Hot Sand: Abaco Islands

This is the first story in a new series called Hot Sand. It's an anthology series, each story being completely different from the last, with all new characters. They'll be posted alphabetically, this first one titled Abaco Islands. Each will be a warm weather story, with beaches and other warm weather things. If you're wondering, yes, I started writing them back in the depths of a long, cold winter.

The stories will cover quite a few of Literotica's categories, this first one being an Interracial story that could have gone in the Loving Wives category. The next installment will be Group Sex, followed by Incest/Taboo, Lesbian Sex, First Time, Mature, etc. etc.

As usual, I enjoyed writing these, and I hope you enjoy reading them.

Please join me in thanking my kind, patient editor, J. She's one of those sexy West Coast girls, with the salty air of the Pacific in her lungs, and the sea breeze in her long hair. Thanks J.

—

Greg tipped the bellman, and the uniformed young man closed the door behind him when he left.

"Why do I always feel sexy when we're away like this?" Joan said, gazing out at the balcony, the beach, and the ocean beyond.

"Probably the same reason I do," Greg said. His arms wrapped around his wife from behind, embracing her lovingly. "There's something about a hotel. Think of all the people who've had sex in here."

"Eww!" Joan said, chuckling. "I don't know if that's sexy or gross."

"It's sexy. Trust me." Greg's hands moved across Joan's blouse, settling on the mounds of her breasts at the very moment his lips kissed the side of her neck.

"We've been here, like, two minutes," she said, smiling. "You don't seriously want to do it already, do you?"

"I do," Greg said, his voice muffled by his nuzzling.

—

Freshly showered, nicely dressed, still feeling the lingering thrill of vacation sex — the first daytime sex either of them could remember since their last vacation — Joan and Greg sat at their table in the Bahamian resort's nice restaurant, sipping the last of the wine from the bottle that had washed down their tasty dinners. A few times during the dinner Greg had noticed Joan's glances at the bartender, a tall, very handsome, huge and powerfully muscled black man. Just then, as she sipped on her wine, her glance lingered.

"Nice looking guy," Greg said. "Looks like he could lift a Buick."

"Oh," Joan said. "I didn't mean to..."

"Hey, I get it," Greg said. "There was a girl in the lobby today that..."

"I saw!" Joan said. "It's not like you to ogle."

"Sorry."

"She was something, I'll give you that," Joan said. "They don't grow girls like that at home."

"Or guys like him," Greg said, gesturing with his head. "A guy like that's gotta have a massive cock, don't you think?"

Joan choked on her wine, nearly spitting it out. She whispered loudly, "Greg! What's gotten into you!"

Greg smiled at his flustered, blushing wife. "Don't you think?" he asked again.

Joan, feeling a flush of heat that made her tingle, said, "Maybe. But, isn't that...just a stereotype?"

"Oh, you mean because he's black? I was thinking more about his overall size. Is that what you girls think about? That black guys have big cocks?"

Joan's eyes widened. "Be quiet!" she whispered. "Why are we talking about this?"

"When my beautiful sexy wife undresses a guy with her eyes, I'm curious, that's all."

"I didn't! And...I'm not beautiful, or sexy. What do they put in those drinks of yours? Are you drunk already?"

Greg chuckled. "No, my dear. But seriously, when you see a black man, what do you think his body's going to look like."

"We're really having this conversation?" Joan waited for an answer, but didn't get one. She took a sip of her wine. "I don't know," she said. "Athletic, I guess. I know that's a stereotype, too."

"Too? So you have heard the Big Black Cock one."

"What do you think, I live under a rock?"

Greg smirked. "What does that mean?"

"It means...maybe I've..." Joan shook her head and took another big sip of wine. "Maybe I've...seen one or two."

Greg looked surprised. "You dated black men?"

"No, silly!" Joan said, red-faced, feeling the heat again. "I've...seen. On the...computer."

Greg smiled. "You watch porn?" he said. "Wow. I didn't think..."

"I know I shouldn't," Joan said. "And I'm not, like, crazy about it, or anything." Another sip of wine, another flush of heat, this time with a smolder that shivered her insides.

"No, it's fine," Greg said. His eyes twinkled. "Really. I'm...happy to hear it, actually."

Joan crinkled her brow. "Why? Is it a guy thing? Men want their women to be horny all the time?"

Greg smiled. "What's wrong with that?"

Joan looked around at the nearby tables, all of them populated with smiling people lost in their own conversations. "We need to change the subject," she said. She took a deep breath.

