Can I Tolerate Her Superstitions?

After we devoured our breakfasts like a couple of starving wolves - fantastic sex really depletes your body's food stores - I got solemn.

"In the approximately sixty hours that I've known you," I started out while staring into Giselle's scintillating eyes, "I've determined that you're as blunt, purposeful, and straight forward as I am. Is that fair?"

"I'd say that we both know what we want and freely speak our minds," Giselle replied - then paused and said "so yes, that's fair."

"Is there any reason to be less than candid, or guarded with each other in expressing our feelings?" I continued.

"No reason," she quickly replied.

"Then...well...I'm madly, head-over-heels in love with you. Neither one of us is perfect, but we're perfect for each other. I can't imagine being interested in any other woman than you, not just because of last night, but from our first touch," I blurted out more than spoke.

Giselle stared into my soul, more than my eyes. Then she got up from her chair, walked over to me, sat on my lap, gave me a soul-touching kiss, and then held out her left hand. "Then, like Beyonce says 'if you like it you'd better put a ring on it.'"

I took a napkin ring from the table, placed in right in front of her ring finger and said "Giselle - will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?"

"Assuming that I get a real diamond with emerald baguettes and not something made from recycled plastic or other environmentally friendly material," she snickered, "Yes, I will."

I put the napkin ring on her finger. She laughed. We kissed. We made it as far as the living room floor before, despite our sore and worn out male and female parts, we fucked again.

*********************

The next two weeks were hectic. I ran my business primarily by phone, laptop, and other electronic equipment as I flew around with Giselle on her pre-arranged publicity and commercial-filming tour for her corporate sponsors which it would have been disastrous for her to cancel. Fortunately, there was only one mid-major tournament during this time because she informed me that from the night before, through her elimination from, a tournament she didn't have sex. "It's bad karma, and too draining," was her, in my mind, questionable reply. I knew that I was marrying a superstition devotee by that time, but I didn't care - she was worth it, rituals and all. So I showed up just for the last day of the tourney.

Attending a tennis match live provides much more information than watching it on TV. I could quickly see that her superstitions in normal life were nothing compared to her on-court superstitions. She had to have three yellow and two blue hand towels available. She had to change her shoes and racket if she lost a set. She tapped the ball she would be serving on her left forearm twice before each serve. She tapped the net with her racket after each game.

Giselle came in second, losing the final 6-4, 6-4. She was devastated. I consoled her by fucking her brains out that night.

Within about two weeks of my proposal we had arranged for the largest wedding possible given the circumstances, in her parent's home town of Clearwater, Florida, with me footing most of the bill. I showed her advisers one of my financial statements - I didn't ask to see one from her, although the press had reported that she made about three million dollars the previous year, one-third in prize money and the rest in endorsements. After viewing my financial reports they were happy to advise her to sign a prenup that said that if we got divorced for any reason except adultery we would leave with the assets we came into the marriage with, plus she would get $10,000,000 more; and if the marriage broke up because of adultery the wronged party would get $15,000,000.

Giselle was the one who wanted the adultery provision (I think because of the old press reports about me being a player) but I enthusiastically agreed. She was more than my dream girl - she was a live goddess with a kick-ass personality and real life hang-ups and foibles, so I knew that I wouldn't be cheating.

We actually had about eighty people at our hastily arranged marriage ceremony about three weeks after we first met, including all of the people we cared about most. We both were able to get away for a six day honeymoon in Aruba during which we put our sexual endurance capabilities to the ultimate test, in addition to otherwise having a great time.

There was only one real drawback for me - her myriad of superstitions that kept popping up. However, since she had a fantastic personality, great character, was fun, and fucked me to nirvana, I didn't care about a minor problem like that!

********************

To make our complicated lives work, I bought a small private jet (I bought Renewable Energy Certificates to offset the adverse environmental consequences of that mode of travel) and hired two pilots to ferry Giselle and me around; that way we could meet on short notice whenever our schedules allowed it. Even with the private jet we probably only slept together an average of twelve-fifteen days a month the first two years of marriage, but despite that fact I was content, and there was every indication that she was too. Every night we did spend together, without exception as far as I recall, we made toe-curling love at least once, and typically two or three times. We also seemed to enjoy each other's company more and more aside from our consummate love-making.

