Hot sand Abaco Islands

Another story that i did NOT write, but i thought my friends might enjoy......

HOT SAND: ABACO ISLANDS

This is the first story in a new series called Hot Sand. It's an anthology
series, each story being completely different from the last, with all new
characters. They'll be posted alphabetically, this first one titled Abaco
Islands. Each will be a warm weather story, with beaches and other warm weather
things. If you're wondering, yes, I started writing them back in the depths of a
long, cold winter.

The stories will cover quite a few of Literotica's categories, this first one
being an Interracial story that could have gone in the Loving Wives category.
The next installment will be Group Sex, followed by i****t/Taboo, Lesbian Sex,
First Time, Mature, etc. etc.

As usual, I enjoyed writing these, and I hope you enjoy reading them.

Please join me in thanking my kind, patient editor, J. She's one of those sexy
West Coast girls, with the salty air of the Pacific in her lungs, and the sea
breeze in her long hair. Thanks J.

—

Greg tipped the bellman, and the uniformed young man closed the door behind him
when he left.

"Why do I always feel sexy when we're away like this?" Joan said, gazing out at
the balcony, the beach, and the ocean beyond.

"Probably the same reason I do," Greg said. His arms wrapped around his wife
from behind, embracing her lovingly. "There's something about a hotel. Think of
all the people who've had sex in here."

"Eww!" Joan said, chuckling. "I don't know if that's sexy or gross."

"It's sexy. Trust me." Greg's hands moved across Joan's blouse, settling on the
mounds of her breasts at the very moment his lips kissed the side of her neck.

"We've been here, like, two minutes," she said, smiling. "You don't seriously
want to do it already, do you?"

"I do," Greg said, his voice muffled by his nuzzling.

—

Freshly showered, nicely dressed, still feeling the lingering thrill of vacation
sex — the first daytime sex either of them could remember since their last
vacation — Joan and Greg sat at their table in the Bahamian resort's nice
restaurant, sipping the last of the wine from the bottle that had washed down
their tasty dinners. A few times during the dinner Greg had noticed Joan's
glances at the bartender, a tall, very handsome, huge and powerfully muscled
black man. Just then, as she sipped on her wine, her glance lingered.

"Nice looking guy," Greg said. "Looks like he could lift a Buick."

"Oh," Joan said. "I didn't mean to..."

"Hey, I get it," Greg said. "There was a girl in the lobby today that..."

"I saw!" Joan said. "It's not like you to ogle."

"Sorry."

"She was something, I'll give you that," Joan said. "They don't grow girls like
that at home."

"Or guys like him," Greg said, gesturing with his head. "A guy like that's gotta
have a massive cock, don't you think?"

Joan choked on her wine, nearly spitting it out. She whispered loudly, "Greg!
What's gotten into you!"

Greg smiled at his flustered, blushing wife. "Don't you think?" he asked again.

Joan, feeling a flush of heat that made her tingle, said, "Maybe. But, isn't
that...just a stereotype?"

"Oh, you mean because he's black? I was thinking more about his overall size. Is
that what you girls think about? That black guys have big cocks?"

Joan's eyes widened. "Be quiet!" she whispered. "Why are we talking about this?"

"When my beautiful sexy wife undresses a guy with her eyes, I'm curious, that's
all."

"I didn't! And...I'm not beautiful, or sexy. What do they put in those drinks of
yours? Are you drunk already?"

Greg chuckled. "No, my dear. But seriously, when you see a black man, what do
you think his body's going to look like."

"We're really having this conversation?" Joan waited for an answer, but didn't
get one. She took a sip of her wine. "I don't know," she said. "Athletic, I
guess. I know that's a stereotype, too."

"Too? So you have heard the Big Black Cock one."

"What do you think, I live under a rock?"

Greg smirked. "What does that mean?"

"It means...maybe I've..." Joan shook her head and took another big sip of wine.
"Maybe I've...seen one or two."

Greg looked surprised. "You dated black men?"

"No, silly!" Joan said, red-faced, feeling the heat again. "I've...seen. On
the...computer."

Greg smiled. "You watch porn?" he said. "Wow. I didn't think..."

"I know I shouldn't," Joan said. "And I'm not, like, crazy about it, or
anything." Another sip of wine, another flush of heat, this time with a smolder
that shivered her insides.

"No, it's fine," Greg said. His eyes twinkled. "Really. I'm...happy to hear it,
actually."

Joan crinkled her brow. "Why? Is it a guy thing? Men want their women to be
horny all the time?"

Greg smiled. "What's wrong with that?"

Joan looked around at the nearby tables, all of them populated with smiling
people lost in their own conversations. "We need to change the subject," she
said. She took a deep breath.

"Oh no," Greg said, shaking his head. "I want to hear all about the porn that
you like to watch. Let me guess—the romantic kind, the kind that looks like it
was shot in slow motion even though it wasn't, with gorgeous young couples that
could be models if they wanted to be."

"Whoa," Joan said. "That's awfully specific. Maybe I should ask about your porn
habits."

"Yeah, this is a two-way street," Greg said, and then his face broke into a
smirk. "But I asked you first."

Joan turned shy, sipping on her wine, holding tight to her glass. She glanced at
the bartender again, as if to tell the story without actually saying it.

"Black guys?" Greg asked. He looked genuinely curious, in a gentle kind of way,
so Joan nodded. "Sometimes," she said.

"Big guys, like him?" Greg said, looking over at the bar.

Joan nodded again, shyly. "I feel like we shouldn't be talking about this."

"Why?" Greg said. "We're happily married, I don't think knowing that we each
watch a little porn is going to hurt any. It's good, probably, right? Honesty
and all that."

Joan smiled a tiny bit, and it sparkled her eyes. "Your turn," she said. "I
guess I want to know."

Greg put his elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced. "My tastes are sort of
all over the map. Group sex is fun to watch. I don't know why. Maybe it's
because all those people can see each other. It's that whole
exhibitionist/voyeur thing. I guess I like that. Small women and big cocks is
good. You'd think, with me having kind of a small one, I wouldn't like watching
what a big cock does to a woman, but I do."

"I can't believe we're talking about this," Joan whispered.

"Well," Greg said, "we had sex two minutes after setting foot in our hotel room,
so I think we qualify as people who can say the word 'cock' once in a while."

Joan looked unconvinced, sitting stiffly, leaning forward so Greg's voice could
stay low. She nearly jumped out of her chair when the waiter approached quietly
behind her.

Triple chocolate cake and Tiramisu were ordered, with two coffees. Each bite of
triple chocolate sent Joan a little farther into heaven. Glad the conversation
about porn had ended, she luxuriated in the moment, relaxed and smiled. In just
a few hours time she'd gone from run-of-the-mill wife and weary traveler to a
loving wife who felt almost as sexy as the woman at the next table looked, a
sleek-looking natural blonde who was all decked out in a slinky dark gray
evening dress.

When the bill was paid Greg led the way, past the blonde, toward the bar. Joan
smiled at her husband's newfound friskiness, walking with him, thinking it would
be a quick pass-by, a seconds-long close encounter with the big, hunky
bartender, but Greg guided her to a bar stool and he took a seat on one.

"Oh, Greg, do we really need a drink after all that wine?"

Greg ignored her. The bartender was already there, saying "What can I do for you
good folks?" His deep, heavily accented voice sounded something like a lilting
island song.

"What do you have for after dinner?" Greg asked him. "Something smooth and
warm."

"Some folk like the Nassau Royale," the bartender said, "but I prefer a good
brandy or cognac. I have a nice French cognac, Jean Fillioux."

"Two, please, my good man," Greg said.

The big bartender turned and walked to his decoratively lit wall of glass
shelving, plucking a bottle from the hundreds of others. Joan smirked at Greg
and shook her head. "What are you, pretending to be in an old movie, now? You're
full of surprises tonight."

"I thought you might like a close-up look," Greg said.

"Yeah, right. You're just trying to soften me up so you can ogle all the bikini
girls on the beach tomorrow."

"Maybe."

Two large snifter-style glasses were placed before them, each one holding some
amber-gold cognac. Greg offered his hand to the bartender. "I'm Greg."

"Clinton," the bartender said. "Pleased to meet you, Greg. And who's your lovely
companion here this evening?"

"My wife, Joan."

