Beach the Bitch

I still do not know why I did it. It might have just been some kind of gut instinct, but I think that it was more than that. Looking back, I guess there must have been some signs of what was going on, that I picked up on in my subconscious, and that was why I checked the laundry basket for the first time in our marriage.

My wife was in the shower. Maybe that is why I checked. The timing of her shower. Marianne always showered in the morning. This time we were on our way to bed. She had had a hectic day at work, was what she told me. Without even thinking about what I was doing I wandered across to where her laundry basket stood and checked.

She clearly had not expected me to look. Her knickers were on top. His and hers laundry baskets. She always puts her own things in the machine, in case I got them at the wrong temperature, and did some damage to them. So normally she would have been safe just to drop her knickers in the basket and close the lid. Not this time.

They were stained.

You do not need the full description. It is not that nice. All I will say is that it was pretty unambiguous. The evidence was there. It did not need a Sherlock or a Columbo. DNA testing might have proved it conclusively. Maybe even identified the other party, if there were a hair or something to compare it with. But that was unnecessary for the obvious deduction. My wife had fucked another guy.

I dropped the incriminating panties back into the basket and closed the lid, my head reeling, my heart pounding, and my stomach churning. My wife had fucked another guy.

I listened to the water gushing in the shower.

Thoughts of Psycho, the shower scene, passed through my mind, blood running down the curtain. We do not even have a shower curtain. We have a wide glass door. Never mind. Blood can run down a glass door just as easily. Hitchcock's image was transferrable. Appropriate name as well. Some guy had hitched his cock into my wife and blood should run.

Not that I would ever do it. I was brought up to solve my problems with my head and not my muscle. Either talk things out and reach agreement, or out think your opponent, and get the better of them. Use your head. Apply some logic.

What went against all logic was what was happening with the one muscle that technically is not muscle, more a kind of sponge that swells up with blood to make it hard. Blood was running, not down the shower door, but straight to my cock.

It just proved that thinking with your cock is never good. It has its own way of thinking. Anything sexual makes it come alive, even your own wife's infidelity. I had never guessed that it might react like that, but there it was, my own cock was betraying me, getting as hard as rock, while my head was thinking Psycho, and then trying to find a way to sort this one out more sensibly, and deal with this breach of our marriage promises, not just right now, but for the long term, once and for all.

The sound of gushing water stopped. A minute later Marianne stood in the open doorway between our bedroom and the en suite. She looked good. She always did. Five-five, full figured brunette, her hair dry from having worn a shower cap, her creamy complexion glowing under the artificial lights, dark nipples with thick stubs standing proud.

"Is that for me?" she asked.

I should have mentioned that I had been naked and about to climb into our bed when I thought to look inside the laundry basket. My rock solid cock would have been pretty obvious, although by the time that Marianne appeared in the doorway, I was safely back at my side of the bed, well away from the evidence in the laundry basket.

We fucked.

It is seriously mind blowing, fucking your wife when you have just discovered that another guy has fucked her only hours before. It does not make it the expression of undying love that it once was, but it does make it another kind of incredibly exhilarating ride. Wilder, harder, and more punishing, which I guess is what you want to do to her, and what she definitely deserves. You just do not say it. You fuck her hard instead.

Her cunt is no longer the entrance to her inner self. Your cock is no longer the bridge that joins your bodies, minds and hearts. You use it as a weapon, thrusting it into her again and again, revelling in her delicious body, disgusted at what you have found out, making her come better and stronger than you reckon her earlier lover could ever have done, and then coming inside her yourself, spewing your semen into her, for what you think at that moment will be the last and final time.

Except it was not the last time. There were many more fucks like that. For three whole months I fucked that cunt every night, my lust for her fuelled by what I knew, and what I reconfirmed once a week, always the same day of the week, although I checked that laundry basket every day. My loving wife was getting fucked by someone else as regularly as a clockwork cuckoo's cunt. Making me another type of cuck.

