Katie in Costa Rica Pt. 01

I found the passport right where Katie said I would, in the small top drawer of her chest of drawers. It was in the back, hidden by a jumble of tiny, brightly colored pieces of fabric and string -- her bikini drawer. I grabbed the passport, put it in my backpack and headed for the door. There wasn't a second to waste.

Then I stopped, went back to the open drawer and scooped up two handfuls of bikinis, leaving some behind. Into the backpack they went.

No time. We had a flight to catch.

*******

Katie doesn't know the effect she has on men.

She'd grown up in a small city up north, a place cold and gloomy most of the year. Her mother was an eccentric beauty, a drunk and a flirt. In reaction, Katie became something of a retro-hippie wallflower, hoping to pass through most situations, it seemed, without being noticed.

She is beautiful too, but on the cute side of the scale, the girl next door personified. She is 5-foot-3, 110 pounds, with dirty-blonde hair that she keeps long, parted on the side. She has green eyes and a wide smile, though it's hard to get her to smile for a picture -- she usually sticks her tongue out and makes a face just as you take it.

Her arms and legs are slim, very slim, and her breasts are small and in proportion, yet she has hourglass hips, and a lifetime of ballet has left her with a bottom that juts out dramatically from her lower back, with two deep dimples just above it.

She's 26, and still gets mistaken for a teenager.

She tends to dress for comfort more than style, and certainly not with much thought for sexiness. Still, men notice her -- of course they do -- though she seems heedless of their attentions. Many are stricken by her casual beauty and sunny nature; I soon found that in her wake she leaves a series of hapless crushes.

Count me among them. My heart was gone, the night I met her, and we married within 10 months, at just 24, bonding over movies and reading, folk music and liberal politics. She made me feel like I was home.

Within a year, we moved to Florida for my dream job. Though it didn't pay much, we agreed Katie would stay home for a while to fix up the little house we bought near the beach. We were only able to do that because of a down payment from the money she'd saved at a high-powered job in the city she moved to after college. Me? I was broke when I met her.

Restoring that house meant a steady stream of contractors who came early in the morning and seemed to stay until I got home in the evening. They enjoyed their work, I suspect: In that ungodly August Florida heat, Katie -- remember, she dresses more for comfort than style -- took to wearing tank tops and shorts, or short sun dresses, bearing her shoulders and slender legs.

And unless we were going out, and sometimes even when we did, she stopped wearing bras, which she found intolerable in the unaccustomed heat. As a result, her nipples were a near-constant sight, straining against her tank tops, silhouetted against her thin sun dresses.

She meant nothing by it -- she wasn't acting like someone who was trying to be sexy, which made the effect even sexier. Count the contractors among those she left swooning.

We began going to the beach too, as Katie started learning how to surf, which had been my passion since I was a preteen.

She had a bedraggled black one-piece swimsuit from freshman year in college that still looked magnificent on her, given her slender curves. But I think even she realized how out of date it was, especially given what the other girls on the beach were wearing. That is, not much of anything.

One evening she surprised me by modeling two bikinis she'd bought from the surf shop at the end of the street. By Florida standards, they were modest, with generous coverage on the bottom. But I was instantly hard: My Katie, in a bikini. Her belly button. Cleavage. The material coming to a V between her legs. Her bare back, with those dimples.

She registered my reaction with a smile.

And she took my hand as I led her, again, to our bedroom.

*******

Our neighbor, Jerry, is a sweet guy in his mid-50s whose yard is separated from ours by a low chain-link fence. He's among those taken by the Katie effect, and he spends much time with her, helping with the house and garden, just chatting.

As a reward, he gets hour after hour of Katie time, taking in the slender, casually sexy beauty of the actual girl next door, a reminder -- in the tender flesh -- of his younger days.

I had seen him gazing wistfully at the bare skin between her tank top and her shorts, the flash of bellybutton, the dimples on her lower back. And I had seen him taking in Katie's breasts, when offered, as she leaned forward in her sundresses to pull at a plant or ask his help on a woodworking project.

But he is always respectful; I have even seen him avert his eyes when she, unknowingly, leaned too far forward in those dresses.

Jack down the street, meanwhile, is not so relaxed about it. About the same age as Jerry, maybe a little older, he often ambushes us, drink in hand, as we make our way to the beach, stopping to tell us long, amusing stories about the neighborhood we had moved into.

That gives him the chance to leer at Katie behind his sunglasses, taking in every inch of her body, eyes flicking over her breasts, across her belly and the curve of her hips, down her slim legs, then fixated on her round butt as she walks away.

I didn't blame him. I often got a hard-on just walking with her to the beach, shifting my surfboard to cover it as best I could.

Sex isn't as important to Katie as it is to me, though that doesn't mean she doesn't enjoy it. But it's usually more about romance to her than animal passion. Sometimes, I admit, I wish otherwise.

Living in Florida though, in that heat, with that lack of clothing, seemed to allow her to push her boundaries a little.

One night, shortly after moving in, we were in bed when we could hear the quiet conversation of people in the yard behind ours, the clinking of glasses, soft laughter.

