Only in Cap d'Agde - Dutch Courage

This is about the second time my husband shared me with another man, in the naturist resort of Cap d'Agde where we holiday each year. It follows Only in Cap d'Agde, which was about the first. It's not so much a story, as a detailed description of what it was like to chose a stranger - who turned out to be Dutch - and let him fuck me. It describes the sex but more than that. It is intimate and personal too, about how it felt, going with, being fucked by, a man I did not really know, so I ask you, please, respect that.

My thanks to Steel, for editing my horrible attempts to write, although that is not his real name, nor is it John, although i have called him that here, because someone commented that Steel was a strange name to use in my description of what took place before, and I have to call him something. Thank you also to the reader who suggested writing more, about seeing the man's face, who I was being shared with, while he was inside me. I hope that this is what he meant by that.

**********

The moment that John left me there was the most lonely moment of my life. The bar was crowded, so there were people all around me, but still I felt so different, so exposed, so nervous, and so totally alone. My heart was racing, while I had a nervous stomach going on. I even felt as if I might break out in sweat, from sheer anxiety. The seconds waiting felt like hours. My head felt light. Yet somehow I found to strength to hold his gaze, the man that we had finally decided on, to let him know that he could come and sit where John had just been sitting, next to me. He was invited. I just prayed to heaven that he would accept the invitation.

John tells me I am beautiful. That he is so lucky to have found someone whom he loves for who she is, is so in tune with, that he can be himself with me, but whose body is the greatest turn on he has known, and I know that he has been with so many women in the years before we met. I am not so certain. I know I get that from my parents. I was too thin when I was young, not feminine enough, and needed expensive braces for my teeth, and later, when I was of age to marry, they told me how difficult it had been to find the man for me, and when they did, my marriage failed.

Cap d'Agde has such a mix of bodies. All shapes and sizes, many beautiful, and many not. But here, inside this club, the women are all beautiful, each in their own way, or they would not dress the way they do, they way that is required. I wear just the corset that John bought for me, not to constrain my waist, but because wearing it and nothing else exposes other parts of me.

My breasts finally filled out so nicely, and sit proud and unsupported, have nipple stubs that are so thick and huge, and dark circles round them that are much too wide, wider even than my hands. I cannot cover their entirety. My slit, where like all women in my culture I without any growth of hair, unfortunately has protruding lips, which John says that he likes, and he loves to show me off to others, but I wish they were not quite so visible. They seem to me so vulgar.

But so much a bigger issue is the colour of my skin. Had my parents come from Delhi, it would be close to white. Instead they brought with them to London the complexion on South India, of Kerala, so dark I could be African, except my facial features say that I am Asian Indian, or my family is. Here, my colour gets me looks. I am a rarity. Something exotic. A native girl, not educated, cultured, intelligent, their equal. Most men just want to fuck me. I see it in their eyes. But others see me as the wrong ethnicity, unwelcome here. I have seen that too.

I wonder how he sees me, this man whose gaze I hold while he decides. Will he want to fuck a woman who is as dark as me, or should I not be here? Fear of rejection stops so many people in their tracks. Women manage to avoid so much of it. Men do the inviting, for a coffee, for a drink, for dinner, to bring her home, the woman that he is invested in. They have to learn to stem that fear, to deal with rejection rather than avoiding it, to face down being told she is not interested in you, the way you are in her. Like so many women, I have never had to face my fears like that. The privilege gifted to those of us with breasts, and vaginas, of being objects of desire, the quarry, not the hunters of this world.

But this was different. I was inviting him, not the other way around. Not by walking up to him and asking if he would care to join me for a drink, and later fuck me. Just by holding his attention, gazing back across the space between us, right into his eyes, and by my husband having left me to stand with other men and watch the show put on by women dancing at their steel poles. He could join me, or he could look away, turn down the invitation, decide that I was not what he was looking for, not to go upstairs with, not when other women were around, and someone better than I was, in whatever way, might offer themselves to him if he just would wait a little longer.

