Beach the Bitch

Detailing the next three guys could get tedious. They all did it from behind. Maybe it is something about total stranger sex, that you do not want to see her face. Just her cunt and ass is fine. After all, she is just a slut, even if she is married. You are not getting into a meaningful relationship. It is just a pussy to be fucked.

Bare. Every time.

Their risk, not mine.

Marianne's as well, I guess, but her sex drive must have got the better of her common sense. You should never let that happen. Guys can think with their cocks. My wife was clearly thinking with her cunt, if she was thinking about the risks at all.

After they had finished with her, she slumped into a blissful slumber. I let her sleep ten or fifteen minute. Then I woke her, kissing her on the shoulder.

With five guys having come inside her, myself included, she had been well and truly dripping with semen. It had run down her inner thighs, and had dried in the sun, on her skin and on our sheet.

I gave her a kiss as her reward for having been so daring and suggested that she might want to swim to get cleaned up. I watched as she went down the dune, arms outstretched for balance, buttocks undulating, all too perfect. As she walked more steadily the hundred yards from the bottom of the dune across almost dead flat sand to where the sea was lapping, I thought just how much I was going to miss her exquisite body.

But just her body.

It took only a moment to put on my shorts, fold the sheet, put it in the beach bag along with the newspaper, Marianne's shorts and teeshirt, our books, lotions, and Marianne's sunglasses, and her beach handbag with her make-up, mobile phone and purse. I left the umbrella. It might attract more guys.

The car park was pretty packed. The beach was busy. It was still mid afternoon. I drove out, content that everything had gone to plan. It would take maybe half an hour to pack our things back at the apartment we had rented. I would bring Marianne's clothes back with me to England. All of them. Keep them safe for her. I like to be considerate.

The apartment was all paid for. I could drop the key in at the agent's before heading up the autoroute to Calais.

It was a pity to end the holiday a few days early, but I wanted to get home first, change the locks, pack my soon to be ex-wife's things in bin liners, leave them in the garage until she collected them. I could not be sure just how long it would take her to get back. Having no passport and no money might be a drag.

Mind you, having no clothes and just a green and white umbrella might not be helpful either. The thought seemed quite amusing as I drove north.

I put on the radio, listening to a series of love ballads, wholly inappropriate, that left me musing whether I would still find any of her knickers in the laundry basket, and how good it would be to tie at least one of the bin liners of her clothes using her own sex soiled panties, just to make it clear when she came for them, assuming she got off the beach, that I had known exactly what had been going on before that final holiday.

THE END

******

PS: The above is fiction. I wrote it just for fun, and I am not really as nasty as this suggests. Ask my wife. She read it and she agrees that I am really a nice guy to be around. She also says that she will never be unfaithful.