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Spanish Bull

By: steelring



If you read it to the end, reward it with however many stars. Comments, good or bad, are welcome too.

*****

It was just a bit of horse-play. Nothing more. I did not even think before I did it.

We were playing beach tennis, not on the sand, but in the sea, thigh deep, more to cool down and ease the boredom of lying in the sun. It was one of the Spanish resorts where bikini tops were optional, and bikini bottoms miniscule.

Sarah wore just her bikini bottom. She liked to get an even tan, and not have to worry that her evening wear maight bare white skin that had been covered by bikini straps while she tanned. Besides, she is petite, with neat breasts, which meant that they did not cause a problem with the jumping and stretching involved in getting her bat onto the ball, so she was playing hard. We had got a record of forty three hits without a break, and we had agreed to try for the fifty before we stopped. 

It happened after one of our better efforts. We got to thirty nine. Sarah's shot went a little wide. I clipped it with the edge of my bat. The ball went high and dropped mid-way between us, plopped into the water, and then popped up again to float teasingly on the surface. Whatever was happening with the tide, it started moving out to sea. 

We both half ran, half dived to get it, suddenly in competition. I touched it, but managed only to nudge it away instead of catching it. Sarah grabbed for it, standing triumphant, bat in one hand, ball held in the air with the other, grinning, the water lapping at her waist. She turned to make some space between us. That was when I did it.

It was over exuberance, I guess. Being twenty six does not mean you are mature and sensible. Still being in the extended honeymoon of our marriage, albeit a year after the actual honeymoon, might have explained my acting as if we were alone, and not on a busy beach. 

I dived after Sarah, intending to grab her and wrestle her for the ball. She realised what I was doing, turned in the water, and kicked with her feet. Avoiding her legs, my hands found her waist, but she was slippery. Sun lotion, perspiration, sea water, and her slender body shape combined to mean I could not hold her still. My hands slid down, reaching the side ties of her bikini bottom. Then I had something that I could hold onto.

One side opened. Sarah was still twisting and turning in the water, trying to keep her head above the surface. The other side of her bikini bottom stayed tied, but I was still holding it and with her struggling it slid down her leg and off before I even realised. Sarah got away. 

I had not got the ball, but I had got something else. Two triangles of black fabric with several inches of black tie string were hanging from my fingers. Still carried away, I balled them into my hand.

"Fetch!" I called to Sarah, throwing the balled fabric out to sea. 

"Nooo!!" Sarah shouted back, just too late. 

The ball opened as it flew through the air, the triangles separating, becoming wings, the tie strings hanging. I had thrown it as hard as I could, and had the momentum of being wet. It flew twenty feet or so before it hit the water. I watched it float for a few seconds, as first one, and then a second wave lifted it up, and dropped it down again. Then it went below the surface.

Sarah had dropped the bat and ball, and was swimming for her lost bikini bottom, her naked buttocks flashing white in contrast with her tanned, lean body. She reached where the black fabric had disappeared and looked around. Then she dived beneath the water, surfacing again, getting back her breath, diving, surfacing.

I went to help. Both of us went under at least half a dozen times. Neither of us could find it.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Sarah demanded, when both of us had given up.

We were treading water, out of our depth, and still breathless.

"It was just a joke!" I answered, knowing that whatever I said would not be good enough. 

I had been pretty stupid, and Sarah now was in the sea, naked, with maybe a thousand people on what was a town beach, myriad hotels forming the skyline behind.

"Some joke!" she said. "Now what am I supposed to do?"

I did think, for a split second, of offering to give her my swimming shorts, but just as rapidly I realised that a man walking out of the sea stark naked would be dealt with more seriously than a woman. I could get arrested. Sarah would just get looks of appreciation. I decided not to make the offer.

"I can get you your towel," I suggested instead.

"How stupid am I going to look like that?" Sarah retorted. "I'll just go naked, but don't think I'll just forget this."

I was still working out the nuances of self esteem that make walking from the sea with a soaked towel wrapped around your body to protect your modesty a worse option that walking stark naked onto a beach where bodies might be mostly bare, but even the most daring of sunbathers wore at least a thong.

But that was how my wife ended up emerging naked from sea onto a busy beach, with families, couples, single guys and single women, groups of teenagers, everyone, all enjoying the Spanish sun and enjoying the sight of a tanned, slim, petite twenty three year old blonde with triangles of pure white skin, front and back, where her bikini bottom no longer protected her from the sun, or from their gaze, with her slit exposed, the hair waxed from her pubis back in London before we had flown out, walking determinedly to where our towels were spread out, followed by her husband, feeling stupid, remorseful, and wondering how he could make amends and get back the romantic holiday relationship that had just been drowned beneath the sea.

Following Sarah, I assumed that she would pull on her shorts when she reached our towels. Her shorts, and a tee shirt were all she had been wearing as we walked down to the beach from our hotel. Her spare bikinis were in out bedroom, so I assumed that we would pack up, and head back, while she cooled off. I failed to allow for just how headstrong my young wife could be.

Once at our towels, Sarah picked up hers, not wrapping it around her waist, but throwing it casually over one shoulder. Then she grabbed her beach bag by the handle, took her sandals by their straps, and walked further down the beach, leaving my things exactly where they were.

Walking down the beach meant weaving between other sunbathers. The towel covered her rear on the left side only. On the right, the white triangle of cute, tight buttock was still bare. I guessed that the front view would be similar. Her daring might have been the result of anger, but I had to admire her nerve.

She stopped as I got to where my towel lay alone and deserted. She spread out her towel in a vacant space, got her book out from her beach bag, and lay down on her front. 

You can tell when you are not wanted, when it is best to stay away, when you need to let the temperature come down a few degrees, not that the Spanish sun was likely to let that happen before late afternoon. 

I resigned myself to staying with my towel, alone, feeling if not quite in the dog house, at least as if I had been told to stay on my blanket until I had been forgiven. 

Lying down reluctantly, I glanced in Sarah's direction. The beach was just too busy. I could not see her. I could still picture her slender body stretched out naked, tense with barely contained rage. I just hoped she would remember to put some high factor lotion where it was most needed.

I got out my own book. Estimating, I thought perhaps two chapters might allow the time that Sarah needed before I should try approaching her, my towel if not my tail between my legs, to apologise and try to make amends. Meanwhile, the action guy who was the hero of my novel, had to locate a bomb in a New York department store and defuse it before it would explode. Compared to defusing the time bomb that was my wife, I thought his task was easy. 

The bomb was in a brand new suitcase that had been left with a display range, so that no one would notice one more case. Carefully open the case, fingers checking for hidden catches that might set off the charge before lifting the lid right up. Key in the disarming code. Mop your brow. I wondered if there was a disarming code for wives.

It must have been an hour. I put my book away, got up, picked up my towel and my bag, and walked down the beach. I saw her, and I stopped. I was disarmed. There was a guy beside her, well built, deep tan, short cut jet black hair, buttock baring, minimal, red thong. 

Sarah was on her front, or nearly. She was propped up on one elbow, facing slightly towards the guy. He was on his side, facing her. Whatever he was saying, she was laughing.

I could not just walk away. Getting up my nerve, I walked towards the two of them.

It was as if nothing had happened between us. We were the best of friends.

"Hi, darling. I wondered where you'd got to. This is Franco. He's been keeping me company til you got back," Sarah said, beaming a smile at me.

I knew her, and other women, well enough to know that this did not mean that I had been forgiven. That smile signalled danger.

"Hola, signor," the guy said, giving me just as broad a grin. I could not help noticing the bulge of his red package. 

The Australians call them budgie smugglers. Judging by its size, I reckoned this was less a sweet innocent little budgie, and more a bird of prey, straining for release. He caught me looking, and just grinned some more. Even his nose was curved like an eagle's beak. There is something they say about the size of your nose.

He got up, offering me his hand. I am English. If a guy offers you his hand, you shake it, even if he has been chatting up your wife, has been enjoying her naked body, and has a package encased with the colour known to attract more attention than any other. I shook his hand.

"Okay," he said. "I will leave you."

That was good to hear. What came next was not so good.

"I see you later, yes," he said to Sarah. "Half to eight?"

"See you later," Sarah confirmed.

He gave me that wide grin again, and left, buttocks tautening alternately as he walked away.

"What was that about?" I asked.

"Nothing," Sarah said. "He was just checking that I was okay. He was worried that I might burn."

"Really?" I asked. "I guess he offered you some lotion, then."

"You're jealous?" she asked, not answering.

"Why not?" I asked. "I'm your husband."

"Who leaves me lying naked on a beach," she said.

"You know I didn't mean,..."

"It's been an hour. Didn't you think someone might try to chat me up?"

"So that's what he was doing?"

"He was just being friendly, and giving me some lotion."

"Giving?"

"I let him put it on."

"Front and back?"

"Front and back," she said. "He offered. I accepted."

"And did he offer anything else while he was at it?"

"A date, this evening."

"You accepted?" I asked, only just properly connecting with the 'see you later's that they had exchanged.

"I accepted," she said. "After all, it was nice of him to be concerned about me. Shall we go for lunch?"