Our window was open, and we had not yet bought blinds, but our light was off and we were sure -- well, pretty sure -- that no one from the outside could make out what happened in our room.

We kissed and touched, as the gentle voices continued from beyond the window. I whispered to her. "Those people. They're right there. They don't know we're here."

Katie kissed me, her lips running down my chest to just below my bellybutton. I strained forward, urgently, and her tongue reached out to flick my cock. I groaned as she opened her mouth for me.

"Shhh," she whispered, putting her finger to my mouth. "Shhh."

Then she climbed atop me, naked, and took me into her, directly in front of the window over our bed. She was already very wet. She slid up and down on me, her hands behind her, nails digging into my legs, her back arched, her breasts glowing in the moonlight. Her nipples were huge; I could even see them in the shadow of her body that the moon cast upon the wall.

The murmured conversation continued, perhaps 15 yards outside the window. She moved faster and faster, the only sounds the soft rustle of sheets and the delicious slurping sound of her sliding up and down on me. She stifled moans as her orgasm overtook her. I'd already had mine.

After, she stayed there that way for a minute, maybe longer, feeling the warm night air on her body. She turned to watch her shadow on the wall as she gave a few more thrusts against my softening cock, seeming to glory in her power.

Weeks later we went for a walk on the beach, down to the shops and back. She wore a white sun dress, one of those with dozens of little buttons up the front, and just a pair of panties underneath. On the way back, we walked at the water's edge. It was high tide, and waves splashed the bottom of her dress, and a couple of larger ones made their way higher, up those buttons.

That night, in bed, she began to breathe heavier as I told her what she'd looked like in that dress, how the sun shined through it and showed her legs and hips, how the top became transparent when wet.

Then I went farther: While stroking her, I whispered how men in the long condo building that fronted the beach must have seen her walk by, must have stopped what they were doing to stand at their windows, to take out their cocks ...

She joined in the touching. Her breathing was much, much heavier by now.

******

I was perpetually in a Katie fever, sometimes absolutely on fire, but always with at least a low-grade fever, even at work, while driving, while shopping.

Shopping: One evening after work, I stopped at the surf shop, lingered by the boards, the men's shorts, then -- almost as if I couldn't help it -- I went to the bikini section, taking casual looks at the ones hanging on a rack. I was embarrassed. I was quick. I picked one up, took it to the counter.

But only after getting a surf magazine too. I couldn't make it look like I was just buying a bikini. Especially one so unapologetically bright red and tiny.

"Um, my wife wanted me to get ..."

The girl at the cash register didn't even look up. She'd seen this act many times before.

Katie rolled her eyes when I told her I'd gotten her something she might like. It was the same every time; I'd begun buying clothes for her and she'd complain, gently, and give that eye roll.

But here's the thing: She didn't like to shop for herself and, being of a practical mind, she would eventually end up wearing what I bought anyway: tight jeans, short shorts, tank tops, strappy sun dresses. And usually liking it, eventually.

Not so the red bikini, apparently. It went into her top drawer, tags still on, and stayed there for months. Occasionally, I'd say, "Um, do you think you want to wear that, um ..."

I got nowhere.

Then the ocean awoke, and a beautiful little swell rolled in, day after day. On Saturday, late in the morning, the tide was perfect. "Let's go," I said, after grabbing my boardshorts from where they hung on the chain link fence.

Katie came out of our bedroom in short white jean shorts, frayed at the bottom, and ... the top of the red bikini. Instantly, I thought: Is she wearing the bottoms too? No, doubtful.

That was OK. The top was enough: Two small triangles of red that slid on a string that wrapped below her breasts and tied in the back and at her neck. They showed the swell of her cleavage, as well as a hint of untanned skin on the sides of her breasts. Gorgeous. And I was a bull to a matador's red cape.

So too was Jack, ice cubes tinkling in his glass, as he stopped us again, soaking in the sight of Katie behind his sunglasses. We broke free quickly, though, leaving him to just gaze as she headed away, those white shorts twitching with every step.

At the beach, we kicked off our flip flops and put our boards on the sand. Katie scanned the waves and undid the top button of her white shorts. "Looks great," she said.

I agreed, especially as she wriggled her hips to ease the shorts. It took some wriggling to get them over the rise of her bottom, as they got stuck halfway down. An extra vigorous wriggle got them over the hump.

There they were -- the red bikini bottoms.

She saw me looking and wrinkled her nose. "Don't get used to it," she said in mock sternness. "My striped one needs sewing and the polka-dot ones are still wet and sandy."

I didn't risk saying anything, just nodded as she carried her board to the water's edge and laid it on the sand, facing the waves. I stood in place, watching as she took a scrunchie from her wrist and raised her arms to tie back her hair, which had turned sun-streaked and quite blonde from the Florida sun and saltwater.

I wasn't the only one watching. I looked around: About 30 people were on the beach, and all of them, men and women, were sneaking peeks at Katie. A guy on a beach cruiser bicycle riding behind her took one casual look, then a double take. His bike hit a soft patch of sand and the handlebars and front wheel wobbled crazily before he was able to get them under control. He still risked a third look back though as he rode away.

