Sauce for the Goose by thelastenglishking

Let’s save each other some time: Experience tells me that there’s a section of the readership who prefer their erotica to take place far beyond the eyes of their chaste and virtuous wives; or at the very least, well below the pedestal upon which they believe wives should be placed. If that includes you, then you’re really not going to enjoy this story, so save your own time in reading it and my time in reading the inane comments that you’ll post if you do. For the rest of you, here we go:

Hi, the name’s Adam and my wife Jill and I are… ordinary, no different to millions, perhaps tens of millions of other couples around the world: We met in school, dated — albeit not exclusively — through our teens, got serious at twenty-one and married at twenty-three; by then I was a fully qualified electrician and Jill a nurse working for the National Health Service.

Our married lives progressed in the same ‘ordinary’ vein: I started and built up a domestic electrical business, Jill remained in the NHS and is now a Ward Sister — Jill could’ve gone much higher, but refused any promotions away from the ‘front line’. Between them those jobs have earned us enough to pay off the house and raise and educate three kids; our eldest is working and has completely flown the nest, the twins are in their final year at university..

Jill loves the house, our kids all seem to be happy and well adjusted, we get on with our extended families, are surrounded by good friends and neighbours and after twenty-odd years I’ve finally got another motorcycle. OK, I’ll concede that Jill’s not happy about that, but all in all, everything’s rosy in our garden. Even our sex life has re-energised a little since the twins went off to college, but hey-ho, that too might well be described by some as ordinary.

Of course there have been bumps and pot-holes along the way — professional, financial, health-wise and personal — but even our problems have been pretty ordinary, with nothing life-changing and all satisfactorily resolved. This story begins with couple of those bumps — albeit minor ones — that befell us in early-January:

Tuesday evening and Jill came home from work spitting feathers. To allow those nurses with younger children to stay home over Christmas, Jill along with some other more mature staff members had worked a half-dozen additional shifts. The deal being that they could take time off in lieu at a time to suit themselves later in the year. Today, those staff had learnt that ‘later in the year’ was sometime in January, after which their lieu-days would be forfeited

A couple of days later, I had a call from the Client whom I was working for the following week to advise of a delay on his project; we wouldn’t be able to start on site until a week later. Jeff was a good and regular client, very apologetic and even promised an ex-gratia payment to offset the disruption and buggeration; a quick rehash of our workload and I managed to utilise most of my guys elsewhere, or if I didn’t work… all of them

As so often in our lives it was Jill who saw past the lemons to the lemonade: We both had some free time and a little extra cash to play with, so Saturday afternoon saw us sitting on a plane, winging our way across the Atlantic to Jamaica.

Our destination was chosen for its guaranteed sunshine and it not needing any visas or inoculations for which we didn’t have time; but it was a helluva step for a couple who’d never before got further than Spain. Even that had been six years ago — all those college costs!

We were booked into a small all-inclusive hotel complex on the island’s north coast, chosen in part because it advertised as being ‘strictly adults only’. I know what you’re all thinking and the answer’s ‘No!’.

We wondered the same, so enquired; it was a normal, nothing saucy, by-the-book hotel, but no kids were allowed. Just what we wanted to hear, having got away without our own kids for the first time in over twenty years, we didn’t want to be tripping over anyone else’s.

What we hadn’t considered was the likely demographic of the other guests; a good proportion of folks our age do still have kids in tow:

There was a few who were fifteen years or more older than ourselves; you saw those at meal times, lounging around around the pool during the day, but rarely after about nine in the evening. The vast majority however were a good fifteen years or more younger, mid-twenties to early thirties. Those rarely appeared before lunchtime, but could be heard partying long after we’d called it a night.

Don’t get me wrong, everyone was very friendly and sociable, but we weren’t likely to meet and make any lifelong friends amongst out fellow guests. We pretty well kept to ourselves, alternating days on the beach or beside the pool with organised trips around the island: Rose Hall, Dunn’s River Falls, the James Bond guy’s house, we even crossed the island to the House now a museum where Bob Marley grew up; man oh man, but Kingston is a shit hole!