Lunch was not exactly our most enjoyable time together. We ate in comparative silence, talking to agree on what we would order, what wine to have, and that was all. The afternoon was not much better. Sarah had two more bikinis at the hotel, and we went back for one of them. No beach tennis. No banter. Just silent reading, interspersed with breaks to cool down in the sea, each of us going separately, togetherness gone the way of her bikini bottom. I was not forgiven, and I was not comfortable at Sarah meeting this guy for a date, even knowing it was my punishment for that morning.

Where we were in Spain, at that time of year, it stays hot enough to lie on the beach until seven, but we left the beach some time before, needing to shower off the sand, salt water, sweat and lotion. We maneovered around each other in our bedroom and in the en suite bathroom. I had optimistically decided that I might as well make myself presentable and go out somewhere to eat. Maybe by the time Sarah got back to the hotel, her mood would have softened. So I shaved as Sarah showered, and showered as she dried her hair. 

We dressed at the same time, at separate sides of the bed. Sarah took a dress from the ward-robe that she had not worn before. The same colour as the guy's thong. The same look at me brilliant red. It was made from some kind of stretch material that she pulled over her head and had to tug at to get it to sit correctly. The result of her efforts was superb. 

Strapless, the dress clung to her breasts, cut straight across from underarm to underarm. Tight around her body, it moulded itself to her, outlining her exquisite slender shape. The dress was all that she was wearing, so not just her breasts, but the contours of her nipples, were discernible beneath. It narrowed her waist, emphasised the flatness of her stomach, and wrapped around her buttocks as tight as cling film. The hem crossed her tanned thighs only a hand's width below their apex. It was the very definition of a fuck me dress.

She went bare legged, wearing only sandals. The sandals had long, looping, thin red leather straps that criss-crossed up her calves to tie just below the knee. They had cork, wedge shaped heels, a good three inches higher than the soles, lengthening her thighs and sculpting her calves. Her hair glowed like a halo on an angel, a seriously fuckable angel. She looked stunning. She checked her watch. I knew that she was already late.

Sarah came round to my side of the bed. I had slipped on a pair of light trousers and a short sleeved shirt. She put her arms around my neck, looking up at me.

"How do I look?" she asked, giving me that smile that reeked of danger.

"You look good," I said, deciding that straight-forward honesty was the best policy for the situation.

"Kiss me, then."

She offered me her mouth. I kissed it. It was succulent. The kiss of an angel.

Her hand grazed the front of my trousers. It was deliberate. She could feel that I was hard.

"Is that for me?" she asked.

"Who else?"

She broke off the kiss.

"That's nice to know," she said, walking back around the bed, towards the door. "Maybe later."

"It is just dinner, isn't it?" I said, thinking that beneath the dress she was wearing absolutely nothing. 

She was half way out the door as she turned to answer, giving an angelic smile that promised nothing.

"We'll see," she said, and she was gone.

I was still hungry, except that the way that Sarah had left had taken away a large part of my appetite. It is not fun to be on holiday, celebrating your first year of marriage, and finding yourself having to eat alone, while your wife is with someone else, wearing a figure hugging dress with nothing whatsoever underneath.

This was Spain. My wife was wearing red, the colour of a cape, used by matadors in bull rings to rouse the bull. That dress would rouse Franco. 

I know that there are guys who like their wives to be serviced by a bull, but I am not one of them. What I really was not sure of was whether Sarah intended just to tease the bull, or let him skewer her. From what I had seen of him on the beach, the guy would use every ploy to strip her of the red that concealed so little of her body, and he had a serious looking horn.

More than wanting to eat, I wanted to drink. A bottle of Rioja would go down well. Except that at some stage Sarah would come back. At least I hoped she would come back. The thought that she might even spend the night with him filled my bowels with dread. If, and when, she came back to our hotel, I wanted to be sober. The last thing I wanted was for her to find me drunk, my sorrows drowned in dark oblivion alongside that black bikini bottom.

If you have never done it, you cannot imagine it. It is an unbearable, agonising, soul destroying, excruciating, living hell, that sends unhealthy palpitations through your heart, makes your stomach heave, loosens your bladder and your bowels loosen, and threatens to leave you a juddering, miserable nervous wreck.

If you do not believe me, try it for yourself. Offer your wife the opportunity to dinner date another guy, and have her wear a fuck me dress, with nothing underneath. Not just nothing underneath the dress, but a dress that is off the shoulder, so that it is clear she is has no bra beneath, a dress that is tight around her body, so that her nipple stubs press against the dress, and so that the perfect, smooth curve of her hip, without a pantie line, tells him that her slit is bare, a dress that is cut short enough that when she sits, she risks exposing herself to him and to anyone around. Then sit at home and wait five hours. See how it feels.

Except I was not at home. I was in a hotel bedroom, in a lively holiday resort that was full of hotel bedrooms, and I was picturing Franco, the Spanish bull from the beach that morning, opening his bedroom door and guiding Sarah to his bed. I could see him raise her dress. Just lift the hem, draw it up her body, and she would be naked.

You might think you know your wife, but suddenly you find out that however well you think you know her, a wedge of doubt will force itself into your mind. If during dinner, he rests his hand on hers, she just might leave her hand under his, or open her fingers to entwine them with his. If as they leave the restaurant, he suggests a stroll, and takes her hand, she just might agree, and walk hand in hand with him, or let him put his arm around her bare shoulder.

The wedge of doubt will widen. He might suggest a club, and hold her on the dance floor, and she might just let him put his hands, not on her back and waist, but lower, on her buttocks, his fingers reaching just beneath their curves. He might hold her close, and she just might allow it, not resisting, even when she feels his hardness squeezed between their bodies. He might find a quiet corner, and she just might offer him her mouth, let his tongue explore, let him reach down between her legs, caress her thigh, find her unprotected, smooth hairless pubis and slide his finger right into her slit.

The wedge of doubt becomes a thick plank of wood, as you wonder what her response will be if her invites her to his room for drinks. She just might say yes. She just might let him raise her dress. She just might let him guide her to the bed, let him kiss her neat, hard nippled breasts, let him move lower, and probe with his tongue into that slit, find what lies within, and pleasure her. 

Then the doubt levers your mind wide open. It is just possible, that just this once, your wife just might let this guy lie between her parted legs and stretch her wide open with his rampant cock head, let him ease his way inside, let him thrust and drive and plunge and slide his thick, solid cock again and again and again and again until both he and she find their release, and he empties himself with spurt after spurt of thick, gooey, impregnating come, deep inside her lush, pulsating, shuddering, all too fertile body. 

Which reminds me of something I did not explain before. We had agreed that after just one year of marriage, at twenty six and twenty three, it was too soon to decide to try seriously for a family, but not too soon just to let nature take its course, and if it happened, then it happened. But if it happened, it was supposed to be with me, and not with some Spanish bull who would be all too happy to impregnate each and every English girl he picked up on the beach.

There are some bits of social protocol I have not paid enough attention to. I can get things wrong. Sarah had her mobile phone with her, but somehow it did not seem quite right to text her along the lines of, if he fucks you, make sure you use protection. It might come across as accepting the inevitable, consenting to it even. Not wanting to send the wrong implicit message, I had decided to assume that Sarah would be sensible, and not let him come inside her, deposit his semen in her womb, and have his sperm seek out a fertile egg. 


Spanish Bull For Real



You might want to read Spanish Bull before you read this sequel. Then you will know why I had thrown my twenty three year old, petite, blonde wife, naked, into the sea on what was a busy Spanish beach, and what she had put me through the night before.

You will know about the way my wife ended up naked on a beach, where going topless, with just bikini bottoms, was as daring as it got, but where Sarah walked from the sea with not even a single blonde pubic curl to shield the neat, pink labia that peeped out from her slit.

You will also know how she punished me for losing the bikini bottom she had been wearing, when, having pulled it down her legs in a play fight in the sea, unthinkingly I threw it away from her, and it sank before she reached it, a punishment that made me believe that she was having dinner with a Spanish guy who had picked her up while she was sunbathing, still naked, on the same busy beach, and getting fucked by him, even though we had agreed that we would let nature take its course that holiday, and see if we could start a family.

You will know just how I felt, believing that that was what was happening, experiencing the torment of picturing her with this other guy, not knowing if they would use protection, and all too aware of the hard on that went with thinking about them fucking, and that would not go away, until after she got back, and I punished her for what she had put me through with another fucking, the hardest I had ever given her, and which she loved.

Lastly, you will know that the next morning, the same guy, Franco, had turned up on the beach, where Sarah had decided that if she could sunbathe naked the day before, she could do it that day as well. Another guy was with this Franco, and it turned out that Franco was just a gay hairdresser, his friend Carlos was not just his friend, but rather more, and that Sarah's 'dinner date' had been a late night appointment at Franco's salon to get highlights in her hair, Spanish hours being so much later than in London, followed by some midnight clubbing with Franco and Carlos, just to keep me waiting, and thinking something else was going on. 

