Only in Cap d'Agde - Dutch Courage

Vincent leads the way. Ahead of me. Not hand in hand. Holding the door for me as we walk back to receptions, but then proceeding. Going single file upstairs. His white shirt in front of me, his butt firm, encased by denim. I follow him, submissively, now his. Concubine? Plaything? Sex toy? Not his partner, nor his girlfriend. Not his equal. Compliant. Acquiescent. My breasts and cunt feel just how bare and exposed they are. That shiver is still running through my body. Not sensual. More a ghost. Ancestors turning in graves, aghast at what a member of their family is now doing. I should not be doing this. Except my body says it wants me to.

Inner doubts aside, I am committed, and I follow as Vincent leads me right inside the couples' playroom. The space is heaving. Play beds full. Bench seats taken. People milling in between. We join them. Now Vincent takes my hand. He needs to, or we could be separated in this throng. We weave amongst other exploring couples. Some just spectating. Others, looking for a space to play, just like ourselves.

I get the looks that I am used to getting, from men and women both. My dark skin contrasts with all the European tans. My jet black nipple stubs, so thick and firm, centred on their saucers of taut, black, polished skin, are stared at, with looks of curiosity and almost awe. At least my labia, protruding as they do, and just as black, are not so visible amongst so many people.

Not just looks, but touches too. Mostly other women. We are more naked than the men. Gender equality has no place here. Women's bodies are for display. Their breasts and cunts and mouths are there for men to play. So as we pass through the thong, bare flesh grazes the flesh of others. Most touches inadvertent, most deliberate touching done by men, hands on my butt or thigh, stroking the strange darkness of my skin.

One exception. An impish blonde, my height, more slender, pixie hair, neat breasts, in white suspender belt and stockinged legs, moves between the Dutchman and myself, and my hand slips from his.

"Schon!" she says.

She thumbs my nipple. No permission asked of me. Here I am a plaything. The colour of my skin sets me apart, a barbi-doll, but black and breathing, for anyone to touch and fondle, to feel my body, play, probe and penetrate. He other hands goes down and cups my cunt. One finger parts my labia, opens my slit and slides inside.

"Does your husband like to watch you with another woman?" she asks me, somehow knowing I speak English, not the French most people use, or the German which she had just used when saying I was beautiful.

I hesitate. The man that I am with is not my husband. My husband is downstairs. He is alone now. He is waiting while the Dutchman fucks me. I could tell her this, but that is not what she is asking. She just wants to play with me.

"Maybe," I say. "Maybe you ask us later."

She strums my teat again. Removes her hand to let me pass.

"I will," she says.

Vincent is waiting. I offer him my hand again. A couple rise from where they have been playing and leave a space. Another couple gets there first. We turn, we go between two play beds. Fucking and sucking and thrusting and licking is happening on each side as we pass through. That will soon be us. I wonder how many of these people are playing with the person that they love, as John and I have done so many times, and how many have just met a stranger, as this man, Vincent, is to me.

Another couple are rearranging clothing. Mostly his. Buttoning his shirt. Zipping his fly closed. Buckling his belt. She has less to do. All she is wearing is a white skirt, that is not that much wider than a belt. Buttock baring short. I guess she had not needed to remove it. She smiles at us. I return the smile. She uses her hand to say that we can have their place. They both get up. The space is ours.

With John, everything is instinct. We are so comfortable now with one another, we can read each other's moves. Sitting, lying, whatever we would have done, it would have been unthinking, natural, reflex, a sexual duet, two people mating because of love and of attraction, each of these in harmony with the other.

With Vincent, it is awkward. I am unsure just what to do. He turns to kiss me. He has full lips. His eyes are looking into mine. But not with love or tenderness. With desire. With lust. With macho confidence. With the sense that I am his. That I now belong to him. Suddenly I feel his lips on mine would be too intimate. More intimate than his cock would be inside. John's kisses are so full of love and tenderness. I do not want this Dutch man's kiss. I turn my head and kiss his neck, and so avoid his mouth on mine. I seek refuge in his skin.

