IaW Ch. 03: What a Long, Strange Trip

This is the third installment of the "In a World..." series, detailing the erotic journey of Ginnifer and Rick. This narrative can stand alone, but it's at its best when read in the slowly-building sequence. This is also a cross-category story that leans deepest into the prurient parts of the "Loving Wives" category. More sensitive readers should check the IaW Foreword (a stand-alone chapter) to see if this story is right for them.

Yours truly,

Wilson Spalding

###

Ginny was arranging charging cords for her iPad and laptop in my living room.

I'd bought this duplex maybe two months ago and didn't really have the time to furnish it like it needed, so arranging power cords was an exercise in minimalist aesthetics.

She noticed me staring and held up her hands like "Whaaaat?"

I chuckled and shook my head. "Maybe you should just move in."

Her expression was guarded. "I dunno. Is it too soon?"

"You're kidding, right?"

I'd proposed a week ago. Pretty sure we'd used the "married" word. I can be explicit like that. Maybe dropped in a "wedding" among other dirty words.

Granted, it was in the heat of the moment, but she'd accepted. We went with it; talked about it plenty that night, but not much since then. Pretty sure she was wondering if it was real or just bedroom talk. If we didn't mention it, it might still be a thing. Did Schrödinger's cat ever get married?

After my question, she was quiet, her expression serious as a heart attack. I knew why: eight intimate videos of her with her ex were now gathering hits on YouPorn. She'd been burned by bedroom talk before.

I gestured around. "Ya know, I just bought this place. I barely have any furniture. You have an apartment full of furniture and no long-term lease. We were made for each other!"

She held up a finger, like she about to protest, but it did make sense.

"Ginny," I continued. "There's a tape measure in the junk drawer. Why don't you check the living room, make sure your sectional will fit."

The living room was an empty cavern, there was no question it would fit, but that wasn't really the point right now.

She took a deep breath and looked toward the kitchen like she was about to walk out to the edge of a 3-meter diving platform. For a relationship built on kinky sex, furniture could be terrifying.

"First drawer."

She walked over, opened it, and stared. "What's this?"

"The tape measure?"

"No. The blue, velvety thing."

"Oh, that! That's... for you."

She held up the little clamshell case. "For me...?"

"Well it has your name on it."

"Holy shit!" She covered her mouth. "It..."

The little case fit in the palm of her dainty hand.

I nodded. "Yeah, it's a 'case'. You know, you put things in it."

She nodded, dumbstruck.

"It looks better on the inside."

She finally opened it and tears immediately streamed down her face. "Oh, my god."

"You said 'yes' last week... I'm hoping you're still saying 'yes'."

"Yes!"

She slid the engagement ring on, the diamond sparkling. "It's beautiful!"

"It is..." I wasn't referring to the ring.

She played with it on her finger. "It's a little loose."

"I like it that way."

She blinked, then choked back a giggle. "Nice. Voyeur..."

"Pornstar."

She hustled around the breakfast nook, wrapped her arms around me and laid on a huge, glorious kiss. She tasted like vanilla mint.

"Let's see it."

She held out her hand like a Disney princess and we watched the sparkle.

I held her hand in my own. "That was eight videos, right? You and Ed?"

Ginny nodded, slightly squirmy. "And, uh, Dave in the last two..."

"Yeah, how could I forget?" It took a second to wipe the stupid smile off my face. "There needs to be a ninth video. You, Ed, Dave... and this ring."

Her jaw dropped. "You're so bad!"

"I am. I really am."

###

Where did this all start?

If you're just joining this story, two weeks into a crazy relationship, I proposed to a 23-year old Scots-Irish redhead who was the book definition of "hot mess." She was a slut in denial, turned on by exhibitionism, who got guilty-wet at the thought of cheating.

As for me, I'm a 26-year old Production Manager for a Studio That Shall Remain Nameless. Yeah, I'm a pretty lucky guy who just bought a duplex with cash (and I average 90-hour weeks during production). I work hard, so I take my play time very, very seriously.

Which kinda brings me back to Ginnifer. If you haven't already guessed, my fiancée was destined to be my hot-wife. Or at least that was the direction all our kinky talk was headed. Until it happens, though, it hasn't happened.

Now, I've heard that polyamory is wrong, but mostly because that mixes Greek and Latin roots. It's supposed to be either multiamory or polyphilia, but after multiple orgasms, it's okay if your vocabulary gets a little scrambled.

