2 comments/ 14166 views/ 7 favorites Paradise Gained By: younghungblack Over the years, my husband and I have experienced sexual quirks I suppose you could call them. I imagine most couples have to one degree or another. We confessed and discussed most of them including three infidelities (one on my part and two on his) and love each other more because of our frailties. One indiscretion, however, is known to me alone. Given the time that's passed and the nature of my behavior, it will likely remain that way. Rarely these days do my thoughts take that long, two-and-a-half decade journey back to that magical week on Bali. I'm not proud of my solitary, undisclosed betrayal but, in truth, just thinking about what happened can still bring me a pleasure unlike any other. Our marriage was in the glow of its honeymoon then. I was a blue-eyed, pretty-faced, long legged Canadian whose hair was more naturally blonde and, as now, crazy in love with my husband Jeremy. At the time I was still accepting overseas assignments but our desire to start a family meant the trip to Jakarta would be my last. My husband would join me for a week at the conclusion of the assignment where conception would, perhaps, occur. Unfortunately, his work interfered at the last minute and baby-making coitus was put on hold. The animus I directed at my husband for spoiling our idyllic plans was admittedly immature but the result had me spending that week, our week, on my own in paradise. Despite my disappointment with Jeremy's choice, I looked forward to a week of topless sunbathing and intoxicating drinks. ~ * ~ I fell in with a group of ex-pats I met at the hotel on Bali, mostly single and mostly European, with a sprinkling of Aussies, Americans and other Canadians. We all headed to the beach together. "Where's Blaine?" one of the girls asked as soon as our troupe deposited its beach apparel and apparatus on the sand. "I thought he left last week," someone said. "He told me he's been extended a week," one of the German guys reported, "but that just meant he had to work extra shifts to get the work done. That is why he has not been around, but he did say he would be here today." While others debated the location of an erstwhile companion I'd yet to meet, my ears perked up at the enthusiasm being exhibited. Forget where, who's Blaine? I wondered silently. "Great!" a Swedish wife bubbled. "Janey, have you met Blaine yet? He'll absolutely love you!" My name is Jane and everyone calls me that, but this group had re-christened me with the added "y" and its accompanying syllable at the start of the week and it stuck. I didn't ponder why someone I didn't know would "absolutely love" me because my mind immediately began forming a mental picture of the absent Blaine in whose welfare everyone seemed so concerned: handsome, mid-twenties, Swiss or German, probably less than six feet tall, blonde mane, unruly but perfectly suited to his personality, fit, bronzed, excellent posture, impossible-not-to-notice angular jaw, offset by soft lips and smile, and blue eyes as deep and disarming as the azure sea lapping against the beach twenty strides from where we now congregated. "Why are you girls always so interested in what Blaine is doing anyway?" the French guy asked, but his grin indicated his question had been rhetorical. In addition to an answer being unnecessary (except for me), there was no time for one as the blonde Australian let out an ear piercing shriek. "Blaine!!" she yelled (rhyming his name with wine) and my head snapped around to follow the direction of her eyes and then her sprinting feet. She quickly reached the young man that had been the entire focus of the conversation to that point and embraced him warmly. Her naked breasts mashed against his abdomen and, even on tiptoe, she needed to crane her neck to offer a kiss. Just as her lips might meet his, he moved his face aligning her mouth with his cheek instead. I couldn't tell if it was done deliberately or accidentally. What was clear was that, after the initial contact, Blaine didn't move his lips back to establish the greater intimacy she clearly sought. Blaine was nothing like I had imagined moments earlier. In the two most immediately visible ways, he was as direct an opposite as was possible. His hair wasn't blonde and unruly; it simply wasn't. And his skin wasn't bronzed by the sun; it was black by birth. Coal black. Black as night. Black as soot. Black as the ace of spades. I stared at the young man whose body oozed sexuality and commanded attention. I felt myself both softening and stiffening. My insides turned slick and flowing while my nipples became so rigid I briefly worried they might bleed if touched. I was embarrassed by my obvious physical reaction but was also strangely proud as well. In truth, I recognized the black youth as someone I'd already seen on the island. I was headed out to dinner alone. The restaurant was first class and I was dressed more formally than at anytime since my project had begun to wind down. I could hear the click of my stiletto heels echoing against the pavement as I walked. I liked the shoes because they promoted a natural wiggle in my bottom that made me feel sexy. I felt good because the micro dress and tall heels I wore drew attention to my legs, my best feature. It was impossible not to notice the young man I would come to know as Blaine as he approached. His handsome blackness took my breath away. He was easily a head taller than anyone else in the crowded street. The narrowness of his waist and hips emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and musculature of his bare forearms. He was wearing long pants and long, albeit rolled up, shirt sleeves. The loose fitting clothes billowed in the evening breezes. The cloth was so thin the darkness of his skin bled through. Even though his pants weren't designed to reveal, the wind pushed the fabric in ways that displayed Blaine more fully than he may have intended. I could see that Blaine noticed me too. I exaggerated my walk to show a suppleness of form. Pretending to window shop, Blaine made a quarter turn as I walked by. He turned again when I was past him and I could tell by the faces of the women approaching that he watched me continue down the sidewalk. I was pleased that his eyes had followed me and wondered if we shared the same thought. 