It was when the guys had gone on down the beach that Sarah had teasingly joked about the way I had been so turned on when I had thought that Franco had actually fucked her, and it was true. My cock had been rock solid all the time that I had been waiting for her to get back, and when she told me what it had been like with Franco, making it all up of course, all I had wanted to do was fuck her myself, like I said, giving her the hardest fucking ever. 

It was when Sarah suggested that maybe she would find another guy for real when we were back in London, if that was it made me fuck her, that I picked her up, put her across my shoulders, carried her to the sea and threw her into the water, as punishment for a joke that went too far. So now that you are up to speed, read on.

Sarah stayed under the water for a long, slow motion thirty seconds. I watched as she floundered, before turning in the water, finding her feet on the sand, using her arms to help bring herself upright. Then she was standing, water streaming down her hair, and dripping from her breasts to fall in the water just an inch or two below them. She drew her hair back from her face, her mouth open as she gulped in air, but a smile formed rapidly. 

Picking her up, putting her over my shoulder, and carrying her naked past other sunbathers, far enough and deep enough to throw her into the sea, legs and arms scrabbling in the air, splashing a mini tidal wave as she hit the water, I knew I had been taking a chance as to how she would react. Her smile said that things were fine. She really should not have said that bit about finding a guy when we got back to London.

Not that she had been wrong. There was no way that I would admit it to her, but all the time that I had thought that she was getting fucked by Franco, I had been turned on. It was not my choice. That was just how my cock had reacted. I had been hard as I watched her dress for him, stayed hard when she left to meet him, had to live with a rigid cock while walking in the town to get something to eat, and then in bed, when I was waiting for her to get back, my cock had stayed thick, stiff, and pulsating. 

Of course I had been relieved when Franco and Carlos had turned up on the beach and I had realised that Sarah had played me, that nothing had happened with Franco, that he was gay, and that it had not been dinner followed by his place, but a late night appointment at a hair salon, followed by drinks at a club with Franco and Carlos. But when Sarah had got back and started describing what Franco supposedly had done to her, I had still been ready to give her the fuck of a life-time. 

Just the same, teasing me about liking the way I had been turned on was one thing, but saying that once we were back in London, she would do it for real, was going too far. She deserved what I had just done, although as she stood there facing me, water dripping from her, I was remembering the day before, when she had decided to take revenge for being left naked in the sea, and wondered if she might do the same again. The smile that formed on her lips at least reassured me there were no hard feelings. Or so I thought.

Still smiling, my wife walked to me, reached up to put her arms around my neck, and looked up at me.

"You're really telling me you weren't turned on at all?" Sarah said.

The way she said it, it was not a question. It was a statement. She knew just how turned on I had been. I did not answer. There was no way that I was going to admit it. Instead I bent towards her, my hands holding her slender back and neat buttocks, my lips engaging softly with hers, and for that moment, there was no one else on the beach.

As we kissed, I felt her arm move down between our bodies. Under the water, Sarah's hand slipped inside my swimming shorts, finding my cock, not hard, but getting there. She still had her other hand on my shoulder, and we were still kissing, so it was with that one hand in my shorts that she caressed my cock to full erection. Taking advantage of my being waist deep in the water, my back to the beach, she then lowered the sides of my swimming shorts down past my hips, and eased the front over my erection, so that my cock was standing free, the head just a few inches below the surface of the water.

"Wouldn't you have liked it if Franco really had fucked me?" Sarah asked, still stroking my cock.

I did not answer, but Sarah put both of her hands back around my neck. She used the buoyancy of the water to lift herself, parting her legs on either side of my body, lifting herself, and locking her ankles behind my back. Instinctively, I moved my hands beneath her, taking her weight. 

It was not deliberate, but my two hands, one under each of her perfect buttocks, held her open. All Sarah had to do was reach behind, angle my cock to her pussy, and let her body sink down onto it. In spite of the sea water, she was slick with her own secretions, and my cock slid inside so deep I could let go of her buttocks, her weight supported by her arms and legs, tight around me, by the buoyancy of the water, and the strength of my erect shaft lodged deep inside her, eight inches of unyielding support.

Behind me, I knew that there were several hundred people, sunbathing, strolling on the sand, playing beach tennis, reading, talking, and some of them would be looking out to sea, possibly even watching, but all that we were visibly doing was embracing each other. If anyone guessed what was going on beneath the surface, it really did not matter. Sarah's pussy felt delicious around my cock.

"I liked the way you fucked me," Sarah said, looking me in the eyes, still smiling. "I meant what I said. If that's how you fuck me when you think I've just come from someone else, then I really should do it. Maybe I shouldn't wait for London. Maybe I should do it here."

She gave me a mischievous, all knowing grin.

It did not matter whether Sarah genuinely meant what she was saying, or was just using her power to tease. I felt my cock react. It engorged to grow just that extra few millimetres in length, and maybe in girth as well, and it twitched, giving me an awesomely exquisite sensation where my cock head was deep inside her pussy.

Sarah had felt it too. She wriggled her butt, pushing down even harder to get every millimetre of my shaft inside her.

"You see!" she laughed.

I gave up. It really did not matter. Now, at least, from meeting Franco and his boyfriend on the beach, I knew that last night had been just a figment of her imagination. One year into our marriage, my wife was still faithful to her vows. I put one hand under her tight buttocks, and the other on one of her fine boned shoulders. 

She was easy to lift. It is why I like petite. You can pick up petite, carry her, turn her every which way you want, and fuck her every which way you want. I had fucked Sarah standing up before, against a wall, and even without a wall, in the middle of our bedroom. She is that light. Even without the buoyancy of the water, she is so easy to pick up, and then lower onto my cock, and fuck. I have even turned her upside down, and held her, legs parted, while I have licked between her labia, and while, head down at my groin, she has sucked my cock. 

So lifting Sarah with just one hand beneath her buttocks, while standing in the sea, was easy. I lifted her right to where only my cock head was inside her. Then I pushed down with the hand that was on her shoulder, ramming her onto my cock. 

The cry that my wife gave was somewhere between a groan and a banshee shriek. I checked behind for anyone rushing to save what might have been a drowning woman, as Sarah clamped herself to me, still shuddering from the aftershock. 

Shuddering she might have been, but Sarah likes it hard.

"Again," she said a moment later.

No one on the beach had seemed to notice, so I did it again. I raised her up, and rammed her down. Then I did it again. And again. And again. 

It must have felt good for her, because while she controlled that scream, she whimpered every time I pushed her down, and it was not that long before she came. Mind you, it was at least as good for me. 

Petite is tight around your cock, and each time I pushed her back down my cock slid fast and deep inside her pussy, the head forcing its way all the way back up and into her delicious inner depths, the tightness of her pussy pulling deliciously on my frenum, until the spasming of her pussy around my cock took me to the tipping point where I could not hold back, so that as she was still shuddering and quivering from her orgasm, and while still standing waist deep in the sea, my cock was firing white hot semen into my wife's delicious cunt.

We slowly calmed after the storm, Sarah's arms and legs still locked around me, our mouths locked again, and I thought how lucky I was to have this wonderful, gorgeous, sexy woman as my wife, to fuck and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, and all the other vows that we had made about being obedient and faithful and everything else. 

Walking from the sea, my shorts adjusted, but Sarah still naked and unconcerned, I thought how amazing she was, not worrying what a beach full of people might think, when, for all she or I knew, alongside the water still trickling down her body, some of my come was almost certainly oozing from between her lower lips, her smooth, hairless pubis concealing nothing from anyone we passed. 

Sarah might have been unconcerned, but I was still scanning the beach for any sign of officialdom, any indication that anyone might have seen, might have known what we had been doing, and might remonstrate with us. No one did, but I relaxed only when we were back at our towels, and Sarah was lying down, less conspicuous. Only then did I properly take in what we had just done. Inside, I smiled.

My faithful, obedient wife did not, however, let me forget about Franco, and what I had thought had happened the night before. For the next few days she would remind me with little comments, repeatedly saying that she knew that it had turned me on, and either asking me if I would like her to find a guy who was not gay, and do it for real, or just telling me that before the holiday was over, she would do it, because she knew that I would like it if she did.

She would talk about it on the beach, and I would have to turn over onto my front to hide the growing tent in my swimming shorts. She would say it over dinner, and I would grateful for the table cloth hiding the size of my cock pushing my trousers out of shape. 

Mostly, or maybe I should say at greater length and with more descriptive detail, Sarah would talk about letting this imaginary guy fuck her while we were making love, and she revelled in the effect this had on me. 

Hearing your wife talking about how it would feel to have another guy coming inside her is seriously hot, even if it is not what she should be saying. There are only two ways to stop her. One is to clamp your hand over her mouth. It is effective, but it restricts your movement, and you lose your rhythm fucking her. The other way is to slam your cock even harder, so that she cries out and moans and groans so much she cannot utter another word. 

That second way is more enjoyable, but it is also exactly what she wants, so having learned how you will respond, as soon as you slow down, she will describe her fantasy even more, to make you fuck her hard like that again.

At first, Sarah said that she would wait until the last night of the holiday, but then she changed that, saying that we should enjoy our last night together, so maybe it would be better the night before. 

