Spanish Bull

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*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"See you later," Sarah confirmed.

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

"What was that about?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So that's what he was doing?"

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

"Giving?"

"I let him put it on."

"Front and back?"

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

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

"A date, this evening."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kiss me, then."

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

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

"Is that for me?" she asked.

"Who else?"

She broke off the kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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