"Ahh, yes! A happy couple! That's good! I can always tell a happy marriage. It's
so nice to meet you, Joan." Clinton offered her his hand, the biggest hand Joan
had ever held, with fingers that looked like they could crush the neck of a
guitar.

Joan was tongue-tied, so Greg spoke. "We had a president named Clinton. You were
probably just a k**."

"I heard about him!" Clinton said, smiling brightly. "He liked the ladies!"

Greg chuckled. "Yes, he did."

"That makes me happy," Clinton said. "It means my name is fitting."

He flashed Joan his handsome smile and she felt warmth in her veins, and shivery
tingles again. Clinton was even more attractive up close—powerfully muscled in
just the right way, on a frame of bones that were at least twice as big and
solid as Greg's. The conversation at the dinner table lit up in her memory, and
she wondered if all of him was at least twice as big and solid.

—

The beaches on Great Abaco Island are as white as bleached linen, the water as
green as turquoise. There was no real need to wander far — the beach in front of
the resort was clean and magnificent, with a blue, white clouded sky overhead
that was the very definition of a dream. Joan spread a towel on the sand,
setting up her little piece of paradise, removing from her bag a tube of
sunscreen, two bottles of water, and a book—a romance novel that she only felt
comfortable with because she bought it at a used bookstore, with its risqué
cover torn off.

"I'm excited," Greg said, sitting down on the towel, facing her.

Joan felt a blushing heat again. "Greg, don't make a big deal out of this. Maybe
I'll go change."

"Oh, come on. Look around, do you seriously think a woman in a bikini is going
to cause a stir?"

"A forty-five year old woman in a bikini."

"Forty-five's the new twenty-five, hun. You know that. You're not your mother,
and I'm not my father."

"Thank God for that."

Greg smiled. "If I get a boner, just toss a towel on me."

"Ha! Oh my God!" Joan smiled, finally relaxing a little, but still feeling
confoundedly frisky. "Okay, here goes."

She pushed down the wispy wide-legged belly-dancer style pants that the
salesgirl had talked her into buying at the mall back home, and she took off the
matching, much-too-see-through cover-up style top.

"Holy wow!" Greg said, eying the first-time-worn bikini. "The traffic has
officially stopped."

"Get out! I feel...naked."

"I love it, hun. Seriously. You look really good."

"I don't, but thank you. Why did I have to get this pudgy gene from my mother."

"Hey, your mother's cute, and so are you." Greg eyed her a little more
thoroughly. "Do I get to call those 'tits' now? I don't think bikinis go on
breasts, they go on tits."

"You don't!" she said. "Unless...I guess...if you want to. But just when we're
alone! "

"Hey, check it out, the Tiki Bar is opening," Greg said. "Looks like our friend
Clinton works the day shift, too."

Joan craned her neck to look behind her, where Greg was looking. It was Clinton
all right, getting himself set up for the day's business. The top half of him —
all Joan could see — was dressed in a much more casual manner, a vaguely
Hawaiian style short sleeved shirt that was colorfully green and yellow. It was
a slightly panicky moment for Joan — someone she knew, quite possibly seeing her
in a bikini, something she wasn't even close to used to wearing.

But then the quiet magic of a Bahamian beach started to relax her. Quickly lost
in her steamy, romantic little book, with the warmth of the sun tanning her, she
didn't think of Clinton again until she and Greg walked back to their towels
after a nice swim in the warm ocean. Clinton was there, centered in her view,
alone behind the Tiki bar. Her hand was up, waving at him, even though she
didn't will it to be there, and her slightly pudgy forty-five year old body was
electrified, tingling, nearly naked. That's how she felt at that moment — nearly
naked, waving at a stunning hunk of a man, one who smiled at her as brightly and
beautifully as the sun.

After Joan toweled her hair to the damp stage and put her sun hat back on, Greg
suggested drinks at the tiki bar. Joan wanted to — it was the perfect thing to
do on a Bahamian beach — so she put aside her fears as best she could, putting
on the wispy, see-through top half of her bikini cover-up. If she'd taken a
moment to ask Greg how she looked in it, he would have said "even sexier," but
she didn't ask. Thinking she looked 'covered up', she followed him to a stool at
the small outdoor bar. Clinton greeted them warmly.

"Greg and Joanie! My favorite married friends!" he said. "How do you like our
perfect weather? Joanie, you're not getting sunburned, are you?"

"No, I don't think so," she said, glancing down at herself, a bit embarrassed by
the silly modesty of her cover-up.

"That's good, because I wanted to tell you about another beach you must try. It
is my favorite, an easy walk from here."

He went on to tell of a pathway that started almost directly across the road
from the resort. An easy walk, he said, but "bring plenty of water." "It's not
like here," he said. "It's free and wild. I always imagine it's the way the
island used to be. I love it and go there often. I'll be there tomorrow! It's my
day off! Come and see me!"

Joan shrugged and looked at Greg. "Yeah, I guess we could," she said, unable to
resist smiling at Clinton's enthusiasm. "It'd be fun to see a beach that's
unspoiled. Not that this is spoiled. This is so beautiful." She looked out at
the turquoise water and the people splashing in it. Eyeing the spectacular woman
Greg had seen in the lobby the other day, she asked Clinton, "Do you ever get
tired of looking at women like her?"

"Not tired, no, but, like your Greg here, I prefer a woman with more meat on her
bones."

A full body tingle hit Joan, unexpectedly, when Clinton's eyes gave her
sparsely-dressed breasts a quick glance.

"So that other beach that you like, do others go there?" Greg asked. "Is it
widely known?"

"It's known to we island folk, and you'll see a few tourists who make the walk.
The sailing cruiser folk anchor there if the winds are favorable. They tell me
it's been written about in their guidebooks. It wouldn't be an anchorage for
stormy weather, though."

"Sounds perfect," Greg said. "That'll be a fun adventure for tomorrow afternoon.
We were going to do some shopping in the morning."

"Yes, spend lots of money," Clinton said, smiling. "My friends can use the
business! And then my beach will be waiting for you!"

—

A taxi ride took Greg and Joan to a casual 'island food' restaurant, where they
had a dinner of conch chowder, baked grouper, and beer. Attractive well-dressed
people seemed to be everywhere, out for some local flavor at the old-fashioned
restaurant. "Why do you lie to me and tell me I'm sexy," Joan said, after two
bottles of beer. "Those women are sexy."

Greg took a look at them — not his first look — and said, "And so are you.
There's all kinds of sexy, you know."

The topic of 'Clinton's beach' came up during dessert. Joan said, "I don't think
we should go. We've got a perfectly good beach right outside our room. Why
bother with a long hike just to sit on another one?"

"Maybe he's working tonight. Let's go get a cognac and ask him," Greg said, as
he paid the waiter for dinner. "I'm guessing he'll make it sound really nice
again, like he did earlier. It sure sounded like it'd be worth the walk."

"Oh, we don't need more to drink, do we? Do you think he's working tonight?"

The flash of curiosity in Joan's eyes made Greg smile. He asked the waiter to
call them a cab, and soon he and Joan were delivered to the resort's front
entry. The bar wasn't far away, at the front of the restaurant off the lobby.
Clinton, nearly alone at the bar, smiled brightly when he saw Greg and Joan
enter.

"Greg! Joanie! Your usual cognac tonight?"

"Pour us two stiff ones, Clinton," Greg said, smiling.

When Clinton brought them he lingered, asking about their dinner, how they liked
the chowder, and how the evening was shaping up, temperature wise. "You are here
at the perfect time of the year," he said. "Tomorrow will be a fine day at the
beach."

Greg asked some more about it, and Clinton said that he would in fact be there.
He said, "It's not really a secret. It's more like a way of life. But I
shouldn't be telling you all this. I suppose it is something of a secret. My
friends will be angry with me."

Joan found it all a bit mysterious, but intriguing. 'Unspoiled' was how she
pictured it, maybe even with lizards walking around, like a prehistoric place, a
window into Abaco Island before all the tourists arrived.

The warm cognac mixed with the beer and the spicy conch chowder in Joan's
stomach, and before she knew it she was upstairs, fully undressed, kissing her
naked husband. He pulled her down, they tumbled onto the big bed's smooth
bedspread, and Greg's hard cock entered her, fast enough to make her head spin.
It was quick sex, with some energy behind it.

When it ended, Joan, breathless, said, "Wow! We need to hang around beautiful
women more often!"

"Is that what you think?" Greg said, breathing hard. "I wish you'd have more
self confidence, hun."

"I did that to you?"

"Who else?" Greg said. "You're...a little bit different this trip. I like it."

Joan assumed it was the bikini, a bit more of her skin on the beach than Greg
was used to seeing. "Okay," she said, still catching her breath. "Well, if you
like it I sure as heck do. That was a wow."

"But you...didn't cum, did you?"

Joan propped herself up on her elbows to get a good look at husband. "First we
talk about porn, and now you're talking dirty in bed?"

Greg shrugged. "We can, right? I mean, just because we never have..."

"No, it's...I mean, it surprised me, but...yeah, it's okay. And no, I
didn't...cum."

"See that? Now we can discuss things and...be more caring."

"Ha!" Joan said, smiling. "What's that supposed to mean? I suppose now you're
going to ask me to do stuff...to you."

"Nope. Not at the moment, anyway." Greg spread Joan's legs and his mouth was on
her pussy before she could say anything more. Not that she would have protested,
she loved receiving oral sex, even though she would never admit it out loud.
Giving blowjobs to Greg always made her feel good, too, although, like a good
old-fashioned wife, she didn't dole them out willy-nilly. They were special
occasion treats, saved for Greg's birthday, their wedding anniversary, maybe New
Year's Eve. Because she enjoyed it, she sometimes wondered if she should just
cut loose and do it for him more often, but it didn't seem like something a
conservatively brought-up school teacher should be doing. And of course there
was the scary possibility of him becoming over-exuberant and ejaculating in her
mouth, something she felt she could control better if the whole endeavor only
happened a few times a year.

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

Greg's mouth gave her an orgasm as she lay there, something else that only
seemed to happen a few times a year. "Ohh, baby!" Greg said. "That's what I like
to see."

Joan felt scrambled. Happily so. She pulled Greg by the hair and he lay on her,
put his just-hard-enough cock inside her and fucked her again, nice and slow.

It was in the afterglow of their carnal bliss when Joan agreed, once again, to
hike the path to the beach Clinton had told them about. As she lay there she
wondered what he'd look like in a swimsuit, with those massive shoulders and his
hugely muscled weightlifter chest bared. She could tell, from seeing him in his
casual shirt at the Tiki bar, that he might be a man with no hair on his chest.
But thinking about him flustered her. It wasn't about Clinton, she kept telling
herself. It's about seeing an unspoiled, natural beach, one that might be
surrounded by coconut trees, banana trees, tropical flowers, birds, and friendly
lizards.

"We should bring plenty of snacks," she said. "And lots of water."

—

"This sand is so soft, I keep twisting my ankle."

"Are you all right, babe? If I was as strong as Clinton I'd carry you."

"Yeah, right. As if I'd let you. Seriously, this better be worth it. I'm
sweating like a pig here."

Greg shook his head. It frustrated him to no end when Joan complained. His
hopeful efforts to show her a good time often ended in complaints if there was
much physical activity involved. "We're in paradise, hun," he said. "Did you
think, somehow, that it wouldn't involve nature? Why don't you take off some of
those clothes. At least take off the top."

They'd been walking for a half mile or so, on a soft, sandy path through the
scrubby tropical woodland across the road from the resort. Joan stopped, stood
still, let out a deep breath that sounded like frustration. She knew Greg was
right, but her out of shape body wasn't happy. A big swig of bottled water was
followed by a removal of the top half of her swimsuit cover-up, giving her the
look of a thick-around-the-middle genie, with her breezy, wide-legged pants down
below and her bikini top up above. Greg smiled, wanted to tell her she looked
sexy, but didn't because he knew she'd say something about it being
'ridiculous.'

After another half-an-hour of walking the ocean started to show itself, glimpses
of it, turquoise green. "If it's so nice, why isn't there a road here?" Joan
said, stopping one last time, leaning against a gnarled, odd looking tree,
gulping more of her water.

"It's like that hike we took in the Adirondacks," Greg said. "Remember how
beautiful that pond was, with nobody there but us?"

"God, that was like three miles! You tricked me that day. Every few minutes
you'd say 'I think it's right around the next corner.' "

Greg nodded, smiling. "It was so worth it though, wasn't it?"

"It was nice," Joan admitted.

Greg led the way again and the last bit of the path opened up into a sudden
vista of scenic splendor—a smallish, pristine beach, and a few s**ttered
sailboats with shining masts that flashed the sunlight, anchored on green water
that was as clear as glass, making the boats look like they were floating in the
air above it. "Wow," Greg said. "The Bahamas, huh? This place is amazing."

"Greg," Joan said worriedly. "Some of them don't have...oh my God, this is a
nude beach!"

"Whoa!" Greg said quietly. His eyes darted from place to place, bare breasts
here, total nudity there, with the occasional swimsuited person mixed in. "It
looks optional," he said. "We're all right. Let's just act like we belong here.
It's not, like, private or anything. Clinton would have told us."

"Would he have? He didn't tell us this. We should go back."

Greg didn't answer. At the very least they'd have to stay a little while and
rest. As he walked out onto the beach, pulling Joan by the hand, his eyes took
in the small gatherings of local folks, their deep brown skin shining like
beautiful satin in the strong sunlight. There were sailors mingled in, and some
grouped on their own. As Greg and Joan adjusted to the scene, they realized
there was more full nudity than they'd first thought, but still the comfort of
seeing three or four people wearing full swimsuits.

"Greg and Joanie!" said Clinton, fully nude, close behind them, surprising them
in more ways than one. "Welcome to paradise. What do you think of our beach?"

Joan's shock numbed her like a hammer blow to the head, so Greg spoke.
"It's...unbelievable," he said, astonished by Clinton's physique, the big man's
massive body muscled like a competitive heavyweight bodybuilder. His trim waist
expanded upward in a powerful 'V' shape, with perfect, rounded pectorals on his
chest, mile-wide shoulders above them, and gym-toned biceps the size of Greg's
thighs. Below Clinton's waist, more 'V' shaped musculature pointed at his
hairless crotch and massive coal-black cock, hanging flaccid between thighs that
were almost as big as Greg's waist. All-in-all, Clinton's six-foot-four-inch
body was a stunning specimen of masculinity.

"My American friends invite you to join us," Clinton said. "They sailed down
from your own New York State."

"No," Joan said, nervously looking at the naked man and topless woman Clinton
pointed at. "We need to be alone." Joan was horrified, both by the situation she
was in and by saying something so easily misconstrued. The heat of the moment
was scrambling her thoughts.

"Ahhh, yes!" Clinton said, smiling. "I understand. I'll tell you, since you are
new here, there are sometimes c***dren around. But today..." he said, looking
around, his big smile beaming, "...we are all consenting. I'll have your
brandies poured and ready for you tonight. You'll come and see me again, won't
you?"

Joan nodded, because his eyes were on her. She kept her eyes up high, on his,
her nervous mind terrified of what he'd think if she let her gaze drift lower.
But even with her eyes on his she felt like she was staring at all of him,
especially that huge cock that was right...there.

Clinton's eyes shifted to Greg. "Be good to her, Greg, my friend. Your Joanie
deserves careful attention."

"I...will," Greg said, watching the equally stunning back side of Clinton as the
big man, with his arm up waving goodbye, walked away. He looked even more
powerfully 'V' shaped from the back, with a tight, round, muscled ass that
wiggled a little when he walked, like a dancer's.

Greg and Joan didn't say a word until Clinton was out of earshot. "Oh my God,"
Joan whispered. "What the hell! "

"You got that right," Greg said, his eyes darting between Clinton's ass and the
mostly naked couple he was heading toward. "You know," Greg said, turning his
now smiling gaze on Joan, "he's got a thing for you. He likes you. A lot."

Joan looked stunned. "You're crazy. Now I suppose your going to tell me you're
going to fight him, and he'll kill you, and 20/20 will do a whole hour show
about it."

"That's what's going through your head right now?" Greg chuckled.

He knew for a fact that Joan's eyes were on the same thing his were on —
Clinton's empyreal ass, the woman's impressive breasts, and her man friend's
hairy crotch and fleshy-white penis. Similar in age and looks to Joan and Greg —
ordinary, somewhat dumpy, white-bread Caucasian — they nonetheless had easy
smiles and a seeming familiarity with Clinton that fascinated Joan. How, she
wondered, could the woman stand there so nonchalantly with a man like Clinton, a
man so eye-poppingly, shockingly gorgeous and masculine, a man so hugely cocked,
a man with every inch of himself shaved to baby-soft smoothness?

"Wow," Greg said, smiling. "I like those eyes of yours, hun. Maybe there's more
going on in there than I thought."

"Get out!" Joan said, blushing. "We should go. We don't belong here."

"Let's at least rest a little," Greg said. "We're both hot and tired. Can we
spread out the blanket, and maybe go in the water?"

Joan looked around. The beach wasn't at all crowded. She started walking, toward
the biggest unused portion of white sand. It was, Greg noticed, a spot with a
clear view of Clinton and his friends.

After the blanket was laid out neatly, Greg smiled when Joan unpacked all of her
accoutrements: two fresh water bottles, a big tube of sunscreen, her Yankees
ball cap with the big visor, and her book. He thought about making fun of her
quick change of heart, but he didn't. He flopped himself down on the blanket,
smiled, and took in the incredible scenery. "I'm starting to understand the word
'paradise' a little better," he said.

"It is kind of...amazing," Joan said.

Greg smiled. "Clinton's ass? Or do you mean the front of him?"

Joan laugh-choked on the sip of water she was taking, and she punched Greg,
playfully, on his hip. "Can you believe him? God, I mean...am I allowed to say
wow?"

"Don't get the wrong idea about my feelings," Greg said, "but...he's the most
beautiful man I've ever seen. And one of the nicest."

"Nice guys make good bartenders," Joan said. "I'm glad you're staring at him.
That means I can, right?"

"You don't need permission. There's gotta be at least a dozen women here for me
to stare at."

"You better not! I mean, you can, but, don't stare. They'll think we're creepy."

"If you get naked I promise I'll only look at you," Greg said.

"Yeah, right. That's not happening. The only tits you're seeing today are
already on display."

Greg smiled, shrugged his shoulders, let his eyes drift back to the 'scenery.'
"How cool would it be to sail here all the way from home," he said.

"Pretty cool," Joan said. "You'd kind of have to know how to sail, though."

"Yup. They're not big boats though. I mean, a couple of them are, but they look
pretty normal. I don't think they're rich people. Some of them look more like
hippies."

"Do you think they live on them, and just sail around?"

"Looking for places to get naked, maybe," Greg said. "What a life, huh? You
could have a handsome naked friend in each port."

The sudden thought of it affected Joan in a physical way, pebbling her skin,
raising the hairs on her arms. She hoped it, and the uncontrolled change in her
breathing, was outside of Greg's current line of sight. She thought that it was,
because his eyes were back on what hers were on — the friendly, laughing
interaction between naked Clinton, the naked man, and the topless woman.

Joan glanced at them often as she took off her cover-up pants, applied sunscreen
to her easily burnable northern skin, and settled in with her book after handing
the tube of lotion to Greg. Joan lay on her stomach, propped up on her elbows
with her head toward the water, so she could keep an eye on things.

A quiet half hour passed, as peaceful as any clothed beach would be. The
shenanigans that Joan had braced for were minimal — one couple disappeared onto
a side path into the woods, reemerging after ten minutes, smiling, Joan thought,
although she couldn't see their faces that clearly. Another woman, off at a
distance, put sunscreen on her man, apparently arousing him. Joan's body reacted
with goosebumps again when the woman spent a few moments there, stroking his
hard cock. It didn't continue to a 'happy ending,' though, just a kiss with
their mouths, then they lay back and soaked up the sun.

Soon after that, Clinton and his friends were in action, gathering their things,
shaking the sand out of their towels. They vacated their spot near the water,
carrying everything to a dinghy with a tilted-up outboard motor, the small boat
resting on wet sand at the water's edge. There were four others similar to it
s**ttered down the beach, one for each of the sailboats anchored in the calm
water just offshore.

"Looks like Clinton's friends are leaving," Greg said, but Joan's eyes were
already on the still-stunning sight of him, watching as he pushed the dinghy off
the sand like it weighed nothing. The topless woman and the naked man climbed
aboard, Clinton pushed them into deeper water, and then he hauled his own huge
naked body aboard the tiny boat, somehow as gracefully as a gymnast. The quiet
sound of the little outboard motor was the loudest thing in the air as the
dinghy, overloaded with humanity, turned and headed for a white sailboat, one
with a blue cloth bimini shade over its cockpit and two black solar panels
tilted toward the sun. "Looks like they're going sailing," Greg said. "Maybe
they'll drop him off over on the other side of the island. That'd be cool."

Greg and Joan continued watching, but the sailboat's anchor stayed down. As soon
as Clinton and his friends had boarded, they'd disappeared down the
companionway, into what Joan and Greg both imagined as a cozy, wood-paneled
cabin. When the three of them didn't re-emerge, Joan knew there were many
possibilities, preparing food maybe, or showing off the boat itself—maybe it was
new? But deep down, Joan knew the truth of it, the real reason they'd wanted
comfortable privacy. Gradually, Greg knew it, too. Neither he nor Joan said
anything about it, the suspicions that were almost certainly true. And then, a
closely watching eye could see, on the clear surface of the turquoise green
water, decidedly rhythmic ripples emanating outward from the boat's hull, and a
closely listening ear could hear, carried on the quiet tropical air like an
aural apparition, the blissful sounds of a woman in ecstasy.

Greg looked at Joan and said, "Holy shit. You hear that, right?" Joan, trying
her best to keep her composure, nodded. Greg's eyes gave away his own
excitement. "They're probably married, right?"

"Maybe," Joan said. "I mean...it happens."

"Threeways, do you mean? Oh, yeah, for sure," Greg said.

He and Joan fell silent again, listening. The woman's unmistakable sounds were
muffled, distant, but they both imagined the true volume of her, loud and
unbridled as she obviously was, in the cozy confines of the boat's cabin.
Someone, almost certainly Clinton, was making her fly very high indeed.

"Can you imagine the size of him, when he's..." Greg said. "I mean, he's huge
when he's soft for God's sake!"

Joan wanted to scold her husband for saying such things, but his thoughts on the
subject were the same as hers. She sat there with an odd look on her face,
looking at Greg, wondering how to get the afternoon back to some kind of
normalcy. "We shouldn't talk about this. It's their business."

Greg chuckled. "Seriously? We're just going to never talk about this? I mean, we
gotta tell our friends about this. This is cocktail party gold."

Joan's eyes widened, showing her uneasy amusement. "It is not! We can't...tell
this! How would you do it without sounding...filthy?"

"Let's see," Greg said. "I'd tell everyone how turned on you are, and how that
turns me on, and...you know...so on and so forth. I mean, the story's not over.
Seeing Clinton at the bar tonight is going to be...interesting."

"Oh, no," Joan said. "We're not going back there. There's no way I could...face
him."

"Why, because you'd be picturing him naked? Hadn't you already, before we even
got here? And please don't tell me women are different than men in that regard.
I know you're not."

"It's not just that," Joan said, letting a moment of silence perk her and Greg's
ears to the woman's continuing ecstasy. "I mean...God!"

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere," Greg said, smiling. "It's not just his body
and his size, it's his prowess. You don't want him to see how turned on you
are."

Joan's breath rushed out of her, noisily, through flared nostrils. She felt
slightly out of control, even though she was perfectly still. Greg's next
comment sent her body into even more quiet turmoil...

"What if I said I'd be all for it. I'd kind of love it, seeing you, like she
is." Greg gestured with his head toward the love boat. "No, let me rephrase
that. I'd really, really, love seeing you like she is."

Joan forced out a couple words. "You're...insane."

"I'll tell you what I think," Greg said. "Knowing how Clinton acts around you,
and seeing what we've seen today...I think he'd do it in a heartbeat. Want to
make this a vacation you'll always remember? When you're ninety, the memory of
it will make you smile."

"You're nuts! Totally fucking nuts!" Joan said. "This place is messing with your
head. If you think I'm gonna...with him...you're..."

"Generous? Giving? Horny? Maybe all of the above?"

Joan shook her head at Greg, but once again she was clearly not unhappy. Greg
smiled at her sparkling eyes. He let the subject drop, but, deep down, he knew
it wasn't over.

—

That evening, before dinner, sitting outside on her private ocean-view veranda,
Joan sipped on her room-service iced tea. Greg wandered out, buttoning his shirt
after a quick shower. "First of all," Joan said, "I don't make noise like that
woman does, and second of all, when did you get into kinky stuff anyway? Did you
have a threeway before we met?"

Greg smiled. He sat in the chair next to Joan, surprised but happy that she was
the one bringing the subject up again. "You make beautiful noise, Joan. That's
why I married you."

"That's why you married me? That's not the best compliment to give a woman, but
I'll take it, I guess. But what about this threeway thing? Do you...think about
it?"

"Every guys does, I'm guessing. It's sexy."

"Do they?" she said. "I mean...guys think about another man with... their wife?
I would have thought it would be another woman...you know...a guy with his wife
and another woman."

"That's sexy, too. Obviously. It all is. Some guys think it's hot to know their
woman is...well taken care of."

"Their 'woman'? Am I your 'woman'? "

"I'm glad you're smiling," Greg said. "This is dangerous territory."

"Yeah, well...I love being your woman. And I love that you're my man," Joan
said, her voice relaxing a bit. "So...have you? Done a threeway?"

Greg shook his head. "Nope. It's kind of on my bucket list, though, and since
you and me are together forever, that means you're in on it, in my fantasies, at
least."

"Wow," Joan said. "This has been an...enlightening vacation. I'm glad. I like
knowing what's in your head, even if it's crazy."

Greg smiled. "You mean you, me, and that weather girl from the news, together on
a bed together, is crazy?"

"Hey!" Joan smiled. "I knew you had a thing for her."

"So does every guy in the county, and she's not exactly accessible. But Clinton,
he's right here, just the three of us, chatting at his bar tonight."

Joan's eyes sparkled, her brow furrowed a little. "You're actually serious,
aren't you. I'm...kind of...amazed by all this. By you."

"Amazed in a good way?"

Joan nodded, just enough to be seen, her mouth curled into the faintest of
smiles. She wondered if Greg heard her thumping heart. She couldn't remember
having a fantasy that involved Greg and another guy—a two-man threeway—but now
that the thought had invaded her mind it was solidly in there, and it was
because of Clinton. His smiling, easy-going friendliness had won her over, and
his body — big enough to overpower her in every way imaginable — had begun to
consume her thoughts.

"So, we're doing this?" Greg asked, surprised and excited but trying to act
casual. "We should ask him if he wants to come here, maybe, right?"

"I can't even begin to think rationally about this," Joan said. "Do you really
think...?"

Greg nodded. "I do."

Joan's reply surprised Greg, and it surprised her, to. She said, "If you're
crazy enough to make it happen, I'll..." She ended with a slight nod. A barely
noticeable affirmative.

Greg, smiling, said, "Damn, Hun. I'm horny as hell right now, but...we should
wait, in case this happens tonight."

"Tonight? Do you think...it will?"

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

Greg read her mind as best he could. "Oh, you mean...because of that woman on
the boat today? Yeah, we should...wait till he's at full strength."

"Ha!" Joan cackled, her nerves suddenly on edge. No words came to her in a
speakable fashion.

"Daytime, or nighttime?" Greg asked. "It might be fun for you to dress up in
that cocktail dress you brought."

"Didn't I ask you to figure this out?" she said, still struggling with the
absurdity of it all. "I don't know, there's probably fewer people around here in
the daytime. Everybody's at the beach or shopping or whatever. I guess I'd like
it if there's...fewer neighbors around."

"Yeah, good," Greg said. "I'll tell you what, wear that dress tonight, so you'll
look smokin' when we ask Clinton."

"I'm not asking him, you're asking him," Joan said. "And I love that you think I
look smokin', but your eyes are different than the rest of the world's. That's
why I love you."

"I love you too, Joan. So much."

—

"I'm not doing this," Joan said, as she looked at her reflection in the mirror.
With her newly-put-on cocktail dress still warming to her temperature, and her
freshly made-up face looking back at her, she shook her head a little. "It
was...interesting to think about, but I could...never..." she said. "I mean,
look at me. I'm a school teacher on vacation with my husband. I
could...never..."

"What kind of woman do you think does these kind of things?" Greg asked, as he
put on his light-blue linen blazer. "I'll tell you, Joan, you're every bit the
woman they are. You just don't think you are."

"I really love that you think that, but...look at me," she said, standing in
front of the big mirror. "I haven't taken care of myself for years, and...every
one of those years shows."

"All I know is Clinton's face lights up every time he sees you. Isn't that what
counts? Isn't a real spark better than a blank stare?"

Joan's face smiled a little. "You've seen it, too? Why do you think he... I feel
like I should be mad that it doesn't bother you."

"But you're not mad, are you, " Greg said, embracing Joan from behind. "You're
as turned on by it as I am." Greg felt the excited tension in Joan's body — the
short breaths, the nervous muscles. "Lets have a nice, romantic dinner, and then
a drink or two with our new friend. We'll see what his eyes think of the way you
look in this dress. I think you look sexy in it."

"Forty-five years old," Joan said, shaking her head at herself in the mirror. "I
thought I was done with these teenaged feelings."

"Never," Greg said, kissing her on the neck. "At least, I hope not."

Joan smiled. "I don't think you really want that," she said. "Trust me, the k**s
at school are awash in hormonal angst."

"What, you got something against the hornies?" Greg said, squeezing her tightly
in his embrace, feeling her ass firmly against the half-hard lump in his pants.
"I sure don't. I look at it this way — vacation, fifteen-hundred miles from
home, once or twice a year...let's have some fun."

Joan smirked at him in the mirror. "As simple as that?"

"Yup. We stumbled on a treasure. I want you to have it."

Joan's body reacted again, and Greg felt it. He had a feeling that maybe, just
maybe, his sweet, cautious wife was ready for a new experience.

—

"Joanie! Greg! My favorite Americans! As you can see, I've been waiting for
you!" Clinton, his face beaming with happiness, gestured at his empty bar. "It
seems everyone ate somewhere else tonight."

"We tried Fin and Rummy," Greg said. "Their fish stew was fantastic."

"Yes! I know some folks there," Clinton said. "They have some fine food. I'm so
glad you stopped by. I wanted to ask you how you liked my favorite beach. But
first, let me get you your cognacs."

Clinton returned with them, plus one for himself. "Joanie," he said, "are you
going to make me a sad man when you tell me what I missed? My friends took me
away. I looked for you after, but you were gone."

"You looked for me?" she said. "Us?"

"I am, I guess you could say, an old fashioned man. What you Americans call a
'girl watcher'. I know, these days, it's incorrect."

Joan smiled, blushing. "It is, isn't it. I guess I...wouldn't have minded."

Clinton smiled. "Greg, you are a lucky man. Your Joanie has a quiet beauty
that's rare."

"You're nutty," Joan said.

"I am!" Clinton said, smiling. "That's what my friends like about me!"

"How many of those friends are women?" Joan asked, twirling her big
snifter-style glass of brandy on the bar top. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I have three. One here, one up-island, and one down-island. Casual friends
let's call them, who know I wish for nothing more."

"And...the woman on the boat today?" Joan asked, her eyes sparkling, curious.

"Ah, Silvie and Rick. They are new friends. I met them today. Lovely people.
They sail for Cat Island in the morning, and then on to Turks and Caicos. I
asked them to take me with them but they said I take up too much room in the
cabin!" Clinton laughed.

"Your clothes wouldn't have taken up any room," Joan said, blushing again.

"The fewer the better, don't you think, Joanie? I hope you weren't too
surprised. You know, I don't give away the secret of my favorite beach to many
of my customers. I think a lot of them would find it...how do you Americans say
it...uncouth?"

"I think maybe you're wrong," Joan said. "I can't imagine that many of your
woman customers wouldn't be...interested to...see you...that way."

Greg, intrigued and thrilled to see and hear his blushing wife opening up in
such a way, smiled at her. Clinton smiled as well, and said, "Do you teach your
students sex education, Joanie?"

"They're teenagers. These days, k**s know more about it than I do."

"Ah, but they'd love to hear it from you!" Clinton said. "If you did a
demonstration, say, with a nice big banana, you'd surprise the girls and delight
the boys."

Joan smiled, her eyes twinkling. "They...seem to grow them big down here. If the
girls saw me with one...from your island...that would surprise them."

"Clinton," Greg said, "we were thinking of having a relaxing day tomorrow, in
our room. Maybe give Joan a massage, and see where things go from there. We were
wondering if you might want to join us, if you don't have plans."

"Yes!" Clinton said, happily. "That's absolutely something I'd like to do!
Joanie, you are a surprising woman!"

"Am I?" she said, certain that her face was crimson red. "I've never...been
surprising before."

"Ah, I see," Clinton said, looking deep into her eyes. "Well then, I am even
more honored. And you Greg...," he said shifting his gaze, "...you honor me as
well, my friend." Clinton picked up his big snifter glass and held it out for a
threeway clinking of glasses to seal the deal. "I shall be there...how do you
say...with bells on."

—

"Frisky again tonight?" Joan said. "My gosh, we've never done it every night
before."

Greg finished taking off his clothes at the bedside, his cock already hard. "You
turn me on like when I first met you," he said, climbing into bed, under the
sheet with her. "I like this new you."

"New me?" Joan said, not wanting to admit that she liked it, too.

Greg kissed her, moaning when he felt her hand on his cock. Joan moaned softly
when Greg's mouth moved to her breasts, licking, sucking, nibbling at her
nipples. Flat on her back, Greg pulled the bedsheet completely off of her, and
she and he were naked, fucking on a bed that wasn't theirs, basking in the
heightened thrill of vacation sex.

—

Joan's morning shower didn't calm her nerves the way she'd hoped it would. If
anything, it made her more nervous, seeing her doughy body in the steamy mirror
as she dried herself. Clinton's interest in her, so unexpected, still seemed
imagined, like something she'd dreamed and was confusing with reality. Could it
be that he's just a slut, she wondered? A big, beautiful slut? Maybe. And maybe
it doesn't matter. Greg seems to love the guy. Why shouldn't I?

Emerging from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her, she blowdried her
hair in front of the big mirror that hung on the wall over the dresser.

"What are you wearing?" Greg asked, his voice showing a hint of extra
adrenaline.

"I...haven't decided."

"You'd look great in this, with your bikini," he said, holding up the
island-made sarong that Joan had purchased at a local boutique.

"Seriously?" she said, with more than a hint of you-must-be-k**ding in her
voice.

"Sure, hun. We've seen women dressed that way."

"I know, but...me?"

"Don't you wanna be Clinton's island girl?"

The words, and what they meant, gave Joan a swooning head-rush that nearly made
her pass out. She was so conflicted she wanted to scream — No! and Yes! and Take
me home! and Where is that man, I want to see him naked again, I want to touch
him. The negative thoughts faded, leaving only — I want to touch him, I want to
touch him, I want to touch him.

Her bikini felt too small when she put it on, even though she'd already worn it
on that trip. The sarong, fastened around her waist, felt lovely and luxurious,
caressing her legs, looking for all the world just like she'd hoped it would. "I
love it, but I'm not really a bare midriff kind of girl," she said, taking in
the full view of herself in the big mirror.

"Oh yes you are," Greg said. "You look hot, babe. Remember what Clinton said?
He's not into skinny girls."

Joan dealt with her nervous energy by straightening up the room. Two nice
sandwiches were delivered by the room-service waiter. After the quick lunch,
Joan brushed her teeth and touched up her makeup. The minutes leading up to the
time when Clinton was supposed to arrive went by in silence, with Joan still
straightening, fussing with clothes in the dresser drawers.

Clinton knocked, smiling handsomely when the door was opened. His entrance
seemed odd, vaguely hallucinatory. His size, especially, when seen in comparison
to the doorway and the smallish room, seemed almost comically huge. Joan had
that not-unpleasant feeling again, the realization that he's big enough to
overpower her in every way imaginable.

It surprised Joan to see Greg acting so normal, chatting with Clinton as if it
was a normal visit with a friend. Joan stayed quieter, adding small pleasantries
here and there. Greg steered the conversation. It angled toward the sexy women
seen around the resort, the handsome men that escorted them, and the nudity at
Clinton's favorite beach.

"Do you ever see people having sex, right there on the beach?" Greg asked.

"Sometimes, but it's usually gentle, if you know what I mean," Clinton said.
"Blowjobs, maybe fucking a little in a slow, low-down way."

"Nice," Greg said, his eyes sparkling. "See hun? We coulda."

"You're crazy," Joan said. "But I'm curious, Clinton. Have you had sex on that
beach?"

Clinton smiled brightly. "Would you like to go back there with me? I can show
you."

"That's not an answer," Joan said, smirking. "I guess I'm wondering if...you
ever get...hard...when you're there," she said, blushing. "You're always nude
there, right?"

"Yes," Clinton said, his eyes sparkling. "I'm hard there probably more than I
should be."

"Do you let the women...touch you?" Joan asked, her blood hot and tingly in her
veins.

"Yes, sometimes," Clinton said, looking deep into Joan's eyes.

"Has a woman ever...given you a blowjob without even...knowing you?" Joan's
body, reacting, tensing, made it hard to get the question out smoothly.

"Yes," Clinton said. "Do you think less of me, Joanie?"

"No," she said, shaking her head a little. "I guess...I'm jealous of them. Those
women. I could never...do that."

"How about here, in private," Greg said. "You could try it."

Joan's eyes connected with Greg's, and then with Clinton's. Clinton read her
mind and stepped forward, presenting his big self in front of her when she sat
on the side of the bed. Her breathing made noise, a faint grunt with each breath
as her hands reached for and unbuttoned his shorts. She lowered the zipper and
his plum-colored underwear was there, tight against his satiny brown skin. Joan
was working in a fog, a mental haze that blocked out the world. She pulled down
the shorts and the underwear, both at once, and the cock she'd seen at the beach
was there, soft but not fully soft, thick like a plush stuffed toy, dark
blackish-brown, the color of a starry midnight. She took it in her hand and felt
the life in it — the warmth, the growth — and then, using less than half of its
length, she filled her mouth full with it.

In only a few moments' time Clinton's massive tool was at its full nine inches
of size, too big in girth for Joan to get her hand around. Her moaning mouth
took care of it as best she could. The huge cock was even more stunningly
elephantine than in her wildest dreams.

"God, Clinton, you're fucking massive," Greg said, his eyes unblinking as he
watched Joan mouth the huge cock. "Have you ever been with a woman who can't
even get her mouth around you?"

"A women's lips are like a snake's jaw," Clinton said. "They stretch around the
things they want to eat."

"Oh, so I'm a slimy reptile?" Joan said, shyly smirking, holding the shining wet
cock near her lips.

"Not slimy, no," Clinton said. "But maybe you have more a****l in you than you
realize. Your eyes have hinted, a time or two."

Joan opened her jaw wide and stuffed her mouth again with the coal-black cock.
It embarrassed her that Clinton had seen such a look in her eyes. A polite,
happily married woman shouldn't be giving off such signals, and she hadn't
realized she'd done it. The embarrassment made her tingle from head to toe,
there with a new man's hard cock in her mouth. Strangely, Joan's blushing
full-body tingle seemed to bring forth some of the a****l that Clinton wondered
about—there was a low grunting moan from her throat and a puff of warm breath
from her nose, and her stuffed-full mouth had a sudden new urgency. She felt a
blossoming sense of freedom, her hands starting to roam on Clinton's muscular
flesh. Her gentle touch found the very tops of his huge thighs, the tight
roundness of his beautiful ass, and yes, even the hairless smoothness of his big
balls, the warmth and otherworldly feel of them making Joan moan even deeper and
louder.

"You look so beautiful, hun," Greg said.

Joan stopped for a moment, with one hand on Clinton's balls, the other holding
his cock upright against the muscles of his lower belly. "Do I?" she said, her
brow furrowed in disbelief. "Have you always...thought about this?"

Greg nodded, a little sheepishly. "For a while now, I guess. I just...really
think you're sexy."

"Greg knows," Clinton said. "And I knew it the moment I met you."

"You two are crazy," Joan said, gently stroking the nine inches of hard, fat
meat in her hand. She thought about listing her obvious flaws — wearing glasses,
a school teacher wardrobe, a fattening ass from sitting on it every day — but
she decided not to go there. Instead she opened wide again and moaned at the
truly amazing feeling of a gigantic cock filling her mouth fuller than full. The
shock of being in such a situation was fading, the once-in-a-lifetime
specialness of it starting to hit home, even if she still couldn't imagine
giving herself fully to Clinton. Not as a married woman. Not with Greg there,
watching. Just this blowjob, she thought, and then we'll find a way to politely
send Clinton on his way. Her mind instantly spun horny thoughts of going wild on
Greg after Clinton's departure. Yes, she thought, this is making me crazy horny.
That must be Greg's plan. Clinton gets a somewhat okay blowjob, he leaves, and
my sweet husband and I fuck like crazy.

Joan moaned again, loud, from the thought of it. She worked three inches of
Clinton's cock with her mouth and tongue and stroked the rest of it with both
her hands. As she did it, the big man leaned over her and unfastened the back of
her bikini top.

Okay, she thought. Yes, topless. I've seen him completely naked at the beach,
after all, and here he is with his shorts around his ankles and his shirt
unbuttoned. Yes, it's only fair that he sees some of me. Just the top half. My
tits that are too soft. I wish they were higher, like that woman at the beach. I
think she had implants, though. Oh my god, this cock tastes amazing. It's so
ridiculously huge. Why does it taste so good?

Greg helped Clinton remove the bikini top from Joan's arms. "You look like an
island girl, hun," Greg said, eyes twinkling at the sight of Joan sitting on the
edge of the bed in just her bikini bottom and sarong. "Super sexy."

Joan wondered for a moment if island girls routinely had massive hard cocks in
their hands. Then she went back to the blowjob that felt surprisingly heavenly
to give, and Clinton's moan was music to her ears. Island music. A moan that
seemed to convey his beautiful lilting accent.

It was then that Greg climbed onto the bed, just behind her. With his hands on
her bare shoulders, he kissed the back of her neck. Goosebumps tingled every
inch of Joan's skin and she moaned onto the enormous phallus in her hands as her
mouth began to worship it more decisively. A true, more vigorous blowjob now,
wet with saliva, on the verge of dripping drool. Another moan vibrated out of
her when Greg's hands claimed her tits, gently pinching her newly electrified
nipples.

"Ohhh, you make me feel so good Joanie," Clinton said, his deep voice now
sighing. His big hands, with fingers spread, went to Joan's head, raking through
her soft hair. "Your Greg is a lucky man."

A dizzy intoxication overtook Joan's mind, the kind of lightheadedness that
takes away the real world, leaving a new type of dream in its wake. It felt so
odd, so new, so thrilling to have four male hands on her. It overwhelmed her in
a way she hadn't expected, and then, without her knowing exactly how, the pose
was new. It was a new picture, a new go-around, with Joan on her back on the
bed, her loving husband kissing her, his hand on her soft breast, and Clinton
down between her upright thighs, thighs that were bare now, with the colorful
sarong bunched at her waist. It was Clinton's fingers and hands and mouth that
were there, on her, holding the damp gusset of her bikini bottom to the side as
his warm lips and tongue made soft tender love to her wet pussy. Joan's deep
moan into Greg's kissing mouth felt profound.

"Would you like it if Clinton fucked you?" Greg asked, his voice a breathy
whisper against Joan's lips.

"Yes," Joan sighed, an answer that surprised her and sent her dizzy mind
reeling.

She felt strong hands stripping her of the bikini bottom, and then she felt the
cock that was absolutely too big, beginning its quest to enter her. She wanted
to yell "No!", but a stronger want silenced her, and she lay there with her
tongue in her sweet husband's kissing mouth as another man's cock began to fuck
her.

It was slow at first, just two and then three inches, stretching her pussy wide,
barely fucking, out and in, out and in, out and in again. Clinton's deep, happy
groan sounded to her like a sonic hallucination, and then her own groans and
moans went free, gradually filling the bright sunny room with sounds she'd never
made before. Her desire for quiet, for neighborly etiquette, was gone, missing
from its usual place in her head. Clinton was deeper now, five inches, then six,
every one of them nearly as big around as a beer can.

She wanted to say, I can't believe...I'm taking you! She wanted to say, I can't
believe...you're fucking me!

Those thoughts didn't get said as words, but Clinton could translate her
beautiful noises and he understood them. She was looking at him now, with wide
eyes that spoke volumes on their own. He fucked her smoothly with seven of his
nine inches, and Joan's eyes rolled back, under her fluttering eyelids.

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

"Your pussy feels like magic, Joanie," Clinton said, his strong body looking
pumped up, like a huge double-sized gymnast. "So tight... So tight."

Through fluttering, constantly rolling eyes, with seven and then eight inches of
black god fucking her slowly, Joan saw Greg undressing. She wanted to kiss him
again. She wanted to playfully scold him. She wanted to ask him — Did you know
he was going to fuck me?

Her idea of a naughty, taboo blowjob seemed so quaint all of a sudden, and then
Clinton was finally balls deep, bottomed out with a bass voice grunt, his nine
fat inches all in, flirting with Joan's cervix.

"Ohhh, Joanie!" he moaned. "You take all of me!...You don't know how good this
feels!"

"Yeeessss!" Joan hissed. "Fuck me!... Fuck me!"

Her sudden voice—her sudden command—surprised herself and her husband. Clinton
was immediately her servant, fucking her swiftly, fully deep with each thrust.
He held her legs-in-the-air ankles in his big hands and the sounds of thrilling
fucking filled the room — the slaps of his body against the backs of her thighs,
the squish-squish-squish of his cock plunging her so deeply, the manly moans
from his lungs, and the increasingly loud squeals and cries of love from Joan's
mouth, let loose from her newly unhinged mind.

"Ohhh-h-h-h-h-ooo!" her trembling voice cried. "Fuck meeee!...Fuck meeeee!"

Joan's face, open-mouthed and wide eyed now, showed happy surprise and deep
determination. This was the kind of fucking she'd sometimes wondered about.
Powerful. Athletic. Relentless in an almost ****y way, but ever so perfect. Her
body was tense with athleticism of its own, her muscles firing wildly, fucking
her gorgeous new friend with everything she had. Greg's cock appeared, inches
from her face, hard. She took it, devouring it with her mouth, and she was
suddenly, beautifully lost, fucking and drifting and floating, lost in sexuality
in a way that was completely new. It was like nothing she'd ever imagined, and
on top of it all — as if there needed to be more — she felt an orgasm rushing at
her, so swift, so unrelenting, so...

The meltdown of brain cells at that moment was absolute, to the point of Joan's
memory being hazy with the details of what had happened. The part she remembers
is gasping for breath, with her husband's cum spilling over her lower lip,
running down her chin. Clinton's cum, creamier and more plentiful, felt warm on
her belly and her breasts, and it still gushed, though to a lesser extent, as he
moaned and stroked it out of himself with his big hand.

"So tight, Joanie," he sighed. "Damn."

Joan's mind wasn't ready to form words, so she lay back and swallowed what was
in her mouth, and her tongue licked the slippery stuff off her lower lip. She
wasn't a cum swallower, never had been, but it seemed more than appropriate at
that moment, as her lungs searched for oxygen, her chest heaving. Greg had never
tasted cum, either, but he kissed her slippery mouth, tongues intertwined,
moaning.

"You are a good lay, Joanie," Clinton said, his own lungs breathing deeply. "Has
anyone ever told you that?"

Joan couldn't help but giggle. "No," she said, smiling. "No one's ever told me
that."

"Really?" Clinton said. "A woman who cums like you, we men live for it."

"I guess I...Oh my god, I..." Joan's memory started to return, of the orgasm
that shook her like never before. Her shrieks and screams echoed in her head,
thrilling sounds that she couldn't believe she'd allowed herself to make.

"Greg, is she always this exciting? You must want to fuck her all the time."

Joan looked at the windows and the door. "Are these rooms...soundproof?" she
asked. "Oh my god, I hope no one's around."

"Don't worry, Joanie," Clinton said. "We on the island, and especially at the
resorts, we absolutely love it when we know our guests are enjoying themselves.
It makes us happy."

Joan felt dizzy again. Clinton's naked body, his words, and his deep island
accent made her head spin. She watched him reach for a beach towel on the
dresser top. He used it to wipe his cum from her belly and her breasts, saying,
"I usually can hold it in until later, but you are just too much." Joan didn't
know what to make of it. She wondered, how can a man like him be so turned on by
a woman like me? I'm just an out of shape middle-aged school teacher.

"Will you show this body at my beach tomorrow?" Clinton asked, wiping the last
bit of slippery stuff from the crease below Joan's breast. "The sun would like
to kiss it."

Before she could answer she was moaning again, with Clinton's mouth back on her
pussy. "Oh God," she huffed, watching the fullness of his brown lips there,
beautiful lips that kissed her tenderest places and looked happy. He quickly
found her post-orgasmic clit, and was gentle there, with just the tip of his
tongue.

"Ohhh-h-h-h," Joan sighed. She smiled at Greg and reached for him. "You don't
ever have to buy me a present again. This'll hold me."

Greg smiled. "I'll remember that. Jeez, I didn't know I was saving money today."

Clinton kept up his gentle clitoral assault. Joan flirted with another orgasm,
but she purposefully kept it at bay. At least she thought she did, but there it
was, forcing its way through her meager defenses, causing her to shudder and
tremble in a beautiful way, her thighs shaking uncontrollably.

"You cum like a real woman," Clinton said, smiling, down between her thighs.
"You made me hard again, without even trying."

"That'd be a shame to waste, wouldn't it, hun?" Greg said to Joan. "How do you
want him this time?"

Joan gave Greg a curious, smirking look that said Really? I get to choose?

Greg nodded.

"Maybe I want you," Joan said.

"Ooo, kinky!" Greg said. "You want me to fuck you while Clinton watches?"

Joan's eyes widened, "No!" she said, blushing with embarrassment.

"I wouldn't mind," Clinton said. "I could sit back and watch you cum, Joanie."

"You will not!" she said, her face and chest bright pink with blush. She took
Clinton by the head with both her hands, pulling him up. "Get on this bed," she
said, feeling the sudden excitement of power. "On your back."

Clinton smiled. He climbed on as Greg moved off. Joan thought of asking Greg to
stay, but there was something extra sexy about being there on the big bed with
Clinton alone, able to make whatever move she wanted.

But what would it be? He was most definitely hard again, his huge, weighty cock
lying at an angle on his tightly muscled belly. Joan was close enough to it to
smell the sex on it, the scent flaring her nostrils as she quickly pondered the
choices. Her greatest desire was to taste it again, to see if she could taste
herself on it, so she did it, and it was another first for her. A new flavor.
Woman mixed with man. A taste and scent elixir that flooded her taste buds and
excited her nose.

Also exciting, to the point of confusing ridiculousness, was the size of
Clinton's cock. On his back, as he was, with her hands holding it upright, it
gave her a more vivid picture of its stature. A tower of black manhood, a fleshy
pillar of strength and pleasure, made hard by her own sexuality. It was that
last bit that astonished and thrilled her. The thought of it made her go a
little wild on it with her wide open mouth. Her drool flowed, lubricating her
two hands, and she worked the big cock with the fervor of a woman desperate to
give pleasure.

"Ohhh, Joanie!" Clinton moaned. "Ohhh!"

She was between his powerful legs, but that's not where he wanted her. "Turn
around, Joanie," he said. "Come to me."

At first she was confused by his request, but then she understood. It was a
sexual position she knew about, vaguely. She'd first seen in smutty old
lithograph drawings in a book she remembered, drawings from way back in the
Egyptian era. It wasn't in the school's library, it was from back in her college
days, a book shown to her, with giggling embarrassment, by a girl she knew, a
girl with coke-bottle-thick glasses and stringy brown hair. Sociology. The study
of the human condition. The study, apparently, of the sexual position called
sixty-nine.

"Come to me," Clinton said again, sitting up, reaching for Joan's hip, to guide
her.

Greg understood, too, what Clinton wanted, and he was amazed when he saw Joan
make the move. Why, he thought, didn't I ever think to just ask her? Would she
have done it for me, or is it this unbelievable vacation that's changed her?

He watched Joan throw a leg over Clinton's head, the big man down on his back
again, comfortably under as Joan's ass and pussy spread wide just inches above
his face. She chirped, then moaned, when Clinton's mouth took to her pussy with
some suction. Her head dropped to his towering shaft again, her two-handed
blowjob right back at full fervor, or maybe even up a notch.

Greg sat in the comfortable upholstered chair not far from the bed, watching.
His hand went to his cock, stroking slowly. The get-together with Clinton was
more mindblowing than his wildest imaginings — Joan, his somewhat meek
school-teacher wife, sixty-nineing a big black man, sucking his massive cock
like it was her last day on earth. The next thing she'll do, he thought, is let
him fuck her doggy style.

It was a sarcastic thought, one he knew would never come true. Not with Joan.
Not with a good wife who had never done doggy style before. A good wife who only
gave short-lived blowjobs on 'special occasions'. A good wife who'd never even
sat up during 'girl-on-top'. No, Greg thought, as he sat there slowly
masturbating. This is fucking crazy. Look at her go!

He watched as Clinton, face buried between her meaty ass cheeks, made her writhe
and yammer beautiful noises like an a****l, an a****l that was cumming again.
Clinton talked her through it, right into her pussy, egging her on with "Oh,
yeah, cum for me baby" and other dirty requests, and she responded with garbled
answers, shrieks and screams that nearly made Greg cum in his hand.

"I love this woman!" Clinton groaned, underneath her, using his muscular hips to
thrust his cock in and out of Joan's shrieking mouth. He continued his oral
assault on her pussy, and she came again, wet on his face, her thighs shuddering
so much that the bed shook.

"Ohh, yes! ...Yes!" Clinton hollered, as much from the thrill of Joan's wet
cumming as from the workout her hands and mouth were giving his cock. "Ask me
again to fuck you, my Joanie. Ask me."

Joan gasped for air, controlling, for a moment, her uncontrollable noises. "Fuck
me!" she huffed. "Fuck me!"

The big man rolled her, and then he was on his knees, picking her up by the
waist like a ragdoll. Moaning, huffing grunts came from Joan's lungs. She was
putty in his big hands, and it was happening. Joan on knees and elbows, and then
Clinton pushed her shoulders to the mattress. She cried "Yyyesss!", her voice
devilishly guttural. She felt hands on her hips, hips that were up the way a
lady's never were, and then her wet, wet pussy was full again, the girthy
monster cock stretching it, stuffing it, three inches, then four then five then
six, then a final plunge with some meaning behind it, nine inches of behemothic
manhood, as deep as it could go.

"Yessss!... Give it to me! Give it to me!" Joan cried, loud and lost to the
concept of neighbors. "Fucking fuck me!... Fuck meeee!!"

Arms out in front of her, she tried to hang on, wailing, crying, white knuckles
grasping, pulling the bedspread and the blanket and even the fitted sheet right
off the corners of the big mattress. Clinton fucked her like he was born for
such a task, so happy to find a woman he could fuck deeply, without the wall of
a cervix tempering things. Without that temper he was free, fucking Joan hard,
and loud, and long. On and on he fucked her, her orgasms rising up, then rising
up again, then rising up again, scrambling her to the point of delirium,
glorious delirium that she hoped would never end. She lost muscular control and
went down flat on her stomach, her pussy gushing wetness as Clinton's hard,
reaching cock fucked her in that new way, her body limp, her loud, moaning cries
blurring together like a slurring drunk. Greg was there, lying on his side, his
cock finding her mouth and soon spewing its second offering of cum. He moaned
along with her, himself delirious from the intensity of her wreckage, the beauty
of her monumental despoiling.

When Clinton pulled out, his cock-head slippery with his cum for the second
time, Joan felt as if her pussy would forever be a tunnel the size of him, a
gaping hole of remembrance of the most extraordinary day of her life. The
thought didn't bother her, it made her happy, but she was too wrecked to smile.

—

Taking a break from the last few chapters of her romance novel, Joan gazed out
the plane's window at the wing and the clouds beyond. She glanced over at Greg
in the seat next to her, reaching for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze with
hers.

"Are you looking forward to getting back to school?" Greg asked.

"Not really," Joan said. Blushing, her eyes met his. "Did I ever tell you Dr.
Wilkins calls me Joanie? It struck me as a little too informal at first. I've
been getting used to it, but now..."

"Oh, God," Greg said, smiling. "Yeah, but now..." Greg's eyes sparkled at the
odd coincidence of it. A new principal at Joan's school; a tall, impeccably
dressed African American man. Greg met him once, and was struck by how handsome
Dr. Wilkins is. Greg wondered how Joan would handle it, the first meeting in the
hallway after spring break. After Abaco. After Clinton. Greg let his mind drift
back for a second, to Joan's glorious orgasmic howls, her naked body writhing on
that big comfortable bed, with a handsome black man's cock so deep in her she
could feel it way up in her gut. A handsome black man's cock, so deep in her
memory she'll never, ever, forget it.