Long before we married, when I was in my twenties, I summer holidayed alone and lay on a naturist beach in France, noticing some movement in the dunes. At the top of one of them, there was a beach umbrella standing in the sand, and every so often a guy would appear, looking around. To add to the mystery, other guys were walking in the dunes, heads and torsos occasionally appearing in the gaps between the sand hills, maybe four or five of them, all heading towards this beach umbrella.

I can get curious, and not just about laundry baskets. I got curious that day and took a stroll. I was discrete, entering the dunes a bit further down, and then casually working my way towards the umbrella. It was red and blue and yellow, so it was quite distinct, and it was the only beach umbrella not on the beach itself, so finding it was easy.

There were six other guys by the time I got near enough to see what was going on. They were standing around, watching. Underneath the umbrella, on a large white sheet that had been spread out on the sand, the guy who had been bobbing about to get attention was now fucking his wife, or girl-friend, or whatever she was, doing it from behind.

That was the first time I ever saw another guy come. It is not a pretty sight. His face went red with the urgency. His buttocks tautened. The girl, maybe twenty five or thereabouts, was urging him on in French. You could tell that he was coming inside her. When he had finished he collapsed onto her back, bent over her. When he recovered, he withdrew. His semen trickled from her cunt.

Then it got interesting.

The guy moved away from the girl, lying on his back, still on the sheet. She did not move. One of the spectators moved closer, said something to the guy, and received a nod. He had been handling his cock while he had been watching, and his cock was hard. Like I said, this was on a beach designated naturist, so there was no swimwear for the guy to lose. He just knelt behind the girl and took over from where the other guy had just left off.

Like I said, interesting.

Even more interesting when a third guy took over. The girl still had not moved. I mean she was still on her hands and knees. This time, when the third guy moved into place, she had not even bothered to turn and look behind her. I doubted she knew which guy was fucking her.

She did move though. Saying she did not move at all may have been misleading.

Her breasts moved for a start. She was reasonably slim, but with generous breasts that hung naturally beneath her, and swayed every time whichever guy was fucking her slammed into her.

Her buttocks moved as well. Each time the guy thrust at her, she moved back. She ground her buttocks into her assailant's groin, giving herself the extra stimulation of meeting him on the in stroke.

Her mouth moved. Not that much, but enough to emit groans and moans and little screams and words in French that were not so far beyond my vocabulary that I could not understand. "Oui, oui," is pretty obvious. "Baise moi," means "fuck me". I knew that. Maybe she was being especially considerate for the multilingual nature of men on French beaches, but she also used the English "Fuck my pussy" just as often. No translator was required. We could tell exactly what she wanted.

I was tempted, but self-consciousness and respect for my own sexual health kept me where I was, just a spectator. I was only twenty something, and doing it in front of other guys was not for me, although the girl was seriously nice. Doing it bare, following on after those guys, did not appeal. My cock in their cum made me feel queasy. Doing it bare itself appealed all right. I would have loved to. Just not with someone who shared like that. Far too risky. I watched the third guy come, and went back to my towel on the beach.

The girl turned out to be even nicer than I thought. It was half an hour later that I saw her walk from the dunes, obviously heading past me to the sea. I doubt if she even recognised me, or realised that I had just been watching her getting fucked.

Twenty five was about right. Black hair fell straight to her buttocks, drifting slightly in the breeze. She was tanned. She was even slimmer that she had looked on her hands and knees. Her breasts were full, but somehow defeated gravity, although they swayed gently as she walked. Nice nipples, two shades darker than her tan, stubs like cherries. Her pubis, as she got closer, I realised was shaved smooth. Nice lips. Nice face as well, come to that. A mole to the left of her chin, but it made her all the more interesting.

She jumped around in the sea for a few minutes, not swimming, but twisting and turning in the two foot breakers. I guessed that she was using the impact of the water to get rid of the semen that had inevitably spilled from her pussy.

On her way back, I asked her if she had a moment, and if she could help me. It was a little lame, but I asked if she could put some lotion on my back because I could not reach myself. Her reaction confirmed that she was nice. She crouched down, legs splayed, a beautiful view of her gash, and took her time making sure that I was adequately protected against the sun. Her hands felt wonderful. She even did my buttocks, finishing with a cheeky down stroke between my legs, fingertip touching my balls. I would have loved to fuck that pussy.