She even left me one morning for an hour, calling in at the hair salon, saying that Franco might know someone who would enjoy fucking her. He might be a gay hairdresser, but he would have friends who would like to fuck a woman, even if it was just one night with her.

It got to our second last day. 

At nine in the morning, we were still in bed.

Sarah's phone signalled an incoming text. I was turned away from her, but I sensed her pick up the phone and check it.

"Franco's found a guy for me," she said, putting down the phone.

I froze where I lay, or at least most of me did. My heart did not freeze. It started pounding, hard. My cock did not freeze either. It just grew, from flaccid to rigid, in milliseconds.

"He says to come by the salon around nine, after we've had dinner."

I kicked my brain into gear. I knew what was going on. Hearing her tell me what was in the text, my physical reaction had been instinctive, but I was not going to be caught twice. It was obviously just another wind up.

"Sure, fine," I said. "Sounds good."

My heart and cock might have reacted, but I was determined that I was not going to let Sarah play me yet again. Instinct, from between my legs, was telling me to turn around, mount her, and fuck her, but somehow I resisted the impulse. My head said not to give her the satisfaction. I do not mean the sexual satisfaction. I mean the satisfaction of being able to turn me on at will, but telling that someone else was going to fuck her.

I used the standard trick. I made myself think about some work issues waiting in my London office. Focusing hard on them enabled my erection to subside. Then I could turn over.

"Breakfast?" I asked. "Then the beach?"

Sarah did not give up. She was determined to get the reaction from me that she wanted. She asked me over our coffee, Spanish rolls and jam, whether I was really sure I did not mind. I assured her I was fine with it. One fictitious roll with a Spaniard would not affect our marriage. 

She asked again on the beach. I hardly put down my book. If that was what she wanted, it was okay by me. She asked at lunch, a buffet of salads and cold meats. She was having spicy sausage with her salade mixte. As long as it was only sex, I said, I really did not care what kind of sausage she enjoyed. 

Putting it simply, there was no way that I was going to let Sarah bluff me into a reaction a second time around. After dinner, she could just do her thing with Franco, pretend to be with this other guy, while I hit a couple of bars, and later, back at our hotel, we could enjoy her little fantasy while making out.

In fairness, Sarah put every effort into making me believe it was for real. Getting ready for dinner, she shaved every place she needed to while she was in the shower. I was shaving my own five o'clock shadow at the basin, and could see through the slightly misted shower glass. Watching your wife is a voyeuristic pleasure that is a husband's right. 

The black silk dress she chose was even sexier than the one she had worn for Franco, or than any she had worn that holiday. The silk clung to her figure, moulding itself to her breasts and buttocks. Her nipples pushed against it, proving that there was nothing underneath the silk other than her slender body. 

At the back, a silver button held the dress together at the neckline. Then, all the way from the neckline right to the cleft of her trim buttocks her back was bare. Even the sides of her breasts were bare. And as if that were not enough, the left hand side of the dress confirmed it as the serious fuck me dress that it so clearly was.

On the right, the silk curved around her waist, round her hip and over her buttocks, leaving the top half inch of buttock cleft displayed. On the left, only a pair of two inch silver chains held the front and back together, one just above her pelvis, and level with her pubis. 

While the outlines of her nipple stubs, and her naked back, said that beneath the silk her breasts were bare, the absence of any fabric of any kind, crossing that exposed left side of her slender body, between the chains, said that her buttocks and pubis also were bare beneath the fine, black, knee length silk.

As Sarah moved around the bedroom, checking her hair, perfecting her lipstick, and slipping on black, high heeled, strappy shoes, the open left side of her dress bared her legs, and threatened to bare even more. Seated to do her make up, the front fell between her legs, dangerously close to her pubis. I wondered how it would be if she went clubbing, and what might be revealed on the dance floor. I also thought that this was no dress to wear outside if there were even the slightest breeze. 

We made our way to the restaurant where we would eat before she left for Franco's salon, the front of Sarah's dress swaying as I had thought it would. A wicked side of my imagination wished that the light breeze playing with the hem was just a little stronger. My teasing wife deserved to be exposed.

What we ate for dinner does not matter. It was good, but slightly rushed, since Sarah was due at Franco's salon by nine o'clock. She checked her watch twice as we waited for our main courses, and again as we were finishing, saying that she would have to go, and that she did not have time for a desert. She also said that she needed to thank me. She could not believe that I was letting her do this. She would make it up to me. The act was good.

We had been sitting at an outside table, so her leaving me was smooth and easy. We both stood up. We kissed. She said that she would see me later. I told her to enjoy it, thinking of her sitting in the salon, whiling away the time with Franco and his boyfriend, until she could come back to the hotel and pretend that something more had happened. 

As a parting shot, Sarah whispered into my ear.

"I thought I'd let him do it bare." 

Then she broke away, grinned, and sauntered down the street. I watched her petite body weaving through the tourist crowd, tanned back, slender golden legs, the left lag flashing naked to her buttock, until she disappeared. 




Spanish Bull For Real



It was just like my wife to play the ultimate tease at the last moment, saying that she would let him do it bare. If anything that told me that a tease was all it was. There was no way that she would risk it. Not when her cycle meant that round about now was when she was most fertile. I grinned at the cheek of her, the nearly exposed buttock cheek, and the tease that she was.

The waiter took away our plates and asked if we wanted anything more, desert or coffee. I guess that he assumed Sarah had gone inside to use the rest room. I asked for the cuenta, and sipped at the remaining wine while waiting for it to arrive. I paid, still lingering over my wine, even though I knew the restaurant would want the table freed for a second set of covers. The season lasted only so long, and I knew they had to make the most of it. But ten minutes more before I left would make no difference. Fifteen minutes later, I saw Helga.

Not that I knew her name, or had ever set eyes on her before, but she was in a bar that I was passing, and I liked the black waves of hair, the blue denim shirt tied beneath full breasts, the high cut denim shorts and infinitely long legs, and the fact that she was on her own. It seemed an ideal opportunity to find out if I still had what it took.

It seemed I did. 

Helga smiled, and I went over. That was when I learned her name, and established that she was German, that she had a week's solo holiday before going back to Berlin, that she had a black alsatian her father was looking after while she was away, and various other bits and pieces about her and her life. She also knew a good place to go and dance.

Dancing would keep my mind off Sarah. 

While finishing my wine, back at the restaurant, the thought had crossed my mind that just maybe, I was wrong. That maybe there really was another guy. 

Talking with Helga, my brain flashed a message that maybe, if the guy did exist, then they might already be heading to his flat, or hotel room, or wherever they would fuck. 

Walking to the club, as well as liking that I could still pick up a stunning, tall, full breasted, German woman, I was also thinking that maybe my wife would soon be taking off her fuck me dress, and opening her fuck me legs to offer this guy her fuck me cunt. 

Inside the club, Helga came close, and felt my rigid cock press against her denim. She gave me a knowing smile, thinking it was for her.

I stayed on low alcohol. I wanted to be able to perform later. Helga liked her vodka. Between ten and midnight she had three or four, on top of the ones she had already had back at the bar. Soon after midnight the below breast knot in her shirt came loose. She did not care. She just let the shirt hang open, not caring if the sides were wide enough to bare her breasts.

No one cared. They were impressive breasts, full, white, with three inch wide brown areoles and half inch proud stubs of nipples. No wonder I had felt those nipple stubs pressing against my chest, especially since Helga's left nipple had the twin steel balls of a bar-bell piercing, nestling on either side of it.

By then, I was more than in with a chance. Helga was offering herself on a plate, with ice cream and chocolate sauce. 

I was still as rock hard as I had been when she first pressed against me in the club. Every so often my brain had reminded me that Sarah's tease might not have been a tease. She would have known that she could not play the same game twice. Teasing me with another fiction was a waste of time. Which meant that only way to tease for real would be to fuck for real. 

Pictures of her, on her knees in front of some Spanish guy, or on her back beneath him, or on her hands and knees with him behind her, kept intruding in my head, and then Helga would wipe them all away with the loosely hanging sides of her denim shirt, and the caress of hard nipple stubs against my shirt.

We were dancing to some slower music when I saw Franco at the bar. Then Carlos. As a couple of other dancers moved to one side, I saw Sarah there as well, sipping what might have been white wine. 

Helga noticed I was looking to the side, and turned to see what I was looking at. Her breast had been against my chest. Turning bared her nipple, the one with the bar-bell that went right through. 

I read my wife's eyes, knowing that she had seen the exposed, pierced German nipple that I had just been teasing with my finger tips.

Sarah reached for Franco's shoulder, saying something. He looked at her for several seconds. Then he put his drink down on the bar and spoke to Carlos. A moment later, all three were gone.

I thought to follow. I also thought that at least I knew there was no other guy. Sarah with two gay Spanish guys was not a problem. My problem was that she had just seen me with a German girl who liked to bare her breasts. Dancing close. My hand level with her breast. Not just any breast. A breast with a stiffly erect, pierced nipple between two glinting balls of steel on either side.