Okay, I kid, but the whole open marriage thing wasn't that weird anymore. It was getting close to mainstream, but maybe not quite there yet. In fact, there was just enough awareness for the rednecks to project "cuck" as an insult. Funny bit: that's where the whole "horny" thing comes from. The fact that it was still a little "taboo" was part of what made it exciting.

I tried picking it apart, but it was complicated. Women were sluts for different reasons, men loved them being sluts for different reasons.

Why did it turn me on?

I had to think about that one long and hard. My good buddy Occam recommended the simplest explanation: availability. The thought of dating a "sure thing" let me relax. I wasn't trying as hard because I knew my chances were already pretty good. With the pressure off, now everybody had a good time.

A steady diet of porn growing up probably helped, too. As much as it inspired a love of variety, seeing the same actress in different pornos also turned me on. There was something about recognizing that one girl be a slut in a different settings, with completely different guys, that reinforced her availability. I wanted THAT girl.

The first time I saw "Clerks," the "37 scene" with Veronica was the hottest thing I'd ever seen. Funny that an ironic comedy could come up with something hotter than hardcore. Since then, 37 was a magic number. Veronica was THAT girl.

Put a slut and a voyeur together and what do you have? You have a kink where your significant other is your favorite porn star. I'd be Dante for a Veronica.

Was that healthy? Blah, blah, blah: it didn't even matter. Once that genie was out of the bottle, it wasn't going back.

Heck, being attracted to sluts was basic logic: when you're searching for something, you go where the prize is.

From the sluts' side, I hear there were evolutionary reasons. There was excitement in being wanted. Hell, for the last thousand years, promiscuity was the main "alternative sexuality." Long before LGBTQ+, there were sluts, taking one for the team. Or maybe from the team.

Which brought me back to Ginny, a girl coming to grips with being a closet slut. What would our engagement be like? What did engagement to a slut look like? What was life with a slut like? Especially a slut who was off the proverbial leash?

And yes, there was my side, too. That whole reciprocity thing. Just because I had a "type" didn't mean I lost my appreciation for variety. Honestly, though, nobody cares because "men." There's kind of an assumption about us and it's not wrong.

The challenge, in my eyes, was to help Ginnifer bloom and not fuck up that blossoming sexuality. She'd suffered plenty of that already. Together, this would be an exploration.

We decided to take it slow, relatively speaking. We were definitely on the same wavelength, and we seemed to get along great, even when we weren't naked.

But moving in together? Sharing a bank account? Tax returns? A life? How do we figure out if we're compatible beyond this sexual chemistry?

I knew a way: Road Trip.

###

The plans were in motion.

We were lucky enough to be able to take off two weeks from our respective jobs. We'd launch mid-week, next week, giving us a countdown to prepare.

The first thing we did was... dive back into our neglected social media accounts. Most of this was because we had friends and family that were at the torch-and-pitchfork stage of needing to know what the fuck was going on with us.

So, for the rest of the world, we actually friended each other... and immediate updated our relationship status to "Engaged."

Funny how an online detail could make phones explode.

She had her connections, I had mine, and roughly the same questions. This was pretty much both of us at the same time:

"No, we don't have a date set."

"No, 'we' aren't pregnant."

"Yes, we're moving in together -- or technically, [she's] moving in with [me], probably right after we got back from this upcoming road trip."

"Yes, there's a ring." (...and we were both admonished for not uploading a picture).

As for my job, I was in a low-grade holding pattern, so this was timed perfectly.

Gin's work, a supposed 'Den of Iniquity,' was a bit more complicated. Apparently, they'd been okay with it when she'd been in a relationship before, but now...? It was a shock to the five Dirty Old Men when she wore the ring to work this week.

See, this upcoming 2-week vacay was just four months after she'd taken time off because of a medical-grade mental breakdown. This was also after she'd asked for gratis legal advice on what to do with an explicit, now-publicly circulating video ("for a friend").

Still, they loved her. They got over the shock of "the ring," and were willing to deal with another temp receptionist for a couple of weeks.

With virtual blessings, we mapped out a course across the Great American Southwest. Neither of us had ever been to the Grand Canyon, so that would be our first stop -- and we'd be documenting every step for friends and family.

Ginny drove a Mazda Miata and I drove a 1973 Ford Bronco. I thought about renting a car, but figured memories would be made and I wanted to hang on to those. In the end, we took the Bronco (crap mileage and all).

