Illicit Honeymoon

The turtle was no more than twenty feet away. My wife of eighteen days had seen it first, and had surfaced to wave at me and point to down and to her right. Whatever she was pointing it, she looked excited, so it had to be worth a look. I took a deep breath through my snorkel tube and ducked my head below the surface, scanning the clear blue water for what had attracted her attention. Then I saw it. It was right there, below me and to my left, using its flippers to glide smoothly through the water.

Laura led the way, following the turtle six, then ten feet, below the surface of the Thai waters, her black flippers making it easy to keep up, her long, jet black hair flowing behind her. She used her arms only to change direction, or to slow herself, as the turtle turned one way and then another. She looked amazing, as she always did, her body sleek, slender and tanned mahogany from two weeks of honeymoon basking under the Thai sun.

Her bikini did little to detract from the sheer beauty of her body. It was designed to expose as much bare flesh as possible. The top was no more than two triangles of fabric, concealing her areoles but barely containing her generous breasts. A string tie around her neck secured the tops of the triangles. An inch wide, elasticated band that crossed her back below her shoulder blades, kept the outer corners tight to her breasts.

The bottom of her bikini was just another triangle, narrower, inverted, to conceal her cunt, another inch wide elasticated band holding it in place, level with her pelvis and with the upper curve of her delicious butt, with a string, hidden between her buttock cheeks, pulling tight the narrow apex of the triangle, between her legs.

On the beach, at the pool, or in the sea, Laura was not exposing anything that Thai expectations said should be kept covered. Their culture is much more modest than our own. Few Thai women wear bikinis, and torsos, upper arms and legs are kept covered, but Thai expectations for tourists had been compromised long before. My wife's bikini bared more than most, but was tolerated without complaint. Watching my wife swim just ahead of me, tracking the turtle, I thought she looked amazing.

Right then the turtle was at least taking my mind off the things that I had learned the night before. Being so close to it, so at one with nature, was just incredible. This would have been the perfect ending to our honeymoon, had we not held that after dinner conversation.

We followed the turtle for as long as we each could hold our breath. Any longer would have required full scuba diving gear, and we were no scuba divers. This was Laura's first time snorkelling, although she could swim well, and I had done it only a handful of times before. Still, for the best part of a minute, my thoughts about Laura had been pushed to one side by the excitement of the underwater chase.

In fairness, the fault was mine. Laura and I should have talked more before we married. I should have asked her more. Asking the questions during our honeymoon had risked exactly the kind of revelations that she had shared. The kind that do not go away, that play in your head, again and again, words made into images by your own imagination, that only a turtle swimming in the bay of one of the Similan Islands could dispel, and only for those short minutes.

We swam in the bay for maybe thirty minutes more before the klaxon went, summoning us back on board. There were no more sightings of the turtle, but the fish we saw more than made up for it. All colours, shapes and sizes, too various to describe them all, some large solitary fish, some in small groups, some shoals of what seeming like hundreds, in corals, blues, purples, browns and brilliant yellows, gliding, turning, diving, darting, all with effortless flicks of their tails.

Laura reached the boat's ladder just ahead of me. She climbed up, sea water running down her back and legs, dripping onto me. Her mahogany butt gleamed with water droplets lit bright by the mid-day sun, beautifully bare below the strip of fabric that cross her lower back, tanned, and delightfully curved, the skin taut and smooth.

Our first holiday together, before we married, had been in France, and Laura had introduced me to sunbathing and swimming naked, and to the aesthetic satisfaction of all over tans. Here, Thai norms meant that nude sunbathing, whether at our hotel pool or on the beach, was impossible. Reluctantly, Laura had bought new swimwear for our honeymoon, the black bikini that she was wearing now, and a second, identical, white bikini, to ensure that her inevitable tan lines would at least coincide, whichever one she wore.

We both tan easily, Laura even more easily than I do. By this stage of our honeymoon, I was a decent shade of golden brown, apart from beneath my swimming shorts. My wife had turned mahogany, at least most of her. Given that honeymoons are supposed to be about making love as much as possible, it was a neat discovery for me at least, that while all over tans can look amazing, there is something especially erotic about those private areas of the body that honeymooners most enjoy, remaining white.

