Playmate of the Year: Love-Match

Brett had come back for the summer break, expecting to tour with his all-too famous father, Jim. It wasn't working out too well. It had been almost two decades since Jim had ruled the tennis courts, but if Jim couldn't lord and master it over the contemporary sports world, he certainly could over his own family.

But not even this was enough for Jim. On the one hand, even his family were trophies: his wife Patti was one of Playboy's most popular Playmates-of-the-Year; the two were rich, and they had two handsome children. On the other hand, Jim was forever seeking new victories, new wins, and new conquests. This often meant new women--many new women.

Jim would often undertake "elder statesmen" tours with fellow court champions of his era; the money was good, but hardly required. Yet, on the road for sometimes weeks at a time, the fading star could indulge his competitive "spirit" with the hangers-on, the reporters, the groupies, and the bored "women-who-do-lunch," all girls ready to hit a few balls, go a few rounds, enter the match, so to speak, with a living legend. Patti, his wife, suspected her husband of his new "court" matches, but felt powerless to prove them---or stop them.

Jim still admired his trophy wife, Patti. True, she had put on just a few pounds since her reign as Playmate of the Year so many years ago. Yet, Jim loved "owning" his PMOY trophy; her lips were still red, full, and wicked; her tummy flat but womanly; her hips full, firm, and begging for a slapping; her breasts full, firm, and topped off by luscious long nipples; her legs were lasciviously long, and from her pretty, high-arched feet, they soared upward to her still full, thick, and succulent pussy bush. She was still incredibly hot; she looked great in her bikini underwear, spreading her long legs wide as she lay down on their marriage bed. Maybe Patti was even hotter, sexier, and more enticing since she was a mother of two college-aged children. But Jim really didn't feel the heat, the pulsing hunger for anymore, if he ever really did. Truth be told, he felt that part of his drive--like his tennis championship---slipping more and more into the past. Perhaps this drove the "competitive" compulsion of his new "court matches."

He knew Patti often suffered silently: the humiliations of his indiscretions, the lack of sexual interest on his part, perhaps even the fear that she no longer had the raw, brilliant, erotic beauty of her Playmate-of-the-Year days. But what did it matter? Jim thought. She's mine, and she'll always be faithful. Period. Besides, no suitor, no rival, no man could challenge him over his trophy PMOY wife; he was Jimmy the Great, the now middle-aged enfant terrible cum "elder statesman."

While Jim felt very comfortable with his position as Lord God Master of the House, at least as far as his daughter and trophy wife were concerned, his son Brett was something of a dark horse. To Jim, Brett always seemed too "sensitive," perhaps too "intellectual," and there was something slightly effeminate, or "mama's boyish" about him. It also irritated Jim that Brett seemed to know of and disapprove, in a "slightly effeminate" and "intellectual" way, his philandering. Brett had tried to, over the years, seek a closer relationship with the "GREAT MAN," but to no avail. During the summer break, Brett had suggested that he accompany his father on his latest tour. Jim begrudgingly accepted---but that was because his wife Patti wanted her son to stay home with her during the summer break, especially since she had missed him so. And besides, with the daughter studying abroad and Jim on tour---again---Patti would be lonely.

Jim wasn't hearing it. It was his way, or "no way." Still, during the first two weeks of the tour, things were just not working out all that well between Brett and Jim. Things got worse when Brett stumbled upon Jim and a young "intern" at the hotel workout gym.

Brett came in to check on his dad in the cordoned off gym; he just caught Jim with his cock in the hands of a rather youngish, and altogether silly young intern. The blond slut pulled away her hands and did her bra before scampering off to "attend to some workout" regimes. Jim fumbled with his pants in complete shock as his own son glared across the empty gym at him.

"Workin' out dad?" Brett asked, coolly.

"Brett, I...I was just..." Jim could think of no excuses. He'd been caught red handed, in a manner of speaking.

It was the first time Brett had actually caught his father, and he noted to himself that the "GREAT MAN" didn't seem to all that great "on the courts" anymore, given that his partner was doing all the work "by hand," as it were. Relations between Jim and son became a good deal more tense. Jim became thoroughly testy when Brett suggested that the "GREAT MAN's' wife was more than just a trophy, but also a GREAT WIFE, and certainly a great beauty. The irritation on Jim's part grew. He didn't like the attention Brett seemed to generate on the part of the women in the pre-game audience when he went a few matches with the old man. Brett was, evidently, something of strapping figure, at least to the women in the audience ( and certainly to his doting mother, Patti). Brett's wavy brown hair; his broad shoulders; his long, strong legs; his hard, rippling derrière as much as his subtle and seductive manner seemed to captivate a good number of the women who hung about. This was "competition" that Jim did NOT want.

