Katie in Costa Rica - Unveiled

This serves as a long standalone story but if you care to read the much shorter Kate in Costa Rica pt. 1, it will tell you more about Katie's growth and how we got here.

******

Katie spun around in delight as we entered the surf camp in Costa Rica. Her short sun dress spun with her, lifting higher to show a glimpse of bottom, bisected by white panties. An innocent flash, missed by most.

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

We were the only guests, and the place was spotless, fancier than we had thought, up on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It had a wide veranda with sofas, hammocks, a pool table and a long dining table. Beyond that was a small bright blue swimming pool, with a swim-up bar. A separate open-air yoga studio stood slightly higher up the hill.

Katie sighed with delight, leaning over to smell the profusion of exotic flowers that lined the path, skipping down the path toward the veranda. As she turned, the hem of her old sun dress got caught in a prickly plant and tore, leaving a hole about a foot long up her right leg.

"Oh no," she said, holding the material together. I told her it was OK: There must be a place somewhere nearby where we could get her another dress.

From the airport, we had taken an early morning private shuttle bus driven by Ramon, a handyman at the resort. He was friendly, eager to try out his English. I had the front seat next to him, while the other guys - Jason and Brant, plus surfer friends Tim, Johnny, Sam and Chase - bunched together in the two back rows.

We gave Katie the second, shorter row to herself. At 5-3, she fit in it perfectly.

She had quickly fallen asleep, her head under my backpack, her shoes - wedge sandals with laces around her calves - up on the seat rest. Her dress moved with the wind coming through the windows, lifting lazily off her upper thighs.

The dress hadn't revealed anything she would have preferred to have kept hidden, but it sure threatened to, much to the interest of those of us in the bus, including Ramon, whose eyes flitted from the road to his rearview mirror.

It was a faded green, with small flowers. She'd had it since high school, and the top was just a little too snug. Though it had a high, square neck, the front was a little narrow, showing a neat line of white untanned skin on the outside of each breast. Ramon noted that too.

I daydreamed during the trip, remembering one full-moon night in a lifeguard chair on the beach at home, when she'd climbed into my lap in that dress. She had moved around on top of me, rubbing against my cock. I could smell her already, even in that salt air.

She had giggled as she shifted her panties to the side - and gasped as I pushed the top of her dress to the center, leaving her breasts and quickly stiffening nipples to glow in the moonlight.

She fumbled to open my shorts, then lifted her hips and impaled herself on me, already very, very wet, already close to coming ...

******

It was only 9 a.m. by the time we'd arrived at the resort, and we were eager to get a quick first surf in the small waves below. The guys raced to their rooms, pulling on their boardshorts, then began unpacking the boards.

Katie took longer in our room before making her appearance. She'd taken off her torn sun dress and was wearing one of the bikinis I'd hastily put in my backpack when I raced home to get her passport for this unexpected trip.

I'd bought it just weeks before and it was already one of my favorites, a yellow string bikini that rode low on her hips; its cheeky bottom fit was emphasized by material that was puckered in the back, framing her curves, each of which flowed into the next.

"Yowzah," said Sam. "You are definitely the hottest thing in this motley group. Holy mother of God."

Katie curtsied, smiling. She knew that was coming: Sam is a motor-mouth jokester without much of a filter. She was used to him.

And she had gotten used to bikinis in our year in Florida. Most girls from their teens to 30s wore similar suits, many even more daring, and it seemed natural now to her. To me too, though the effect it made on me did not seem to be wearing off just yet.

The owner of the place, a gringo from California who'd introduced himself on our arrival, came over, a camera around his neck. "Ready for a surf, guys?" he said, with an easy smile.

We were, and one by one we picked up our boards and followed him down the long stone steps that led to the beach.

"I'll get some pictures of you surfing, OK?" the owner said, knowing surfers loved to see photos of themselves on the waves.

We were eager to get out, and raced into the water. Katie was left behind, having a little trouble attaching her surf leash to her board, which was borrowed from the resort.

Katie, in bed with me that night, told me what happened next.

"Can I help?" the owner had said, kneeling down to work open the velcro on the leash. He was in his early 30s, a few years older than us, gracious and almost ridiculously handsome, leanly muscled, with the aura of someone used to wealth and an easy life. Perhaps that's how he was able to start up such a nice resort from scratch, I'd thought.