I never saw the girl again, not on that beach or anywhere, but I thought of her once in a while for years after that summer, always satisfied that I had made the right decision in not participating in the action, but wishing just the same that I had had the opportunity to fuck her without the same concerns, or had a girl-friend like her. Mind you, when I hooked up with Marianne, I had no need to think about the French girl on the beach. Both of them scored ten, and a ten in the hand is worth twenty on the beach.

I had never told Marianne about the French girl. I did not want her think her husband was a pervert. After the laundry basket thing, on our next holiday, a rented apartment in a French resort, I told her then. I explained exactly what had happened, mentioning that it had been on the beach that we had been driving to each day.

This was over dinner, at a sea-food restaurant, after our first bottle of white wine, but not spur of the moment. The timing, the amount of alcohol, and the bait, had to be just right. My wife tentatively explored, but did not see the line and hook.

"You never told me about it before."

"True," I said. "I guess it might have given away what turns me on."

"Which is?"

"You won't be shocked? It's just what sometimes goes on in my head."

"It's been five years," my wife reminded me. "Nothing much is going to shock me."

"Well it shocked me when I saw the semen stain on your underwear," I thought. Not that I said it. I still had not said anything. Not a word of challenge or questioning as to who or why or when it started.

"Okay, then," I said, not letting on about what I had really just thought. "Just what the guy was doing was a turn on. I mean, letting other guys share his wife."

"You're sure it was his wife?" She was definitely curious.

"I couldn't tell. He was about forty something. She was in her twenties. She could have been a girlfriend. But she was wearing a ring. I saw that. Definitely gold."

I made up the bit about the ring. When the girl had smoothed the lotion on my back her hands had been free of any jewellery. She had worn a gold chain around her waist, but that was all. But for Marianne's reassurance, I wanted her to believe the girl was married.

We had already been sunbathing on the beach for more than a week. We both tan easily, and Marianne was already golden. She suits a tan. Up until then she still had her copse of pubic hair, but after the dinner at the seafood restaurant, back at our apartment, while we were fucking, I had whispered about the girl having had no pubic hair, as if to let other men see her pubis was available, and how much that had turned me on as well.

I did not even have to ask her to. Marianne shaved her pubic hair while she was taking her morning shower. On the beach, her pubis was a shade lighter than the rest of her, but that made it all the more obvious that it had just been shaved. She had already had more than her share of attention from voyeuristic guys. That share went up.

"So where were they?" she asked.

I pointed to the sand hill where the red, blue and yellow umbrella had been.

"Up there," I said.

"Nice place to sunbathe," she said.

It was casual, but full of meaning, and my reply was just as casual.

"We could maybe go there tomorrow if you like," I said. Never appear too keen. It looks suspicious. Take your time. Reel in the line slowly, but steadily.

Just the same, even with my cautious, slowly, slowly strategy, she gave me a look. I could read that look. She was checking whether I meant more than just going there to sunbathe and catch the view. I gave her a slightly amused, teasing, look in return, letting her know that I could read her mind, and if she was up for it, then so was I. Without even speaking, we both knew what was on the cards. Marriage can do that. You can communicate with the people you are close to without words.

We did it missionary.

Marianne was on her back, and I was on top, fucking her, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back and the presence of four guys watching. I had never fucked in public before. It is fun. It is more of a turn on than I realised. Marianne seemed to enjoy it too. She was squirming beautifully.

Her cunt felt incredible, tight but slick. I liked her shaved. The hair on her pubic mound had been even darker than the shoulder length waves of brown hair that framed her face, and although the shadow was still visible where she had shaved, the absence of the dark hair made her somehow seem more sensual, her cunt more exposed and vulnerable, but more inviting, offering itself to be fucked, and not just by me.

Our umbrella was green and white, not red, blue and yellow. Our sheet was cream, not white. The colours did not seem to matter. The guys had turned up regardless, almost as soon as we had set up, while I was still sucking on Marianne's thimble sized nipples, not yet inside her.