When I did show up for Giselle's tournaments she made a point of introducing me to any male pros that I hadn't met before, and members of their entourages, and told me to make sure that I gave them my "crusher" handshake - something that I developed when playing football in my youth.

"Why?" I asked her the first time that she suggested it.

"Because I always got hit on before I married you, and I want to have at least one advantage from being hitched," she said with a diabolical smile. "Deterrence."

Apparently it worked because she never reported getting hit on again.

I only attended the finals of tournaments that she was in - if she got there - because it was too stressful on both of us to sleep together and not have sex, and her superstitions and concern for draining her stamina for tennis, didn't allow for that.

Then the fateful night came along. She was playing in the French Open and doing remarkably well despite the fact that her game was more suited for hard courts than clay. I couldn't stand not seeing her play in Paris so I showed up after her 6-0, 6-1 victory in the first round, and just got a different hotel room than she did, although we had meals together and otherwise interacted.

Being there with her but without sex was definitely taking its toll on me, however, as she blasted through the tourney. When I went to get her for dinner the night before the Final, against the #1 ranked player in the world, she was in the shower. I went into the bathroom and when I laid eyes on her naked body I couldn't take it. I shed my clothes and hopped in with her.

She was definitely angry at me, but for reasons I still can't explain - maybe it was frustration with her superstitions in addition to primal lust - I ignored her heated words.

I hugged her from behind, my rock hard cock poking her ass, and started fingering her with one hand and massaging a boob with the other. At first she resisted, but I think that she was afraid of falling on the wet marble shower stall floor, so she wasn't using all her strength. Her angry words turned to pleading ones, and finally she stopped resisting as she climaxed from my finger-fucking. Once she did, I bent her over, entered her soaking wet (and not from shower water) pussy, and pummeled the shit out of her. It was almost a repeat of our first fuck in my pool two plus years earlier. We both had earth-moving simultaneous orgasms as I jettisoned cum grenade after cum grenade into her.

Once she recovered, we exited the shower, and we dried off, she was pissed though too listless to blast me. I ordered room service. After we ate we played cards, and then I slept with her, vowing to not try any more hanky-panky. I was pleased that she fell asleep the instant that her head hit the pillow, and she woke up seemingly refreshed, though apprehensive about how the sex the previous evening would affect her play.

After a lethargic first game, Giselle came alive. I never saw her serve or charge the net better. She didn't just win - she dominated, 6-3, 6-2, against a player she had only beaten one time in ten previous matches. She now not only had her first singles title, but it was in one of the four Major tournaments!

The first thing that she said to me after the match, after she planted a passionate kiss on me, was "I now have a new superstition for the night before a Final; I'll be requiring the services of your cock in the shower."

In four of the next seven tournaments (none of them Majors) when she made the Final I made sure to get there the night before the Final. We had a repeat of the night in Paris - a fantastic finger fuck then simultaneous orgasms in the shower, room service, cards, and a great night's sleep cuddling together. She won each time, was now the #4 ranked player in the world, and no one ever referred to her again as "Anna Kournikova II."

Unfortunately, my business did not allow this idyllic situation to continue. By that time - now nearing the end of our third year of marital bliss - my business had expanded significantly. I had over 300 employees. Then a recession hit, and my business was definitely not recession proof.

I simply had to work harder to make sure that I didn't have to lay anyone off. I consider providing jobs even more socially productive than giving twenty percent of my income to charities, and I would be damned if I was going to ruin a family by laying off or firing an employee.

Giselle said she understood, but was obviously disappointed, when for the first time since Paris I was not able to attend a Final that she was playing in. I did get to view part of it on an Internet sports package. She was obviously anxious, then listless, and lost 6-3, 6-1, to someone that she had beaten that last four times that they had played. She was devastated when I talked to her on the phone.