Laura's tan lines, seen only in our hotel room, were incredible. Her breasts had two milk white triangles with her wide pink-brown areoles at their centres. Lower down there was what seemed like a white arrowhead, pointing the way between her legs to the exquisite ripeness of her cunt. Fucking her from behind, there were two perfect bands of white, one below her shoulder blades, the other curving just above her buttocks, animal stripes that would remain until finally her tan faded, or until the summer, when we sunbathed naked once again.

Watching my wife board the boat, as she ascended the ladder rung by rung ahead of me, I enjoyed the delicious view ahead of me, only to have it marred by the thought of what she had disclosed to me at our hotel the night before, and I wondered just how many other men had fucked the cunt that was barely covered, only inches from my eyes.

We sat, wet and dripping, on the wooden bench seat, along with twenty or so other tourists, and perhaps six Thai day trippers, all of them dripping water like ourselves. In deference to the personal closeness inevitable on the high speed boat ride, none of the women was wearing anything other than a one piece swimsuit.

The middle aged couple on the other side of my wife were Thai, the guy and his wife both wearing teeshirts over their swimwear. The number of tourists the boat was carrying meant that we were all squeezed tight together, and the guy's leg was pressed against Laura's. His arm was against hers.

I wondered how he felt about her near nakedness. Her narrow cut bikini bottom left her hips bare, and dipped agonisingly close to her cunt lips. The triangles that contained her breasts cupped rather than contained the ample flesh, her nipple stubs pushing out against the fabric. I could sense his discomfort being in such close proximity to such exquisitely exposed female flesh, with his wife right beside him.

What the Thai father did not know, was that my wife's areoles were barely covered by the black fabric of her bikini. Hers are no button nipples, or coin sized areoles. My palm barely covers them. They are like cups of swollen flesh, their surface taut, pink-brown, and almost translucent, fine lines of blue veins visible beneath her skin. They stand proud of her already ample breasts, with eraser nipples that mould the fabric of whatever top she wears, taunting the voyeur, daring them to stare.

In France, I had lost count of the men who turned their heads as they walked past us, staring in awe at Laura's incredible areolas. At our hotel here, she had attracted almost as much attention, if not from baring her breasts then from their shape and size on someone as slight as she is. Hardly five two, with the build of middle distance runner, but the breasts of a Playboy centrefold, she exudes a fuck-me-now sexuality that brings most guys to attention. Whichever Gods created human life, they achieved close to perfection when they shaped the mould in which Laura's body was formed and brought to life. I was, or so I thought, the luckiest guy on earth to win her as my wife.

The engines of the boat roared into life, and it started scudding around the island where we had been moored, one of the main snorkelling areas, heading now to a further island where we would stay. The choice was tent or cabins, and we had reserved a cabin, our tour outlet telling us the tents would be hot and clammy all night long, with only mats to sleep on, and sleeping bags to sleep inside. The huts would not be honeymoon suite luxury, but they had beds and sheets and overhead fans to ease the night time heat.

The island itself was geared for tourist boats, half a dozen boats much like our own, already moored as we arrived. The boat reversed into the shallows, and we all clambered out, knee deep in the water, wading to the sandy beach, our bags carried off for us by the two man crew, held above their heads to keep them dry.

As over-nighters, we were guided to a meeting point beneath a tall palm tree. A handful of back packs were already leaning against the ringed tree trunk and the guys put ours beside them. One of them explained that we should eat lunch first, and then we would be shown to our cabin, and pointed us after all the day-trippers, to the communal eating area just beyond.

We joined the queue for what turned out to be a self-service buffet of however much or little Thai food you chose to pile onto a plate, set out under a massive timber beam roof, no walls, shelter from the sun, with a welcome, light breeze wafting its way between the tables.

Again, Laura was the least dressed of anyone, and she got the looks that her minimal swimsuit and her exquisitely proportioned figure inevitably draw. The Thai men stared openly, some of them even walking past where we were sitting to get a closer view. I might have done the same. Instead, I had married her, and she was mine, not just to look at, but to fuck.

