Haf True, Half Fantasy, You Have To Guess Which Is Which!

Watching you watch my wife, at the beach. 

 

 

We were making our way along the beach looking for just the right place to settle down.  You were sat on a towel with a book idly in your hands, half reading, half watching the world. I glanced at you casually, classifying as one does; 40’s, lightly tanned, confident, watchful. You spotted us – well Jane – immediately, doing some classifying of your own. I see the way you casually watch the breeze flutter her short beach skirt.  A clear tilt of your head as we approach confirming you have taken note. I should have felt jealousy, or at least felt protective, but for some reason I didn’t, I’m not sure why not.  You were not hiding your gaze at all.  As we close the distance I know what you were thinking.  Thirties, married, though with a partner present, pity.  Still worth half an eye though, with that flared skirt floating so tantalisingly. I thought so too. I see the cogs turning in your mind.  I suspect you are trying to work out if those brief glimpses were of her swimming costume or bikini bottoms.  Or, just possibly, was that flash of blue her knickers?  I would have wondered too. Perhaps I do feel a brief stab of jealousy, but something darker stirs deep inside me too.

Eyes hidden behind your Raybans you casually roll on to your stomach half pretending to read your book, but in reality positioning yourself so that you can still watch as it becomes clear we will pass above you.  I knew you were interested, at least in an abstract way.  Unusually my wife isn’t wearing a bra under the thin loose cotton top, a concession to the temperature, the holiday atmosphere and the knowledge that we were driving straight down to the beach. Her breasts swing freely and you like what you see, that much I know.  On the other hand I couldn’t tell how much was visible as her skirt danced in the breeze. Enough I guess. Your eye level is well below her knee level, and by now we were quite close to you.  Your book dropped, your gaze didn’t waiver at all as we set down just a few yards away, perhaps a little closer than one would have expected, laying out our blanket and towels in the spot I have chosen. A spot directly above you on the beach.  I wonder if Jane will comment that I have placed is this close, for there is plenty of space on the beach, but she doesn’t. Your antenna now definitely twitch, your curiosity aroused.

I roll out the blanket and sit, spreading the gear out to each corner to stop the breeze ruffling the blanket.  Jane, still standing, bends forward for a moment, her back to you.  I suppose she must be aware of your proximity, but not your interest.  She retrieves her book, water bottle and swimsuit from her the pack, half-heartedly and belatedly brushing her skirt down as the wind catches it and flips the hem up her back.   Now you know for sure, cotton knickers, not bikini bottoms.

She chats away to me, spirits high at the thought of a day on a sun soaked beach, our first holiday without the children for ages. Somehow inhibitions are always lowered away on holiday, especially when we are on our own, at least that is what I am thinking.  If she knows you are watching, she shows no signs.  She kneels down to arrange her things, and then satisfied she stands once more.  My pulse increases; you cannot fail to see the swimsuit in her hand and I know what is going through your mind.  Will she just change under the skirt, or will she be like the rest of the English women, and wrap a towel around her like armour plate?  Jane is in no hurry; and in fact she does neither, but skips down to the waters edge.  You watch her without embarrassment as she passes just a yard or so away from you, and then you sit up and turn to face the sea, tracking her as she dips a toe, testing the temperature, shrieking and then dancing in at the waters edge, laughing as the small waves chase her.  I watch her too, ten years of marriage and the pleasure is undiminished. The breeze is a little stronger here, and we both get intermitted but frequent flashes of those thin blue knickers, somehow so much more erotic than a bikini, even if they reveal no more.   Skipping back she passes close by you again, and I see her glance down at you and smile bashfully.  You realise I’m watching you and feign not to notice her, but the slight rotation of your head confirms you are tracking her like radar. And who wouldn’t?  Her firm but unconstrained boobs jiggling tantalisingly under her top as she skips back, nipples hard from the breeze and clearly discernable, cotton clad rump undoubtedly visible under her skirt as she traverses the sand between us.

She tells me the water is fantastic and we must swim. She reaches for her costume, laying it out in preparation on the blanket.  The ritual is timeless.  You know what is about to happen, we both do.  I think you may even possibly have held your breath, silently praying that she would not suddenly turn shy and reach for the towel, and to be honest I didn’t know if she would do that either.  Neither of us needed to worry. Still chatting and laughing with me she glances left and right almost as a reflex action, but she doesn’t look behind, although of course she knows you are there. Then Jane runs her hands up her thighs and under her skirt, hooking her thumbs over the side bands of her knickers and tugs at them.  They turn inside out as she pulls them down.  It’s all in slow motion, like a car crash but much, much better. She bends forwards for just an instant lowering her knicks past her knees, before gravity takes hold and they fall and she straightens and steps out of them.  I can hardly breath; her skirt is short, the angle acute and the Mistral wind unabated. A second duck forward to retrieve her knickers has us both riveted.  Unhurried she detangles them, shakes the sand off and pops them in the beach bag, seemingly oblivious to the teasing and tormenting we both feel.  We both wonder whether she feels the freedom of the Mediterranean air between her legs, don’t we? Dipping a second time she steps into her swimsuit, pulling it up round her waist.  Then, without shame, but also without any sense of exhibitionism she quickly peels off her top, boobs bouncing, and nipples still very much at attention. You can only see her bare back, whilst I get a front view.  Both our views are wonderful.   She sees me watching her and grins, rolling her eyes at me in a familiar “husbands….huh” sort of way.