I tried hard to make it to her next Final, about three weeks after that, but if I had come it would have required me to give up on a contract that my company needed to get otherwise twenty five employees would have to be dismissed. She was not only disappointed, but frustrated and angry. I again watched her on the Internet and this time she wasn't anxious or listless, although she had an uncharacteristic concerned look on her face, and she won, 9-7, 3-6, 7-5.

When we talked on the phone that night, after I congratulated her, I said something like "See, superstitions shouldn't control your life. You did just fine without shower sex the night before."

She didn't reply to that immediately. When she did reply it was with a nervous laugh, "Well, I almost lost, though, and if you had been here I would have beaten her 6-3, 6-3."

I was in a daze the rest of the conversation. Given her superstitions did it mean what I thought that it did? "No, it can't be true," I continuously and unconvincingly tried to assure myself.

When Giselle and I got together two days later, she still had that concerned look on her face, but was otherwise normal. Despite the fact that I had to work part of each day, we spent three great days together, worked out and swam together, went to the Zoo, went to a concert, and made love three times every night. When she had to leave for another tournament, she had tears in her eyes and kissed me so long and hard that I thought that I was going to smother.

Giselle didn't make the Final of the next tournament, but she did the one after that. Again, it was not just at a bad time, but awful one, for me, and I couldn't attend. There was more than disappointment in her voice when I told her that over the phone; it wasn't actually anger, but was certainly irritation.

When she prevailed in that Final 4-6, 6-4, 7-5, our phone conversation that night was nearly identical to the one after her previous Final victory. Now all of my feelers were tingling, and they weren't assuaged when we next met. While she again was loving, and the sex was great, I felt that there was something that was in the back of her mind; but it never came out.

She didn't make the Final at Wimbledon or the next tournament, but she had been gearing up for the U S Open, so that wasn't entirely surprising.

We had good, though guarded, times (something was clearly bugging her) before her next tournament, the U S Open. She begged me to be there if she made it to the Final. While I knew that I could make it, I wasn't about to tell her that because I had my own plan. I sorrowfully told her that I had to be in Australia during that time and that if things worked out there I would have my company over the hump and would not have any layoffs for at least two years. In actuality, I had already secured a contract that would ensure no layoffs for three years, but if I told her that it would spoil my plan.

WTA reserves rooms for all players for all major tournaments, but I arranged for a suite for her at the same hotel as all the other players. By talking to the manager of the hotel, providing him with tickets to the Open, and explaining how I wanted to surprise my wife, when she checked in they put her in the suite that I had rented in my name only. I stayed in the room the WTA had booked for her. I installed two cameras in the suite I had rented, which I could view live on my smartphone, and was recorded to my laptop. Every day I talked to Giselle on the phone pretending that I was in Australia, and constantly gave her pep talks and related how well things were going and how I was looking forward to being at the rest of her tournaments during the year.

I never made contact with her in New York, and wore a disguise in case any other players recognized me. I did attend her matches and was pleased to see that her hard work during her preparation for the Open was paying off because she won all of her matches in straight sets. She made the Final.

The night before the Final I constantly viewed the cameras in her room, one in the entryway, another in the bathroom. As I expected, around 6 p. m. she answered a rap on her door and in walked a guy named Jerry who was her mixed doubles partner on the occasions that she played mixed doubles. He gave her a kiss, attempted on her mouth but she turned so that it landed on her cheek. My cameras didn't have sound, but it was clear that he was really excited and that she was somewhat excited.

As soon as they walked into the bathroom naked and he started rubbing her tits while she adjusted the water temperature in the shower, I went into action. Carrying the two ice-water buckets that I had previously prepared, I entered her suite with a key - after all I had rented the room so I had one. They didn't see me because the large shower stall doors were frosted. I walked up to the shower while Jerry was finger fucking Giselle in the same way that I had the nights that I fucked her before her Finals.

There were two shocked and distressed monkeys when I shut off the hot water completely so that only cold water was streaming on them, and then dumped the ice buckets on their heads.

"Get the fuck out of my room," I yelled at Jerry.