'I wish he were coming with me,' I told myself as we both continued our separate ways. Despite any regret I felt at that missed opportunity, on the beach with Blaine that afternoon, I seemed determined to let a second chance pass me by as well. While the others chatted and laughed animatedly, I withdrew into a protective shell. Perhaps it was the strength of the magnetism pulling at me that had me scared. Forces that strong usually require hazard labels. Blaine, too, seemed content to ignore whatever had flickered briefly between us. Was his indifference the result of the aloofness I often project? I wasn't accustomed to male rejection, just the opposite in fact, and could leave the impression I was too good for them. With Blaine I felt strangely different, bewildered. I was a respected member-in-good-standing of the staid community of scientists. I didn't deal well with the unexplained. I didn't know what to make of the young black man that was causing me such confusion. Yet my attraction was real. And it had been immediate, the most dangerous kind. So, while the guys tossed a Frisbee and romped in the surf, I sunned topless with the other girls. I learned that Blaine was only twenty-one but already a university graduate. He was in the middle of a two-year hiatus in his education, experiencing the world and saving money for law school by working as an international auditor. Occasionally, the other women would venture out to sea where they would join the game of catch or clamber aboard strong young shoulders and try to unseat one another in a game that used to be called "cock fighting" back in the community swimming pools of my youth. I felt a hot flash of jealousy as it rushed up my neck and face when I saw the dark-haired French girl's thighs straddling Blaine's thick neck. Another couple was flailing harmlessly away at the "undefeated" mahogany Blaine and creamy Camilla when a finger caught in the string securing her bikini bottom. It became untied. The barely-a-garment-anyway separated at her right hip at the very moment he lurched one way and she the other. It all happed in a split second but to me it unfolded in the slowest of motions. Camilla's bikini bottom came apart as her hips swung left and Blaine's face jerked right. That picture, that moment in time became frozen in my consciousness. His puffy lips pressed against her bald, pale pubis two full inches below her perfect tan line. Camilla squirmed awkwardly as she tried to reclaim a greater degree of personal decorum than her current dishelvement permitted. Consequences of the unintended variety flipped the struggling Frenchwoman off Blaine's shoulders and onto her back in the shallow water. Flailing legs had dislodged the bikini bottom and it settled around one knee as she lay, pretty gash grinning at the world, in the water laughing. Sexual emotions became too heated for me and I was already packing up when the group staggered wetly up from the water's edge. It had become all too obvious Blaine wasn't thinking of me in the same way I had been thinking of him, a way that made me wetter than any of those that stood dripping salt water onto their towels. "Are you coming tonight Janey?" they asked as they too gathered their belongings. I shook my head. There hadn't been any specific plans but there was always something happening with a loosely knit group of strangers on holiday. I was about five years older than most of them (and nine older than Blaine). Suddenly I felt as if a generational shift had taken place and I no longer belonged. I couldn't face a night of flirtations that wouldn't extend to me. "Are you sure?" they asked sincerely, but I declined a second time. I couldn't shake an annoyance rooted in Blaine's indifference. His indifference and my annoyance made me absurdly horny. All I wanted to do was rush back to my room, raid the mini-bar, and shove the first thing I could find that would fit up my searing snatch while gulping liquor straight. While I wanted to dash off immediately, I waited for the others to cover their tits and we all walked back to the hotel together. What happened next was completely unexpected. In front of everyone, Blaine asked if I'd like to go sightseeing the following day. Just the two of us. My heart jumped but I demurred for what seemed like a proper amount of time, hoping he'd expend a worthy amount of effort at seducing me and was frankly disappointed when none was forthcoming. Why would he remaine silent and risk losing me yet again? I was married, not exactly the easiest score on the beach. Yet he was acting like my true answer had been a foregone conclusion even before the question was asked. My coquettish ruse had been exposed. Could Blaine be that perspicacious? Was that how women in general reacted to him? Like he were the catch and it was up to them to make the play? If so, it was about to be reinforced. "What would we do?" I asked, finally restarting the conversation, pissed that I had wanted to be pursued since the first moment I'd seen him and now was having to chauffer him to my own defilement, humiliated that the others had witnessed my desperation. "Look at stuff." Look at stuff?!?!? It was the worst pick up line I'd ever heard. How did a kid this devoid of communication skills graduate from college? What learning had he needed to demonstrate? That he could stack a pile of blocks so high? Identify barnyard animals by their sounds? What law was he going to study? Murphy's? Still angry at my husband's unexcused absence, I felt I had to accept the date for justifiable retribution purposes alone. That's what I told myself because I didn't want to admit that I was going off with someone primarily because of his looks and sexual magnetism. My current fury at Blaine notwithstanding, an assignation was arranged. I awoke the next morning even hornier than I'd gone to bed. That despite the rapid and repeated invasions and withdraws I'd mounted against my combusting pleasure chamber using every pseudo- and quasi-phallus contained in my luggage. Sometimes I concentrated on a single object and a single location. Other times I urgently multitasked. By the time Blaine rang my room for our "date" I had showered, slid on my sexiest sandals, and pulled my hair into a ponytail. "There," I said aloud to the woman admiring her nakedness in a full length mirror, "Blaine