Only in Cap d'Agde - Dutch Courage

That meant something to me, as I looked up at him. Race, ethnicity, culture, all are real and meaningful. My country had been ruled by whites. They had indentured my race. Some, no doubt, had taken advantage of our women. White men, fucking dark skinned women, because they were superior, in arms and in resources, and they ruled.

Yet here was I, giving myself to this man. The Dutch had ruled Sri Lanka, which is so close to India, it is to me a part of my culture and my world, and they had traded in Kerala, my parent's home, and bought and sold Indians as slaves, owning them, taking, no doubt, their pleasure from them. I thought of that while he was in me, right over me, and I was submitting to him fucking me. Even if I had not chosen to allow him, he could have forced himself on me. He was so much stronger than I am, just because he was a man.

That was history. It was in the past. It was not him. He was not even born then. Nor was I. I was submitting to his cock, as any woman submits to men, not as slave to a master. Yet those thoughts were there, and I wondered if he could read what was going through my head, as he began to move down there. Slow, steady thrusts, soft and relaxing and pleasurable without too much intensity, that I could give myself to, so completely.

His eyes still held my own. I could read the question he was asking with that gaze. If I liked what he was doing, liked his cock, enjoyed the feel of him, if his thickness was good inside of me, if he went deep enough to satisfy. I answered, in my head. No words. Eyes only. An intensity of gaze returned that told him it felt good. He was pleasing me.

He dipped his head. Somehow bent his body just enough to reach my breast. His mouth engulfed my teat, the same one that the woman had been sucking on. Still sensitive, it thrilled to his tongue. Below, I could now feel just his head, slipping in and out so gently, sometimes all the way out of me, then opening me once more. That moment is so beautiful, of being entered, not just the first time but each time, opened, my entrance stretched once more around his cock head, deliciously intimate, again and again and again.

Then all the way inside again. His solidity so good. Its strength so comforting. So reassuring. The sensations giving me such pleasure. His shaft inducing spasms of joy within my clit. Something about the angle that he had achieved in moving over me ensured his shaft was touching where I needed it to touch as it re-entered me each time. It made me shiver with delight.

Then on his elbows. His chest so close it skimmed my breasts, his muscles grazing my teats, tremors of delight pulsing through my breasts. Somewhere in my spine the spasms from my groin and nipples rebound on one another. It makes my body tremor so deliciously.

Now he is fucking me more deeply with each stroke, pulling out until all I feel is the head inside me, then driving it so deep, right to my womb, solid flesh filling me, only to withdraw again, then drive back, repeatedly, again and again and again. My body loves this. My head makes sense of it. He came while I was sucking on his cock head. He will not come again, not soon. I had feared he would not fuck me after all, since he had come so forcefully, but now I know that he can fuck me to eternity because he has already come. I should give myself to this, for it will go on, and on.

I was right. He did fuck me for an eternity. He paused, to remove his shirt completely, no easy task while he was deep inside me, but I helped him slide it down his arms and off, and neither of us cared where we discarded it. I cared only for his body, so muscular, so like John's, yet not my husband's, yet holding me as if he were. My breasts crushed by his weight. My hands pushing down his jeans, baring the strength of his muscular behind. His cock again thrusting at my cunt. An engine, a working, living piston moving back and forth, in me, at me, through me, grazing the exposed nub of my clit, spasms emanating from it through my entirety.

I want it deeper, so I bring my legs around him. Cross my ankles, pull him in to me. It feels so good, so incredible. I love that I can let this stranger do this. It is amazing. I feel empowered. This man I do not know is fucking me so well, so long, so strongly, so incessantly, and it just feels so wonderful that I am me, that I am woman, that he desires me, and that I am his to fuck. I love my husband that he lets me do this.

He fucks me with my legs around him for a spell of time. I have lost track of just how long. But now he stops. He guides my legs from where my ankles have been locked around him, and he withdraws. At first I am perplexed. I wonder if he just is bored with fucking me like this. Is it now over? He leans back, but then he guides me more, using his hands to turn me, not my entire weight, but telling me with the pressure of his palms against my flesh, that this is what he wants of me.

I know now what he wants from me. He waits until I am on my hands and knees. I move back a little, bringing my knees to the edge of the vinyl mattress of this shared play-bed. Vincent is now standing. His cock head nudges me. It enters. His hands are on my hips and he is holding me as he thrusts deep. A hard, fast thrust. All the way to slam his body against mine. His groin against my upturned buttocks.

Now he pummels me. Fast, intensive fucking. Helped by his grip on my pelvis. I cannot move forward to escape. Not that I want to. It feels too good. I love that he wants to fuck me in this way. No longer gentle, this comes from pure lust, his alpha male desire to own and to possess, to be the master of the willing female, submissive slave. The dark-skinned slave. I should not think like that, but that is what passes through my head.