Things came to a head after a post-game swim. Patti had been asking Jim on the phone, once again, if Brett could spend some time with her back at the West coast home. "Fine, Goddamn it, fine with me." was Jim's response. He went to the swim lockers to let Brett know that his mother wanted to see him for the summer. Brett was in but his black bikini briefs, preparing to don his "intellectual's" attire (black pants and white designer shirt); it dawned upon Jim that Brett certainly had the physique and the grace to have been an athlete, perhaps a tennis player, even, like himself. But no. Brett was an annoyingly sensitive "intellectual," a "mama's boy," of no particular account, who by his very manner seemed to mock or pass judgment on the "GREAT MAN."

The words were terse. Jim suggested that Brett scurry back to mama Patti; Brett, obviously hurt---as he and Patti had been so many times by "HIS GREATNESS"---let it be known that he would leave. He might return home, but only for a bit, just to ensure that Patti was doing alright.

Jim, ever the "GREAT MAN," was none the too upset, and all the more dismissive under his breath: "What a son! A bikini-wearing, God-damned intellectual. It's a wonder he isn't gay!"

When Brett left, he wasn't so much concerned for the latest wounds on the part of HIS GREATNESS. He was worried about Patti, a still very charming and stunningly beautiful woman, who deserved so much better than what Jim could or would commit to her. Brett decided he would take care of his mother, at least for a few weeks, before returning back East. She might have been Playmate-of-the-Year so very many years ago, but Patti was still the most beautiful woman Brett had ever known. He owed it to his mother that she knew at least one of the men in the family cared very deeply about her and appreciated all of her power and presence, the "GREAT MAN" be damned. After it became clear that Patti was alright with everything, as much as could be the case, Brett would leave.

Patti, for her part, looked very much forward to seeing her son. He was her crowning joy: bright, sensitive, and empathetic. And she had to admit, she was also proud of how incredibly handsome he was becoming. He might not have had the sheer athletic power of his father in his glory days, but Brett had something perhaps even more alluring, if that would be the word, and longer lasting: Grace and sensuality. He would make a dream companion for a beautiful young woman, or so Patti mulled to herself.

Over the next two months, Patti would try to call Jim (as was always the case) while he continued with the tour. He returned the calls, sometimes a day or two later, and sometimes a week later. She would always be there, anyway. After all, Jim had pleased himself in thinking, as he did so many times before, it's been quite a long time since she was Playmate-of-the-Year.

Into the second month of the tour, Jim began to notice that Patti wasn't calling as frequently, and some weeks not at all. Jim thought this odd, and it was he who began calling her. When he did speak to Patti, she seemed her old Playmates self, and not at all as grasping or needy. There was something a bit distracted about her manner, too. She seemed lively and animated, but at the same time distant from and not altogether concerned about Jim, or his tour, or his moods, or even his "competition." Jim wasn't having any of it.

As one who had goosed one to many a gander, Jim began to suspect that his trophy, his Playmate-of-the-Year possession had taken up with someone else. This thought began to eat at him, as Patti seemed, day-by-day, ever more animated---no, HAPPY--and yet strangely disassociated from him. Jim consoled himself with the thought that with his "mama's boy" of a son hovering about the homestead, no rival, no usurper, no pretender to his Playmate-of-the-Year trophy would have a chance. But it was strange, though, that as Jim began to ask about Brett, Patti would never seem to know where he was, or he was "out," or he was on a "project" or a "date," or whatever.

Clearly, Patti's beloved jewel of a son Brett was not around, or at least was indisposed elsewhere, and therefore unable or thoroughly unwilling to keep an eye on the family possessions. "Bikini-wearing, fruitcake Bastard!" Jim snarled. He had given his son a mission for his exile back home, and if Jim wasn't explicit about it, then "intellectual" Brett should have figured it out. Now he pushed off to do whatever the hell he wanted. Jim cursed Brett as callow and utterly ineffectual; a real "loser."

So, what---or WHO---the "GREAT MAN" wondered, was it that seemed to be capturing Patti's attentions? Doubts began to eat at Jim. They began to throw his game during the tour, and they didn't help his off-hours "competitions," either.