It would all come down to how he saw me. Nothing about the real me, who I am, my personality, how intelligent I am, my sense of humour, my sociability, my values, none of that. You cannot read a person from that distance. You can only look, appraise, decide whether you like that body. One question only. Whether she would be enjoyable to fuck. That was what was going on right then. My body, my looks, weighed in the balance by this man.

It gives him power over me. I had not expected that. I had thought that I would do the choosing, and in one way, I had. There were maybe twenty single guys, hovering mostly near the bar, some dancing solo, showing off their moves, some watching the women on the low pole platform, content to be voyeurs, for now. Tall, short, dark, blond, shaven heads, cute beards, pure Caucasian, Arab, one Afro guy, darker than I am, most definitely interested in me, although I am not African like him, but I had chosen blue eyes, a shaved head, immaculate white shirt, and light blue jeans.

He knows that I had chosen him, which gave him the power. To make a move and join me, or to turn me down. Which, now that John was over there, and watching, left me bereft, feeling so vulnerable, like a schoolgirl, walking into class for the first time and hoping to make friends. The man whose eyes were staring into mine could turn me down. He could reject me. Then John would have to come and sit with me again, and I would feel that I had let him down.

The corset I was wearing felt too tight. Not that it was. I knew that it was exactly as it had been each time I had worn it over the past four weeks. I had not put on weight. If anything, I had lost a pound or two. The heat of summer in the South of France depletes my appetite. Coffee in the morning, without the croissants. Light lunch, or skip it altogether. Chicken or meat and salad in the evening, unless we use a restaurant. Walks on the beach. Dancing on the nights when we go out.

The criss-cross ties at the back had not been opened or retied since the first time I had worn it. New that year, wide vertical strips alternating black leather with red satin sheen. The scarlet red looked good with my complexion, so he said. It stood out against the darkness of my skin. The front fastenings were how I could remove the corset, and put it on. So I knew it had not changed. The tightness was in my body. Tense muscles, rigid to my core.

My last chance, to actually do it. Different from the year before. That time John had choreographed it so wonderfully. He had confirmed I had his blessing to enjoy another man even before we had arrived. Then, when it had not yet happened, while playing BDSM in that other club, while I was tied to that swing-seat, with the mask that meant I could not see, he had allowed someone, I still do not know who, to fuck me, and it had been so incredible, but while I had allowed it, for he had asked me just before it happened, it had been John's orchestration, not my own.

This year, we had agreed that I should chose, not John, and see the man who fucked me, look into his eyes. One man. Just one. To help me push to the recess of my brain my memories of the husband I had left before I married John, the only man before him. A gift from my husband, the freedom to know what it is like to be with other men. For pleasure. Although ever since we met that night, it has been John and only John I love, and crave, and give my body to.

Four weeks of wonderful holiday, basking in the sun, John tanning, my skin already so dark it makes no difference. Four weeks of no responsibility, not a teacher now, not leading my department, but doing little but basking in the sun all day, heading out most nights, dressing so sexily, my breasts and slit exposed to all who care to look, receiving all those looks and touches too, of John fucking me in clubs, and on the beach, but not yet doing as we had agreed I would, or could. Now is my last chance, our last night before we leave. This man invited, and all I can think of is that I am scared that he might not come to me, and we will then go back to London, disappointed, unfulfilled.

He turns his back. I look at John. He is now standing well away from me, watching. He stays where he is. But he will have seen the man that I had chosen no longer looking, the mutual gaze now broken, his back to me, preferring to order himself another drink from his position at the bar.

I feel even more alone. I want John back at my side, but I want him to stay where he is a little longer. Someone else might see me there, sitting by myself, an easy target for a pick up. Someone I have not chosen, but who is willing to take that risk, to try it on with me, and if they do, they can be tall or short or squat or overweight or thin or way too young or much too old or not so good to look at, but I will go upstairs with them, because I will not disappoint myself or John.

"Vin blanc?"

I had not paid attention. I had not realised he had left the bar, or seen him make his way around the dance floor to where I was sitting. Not until he spoke did I take in that he was now standing right beside me.