My hand goes where it should. Where I know it is expected. To his groin. I feel his hardness. Sooner or later, I must confront his cock. Sooner is better. I slip from the vinyl of the mattress where we are seated and I kneel between his legs. The floor is smooth beneath my knees. More vinyl. My body feels the denim of his jeans on either side. I reach for his belt. I fumble with the buckle, but manage still to open it. I need to use both hands at once to undo the topmost stud, to ease it from the eyehole in the stiffness of his denim. The other studs are smaller, and these I can undo with just one hand.

He is commando. A Dutch commando. He is wearing nothing more, beneath the denim of his parted fly. What lies beneath is far from nothing. Bare, exposed, rising solid from his groin, just inches from my gaze, it is substantial. I feel the butterflies return. They grow bigger, morphing again into those naughty puppies, tumbling in my lower belly.

It was easier when I was strapped into that swing, when I could not see, when it was John's initiative, and required no more than my consent, my remaining silent, when he asked if I was okay. This is so different. John is not here. I am with this man alone. Even being in a crowded space with others milling all around us still leaves me feeling so alone. The man I am to fuck is waiting, and it is my move to make.

Of course, I know the moves. I have done this to John so often. My previous husband, too. And to some others, here, in previous years, and previous nights, but with those other men we knew the limits. I would lick and suck, and swallow too, but that was all. Never before had it been the precursor to my opening my legs. I know how to use my lips and tongue give that pleasure to a man, but this is different. This time this man will fuck me with this cock.

I take a moment longer, examining the cock that stands so proud before my eyes. This one is similar in size to John's, but differs in so many ways. Then head is shaped more like a rounded arrow. The flange is wider. Or perhaps the shaft is narrower where it joins the head, because it widens from that point downwards, just for in inch or so, before it achieves its full thickness and solidity.

It differs, too,in that there is no frenum. No fine arch of skin for me to play my tongue on, where I know for most men it is so sensitive that playing there can make them come. That cut, in childhood, seems to have removed it. Then there is a fine dark line, that runs from where the frenum would have been, along the entire length of the shaft, as if the skin had been wrapped around and joined there. A network of veins bulge beneath the surface, or arteries, almost throbbing with blood flowing to keep the cock strong and solid and hard and capable of entering and thrusting like the piston that it really is.

The skin is tanned, as with all men here, for on the beach here everyone is naked. It is darker than his stomach, by three shades or more. I think of the thickness of his lips, and the darkness of this shaft, and wonder if sometime centuries ago, there was some darker blood mingled with his Dutch Caucasian white. Just for a moment I wonder as well, what it would be like to enjoy a genuine black cock, African, not Keralan. Perhaps, another year, I might find out.

I am gazing at his cock for far too long. I have to act. I use my hand to hold his shaft and use the other to ease his ball sac from his jeans. He raises his body just enough to help, to let his jeans slide down a little. His cock is warm, and beautiful, and also strange and foreign. But I must do as women do to men, and I lean forward, touching my lips to the proud head, then licking where the frenum would have been, over the flange, and across the eye.

There is a hint of bitterness. He tastes of flesh but also of precum. All cocks taste like this, or all that I have tasted in the past. I open wider, avoiding touching the sensitive, taut skin with my teeth as I take the head within my mouth and close my lips around it. I use my tongue, circling one way, then the other. He shudders. His cock jumps slightly, and I feel it, not just in my mouth, but in my arms, with the movement of his thighs where they are closed against me.

I taste more bitterness. I sense the liquid that has seeped from him. I feel it on my tongue. Enough, that with my own saliva, I need to swallow. Some of this stranger will then be inside me. I move the fluid to my throat, his and mine together, and reflex takes it down. I will absorb him, and he will remain a part of me for ever. I sense the tumbling puppies are now mere butterflies again. I know what I am doing. I can do this with eyes closed, and that is what I do.

I take my time. I do not want to disappoint him by cutting our encounter shorter than he would want. I kiss and lick his shaft in turn with sucking on the head. I take his ball sac in my mouth and worship it, one of those sperm creating spheres, and then the other. I could devour him, balls and cock together, swallow him entire, but that is my own desire now becoming strong for him.