"Oh no," Greg said, shaking his head. "I want to hear all about the porn that you like to watch. Let me guess—the romantic kind, the kind that looks like it was shot in slow motion even though it wasn't, with gorgeous young couples that could be models if they wanted to be."

"Whoa," Joan said. "That's awfully specific. Maybe I should ask about your porn habits."

"Yeah, this is a two-way street," Greg said, and then his face broke into a smirk. "But I asked you first."

Joan turned shy, sipping on her wine, holding tight to her glass. She glanced at the bartender again, as if to tell the story without actually saying it.

"Black guys?" Greg asked. He looked genuinely curious, in a gentle kind of way, so Joan nodded. "Sometimes," she said.

"Big guys, like him?" Greg said, looking over at the bar.

Joan nodded again, shyly. "I feel like we shouldn't be talking about this."

"Why?" Greg said. "We're happily married, I don't think knowing that we each watch a little porn is going to hurt any. It's good, probably, right? Honesty and all that."

Joan smiled a tiny bit, and it sparkled her eyes. "Your turn," she said. "I guess I want to know."

Greg put his elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced. "My tastes are sort of all over the map. Group sex is fun to watch. I don't know why. Maybe it's because all those people can see each other. It's that whole exhibitionist/voyeur thing. I guess I like that. Small women and big cocks is good. You'd think, with me having kind of a small one, I wouldn't like watching what a big cock does to a woman, but I do."

"I can't believe we're talking about this," Joan whispered.

"Well," Greg said, "we had sex two minutes after setting foot in our hotel room, so I think we qualify as people who can say the word 'cock' once in a while."

Joan looked unconvinced, sitting stiffly, leaning forward so Greg's voice could stay low. She nearly jumped out of her chair when the waiter approached quietly behind her.

Triple chocolate cake and Tiramisu were ordered, with two coffees. Each bite of triple chocolate sent Joan a little farther into heaven. Glad the conversation about porn had ended, she luxuriated in the moment, relaxed and smiled. In just a few hours time she'd gone from run-of-the-mill wife and weary traveler to a loving wife who felt almost as sexy as the woman at the next table looked, a sleek-looking natural blonde who was all decked out in a slinky dark gray evening dress.

When the bill was paid Greg led the way, past the blonde, toward the bar. Joan smiled at her husband's newfound friskiness, walking with him, thinking it would be a quick pass-by, a seconds-long close encounter with the big, hunky bartender, but Greg guided her to a bar stool and he took a seat on one.

"Oh, Greg, do we really need a drink after all that wine?"

Greg ignored her. The bartender was already there, saying "What can I do for you good folks?" His deep, heavily accented voice sounded something like a lilting island song.

"What do you have for after dinner?" Greg asked him. "Something smooth and warm."

"Some folk like the Nassau Royale," the bartender said, "but I prefer a good brandy or cognac. I have a nice French cognac, Jean Fillioux."

"Two, please, my good man," Greg said.

The big bartender turned and walked to his decoratively lit wall of glass shelving, plucking a bottle from the hundreds of others. Joan smirked at Greg and shook her head. "What are you, pretending to be in an old movie, now? You're full of surprises tonight."

"I thought you might like a close-up look," Greg said.

"Yeah, right. You're just trying to soften me up so you can ogle all the bikini girls on the beach tomorrow."

"Maybe."

Two large snifter-style glasses were placed before them, each one holding some amber-gold cognac. Greg offered his hand to the bartender. "I'm Greg."

"Clinton," the bartender said. "Pleased to meet you, Greg. And who's your lovely companion here this evening?"

"My wife, Joan."

"Ahh, yes! A happy couple! That's good! I can always tell a happy marriage. It's so nice to meet you, Joan." Clinton offered her his hand, the biggest hand Joan had ever held, with fingers that looked like they could crush the neck of a guitar.

Joan was tongue-tied, so Greg spoke. "We had a president named Clinton. You were probably just a kid."

"I heard about him!" Clinton said, smiling brightly. "He liked the ladies!"

Greg chuckled. "Yes, he did."

"That makes me happy," Clinton said. "It means my name is fitting."

He flashed Joan his handsome smile and she felt warmth in her veins, and shivery tingles again. Clinton was even more attractive up close—powerfully muscled in just the right way, on a frame of bones that were at least twice as big and solid as Greg's. The conversation at the dinner table lit up in her memory, and she wondered if all of him was at least twice as big and solid.