That was when Helga asked the question.

"We fuck me later, yes, or do I find another guy?"

I apologised. I said to find another guy, that that had been my wife. 

She gave me an 'are you mad?' kind of look. Then she caressed my hard on through my trousers, said something about my wife being a lucky woman, and moved away, retying her shirt, and scanning the club for other, single guys. 

I left, hoping to catch sight of Sarah and the guys. I needed to get things straight, to apologise, and hope that my wife would not think that what she had seen had been anything had been more than it was, a mild diversion that would have led to nothing.

No Sarah. No guys. Nowhere in sight. I swore to myself. All I could do was head back to the hotel.

It was close to one. Our room was empty, just as we had left it. I wondered how long Sarah would give it before returning. I thought about Helga as I undressed, regretfully, in more ways than one. Regret that Sarah had seen us, of course. Regret also that I had not been free to enjoy that svelte German body, to suck on that pierced nipple, and to discover what lay beneath those denim shorts, smooth like Sarah, or jet black curls to match her German mane, a slit, or protruding labia, maybe another piercing to match her bar-bell, a ring perhaps, set through fleshy labia. I would never know.

Just to be clear, I never would have know anyway, even if Sarah and the Spanish guys had not turned up, I would not have gone there. Helgaas a distraction on the dance floor was fine, but I was not about to be unfaithful. I would have wanted to, but reluctantly, I would still have told Helga 'no'.

I cleaned my teeth, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. I just wanted Sarah back. It was time to end the games.

I sank onto the bed, getting under the cotton sheet that was all that was needed in the warmth of a Spanish night. I used the master switch on the headboard to turn off the main lights, and left on just the bedside lamp on Sarah's side. It was not part of the plan, but I fell asleep, and did not wake until Sarah kissed my shoulder.

"Hi," she said.

My back was to her, and I could feel her breasts soft against me, her nipples hard, her hand reaching over me, feeling for my cock. 

I might have gone to sleep, but that one part of me had not. My cock was still as hard as it had been with Helga, as if it had been thinking, all the time that I had been sleeping, that Sarah was letting someone else do to her what my cock had been waiting to do, ever since Franco's text that morning. 

"Hi," I managed to say, still half asleep.

"Who was she?" she asked.

"Just someone I met."

"You seemed pretty close."

"It wasn't anything."

"So you weren't fondling her nipple?"

"Okay, yes, but that was all."

"Was it pierced? I couldn't see."

"Yes."

"Did you like that?"

"If I'm honest, then yes," I said. "But it was just a bit of play."

"So you didn't plan to fuck her?"

"No."

"What happened then?"

"I came out and looked for you. I didn't see you, so I just came back here."

"So you really didn't get a fuck?"

"No."

"I did."

All the time we had been talking, Sarah had been holding my cock, her fingers around the shaft, slowly moving up and down. So when my cock twitched in reaction to those two words, she sensed it.

"I wasn't planning to," she said, "but when I saw you with that slut I decided to. Franco and Carlos are bi. I let them fuck me."

My cock gave another involuntary twitch. My heart was doing the same pounding thing that it had done that morning. My head was saying no, she was just saying it. She was punishing me again, playing me, and maybe I deserved it.

"How was it?" I asked.

"You don't mind?" Sarah asked.

"I guess it's only fair," I said. "You really had both of them?"

By then I was awake enough to reach for my watch. It was something after four. More than three hours since she had caught me in the club. More than enough time.

"I wouldn't have, but you seemed so okay with my letting some guy fuck me, and then when I saw you ..."

Listening to her, and feeling her hand slowly but steady stroking up and down on my cock, I liked the way she was still using her imagination to turn me on, and I was by then awake enough to be ready to turn around and take her.

"So they're not gay?" I asked before I turned.

"Bi," she said.

Something about the way she said it rang an alarm bell. It was the shortest possible answer she could give. No complicated explanation. They were bi-sexual, that was all. Simple.

I turned around. She kept hold of my cock, bringing her hand between us instead of around me. I put my arm around her and looked into her eyes.

"So how was it, having two gay guys?" I asked, still not really believing her.

"Good," she said. "But not as good as having you, having the guy I love, even he picks up other women."

"They both fucked you?"

She nodded ever so slightly, her head moving on the pillow. She was still looking into my eyes, not breaking off contact, not looking to one side for inspiration in a story she was making up.

"On the floor, and then in bed."

This time I said nothing, and just waited to see what else my wife would say. It took a moment, but then she went on.

"First Franco got me to suck him, on my hands and knees. While I was doing it, Carlos went behind me. It felt amazing, two cocks, both at once."

I still did not believe her, but she was quite convincing.

"Later, they did it the other way around, on Franco's bed. I sucked Carlos, while Franco fucked me."

"Really?" I said. "Even though ..."

I was trying to convey the total disbelief I had in what she was telling me, and that I knew that there was no way that she would risk two guys both coming inside her when anything could happen.

"I was angry, " she said. "I wouldn't have let them do it bare, if I hadn't seen you with her like that."

I kissed her forehead, still disbelieving every word.

"It's okay," I said. 

On principle I am always willing to be okay with anything that never happened.

"Show me," Sarah said.

"Show you what?" I asked.

"Show me it's okay. Go down on me." she said. "Show me you don't mind I let them come in me."

I have never minded going down, whether on Sarah, or any of the women I enjoyed before I met her. Using my tongue to give pleasure is almost as pleasurable for me, unless, of course, I bring her to orgasm, in which case her pleasure is greater than mine, but it is still incredible satisfying giving her that pleasure.

Sarah turned onto her back.

I moved down and between her legs, parting them even more, and running my fingers down the sides of her pussy, where her labia protruded, and where, if I were honest, they looked thicker, and reddened, as if they had been abused. Maybe she had done that to herself.

I eased her labia apart with my fingers, lowered my head, and ran my tongue in the crevice between those parted labia, right to her clit. She moaned. Giving pleasure is a pleasure. Except she tasted bitter. 

I knew that taste. I had licked her often enough after coming in her myself. The taste of come is bitter, my come, or in this case, someone else's. My wife had someone else's semen in her cunt. She had played for real, even though the stakes were high. Gambling her egg against someone else's sperm.

FUCK!! Fuck, fuck and fuck!! FUCK!!

This was supposed to have been a game. A wind up. I already knew for sure, but even so I checked, running my tongue between her labia a second time. There was no question. I could taste the come. Franco's? Carlos'? Or both? FUCK!!

This was supposed to be the holiday where we were seeing what happened, letting nature take its course. That was what had got me that other night, a week ago, when she had said that she was meeting Franco, that she might let him fuck her without protection, while any day around then, around now, she could be fertile. And now she really had let him, let them, fuck her. FUCK!!

A week ago it had been a wind up. Or so I thought. Maybe it had not been. Maybe Franco and Carlos turning up on the beach as boyfriends had just been a cover. Maybe. 

But this time there was no maybe. My wife's cunt tasted of come. This was serious. Whether it was another guy, or Franco, or Carlos, or both Franco and Carlos, Sarah had Spanish semen, tasting of bitter olives from a bar top tapas, coating her labia, and had let one, or two, Spanish men spurt their sperm inside her, sperm that would still be flicking their Spanish tails, seeking out an egg, any egg, because sperm do not care whose womb they are swimming in. They just swim back and forth, ready to push through the egg wall with their Spanish sperm heads, and kick-start cells into dividing and dividing. Any egg will do. My wife's fertile egg would do just fine. Muchas gracias! FUCK!!

I stopped what I was doing. I moved myself up Sarah's body, taking my weight on my arms, looking down at her.

"You actually let them come inside?" I asked, incredulous that she had taken such a risk.

"It's fine," she said. "Franco said so. They've both had the snip."

"And you believed him?" 

"He knew we were trying," Sarah said. "I told him last week while he was putting my highlights in. I don't think he'd have lied." 

"FUCK!!" 

That was the first time that I had said it out loud. 

It was possible of course. They were both in their fifties. They might both have been circumcised. It was also possible that Franco had lied. That he had just wanted to fuck Sarah without any latex inconvenience. Why would he worry? They had an English "cono" they could fuck, and she was married with a husband. What did it matter if they came inside her? It would be her husband's problem.FUCK!!

Maybe he even got off on fucking fertile tourists. Maybe he liked to see himself as a bull, a thrusting Spanish bull, whose cojones he liked to empty into the cunt of any English, Dutch and German woman who would lie back and part her legs. Maybe he liked it that Sarah and I were trying for a family. Maybe it turned him on that she was fertile, and that we might fly home to England his Spanish sperm inside her egg, bringing it to life, making a real cuckold of the husband. FUCK!!

I lowered myself. My cock found its way all on its own. It slid into her. Deep. Deep enough to feel the difference in the way she felt. Not quite as tight. Wetter. Not just wet in the sense of sliding smoothly, but more than that. How many fucking times had they come in her?

I asked her.

"Two," she said. "No, maybe three," correcting herself.

"Altogether?" I asked.

"Each," she said. "Maybe,... I'm not sure,... maybe Carlos came one more time. I think he might have."