A strange thing, though; the thought of Patti taking another man intrigued Jim. It seemed to plunge him deep into doubt and yet raise his hunger for Patti. A strange thing indeed, though, for while the thought of another man having his way with---"her lips that were still red, full, and wicked; her tummy that was flat but womanly; her hips that remained full, firm, and begging for a slapping; her breasts that were even more full, firm, and topped off by luscious long nipples; her legs that were forever lasciviously long, and from her pretty, high-arched feet, they still soared upward to her still full, thick, and forever succulent pussy bush"--gnawed him, the thoughts also excited him.

The mixture of titillation and anxiety began to spiral out of control when Jim called Patti, and she became sometimes breathless, transfixed, rushed, blissed-out, or a combination of all four. Halfway into the tour, Jim found himself making all of the phone calls, to conversations that were unnerving as they were strangely erotic:

"Hey, Patti"

"Unghh..Oooo...mmmm...

"Patti??"

"Uhh?"

"What the HELL's GOING ON?"

"Mmmmm...ooooo...NOTHING, ugh, Jim...oooo"

"Well, where's Brett, I'd like to talk to him...NOW!"

"...Ohhhh...mmmm..."

"DID YOU HEAR ME??"

"Yesss...Brett...isn't...here...right...now..."

"DO YOU KNOW WHERE HE IS??"

"Ohhh...Nooooo....I...don't...mmmm..."

"Well, isn't he your precious beautiful God-damned son??"

"Mmmmm...hmmmm...oooo..."

"I'd like to speak to him right NOW and find what the HELL IS GOING ON!"

"Ohhh...so...would...I...but...he's...not...HERE...TO...TALK...right...now...oohhh..."

Jim was beginning to experience a number of these conversations with Patti. It didn't take a genius to figure it out: something was going on. And whatever was going on, it involved the GREAT MAN'S Playmate-of-the-Year Trophy, and he wasn't having any of it. As for that loser, ingrate of a son of his, Jim would cut him off in the funds and cut him down to size--again---when the pretty boy finally returned home.

But first, Jim had to catch his slut bitch of a wife (as he was now muttering about her darkly to himself in the dead of night) in the act. And he would, Jim swore, he would. As much as the thought of someone lying between the taut thighs of his wife tormented him, some part of Jim had to know that he wanted to catch his Patti not only for the sheer power that would accrue to his side, but also for the sheer excitement of it. The very image of his wife spreading her pussy lips for someone else's tongue and cock enraged him. But it also, in some strange way, excited him, too.

Jim made his plans. He would take a few days off from the tour, unannounced to the press; he would take a late night flight back to California, check in a discrete hotel, and then in the early morning, make his way back home unannounced, unanticipated, undiscovered.

Arriving unannounced in California on Tuesday, Jim rented an unassuming domestic car. He planned to drive out to his own home the next morning, as planned. Wednesday morning, Jim made the two-hour drive at dawn. It was still very early when he arrived in the exclusive neighborhood. Parking the car, Jim made his way to the rambling home undetected, and unencumbered by any luggage or entourage. His heart beating quickly, pulse beginning to quicken, and a twisting sensation in his gut, Jim felt like he was going to get sick. But he was going to catch his wife in the act. He was going to catch her with her lover, in his home, in his bed, inside his wife. He was going to find out once and for all not only if his wife was fucking another man, but also who was man fucking his wife.

Jim entered the house quietly, coming in through the kitchen. The home seemed deserted. At first Jim was relieved. And then he realized: he encountered no groundskeepers, no gardeners, and no maids. Where were they? Someone let them go for the day. It had to be his wife. Jim's stomach tightened. An icy chill washed over him. He felt sick; Patti obviously wanted the home deserted but for herself--and her lover.

Jim made his way through the rambling lower level of the home. No one appeared. No voices. No sounds. No noise. No Patti.

Jim began to almost feel relieved, that is until he arrived in the living room. Then he saw it: Patti's sheer nightgown on the living room floor, just covering her dainty high-heeled slippers.

Then he heard it, barely at first. It became louder and more insistent. What was it? As Jim struggled with the meaning of Patti's night gown dropped in a puddle in the middle of the living room floor, he became aware of what that insistent sound was, and from where it was coming: "Chic,chic, chic, chic.thump, thump, thump..." Bed springs. Headboard.

Jim's heart sank like lead in water. He heard the squeaking of bedsprings and the banging of the headboard against the wall, and it was coming from upstairs. It was coming from the direction of HIS and HIS WIFE'S bedroom.