should appreciate this!" What I realized as peculiar was that I had barely given my husband a thought in almost twenty-four hours. My date with Blaine was to be Jeremy's loss for being a shit and canceling plans made months before. But Jeremy couldn't be bothered. His work was too important to be put on hold for even a single week. "Well fuck him," I said to the cute woman speaking to me from the mirror. "Fuck Jeremy and the horse he didn't ride in on." I continued critiquing/admiring my reflection as I tugged on the briefest, sheerest pair of panties I owned, bought specifically for my husband's enjoyment. I smoothed the front and could both feel and see the small, trimmed trapezoid of pubic hair and wondered if Blaine's hand would somehow find its way to the place my fingers now caressed. Would I want that? I floated a tiny, nearly translucent sundress, almost as thin as the panties now dampening from the fervent kisses of my moist nether lips, over my upheld arms and down my torso. I'd bought the dress for Bali. What had seemed like a reasonably scandalous skirt length when it was to be worn for my husband, became streetwalkerishly short as I imagined myself strolling with Blaine. Surely he'd think I was throwing myself at him. Was I? In the mirror, I could see shadows of my features beneath the dress that outlined my body. 'It's nothing Blaine hasn't already seen,' I reasoned, thinking of how I'd already displayed myself to him at the beach the prior day. With a deep sigh and nervous smile, I walked out of the hotel into the brilliant morning sun. "Over here!" Blaine waved. He was sitting astride a motor bike. "W-what's this?" I mumbled, excited about the prospect of snuggling against Blaine on the one hand, and daunted by the immodesties of mounting and dismounting a mode of transportation I hadn't employed since...Bermuda probably. "A friend lent it to me. Isn't it great?!" Blaine enthused. "How am I supposed to get on?" I asked, flapping my short skirt in flirtatious provocation. Yes, I possessed sufficient bravado to employ brevity of wardrobe to entice a young black man whose fancy I currently sought in private where just the two of us would know. The question was could I also, in full view of everyone milling about the hotel entrance, arc my leg over the seat of that minimal vehicle and display what was between my legs covered only by something that resembled a film of breathable cellophane? "Oh come on, Janey," Blaine challenged impatiently. "Don't be a prude. Just put your leg over. It'll be just like the beach. Here, I'll help," he offered, extending a hand, not to mine but to my leg, going so far as to brush his palm against the soft skin of my bare, inner thigh. But this wasn't like the beach at all. The bikini bottom I'd worn then was meant to be seen, and it was a much more a substantial guardian of my virtue than the gossamer garment barely concealed by the most insubstantial dress I'd ever owned. No, it wasn't like the beach at all. Not even my bared breasts exposed to all on that sandy venue made me feel as naked as I did when Blaine's hand slid slowly up my leg on that Balinese boulevard. I became his then and we both knew it. Still, I attempted a protest. "Why are you doing this to me?" I asked, trying to hold Blaine's gaze as the back of his hand pushed into my crotch. I felt my eyelids flutter then close. I'm sure he heard me moan, felt me shudder, and saw my teeth close on my lower lip. "What am I doing?" came the most disingenuous question ever posited. "Taking me," I heard myself reply. "Because you're pretty." The vibrations of Blaine's deep voice penetrated all the way to the core of my clitoris. "Because I can," he continued in a whisper as soft as the secret no one had ever dared think about me was deep. I yearned to be taken. Just once I wanted to be commanded so powerfully resistance would not be an option. I pushed against the hand beneath my dress and arced my leg over the motorbike exposing my most intimate channel to anyone who happened to be looking. As I settled onto the seat Blaine brushed the back of his hand against my face, transferring the dampness, my dampness, to my cheek. "What's here?" I asked with trepidation when our first stop was a building where young women dance for men. Surely I wasn't being sold into white slavery, was I? "You are dressed inappropriately," he answered as he held the door open for me. I wore exactly three items of apparel: a pair of panties (which I counted as one item despite its denotation); a dress; and a pair of sandals (again identified as a single item for counting purposes). What precisely wasn't appropriate I wondered but Blaine didn't explain. Inside the shop was a variety of products, all of a sexual nature. I caught glimpses of Asian women behind beaded curtains who made me look over dressed. We walked past displays of pictures and posters of naked people engaged in every manner of provocative activity and of intrusive devices and suggestive clothing used in those activities. We stopped at a table holding undergarments even filmier than the one I wore. Thongs had yet to gain widespread acceptance but g-strings had been used as part of the sexual exhibition trade for decades. I could see the women entering into and exiting from private rooms wearing the same skimpy, transparent, products arrayed before us. Selecting one, Blaine hooked the string of white that would soon be nestled between my buttocks over his little finger and led me into a changing room. Once inside, Blaine placed the garment on a hook and reached up under my dress. Amazingly, I offered neither verbal not physical resistance as I felt my panties being lowered. Quite the opposite in fact. I actively assisted by placing my hand on his shoulder to steady my balance as I raised first one foot and then the other so that one pair of skimpy panties could be removed and another even skimpier pair slipped on. Despite the oppressive Indonesian heat and humidity, goose bumps dotted my flesh and I shivered uncontrollably as a black young man slid the briefest, sheerest item of clothing I'd ever seen up my thighs and over my hips. I widened my stance at his urging. I waited, tingling all over, as my buttocks were pried apart and the equivalent of a shoelace was carefully placed in my posterial fissure and centered atop