It no longer sounded as if she was making it up, and I could not see why she should. Even if it had been just one guy, coming once inside her, she knew that I would have tasted the come from between her lower lips. But five times? Twice each and maybe Carlos one more time? No. She had to be making that up. I hoped.

That was when I started fucking her. I mean really fucking her, the way the fucking slut deserved to be fucked. I hammered into her. Absolutely no fucking mercy. She might be a fucking slut but she needed to know whose fucking slut she was. She was my fucking slut. Mine, not theirs. She was wearing my ring. Her pussy belonged to me. Her cunt was mine. 

Incredibly, all Sarah did was beg me to keep fucking her. He wrapped her arms and legs around me, gasping with each of my thrusts, but still telling me to fuck her harder. She kissed my neck and chest, sucked on my nipples, gripped my buttocks with her spayed fingers, and urged me on with every moan and cry.

I did exactly as she asked, not because she was asking me, but because in my head my cock was an instrument of punishment. I fucked her hard, fast and furious, until she was crying and whimpering and begging me to come inside her, and then I gave her what she was begging for, and spewed my pent up sperm deep into her, into my wife's cunt, into my fucking slut wife's cunt, into the pussy that I adored.

We slept afterwards. I held her tight. Spoons. 

Her buttocks turned to my groin. 

I woke in the morning, my brain working overtime. I had said that it was okay with me, although when I said it I had not realised that she had actually let them fuck her. I had been thinking it was just made up. Now I knew, but it still had to be okay. I wanted her.

Maybe there was actually something to be admired. I had been impressed that after that day when I had thrown her bikini bottom in the sea, Sarah had continued to go naked on the beach, a normal 'textile' beach. She had sunbathed naked every day since then, getting an all over tan, and she had swum naked, and even played more beach tennis naked. She had broken the rules, and I had been impressed.

In a way, I was also impressed that my wife, petite and vulnerable looking as she was, had let these two Spanish guys do what they did to her. How many wives would do that? It was against the rules. She had broken the rules, and while I was still concerned that one of the guys might not have been firing blanks, in some crazy way, I had to admire her for her daring.

Still lying in spoons, I kissed Sarah's shoulder. She gave an appreciative moan, snuggling back towards me. We would be okay. It would be nice to know for sure though. Had it been both guys? Both at once? Or was she just saying that? Maybe I would never know for sure.

That last day, we did not make breakfast. We fucked most of the morning. What is it about some other guys fucking you wife that makes you want to fuck her all the more? And makes her want it more as well?

We did hit the beach that afternoon, but by six we were back in bed, fucking like rabbits. 

Sarah wore the same black silk dress to dinner. Whether she was deliberately reminding me of what had happened the night before, or just wearing it again because she looked so good in it, I still kept picturing her on her hands and knees, sucking Franco's cock, while Carlos wasshafting her from behind.

It was Sarah's idea to go to the club where she had caught me with Helga. To my relief, Helga was not there. While we were dancing, Sarah asked how Helga's shirt had ended up hanging open. I said I did not know, and she said that probably, she had done it on purpose, to turn me on. Then she asked me if it had worked, adding that she had seen my cock was hard.

The truth was that I had been hard from wondering about Sarah had been doing, but I did not tell her that. Instead I just said maybe. 

In answer, Sarah gathered the silk front of her dress, which you will remember was not just backless, but was cut close to her breasts on either side. She bunched it at her neck, so that it was tight over her breasts, then moved her hand down, drawing the silk between her breasts, baring them.




Spanish Bull For Real



I remembered Sarah calling Helga a slut, and guessed that she was showing that she could be just as much of a slut for me, if that was what I liked. 

Back at our hotel we fucked again. I was impressed again with my wife's daring, this time at the club. While we fucked, I pictured her naked on the beach, bare breasted at the club, and the other image that was not from memory, but was my imagined reconstruction of what she had described, Sarah with the two guys who had fucked her just the night before. 

As for whether it had really been both Franco and Carlos who had fucked my wife, the truth emerged, but unexpectly. 

We were at the airport, waiting for our flight, when Sarah needed to use the toilet and left me with our hand-luggage in the departure lounge. 

Her phone, from somewhere in her hand-bag, gave that same tone that said a text had just arrived, a little muffled by the soft leather of the bag.

I calculated rapidly. Sarah had just left me. Allowing for the time to get to the washrooms, to go inside, do what she needed to, and then get back, I had maybe two or three minutes. Maybe longer, but at least two minutes. Just enough time to risk it. I unzipped her bag.

"A nuestro pequeño coño delicioso, Franco," was what the text said. Then the photos started to download.

I knew that cono meant cunt. Delicioso, was obvious. The rest I guessed. 

"To our delicious little cunt, Franco."

Short, and to the point. 

To take the photos, he must have been holding his phone in his right hand, and back a bit, to get the angle. In the first, Sarah - and it had to be Sarah, since the black silk dress was rucked up around her waist - was on her hands and knees, her head right up against his groin, her nose pressed against his stomach. His other hand, not the one holding the phone, was at the back of her head. There was only one place where his cock could be, and since I had seen its size on the beach, the head had to be some way down her throat. I was impressed that she could do that.

The other guy was behind her. His face was not in shot, but I assumed that it was Carlos. His groin was pressed hard against her buttocks. His hands were at her waist. He was obviously pulling her to him, or pulling himself deeper into her. There were two places this guy's cock could be, but from the position he was in, it looked like it was her cunt that his cock was deep inside

The second photo, when it opened, had to be some time later. They were on a bed, white sheets rucked. She was facing away from the phone's camera, her back slender, her rib cage and spine defined beneath taut, tanned skin, blonde hair falling loose around her head and shoulders, nestling at what I assumed was Carlos' groin. I knew where Carlos' cock would be. 

It was the foreground of the photo that made me look to see if Sarah was returning, and check my watch. I had maybe one more minute. 

Rapidly, I forwarded the text to my number. Then I deleted the text and photos from Sarah's phone. I put her phone back in her hand-bag and zipped it closed. I turned to look again, this time more nonchalantly. Sarah came into view, smiling.

"Hi," she said, as she rejoined me.

We kissed. 

I thought of the second photo, Francos' cock, or an inch of it, Sarah's cunt stretched around his shaft, the other six or seven inches of his cock inside her. No condom in sight. Just his cock deep in her cunt, skin on skin, the exposed inch of his shaft slick with secretions, and a globule of white something at one side, the semen that he had released inside my wife, or maybe Carlos' semen from already having come in her before Franco took his turn. 

"Love you," I said.

"Love you, too," she answered.

I still look at those photos several times a day. It is an incredible turn on. I am looking at them as I am writing this, and I am hard. I am also still taking in what I guess was the inevitable consequence of that holiday, hoped for, but not with the added complications that those photos record for ever. 

Eight months on, and seven months since the test showed blue, I still love my wife more than ever, especially her swollen belly. We still fuck as often as we can as well. With her belly the way it is, doggy has become essential, but I love fucking her like that, thinking about the life inside her, and what might, or might not be.

Franco might have told Sarah the truth about him, and Carlos, both having had vasectomies. Then again, Franco might have made it up. Or it might have been just him, not Carlos, or the other way around. If Franco lied, I guess the odds are five to one, that it was Spanish sperm that got there first, since that's how many times Sarah says they came in her.

I tell you it is one hell of a thought that your wife might have been inseminated by another guy, more so when it could be one of two other guys, both of whom you know for sure, fucked her, and fired their sperm inside her at the crucial time.

However the medics do it, they reckon it was at most one day either side of that night that Sarah's egg was fertilised. 

Not that the medics know anything about Franco and Carlos, or ever will. Nobody gets to know about them. Not even in four week's time. 

Of course, it helps that my hair is as black as any Spaniard's, and my complexion tans so naturally. If I were blond, like Sarah, there would be some explaining needed, for her and my parents, friends and family, if a dark haired baby were to arrive. As it is, no matter how dark the baby's hair, no one will suspect a thing. 

"Do you mind?" Sarah had asked me. "I mean, not knowing for sure." 

That was soon after the test was blue, and after she had accepted that Franco may not have told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. 

You cannot change the past. But a paternity test will never happen. Who cares what the result might be? 

My darling, daring, slut of a wife took a risk that no other wife would do, and I love that she let that happen. I love thinking about it while we are making love. I love those photos. I will love our child as if it were my own, which in any case, it may well be. No one will ever know what happened back in Spain that year, or whose sperm won the race.



Spanish Bull



So with all these scenarios playing in my head in the full colour, high definition, wide screen that was my imagination, I tried in vain to distract myself at least a little. I made a futile attempt to eat, to have a normal evening meal, finding a table at a sea front restaurant, sitting and ordering on my own, standing out like a sore thumb against the couples, groups and families all around me. Not a sore thumb. It was my prick that was sore, throbbing with everything that I was thinking might take place, and I felt a total prick, for that stupid, crazy moment when I threw Sarah's bikini bottom out to sea, and for letting my wife go to meet this guy. My appetite had gone. I grazed at some fish, drank just one glass of wine, still afraid of ending up blind drunk, left most of my food, asked for la cuenta, paid and left.

