Author’s note: If I ever get married, I’ve got some hot ideas for roleplay with my future husband.  Here is one of my favorites.  To make this really intense, I’d like to stretch it out over several days to raise the sexual tension and awareness.  I’d pretend to be a virgin woman who is for some reason forced into marrying a handsome millionaire (maybe Mafia?).  My husband plays the millionaire; he’s an experienced lover and has a swaggering charm.  At first we keep our distance from each other, but there’s definitely sexual tension.  I’m leery of him, figuring he has lots of other women and doesn’t see any need for me.  But he’s attracted to me, speaks in innuendos, and is intent on getting me to come willingly to his bed.  There are discreet moments of chemistry between us (brief touching, catching him looking at me and vice versa, maybe some hot incidents like stumbling over him in the shower or him watching me swim or change clothes), but to stay in character, we don’t give in to our desire.  Finally, once our lust has gotten so strong, he decides it’s time to make me his.  This is where the grand finale scene starts.  Names are changed because…well, I want to protect my anonymity, and I have no clue what the name of my future husband is anyway!

I put the laundry into the dryer, sighing meantime.  Angelo’s behavior was really getting to me.  Why did the man have to be so handsome and sexy? He kept neglecting to wear a shirt around me and one look at his brawny chest made me drool.  I wanted to touch his hard, tan skin, rippling with muscle.  He worked out consistently every day and kept a healthy diet.  I admired that.  As an active person, I appreciated his dedication to fitness.  But it wasn’t just his chest or chiseled arms or strong legs that caught my eye.  I had found myself sneaking peeks at his crotch, a vague curiosity about his package size floating in the back of my brain.  I’d catch myself, feeling my face get hot with mortification.  How primitive could I get? Sure, he was my husband, but as far as I knew, he viewed me as someone to fill the position of wife.  I gave him credibility and social status.  His real interests, I was certain, lay in other women’s bedrooms.

Late this afternoon, Angelo had been dressing and packing a suitcase in his room.  He had a business trip, he said.  With one of his usual suggestive remarks (“You know I’ll be thinking about you, especially at night”), he left.

Now I was doing some random evening tasks, planning to shower and go to bed.  Only I wasn’t tired.  I was antsy.  And horny.

I went to my room, which was just as big and luxurious as Angelo’s, and undressed down to my underwear.  A glance in the mirror showed me a fairly trim, slender woman in her late twenties, with highlighted dark brown hair, a light tan, and discreet but pretty makeup.  Arms and legs were muscular but still graceful, breasts were tight, and my belly was sculpted except for the gentle pooch around my navel.  That was a problem spot that I just couldn’t rid of fat.  Angelo saw me sunbathing one day in a bikini and complimented my body, and when I made a comment about that little trouble area, he said men liked a little bit of a tummy on their woman.  It was more comfortable to lay their heads on.  The thought made me blush, but I stood admiring my fit physique and, for the first time, accepting and even liking that slight swell.

Suddenly the door flew open.  I jumped, startled, and found Angelo standing in the doorway.