He would have come by now, for certain, had he not come before, had he not released his semen in my mouth instead of here, deep inside the cunt that he is fucking now. Yet it may be that it was always meant to be this way. I was meant to have this fucking of a lifetime, from this stranger, before we left for home, before I returned to being my husband's loving wife. I was meant to be used as this man was using me. This is what all women should know at some time in their lives, should undergo. Their body used. Their cunt ravaged by insistent cock. Their womb possessed by hard male flesh, pounding at it, using it for the pleasure of the man who fucks them, but taking their womanly pleasure from each unforgiving stroke.

My breasts are swaying beneath me, not just gently, but in uncontrolled, chaotic, oscillations, such is the ferocity of his body slamming at my own. My arms give way. My body falls. I have to turn my head to breath, so that my face is not forced against the vinyl of the mattress we are on. My breasts press against it, as do my shoulders. My hands are flat, my arms stretched out, so weak and useless. But he seems not to care, and nor do I, as long he continues fucking me, as long as my butt is where it needs to be to let him carry on, and that is how it is.

I brush my hair from my face, to give myself the air I need to breath. He seems to no longer think of me as living flesh, needing to survive this onslaught. I am no more than cunt to him. That is all I want to be. Not myself. Not the person that I am. The me that I am, belongs only to my husband. The cunt that I have, is what I offer to this stranger, and it is all he wants of me.

He needs to come soon, or I will not survive this ravaging. I want him to come. I want to feel it spurting. To feel the semen hitting somewhere deep within me. Flooding me. But the reservoir is no longer bursting. Too much semen has been spewed already. The pressure that I crave is no longer there.

I gesture to him. One hand, back towards him, my palm and fingers flat, as if directing traffic, telling the next vehicle to stop.

He stops. He eases out. I collapse, sideways, foetus like, the recovery position but more bent than that, but still recovering. I am no more than human after all, and the woman that I am can only take so much.

Our eyes lock. He crouches to my level.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I make my eyes speak first. Smile at him. Tell him I am so happy.

"It was amazing," I say. "I loved it. But it was too much."

His hand is on my arm.

"Maybe, I should have waited before," he said. "Not come."

"It's fine," I say. "I liked that you came like that."

"We can stop," he said.

No, I think. We must not stop. He is supposed to come in me. That is what it means to have a stranger fuck me.

"Maybe we should just change places," I suggest.

Moments later he is lying on his back where I had been. His jeans are now around his ankles. Here, no one cares. People have been watching us, seeing him fuck me. A small audience, no longer circulating, standing where we are, the live sex show for their delectation. Interracial, hard core, close up, real live fucking, the women watching, curious, the men, so clearly envious of Vincent. Wishing they were him.

I crawl over him. Squat on his cock. It is still hard beneath me. My slit opens, pressing on the shaft, still wet, and I rub myself on him, for no reason other than that I like the feel of it against me.

A different sense of empowerment envelopes me. I am on top. No more than that, but it affects me deeply. I have a white European male on whom I am squatting, my legs on either side of him. My dark thighs contrast with the tanned lightness of his skin. My Indian self is, in this way at least, above this Causasian. Inwardly, I smile.

Perhaps my smile was not completely inward. His eyes are looking up at me, and a smile flickers momentarily. He does not object to my subduing him. He is amused by it. It is something he is allowing. He still has power, in his limbs, to throw me off, should he decide to. Not that he will. What I do next makes sure of that.

I raise myself, my thighs doing the lifting of my body. My dark hand holds his so much lighter shaded cock and angles it. A right angle to his torso. The right angle for ease of mounting him, of penetration. I lower myself enough have the head nudging at my cunt. Then more. I love that even though this cock has been thrusting at my cunt already, for so long, I still need to be stretched open once again by the arrow head, until the flange is all the way inside. It is a smooth and easy penetration, because I am still wet, but I love that feeling of my flesh distended wide.

Then a slow, controlled descent, until my thighs relax, my weight entirely on him, his cock as deep as it will ever be, pressing a little at my womb, just that bit too deep, and yet exactly as I want it.

His chest is muscled, pectorals standing proud, but I have muscles too. All around his cock shaft. Muscles I can tighten, and I do. As tightly as I can. Release, and tighten them again. Then my thighs. Lifting myself. Holding there, with just the head still captured. Then I drop down, faster, with my muscles held just tight enough to have him feel the pull against his cock.

I know, from making love with John, that this can make him come so beautifully. So, I do the same again, hoping that what works with my husband, works too, for this other man. Each time I lower myself, I hold those muscles so that his cock must fight its way inside. Again, and again and again and again.

Now I feel it throbbing. I sense it jerk. The technique that works so well with the man I love and married, seems to stimulate this man just as I want it to. I have another strategy as well. Words. Things said. Whispers. So I lean forward, my breasts grazing his chest, nipple stubs kissing against his, bringing my head beside his close shaved skull, my hair draped over him.