In an instant her costume straps are over her shoulders, she is decent again, ladylike, and the show is over. She dashes off impatiently to the waterline yelling at me to join her, and the spell is broken.  You turn to watch her as I change and then follow her.  We play in the waves, diving and splashing, enjoying the water and wind on our bodies, the thrill of the elements driving worries of work from our minds. I can feel Jane unwind and relax; she looks so happy, she is so happy. We swim out beyond the light surf, ducking and diving, cuddling and kissing, touching a little bit too.  I tell her that she put on a show as she changed.  She doesn’t understand what I mean at first then thinks I am kidding and teasing her, but she giggles bashfully and I sense she likes the notion.  I have to tell her a second time that you really were watching, that I’m not making it up. Her eyes widen, I nod in your direction to point you out, she turns to look, curiosity getting the better of her.  She ignores my finger which, with a mind of its own, is taking advantage of the sea and having traced its route up the inside of her thigh is gently stroking material of her costume between her legs. As we look I feel a stab of disappointment, for you are stood up, collecting your things together.  See – she says - laughing, I scared him away!  But then we both go silent; you are not leaving at all, but casually moving your things a few yards up the beach as if the sun were better there, trying to look nonchalant, laying your gear out once again. Much closer.  I admire your courage, and your guile.  Such a move would have looked odd and been noticeable if we had been there, but with us in the sea, it passed unnoticed to the casual observer. Jane definitely sees, and suddenly my finger is rewarded for its efforts by the hardening ridge of her secret button.  However she says nothing, and then distracted by a fish jumping nearby, she breaks our embrace and our conversation moves on.

Jane is a natural in the sea, a real water baby.  I swim well enough but Jane is in a different league.  After half an hour I admit defeat as the cold gets to me and I head in.  Jane now starts to swim up and down more purposely, a work out rather than our earlier cavorting.  I keep a protective eye on her as I dry off and enjoy the sunshine.  You are sat very close, far closer than the natural spacing on the uncrowned beach. We studiously ignore each other.

Eventually Jane tires and heads back.  We both watch her make her way up the beach towards us, swimsuit clinging to the curves of her body.  I know what is coming…after all I just got dry and warm.  My wife cannot resist standing astride of me as I lay there, tilting her head and wringing the cold water from her hair, giggling as it splashing down onto me.  Its worth it though, the view looking up at her in her wet costume is sublime.  She grabs a towel and dries her hair, then dabs herself here and there.   Then she peels down her top and dries her boobs and back.  Many of the women on the beach are topless, but it does not diminish the excitement I feel at my normally demure wife standing there half naked.  You can’t know that she has never before been this brave, never bared those boobs on a beach before. Nevertheless you like what you see, and that excites me further.  She turns towards the sea for just a moment, costume still peeled down low on her hips, and stands facing you as she pulls her hair up in a pony tail.  At 33 she has that wonderful ripe look, her body has long lost the awkwardness of a teenager, a little fuller somehow but still firm, despite two kids.  Hair completed she pulls on her skirt, and slips the swimsuit off altogether, ringing it out and laying it across the backpack to dry. She has your full attention, and mine.  There is something tantalising about a topless woman in a short skirt on a windy day, especially when you know for sure she is naked underneath.  And we both know, don’t we?

Reaching down and into the pack, she pulls out her bikini bottoms, and slips them on.  I have a wonderful view, for she is stood next to me and I am on my back on the towel looking up.  She grins at me as she changes; she knows full well I am looking at her like that.  She doesn’t hurry, but its still over in a few precious moments.  I try to imagine how much you have seen.  Was it enough to know she is shaven?  I have no way of knowing.

Jane discards the skirt, tosses me the bottle of Ambre Solair factor 12, and stretches out on her front.  You watch me oil her back.  I start with her neck and shoulders, slowly working down her back until I reach her bikini bottoms.  I double the waistband under, exposing another inch of her back, and I admire the results. I then start with her feet and work upwards, lingering on the part of her bottom not covered by the bikini, perhaps edging the fabric up a little as I do so, perhaps accidentally brushing that valley between her legs. I wonder if she will undo my god work and adjust her bottoms, but she ignores me, head resting on her folded arms, eyes shut. Things settle down, as does my heart rate. You role on your back and seem to be sleeping. Jane snoozes too, and then reads. Eventually though she gets restless, stirs, stands and stretches.

Somehow even though you are not looking our way, you pick up the movement and rollover to face us once again, watching her as she stands there drinking in the sunshine. Your vigilance pays off, she reverses the changing routine, skirt on, bikini bottoms off, swimsuit on, skirt off, to both our delight.  It feels like I held my breath through the whole routine and it’s a wonder I don’t turn blue. Does she know she is the muse for not one but two voyeurs? If so there is no hint of it. Of course she knows I like to watch her, and she gets pleasure from that. I think she can hardly fail to know you are eying her up too, for you are just a few yards away.

A second shorter dip is followed once again by her towelling off, slipping on the skirt and dragging the wet and clinging costume down her legs, stepping out of the puddle fabric.  This time instead of slipping on her bikini bottoms she sits to dry her feet and toes, knees drawn up a little as she does so.  My heart rate increases one again. How much you can see? You are directly in line, perfectly placed, through her knees are firmly together. Eventually satisfied her feet are properly attended she reaches for the bikini bottoms.  Playfully I ****** them away an instant before she can secure them.  She laughs at me and holds out her hand, demanding them with a flick of her fingers in a “come hither” gesture. I start to hand them over, the bottoms dangling from my finger. She makes a grab for them, but I’m quicker.  She tries again, this time lunging, but again I’m a fraction faster, she half falls half leans over my legs in her attempt.  You watch this little pantomime and soak up the view.  Finally I concede, handing the bikini bottoms over.  But in mock anger she simply tosses them forcefully back at me and rolls from her sitting position onto her tummy, smoothing her skirt modestly down over her rump in the processes and tucking the edges under her thighs to stop it blowing up, a gesture to modesty, after all she does not want to show her bare bottom to just any casual observer.  She settles down, looks me in the eye and smiles one of those knowing smiles. I’m sure all three of us are more alive in that instant than we thought possible, connected by some invisible force.  It crosses my mind that she knows exactly what she is doing and as if to confirm it she fiddles with her wedding band in an absent minded way, eyes closed. I wonder if it has any meaning. Is she thinking, god I’m a married woman, and I’m letting this man look up my skirt – and I’m naked underneath? Or perhaps she has noticed nothing, and I’m imagining her flirtatiousness and your interest.  Only I know I’m not. I glance around to see if anyone else caught the little beach vignette, but the next closest party are some way off and it seems to have gone unnoticed, other than by you, of course.