We left on a Wednesday morning, driving against traffic to make our Escape from L.A. It was a solid haul east and up to the I-40, taking hours for the second largest urban area in the US to finally fade behind us.

Just a little east of Barstow was the first of our most intense disagreements. I was pointing at the dunes and mesas and lava fields:

"Wow! It's beautiful!"

"Yeah..." she reluctantly agreed. "But it's desolate."

"But it's beautiful!"

"...But it's desolate."

"But it's beautiful."

"Desolate. Really desolate. Beautiful, yes... but desolate."

"But--"

"Desolate."

Yup. One of the worst, right there. We were doing pretty well...

Naturally, we stopped for a bathroom break at the Desert Oasis Rest Area, the last flushing toilets for a million miles in the Mojave.

For being so desolate, there were a ton of people on the road -- and there in the rest stop. We stretched our legs and let me tell you: she got looks when she stretched hers.

She was dressed for comfort: vans, low-rise fleece short-shorts and a t-shirt so sheer she could win a wet t-shirt contest without water. The shirt was definitely suitable for driving through the desert in late summer, but without a bra, she was on the border of legal.

The short-shorts were hand-cut from baggy sweats. The low-rise front featured her flat, toned tummy, with the elastic starting just in time to hide her well-manicured landing strip. From a normal view, the pocket-bottoms were visible from the front while the back side hinted at the bottom of her cheeks. With the baggy flare and no panties, a low eye-line was treated to the whole show.

The rest stop hosted truckers and tourists alike, with a ton of folk that looked like they were straight outta Central Casting from National Lampoon's "Vacation." With a crowd of Clark Griswolds trudging around, that made Ginny the updated Christie Brinkley.

After a restroom break, I was standing in front of the rest stop's outdoor map, calibrating my sense of place with a phone map in my hand.

Ginny caught up a moment later and leaned against me. We were the only ones at the map right that moment, but she kept her voice a half-whisper. "I have been eye-fucked like ten times."

"Not surprised. You are eye-fuckable."

"Am I?"

"Babe, you know you look good." I gave her a hip-bump. "Only sorry I missed it."

"Voyeur," she giggled.

"Exhibitionist."

Before we left, we took a couple of shoulders-up selfies with the mountains in the distant background. Big smiles, we looked like we felt: happy couple. Thus began the Announcement Tour Photo Album.

By the time we were back on the road, that coy exhibitionism had gotten her horny.

She reached for her seat belt. "Road head?"

"I'm never gonna turn that down... but if you're horny, I'd be happy to watch you rub one out."

"Because when I get horny," she educated, "my 'pleaser' kicks in."

"Ohh..." As much as we'd talked about sex, I was still picking up details on what made this nymph tick. "Good?"

She shushed me, put her hair in a pony tail and climbed out of the bucket seat. Just barely enough room for her to kneel between the chairs, she pulled her shirt off and dropped her face into my lap.

Gotta admit, I did like her "shirtless when giving head" rule. Besides the amateur porn, it was one of the better things to come out of the relationship with her last ex.

Her mouth on my knob was absolutely glorious, especially at 75 miles per hour, but it was the details that shoved me closer to the edge: Exhibition got her horny, yeah, but she veered into pleaser mode rather than pleasure mode. It was a touch of her little submissive streak, and that was incredibly hot.

Her right hand was on my knee, bracing herself. Her left hand was anchored on my shaft, stroking it as she sucked on the head. This seemed like the perfect opportunity for her to rub one out, but did she? No.

I wanted her to do something sensual that would be "for her," but I wasn't going to order her to do it. Looking at her now, though, other devious ideas started swirling through my head. "Hey, do you own any dildos?"

She stopped and looked up at me. "Uh, yeah. A couple. Why?"

I glanced at the gear shifter sticking out of the floor. "Oh, no reason..."

She followed my glance and giggled. "Maybe when we're not driving..."

"Jeezuz." My balls tightened that instant.

She saw it and was all over it. It was almost all over her, but she wrapped her mouth around the head and sucked the pearly life right outta me. I have no idea how she didn't choke on what felt like a firehose in her mouth.

"Thank you. That was fucking amazing!"

"Road head is one my favorites," she smiled. "It was fun to, um..."

"Add me to that club?"

"Yes!"

This conversation was just slamming my "Veronica" fetish. I was not getting any softer.