—

The beaches on Great Abaco Island are as white as bleached linen, the water as green as turquoise. There was no real need to wander far — the beach in front of the resort was clean and magnificent, with a blue, white clouded sky overhead that was the very definition of a dream. Joan spread a towel on the sand, setting up her little piece of paradise, removing from her bag a tube of sunscreen, two bottles of water, and a book—a romance novel that she only felt comfortable with because she bought it at a used bookstore, with its risqué cover torn off.

"I'm excited," Greg said, sitting down on the towel, facing her.

Joan felt a blushing heat again. "Greg, don't make a big deal out of this. Maybe I'll go change."

"Oh, come on. Look around, do you seriously think a woman in a bikini is going to cause a stir?"

"A forty-five year old woman in a bikini."

"Forty-five's the new twenty-five, hun. You know that. You're not your mother, and I'm not my father."

"Thank God for that."

Greg smiled. "If I get a boner, just toss a towel on me."

"Ha! Oh my God!" Joan smiled, finally relaxing a little, but still feeling confoundedly frisky. "Okay, here goes."

She pushed down the wispy wide-legged belly-dancer style pants that the salesgirl had talked her into buying at the mall back home, and she took off the matching, much-too-see-through cover-up style top.

"Holy wow!" Greg said, eying the first-time-worn bikini. "The traffic has officially stopped."

"Get out! I feel...naked."

"I love it, hun. Seriously. You look really good."

"I don't, but thank you. Why did I have to get this pudgy gene from my mother."

"Hey, your mother's cute, and so are you." Greg eyed her a little more thoroughly. "Do I get to call those 'tits' now? I don't think bikinis go on breasts, they go on tits."

"You don't!" she said. "Unless...I guess...if you want to. But just when we're alone! "

"Hey, check it out, the Tiki Bar is opening," Greg said. "Looks like our friend Clinton works the day shift, too."

Joan craned her neck to look behind her, where Greg was looking. It was Clinton all right, getting himself set up for the day's business. The top half of him — all Joan could see — was dressed in a much more casual manner, a vaguely Hawaiian style short sleeved shirt that was colorfully green and yellow. It was a slightly panicky moment for Joan — someone she knew, quite possibly seeing her in a bikini, something she wasn't even close to used to wearing.

But then the quiet magic of a Bahamian beach started to relax her. Quickly lost in her steamy, romantic little book, with the warmth of the sun tanning her, she didn't think of Clinton again until she and Greg walked back to their towels after a nice swim in the warm ocean. Clinton was there, centered in her view, alone behind the Tiki bar. Her hand was up, waving at him, even though she didn't will it to be there, and her slightly pudgy forty-five year old body was electrified, tingling, nearly naked. That's how she felt at that moment — nearly naked, waving at a stunning hunk of a man, one who smiled at her as brightly and beautifully as the sun.

After Joan toweled her hair to the damp stage and put her sun hat back on, Greg suggested drinks at the tiki bar. Joan wanted to — it was the perfect thing to do on a Bahamian beach — so she put aside her fears as best she could, putting on the wispy, see-through top half of her bikini cover-up. If she'd taken a moment to ask Greg how she looked in it, he would have said "even sexier," but she didn't ask. Thinking she looked 'covered up', she followed him to a stool at the small outdoor bar. Clinton greeted them warmly.

"Greg and Joanie! My favorite married friends!" he said. "How do you like our perfect weather? Joanie, you're not getting sunburned, are you?"

"No, I don't think so," she said, glancing down at herself, a bit embarrassed by the silly modesty of her cover-up.

"That's good, because I wanted to tell you about another beach you must try. It is my favorite, an easy walk from here."

He went on to tell of a pathway that started almost directly across the road from the resort. An easy walk, he said, but "bring plenty of water." "It's not like here," he said. "It's free and wild. I always imagine it's the way the island used to be. I love it and go there often. I'll be there tomorrow! It's my day off! Come and see me!"

Joan shrugged and looked at Greg. "Yeah, I guess we could," she said, unable to resist smiling at Clinton's enthusiasm. "It'd be fun to see a beach that's unspoiled. Not that this is spoiled. This is so beautiful." She looked out at the turquoise water and the people splashing in it. Eyeing the spectacular woman Greg had seen in the lobby the other day, she asked Clinton, "Do you ever get tired of looking at women like her?"

"Not tired, no, but, like your Greg here, I prefer a woman with more meat on her bones."

A full body tingle hit Joan, unexpectedly, when Clinton's eyes gave her sparsely-dressed breasts a quick glance.