I people watched my way along the busy sea front, past restaurants, bars, clubs, shops with Spanish souvenirs, late night delicatessens, a late night hairdressers, wine shops, all the time half wanting and yet half afraid to see Sarah and the Spaniard at a table in one of the restaurants as I passed. Seeing them would at least reassure me that they were not already in his bedroom. Having them see me walking alone would be humiliating. I saw them nowhere, except in his bed, in my imagination, his buttocks humping, her legs around his waist, his cock erupting unprotected into her.

If it really was just for dinner, then by ten, or eleven at the latest, they would have finished, and Sarah might return, so I headed back through the laughing, raucous crowds, back to our hotel, to our bedroom, and to its emptiness.

The television at least made some noise, killing off the silence with gunfire, screaming cars and helicopters. Craig Daniels did his Bond routine. I wondered how he would have dealt with the situation I was in. Find the restaurant, send the guy crashing across the tables, take the woman by the arm and drag her out, kiss her deeply, then bring her back, rip off her dress, throw her across his knees and turn her milk white buttocks a stinging, palm shaped, flaming pink to punish her, then take her to the bed and show her how a real man makes love to the woman he adores, and give her the orgasm of her life.

That was when I started thinking just how I wanted to behave with Sarah when she got back. By then it was something after midnight, and dinner would have long been over. What was happening, was happening. One thing I was sure of. I was not going to let it end our marriage.

Having her come back and find me sitting up, waiting for her return, fretting, watching television to take my mind off where she was and what she was doing with her Spanish bull, would just destroy any remaining self respect I had left. I had not stopped her going, but now, at least, I had to try to play it cool.

I undressed, took my second shower of the evening, switched off the lights, and went to bed. I knew I would not sleep, but that was how I wanted it to look when my wife returned. Cool, unconcerned, unaffected. 

She did not put on the light. The glow from the street outside was just enough to see by. I sensed her undress, go to the bathroom, close the door, do whatever, come back to the bedroom, and slip beneath the single sheet that was all the Spanish summer night required. 

"Are you awake?" she whispered, her hand exploring, finding my arm and resting on it.

My back was to her. I turned. I reached out my arm and Sarah came to me, head on my shoulder, her hair soft against my chest.

"Yes," I said.

Silence. Then,

"Are you okay?"

Women can ask such stupid questions. She had just had dinner with another guy, someone who displayed his assets on the beach, she had come back long after one, having done whatever with this guy, and now she asked me if I was okay. Of course I was not okay. Men can also give such stupid answers, out of bravado, macho pride, or sheer inability to think what they should say.

"Yes," I said. "I'm fine."

I felt her hand, first on my thigh, then higher, then at the base, then higher, around my shaft.

"You're hard."

I knew that I was hard already. I had been hard most of the evening. I had been hard at the restaurant. I had been hard walking on the seafront. I had been hard watching Bond. I had been hard taking a shower. I had even been hard taking a leak, having to force it down to get the angle to direct my water into the bowl. I did not need Sarah to tell me that I was hard. I had never felt so hard. I hardly needed to answer her and confirm my hardness, because her fingers were wrapped around my shaft, moving up and down its hard, rock solid length, so I said nothing.

"It's bigger than Franco's," she said.

That, at least, was some comfort. I always knew that I had nothing to be ashamed of. Franco's thong had been distended on the beach and looked impressive. Mine, inside my shorts, would not have been any larger, but then, unlike Franco, I had not been not aroused. 

Like all guys, I knew what the average cock size was, and I knew that when my erection was complete, I had more than an inch above that, so I had never felt inadequate. Still, it was nice to know that I was larger than Franco.

I could only assume, though, that the comparison that Sarah was making was based on seeing Franco's cock, not in his thong, but in the raw. As Sarah curled her body, bringing her head down to the throbbing head of my cock, taking it between her lips, I pictured her doing the same to Franco, stroking his cock while sucking on it, pleasuring him ready from him to use his slick, saliva saturated cock on her.

My wife's mouth still felt wonderful. I bet that Franco had thought the same.

She used her tongue, lapping it around the taut skin of my cock head, finding the frenum, teasing it, touching the eye with the tip of her tongue, probing it, tantalising me with the impossible thought of using her tongue like a lizard to lick right inside.

She paused.

"It tastes nicer too."

I can understand preferring chocolate chip ice cream to plain vanilla, but taste testing cocks does not make sense to me. Never having tasted one, and not intending to, the concept seems seriously strange. Although, when you think about it, as a guy I have found delicious differences in taste when going down on women I have slept with. Ranking the subtle varieties in order is still something I have never thought to do, and while I enjoy the taste of Sarah's slit, I have never told her how it compares with that of other women.

So tasting better than Franco was good, but the real message that Sarah's comment had conveyed was worrying. In four short words my wife had told me that she had done exactly this to Franco too. She had sucked his cock, tasting his pre-cum, and was now comparing it to mine. If it had gone that far with them, it had to have gone all the way.

Sarah paused again. Women can read your mind.

"I promise I won't do it again, but you have to admit that you deserved it."

I did not have to admit anything, but now I knew for sure. She really had done it. She really had gone all the way. Franco had fucked her. What I did not know, and did not want to ask, was if he had come inside her. Had Franco fired his Spanish semen into her fertile English womb. Had my wife risked insemination from this bull that she had barely known for hours before she let him spew his sperm inside her. 

As if it did not matter, as if she slept with other guys every other day, Sarah went casually back to sucking on my cock. 

I should have been upset, annoyed, angry, furious even, but all I felt was my intense arousal and the need to fuck six hours of tension from my body and take it out on hers.

It was time to be assertive. I did not need any more foreplay. I did not care whether she needed it or not. She had had Franco as her foreplay. 

I used both hands, holding her by the shoulders, moved her off my chest, turning her, so that she lay beside me, face down.

I climbed between her legs, opening them to make space for mine, and when she tried to turn around to face me, I pushed down on her shoulder blades, forcing her into the mattress.

I have always liked petite. Most of the women I bedded before Sarah were petite. Not necessarily blonde, nor even necessarily white, but nine of out ten were petite. Petite is easier to manoeuvre in the bed, to turn around, or lift or hold her wrists. I have fucked petite standing up, lifting her onto my cock while she wrapped her arms around my neck, holding her under her buttocks. I have had petite squat on my cock while I was lying on the bed, locked arms with her, and then stood up, while she wrapped her legs around my back. I have even held petite upside down, while standing, licking her slit while she has sucked my cock. For that, she has to be not only petite, but daring, adventurous, flexible and lithe, but it is an experience to be savoured, both literally, and in the memory.

One of the delicious advantages of petite, are the neat buttocks that match petite's slender frame, more muscle than they are fat, which enable you to take her from behind when she is lying flat on her front. It helps, of course, that my cock has that extra inch over and above the average. With petite, your cock head can still find her slit, even when she is lying flat, because there is no massive rump to impede your access, and you can slide right in and fuck her almost as readily as if she on her back and facing you. That is what I did right then to Sarah. 

I did not want to make love to Sarah. You do not make love to someone who has just been with another man. This would be pure and simple fucking. Nothing more.

My cock slid in easily. 

I dismissed the thought that her wet cunt might be lubricated with more than her own secretions. I really did not want that foremost in my mind. Franco might have left her slick with semen but all I cared about was that she was wet and ready.

I started fucking, and she started moaning.

Right then, I was still leaning on my arms, just my lower stomach hitting her buttocks as I fucked her. I thought of Bond, leaving the guy lying in the corner of the restaurant, putting the girl over his knees in the bedroom, still dressed in black tuxedo and black bow tie, his hand rising and falling, turning her buttocks red.

Even in the dim light that seeped between and around the curtains from the street, I could make out the white triangle across Sarah's buttocks where her bikini bottom had, until that morning, shielded her from the tanning rays of blazing Spanish sun. Instead of supporting my torso with both arms, I balanced with just one hand.

Sarah has two dimples, one on each check, each just off centre. I do not mean on her face. I mean the two cheeks of her buttocks that I was gazing down at, that from the top of her cleft were still pure white, diagonal tan starting again on the lower outside curves. The dimple on her right cheek made a perfect target. The crack as my palm swiped her buttock, making the flesh ripple with the shock waves, sounded wonderful. 

Sarah groaned, a loud, prolongued groan of pain that she totally deserved.

I fucked her some more, and she was whimpering. Then I paused.

"No, please,..."

I guess this time, reading my mind was not so difficult. Sarah knew what was coming next, and I was not listening to her asking me not to do it.

Same hand. Same buttock, except that even in the dim light I could see it reddening already. Same dimple. Same rippling of her flesh. Same extended groan, or maybe longer, and maybe a little quieter as well, as if she was accepting the inevitable now.

I fucked her some more, loving her delicious tightness. Franco might have fucked her just two hours before, but he had not stretched her so much that her natural tightness was no more. Another delightful advantage of petite.