He shudders more, and I start to back away, but feel his hands, keeping my head where it now is, his cock again between my lips, and then I feel the spurt of semen hit the upper surface of my mouth, forceful, yet tingling, then falling bitter to my tongue. This should not be happening. He is supposed to fuck me, not to come so soon, not there, not in my mouth, but now it is too late, and I can do no more than swallow, because another jet of semen follows quickly after that first spurt, this time more liquid than the other, thicker, and still more bitter on my tongue.

I am swallowing as more jets follow, while I am taken aback by what is happening. This cannot be it. He should have let me know he was so close. I could have mounted him. Brief as it would have been, I wanted him in me, and wanted him to come there, where semen finds its true home. I wanted John to be proud of me, to know that I had done as we had shared in pillow talk and fantasy. Now that all was spoiled, and I felt soiled, not sated.

He finished, the spurts slowing, subsiding, ceasing, and I had no more need to swallow. His hands behind my head relaxed and let me go. I lapped at him, cleaning every trace. I knew, at least, to do that for a man.

"You give amazing head," I hear him say.

I look at him, searching for the disappointment in his face, seeing only contentment.

"I've done it before," I say, trying to make light of what has been premature, and less than I had hoped for with him.

"Sure," he said. "I could tell,... and I am sorry,... it was so good I just could not hold back,... It's been too long since,..."

I read between the lines. He feels the fault is his. That it had been too long a time since he last had that release.

"It's fine," I say. "It's always fun!"

"To be honest," he says, "you're my first. Here, I mean. I was supposed to come with my girlfriend. We booked four months ago. But something happened. We broke things off. So I came here on my own. And everyone is in couples, so, this is my first time with a woman, and you are seriously sexy,... so,..."

"So it happened," I finish for him. "And it was a nice compliment for me. So, thank you for that."

"We should change places, now," he says. "It's only fair."

He is being charming. In fact, he is after all a nice guy. Which makes things easier.

"It's fine," I say. "There is no need."

"There is," he answers. "You can't leave me feeling guilty for not giving you the pleasure you deserve."

It is a clever piece of logic, of psychological game playing, and I know I must concede.

I am still kneeling, but we both get up together, Vincent helping me. He moves to give me space to lie where he has been. He is doing up the studs of his fly as I lie back, my legs bent at the edge of the vinyl covered mattress, my feet, still in the black heels that I am wearing, not reaching the floor. The vinyl is warm and smooth, but I find that sliding on it just does not work. The friction is too great. I cannot go back further.

Vincent lifts my butt. He moves my body, while I support my shoulders with my elbows, and I am back, calves now on the mattress, and he is bending over me, fluttering kisses on my stomach. Then on my thighs. Then on my slit.

It takes me a moment before I settle into enjoying what he is doing there. I think of John, that he is waiting in the bar while I am here, enjoying this man's tongue, and I feel guilty for that moment, but then remember he did not just agree to this, but he encouraged it. Besides, the Dutch man knows how to use his tongue, to use variety, now lapping at my slit, now probing, now licking at my nub, and each variation sends delicious shivers through me.

As so often, on these shared beds, others close to me consider my dark skin available to them, and hands touch me, my arms and shoulders, then a breast. A woman leans over, long blonde hair tickling my skin, contrasting with my dark complexion, then her mouth sucks on my teat and another gate to heaven opens up.

Someone else's hand is playing with my other breast, thumb and fingers squeezing, pulling, playing with my teat, not harshly, gently, softly. I think how fortunate it is to be a woman, to know such pleasure, to be desired by others for this body that God has given me. To experience such sensations, that overpower me like this, that reduce me to no more than a willing plaything, an erotic figurine, living, breathing, aroused and stimulated, offering pleasure back to those who chose to pleasure me.

Two heads. One full of hair so fine and sun-bleached, at my breast. The other, hard and hairless, tanned, and android like, lapping at my cunt, sucking my secretions, sweetly torturing the centre of my being, now protruding from its sheath, a million nerve endings in one small nub of femininity.

Then it takes me over, the shuddering and the tremors and the explosive bliss that starts at my core, my clit, my slit, my cunt, and sends shock waves from that epicentre throughout my body, with an intense tingling at my nipple stub where the woman leaning from beside me is still sucking on it so relentlessly. I hear my own gasps and cries, and I whimper as I squirm and tremble. It is amazing, how those I do not know can bring me to this point, to this orgasmic heaven.