I cannot resist temptation, unable to let things rest there.  I pick up the sun oil and start again at her neck working my way down her back. My hands are shaking. I shift downwards and reverse direction, starting at her feet, positioning myself carefully to make sure I don’t block your view.  I work upwards, slowly. Her calves, the backs of her knees, the backs of her thighs, then finally, for just a second or two I slide my fingertips under the skirt, still pulled tight and tucked under at the sides, my hands loosening it a fraction in the process.  Normally such behaviour would have resulted in a protest and I expect her to stop me. She doesn’t.  I get bolder, hitching her skirt an inch or so, up to the crease of her buttocks, and slide my hands properly underneath. The skirt rides up a little further as I massage her bottom and I’m acutely aware that I’ve crossed a line.  No casual observer could possibly think this was unintentional or that I was applying sun oil in any meaningful way.  I catch the faintest of sigh, she isn’t protesting, nor just tolerating my attentions, she is enjoying it. She cannot see, but must know you are watching.  As I let my hands stray her toes curl up ever so slightly raising her ankles, which then rotate outwards, perhaps allowing the faintest of glimpses of the treasures between her legs.  By now you make no secret of your interest, your book abandoned on the sand, forgotten. The moment is short; a couple is approaching, so I back off, putting the top on the sun oil.  I do nothing though to repair the Jane’s modesty; even though I know with the skirt loosened and pushed up she is indecent.  The couple just below walking along the waters edge and the woman glances our way. I see her do a double take as she realises Jane is not wearing a thong, and is naked under the skirt.  I can see her registering the scene in the same instant, the wife, the strategically positioned watcher and the complicit husband.   The woman and I meet eyes for a second.  Her partner is in earnest conversation with her, gesticulating as he makes a point, but she isn’t listening, distracted and bemused by what she has just seen.  She keeps her discovery to herself and they continue along the shoreline without breaking stride. As the distance grows she glances back, just for a second or two.  We share a secret, and I wonder if one day she will lie alone in their bed, remembering the instant, touching herself. I hope she does.

Jane seems to be virtually asleep. I’m restless with excitement, unsure what to do next wander to the waters edge and I walk knee deep along the waterline.  This allows me to see what can be seen for real, rather than in my imagination. To my surprise, a minute or two later you make your way down to the water, and our paths cross.  You nod as we pass, “wonderful view” I say, gazing across the bay.  You grin, turn and look up the beach and stare at Jane, turn back and respond, “Isn’t it just”!  The accent is French but your English is faultless.  We chat for a while, and as if by common consent slowly make our way up the beach together.  Jane has stirred at some point and rolled over, and is sat up watching us. I see her reach into the beach bag for the bottle of wine, still in its cool sleeve, which she waves in our general direction with a rotation of the wrist.  My heart races as I ask you if you would like to join us, and am not at all surprised when you accept. Jane slips on her top as we approach, a nod to modesty.  Curiously she seems comfortable with her lower half; maybe she doesn’t know you are aware she has nothing underneath her skirt.  Probably she thinks it would be too obvious, too intimate, to put her knickers on as we approach. We both sit down, and Jane effortlessly joins the conversation.  She certainly isn’t deliberately flashing you, but equally she isn’t overly careful either, drawing her knees up for a while at one point. In fact she acts as if you don’t know and as if she had forgotten, and my pulse quickens.   All this from my rather demur woman I’ve known for twelve years and have been married to for the last ten.  I thank the gods for the universal law that makes us all less inhibited when we are away from our own environment, protected by our anonymity.

We learn that you are, unsurprisingly, French. You own a holiday villa close by and have come down a few days early to complete some annual maintenance ahead of the family sojourn. Your wife and children will join you in a few days.  We sip the cheap wine from plastic wine glasses.  How come we have three of them in the pack?  I can feel the effect almost immediately, accelerated by the heat and the lack of accompanying food.  The conversation meanders, much of the time you both talk about Paris.  Jane did her Masters degree there and so knows the city well.  I drift out of the conversation as you both discuss this arridissoment or that museum.  Jane is chatting away, animated, laughing and smiling with you - Jacques  - our newfound friend, the wine no doubt counteracting her natural shyness.  Without explanation she slips her top off mid sentence, carelessly tossing it onto the blanket. It seems baring her breasts to a complete stranger is the most natural thing in the world.  Trying to appear casual I pick up the Times, its yesterdays and cost a silly price, but its value is that it gives me the excuse of distance, it lets me drop out of the conversation all together and observe the two of you. It allows me to become the voyeur.  I hope my shaking hands aren’t obvious.  I find it terrifyingly and inexplicably erotic, watching the two of you; Jane topless, nipples proudly erect, chatting away without a care in the world. Even a clod like me can feel the chemistry between you, I sense danger and am both scared and intoxicated by it.

You warn Jane about the fierceness of the Mediterranean sun, the risk of sunburn and dehydration. Jane responds immediately, grabs the sun oil, and we both watch in silence as she oils her front, starting with neck and arms and tummy and then gently caressing each breast, taking extra care with her areola and nipples which harden even more in response to her touch, irrefutable evidence for us both to see. Then my heart thumps as I hear her words; “Will someone put some oil on my back please?”  Time stands still; the silence heavy with expectation as her words hang in the air. The gravitas of that word - someone  - reverberates through my brain. My wife is sat with her husband and a man we met 20 minutes ago and she asks someone to oil her back! I stare at the paper as if I haven’t heard,  I don’t respond.  Jane turns to you, saying, “He hates the feel of it”, which, incidentally is quite true, I have never liked the strange texture of sun oil.  I hold up the Times, silently agreeing and implying the incompatibility of oily hands and newsprint. You smile, almost a smirk, nodding slightly to me, and gallantly volunteer your services.  Jane simply rolls on her side and then lays face down, resting her head on folded arms.  I can barely breath as you position yourself and undo the bottle.  You pour the oil, and start on her neck and shoulders and slowly works your way south.  You take your time, it is more like a gentle massage than anything else, and all three of us are aware of each millimetre that you progress.  Your hands stray to her sides and I watch fascinated as your fingers trail down the sides of her breasts, pushed ever so slightly outwards from the contact with the towel and beach beneath. Jane’s head is turned towards me and our eyes are locked, each of us trying to read the other’s thoughts. It takes you a minute or two to do her back down as far as the beach skirt, but it seems much longer.  You then kneel at her feet, and begin the upward journey. Your hands are like a piano player, strong but delicate as you caress her calves and thighs.  However to my surprise, relief but also frustration, you stop as you reach the hem of her skirt, just below the cheeks of her bottom.  The tension is broken as you sit back and Jane pushes her head up and props it with a hand, elbow against the sand.  The conversation flows once again.

Bye and bye thoughts turn to lunch, and then you suggest we join you at your villa, which apparently is not far away.  Without even glancing at me Jane accepts the offer, and she slips her top back on as we languidly gather our belongings and pack them away. She doesn’t ask me for her knickers, and I don’t offer to return them. Loaded up we make our way along the beach.  I notice that Jane, carrying the blanket and one of the beach bags, holds her skirt against the breeze as best she can as we pass the few couples and families dotted along the way. Even so I’m excited by the very act of her walking knickerless across the beach, and wonder if the people we pass can see anything.

My heartbeat increases as I recognise the couple that had walked past us earlier. I feel myself blush as the woman intently watches the three of us, probably speculating about the scene before her. I wonder if she envies Jane. I hope so. My heart rate rises even further as we approach the bottom of the cliff and I deliberately lag behind a little.  Without any acknowledgment and without hesitation Jane takes the lead, you follow and I bring up the rear. Jane is no longer holding her skirt down. It’s a steep path and she must know that you can see just about everything. She makes no attempt to cover herself as the wind flicks her skirt, even occasionally lifting it right up her back.  She is a step or two ahead of you, and a step or two above. You could not be better positioned. If I close my eyes I can still see the sight now, those short moments when the wind obliges, her bottom on display, brief glimpses of her shaven ***** perfectly framed and presented to you, at your eye level. She looks delicious. I glance back down at the beach.  The woman has turned and is watching us but we are too far away now for me to see her expression. Half way up the climb we meet a couple in their 30’s descending and they stand aside for us.  I see the husband glance round as Jane passes him, perhaps attracted by the short skirt. His luck is in and it flutters for a second or two and I see his mouth literally drop open.  His wife sees him look and nudges him in the ribs and he grins sheepishly, catching my eye and looking guiltily away. I want to tell him that I don’t mind.

At the top you lead the way to your car, a large brand new open Jeep.  Jane takes the front seat beside you and I climb in the back.  We follow the rough track for a while and just before it turns inland you pull up for a second and switch the engine off.  The view across the coastline is spectacular and you identify the landmarks, twisting round in the driver’s seat to talk to me. Jane has also turned round and I can see that her skirt has risen high on her thighs, and then to my shock you place a hand on her knee as if to steady yourself.  She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react at all, its almost as if she hasn’t noticed, but how could that be?

Your villa is indeed spectacular, set in its own large grounds, surrounded by olive trees and with a sculptured pool shimmering invitingly and an interior to die for.  I realise you are rich, very rich, and I feel very middle class and slightly out of place.  You make us a cocktail, your own speciality and strong as hell whilst telling us about the modernisation. The credit should all go to your wife, an interior designer. There is a large framed photograph of the family on the wall. Your wife is very beautiful. I wonder why you are paying so much attention to my wife. I suppose it is because you know you can. Half of me is saying I need to make it clear who she belongs to, that we should make our excuses and leave, but I don’t and we don’t. I’m convinced nothing will really happen, but the idea it might is intoxicatingly exciting.

We drink and chat as you fix us a Caesar salad.  The cocktails go straight to my head, and I know that Jane will defiantly be feeling the effects, she’s not a big drinker.  We tuck into the salad sat at a beautiful cast iron table protected from the fierce sun by a canopy, vines trailing across the pool wall. Soon the cocktails are replaced by what I suspect is a very fine Chablis.  You are on your turf now, and in charge.  We all know it.

We finish eating and I sit back, suddenly exhausted by the hours of tension and excitement, and frankly, more than a little drunk.   I can see the evidence that the alcohol is having an effect on Jane as well.  She is now very animated, giggling and laughing, placing a hand on your shoulder as she makes a point, the two of you keeping the conversation moving.  Jane asks about the pool, and you explain that your wife designed that too, and points out that its somewhat unusual as its designed to be more than deep enough to allow diving from any point.  As I’m pondering how that works with your children Jane hesitates a second, then she turns to me raises half an eyebrow and without a word pushes her chair back and heads for the waters edge.  Without breaking her stride she crosses her arms and pulls her cotton top over her head, tossing it carelessly aside. She pauses, hesitates for an instant, then her mind made up she slips the beach skirt down over her hips, giving a little wiggle to help it on its way, and then steps out as it lands around feet. We collectively gaze on as she takes the final couple of steps and dives expertly into the pool, naked. Without a word we both stand and walk to the waters edge as she swims the length of the pool underwater. She pops up for air, kicks against the far wall and slides gracefully below the surface again. We gaze at her shimmering naked form as she swims past us legs scissoring wide as she kicks with long open strokes, deep down near the pool bottom.  Your wife is beautiful, you say, and I feel proud, and you are right.