"So that other beach that you like, do others go there?" Greg asked. "Is it widely known?"

"It's known to we island folk, and you'll see a few tourists who make the walk. The sailing cruiser folk anchor there if the winds are favorable. They tell me it's been written about in their guidebooks. It wouldn't be an anchorage for stormy weather, though."

"Sounds perfect," Greg said. "That'll be a fun adventure for tomorrow afternoon. We were going to do some shopping in the morning."

"Yes, spend lots of money," Clinton said, smiling. "My friends can use the business! And then my beach will be waiting for you!"

—

A taxi ride took Greg and Joan to a casual 'island food' restaurant, where they had a dinner of conch chowder, baked grouper, and beer. Attractive well-dressed people seemed to be everywhere, out for some local flavor at the old-fashioned restaurant. "Why do you lie to me and tell me I'm sexy," Joan said, after two bottles of beer. "Those women are sexy."

Greg took a look at them — not his first look — and said, "And so are you. There's all kinds of sexy, you know."

The topic of 'Clinton's beach' came up during dessert. Joan said, "I don't think we should go. We've got a perfectly good beach right outside our room. Why bother with a long hike just to sit on another one?"

"Maybe he's working tonight. Let's go get a cognac and ask him," Greg said, as he paid the waiter for dinner. "I'm guessing he'll make it sound really nice again, like he did earlier. It sure sounded like it'd be worth the walk."

"Oh, we don't need more to drink, do we? Do you think he's working tonight?"

The flash of curiosity in Joan's eyes made Greg smile. He asked the waiter to call them a cab, and soon he and Joan were delivered to the resort's front entry. The bar wasn't far away, at the front of the restaurant off the lobby. Clinton, nearly alone at the bar, smiled brightly when he saw Greg and Joan enter.

"Greg! Joanie! Your usual cognac tonight?"

"Pour us two stiff ones, Clinton," Greg said, smiling.

When Clinton brought them he lingered, asking about their dinner, how they liked the chowder, and how the evening was shaping up, temperature wise. "You are here at the perfect time of the year," he said. "Tomorrow will be a fine day at the beach."

Greg asked some more about it, and Clinton said that he would in fact be there. He said, "It's not really a secret. It's more like a way of life. But I shouldn't be telling you all this. I suppose it is something of a secret. My friends will be angry with me."

Joan found it all a bit mysterious, but intriguing. 'Unspoiled' was how she pictured it, maybe even with lizards walking around, like a prehistoric place, a window into Abaco Island before all the tourists arrived.

The warm cognac mixed with the beer and the spicy conch chowder in Joan's stomach, and before she knew it she was upstairs, fully undressed, kissing her naked husband. He pulled her down, they tumbled onto the big bed's smooth bedspread, and Greg's hard cock entered her, fast enough to make her head spin. It was quick sex, with some energy behind it.

When it ended, Joan, breathless, said, "Wow! We need to hang around beautiful women more often!"

"Is that what you think?" Greg said, breathing hard. "I wish you'd have more self confidence, hun."

"I did that to you?"

"Who else?" Greg said. "You're...a little bit different this trip. I like it."

Joan assumed it was the bikini, a bit more of her skin on the beach than Greg was used to seeing. "Okay," she said, still catching her breath. "Well, if you like it I sure as heck do. That was a wow."

"But you...didn't cum, did you?"

Joan propped herself up on her elbows to get a good look at husband. "First we talk about porn, and now you're talking dirty in bed?"

Greg shrugged. "We can, right? I mean, just because we never have..."

"No, it's...I mean, it surprised me, but...yeah, it's okay. And no, I didn't...cum."

"See that? Now we can discuss things and...be more caring."

"Ha!" Joan said, smiling. "What's that supposed to mean? I suppose now you're going to ask me to do stuff...to you."

"Nope. Not at the moment, anyway." Greg spread Joan's legs and his mouth was on her pussy before she could say anything more. Not that she would have protested, she loved receiving oral sex, even though she would never admit it out loud. Giving blowjobs to Greg always made her feel good, too, although, like a good old-fashioned wife, she didn't dole them out willy-nilly. They were special occasion treats, saved for Greg's birthday, their wedding anniversary, maybe New Year's Eve. Because she enjoyed it, she sometimes wondered if she should just cut loose and do it for him more often, but it didn't seem like something a conservatively brought-up school teacher should be doing. And of course there was the scary possibility of him becoming over-exuberant and ejaculating in her mouth, something she felt she could control better if the whole endeavor only happened a few times a year.