After lunch we were provided with the key to our wood cabin, one of half a dozen, four meters square, raised from the sandy ground on stilts. We put our things inside, and closed the padlock that was the only security provided to us, turning the tumblers to random numbers so as to hide the code.

We went back to the beach and watched the hoards of day trippers clamber back onto their boats,. Each boat in turn set of for the next stage of their trip, bows rising from the water as they gained speed. We would be on one of those the next day, after our overnight stay, with more snorkelling in the afternoon before heading back to the mainland in time to reach our hotel, shower and dress, and take our taxi to the airport for our flights back home.

For the afternoon, and in the morning, we had the beach, our towels and our snorkels. We planned to spend the remainder of the afternoon sunbathing, perhaps swimming around the rocky edges of the bay where there might be more of the multi-coloured fish, but otherwise enjoying the sun, sand and sea the last twenty four hours of our honeymoon, before resuming normal life in London.

Once the final boat had left, we realised just how few of us remained on the beach. On the curved beach of at least a hundred yards, there just six other people, two couples, both in their twenties or early thirties, like ourselves, and two Thai guys who when they walked past us a little later, seemed to be in their early twenties.

We were at least twenty feet from the nearest couple, close to our end of the cove, and my wife decided that, on an island, with hardly anyone around, she could relax a little more, and forget about the standards set by Thai culture.

She waited until I had left her for a cool off swim. It was the kind of swim that lasts just a few short minutes, enough to escape the searing heat of the sun and bring the body back to somewhere near its normal temperature. When I rejoined my wife, she was naked, her bikini discarded on her towel. She was lying on her front, legs splayed, the rear view of her butt and cunt delightful.

It was the first time that I had seen Laura naked outside of our hotel room. Where at our hotel beach, she had been wearing her bikini, now the flesh that was newly bared was lit white by the sun, the contrast with her mahogany tan incredible. The twin stripes of white crossed her back, one above her buttocks, rounding each buttock in turn.

Approaching her though, it was her protruding labia that blew my mind. Not only were they pouting so invitingly, they were framed in white, where the narrow front triangle of her bikini had kept them hidden from the sun. Her splayed legs even revealed her anal star, dark centred, its crinkled pink white entrance in the valley formed by her two mahogany buttock globes.

Even with everything that she had told me about her flatmates, I would have loved it had we been alone. Then I could have turned my wife over, and licked that cunt, sucked on her breasts, and fucked her delicious body, as the sea lapped close by, with the sun beating down on us.

Sadly, the presence of just those few other people sharing the beach with us, meant that this was not to be. The only lovemaking on the beach would be much later, in the moonlit night.

A blue plastic sun lotion bottle on Laura's towel answered my unspoken query. Baring untanned flesh, even just two strips of white, in that strong Thai sun, was asking for painful sunburn. The number fifty on the bottle reassured. Laura was well protected, at least against the sun, if not against the other risks that she was taking by lying naked on that beach.

Even on a beach one hundred yards in length, a naked body will be recognised as being naked. The two couples paid Laura's nakedness no obvious attention, but the Thai guys showed their interest. They played it cool, but they had noticed. They waited a decent length of time before they got up to take a stroll.

Both the guys were gym fit guys, twenty two or twenty three, both with short cut black hair, both in knee length swimming shorts, both with defined, muscular bodies. Most Thai guys are short by European standards, and I would have put neither of the guys at more than five foot nine, similar builds, similar heights, similar looks.

Laura was lying on her front as they strolled past us the first time, and they did not disguise the looks they gave her, enjoying her total nudity. Her legs were still splayed the way they had been when I came back from my swim. The view she offered would have been the same, naked, mahogany body, two white stripes across her back, cunt framed in white, pink star exposed.

I am sure that it was not coincidence that led Laura to turn onto her back while the guys reached the end of the beach, where the rocks jutted out into the crystal blue water, and where they stood for a few minutes before casually turning back.