She burst to the surface, gasping for air, and calls us in to join her.  A second or so of hesitation and you take the lead, peeling off your leggings, Jane watches laughing as you do so, you are either semi erect or simply huge. Before I have even reacted you have diving deep into the pool and heading for Jane like a torpedo.  I hurriedly ***** off too and jump in. My penis points towards the sky, there is no way to disguise the fact and Jane looks at me and grins but says nothing.  We swim and play, it becomes a game of tag, two stags chasing her down as she slips effortlessness from our grasp, pretty bottom briefly framed above the surface as she duck dives beneath us to surface just out of reach. Just out of your reach, that is.  She splashes madly at us; her shrieks with laughter puncture the tranquillity around us.  Suddenly as if driven by some unseen but universally understood force the play stops, and as the ripples dissipate we are all left looking at each other.  Then, as if her mind is made up she swims purposely to the side and grabbed the edge tiles with both hands.  Jane ducks under the water and breaks surface using her buoyancy and her arms to lever her top half out of the water, levering her top half onto the tiles, legs still hanging over the edge in the water.  I now in an instant she will change her purchase and complete the manoeuvre, but time seems to stand still. For what seemed like an age, but was probably just a few moments, she simply lies there like that, as if she has run out of steam or is catching her breath. Her bare bottom is glistening in the bright sunshine as I see each rivulet of water stream off her, running down between her cheeks and over her bare *****. A ***** which is undeniably on display, and by inference, invitingly on offer. I find it hard to believe what I’m seeing, that my wife could do this. Finally she pushes herself upright, and turns to sit on the edge, feet and legs dangling in the water. I can see she is actually blushing, knowing she has just deliberately and very obviously displayed her availability.  Once again I’m struggling for breath, but you have decided that the signals are clear enough. You swim purposefully across the pool directly to her, treading water right in front of her I watch as you place a hand on each of her knees and I sense you apply gentle but insistent pressure. She doesn’t resist.  Her head tilts back, and she yields to you and her knees begin to part, hesitantly at first, until the moment she simply concedes and she abandons any pretence at modesty.  You take a good long look at her at close range and then kicking powerfully upwards you lean forward and wrap an arm round her, level with the flagstones. With a hand on her lower back and bottom you sweep her forward so she is sat right on the edge of the pool, her legs parting even further as you do so, to the point that they are wide, wide open. Jane leans back with her arms out behind her for support.  You duck forward and your head nods ever so slightly.  I’m left no doubt whatsoever that a man who we met less than two hours ago is licking my wife’s bare and swollen *****, the exact moment your tongue meets her **** signalled by the shudder that runs through her.  I hear her whimper in response to the first man other than me to touch her, certainly since we met at Freshers week in university well over a decade earlier.  I swim over and haul myself out of the pool, unable to take my eyes off the two of you, still barely believing what I am seeing and you turn to me, fingers taking over the work of your tongue. “James, your lovely wife has been teasing me all day, she wants me to make love to her like she has never made love before. Now I am going to do just that, you can watch if you like. She will never be the same again. She is mine now to do as I please. James, I am going to have your wife”.  I expect her to react but Jane says nothing, no protest at all, in fact your words have the opposite effect.  Suddenly her whimpers increase in intensity and volume in time with your fingers that are now strumming the lips of her ***** and her clitoris. It is clear she has surrendered herself to her fate. My lovely faithful wife, mother of my children, not only doesn’t protest, she wants you to take her, and she seems more turned on than I ever remember.

I’m horrified as the enormity of what we are doing slices through the sun and alcohol, but I don’t intervene and Jane is far beyond stopping anything.  As you resume your attention with your tongue its just moments before she screams out in ******, then lays back flat, legs still parted obscenely, feet still dangling in the pool, saying, “oh” “oh” over and over.  You climb effortlessly from the pool, your erection is full now, and I think, oh Christ, she’s going to be split in two, for what is to follow is inevitable, perhaps it has been since I deliberately chose that spot on the beach.

You hold a hand out and help her sit up and then to her feet, hand in hand leading her to one of the lounger chairs; she simply follows where she is led.  Your voice is authoritative and sure.  “Sit down.” She doesn’t hesitate, and obeys your command immediately.  Then as you approach she shuffles her bottom forward to the edge of the chair, allowing her legs to open a little, as if by reflex.  Then I hear you say to her, “If you want me you have to ask”.  There is a silence, a momentary pause, my wife waiting for her fate, she stares at your now massive erection as you stand before her, and then she looks you in the eyes. “Please…” she says. “Please what?” you snap back.  She hesitates and the silence hangs, you repeat your question even more forcibly and she still hesitates a second, then says it.  It is almost a whisper and only just audible, “Please do me”.  Your response is instant “Say it properly”…she hesitates once more, then it comes out quietly but distinctly “Please make love to me”, but you don’t react and the silence hangs in the air. In the end Jane can stand it no longer, “Please **** me” It is the first time I have ever heard her say “****”, and I’m shocked to the core hearing her use the word. She just doesn’t use that word, certainly doesn’t say things like that; at least not to me.

I watched fascinated and frozen like a rabbit in the headlights as she leans back in the chair, her knees parted submissively, but then she wantonly lifts them and hangs one over each arm of the chair, revealing absolutely everything.  Her ***** opens like a flower and is so obviously ready.  My wife is willingly offering herself up to a man she has just met. Irrationally I remember that it had taken me more than six months of courting to get into her pants. You place a hand on each side of the chair, and without further ado prepare mount her, she leans forward and her hand reaches eagerly for your now rock hard ****.  I realise her fingers aren’t long enough to meet as she grasps your girth, but then you just brush her hand away, grabbing both her wrists you raise them above her head and pin them with one hand against the high back of the lounger chair.  She is helpless as you press forwards and I watch as you use your other hand to rub the head of your **** up and down her slit, a shudder passing through her. Then you decide it’s time, place your mass against her and I can see her lips parting to accommodate you, her back arching as you enter.  Her whole body, her whole soul, seem to have been made for this moment and I know she is unaware of anything on earth other than your **** entering her ****.  Despite your size her ***** parts easily as you sink ever deeper, taking your time so she can adjust to your size and appreciate what she is getting.  Her knees lift and wrap round your back as she surrenders, and as soon as you release her wrists she wraps her arms around you neck and the two of you begin kissing passionately, now completely entwined.  I can’t remember the last time she kissed me like that, if ever. On this very first entry stroke, just as you penetrate to the hilt, she comes, impaled and writhing.

You let her ****** subside, then slowly withdraw, almost pulling right out of her. I can see you shaft is glistening with her juices. She wails as if in despair until you relent and fill her once again, slowly at first, then speeding up until you pile drive into her with such force that her whole body shudders with the impact each time. The position looks like it must be very uncomfortable for you, but you don’t seem to notice. You go in deep each time, but it’s not enough for you. I see you place first one arm then the other behind her knees and lift them high; she is totally at your mercy now, a knee bent over each of your shoulders. A married woman, willingly pinned and nailed. I try to remember if we have ever made love in that position and rather suspect the answer is no. I can see everything, the point of junction, your **** pistoning into her, the way her lips yield on the in stroke, cling on the out stroke.  A few deep thrusts and she is screaming, but you do not let her come. Easing the pace you release her legs which fall for an instant until she realises they are free.  She reacts by drawing her knees up, warping her legs around you and crossing her ankles behind your back as if to prevent your escape.  I don’t remember her ever crossing her ankles behind my back. However it is her face that captures me. All the while she is panting, “**** me **** me **** me **** me” in time to your rhythm, and ******* her is exactly what you are doing. And she is ******* you back, levering herself up as you pound down to get every inch she can.  She is screaming with ever-greater intensity as yet another ****** builds and you are grunting as you slam into her.  Then she turns her head, opens her eyes and looks at me watching her, and instantly she comes, control completely lost as you come too and fill her with your seed.

