like to dance?"


Poor Wendell nearly spat out his drink. But he swallowed the alcohol
in his mouth and said, "Hell, yeah!"


Dianna laughed out loud, then put down her drink. She took his hand in
a soft but strong grip and led him out on the dance floor. The DJ had
read her mind, or so she thought, when a soft romantic R and B song
came on, the kind meant for a long slow dance, the kind where the
dancers held hands, or held each other, close or very close, looking
deeply in the eyes of your dance partner.


And so Dianna and Wendell did just that. She had to look away several
times because she felt so safe and secure with him, didn't want the
song to end, and didn't mind in the slightest when Wendell pulled her
very close to him.


But eventually the song ended and the DJ announced a break. Couples
went back to their tables. Fanning themselves in their erotic heat.
The jukebox came on.


"This place is getting loud," she finally said, when they had a chance
to pull away and compose themselves. "I don't suppose you have anyone
waiting for you?" She was still standing a little too close to him.


Wendell rallied himself and smoothly said, "Naw, I live by myself, and
I walked over here. So I'm free as a bird."


Dianna looked to the doors. "I realize we just met, but how would you
like to ride with me for a while in my limo? Got a perfectly good
bottle of white wine in there."


Wendell swallowed. "Uhm, sure, yeah."


"Great!" Dianna smiled. "Meet me outside in ten minutes." She turned
around and marched to the bathroom. Once in the ladies' room, she
barely managed to stop herself from screaming and cheering like a high
school girl. She quickly composed herself and did her business. Then
she went to the counter and reapplied a few light strokes of lipstick.
She couldn't believe that she'd given him her maiden name like that.
She couldn't believe she'd danced with him like that. And she couldn't
believe how wet she was.


You should have worn panties, she told herself as she put on lipstick.
With a grin.


She looked at the expensive rings still sitting in the bottom of her
purse -- and didn't feel a single twinge of guilt.


Dianna smiled at sisters' comments about her outfit, then walked out,
across the room, and back outside into the night, where her driver
waited. She promptly opened the door for her and she got in, but said,
"Don't leave yet, please. I'm waiting for someone."


"Yes, ma'am."

* * * *
Wendell just knew that the silver goddess, Dianna, was playing with
him. But he went ahead and played his part.


He quickly finished his drink, then put his stocking cap back on and
ambled towards the bathroom. Wendell found it difficult to use the
toilet because his cock was stuck to his boxers, which had a big blob
of dried pre-cum, as did his cock, which was oozing pre-cum, too. The
goddess had turned him on with that slow dance!


He did his business anyway, cleaned himself up, then went to the door,
and back outside. He looked around but didn't see any limo.


Then he looked to his left again, and saw a long slim arm wave to him
-- Dianna's arm. "Wendell, baby, over here."


He ran over to the limo. The door was open. Dianna sat there, smiling.
She gave him a cute little feminine wave.


Wendell got in the limo with this beautiful black woman.


The driver closed the door and Dianna said, "Take us to the most
romantic spot in the city, please. And take your time."


"Yes, ma'am," the driver smiled.


As the limo pulled off into traffic, Dianna smiled like a gracious
hostess and said, "Won't you have some wine, baby?"


"Yes, please," Wendell nodded.

As the driver took the limo into the hills around the city, Dianna
Beauvais found out that Andrew Wendell James was a writer, with quite
a portfolio of magazine articles, was quite single, and was very sweet
and very funny and very smart.


Andrew Wendell James found out that Dianna Marie Beauvais was not only
drop dead sexy, but a really nice lady, and pretty funny herself. And
she was single, too. At least, he assumed she was single. She wore no
rings on her left hand and didn't mention any significant other in her
life.


Dianna had planned it that way.


By the time the driver arrived at the desired spot in town, they knew
all about each other, or almost. The limo came to a stop, and Dianna
rolled the window down, to reveal a spectacular view of the city
lights.


Dianna touched his arm. "Hey, baby, look."


"Wow," Wendell whispered. Dianna smiled at him. Her husband would have
said, "Yeah right, it's beautiful honey."


Then Wendell stroked her cheek. "It's almost as beautiful as you are."


A single tear floated down over her cheek and she smiled tenderly. She
reached out and stroked his face with her nails, then pulled him close
to her. And then suddenly they were kissing. They completely forgot
about the limo driver. She tried not to look, but she had never
witnessed interracial sex before.


