I loved my wife.
I think anyone would. She was kind, intelligent, thoughtful, classically beautiful, and a delight to be around. We'd gotten together in college, and despite a litany of bizarre stressful occurrences (mostly family drama-hers cut her off for politics, and mine fell ass-backwards into quite a lot of money) she never changed.
That shocked a lot of people, that she never changed. The money was significant. My family went from lower middle class, to right on the cusp of billions in less than a year, and my friends at the time were constantly ragging on me for not getting the prenup before the wedding. They insisted that the prospect of that kind of money would turn a girl cold, or self serving, but Savanna was as reliable and steadfast as a woman could be. She was staunch, despite my pleading, that she keep her original engagement ring as it was. I wanted to replace the pitiful stone with a nicer one, now that I could afford it, but she wanted, I think, to give me a concrete reminder that she wasn't in it for the money.
I don't know if it was the constant nagging about my wife, or the natural course of time and change, but I lost touch with a lot of those friends quickly. With the money, came a new house, in a new zip code, and new friends, eventually. Savannah always found them a little vapid, and the wives and girlfriends were, vapid, but she was a good sport about it and we eventually started to enjoy some of the finer things, and still, she never changed.
It's probably a sign of some inherent rot in me, that I ever had these thoughts, but despicable as they were, I started to regret that my wife refused to change. We had, undeniably, the strongest relationship of any of close friends. I could trust her with anything, ask her to do most anything, except the things that I starting really wanting her to do.
How do you ask your kind, intelligent wife of 10 years, for example, to dress up like a whore for the club and let girls in string bikinis drink liquor running down her inner thigh? How do you tell your wife that, despite a consistent and fulfilling sex life, you'd like to slut her out on a hotel balcony in Las Vegas like she's a cheap whore? How do you tell her that you love that she can hold an intelligent conversation about current events, but your cock stirs when your friend's girlfriend Tiffani spends 15 minutes yapping about reality TV drama to distract the room from the fact that she has no clue whether Guam is a state or a country or a continent?
So, I didn't tell her any of that. I told her, instead, that for her birthday I'd bought her a three-day vacation to a resort spa that came highly recommended from our new friends, and that no, unfortunately it was non-refundable, but of course we could go tour the Lourve again afterwards, if she wanted.
She wasn't thrilled, but she pretended, for me, to be happy about it after she mistook my guilt for regret at purchasing a stupid gift for her. She boarded the plane without a hint of frustration with me, and landed at New Attitudes & Warm Latitudes, Dubai, without a hitch.
I don't know exactly how the resort works its magic. I'm not convinced that it's not magic, but the guys all insisted it was legit, if ethically dubious. Three of them had used the resort before, for their wives or mistresses, and the results spoke for themselves.
They asked simple, mostly self explanatory questions. The "base model" could have been a number of familiar stereotypes; from bimbo, to dominatrix, to stepford wife, but I was drawn, based on how wrong it felt, to the gold-digger option. There were customizations to be made, of course. Her intelligence would be lowered, her libido raised. She wouldn't cheat, but her definition of infidelity might change. Vanity up, empathy down, curiosity down, energy up, and so on.
I was most hesitant about the physical adjustments, but the handler insisted that the mental changes just wouldn't take as well without some aesthetic ones, and as much as I loved the blonde, all American look, I had always had a weakness for dark hair and tan skin.
Savanna looked unreal when she walked through the door, three weeks later. My mouth was dry, and despite the affirmations and guarantees from my friends on the efficacy of the thing, I couldn't help but fear that she was going to be angry. If not angry, then at least aware. She strolled in, hips swaying, ass bouncing like I'd never seen before, with her eyes glued to her phone and her mouth fixed in a pout. When she raised her eyes to meet mine, I knew immidiantly that there would be no awareness to worry about. The eyes were Savanna's, but someone else entirely was behind them. She flashed a smile, devoid of warmth and full of rehearsed eagerness, threw her arms around me, and squealed.
She clicked her tongue, the way a pouty child might before they mouth off at an authority figure, and spoke, with her tits pressed against my chest and her head in the crook of my neck, "Oh, my, gawd you have no idea how much I needed that," she began, as she pushed me backwards onto the couch, "I feel like, oh my god, a whole new bitch? Like, when I say we have to do that again," she continued, moving to straddle me, "Like, maybe next year Monaco? A me vacay is exactly what I needed to feel like myself again, like, the spa? I'm glowing, body tea, I'm so grounded, I'm so-" she stopped, noticing my mouth agape and my throbbing erection under her, not realizing that it was accompanied by a pit in my stomach and a dizzy feeling in my head. She smirked, which looked more natural than the smile earlier, before guiding my hands to her ass, leaning over to press her cleavage into my face, and whispering into my ear, "I missed you so fucking bad, baby. There's nothing like some space to make the heart grow fonder. Let me prove it to you."