Who could blame him?

From the back, the top of her bikini was nothing but string, tied together in the middle, the two ends making their way down her back to just above her dimples.

The bottom was mostly string as well, and at the sides Katie had tied big loops with loose ends that went about six inches down her thighs. From behind, the angle I and everyone on the beach had, there was about five inches of fabric at the top of the bikini, though that triangle quickly narrowed to oblivion between the pert globes of her bottom.

It wasn't any more revealing than what was worn by many of the other girls you'd see on the beach here, but on Katie -- with her hips, her slim limbs, those back dimples, her easy grace, her lack of tattoos -- it seemed somehow more naked, more primal.

Especially when she pushed over a wave and jumped on her board. From behind, as she stroked out, the red material of her bottom disappeared and all you saw were her cheeks, glistening wet, rising abruptly from her upper thighs.

About 10 other surfers were out, and they shortly took this as an opportunity to paddle by her, again and again. "Nice waves, huh?" was about all they could manage to say.

She was oblivious, too busy catching waves. I didn't get many: I was having too much fun watching her. She straddled her board to wait for each wave, and when one came, she turned her board around and fell to her belly on it.

Each time, there was a flash of red between her legs, and then that naked bottom. And as she rode the wave, dropping and climbing, my eyes -- and those of every other surfer -- were fixated on that bottom, all the way to the beach.

I heard a low whistle. "Dude ..."

I looked up. My friend Jason had paddled down from his house a few blocks south.

He shook his head. "Dude, my God."

I smiled. "I know."

He had quickly come under Katie's spell too, as soon as we'd met him months before. It was so obvious even she recognized it. It kind of tickles her -- Jason is a genuinely nice guy, one of the best people I know -- though it does embarrass her a little as well.

"Don't you ever mess up," he'd tell me. "Or I'm moving in." It was a running joke, and I admit I was proud I had her to myself.

Katie paddled back out and rested on her belly atop her board, looking up at us as she pushed hair off her face. Jason was on a standup paddleboard that he liked to ride when the waves were small, and from that vantage point he had an unparalleled view of Katie and her red bikini.

Another voice came. "Hey y'all." It was Brant, another friend, who had paddled from his house to the north. Brant too had a crush on Katie, but he was cooler about it, and I doubt she even noticed. He was also just as nice a guy as his Jason; they were both fit and handsome and you'd hate them if they weren't so decent.

As we made some small talk, Katie sat up on her board, water dripping from her hair and shoulders, and looked down to make micro-adjustments to her bikini's triangle tops. She had our rapt attention.

But where to look?

Her smile, the way she pushed her tongue against her upper teeth when she gave a big, genuine smile?

Her nipples, poking through the red top that held her breasts in place?

Her tan legs as they straddled the board, and the sliver of red bikini bottom between them?

Her hips? Her flat belly? Her belly button, in which a new jeweled piercing winked in the sun?

She liked jewelry, and had surprised me with that piercing a week before. Many girls in Florida had them, and I'd mentioned several times that I liked them, a lot. I didn't add that it made the girls look a little slutty, which I liked. On her though? It just looked sexy and fun.

Jason, Brant and I weren't going anywhere, so when another wave peaked up, she called it hers and spun around, dropping to her board and stroking toward shore, her bottom flexing with every paddle. There was that thin strip of red between her cheeks again. And she was off.

This time it was Brant who said what we were all thinking.

"Dude ..."

*******

At the wheel of our car, Katie was clearly wavering.

The plan was for her to drop me, Jason and Bryan off at the airport with our boards, where we'd meet four other friends who were driving separately. It was a guy's trip, a week reserved at a new surf camp in Costa Rica.

"Come on, you'd love Costa Rica," Jason said from the back seat.

"The swell looks perfect," Brant, next to him, said. "And the food ... the yoga ... the waterfalls ..."

I spoke up, reluctantly. "I really don't think we can afford ..."

"No," Jason said. "Our pleasure. It wouldn't be the same without you. We're doing this for ourselves."

"The room's already paid for," Brant said. "And we have miles!"

Katie looked over at me. I nodded: If you want.

An uncertain look passed over her face. "But I don't have my passport," she said. "We don't have time."

Jason spoke up. "If Mark hurries ..."

We pulled up at Departures, and the guys quickly unstrapped the surfboards from the roof, unloaded the backpacks we carried.

"We'll check your board," Jason told me. "Come on Katie, we'll get your ticket."

She looked at me again. "Go," I said. "I'll hurry."

She gave me a quick kiss, and turned to go into the concourse with the guys. I didn't have time, but I lingered for a few seconds to watch her leave. She wore a short sun dress with spaghetti straps; it came to her mid-thighs and flounced a little when she walked. She had low wedge sandals that laced up around her calves.

I sighed, and felt a stirring in my lap. Katie fever.

I jammed the car into first, chirping my wheels as I raced home. Not much time, and a flight to Costa Rica to catch -- with Katie.