Once it was fixed, they stood up.

"Um, it's Katie right?" he said.

She nodded.

"I know you must be eager to get in the surf, but would you mind ...?" he said, holding up his camera. "Just a few? We're just a few weeks old and I'm trying to get some photos up on our social media."

Katie nodded again.

"Well I guess," she said. She looked around uncertainly.

"Where do you want me?" She realized that sounded bad.

"Um, what do you want me to do?" She groaned inwardly. That sounded even worse.

He put her at ease, starting with a few right there, casual shots as she stood with her board, facing him. "Now how about putting the board down and letting your hair down?" he said.

She nodded, her hair cascading over her shoulders as her scrunchie came off. "Great," he said, snapping away. "Really great. Now spin around slowly a few times, please. Wow, great."

Snap, snap, snap.

Then he asked her to kneel at the water's edge. "Kind of a corny cheesecake shot, I know," he said, but ..."

It was indeed corny, she told me in our room after surfing, as I held her close and stroked her back. But in her retelling, her voice grew softer, more hoarse, as she admitted it felt less corny — more, what? - as she kneeled in the waves as the camera clicked.

She was, she told me, keenly aware of the warm tropical water splashing over her, soaking her yellow suit, aware of the lens just a few feet away, focused on her. Just her.

Here she was - a girl who a year before didn't even own a bikini, had never dreamed of surfing, had never so much as shown her bellybutton in public. And now she was rolling around in the Pacific like a movie star or model, covered only by a collection of strings and pieces of yellow fabric no bigger than her hand, belly-button jewel shining in the sun.

And what was she doing giving a coy smile to the surf camp owner, tossing her sun-bleached hair so it fell over one eye?

Why, oh why, was she tugging playfully at the knot on the side of her bikini bottom? One good pull on the string, she thought, and it would fall off, just like that. My God, why am I even thinking of this?

"It was, I don't know, kind of intoxicating," she whispered to me in bed that night.

"Yeah," I whispered back. "We were all watching. From the water."

She moaned at that, and moved against me.

"All of you?" she said.

"All of us."

Katie's bottom made involuntary circles against me. "I think ... I think ..."

I rubbed my hand down her lower back, up and over her bare bottom, a steep climb up, a sharp drop down. "You think what?"

She whispered back, urgently this time. "I think I want to do that again ..."

*****

After posing for those photos, Katie had stayed in that yellow bikini all day. She wore it while surfing. She wore it at lunch. She wore it as we explored the grounds of the resort. She wore it while lying on her belly sunbathing by the veranda. She wore it as she took a dip in the pool as an otherworldly sunset fell over the Pacific.

No matter how long we saw it, we never got tired of it. You don't get tired of the sight of something like that, the way it clung to her, dry or wet, the way it framed her breasts, drew attention to her bottom.

And you couldn't help but think: A pull of a string here, the pull of a string there ...

As dinner neared, she disappeared into her room as the guys and I hungrily lined up near the dining table of the surf camp, all still wearing just our boardshorts. We heard voices coming from a bungalow behind us. New guests had arrived, four burly sport fishermen from Canada, and introductions were made.

They were a couple of decades older than us, in their late 40s, mid 50s, I figured, and seemed like decent guys, though they were all wore baggy cargo shirts and those long-sleeved fishing shirts with vents and flaps. They had been drinking a good bit already, clearly happy to be in Costa Rica, and made jokes about being away from wives and work.

We all settled in at the long table as the cook brought out plates of local fish, rice and beans, salsa, plantains. Simple and delicious.

Katie came down the stairs from our room for dinner. We saw her lower legs first, slim and tanned, with those laces winding around her calves atop her wedge sandals. Another couple of steps, and there she was, wearing the red string bikini I had bought her, the one she'd worn reluctantly at first before moving it into her regular rotation.

The bikini's triangle top swayed softly with her small breasts as she took the final steps down.

Well below her bejeweled

bellybutton, the front of the bikini dipped low, making a soft V, as if pointing to what lay below. The long strings at its sides, lying inches below her jutting hip bones, waved lazily against her thighs.