my sphincter. My nostrils flared and my nipples felt as if they would explode as Blaine pressed the thong filament between my labia then dragged it gently back and forth to seat it in my sloppy channel. I opened my eyes when I felt my dress lowered into its more customary position. I followed Blaine as he led me to the front of the store. The last thing I saw as we exited the dressing room were the panties I'd bought to excite my husband drop from Blaine's fingers and float lazily into the refuse bin. Pointing to a pair of scissors next to the cash register, Blaine held out his hand and an Oriental woman of indeterminate age handed them to him. He lifted the hem of my dress and grabbed the price tag still affixed to the panties. I felt the cold steel against my skin as the tag was cut free. Blaine handed me the tag and the small purse I'd entrusted to him in front of the hotel and left the store. Paradise Gained As I paid for the panties I was left awed by Blaine's pantomime tour de force. The entire time we were in the store Blaine had offered zero words of direction or explanation. All my actions, including allowing him access to my most intimate parts had been guided by his hands. Back on the bike, we went all over and, as Blaine had succinctly-if-inelegantly couched it, looked at stuff: local temples, an open air art gallery, shop windows, street panoramas. We lunched at a locals-only bistro in a side alley that served a most delicious beer. Wherever we went, both on and off the bike, the wind whipped my skirt about my legs. I felt as free and as scared as at any time in recent memory. When riding I tried tucking my skirt beneath my bottom to keep it in place but when Blaine saw what I was doing, he forbade me. "Let it wave free," he told me. "Everyone will feel better." He was right and the vibrations of the motor heightened my exhilaration. I eagerly placed my upper leg, the golden entrance to the valley of the shadow of life, in Blaine's hand every time I mounted or dismounted that motorbike, now our motorbike. We rode out along a deserted strip of beach. Blaine parked the scooter and we removed our sandals. The sand felt wonderful in my toes. As we walked toward the water, I felt the back of Blaine's hand nuzzle against my palm. It made me feel strange. For the first time, truly unambiguous intimacy was being suggested. Certainly the things we'd done on the beach the prior day and on the scooter today were more familiar than many couples got even after several dates, but all could be explained in less intimate terms. They were part of the rituals of a tropical seashore and the necessities of boarding a motorbike in a short skirt. Even the purchase of the panties bore the ulterior motive of correcting an inappositeness of wardrobe on my part Now we were engaged in, or about to anyway, something with no hidden rationalizations...if I allowed it. The face of my husband clouded my view of the crystal horizon. My vows to him, or one specific vow anyway, was being tested like never before. Was it about to come undone? I clasped Blaine's hand and soon our fingers were intertwined as we walked toward the surf. At the water's edge Blaine stooped to roll up his pant legs. The wind gusted sharply, unexpectedly, treating my skirt like a spring kite, sending it skittering in every direction. I kept trying to maintain a modicum modesty like some tropical, blonde goddess standing atop some sandy subway grate. "Don't," Blaine said, pushing my hands away. And I didn't. The sun was behind him as he knelt on one knee. I could see the shadow of his head on my legs. As I'd been instructed, I kept my hands folded nervously against my belly, allowing my micro dress to billow above my waist. Blaine didn't disguise the fact that he could see the closely cropped "landing strip" my sheer panties revealed. The pressure of his eyeballs against my nearly naked loins forced my nipples to pop out. "Please, Blaine," I beseeched, edging my hands lower, trying to hide myself and feeling frustrated at the need to seek his permission to do so, "my dress is betraying me." "No, Janey, it isn't," he said, rising. "It's acknowledging you." Blaine led me out into the surf. When his knees were wet, he turned to face me. Each of us searched the other's eyes trying to plumb unfathomable depths. I felt like I was staring into some infinite spiral hypothesized in Hawking's Theory of Everything. Blaine gently twisted my hand behind my waist and pulled me to him. I closed my eyes just as his thick, puffy lips encountered mine. The kiss wasn't what I expected, what I was prepared to offer him, what, in truth, I wanted. It was brief, platonic, almost soulless except that what it lacked in ardor was made up for in promise. It left me more excited than had Blaine let his passions burn against my mouth. Perhaps that first kiss would have led to more had I not become unstable on the shifting sands of the incoming tide. Blaine tried to steady me and faltered himself. Each tried to save the other and both of us tumbled into the water. Blaine had seen virtually all of me already and whatever he hadn't was revealed as the soaked fabric of my dress clung to me like tinted body paint. But Blaine, too, was soaked. His clothes were made of a light cloth similar to mine. He wore no underwear of any kind, and it was the erotic aspects of his body that were revealed for the first time. I'd seen his chest of course, at the beach, but the young black had worn those horribly baggy bathing trunks that Americans thought fashionable, not the more revealing European styles. Now I got to see more, so much more. And there was much more to see. When we stopped rolling in the retreating wave, I was on my knees and Blaine his stomach. The view was brief but I saw his clenched buttocks, black and gleaming as if he were nude, as he spread his arms and legs in an effort to keep the departing surf from pulling him farther down the beach. We were laughing good-naturedly at our unexpected predicament, me, knees spread wide in the sand, both dress and panty virtually transparent, breasts pointing proudly. Blaine rolled onto his side, pant leg plastered to his thigh, an enormous, overly proportionate, fat, black tube extending from his groin as if an x-rated cartoonist had drawn a caricature of a cock there. The cock flopped and I gasped reflexively. It was so large it almost looked menacing. In fact, for just a moment, it appeared alive, like Blaine's bike lending buddy was also an anaconda smuggler and one of the contraband wrigglers had slithered up Blaine's trouser leg. "Don't be frightened," Blaine laughed in that deep baritone that could mesmerize many women...or me anyway. "It's only me," he said and caused his cock to undulate along his leg. I don't know what I was thinking by then except that I wanted that first kiss back. Regrettably, the moment was broken; the kiss was gone. We were dripping wet when we again mounted the motorbike. Blaine slid his hand high on my thigh, ostensibly to assist my balance, but that assistance had long ceased being necessary. He did it because he had done it every other time, and because he enjoyed touching my leg. I allowed it because I'd allowed it every other time, and because I enjoyed him touching my leg. That invasive hand again kept going up my leg and more forcefully encountered my (now for a couple of reasons) sopping wet panties. Perhaps my leg had become slicker from the briny sheen glistening on my skin. I was kissed again. I opened my mouth eagerly, yearning, waiting to be assaulted. But again, I was not invaded. I blushed furiously when Blaine pulled his hand away from my soaking crotch and said, "And I thought you'd gotten the seat wet before." I wanted simultaneously to slap Blaine's face and pull him onto the sand and have him right there. But Blaine started the bike so I did neither. I sat and soaked the scrumptious seat shivering delightfully like some gasoline powered vibrating mega-tongue. Our clothes were still damp when we got back to the hotel. Blaine invited me up to his room and I accepted despite the mixed signals I felt he'd been sending. I wanted him badly and was prepared to put up with more than the usual amount of crap to get him. Blaine showered while I sipped beer from a plastic glass. I thought of joining him. There was nothing my being naked could reveal that he hadn't already seen. Still, I hadn't been invited. I wasn't certain I'd be unreservedly welcome and that kept me seated and sipping. Blaine came out of the shower dressed only in a pair of light shorts with a belt that looked like it could wrap around him twice. "Who the fuck knows how to buy a belt in this hemisphere?" he laughed and flipped the dangling end about like some exaggerated, if oxymoronically phrased, limp phallus. Blaine wore his shorts very low around his hips. Not gangsta style, more like a teenage girl in low riders...extremely low riders. It appeared that little more than a half hearted yank would have them below his knees. I needed a shower myself...a cold one...at that instant! After I'd dried off, my only options appeared to be re-donning my now skanky dress, remaining naked, or fashioning one of the room towels into a makeshift sarong. Despite the brevity of the towel, I chose the latter. Given their salty crustiness, I elected to leave my panties on the floor and returned to the room as-was. With my breasts covered, my vulva was barely hidden. My own arousal was now strongly driving a desire to evoke a similar desire in Blaine and that caused me to abandon good judgment. He'd already seen my breasts. Perhaps it was time to show him a little pussy. I accepted a bottle of beer from the disarmingly handsome youth, sat, and crossed my legs. I shivered at my naughty thoughts. For more than an hour I squirmed as we chatted and drank beer. I maintained the personal delusion that I might somehow be in charge, that, despite the strong forces pushing me toward him, that, even as the beers relaxed the towel I was wearing as much as they did me, I still had the option of leaving that room at any time as chaste as I'd entered. Eventually, the knot securing the white bath towel above my breasts failed. I had known since exiting the shower that at some point it would and had done nothing to prevent it. With my boobs finally on view, I abandoned all pretense of modesty. I made an exaggerated display of draining my beer. Hoisting my hips, I extracted the towel and tossed it into the corner glorying in my nakedness. As I returned my bottom to its cushioned resting place, I fisted the brown neck of the empty bottle, slid the cool glass between my thighs in a salacious display, and stroked my very own male appendage replica. "Want to compare?" Blaine asked, putting his thumb behind his belt, extending the leather outward before an inbred politeness reminded him he'd forgotten his manners. "I'm sorry, my mother would be so embarrassed. May I get you another to drink?" Blaine asked, tugging at the bottle separating my thighs, dragging it across my clit as he pulled it free. The black loop of Blaine's half opened belt protruded outward from his groin like some obscenely cantilevered strap-on accessory while he retrieved another beer, opened it, and handed it to me. I didn't much appreciate my thoughts at that moment but was obliged to think them in light of the close resemblance to and positioning of a pseudo-phallus Blaine's belt presented as it jutted from his groin and at my face. "I'm always more comfortable nude when I'm at home," Blaine said, resuming a conversation begun before the ghost of Emily Post had intervened. "I hope you don't find this too distracting." I didn't know what to say and watched slack jawed as Blaine stripped off his pants and stroked himself. I struggled mightily to look him in the eye as he spoke but found it impossible given his monstrous dimensions. My eyes were fixed on the almost wholesome organ that dangled between his thighs. "I want you to do me this way first," Blaine said as he stood next to my face. On one level his words infuriated me. He used pronouns improperly, without firmly grounded antecedents. He said "this" without first identifying his penis...or cock, or pecker, or one-eyed trouser trout, or any of the other myriad terms men have for their lifelong buddies. He said "this way" without specifying that what he wanted me to do was fellate him. Yet despite the irregularities of his speech, Blaine never miscommunicated. Not once. I knew exactly what "this" was and how "this way" was to be performed. Blaine behaved in ways that normally were far too direct for my liking. I much preferred the subtlety and nuance of a European seduction...or did I? Blaine's awkward directness had me off balance. Then again, perhaps what I was attributing to heritage was more related to youth. Perhaps the ways of the dark Houstonian by way of the Netherlands Antilles were the ways of the future. Perhaps I was just fearful that young men now saw me as desperate and easy. Worse, I hadn't even decided if I'd "do" him at all when Blaine made his prurient pronouncement. It was exactly the sort of entitlement attitude that would have gotten him thrown out of my room (had we been in my room) had he been one of the other guys from the beach. My real confusion over our half-week, sex-unencumbered-by-romance relationship had yet to begin, and I've never been able to understand what it was truly about. What was it about the young man with the enormous cock that convinced me to comply with his "I want you to do me this way first" command like he were some sexual magician uttering "abracadabra" or phallic Aladdin commanding my oral cavern to "open sesame" or some horny hypnotist with a pocket watch strapped to his swinging cock and talking softly until he controlled me through trance? Whatever it was, I knew then that we'd have sex at least once, or at least one of us would have sex (I've forgotten the rule for which participant(s) blowjobs count as sex). I cupped my hand under Blaine's bulbous scrotum. The shaft of his penis lay along my forearm as I brought it up to my face. I lowered my lips and kissed the purple-black cockhead nestled in the crook of my elbow even as his testes rested in my hand. It wasn't that the movements associated with fellating such a big dick were different from those for more modest members, just that they needed to be so exaggerated. My jaw didn't simply open; it stretched, distended, to the point of discomfort. My hand didn't just wobble about like a craps shooter at a table in Vegas; it made sweeping arcs like a window washer on the Sears Tower. My mouth didn't just moisten; it salivated like Pavlov's best dog awaiting dinner in the bell tower at Notre Dame on Christmas Eve. No one could have gotten me to admit to being racially bigoted for I didn't believe for a moment I was. Still, I used expressions to myself like "first black man" and "first black cock" as I sucked Blaine off. After he exploded in my mouth I was ever so slightly embarrassed (and relieved) that my first thought at the sensation of Blaine's semen splashing against the roof of my mouth was that "black cum" tasted like any other cum. It wasn't that I expected a difference but one doesn't know until one knows. What was true was that I was infinitely more eager than usual to have Blaine fill my mouth and that was due to the newness of his color...and his size. Even as Blaine stood, knees locked for support, me swiping my tongue at his cock or pressing soft kisses against it, I felt a special, stronger excitement that I'd cheated for the first time with a black man. "Would you like me to mount you now?" Blaine asked when his recovery was fully underway. Suddenly I was frightened. I'd been with enough men to have experienced the average, the above average, the below average. Until that moment I had always been much more a motion-of-the-ocean than a size-of-the-wave girl. Not even with that guy who I more or less sought out because I'd heard he was "gifted," the guy whose cock I actually measured like he was a trophy catch in some phallic fishing contest. Perhaps fortunately, the former record holder in my mini-pantheon of lovers had been both a size and a motion guy thus never forcing me to switch sides in the "Does size matter?" debate. Would I feel ugly inside if Blaine caused me to conclude it now did? Blaine was different though. His dimensions weren't found even in porn. What would it feel like, I wondered, to be penetrated by the virtual centaur asking me if I wanted to be fucked? What I said was "Please." "Are you on the pill?" Blaine asked as he encouraged his own erection. "Yes," I said, shivering as I answered and wondering why I lied. Jeremy and I planned to start a family when I returned from overseas. Just entering my thirties, it seemed the right time. I'd gone off birth control just before leaving British Columbia, thinking the two months of the assignment the perfect duration to flush the drug from my system. I'd never been unfaithful and it didn't seem likely that my trip to paradise would prove the exception. The amount of work I needed to accomplish in that short span of time was just too great. I thought my husband's arrival might even result in a tropical pregnancy. But Jeremy hadn't come I thought derisively at my cruel double entendre. If he had, I wouldn't have had the taste of a young black man in my mouth and an irresistible desire to fuck the largest cock I'd ever seen. "Still," I equivocated, "perhaps a condom wouldn't hurt. You look exceedingly, uh, virile," I said while smilingly broadly. "Do you have one?" Blaine shook his head. "I think they have them in the mini-bar," I said, knowing full well they had both regular and extra large sizes, having seen them in my own room. I shivered excitedly and giggled softly as I ripped open the bag and extracted two strips of sealed squares. The only difference between them was that one set of condoms was stamped "Extra Large." "We won't be needing these," I giggled and tossed the strip without the lettering over my shoulder. Never before had I used, nor needed, sheathing designated "magnum" and I was anxious to see what the foil packet contained and how it would look on Blaine's meaty monster. I ripped at the packaging with my teeth. I spat out that piece of shiny foil wrapper that clung to my lower lip like a statically charged balloon to a cat. I felt the oozing, entry-assisting lubricant seep between my teeth and onto my tongue and discovered its minty seasoning. One of those choad jackets intended for oral pleasuring? I thought snidely, wondering what guy would put up with wearing a raincoat to a blowjob. Or what woman for that matter. Long ago, I had discovered the sensuous pleasure of unrolling latex membranes over rigid cocks but helping Blaine into his went far beyond any past adventures. It didn't fit! Even Trojan's husky version was far too small to contain Blaine. Just as I was about to give up, Blaine used both hands and stretched the band beyond what I believed possible and squeezed it over his cock head leaving it encircling his dick just below the crown like his lower noggin had been the object of some genital lynching. I was left to complete Blaine's suiting up on my own. It was still easier said than done. I pushed and scratched at the rolled rubber like a house cat sharpening its claws. Eventually, it reached about half the way down Blaine's cock and stopped. What utterly amazed me was the hardness of Blaine's erection. I'd read that larger men often suffered a certain sponginess of weaponry. Blaine was like a pubescent smut burglar who'd located the key to the erectile dysfunction medicine cabinet next to a stack of "Hot for Teacher" DVD's. I mounted Blaine as he lay on the floor on his back. I'd insisted on taking top as a safety precaution. Blaine said he was used to it. I eased my way onto his breath snatching boner. I was so wet the first few inches went in with surprising ease. I got stuck for a while at about the six-inch mark before building desire made me press down with greater force and urgency. I had some unknown urge to be more than just another average white chick hung up at the middle of this colossal cock. I had a mini-breakthrough when another inch squeezed past my taut labia. I could feel the edge of the condom ring rubbing my nether lips. Was that really all I'd taken? I eased my hand back and clasped the part of Blaine still outside me and discovered I couldn't contain it in one fist. I rolled over, pulling Blaine with me. On my back, I reached through my open thighs and grabbed his cockshaft with both hands. I was amazed. I was completely full yet enough dick remained ex-vulva to fill both of my hands. Paradise Gained I began pushing at Blaine and he at me. I felt more or less safe with my hands preventing truly deep penetration. Blaine fucked me even as I gave him a double handjob. "You like being too big, don't you?" I accused through gulps of breath as Blaine's fat shaft slid back and forth across my clit. "It is what it is," he replied. "Right now, you're a slut for "too big" and I'm going to make you cum like you've only dreamed of." I wanted to say, I dare you, but I didn't dare. Instead I just lay there holding half his cock in my hands and letting him fuck me with the other half. By the end, I was delirious. Blaine was virtually turning my cunt inside out with every stroke, or that's the way it felt anyhow. My orgasm built then broke and the wave I'd been surfing hurled me down into an abyss of unalloyed pleasure. I felt myself squirting profusely, something I rarely did. Those hot slick secretions made me dangerously slippery just as Blaine's own seizures wracked him. Even with a condom between my cunt and Blaine's exploding cock, I could still feel the hotness and pulse of the ejaculate as it spurted and filled the latex basin covering his cock slit. I may have lost consciousness. Both of us were sweaty and breathless as our passion, now consumed, slowly began to cool. Blaine rolled off, and lay on his back, that gleaming ebony weapon rising vertically from his groin. His arm covered his eyes and his breathing continued to be ragged. I recovered meaningful motion first and rolled onto my side, facing Blaine, facing his cock, eager to watch what had just given me the best climax of my life as it wilted. I especially wanted to see what the tip of Blaine's monster's rubber held, wanted to touch it and play naughtily with the potent seed sealed away from perilous consequences, perhaps even be really kinky and pull it off to sip its contents. That dirty thought had restarted my sexual engine and my hand was already on his thigh when I began turning toward him. "Fuck!" I whispered almost inaudibly. There was no latex tip full of creamy cum!! The condom was gone, disintegrated, possibly somewhere inside me. All that was left was the base loop stationed at mid-shaft like some oddly positioned cock ring. Streaks of Blaine's semen and my own juices coated his still erect penis with the final dribs of the load I'd been so eager to extract oozing down the slick shaft. "It ripped, didn't it," Blaine stated, arm still covering his eyes. "Yes," I sighed. I cupped his balls and held the base of his cock in my fist, held his cock aloft, amazed by its size, more excited than before despite my new problem, or perhaps because of it. "That always happens. They don't make them big enough for me," Blaine said, paused, then continued. "You're not on birth control either, are you?" "No," I said softly. "How bad is it?" "Pretty bad," I said, leaning over and kissing the slimy cock I held in my hand. I was on my stomach then, legs spread wide, knees bent forty-five degrees. I put both hands on his dick and lapped at the sloppy secretions covering it. There was no reason for both of us to feel bad; he'd done nothing wrong. I had immediately done the calculations from my last period when I first saw the bare, cum-covered cock. "I think I'm ovulating." After a surprisingly brief period of mourning, during which I felt compelled to groom Blaine's gooey phallus with my mouth and tug off that cruel elastic reminder of our failed precautions encircling his prick, we resigned ourselves to our fate. Either I was or I wasn't. Whatever damage there was to be done had already been done. Whatever we did now wouldn't alter that. Blaine was wonderful, standing up for me like the good, if immature, man he was, offering to take in a formerly married pregnant woman if that was my pleasure. I knew that whatever happened there would be no Blaine and me after Bali. At least one option was off the table; I wouldn't be able to pass it off as my husband's. Blaine and I were in surprisingly good spirits the next day when we awoke at nine and fucked before we ordered room service. Optimists always bounce back, and we screwed bareback until lunch then ordered in again. I spent the next two days and nights in the freest, most exciting, most fulfilling sex I've ever had. I didn't even cover my nakedness when a young, dark-skinned girl pushed the service cart into the room. If she thought me a harlot, she was probably right. Blaine and my holiday of delicious debauchery concluded unexpectedly when he was called back to work and I caught an early flight home. While that is an accurate description of how