Even heaven does not last forever. The woman returns her attention to her partner. My nipple, still wet from her saliva, now feels cool and abandoned. Vincent takes his opportunity. Instead of licking and my clit and cunt, his lips move upwards, onto my mons, my lower belly, my navel, at my rib cage, between my breasts. He is climbing over me. His arms are by my sides, his legs now on the vinyl, between my own. His mouth is at my neck. Just to the side. I am too sensitive to touch right there. It makes me squirm. He stops, and moves up further.

Then I feel it. Nudging. Finding the entrance. I am not ready yet. I need more time. To come back down from the heaven of the orgasm I have just enjoyed. My cunt is still too sensitive. But he does not give me time. I am so wet that the head slides in with ease. The cock head I had been licking, that had so forcefully ejaculated in my mouth, that had me swallowing so much, whose semen still lingers bitter on my tongue, moves on inside me, even deeper, sending spasms through me, and it feels so wonderfully good.

I had closed my eyes. Now I open them. He hovers over me. His white shirt is now multicoloured from the roving spotlights up above. It is unbuttoned, hanging open, tanned chest visible, devoid of hair, wide oval nipples on strong muscles beneath smooth Dutch skin. My husband's chest has a covering of dense black hair, but then, this is not him. It is another man. He looks down at me, and I look into his eyes. Eyes of a stranger. Seemingly gazing right into my soul.

I know nothing of this man. Almost nothing. His nationality, his city, his being here alone, his first name, the colour of his skin, his shaven skull, the thickness of his lips, the dimensions and the detail of his cock, the taste of him as well. I know more about his cock that I do of his real self, but although he is a stranger, at one all important level, we connect. Not just the connection of his cock so wonderfully deep inside my cunt, but a connection of our minds, or of that part of them that his eyes tell me that we share. Our needs. Our longings. Our cravings. Our desires.

He reads my mind, that part that which longs for sexual satisfaction, which longs to be taken, to be possessed, which craves male hardness penetrating to the deepest reaches of my womb, which yearns to be filled with warm semen, flooded with it, which in spite of my having come, aches to come again, to have that earthquake of incredible sensation, that nirvana, not by his mouth, but by the movement of his cock, from his taking me, his thrusting, his overpowering me with his rigid flesh. This stranger looks into my eyes, and I am sure he sees all this.

Writing about it now, it becomes too much, and it is late. John is waiting for me to stop, to join him upstairs. Our upstairs, our home, not the upstairs of the club. I know that he will make love to me once I slip into our bed. I love him so. There is no other man for me. There never will be. A stranger's presence, his cock head's presence, where Vincent was, inside me, in my womb, means nothing. He was never near my heart. Those two places are so close, yet still so far apart. Only John has reached my heart. I want him now, with all my heart and womb and with my cunt and breasts, and all of me. I will come back to this tomorrow or another day.

*********

We made love so beautifully last night. So tenderly, to start with, then, as so often, with so much pent up passion, uncontrolled desire, John withdrawing, ending our face to face lovemaking, turning me, having me on my hands and knees, re-entering, taking me from behind, and pummelling, hammering, thrusting so forcefully that I had to brace myself against our bed-head, arousing, energising fucking, that men do to women, not from the love that lies within their heart, but from their reservoir of lust, the dark instinct that lurks within their groin, the need to fill her with his sperm and make her his.

Even after all this time I know that my husband likes the colour of my skin. It excites him, that I am different, exotic, another culture, race, ethnicity, Indian in my parentage, even if my schooling, my education, the world in which I grew up here, is just the same as his. It was the same for me, when we first met. My world was Indian, even in my part of London. My first husband was arranged for me. I had white friends, though mostly women, but had never dated any men, not Indian or white or black or anyone. Yet we were sitting at a restaurant sharing food, this white man and myself, and already I was certain that sometime soon I would allow him to make love to me. A man whose skin is white, inside me.

In France, most men are white. Their tans mean nothing. They are all white to me. Another race. The Dutchman's skin was white, turned to gold by its exposure to the sun, but white. Not the whiteness of his open shirt, but white. His cock was darker. But it was the cock of a man who thought of himself as white, even if I was right in my suspicious that the greater darkness of his cock suggested some mingling with another race sometime in the distant past.