As usual, it was Sam who said what we were all thinking. "Hubba, hubba!" he hooted. "Holy hotness, Batgirl!" Others joined in the hooting. Me too, I admit.

"I ripped my sun dress," she said, giving a pained smile. "And all Mark brought me to wear were bikinis."

The guys laughed and hooted some more. Sam pounded the table. "Best trip ever!" he said.

"Hey," I said in mock protest. "I had to race to get your passport. I didn't have time to get anything else. You're lucky I got those!"

Then she noticed the Canadians at the end of the table. At the sight of Katie - all 110 pounds of her - they sat up straight. Their eyes were soaking her in. "This trip just got a lot more interesting," I heard one of them joke.

She went straight over to them, her eyes flashing, giving a big smile. "Hi, I'm Katie," she said, shaking hands with each of them, making small talk with them. Her forthright friendliness surprised them, I think. But that's just the way my girl-next-door Katie is.

As the evening went on and many beers were drunk, she began to have a good time in the warm night air, relaxing as we told after-dinner tall tales. Mock complaining each time, she went to the kitchen again and again to get us beer, her almost-bare bottom swaying in the tiny bikini, an effect emphasized by her wedge sandals.

The guys invariably got up to thank her, giving big hugs, drawing her close to them, then taking the opportunity to keep her there. The Canadians, playing the gentleman, settled for smiles and some high-fives.

I was struck by the contrast of us and them. Us, tall, shirtless but in long boardshorts, the Canadians in those ridiculous fishing clothes covering their expanding middle-aged bodies.

Then there was Katie, just 5-3 and slim, in a few scraps of tiny red that, put together, would barely cover a Canadian's left shoulder.

The material didn't seem to cover so much as emphasize her breasts, her belly, her back, her butt ... and her pussy, barely covered in the front by the dipping V, the thin flashes of red from behind.

I thanked the fashion gods who had made it this way.

And I thought about the social contract we had somehow made, the one between women and men. That is, they show - and we look.

Think of fancy parties you've gone to, the men in loose jackets and pants, and the women in body-hugging, cleavage-bearing dresses. Think of the casual outdoor barbecue, the men in T-shirts and long shorts, the women in tight tanks and tiny shorts that showed their entire length of their legs.

And think of Katie that night on the veranda in Costa Rica: One young woman with long sun-bleached hair, a tiny red bikini and sandals. And us, close-shorn, clumsy and overdressed in comparison, taking in every inch of her that she offered us.

Katie danced to the Costa Rican pop on the sound system, occasionally busting out a ballet move. And she joined in enthusiastically as we played rounds of beer-infused charades, jumping in delight when she got the clue. She is whip-smart, and won most of the rounds.

My friends, all six of them, took every victory as an opportunity to give Katie yet another exaggerated hug, one after the other. "My turn!" Sam would yell. Others took up the cry.

Eventually the boldest of the Canadians got in the act, dragging her away from charades and back to dancing. He made gawky attempts at hip-hop moves and even tried some mock twerking.

Katie smiled, turned her back to him, bent over in her bikini. She put her hands on her hips and for about 20 glorious seconds showed him how it was done before collapsing in laughter.

How did she know how to do that? I thought. I'd never seen her try that. Are women just born knowing these moves?

And for the Canadian? I think it was the highlight of his entire sixth decade of life.

Finally I was able to get near to her and was rewarded with a kiss. She was sweating slightly, breathing heavily. I put one hand on her bare hip, above the loop of her bikini tie, and she trailed her hand down my belly to the top of my shorts.

She whispered in my ear: "There is a LOT of male energy floating around here."

"You think?" I said. "There are, what, 11 of us, and one of you. And just look at you."

She pushed one hip out and stuck her tongue out at me. "What? Little ol' me?" Then she pulled me close.

"I'm having fun," she said. "All day in a bikini. And all of this attention, it's nice."

She adopted a vaguely Eastern European accent and whispered in my year: "It is just as Queen Katie deserves. But it's making me vant ... you."

She flicked her tongue in my ear, then went back toward the scrum of men, a flash of hips and bottom that soon disappeared from view.

As the evening wound down, the owner showed up on a small motorcycle, coming from the nearby bungalow he shared with his wife. We had heard rumors of a Brazilian knockout but had not yet met her.