I looked up, my eyes taking in the blue jeans, the white shirt, the wine glass with gold wine and a tumbler with amber liquid poured on ice, one in each hand, and his soft, pleasant smile, and his light blue, shining eyes, and a strong, shaved skull.

"Thank you," I said. "How did you know?"

"So, okay, then, English," he says, confirming the language we would use, while keeping up that smile. "I have been watching. But you know that. I could see what you were drinking. Am I allowed to sit?"

My heart had started pounding when I saw him there. My stomach churning. They talk about butterflies. These are puppies, playing at rolling over one another, right inside me. But years of practise, behaving as I must, enabled me to smile.

"Of course," I say.

Then I am tongue tied. Nothing more. No small talk. My brain is frozen. Nervousness. The knowledge it is happening. He wants me. He will be fucking me. Wetness forming. Sensations playing there, and in my too thick nipple stubs. They are reacting. Firming. Betraying my arousal.

Before he sits my eyes go downwards. His waist is slender. His jeans betray him just as my nipple stubs betray my feelings. My areolas are so wide. But they are all I have to offer him. The size of him beneath the denim is all too evident. Angled upwards to his left, already hard and clear to see. Soon, how soon I do not know, that will be inside me. Fucking me.

He turns and sits, setting down the glasses on the table just in front of us. His sleeves are folded back, baring the most part of each forearm, muscle and tendon rippling beneath tanned skin. Strong hands. Manicured so well. Those hands will soon be touching me. A stranger's hands, of whom I know nothing whatsoever, except that he has met my gaze across the dance floor, while John was by my side. So, one thing I know. He does not mind that I am married.

"You are English, after all?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "What did you think?"

"That I have never seen a woman like you before," he says. "Not here. Some Africans, maybe. One Indian couple, but so much lighter skinned than you. And your husband is white, so I had no idea. Until you spoke. You look Indian, but you sound more English."

"London," I say. "I have been to India several times, but I have never lived there. And you?"

"Dutch," he says. "From Amsterdam. You have been there?"

"Of course," I say. "Just for a weekend, with my husband."

"I saw him leave you," he says. "He doesn't mind?"

Before I can answer, his hand is on my thigh. Just resting there. But claiming it, not just my thigh, but the part of me between my thighs as well.

"No," I say. "He doesn't mind."

Which makes me wonder. Not the first time I have wondered. How it is for him, to stand and see this man claim my leg. What he feels, watching. What made him tell me, now a year ago, that if the situation were to arise when we were clubbing, he would not mind if I were to allow it to go all the way.

I know for certain that my husband loves me. He talks of wanting me to push my husband and the failure of my marriage, back into the recesses of my mind, by knowing other men. He also says I will be more fulfilled, will be more a woman, from enjoying sex with other men. He shows no weakness, is so confident, in himself, in our relationship, in knowing I will always stay with him. Yet he wants this for me. Sometimes I wonder if he is turned on, by thinking of it, and if that is his dark secret, that it is not for me but more for him.

"So what did you do," he asks. "In Amsterdam, I mean."

He more important question has been answered, so he has left it there. My husband does not mind. That is all he needs to know. Back to the small talk that will precede our going up the stairs. Couples only may go inside that room. John will wait down here. I wonder just how hard that will be for him. Will it make him hard for my return.

"Anne Frank, of course," I say. "Van Gogh. And that other art museum,... what is it called?"

"The Rijksmuseum," he says. "But the Van Gogh was my father's favourite. My parents love his work. They even gave me his name!"

"Your name is Van Gogh?" I ask without thinking.

He laughs.

"Vincent," he says. "What else?"

"The canals, or course," I say. "And, yes, we went to the Red Light District."

"What did you think of it?" he asks.

"We saw a show," I say. "My first time seeing other people,... doing it,... but too staged,... I prefer it here,... and the women in the windows,... made me think,...?"

"Think what?" he asks.

I decide just to say it, although I have never shared this with my husband.

"What it would be like," I say, "to be one of them."

"You would look good," he says. "Especially the way you are in this corset. It sets off your breasts, which are amazing in themselves. I think maybe the other women would be very envious, that you would be taking too much business from them."