Blaine and I parted, I've left out the details of our final act of mating. I wrote it down but on the re-reading, deleted it. Perhaps I felt it too degrading or poorly captured to include. I didn't feel degraded as it happened or as I yet remember those things we did. But I've written it again and included it here as a footnote. Blaine was seated at the small desk the hotel supplied each room working with his calculator and spreadsheets. He was naked, as was I. I was on the floor, between his open legs, my own legs splayed along the bare floor, the back of my head lying against his groin. One cheek rested on his warm thigh and his cock wrapped past my neck and draped over my clavicle almost to the swell of my breast. Blaine was scribbling something for his work and I lazily swirled a finger in what, with Blaine's encouragement, I'd taken to calling my "cunt." I was occasionally lifting my head and placing innocent kisses against the spongy black mass when the call came through. After he hung up, he explained that he'd leave in the morning. "I want to do something before I go," Blaine said, rising and helping me up. Like everything we'd done since I'd agreed to go sight seeing with him, there was no discussion. He simply decided and I went along. I had no regrets about his choices and wouldn't have with what we were about to do. Whenever I look back over the years at those days and relive that excitement, it is that last coupling that always leaves me breathless as I paw my cunt/pussy/snatch/twat to release those emotions once more. Blaine pulled on a pair of shorts, the first thing either of us had worn for almost 60 hours. He handed me my dress, back from the hotel laundry, hanging in his closet, unworn and unwanted until then. I slipped the feathery fabric over my head and searched his room for my sandals and those still soiled panties. "You won't need those," Blaine told me as I picked up the sandals and just as quickly dropped them again. "Those either," he stated as I started to fish the panties from a messy corner. Blaine was barefoot and bare-chested when we left his room. I wore only the flimsiest of dresses. The sun was nearly on the horizon when we walked out of the hotel. The dying light shone right through my dress but I didn't care. I would have walked naked if Blaine had said, "That either," as I fingered the dress. We boarded the borrowed motorbike, Blaine sliding his hand onto my now familiar thigh like always, and rode to that deserted beach where he'd first kissed me. He took off his shorts, draping them over the bike's handlebars, and then helped me off with my dress. In the dying light, we walked hand-in-hand, naked and proud down that beach for the last time,. We took a few steps into the water and Blaine turned to face me. This time no kiss was forthcoming. He placed his palms on my shoulders and pushed down. I didn't fight him. I knelt eagerly, grabbing and stroking his cock as soon as my knees touched the sand. The water swirled around my legs as I felt Blaine's cock lengthen, fatten, and harden. I let it go for a moment so I could see it standing straight out from his groin, large as my forearm, awed that I'd taken something that big part way into me. I quickly grabbed it again with both hands. There was something about being on my knees and holding that dark monster that made me feel completely feminine. I don't know if Blaine cared whether I felt complete or partial but I was pretty sure holding his cock wasn't what he wanted or expected of me. I moved my mouth forward until I felt my lips touch the cockhead. I thought about kissing and licking it a bit but it was so hard I knew that things were moving rapidly toward messy. The tide was coming in and I felt the waves lap at my vulva like a liquid tongue as I pushed my mouth over Blaine's elegant erection. We rested like that for a moment, a man and a woman, silhouetted against the setting sun, breath bated, awaiting the first notes of our dance of desire. Blaine took the lead, pushing his hips at my face then retreating. I swiped my tongue across the young man's glans and began moving my head in a seductive rhythm opposite his. Below me, the ocean washed against me like a soothing medicinal bath one minute and a roiling foamy riot of splashing bubbling liquid excitation the next. That Blaine could fuck both of my hands and my mouth at the same time enflamed me as nothing I could remember and we raced each other to a climactic cliff. He plunged over first, drenching my teeth and tongue. "Oh Blaine, thank you!" I would have shouted had not my mouth been stuffed with phallus and semen and my mind roasting over the coals of passion. My eyes were closed, my arms were wrapped around Blaine's thighs for support, and my lips were sealed to his cock. I was all but gone then myself. I was undulating my hips urgently at the swirling eddies when a wave dragged a conch shell up against my clit and spun it around beneath me. I lost it. Completely and utterly. Final fireworks are always the most exciting. The combination of everything that led up to that day, that moment, culminating in Blaine taking me half naked from the hotel and all naked on the beach, hooking me with his cock like some sexual surf fisherman, pulling me by my mouth into an overwhelming orgasmic net. I drifted for a while, hooked on that delicious dick, floating and convulsing, while Blaine drained the last of his climax into my tummy. My body continued to suffer involuntary paroxysms until his softening cock slipped from my lips. Immediately I went to retrieve it, to renew the greatest pleasure I'd ever known, but Blaine pushed me away. "Our time has passed but our memories will linger," he said, helping me to my feet. I brushed the sand from my knees and I hurried to keep up as Blaine crossed the beach. We donned our meager costumes and rode back in silence. The throbbing vibrations of the motorbike sent slow, rolling after-climaxes through my pussy. When we got back to the hotel, I didn't return to Blaine's room, or ever see him again. I can still smell him sometimes though. I never got my panties back. For a while, for as long it mattered to me, I wondered if they left the room in Blaine's baggage or the chambermaid's rubbish. I wondered if he considered me a trophy or a trollop. Most of all I wondered what I considered myself.