After dinner in the evenings we spent our time in and around the bar, there was usually entertainment of some sort and a disco afterwards, but we invariably headed for our bed before things began to get too lively. We did agree that we should attend the Foam Party that was being held in and around the main swimming pool on our final night.

It wasn’t the first foam party the week, but it was the first one at our own hotel; we’d overheard some very racy anecdotes about those that’d gone before.Our hotel was one of three along the north coast under the same ownership, each hosted a weekly foam party and guests from the other two were invited, with transport being provided by the hotel.

Those courtesy buses didn’t return until almost three in the morning, so a little too late for such as us There was a second bus that looped between the hotels at around ten the following morning to repatriated those guests who’d either not got back from the host hotel, or had been delivered to a hotel other than their own; the stories from those folks were some of the raciest!

We took dinner early, then went back to our room to catch an hour’s sleep in preparation, then headed down to the pool around eight-thirty, Jill wearing a bikini, though not her skimpiest one. Things got lively from the off and It wasn’t long before many of the ladies were topless – a few even bottomless too! – but Jill couldn’t be persuaded to follow suit. A pity as even in her late forties Jill possesses a body far more appealing than many of those that were being more blatantly displayed:

Jill is auburn haired and tall at almost 5′ 10″; back in our schooldays Jill was both the girls’ high-jump and long-jump champion, which perhaps best indicates her figure as a teenager. The cruellest of Jill’s… more shapely classmates knick-named her ‘Beanpole’ or ‘Stretch’ back then, though thirty-years later I suspect that they’d now green with envy.

Those intervening years and motherhood have proved beneficial to Jill’s contours, with her boobs, hips and bum developing beautifully; that coupled with her active and healthy lifestyle, has seen Jill mature into the archetypical MILF.

We abandoned the swimming pool around ten and while I went to the bar once more, Jill popped back to our room to grab some additional clothing; a polo-shirt for me along with a spaghetti-strapped camisole top and calf-length cotton skirt for herself, even still damp the tropical night was far from cold.

After that, we spent our evening dancing by the poolside, drinking more rum-punch and watching the high-jinks that continued in the water; even the foam’s camouflage couldn’t hide just how steamy things were now getting in there.

It was close to midnight when I was dispatched to the bar yet again: We’d each had a couple more rum-punches than were good for us and those, along with the floor — or to be precise ‘pool’ — show had tempted us into having a couple more; besides, these though we agreed, would positively-definitely be the last ones before heading to our bed.

The bar was packed and it must’ve been twenty minutes before I got served and back outside; looking over the pool area from the terrace I couldn’t see Jill anywhere, she certainly wasn’t where I’d left her.

Despite Jill’s height and hair colour I must’ve scoured the crowded dance-floor for a couple of minutes before I spotted her and then immediately saw why: Jill was dancing between two men, the one between myself and she was even taller — well over six feet — and both were pressed close around her; far too close for propriety.

Even as I watched the tall chap behind Jill bent his knees slightly and began to grind his crotch against her bum. The one in front I now saw had a leg thrust forward between Jill’s thighs and was sliding it back and forth against her pussy. No! An instant later I realised that it was Jill rubbing her groin along his thigh!

I was still asorbing that, when the tall chap slid his hands upwards from Jill’s hips and they quickly disappeared beneath her camisole top. As the fabric’s movement made it clear, they soon arrived around Jill’s breasts; not so much stroking or caressing them as mauling them harshly.

Had I groped Jill in that way she’d soon have told me that I was being ‘too rough’ and to ease-off or even stop. Jill instead looked back over her shoulder and lasciviously smiled; the guy responded by kissing Jill on the mouth, a kiss that my wife eagerly matched.

Their kiss only broke when the music stopped and Jill pushed both men away from her and looked around frantically, most especially in the direction of the bar. I was surprised at her not seeing me there, then realised that the lights were far brighter where she was standing and that from her position, I was to a degree masked by some dangling foliage.

Don’t ask me why, but rather than waving or even moving out into the open, I instead drifted further behind those dangling plants. Jill searched and stared for a full thirty seconds before finally turning her attention back to the young men; she did so with a broad grin.