Sailboard Lessons

Carole, on her back, on the sand. Raphael between her legs. Carole's pale English legs wrapped around Raphael's jet black torso. Raphael's cock lodged deep in Carole's pussy. In my wife's pussy. Her cunt, I corrected myself. When you make love to your wife, it is her pussy that you enjoy. When another guy is fucking your wife it becomes a cunt.

Besides, Raphael's cock was not lodged in her cunt, but sliding smoothly in and out, that ludicrously sized head stretching her labia and her vaginal wall, thrusting rhythmically as Carole groaned and urged him on. She was as much into having him fuck her as he was into ravaging her cunt.

Then I pictured Carole on her hands and knees, Raphael behind her, kneeling between her legs, easing his cock head into her, and Carole pushing back. Raphael was holding her by her pelvic girdle, making each thrust count, his thighs slapping against the backs of hers, his groin slamming against her buttocks, his cock head plundering her cunt, and Carole was loving every inch of cock, every thrust and every minute of his steady pounding, her full breasts swaying uncontrollably beneath her as she cried and groaned and moaned with pleasure.

A harder thrust made Carole's arms give way. She turned her head as her hands slid in the soft sand until it was her shoulders pushing into the sand that were supporting her more than her arms.

Her back formed a downwards slide from her raised buttocks to her sideways turned neck, and droplets of sea water mixed with sweat trickled down the slope, the steady pounding that Raphael was still giving her making them slip and slide with each thrust.

Carole's breasts were squashed beneath her, and she looked uncomfortable, but Raphael just continued fucking her deeper into the sand, and whatever discomfort she was experiencing was amply compensated for by the feelings that his cock was generating in her cunt, and by the regular, steady grazing of his cock shaft against her clit.

I had to drag my thoughts away from that imagined scene. My cock was hardening, and there are limits to how far it can come erect in a public bar, even on a nudist beach. Above the level of your thighs, and it becomes socially unacceptable. I drank some of my ice cold diet coke and looked around at people just getting with beach life as if everything was normal, and no one was fucking the hell out of my wife.

Then I had this image of Raphael lying on his back, legs wide, getting sand in his plaits, and not caring, because Carole was kneeling between his legs, kissing and sucking on his nipples.Then Carole moved back, licking at his navel, tracing downwards.

Like a lot of the guys on the beach, Raphael kept his pubic hair shaved. Maybe he just dried himself more easily that way. Maybe it made his cock look a little bigger. Maybe the women he fucked enjoyed being able to lick and suck around his shaft without the risk of getting rogue hairs in their mouths.

Carole licked and sucked around Raphael's cock, the same way that she did mine. His cock was iron hard, and she had to ease it back from his stomach with her hand so that it pointed to the sun, so that she could get her tongue all the way to the base of his shaft.

She licked all around the shaft, working her way upwards until she took the gleaming black, bulbous head into her mouth. She did the same to him that she did to me, lips around the cock head, raising and lowering her own head, taking his cock as deep as her throat would permit.

Except in my head Carole was able to more than she had ever done with me, and relax her throat. She was able to let that fat bulbous cock head go right down her throat, distending her neck, until her lips were right at the base of his shaft. She was able to raise and lower her head just an inch either way, so that although he was lying motionless, it was the same effect as if he was fucking her throat, and getting his cock head stimulated by its tightness.

When she was ready, Carole eased off on giving him head, and moved up his body. She brought her legs to either side of his waist, and then slowly lowered herself, reaching with her hand to angle his cock so that it was pointing right where she wanted it. She held herself steady right at the point where his cock head was stretching her labia wide. Then she sank lower, inch by gleaming black inch.

Several days of Spanish sun had given Carole's skin a light tan. She had used plenty of lotion, to avoid reddening, and her skin glowed gold. In my head, the contrast of her light honey thighs against his jet black torso was incredible, but the picture of his black cock head opening her light pink labia, and his ebony shaft sliding ever deeper into her cunt, with her pubic mound hairless and the same gold as the rest of her body, was so perfect and so real that I had to blink and shake my head to rid myself of it.

You do not carry a wallet on a sailboard. You do not carry keys, or credit cards, or coins or notes or condoms. You just glide over the water, around the rocks and when you beach in the next cove you are naked and she is naked, and you do not put on a condom that you do not have. You just slide your cock into her pussy and enjoy skin on skin, and when you come, you just explode, and let your semen race with exquisite pleasure along your shaft, spurting from the dark eye of your cock into the warm depths of her cunt.

At least that was how it was in my head, for two long hours. In real time, Raphael and Carole were out of sight, around the rocks, for enough time for him to have fucked her twice. In my head, Raphael fucked my wife twenty or thirty times, and in between she rode him.

He spewed his semen into her mouth, down her throat and deep inside her cunt, over and over again. He had a limitless supply. Each time it was like a hose, spurting vast amounts of milk white come that was too much for her swallow, and trickled from the corners of her mouth, or that filled her cunt and ran down her leg to stain the sand dark.