Dianna kissed him softly and lightly at first, her lips barely
touching his. She straddled him, and the kisses stayed soft but became
less tentative. She slipped off his jacket, then loosened his belt
buckle and took off his t-shirt. Wendell loved how soft her hands were
on his bare skin, how light her touch was. Her brown hands made a sexy
contrast with his white, almost pink skin.


Wendell put his arms up, and rubbed her incredibly soft and smooth
arms, then her shoulders and neck, and hair, then down her back, and
when his hand brushed her butt, she looked at him for a second, and
resumed her kisses.


Dianna closed her eyes when their lips touched. But she opened them
widely again when she felt hands on her breasts. She looked down and
Wendell's hands were on her silver-clad breasts, cupping and squeezing
and stroking gently.


"Here, baby," Dianna whispered. She quickly pulled her dress down to
reveal her breasts to Wendell. She nearly melted. His touch felt even
better without a layer of spandex in the way.


Wendell stared at her breasts as he caressed them. They were the color
of latte, the nipples like buds of hot cocoa. He gently licked at her
cocoa nipple.


Dianna moaned and arched her back, allowing Wendell easier access,
slipping her hand around the back of his head.


And she didn't protest one bit when she felt his hands tug at the
bottom hem of her dress, felt his hands brush her bare ass. She gasped
and started when she felt his hand on her feminine parts, then the
pleasure took over, and she moved her hips.


Dianna wanted to give him pleasure. Smiling, she put on fresh
lipstick, then got down on the floor on the limo, and slowly unzipped
his trousers. She took some hand lotion, rubbed it on her hands, then
began to lightly stroke his cock. It became hard almost right away,
quickly extending past her thumb, well past, until it was a fully
erect shaft of hard white masculinity. She too noticed the contrast of
her brown hands and his white skin. And loved it!


When she saw the pre-cum oozing over the tip of his cock, she slowly
leaned forward and licked it off with her tongue. It had been a long
time since she'd given pleasure to a man but no so long that she
didn't know what to do.


Wendell's cock was so erect it was ready to burst. Slowly, Dianna put
her lips around the tip of his cock, and sucked. Each time she went
down, she went down a little more, until his entire cock was inside
her mouth, then back up slowly and back down.


At first she moved slowly, but speeded up as her confidence increased,
and Wendell's quiet moans and groans became louder, to let her know
she was still good at this.


Then she stopped, licked her lips, and reached inside her purse for a
condom. She slowly unrolled it on his cock, then climbed back up and
straddled him again. Her pussy was small and tight, the labia like a
pair of lips pressed together, but she was so wet he went inside her
like a whisper. She wiggled a little bit but soon he was inside her up
the the hilt of his shaft, then she held on to him tight as she began
moving up and down on him.


"Oh...Oh....Oh, baby....oh...oh.....oh, god....oh, god..."


Dianna started with her hands on his shoulders, but soon was holding
on tight, Wendell's face in between her breasts.


"OH, BABY....OH GOD...FUCK ME....FUCK ME...."


And suddenly they both came together. They held each other until they
were aware of the cool night air. Wendell looked at her and said,
"Dianna, you're trembling. You okay?"


Dianna was wetting Wendell's shoulder with her tears. "I'm okay," she
cried. "Oh, baby, I'm so okay." She stroked his face with her nails.


"I hope those are happy tears," Wendell cracked.


"You bet they are," Dianna laughed and sniffed. She twisted around and
said to the driver, "Take us back to the club, please." Then Dianna
looked at him again. "I hope that's okay," she said.


"Yeah," Wendell said, swallowing, not knowing what to say. "That's
fine. What--"


Dianna shushed him with a kiss. "You didn't do anything," she
whispered. The driver nodded, the limo started moving. She lowered
herself down back into his arms.


Wendell rubbed her back, gently.


Then, gently, she pulled away, crying quietly. "You are such a sweet
man," she whispered a little hoarsely. She wiped the lipstick away
from his cheek. "Thank you."


"For--"


"Please," she whispered again, "Just please hold me."


"Okay," Wendell nodded. Dianna snuggled up to him and put her head on
his shoulder for almost the entire ride back. Wendell couldn't help
but notice how her trembling almost went away from her petite frame.
As the limo came to the stoplight across from the club, Wendell said,
"It's too bad this ride has to end." He tried to sound humorous.