The view they got of her as they passed us walking back was of her naked breasts and hairless cunt, with the brilliant whiteness of the triangles of flesh that had been hidden from the sun by her bikini, and her pink-brown areoles and labial folds now displayed. They grinned appreciatively, commenting in Thai to each other, and nodding to me as if I were in some way sharing her body with them, visually at least. I guessed that they were thinking it might be fun if the European guy was the kind to share her, not just to look at, but to fuck that white framed, pouting cunt.

A picture formed inside my head, one of them lying on his back on the sand, his shorts discarded, my wife kneeling between his legs, her butt upturned, her back sloping towards his groin, sucking erect Thai cock, while the other was behind her, his own Thai cock just as erect, thicker and harder, his hands using the whiteness of her bikini tan line to grip her by the hips, as he steadily and slowly thrust deep into her cunt.

It was not an image that I wanted on our honeymoon, but all sorts of images had been going through my head since the night before. This time I was picturing just two Thai guys fucking her in turns. The one I could not shake, was not of two guys, but of four, two of them engaged with her, while the other two looked on, waiting for their turn.

That may seem strange, thinking about my new wife with four guys taking turns with her, but I could not rid myself of that image, replaying in my head. The night before, in our honeymoon suite at our mainland hotel, Laura had described exactly that, and just how much she had enjoyed each of four guys taking turns to fuck her.

Like I said, we should have talked more before the wedding ceremony, and I should not have waited until our honeymoon before I started asking her the questions that I did. I got that badly wrong.

Maybe I should be clear. Sex with Laura has always been incredible, and we had been going at each other like the proverbial rabbits right from arriving at our hotel. We may have been fatigued from the long haul flight the first night we arrived, but we still fucked each other's brains out on the rose petal strewn white linen of our bed before we fell asleep. For the two weeks that followed, we were fucking as often as any young couple would on their honeymoon, and morning, noon and night.

I have already described my new wife's long, jet black hair, her slender body, her superb breasts, her palm width, swollen areoles, and her succulent, protruding labia. I left out her cute, ski slope nose, her dark brown eyes, and her full, soft lips. Nor have I mentioned that her protruding labia delineate the entrance to the slickest, tightest cunt you can imagine.

I have always liked my women small, because their cunts are tighter. Laura's cunt is sheer perfection, exuding female secretions that make her slick to enter, stretching to accommodate my size, yet tight around my cock head so that each and every thrust stretches her again, and sends heavenly sensations through each of the myriad nerve endings massed beneath the taut skin that pushes into her.

Fucking such an exquisite body, experiencing the way the thickness of my cock stretches her cunt as I fucked her, the last thing I thought about was how many guys might have been there before me. Laura has always seemed the sweet innocent. I knew she was not a virgin when we met, but I would never have guessed just how experienced my dark haired angel really was.

She did not even dress like someone who was so sexually active. She wore the kind of clothes her mother would have approved of, jeans and jumpers most of the year round. My own parents loved her when they were introduced. She seemed the perfect catch, young, just twenty two when I first met her, with much to learn that I could teach her. I will never understand just what had made me ask, in one of those quiet interludes after making newly married love, and lying side by side, what the most daring thing that she had done before we met.

My heart stopped when she answered. Not for ever, but it definitely stopped and missed a beat or two.

"I guess, group sex," she said.

My gut told me that something life changing, or relationship redefining, had just been said. Yet I laughed, as if nothing serious had just been shared.

"Really?" I said. "So when was that?"

"With the guys in my flat share," she answered, "and a couple of friends of theirs."

The way she said it, it was like it was nothing to her, and would obviously not mean much to me. People have sex before they marry. It is no big deal. Having group sex is nothing more than sleeping with the same number of guys, one at a time. Nothing to be concerned about.

Maybe I should explain that before our wedding, both of us had been in flat-shares, or at least Laura had. Mine had been a house-share, the same thing, but just on two levels instead of one and with a front door on the street instead of an apartment entrance hall and stairway up. In London, when you are still relatively fresh from university, that is how you do it. Rents are too high to rent your own, so you get together with university friends, or work colleagues, or answer an online advert, and you share. We had rented our own flat to live in when we got back, but we still had some moving out to do.