The rhythm was steady, but becoming louder, and slightly faster. When Jim figured that out, he made out the other sounds, which were become even louder than the squeaking bed and banging headrest:

"Ahh! Ah! Uhh! Mmmm! Ahh! Oooooo! (ughh) Ohhhh! (mmmphhh) Oooooo, yessss! (ungggh) Ooooo!(uunggh, fuck!) Ahh! Ah! Uhh!"

Above the growing din of squeaking bedsprings and a banging headboard, it was Patti--HIS OWN WIFE---cooing, moaning, and groaning in ever louder, ever more heated cries and whispers. Answering her grunts were the growls, and ever-more insistent gasps of a very young, a very energetic, and a very worked-up young man.

Jim had caught his wife in the act.

Jim knew that the fallen nightgown was where it began: Patti came down to her lover, who was waiting for her in the living room. When he turned to face her, she was in the sheer, short, and silky gown. It clung over her full, firm breasts. The sheer white, translucent material caressed her hardening nipples. The short cut just barely covered her full, firm, and rounded ass cheeks. It left her long bare legs, for him to gaze upon---from her arched, sexy feet--encased for display in her high-heeled slippers--to the graceful upward thrust of her thighs disappearing in the silky shroud of the nightgown just draped over her bristly, bushy love triangle.

Patti had slipped it off her shoulders. She let it drop for her lover. He came over to her and grasped her bare waist. They kissed. Her lips opened for his enquiring tongue. Her tongue meet his in flickering, sweet, alluring thrusts and parries. She stepped out of her slippers. He began to nibble on her tits---yes, tits, as they were no longer breasts---suckling her taut nipples until they were hard, puckered, and fully erect. Patti was now grasping at his crotch, rubbing his hard, aching cock through his tenting trousers.

As Jim envisioned the scene, he began to feel rage, humiliation, and a violent nausea.

"Chic,chic, chic, chic...Thump, thump, thump..."

There was that sickening sound, again. Bedsprings and headboard squeaked and banged under the pressing weight of two lovers in their increasingly desperate increasingly fevered abandon.

Oooooo! yessss, ooooo, yesss! (aww, yeah) Mmmmmm! Oooh, baybee, oooh baybee! (mmmphh) Ohhh,yessss! (ungggh)Oh, God...OH, GOD! (awwwwggnh, God)"

There was that sickening sound, again. The two lovers---HIS WIFE and that bastard--were getting louder, hungrier, and hotter with every piston thrust of hard, bulging cock into sweltering, moist, and grasping pussy.

Jim slowly and silently made his way up the banister, toward the noise, toward the heat, toward the torrid treason-taking place in his own bedroom:

"Oooooo! Oooooh! Ahhhh! (ohhh, fuck, yes) Unnggh! God, Oh, God! (awwwngghh) Ooooo, sweet Jesus! (mmmph, yeh, oh, yeahhhh!)"

As Jim heard this, rage fed upon him. Humiliation tore at him. The sickness in the pit of his stomach slashed at him. Still he crept down the hall toward the gasps, the moans, and the cries, all coming from his bedroom. Making his way down the hallway, Jim came upon the trail of a young man's clothes, tugged, pulled, and torn off as Patti led him toward her marital bed. Black pants, white designer shirt, socks, shoes, all leading straight to the bedroom. In the seconds before catching his slut whore of a wife, in the seconds before witnessing this upstart bastard fucking his bitch cunt of a PMOY wife, it entered his mind: No wonder Patti sent everyone home; Patti's lover was pounding her pussy so well that he had her shrieking, crying, and carrying on like Jim had never heard.

Patti was experiencing the fuck of a lifetime.

At that instant, Jim arrived at the door to the bedroom. It was wide open. Before Jim could burst in, before he could even bear to look in and see his beautiful, Playmate-of-the-Year wife having her pussy entered, impaled, and thrust into by the invading dick of the upstart lover, Jim looked down on the floor and saw them strewn before the open door of the bedroom: Patti's tiny, "CUM-FUCK-ME" red bikini panties and bra. There was more: A young man's tiny, tight "I'M-GONNA-FUCK-YOU" black bikini briefs. The man's bikini briefs were lying right next to Patti's bikini underwear. Jim was sickened. It could only have meant one thing...

In the careening eternity of the second before Jim raised his eyes to look into HIS bedroom to witness the torrid, terrible, and tumultuous treason racing to its climax, it flashed before Jim's eyes: The circumstance in which Patti must have lost her tiny, sexy, red bikini panties, bra, and her lover his tight, tiny bikini briefs: