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You're Safe

I finished making arrangements for the rental car, including shuttle pickup for transport to the offsite lot, and wandered back to the baggage claim carousel where Bri (short for Brittany—I'm not sure why, but she never had answered to her full name and bristled at "Brit") was just collecting the last of our luggage. I slowed my stride, taking the opportunity to appreciate her beauty. Tall, with straight, flaming red hair that hung below her shoulders, she would never be confused with a swimsuit model. Not that she was fat by any means. She occupied that glorious ground between hard body thin and pillow soft. Large of bust, wide of hip and just a touch thick of waist without losing that alluring hourglass shape that gives you someplace to put your hands when you have her bent over a chair, your hips bouncing off her soft ass cheeks with each thrust. In other words, a real meat on her bones woman whose moron husband decided that his rail-thin bleach-blonde secretary more closely matched his mental capacity. Unfortunately, there was a prenup that had given Bri a particularly nasty six months in divorce court that had etched stress lines into her normally angelic face.

As a close friend of her family, I hated to see her that unhappy and since I was going to Hawaii for two weeks, staying at a beach house another, much richer, friend of mine had offered, I asked her if she would like some down time soaking up some sun and eating pineapple. It ...

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