I guess that he was just reacting rather than thinking because I am four inches taller, thirty pounds heavier, and a much more skilled fighter than he is, because he swung at me. For the benefit of the camera in case I needed proof later, I didn't try to duck completely out of the way; I just moved slightly so that his punch hit a glancing blow on my cheek. I then hit him as hard as I could in the face, breaking his nose as he slumped in a bloody heap onto the floor of the shower stall while Giselle screamed as the cold water continued to fall on her.

I turned off the water, dragged him out of the bathroom, and threw him and his clothes into the hallway. He was groggy, not unconscious, and started scrambling to put his clothes on. Then I went back into the bathroom, stripped, moved a frantic Giselle who was stuttering gibberish back into the shower, turned on warm water, and proceeded to finger fuck her.

Despite the water in the shower, Giselle's pussy was dry and she was trying to say something that I had blocked out. Eventually my finger action in her pussy and my squeezing her tits got her motivated enough, and I fucked her hard until we both orgasmed.

When we got out of the shower I perfunctorily dried her off, and then hustled her to the bedroom.

"We need to talk, Blake - I had to do it otherwise I'd lose and winning the U S Open is my dream," were some of the words that I think that she was spewing, but that I wasn't listening to carefully enough to be sure.

Out of a bag I had previously placed under the bed I pulled out two pairs of fur-lined handcuffs and cuffed her arms to the headboard. This would normally have been very difficult to do without hurting her because of how strong she is, but it took her by surprise and I was highly motivated and fueled by adrenaline. Once she was cuffed, carefully avoiding her powerful kicks, I ball-gagged her.

Eventually she tired of kicking and trying to plead through her ball gag, and I was able to tie her legs to the footboard of the bed with scarfs.

I then proceeded to orally stimulate her pussy, suck on and massage her tits, and fuck her twice in the next two hours. By then she was almost delirious. I knew she needed some re-charging - especially since she was playing in the Finals of the U S Open the next day - so I lifted up her head and looked her in the eye.

"Giselle, honey, if you promise not to talk I'll take off your gag and get you some food and water, and let you go to the bathroom if you need to. Do you promise?"

She nodded her head "Yes."

"Good; we'll talk tomorrow after the Final, or maybe the next day, about tonight and the nights before your last two finals," I continued while gently removing her ball gag.

After she moved her lips back and forth to get complete feeling back in her mouth she said "I'm sorry, Blake, but..."

I cut her off. "What part of 'not talking' did you not understand?" I sternly asked holding the ball gag close to her face.

She shut up and cast her eyes downward.

I tied her legs loosely together and handcuffed her right wrist to my left one. I led her to the bathroom, and after she went to the toilet we showered together to wash the sweat and cum off, and to refresh ourselves. Then we returned to the bedroom and I pulled her favorite snack foods from my bag, and got out a prepackaged turkey sandwich, some yogurt, and a fresh fruit cup that I had placed in the in-suite refrigerator that afternoon.

Giselle devoured everything that I gave her, and drank a liter of bottled water. I guess intense sex for two hours can leave you depleted. I ate and drank too, although not as ravenously as Giselle; and I popped a little blue pill.

After eating and drinking, I led Giselle back to the bed; I wordlessly lay next to her cuddling until our food had somewhat digested and I felt the little blue pill working. Then I repositioned her on her hands and knees, loosely cuffed her hands to the headboard, and lightly tied her thighs to maintain her in that position.

"What are you doing, Blake..." she started to say.

I again cut her off. "Giselle, please don't make me put the gag on you again. In this next round you're going to want to breathe through both your nose and mouth."

She got a wide-eyed look, but then shut up. I reached into my little bag of tricks again and pulled out a small thin butt plug and a tube of lube. Her eyes almost popped out of her head, and she gasped, but said nothing. I lubed up her pucker hole, then lubed up one finger and inserted it. After wiggling it around for a few minutes while she moaned, I lubed up and inserted a second finger. The moans grew louder. I slowly and gently inserted the butt plug; she squirmed a little and moaned some more, but it was clear that the sensations were not unpleasant to her.