Four guys actually watched as I penetrated my wife. They watched my cock open her, and slide within. It was only missionary, but still. That was a first.

Our fucking reached the stage where Marianne had her legs wrapped around my waist, arms around my back, and she was saying beautiful things in my ear as I continued fucking her.

Most things she said were the same as she would always say. "That's so good!", "Oooh, yesss!", "Fuck meee!", "Ooooh, baby!", "Harder!", and all the rest.

It was just before she came that she said the famous words, all three of them, with an urgency that had to be from her impending orgasm.

"I LOVE YOU!"

"Really?" I thought.

She exploded into a shuddering, wave of orgasmic delirium, shivering and shaking beneath me, maybe the best orgasm I have ever given her. It might have been the presence of the other guys, or maybe the thought of what might happen next, that so heightened its intensity. Shockwave followed shockwave.

I can hold back through most things, but not through that nuclear orgasm. The delicious friction of her cunt, convulsing around my cock, was just too great. I exploded. I may be wrong, but I do not think I ever shot so much semen into any woman as I did into my wife that day. Maybe it was the presence of the other guys, or maybe the thought of what might happen next. But I filled her cunt.

It was nice, the way he asked. Polite. Considerate. No presumption that my wife was just a slut.

"Do you like for your wife to receive another man?"

German accent. In English. Maybe he saw yesterday's edition of the newspaper, yesterday being as up to date as you can get in France. The paper was in our beach bag, the title showing. Maybe he did not see it. Maybe we just look English.

He was six foot something of well built, muscular German, with a shaved head, shaved pubes, and the kind of reddish, freckly tan all over that a blonde or slightly gingerish complexion will form in Mediterranean sun. Nice cock. Not that I am into cocks, but I can tell a good looking guy when I see one, and this guy was not so handsome, and I can tell a good looking, sizeable cock when I see one too, and this guy had one. Foreskin pulled back. Nice heavy duty helmet.

"S'il vous plait." I said.

When in France, speak French, even to a German, even when you are English. "Please," was all that needed to be said. Or more literally translated, "Please yourself".

Interesting, I thought, that you ask the husband. Not the wife. The assumption is that the wife will want to fuck another guy, or will do whatever the husband decides she should. Just ask the husband. Then move into position. Except that first he guided Marianne onto her knees, some of my semen seeping from her as she turned. Then he moved behind her, took hold of his cock, and pushed it into her waiting cunt.

Bare.

A total stranger. Bare-backed. In my wife.

It was quite a turn on to watch him fuck her. He knew how to fuck. How to hold her by the hips. How to push down on her back until her arms gave way, and her head and shoulders were ground into the sheet as he fucked her steadily. How to vary the angle. Fuck her downwards. Then angle in from one side. Then the other. How to punish her. Maybe Germans are into that more than others. How to test the water with a gentle slap. How to gradually increase the impact. Even tanned buttock flesh can turn to red. It did. Both sides. This guy knew how to fuck another person's wife.

Not that Marianne complained. She loved every thrust. Every use of his palm. Maybe it was having someone else fuck her instead of her husband. Maybe it was having her husband watch. Maybe it was having three other guys watching her as well. Maybe it was knowing that they were not just watching, but waiting for their turn. But she clearly loved it. To give myself credit, I had married a woman who really knew how to fuck and how to be fucked.

The German could not hold back either. Fifteen minutes in, and Marianne had another orgasm. She is lucky that way. She can orgasm just from being fucked. It was interesting to watch her shuddering and shaking and groaning under another guy. More than interesting. It was block-buster, full screen, cinematographic, technicolour incredible. That was yet another amazing first, watching my wife reach orgasm from someone else fucking her like that.

Seconds after Marianne hit her orgasm the German guy's face began to redden, his back arched, and her gave a kind of long, low, male, grunt of animalistic lust gone wild. Obviously I could not see, but I knew that deep in my wife's cunt, creamy German cum was spurting from the eye in this guy's huge helmet. Incredible to be there, watching the second guy to fuck my wife get his rocks off, assuming that is, that there was only one guy back in England who had fucked her already, the evidence in the laundry basket, and this German really was just the second guy.