Now I balanced with the other hand. I wondered if Bond had ever punished a girl while he was actually fucking her, and if he was ambidextrous too. Then I corrected my imagination. He is a non-existent character in Fleming's books, and Brocolli's films. Who cares what the fictitious Bond has or has not done.

I am ambidextrous. I write with the right because that is what I have always done, but I can throw with my left, play snooker left handed, and can paint with either hand, walls and woodwork, if not portraits. I can balance with either hand. Strike with either hand. It was not fair on Sarah's right buttock for it to receive all the pain. The left deserved its turn.

I was not holding back. I should have done something like this before she had left, made it clear who was in charge. Okay, throwing the bikini bottom had been stupid, but it was hardly the equivalent of letting another guy fuck you. Making an extra effort with my left hand, I was rewarded with Sarah's shocked, gasping cry of pain. 

One more time. One more delicious smack, my palm bouncing sideways off her buttock, and Sarah whimpering. Enough of punishment. It was time to enjoy her.

You have to practice holding back. You can do it as you urinate. Squeeze and cut off the flow. Isolate that muscle and work on it. Contract it on the bus when you are a student, while commuting in the car when you have a decent salary, watching television, in the cinema, not at the dinner table, because it disturbs the enjoyment of the meal and conversation, but in the office will work just fine, especially in the interminable, tedious, pointless meetings.

Think of it as an investment to extend the enjoyment you will have when fucking. Guys who come soon after entering miss all the fun. The real enjoyment comes from thrusting, varying the frequency, speed, power, angle, the lengths of the thrusts, the pauses in between, keeping her guessing, taking her by surprise, shocking her with sudden ferocious pounding, or slowly sliding just the head between her lips. And if you cannot master holding back, you cannot enjoy that exquisite pleasure of prolonged, everlasting fucking of a woman.

I can never know what the woman actually feels herself. I have no idea what it would be like to have a cock sawing in and out of me. I do not know what it is like to be stretched, or to be filled, to be taken slowly, or to be hammered, to be pounded rapidly for minutes on end, thinking it will never stop, or to be made to wait, a cock head just inside the entrance, not moving, but ready to thrust again in a split second.

What I do know, is how good it feels to do all those thing to an appreciative woman, to hear her noises, gasps, grunts, moans, little cries of joy, screams of agonising but exquisite pleasure, and to feel or watch her movements, sense her giving of her body, her relaxing, letting you do to her exactly as you want, her shudders, her little spasms, her open mouth, her thrown back head, her thankful strokes and caresses of your own body, and then the ultimate, the shivering, vibration of her orgasm. Learning to hold back is an essential prerequisite to giving her those pleasures and to rejoicing in everything you do to her.

What I also know is that the sensations in my own cock as I fuck, around the taut stretched, nerve dense, cock head itself as it glides within, repeatedly opening her to take its width, and on the frenum, pulled so gently and exquisitely by the thrusting, and on the shaft, softly gripped by her surrounding muscle, all of these are so wonderful that every extra second that I enjoy a woman's body makes strengthening that muscle so wonderfully worthwhile.

I fucked Sarah, her body yielding underneath me, for a sublimely extended eternity, taking her to an orgasm that was hers alone to know in its intensity, but mine to appreciate from the evidence of her enjoyment as she squirmed and shuddered and scrabbled on the bed beneath me, and as she spasmed around my cock, vaginal muscles gripping my shaft in rapid, involuntary pulses of pleasure, and when her orgasm had eased, I fucked her more, while she tried to reach behind her and grip my flanks to pull me deeper, moaning with animal lust, and while I wondered if Franco had fucked her half so well.

Holding back is delightfully exquisite. Releasing is sheer perfection. The reserve of semen builds at the base of your cock, the fluid increasing in volume as you fuck, held back by that controlling muscle, the pressure growing, and then with release it shoots through the entire length, jetting from the eye, in spurt after delicious spurt, flooding her womb and wracking your body with an intensity of sexual pleasure indescribable to those who have not known it.

I came, and that night I filled Sarah with more semen than ever I had ejaculated inside my wife or any other woman. It was as if a dam had burst. It spewed from my cock. She felt its power and gave out a cry, shocked at its force. Now it was my body that shuddered and spasmed, and it was divinely beautiful. 

I knew for sure that Franco would not have come in her like that. If his sperm was still teeming inside my wife, it was going to have some serious competition. His might have a couple of hours start on any fertile egg that was nestling in Sarah's womb, but mine was giving chase. 

We slept. In the morning, when we woke, nothing was said, but we fucked again, except this time it was face to face, and while there was still instinctive, impersonal, animal enjoyment, there were moments too when we made love, and touched gently, and caressed and stroked and kissed.

Sarah had another orgasm, quieter, less intense, but beautiful to behold. I came again, not as copiously, and thinking as my semen spurted into her, just how we would handle it if we discovered that she was pregnant. Our first child might be another man's. 

Sarah was subdued, showering, dressing, back to shorts and tee-shirt, taking breakfast on the open roofed hotel buffet area, then walking to the beach. Perhaps she too was thinking of the potential consequences of the night before. 

As she had showered and dressed I had seen her buttocks, still pink, and wondered if she still felt them throbbing. She did not complain when I told her not to take either of her remaining two bikinis. If she could lie naked yesterday, we could find a place today where she would do the same again.

It seemed only appropriate, after all, that some other users of the beach at least, would see her buttocks, and know that she had accepted punishment, even if they did not know that it was for offering herself to Franco.

Sarah was still hesitant to remove her shorts. She sat on her towel, and just slid them down discretely. It is amazing that on a crowded beach, people are so engaged with their own group that they fail to notice what is happening right beside them.

I smoothed lotion over her, careful with her buttocks, not to increase any residual pain that lingered where they were pink, but also to ensure that they were well protected from the sun. Moving her luscious hair from her shoulder blades to smooth the lotion there, I thought it glinted even more golden that it had before, no longer pure, even blonde, but with streaks that were almost white, radiant in the sun.

It was while I was smoothing the lotion onto her body that Sarah spoke to me.

"I didn't expect you to react like that. I thought you'd be upset, not excited. The way you made love to me was wonderful. It felt as if you owned me, and I belonged to you."

"You do belong to me," I said.

She smiled.

"Do you want to know the truth?" she asked.

If she meant the details of what had happened the night before with Franco, the answer was that I really did not want to know. Not then, not ever.

"No," I said.

"Okay," she said. Then several quiet moments later.

"Just promise me that you will make love to me like that forever."

"I promise," I answered.




Spanish Bull



The last person I wanted to find us on the beach was Franco. This time the thong was black. He had a friend with him, shorter, slender, hair dyed blonde and crew cut, a double barbed wire tattoo around his ankle.

"Hey, how are you?" Franco greeted us, like a long lost friends. "Naked again! Isn't she too much!"

Sarah smiled.

"So,.." Franco said to me. "You like her hair? It took for ages, but I think it's worth it. Don't you? I hope you didn't mind that Chico and I took her to a restaurant afterwards. Hey Chico, come over. Here, this is my boyfriend, Chico."

He gestured to the dyed blonde guy who moved beside him.

"Hi, Chico," I said, my brain rapidly rearranging my assumptions about what had happened the night before. 

The dress, the dinner date, the size of his cock, the taste preference, had all been part of one enormous wind up, Sarah's punishment for my stupidity. 

I remembered the late night hairdressers, and that when Sarah had had her hair highlighted in the past, it had taken several hours. They must have eaten late.

And Sarah might or might not be pregnant, but if she was the child was mine. Spanish semen had been nowhere near her.

Franco and Chico hung around for nearly fifteen minutes. Franco did most of the talking, enthusing about Sarah's hair, and about her daring to be naked on the beach, wishing that he could do the same, except that as a guy he would certain to be arrested, although that could be fun. He did like men in uniforms.

When they left, I gave Sarah a look.

"You deserved it," she said.

"You deserved what you got too."

"Maybe I enjoyed it."

"I don't think there's any maybe. And you can expect more of the same."

"That's nice," she grinned. 

We both lay silent, our relationship restored.

Then Sarah asked the fateful question.

"Did you really think I'd sleep with someone else?"

"Yes." I said. "And you wanted me to think that."

"Risk getting pregnant?"

"You wanted me to think that too."

"Is that why you fucked me the way you did?"

"Yes," I said again.

She gave me her wonderful mischievous grin.

"If that's the effect it has on you, maybe I should really let another guy take me home to bed. Once we're back in London."

She turned her head away from me, resting it in the crook of her arm.

I could feel myself begin to harden. 

I got up. 

As I said, I like petite. You can pick petite up and carry her over your shoulder.

I walked with Sarah over my right shoulder, legs dangling in front, bare buttocks level with my face, ignoring the looks from everyone else on the beach. I reached the water's edge, where it was lapping on the sand, and waded in until the water was around my thighs. Sarah was struggling a using her arms, pushing from my buttocks, keeping her torso as high as possible, keeping her head from the water.

I lifted her off my shoulder, held her sideways across my body, arms beneath her back and thighs, and threw. 

The splash she made as she hit the water was so beautiful.