At long last, Carole glided into sight,balancing and leaning back to control the sail, followed by Raphael, and their tryst, real or imagined, was finally over.

Carole made one smooth turn, ducking under the sail bar, and skidded over the water in a diagonal approach that took her right onto the sand where the board slowed to a stop and she fell, laughing and dropping the sail, as Raphael came in a few short seconds behind her.

I saw them approaching from the bar and got up to welcome Carole back. She was grinning with elation, telling me how great it had been. Raphael was more subdued. I was pretty sure his cock was not as thick as it had been. Maybe he had just more focused on sailboarding than on my wife. Just because his cock was more flaccid than before did not mean that he had just fucked my wife.

But there was something else that caused me to think again. Carole's teats, naturally light brown, although a little darker after almost a week in the Spanish sun, had more than a hint of red, the hue they go when they receive attention. I might have been wrong, but I was pretty sure of it.

Of course, the slight redness might have been the effect of the sun, because her whole body was looking a little sun burned, and reflection from the water can do that, because the rays bounce off the surface and double the amount of ultra violet light that hits your body, and then as well, if you have fallen in the water often enough, the sun lotion you were wearing will gradually get washed off, and you will tend to burn more easily.

Just the same, when we went back to our apartment for our lunch, I noticed that Carole took a quick shower before we ate, telling me that she just needed to wash off the salt water, while my head was thinking that maybe she needed to wash off more than water, or use the hand held shower as a douche.

I thought about it that afternoon, back on the beach, wondering. A couple of hours was more than long enough. There were coves close to ours, some of them not accessible by foot because of the rocky cliffs. There had been ample time to find a quiet beach, and then come back and act as if it had been just sailboard practice.

The thought would not go away, especially not when we went to bed. The idea that he had been between her legs, his cock sliding in and out of my wife's cunt, just would not go away. Yet I could not ask. You do not insult your wife by suggesting that she might have let someone fuck her on the sly. You have to know for certain, or say nothing.

Besides, if I had asked, even if it had happened, the chances were that Carole would say no. She was behaving as if nothing unusual had happened, so why would she suddenly admit to something that only she and Raphael would ever know for certain had taken place. Asking her just did not make sense, and risked doing more harm than good.

So that night I just fucked Carole all the harder, still wondering if she had already been fucked that morning, and if that was why the guy's cock had been flaccid when they returned,after coming in the same cunt that I was fucking, and why her nipples had been reddened, not by the sun, but by his hands and mouth.

Going back for Carole's third lesson was surreal. I might just have been leaving my loving wife for more coaching, or I might have been handing over the woman that I loved to this guy so that he could fuck her for a second time. I had no way of knowing. All I knew was that they were around the rocks and out of sight within ten minutes, and I had just my book, my coke, and my memory of his once again thick and almost erect black cock, the skin of the mushroom head taut and gleaming.

I had the same thoughts all over again. Carole letting Raphael do pretty much anything he wanted to.

I even thought of them standing, kissing, his full lips on hers, his black arms around her golden back, his hands cupping her buttocks, one of them sliding around her thigh to find her hairless pubis and explore between her labia with his strong fingers.

Somehow the thought of them kissing was even harder to take than his fucking her cunt. It was more meaningful than sheer, animal rutting. It would be one thing for Carole to let this guy ravage her, out of some kind of lust for a different cock to plunder her, but to offer him her mouth would be a betrayal of the love we shared.

I mean to let him kiss her on the mouth, of course. Letting him fuck her mouth was different too, less meaningful, but kissing, lips sliding across one another, tongues probing and intertwining, was what lovers do.

And no,I do not mean that fucking is okay. Thinking of him easing his cock inside my wife was sheer hell, but somehow that picture of them standing, kissing, hit me so much more.

Like the day before, I had to shake my head to clear it. I even made myself think of him taking her from behind, or up against a rock, or in the water, her legs wrapped around him, or her kneeling in front of him sucking his cock, anything that was just meaningless sex, in preference to any suggestion that my beautiful wife might have real feelings for the guy.

The same as the day before, Raphael's cock was flaccid and limp when they got back. Carole was smiling. Raphael asked about another lesson, but Carole declined. Next time she would just hire the sailboard and go out on her own. Raphael shrugged, but he looked disappointed.

We headed back for lunch, leaving our things on the beach, but putting on, in my case, my shorts and teeshirt, and Carole tying her wrap around her, the knot just above her left breast. She thanked me on the way up for indulging her, taking my hand as we went up the steps. Inside the apartment, she dropped her wrap onto a chair, and headed to the bedroom, saying that she was going to have a shower.

I followed her into the bedroom.

"You can always shower after," I said to her.

She turned at the bathroom doorway.

"After what?" she asked.

"After I've finished fucking you," I said.

"Sounds good," she grinned, not quite hiding what might have been panic in her eyes. "Let me just rinse myself off and I'll be right there."

I got to the doorway of our en suite bathroom as she reached it and took her by the arm, turning her and taking her in my arms. I kissed her shoulder.