You lay on her, and she clings to you, small shudders of aftershock evident as her breathing slowly recovers. I expect you to pull out of her but then incredibly you start all over again, ever so slowly at first.  She has her legs back down on the lounger in conventional missionary position, she looks over to me once again and says “Come here”. Its only then I realise I have my **** in my hand and that I have been ************.  She reaches for me and pulls me to her, my discomfort at being so close to you counterbalanced by my desire as she took me in her mouth and I have the exquisite experience of being sucked off by my wife as you **** her.   The position isn’t that easy, and eventually you pull out and tell her to turn over.  Its not a request, it’s a command and she obeys instantly. She is now on all fours arms forward, head against the sloped back of the lounger, her rump pushed high up, ***** lips wide apart, leaking your come and her juices, as if demanding to be filled again. “Its your turn” you say to me and I can’t ignore the incongruity of you offering me my own wife!  I don’t turn down the offer though, overcoming a hint of squeamishness that passes in an instant as I slide into her *****, wet and silky, slippery and used from your lovemaking.  As I slide into her from behind her ***** feels like it is dragging me in to the fantastic smoothness as I take her. I come in seconds, unable to hold back, and plop out.  She did not come.  She looks over to where you are stood, drawn to the sight of you, erect once again, and I have to accept you are massive.  You adjust the lounger so that it is no longer set as a chair, but is laid almost flat, as if for sunbathing. Slowly she stretches forward and lowers her head and rests it on her crossed arms.  The position is utterly subservient, she is still on her knees with her rump up in the air, bead bowed.  Her body language says it all, she is yours for the taking. My wife, a woman that needed me to cajole her to even go topless, is on her knees in the most undignified position imaginable, offering herself to you. You walk slowly round to stand behind her, pausing to look at the view, nothing is hidden, and she is displaying everything to you without shame. You linger for what seems an age but she does not flinch. She simply waits for the inevitable, her excitement revealed by her rapid breaths. And then, satisfied with the view, you move forward and run a finger up her ***** lips and I watch as she shudders.  Then closing in you enter her once more and take her again with long slow and very deep thrusts. This time it is hard to tell where her ******* start and finish, she is on some sort of plateau, either coming or about to come, or having just come.

I am post coitial, spent and exhausted, the beach and the sun, the alcohol and the excitement and shock.   I lay on one of the loungers just watching, as the two of you come to yet another climax, and her knees give way. She is now laid flat out, still face down, pinned by your weight. I suppose finally your **** is subsiding inside her, you are both still and she seems content and has a look on her face like a cat that has got the cream.  She turns and looks me in the eye and speaks the first words for an age, apparently without regard for my feelings “That was the best sex I have ever, ever had”.  She is of course referring to you, not me, and once again I get an “oh my god what have I done” feeling. Then she turns her head away and just lays there, and I wonder how she is are not crushed by the weight of your body.  I can’t tell if you are still inside her or not.  I am almost more disturbed when you start to nuzzle her neck and kiss her, especially when she seems to almost purr in response, arches her neck and pushing her rump upwards against you. I realise you are indeed still buried inside her.  Despite the tumult and questions in my mind and the scene in front of me I slip into a drunken sleep.

Consciousness returns slowly, and I’m wondering if I’m in a dream, or are they real memories?  They seem real. Time has passed and the sun is much lower, and I am sunburnt. My mind is full of images and sounds of what I have seen and heard, and it takes a few moments before I realise I really can hear the sounds of sex which are not part of a dream and I open my eyes properly. There is no sign of either of you, so I follow the sounds, walking in through the open patio doors. I see Jane first, for you are on your back on the sofa this time, and she is riding you, her back towards me.  I hold the doorframe for support, feeling giddy but unable to avert my gaze, drawn by the absolutely perfect view of her as she slides herself up and down your shaft, her head thrown back in ecstasy.  You see me standing there but you say nothing, perhaps enjoying the fact that she doesn’t know I’m watching. I wonder where it all fits, your ***** seems impossibly large but she doesn’t seem to be having any problem impaling herself.

You eventually say something to my wife that I don’t quite catch, and she turns and looks at me, eyes locked on mine.  She doesn’t break her ride as she continues to rise and fall.  This time her ****** is much more gentle, more a shudder than a scream and she falls forward and the two of you embrace and kiss tenderly and deeply, even more poignant because you both know I’m watching. You finally slip slowly from her *****, followed by huge globs of come and juices. She seems totally unembarrassed, a different woman from the one that walked down the beach with me that morning.

Eventually you lift her effortlessly off you, and break the silence, telling us both to follow you, which we do without question.  We walk into a massive bathroom, or perhaps wet room is a better name, its so swish it could feature in a magazine.  The shower is huge, and we all go in together. You tell her to lean facing the wall, placing her hands high up and nudge her legs far apart. It looks like a police movie with a suspect up against the wall to be searched.  Except this is no suspect it is my wife. Then the two of us gently attend to her with scented soap and loving caresses.  It is so erotic, touching my wife and watching you touch her too, everywhere. She is totally subservient, following each command you give in silence. She is exhausted and is as quiet as a mouse as we collectively dry her.  I wonder if she is feeling low after such a high, regretting her actions in post coitial sadness and guilt. However she simply looks whacked out, and you leave her for a moment drying her hair and show me to the guest room.

I watch her walk naked to the pool area to collect her discarded cotton top and beach skirt, feeling like a voyeur as I watch her slip into her clothes; she searches fruitlessly for her knickers.  She has forgotten I still have them in my pocket, but I don’t admit it and she soon gives up. A little sheepishly we collect the living area.   You announce we are going out for dinner.  Jane protests that she is tired and hardly suitably dressed, and of course we don’t have any other clothes with us.  You will have none of it, so out we go.  Despite all three of us being sexually sated I think we all got a frisson of pleasure from Jane’s fairly minimal state of dress, designed for the beach and rather inappropriate in a posh restaurant.  She certainly attracted some curious glances from the other dinners as we eat. The chat is subdued, but she does steal embarrassed glances at you, and at me too.  I wonder is she is still leaking, and when we leave I try to look to see if there is a little wet patch on the seat cover, but if so I miss it.

I know she just wants to sleep, but that’s not on your agenda.  You take us dancing, though I don’t have the energy, and anyway, I can’t dance for toffee.  Fortified with cocktails the two of you head for the crowded dance floor while I sat at a table watching, fascinated and a little horrified.  In the faster songs her skirt bounces around with gay abandon and I wonder if I’m the only one who catches quite significant glimpses of her bottom. However other younger women are scantily dressed too, so Jane doesn’t seem too out of place. I wonder where on earth she gets the energy, not finding out till afterwards that you offered her an ecstasy tablet, which she accepted, my wife who hated taking even an aspirin.  Then, late into the night the music slowed down, and you closed up to dance together.  She had her arms round your neck and I watched the two of you kiss passionately once again, jealousy vying in my veins with a dark lust at her wanton behaviour. I saw you slip a hand under her skirt, and lightly caress her thigh, and then cup her bare buttock. Others had noticed too, a guy further along the bar could not take his eyes of you both, and a young English couple sat at a table, the woman turning to her boyfriend, whisper in his ear. I wonder what she says to him? Perhaps it’s something like look at that woman, she is knickerless, and that’s not her husband.  The girl giggled conspiritaly with her boyfriend nuzzling and whispering in his ear and watching too.  They saw you caress her behind, and as you let your other arm fall between you.  They saw the moment her reaction signalled without doubt that you had started to finger her, out there on the dance floor. The couple watch for a few moments, I see her hand on his crotch, than they make for the door, driven by their own lust I suspect.

Later we arrive back at the villa and you simply announce that she will sleep in your bed.  I sit alone in the guest room, wondering what an earth has happened. I awake in the night to the sound of lovemaking; you are screwing my wife yet again. Later I awake to hear the two of you talking, but I drift back to sleep unable to work out the words. I am up before either of you, unable to sit still I finally find the courage to walk to your room.  The two of you are asleep, she is curled up against you, naked in the “spoons” position and I feel sick with jealousy. Later you both emerge, Jane is wearing one of you T shirts which just about covers what it ought, except when she leans over or bends down.  You tell her to fix us some coffee, and as she is at work you drift along side her and kiss her, she turns her head and kisses you back. At the same moment you wrap your arms round her, lifting the back of her T shirt with one hand and rubbing her bare bottom with the other, cupping it and squeezing with familiarity and ownership, for my benefit of course.

As soon as the sun is up and its warm enough you turn to Jane and tell her to take off the T shirt, she does so in an instant, pulling it over her head and casting it aside.  I couldn’t imagine me ordering, and Jane obeying, a command from me for for her to *****.  This is beyond my comprehension. We spend the day at your pool, Jane is naked the whole time but I’m wearing the trunks I had worn to the beach, you are in fashionable shorts.  Jane is different today, no longer ignoring me she treats us equally, kissing us both, chatting to us as equals, and I feel a little more comfortable.  Until, that is, the doorbell rings.  You disappear obviously to answer the door while Jane dashes to find and put on the borrowed T shirt.  She is just pulling it over her head and is more or less decent as you reappear with another man, older, in his 50’s. He is large and very black, fashionably dressed too, and I can’t help wondering what car he drives. You speak with him in French, much too fast for me to follow, though I hear you refer to us.  You seem to have forgotten to introduce us. Then you turn to Jane and, and order her to, “Take it off”, well, it certainly sounded like an order to me. I stand there stunned fro a moment at the abruptness of your words and I turn to protest, but before I can Jane obeys, apparently without question or protest, pulling the T shirt back over her head and dropping it beside her. It has been on her less than two minutes, and now she is naked once again. You turn to me and suggest we have a chat and a cocktail “While Eric services your wife”.  I feel my blood rising to my face. Now I have definitely reached my limit, or rather passed it and I begin to assert myself angrily, but then realise Jane has simply followed Eric into the villa, and my words dry up. You wave me toward the chairs, and I sit as you pour us each a large glass from the jug of Pimms.

I’m shaking like a leaf, the glass trembling as I drink, not sure what I feel.  Then you speak to me like an old friend offering advice in a time of crises.  “You have always believed your wife was a virgin when you started to go out together, haven’t you?” I simply nod, and you continue. “Well, she didn’t mean to mislead you. Apparently when you first got together she simply told you she had not had a serious relationship.  It was your interpretation that she had meant she was a virgin. She realised after a while that was what you thought, but didn’t want to be accused of misleading you, didn’t want to hurt you, so left it at that.” I was hit by a double whammy. I wasn’t the first man to lay with that lovely shy girl who became my wife, and even worse, she is more comfortable talking to you than to me about the most intimate of things in our lives.  I now know what you had been talking about together the previous night.  Somehow I feel a greater stab of jealousy by your words than some of the things I have seen.  How could she tell you about loosing her virginity when she hadn’t ever told me, her soulmate?

We sat in silence as you let the news sink in, until the unmistakable sound of my wife becomes the focus of our attention, her moans percolate from the villa, low at first then rising, falling and rising to an even higher plateaux once again. What was is the phrase you used to describe what Eric was doing?  I searched my memory, brain now numb with shock, as the words came back to me, “Servicing my wife”. A man she had met less than 10 minutes ago, hell perhaps 5 minutes ago, was inside her. I try to speak but can’t get the words out properly, you are grinning at me as I fall silent and we just listen to her, she has lost all control by now and is not moaning so much as screaming. You revel in my discomfort.  “Your wife certainly enjoys a good ******* when she gets the opportunity”. I don’t reply, what can I say?  The evidence supports you statement, so I sit there waiting for you to continue. “She always did, I think. You should know she told me she let some young boy from…how do you call the social housing in England?” you hesitate a second before continuing; “Ah yes, a boy from the council estate, yes she let him have her when she was 15, I don’t think she put up much resistance.”   Again you let the information sink in, Jane still howling in the background. “In fact your pretty little wife has opened her legs at every opportunity and had quite a few ***** inside her before she became your sweet and innocent bride.”  As if that wasn’t enough you go on; “Oh, and do you know that she is routinely unfaithful to you?” This I couldn’t believe, no, not Jane. “With her boss it seems, it started on a training course years ago, and he still beds her when ever he wants to. You know how it goes, a nice meal together, a little too much wine, that was all it took to make your wife drop her knickers, open her legs and break her wedding vows. She told me she has been had in his car, in your car, at the office, in the park, oh, and in your marriage bed.  Your wife is quite the little salope…how do you say…****.”

What could I say, I sat there in silence, my wife and the man servicing her having presumably come and fallen silent.  Then, as if on queue they started again, I recognised the low moans seeping from the villa only too well.  After my silence you carry on. “Let us go and watch, even though she thinks she has done it all she is about to experience something new.”   I could only follow, it was easy for us to find my wife, it was just a case of following the “Yes, yes, oh yes” now emanating from the guest bedroom.  She was face down on the bed, arms out as if in prayer gripping the top edge of the bed, two pillows under her hips.  He was taking her hard from behind, the pillows raising her rear to allow easy access to her ***** and placing her such that each stroke hit just the right place.  Seeing us enter he withdrew, then I watched in horror as he used his fingers to scoop her juices and ***** from her gapping ***** and rubbed it along the crease of her bottom, using it to insert his thumb into the rosebud of her arse.  I’m not sure is she realised what was about to happen as he placed his slick hard **** against her arse.  I expected her to react and protest, she doesn’t like being touched there let alone anything more. However it seems she was way too far gone, she simply griped the headboard and as he pushed his **** hard against her all that she did was flinch for a moment and then arch her neck.  I could see the look she had, a mixture of surprise and I suspect pain on her face, then to my horror she reach back and use her hands to help part her buttocks. My god, far from resisting she was actually helping him so he could entered her arse. Finally she relaxed enough and her muscles gave way and his knob end pushed in, bit by bit, Jane wincing with each extra centimetre until he was deep inside her.  He then lay on her, not moving and she had her eyes shut, her face painted by a mixture of pain and ecstasy.  He was a big guy and she was simply pinned and impaled, unable to move even if she wanted to.  He allowed her a few moments to acclimatise and then started ******* her very gently, just rocking his hips to start with and then slowly with small thrusts, but then as she started to respond with even more “Oh yeses” he went deeper and harder, and she was coming yet again in less than a couple of minutes, shuddering and flailing and screaming as he relentless took her. The shudders subside and he reverts to giving her slowly and gentle *******, she whimpers each time and looks so wanton. This man has simply taken her…….serviced her… and she has let him, wanted him to have her,  possess her, invaded her.

You moved to the head of the bed and pulled down your shorts, and I watched as my wife turned her head and twisted her body slightly, grasping you with one hand and eagerly taking your erection in her mouth, sucking greedily.   I couldn’t stay any longer and watch and walked back to the patio in a daze. What on earth had I started?  What had come over my quiet, demure and innocent wife? Then I remembered, unless you had made it up she wasn’t quiet demure and innocent at all, never had been, at least not during all the years I have known her.  I wondered how many men had bedded her before me?  And how many men since we had been married? Was it just her boss or were there really many more? I had met her boss a few times at company Christmas dinners and summer outings. A powerful confidant guy, in charge of things. Now it was only too easy to imagine him lying between my wife’s open legs, in my bed. I wondered how many times he had had her, and in which position.

Our lives changed forever on that holiday. Jane says that I started it all, all those times egging her on when we were in bed, but in reality the basis of her behaviour long predates that.  With a bit of prompting she has come clean about the years before we were married, and yes, there were a lot of men before me, some after we started dating, and after we got engaged.  She isn’t even sure exactly how many, it seems she lost count.  Apparently she had it all down in a diary, but sadly she destroyed it when we got married, worried I’d be jealous. The best I can get out of her is “About 25 or so, maybe 30 but I don’t think it was more than that”.  Now we really know each other.  She knows how much I enjoy her reliving those experiences, including as she lays face down on the bed, a couple of pillows under her hips and me sliding in and out of her.

And her boss? It seems it was pretty much exactly as our French friend described it. They were away on a management course; he had already been flirting a little with her before hand, though nothing improper.  She had way too much to drink that evening, and when they walked back up to their hotel rooms, which were on the same floor, they just didn’t part. He walked her to the door of her room, and when she unlocked it he simply walked in with her. She says she was trembling with excitement. There wasn’t any discussion or anything. The next she knows they are kissing, and before she got over that his fingers were inside her knickers and sliding into her sopping *****. She remembers the two of them unbuttoning the dress, and then him simply tearing her knickers off in a frenzy, next thing he is inside her and she has her legs wrapped round him.  She says he was ******* her within a minute or so of them walking into the room.  She remembers him putting a hand over her mouth because she was making so much noise. And yes, the affair has gone on ever since, about 5 years in total, though only when they can get some time, he is married with a family too. It also seems there have been others “on a few occasions”. When I ask who and when and how many she is a bit vague, but one time was someone she met at a wedding party we both attended who apparently had her upstairs in one of the bedrooms while I was drinking below.

And that day on the beach?  Well it seems that before we left for the holiday she had already decided that if the opportunity arose she would see if I really wanted the fantasy I had brought into the bedroom.

She still seems him, our French friend. She goes over once or twice a year, he pays her fare, and she comes back blooming and refreshed, She talks about his interesting friends, apparently has quite a few who like to come over when she is there.

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26-30
2 Responses Feb 19, 2010

Fantastic story! Very hot all the way around!

One of the best stories on this site..had me engrossed from start to finish