A Tat for a Trist

A Tat for a Trist

Mary the Wollstonecraft Woman

A white woman and a black man find lust at a swingers' resort. In the humid heat of an island refuge, a married woman allows herself to be carried away in passion by a stranger under the watchful eyes of the other guest.

A Tat for a Trist

--1987--

I'm a terrible person and make no excuses for my bad behavior. With that said, I'd do the same thing again, and I have no regret. Without our children, my husband and I took a vacation to a resort on an island in the Pacific. The trip to one of those all-expenses included destinations where we realized anything could happen a bit too late.

My husband, Buck, and I, aren't what you would call swingers. In truth, we were uncomfortable and agreed we'd change hotels if we could get at least some credit to cover the cost of the rooms. The resort demanded to know why we wanted to leave.

"We're not swingers," Buck told the hotel manager.

"Not everyone here is," he said. "For you, sir, we have deep sea fishing, scuba diving, and golf. At night, you two can dance at the Perry Como Club, for squares like the two of you. Mrs. Livingston can attend yoga, water aerobics, lay in the sun at one of the clothing-required pools, or an art, dancing, or quilting class while you're off doing your thing. You, Ma'am, might like tennis or golf with the ladies on our par three course."

"Oh, Hun, you'd like the manly things, and I can just lay out at one of the non-swinger pools."

"Well, you're sure we won't have extra charges for the non-swinger activities," Buck asked.

"Everything is inclusive. You've already paid for it. However, I can compensate you for a hotel charge in town if you wish. But honestly, sir, you've paid for your meals, drinks, tips, excursions, and anything we offer. Why incur additional entertainment expenses? If another couple, single man or woman, hits on you, like your first lady's motto, 'Just say no.'"

"Holly, my love, what do you think?"

"Buck, baby, I really don't want to change hotels. What I want to do is slip into a bikini, read my book, and get a tan in the sun."

So, soon, Buck was off snorkeling and parasailing. While I relaxed, unaware, at one of the clothing-optional pools.

If truth be told, I may have subconsciously gravitated to a swingers' pool. Picking my spot, not noticing or ignoring the signs about Swingers and Squares, I found a lovely sunny spot, spent a few minutes spreading my sunblock over my body, and getting ready to dive into a romance novel.

"Did you get your back covered, Miss?" the man's voice rumbled, deep, a bit scratchy, and ever so masculine.

Gazing up from the novel, I beheld a black as-coal god. The man's gorgeous swarthy flesh gleamed from his own lotion in the bright rays of afternoon sunlight. With his hands on his hips, an ebony superman stared at me with lusty eyes.

Fixing his X-ray vision on me, he analyzed my body. Without trying, he caught my attention with the incredible, unexpected view of his limp cock, thick as my wrist and the cockhead hanging seven or seven and a half inches below his balls.

Buck's dick wasn't much smaller, but couldn't compare to the stranger's girth. Even so, this wasn't the attraction. The darkness of the man drew me to him, the contrast of his size and color to my whiteness and petite build. After all, opposites attract.

In vain, I tried to keep my eyes on his face, but my gaze returned to his cock only moments after each fleeting glance at his face.

"I'm married," I stammered. "My husband isn't a swinger. I mean, we, um, ah, we... aren't swingers."

"I'm single," he said. "So, why don't we get to know each other and not worry about labels?"

Kneeling beside my Nautical Chaise lounger, running his hand over my forearm, he touched me insistently, firmly, like placing a brand on me. And I didn't say no. The stark contrast of his dark hand and my white skin gave me a slight tingle, as did his rough hands.

"Wow," it came from my mouth before I could stop myself. "Your hands are so hard and callused. Buck's hands are soft like one would expect from an accountant."

"Is that a fact?" he said, more a statement than a question.

"Very much," I said. At that moment, my willpower dissolved as I betrayed my husband in spirit for the first time. "You're quite handsome. Far more attractive and masculine than Buck." These are words no wife should tell another man.

His hand moved, first to my belly, as he leaned to me, his mouth hovered over mine. "Thanks, you're hot as hell, baby."

"Holly," I said as his right hand moved to my left breast, pushed up my top, and cupped my tit, squeezing tenderly as he pushed our lips together. With his tongue passing between my lips, plump and long, he danced with my tongue, and all thoughts of my husband vanished.

For many years, I'd been curious about cheating, about black men, those things decent women never think about or, if they do, never admit. Following our kiss, his hand moved to my face. Those powerful hands caressed my tender flesh, and emotions inside me took control.

"We need to go to your room," I said.

"No, take a gander," he told me.

There were men and women fucking on the other side of the pool. A girl sucked a man off in the shallow end of the pool. The man standing, an appearance of joy on his face, while her head bobbed underwater. Her head broke the surface every so often, and down she went. Another man, next to the first but on the edge of the pool, gave his encouragement.

In fact, there were at least half a dozen people fucking one another.

"But Buck might come back."

"Who cares?" he said. "As far as I'm concerned, he can watch us fuck."