"It's fine," I said. "Besides, I like the taste of salt."

I moved one hand from her back to her breast, touching her nipple with my thumb. The stub was hard. I could not be sure about its colour, brown, or pink brown, or whether there was any sign that Raphael had been enjoying my wife's breast. Carole reacted to the touch, shuddering. Her entire body started shuddering, but she let me guide her to the bed.

I slipped off my shorts and teeshirt while she sat waiting. My cock was half erect already, and free of my shorts, it was rising rapidly.

I eased my delicious wife onto her back, parted her legs, and moved between them. Holding her legs apart I kissed her inner thigh, a few inches above the knee, then again, higher, and yet higher.

"No!" Carole whispered, but I carried on, kissing her smooth, soft, shaven pubic mound while she squirmed as if seeking to escape.

It was when I kissed her labia that she stopped moving, freezing rather than relaxing as I probed around them and between them with my tongue, tasting her inner depths. She tasted of sea salt, and there was a hint of her own secretions, and the possibility of something more.

Looking back, I guess that whatever might have happened in a secluded cove, she would have been back in the sea while sailboarding back, probably several times, since she admitted than she still lost her balance from time to time.

The sea water would have washed away any evidence that would otherwise have been not salty, but more slimy than water, and bitter on the tongue. As it was, I could not be sure if it was just remnants of sea water that I tasted, or something else. I sampled her for as long as my cock would let me, because it was hard and impatient for her pussy. I moved up her body, paying oral homage to each breast in turn, and then entering her slick, wet cunt.

"Oh, yes," she whispered. "Yes, fuck me... It's yours..."

And so I fucked her.

There were no more sailboard lessons after that day. Carole hired a sailboard for an hour or so most days, but said that she no longer needed Raphael to come with her.

The rest of the vacation continued as it had been, sand, sea, beach tennis, meals in restaurants or at the villa, and some of the best lovemaking we have enjoyed, in bed, on the apartment floor, standing on the balcony, and even in a quiet moonlit corner of the beach where daytime it would be busy with sunbathers but long after midnight it was deserted.

I still found myself wondering about whether anything had really taken place, or if it had all been in my head. The images that my brain had conjured up, those two days when I had been waiting at the bar and Carole and Raphael had been out of sight, those images kept reappearing.

Carole was loving and warm and most mornings she reached for my cock, coaxing it into erection if it was not already rigid. She spent long delicious interludes between my legs using her mouth and lips to express her love for my cock, my balls, and everything down there.

She told me so often that I lost count, that her pussy belonged to me, and I could do to her whatever I wanted to. She even offered to let me spank her, or rather she asked me to do it, asked me to pretend that I was punishing her, told me that she wanted it to hurt.

It almost seemed as if she was making up for something. It was as if the time she spent using her mouth on my cock and between my legs was her doing penance for doing the same thing to someone else. Telling me that her pussy belonged to me seemed like she needed to tell that to herself, after allowing someone else to fuck that self same pussy. Never before had she mentioned spanking, yet she knelt at the bed in the villa, asking me to take her from behind, and to use my hand as well, as if she had done something that she should not have done.

It all added up to the one conclusion that I did not want to reach, that my wife had allowed another man to fuck her, twice over, and then realised that she had crossed a line, pulled back, and needed to make it right with her conscience, even if she was never to tell me outright what she had done.

That was eight long months ago. Now we have booked somewhere in the South of France for the coming summer.

I still think about Raphael. I wonder if he really fucked my wife or if it was all just a stupid fantasy conjured from nothing more than the size of his cock.

I still picture them on the beach together, and worst of all, I think of him fucking her while we are making love. The images haunt me, yet somehow they make our lovemaking all the more intense.

Then there are the times when we are with our now almost adult children, and I look back at all the things that we have shared, and realise that Raphale is just in my imagination, and that Carole's behaviour in that second week in Spain was just her way of expressing the love we have between us, and exploring sexual pleasures that being free of the kids, being naked in the daytime, and being warm at night, together enabled her to suggest more freely than she could before.

Just to see what answer she would give, I asked her two weeks ago,on our wedding anniversary, if she would ever like to make love to someone else. We were making love, and she froze when I asked the question, and then took time to think before asking in her caring, loving voice, if I would like her to. My own question remained unanswered. Hers I answered in three simple words.

"Maybe, in France," I said.

"Then, maybe," she answered quietly.

I still wonder about Spain, and about her sailboard lessons, out of sight, in another cove, and whether she has already made love to someone else, and if his cock was black, but suggesting that it might happen while we are in France brought me no closer to the truth.

What I hope, is that this summer it will happen, that the opportunity will be there, and that with my consent, my wife will part her legs and let a stranger slide his cock inside her, and thrust deep and rhythmically until she, and he both come.

Not knowing is the most hellish nightmare of them all. You can neither resent, nor forgive, what is not known for certain. Better by far, for it to happen, and then to deal with it.