"There is something," I begin, "that I want to know."

I sit up straight again, lift myself, and lower, again tightening my cunt against his cock. Lean forwards once again.

"Do you like that I am Indian, not Dutch?" I ask.

Straighten, rise, tighten lower myself and lean to him.

"Have you fucked anyone as dark as me before?"

Rise and lower.

"Have you come in someone of my colour?"

Up, and down again.

"Because I want as much as you have left, inside me."

"I have never had a Dutch man fuck me. Or come in me."

"Does it turn you on that I am married?"

"Have you fucked someone else's wife before?"

"Left your cum inside her?"

"Because I want,... I really want,... your cum,... in me."

It works. Better than I hoped or planned. It works for both of us. I am shuddering now. I cannot help it. Fucking him like that had meant his cock was fucking me, fucking my cunt so beautifully, sending as much sensation through my body as I had hoped it would produce for him. Making me shiver with tortuous pleasure. Sending tremors through me. I cannot stop this now. I just need one more.

Lean back. The right angle of my body to his torso is no longer what I need. I lean back, my hands finding his legs to support my upper body as I then lean back even further, the pressure of his cock head pushing up against my wall so good to feel. Then vibrating the muscles of my butt and thighs, I use his hardness like a human dildo, taking me there, all the way to another explosive heaven, fireworks shooting through my cunt, my clit, my nipple stubs, my spine, my all.

Then spurts of semen. His cock jerking. The shaft pushing back against my vaginal wall. I can feel the spurts rush through, the semen rising through his shaft. Feel it emerge. Sheer bliss. More than I expect from him. He should be empty, but no one had thought to tell his ball sac that, and it sends yet more spurts of semen into me.

Semen. Inside me. The realisation hit me suddenly. I was amazed I had not thought about the fact that, all this time, his cock had been bare. No condom. Nothing. I had been so wrapped up in the immensity of inviting a stranger to come upstairs with me, that I had not given a moment's thought to his using protection. With John it did not matter. With him, we had agreed, what happened, happened. Which meant that it could happen, from this guy. Because he had just come. inside me. Semen spurted deep into my womb.

I should have panicked. I should have raised my butt and climbed from him, and gone to the bathroom, where I knew there were not just toilets but a shower too, and I should have tried to rinse myself at least, but it all just felt too good.

I had ridden him until he came inside me. I had done that. Me. The woman that I am. Indian. Londoner. City girl. Dark skinned. In this place of ethnic Europeans. He had wanted me. He had come in me. My mouth and then my womb. Which made me feel so complete, fulfilled, empowered. My heart was bubbling with joy. What had happened, had just happened, and that was how it was. I was pure, wholesome, unadulterated, woman, John's woman, my husband's woman, the woman that my body yearned to be.

**********

Two days later, we stood on the prow of the vessel and saw the white cliffs appear. I would say that it felt like the scene in the film of the Titanic, lovers together in each other's arms, but the Titanic did not do so well, and taking the Calais to Dover ferry to return to England does not compare with crossing the Atlantic.

"Good to be back?" John asked me, holding me so beautifully tight, the strength in his arms, in his body, so wonderful to feel.

"It's good," I said. "Being with you anywhere is good."

"I feel the same," he said, then paused. "No regrets?"

I knew of course, what it was he had to be referring to.

"No," I said. "I'm glad I did it. It felt good. And you were right. It's helped to push,... my ex,... further into the background. Now he's not the face I see when I think of someone else."

I never use my former husband's name. Not with John. He is in the increasingly distant past and that is where he needs to be.

"I'm glad," he said.

"I guess it's one kind of therapy," I said. "How to get over a failed marriage. Have sex with other men."

"Guys have been doing that for centuries," John said. "Except they have sex with other women. Or most of them do."

"Maybe not after they have married someone else," I smiled. I like to think the smile came across as slightly shy and demure.

"Maybe," John said. "Maybe not. I don't think it matters. You know the only thing that really matters as far as I'm concerned is that we love each other."

"Me too," I said.

They have pharmacies in France, of course. They just spell it differently. You can buy the morning after pill. What had happened had been incredible, but neither john nor I wanted a Dutch pregnancy, so I had swallowed hard, asked for the pill, and swallowed hard again when in our car to drive back north.

that brief conversation on the prow had ended with John bending his head and kissing me, not briefly, but the long, lingering, open mouthed kiss, where tongues play tag with one another, that lovers give. Married couples can be lovers too.

His tanned face was handsome in the light English breeze. The man a woman loves becomes handsome by default, and I loved this man, who had embraced my colour, my ethnicity, and my womanhood, and who loved me so much he had dared to share me with another.

That kiss confirmed our love. It was, as well, a welcome home to England kiss, the white cliffs even larger. A welcome back to being his and no one else's. Not, at least, until next year.