She kissed the tip and patted the shaft. "Um... I don't think I can tuck him in without doing damage."

"Don't worry," I groaned. "Got it covered."

She re-took her seat, her top still off, and started looking at her phone.

Took me a moment to maneuver the shaft back into my shorts. Son of a bitch. I'm not 14 anymore, I should have enough control to will my dick into submission -- but Ginny was "North" and I was the Pole.

Part of it was boobs in the passenger seat. The Bronco was well above average traffic, but still well below the semi trucks. It didn't look like she had any intention of putting her top back on -- and I didn't mind.

She took a swig of water, swished, gargled and swallowed -- then smiled at me. "Am I safe to kiss now?"

"Yes."

She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I could still smell my cum on her breath, and honestly, that was pretty hot, too.

###

We'd left at seven in the morning, against traffic, and made it to the Grand Canyon in ten hours. The sun was in the west, and still hot, but the shadows were long.

We parked at some mostly-empty lot and marveled at the scenery. She was still in her travel-comfort easy-breezy outfit, but sadly, there was no one else around to appreciate this extra little bit of natural beauty.

With the grand vista before us, we whipped out the phones and took a slew of pictures from the observation area. Some were selfies, others were full-length of each other.

She handed me her phone. "Can you take a shot? Canyon view, and me looking at it."

"Sure!"

I took a bunch, pretty artful, some suggestive, and handed her phone back to her. Wasn't sure why she wanted it on her own phone until I saw her updating her Instagram page.

We uploaded the tamer pictures to Facebook and just enjoyed the view for a while. Since there was a lull in other travelers, inspiration -- bold and stupid -- struck.

"I have an idea..."

We followed a trail into the canyon itself, over some actually-risky, ass-puckering drops. We climbed down to a ledge that was completely hidden from the parking lot.

She took off her shirt and that tiny excuse of a pair of fleece shorts and I took a moment to admire. Five-seven, one-twenty-five of slender, athletic bod. Auburn-red hair, pale green eyes and naturally red lips. Pale skin with freckles and perky B-cups with nipples that pointed more up than out.

"You are so fucking gorgeous..."

She bit her lip, eating it up.

What did I do? Took more pictures, naturally. This was not what I expected to fall in love with.

Funny thing, expectations. I'd always pictured myself with a blonde, or a raven-haired mediterranean beauty. My inner nerd would've killed for a chance to meet Seven-of-Nine or T'Pol. Funny bit: I'd actually met both Jeri Ryan and Jolene Blalock. Beautiful, genuinely nice people; fantastic, professional actresses who'd aged very well... which did nothing to make me want to unmeet their younger characters.

Now? Now I was engaged to a Scots-Irish girl who was more a blend of Helena Bonham Carter and Christina Ricci. I guess there was one commonality with at least Jeri Ryan: those giant, sexy eyes.

Eyes that were looking at me now, over her shoulder, as she turned and braced herself against the canyon outcropping. She was a fucking work of art: narrow waist, slender hips, toned legs and tiny ankles. A moment later, she was a work of art, fucking.

I wasn't going to last long, and that was okay. Two minutes of glancing at her -- and glancing down a five-hundred foot drop -- and that was all my balls could handle. I pumped myself deep inside her, she immediately pulled her shorts back on, and we started to climb out.

I was more or less talking to her ass as I climbed. "Cool. I can check 'Quickie in the Grand Canyon' off the bucket list."

Ginny giggled, then giggled again as she reached the top.

I climbed up beside and saw the source of the second giggle: there were people in the parking lot now -- and they were definitely looking at the crazy people climbing for who-knows-where.

Ginny smirked as she played it cool. "Wonder if anyone saw us..."

"Doubt it. I didn't hear any clapping."

She giggled again as she glanced back into the magnificent canyon. "I'm sure we're not the first, but we're definitely the latest!"

"Ooh."

"What?"

As we stretched from ledge to another, I pointed where she was leaking. Or, more accurately, where I was leaking out of her. It was pretty obvious I'd already soaked into her shorts, but there was another glob of me oozing down her inner thigh. Naturally, I whipped out the phone for another couple of pictures.

She leaned over. "Here, kiss me quick!"

"Okay!" I gave a solid, quick kiss. "Why?"

"Because you won't kiss me with cum in my mouth!" And with that, she scooped the evidence off her leg and licked it off her fingers.

"You are the hottest chick I've ever met..."