He is half laughing, but he said he likes my breasts, which reassures me. He turns, to sit sideways on the seat, one leg folded underneath himself, and now it is his right hand on my leg, much closer to where he would discover how wet I am for him.

"And,..." he says, but he does not finish.

In London, my legs would be crossed, one over the other, so that nothing would be seen, even if my skirt was short, which it never is, in London. Here, I have not worn a skirt for four entire weeks. Not skirt, or shorts, or jeans, or bikini bottom, or panties, or thong, or anything. John taught me that. He gave me the confidence, just by buying the things he likes me to wear. To display my breasts and butt and cunt. The corset is all that I am wearing. My butt and thighs are seated directly on the vinyl of the seat. My legs are slightly parted, because in this club it does not matter. Parted for him.

Which gives him access. His right hand moves a little, towards my slit. My heart had steadied, and the puppies in my stomach were now fast asleep, but now my heart began to race with feeling his fingers only inches from that place.

Other men had touched me there. Upstairs, in the couples' playroom, that we had visited at least eight times before that year alone, not to play with others, just ourselves, but with others playing close to us, for the sexual ambience, the erotic vibe, it was far from unusual to have someone close reach over. I was used to it. Hands on my thighs. Cupping my breasts. Mouths sucking on my nipple stubs while John was licking out my cunt. Male and female.

Then there was that corridor we would explore, with viewing windows, where it was dark enough that men would take advantage while we stood there watching other people fuck. Fingers reaching in between my buttocks, down below, finger tipping all the way within my wetness. So I am used to being touched.

This is different. This is a stranger feeling me to know if I am ready yet for him to fuck me. But we are still in casual conversation, even if his hand is moving closer, so I ask him what he had not said.

"And,...?" is all I say.

It is as if I invited him to touch me there. His hand moves, not just fractionally, but all the way. Because it is his right hand, he can curl his fingers right against my cunt, not yet inside, but opening my slit, drawing my labia to one side, a knuckle pressing at my clit, and he now knows that I am very wet indeed.

"And," he says, still talking about those women in the Red Light windows, "I think that you could charge an extra fee,... for the colour of your skin,... and for your looks,... and because you get so wet,... and want it just as much as any of your clients."

Each phrase comes with another movement of his knuckle, grazing and pressing on my clit, sending sensations through my body, electric spasms, up my spine, into my breasts, shooting to my nipple stubs, up through my neck as well, hitting the base of my skull, taking possession of my brain, my thoughts and feelings, who I am.

He is right, of course. I want him just as much as he wants me.

"How much?" I ask, fighting against all those sensations running though me to keep talking naturally, or as naturally as I can.

"Do you want me to pay?" he asks. "Or do I get to fuck you just because you want me to. And because your husband wants it too?"

I am going to say the word. The word I never say, not even to John.

"You,...." I start. "You get to,... to,.. to fuck me."

"Because?" he asks.

Now he is teasing me. Testing me.

"Because I want,... I want you to," I tell him.

"Just you?" he asks, still challenging me to be even more explicit.

"Not just me,..." I say. "My husband,... wants it,... too."

"What does he want?"

He is still rotating his knuckles in my cunt. My legs have been forced further apart. People can see what he is doing to me, but I no longer care. No one else is really there. The bar, the dance floor, all the other seats, are filled with people, but they do not exist for me. Just his hand, and his voice, and those blue eyes set in his tanned, shaven skull.

"He wants me to let you,... fuck me."

Not quite they truth, but it is what he wants to hear. John his allowing this. Encouraging me. Wanting me to explore myself. Which is not quite the same as wanting this man to fuck me. Allowing. That is all it is.

But he has heard me say it. Vincent, he said his name was. Van Gogh, although with both his ears.

"Then we should go upstairs," he says.

All I can do is nod.

The man whose name is Vincent gets up first, and a shiver courses through my body. Again I have this feeling of aloneness. I have never before walked out of the bar space and through reception and up those stairs and through the open area where the single guys could watch, or just might participate, and on into the couples room, without my hand in John's.