Honestly, I wanted to stop this, and I didn't want to stop at all. How can both be true? No idea, but they are. Again, he kissed me, deeply passionate, hotter than my husband had kissed me in my life. Easing himself onto the recliner, he lay on me, holding his weight off me. Our lips, still locked together, kissing with such a fire, my body prickled.

Those hands on each breast worked me to a hot, sensual intensity, making my body ache for more. Arching my back, pressing myself into the man. A rock-hard body against my soft womanly form, another contrast pushing me further into the void.

Until this moment, I hadn't touched his body with my hands. Resistance melted under his relentless hands, roaming over my body. Moving my arms around him, I caressed the rigid muscles on his back. The mammoth cock, which in truth wasn't so much larger than my husband's, stiffened into a black steel rod poking against my belly.

Can I admit something here? The fact is, I haven't an idea when or how he removed my top or bikini bottom. But he did, and his hand, rough as sandpaper, stroked my snatch with his rough calluses lubricated by my sopping wet pussy. The moment he touched my snatch, the fire rose from deep inside me.

A thirsty yearning erupted; our kissing became frantic.

Three fingers shoved deep into my pussy, and he furiously pumped me. With my legs twitching while the earth moved around me, a craving consumed me inside. Despite this, he hadn't put his cock in me. In fact, it rubbed my belly as he was hunching above me. Spreading my legs for him, he settled between them. Pulling his fingers out, he worked the juices over his massive cock.

"Gonna give you a fine fucking, Holly, girl."

"What's your name?"

"Marcus," he said, and the rumble of his voice filled my chest as he let his weight press on me. With one thrust, he entered me, balls deep.

My muscles parted to allow him inside me.

"Oh, my fucking god," I screamed.

Once he bottomed out, they clutched him tight, longing to keep him deep inside me.

This spattering of applause surrounded us. While cat calls encouraged us to continue.

His hips pounded into mine. I plunged back into him while he stabbed into me. Our bodies undulated in a frantic, frenzied rumbled to the hoots and hollers of onlookers. My breasts smashed by his enormous chest, my pussy swelling in the rutting of our passions.

Letting loose of my body, he flicked something on the recliner. We crashed flat. The weight of him crushed me, sending the heat of his flesh through mine. The hooting of the crowd cheered our efforts.

"See how he pounds that beautiful whore?" one woman said. "Take it bitch, show him you're his equal."

"Man, oh man, that guy can use his pecker," a man said. "Do my wife next."

"Oh, my goodness, why is she so lucky?" another woman said. "If I was ten years younger, he might be fucking me like a two-dollar whore."

After a few minutes, the noise of them faded into the background, like the waves that crashed on the beach or rocks out in the distance. Sounds, smells, our bodies merging, our sweat mingling.

We were one.

I opened my eyes, turned my head to the left, and my beloved husband's eyes met mine. A massive orgasm overtook me, and I screamed.

"Marcus, fuck me harder!"

With the betrayal written on his face, Buck hung his head like a hurt puppy dog. Shame didn't raise an ugly scowling face, or well inside. It held its tongue as I kept my gaze on my husband. Defiant, I renewed my impromptu communion.

With furtive glances, Buck peeked at me. A strange leer on his lips. That was when I knew he wanted this as much as I did.

The lounger squeaked, groaned, and threatened to break under the relentless fucking Marcus gave me. The rail where Buck stood moved an inch or two at a time. Only it wasn't the railing moving. It was the lounger. As I shuddered through one climax, another, and another. A roller coaster, with heights unending, with a new one happening close on the heels of one another. My lust consumed me.

At last, as my orgasms subsided, Marcus changed to long, slow strokes. Allowing me to bask in the afterglow without permitting me to hit bottom. With deliberate slowness, he picked up the pace, holding at this new speed for a minute, once again changing. And my rapture didn't subside.

Buck's eyes were sad, but his cock stood proudly in his swimsuit. Reaching inside his trunks, he stroked his dick. With his gaze fixed on me, he jacked himself.

"Let me help," a woman beside him said. She reached down inside his pants, took his cock from him, and stroked him. She ran her hands over his chest and concentrated on him.

While Buck only had eyes for me.

Again, Marcus fucked me like a rag-doll, and I responded and fucked him back. The waves of supreme rapture engulfed me in a mind-blowing orgasm. At that point, Marcus pulled out, climbed my body, and thrust his prick deep into my throat. Thick streams of dick snot erupted as he fucked my face.

The nut juice found its way to my mouth and nose. Viscous man batter leaked out my mouth and nostrils, over my lips, rivulets running down my chin.

My husband's new friend hurried her jacking and the material of his wet swimsuit darkened. Pulling her hand out, she licked his discharge from her fingers. And something to him. They left and entered a bungalow.

His revenge fucking nor his ultimate enjoyment of my cheating didn't mean we weren't about to have a knockdown, drag-out fight. Beneath my enjoyment, and believe me, I enjoyed that fuck more than another other before, hid the fear of losing him.

Only we didn't fight. We loosened up and experimented, fucking several other people. Of course, Marcus fucked me for the rest of the week at least once a day. However, none of them compared to the first one.

Before we flew home, Buck got me a tattoo, a little club next to my triangle of pussy hair.