He had his laptop with him and was grinning broadly. "Hey, check this out. Our social media is blowing up," he said. "I posted some pictures of you guys - OK, mostly Katie - and it's been nonstop since then. This is unreal. We just opened the place and ..."

Katie hung back as the seven of us surfers bunched up around the computer. The first few photos were of us surfing, but we raced past those to scroll slowly through the ones of Katie, about 50 in all. The owner was a fine photographer, obviously with some training, but it was Katie who made the photos great: A shy smile at first, then laughing, increasingly flirty.

In the last few shots, if I don't know better, she looked positively wanton, lying in the sand, back slightly arched as she raised herself on her elbows and looked up at the camera, her hair over one eye.

You could see her breasts rising above the yellow bikini top, and the clear outline of her nipples just underneath. Whitewater had just rolled off her back, her bottom, her slightly spread legs, leaving them gleaming.

Each picture had a small logo in the corner: "Katie@," it said, followed by the name of the resort.

We were struck into silence. Even Sam couldn't think of a wisecrack.

Then Katie pushed through us to look at the pictures, scrolling slowly through until she reached the last few. Seemingly unaware of the rest of us, she paused, fixed on the screen, the logo with her name on it. She bit her lip.

The owner took us aside, leaving the laptop behind, open on the dining table, as the Canadians quickly scurried over to it.

"Um guys, this is crazy cool," he said. "We've never had numbers like this before. Look: Feel free to say no - I know you just got here today- but what would you think if Katie were to stay behind tomorrow as the rest of you go surfing? Luis will take the rest of you guys to a good spot that's perfect with the morning tide, and it's only going to get better as the day goes on."

He hesitated. "Look, I'd love to get some stills and video showcasing the place, and I thought having Katie along would really make them look good.

She and I looked at each other.

"I know it's a lot to ask," the owner said. "But hey: You both can come back for another trip, a week, two weeks, any time you want. It's on me. It would be fun."

He gave a last plea: "It would really help us here. And anything you need, just ask."

Katie crossed her arms under her breasts. She didn't look at me for approval

"I think," said, "I think ..."

*****

Katie had grown up in a cold northern town, a wallflower, uncertain of her place in the world, who came alive only while performing ballet.

Yet she'd just spent an entire day in bikinis - the first time ever. She'd been photographed and complimented. She'd had attention lavished on her by our surfer friends, by the Canadian fishermen who joined us. More than that, though: She felt as if we had all enjoyed being with her, the joking, the dancing, the small talk.

The bikinis were just a plus.

She'd enjoyed them too though, if her reaction to the photos - and my description of them to her later that night - was any indicator.

"Just think of how many people, all around the world, have seen them already," I whispered to her as we made love. "Hundreds? A couple thousand? They're all looking at you. Just you. They'll be on there forever, and many more will look at you."

She moved more violently beneath me.

"Looking at your breasts. Looking at your butt. Your pussy ..."

Katie groaned. She wriggled out from underneath me, piled two pillows on the bed, and turned on her belly, her hips raised across the pillow. I got on my knees behind her and plunged in.

Just after turning 26, Katie had finally begun to figure out the effect she had on men - even if she didn't quite yet believe it.

*******

The next morning, I woke up before the alarm on my phone, slipping out of our room, leaving Katie behind in bed, still sleeping. I'd tossed for much of the night, thinking of the photos.

Luis, the local surf guide, was already quietly loading our boards on top of the camp's pickup truck, enough for all seven of us. It was still dark. The surf will be good, he promised me, and no one else will be there.

We all quietly pulled away from the camp a few minutes later, bleary eyed but excited by our prospects for waves, leaving Katie in bed, still sleeping.

Here's the story of her next few hours, as pieced together by what she told me later and from the video evidence of that day.

At first light, there was a gentle knock at her door. It was the owner of the camp.

He called her name and apologized. "The morning light is good now," he said. "Do you mind if we get started?"

She opened the door, a bed sheet wrapped around her. Her long sun-streaked hair was tousled, her eyes blinking as they adjusted to the light.

"Perfect," he said. "Stay like that, please."

He explained what he was looking for: He wanted video and pictures to show what a typical day at the camp was like, something to entice people to come. So why not start now, in the early morning?