Only in Cap d'Agde - Four play

This is the third of my stories about Cap d'Agde. So many people liked me writing about how it is from the wife's point of view, that I have described sharing my husband for the first time ever.

Thank you to my husband, Steelring, for editing this, the same way he did the others. And I have called him John again.

**********

"What did you think of them?" I asked John, as we walked back to our caravan.

"Honestly?" he asked, before continuing. "I thought that she was nice, but he was up himself a little. And playing subtle power games. I mean, what was that about the bill?"

"I know," I said.

I felt the same myself, about them both. I had felt an instinctive connection with Rachel, but not so much with Nick, although it was his suggestion that we join them, something that we had never done before, eating with another couple, making friends, or starting to. He had been in one sense, open, and good company, but had monopolised the conversation. Just like John had said. Up himself a little.

Then, when it was time to ask for the 'addition', and John and Nick had both reached for their cards, Nick had insisted on paying the whole bill for our meals instead of splitting it, suggesting John might pay next time, a power play, just like John said, and one way to make sure we did indeed eat out with them again.

"I also think they swing," John added, "not just here, but back at home as well."

"Probably," I said. "They did say that they were going on to Glamour later."

Glamour was one of the swingers' clubs on the complex. Not the one that we prefer, which is a place called Tantra, smaller, and more intimate. Glamour is more spacious, more brash, and people there seemed more into themselves. Great lighting, and a serious dance floor, but no interaction, not even glances, although I always wonder if that is as much about my colour. But at Glamour, more than at Tantra, I had felt myself to be the only non-white person there, and not in a good way.

"Interesting that she wasn't dressed for it," John said.

He had a point. Unlike myself, Laura had been dressed like any woman could have dressed in any resort, anywhere, a yellow summer dress, button fronted, sleeveless, but not at all revealing. She was slim, her breasts nowhere as full as mine, which left me wondering what she wore to Glamour, where, like the club we usually went to, the dress code for women was to bare, and expose your assets, not to hide them.

"Not Agde style," I said, using the abbreviation for Cap d'Agde that was easier to say.

Night-time at the naturist complex was all about display. Not just the clubs. The bars and restaurants. Clubbing dresses were the standard minimum. Even more revealing was, for most, the norm. Bare breasts, bare pussies too, lingerie, leather wear, sheer blouses, dresses, collars, piercings, nothing was too extreme.

"She even made me feel just that bit exposed," I added.

Which I had been. Exposed, that is. Because we both enjoy it. John, I guess, just likes showing off his wife, or so he says. Whereas it is the exhibitionist in me, that I had discovered only after John had brought me here, to Cap d'Agde, and which gradually revealed itself as I got used to being naked day-time, and displaying night-time, and getting looks, some just appreciation, some blatant I-would-love-to-fuck-you stares.

The colour thing again. Indian ethnicity. Keralan genes, even if I was born and brought up in Wimbledon, in England, and went to private school, and now head up the Science teaching in a girl's school not so far from there. Genes that mean my complexion is dark Indian, not light. Genes that I am proud of, and that so many European men seem to like. As well as the natural contours of my body. My mother's genes. Her hour glass figure. Definitely her breasts.

In Cap d'Agde, men tend to think I am available, just from the colour of my skin. I worked it out, from noticing the other dark skinned women here. Not Indian. Apart from one light skinned couple in their twenties, I have not yet seen another Indian man or woman here. Black men and women, yes, although even these are rare. More cleaning staff than guests, or working, behind the bars, but also African women with rich white guys, the trophy fuck toy, which is what men here seem to think most coloured women are. So they look at me, with John, and just assume I am a toy he likes to fuck.

Which left me wondering how Nick and Laura saw me, what they thought of me. Which I had been wondering throughout the meal. Nick glancing at my breasts. Unlike Laura's, mine had been bare, the jacket I had worn slipped off on autopilot and set beside me on the restaurant's bench seat. Which left me facing him, diagonally, just the white corset John had bought me. Not that I need it. But John liked the contrast with the darkness of my skin. Maybe Nick liked that too.

"You looked good," John said, in answer to my admission that I had felt exposed with them. "Nick was definitely enjoying the view."

"You noticed?" I asked.

"I noticed," John said. "I'm pretty sure he'd like to fuck you. That might have been what the credit card thing was all about. Make sure we meet up with them again. He definitely liked your left breast."

My birthday present from John. One step up from the nipple clamps that he had used on me for play one time, the kind with screws that tighten against the nub and are adjustable to increase the pleasure pain. Instead, he had given me a silver heart, tiny, on a short, fine chain, suspended from the bar-bell piercing. Something different for this summer, he had said. The needle had been painful, but it had healed quite nicely, and the looks that I was getting were definitely worth the momentary pain.

"Do you think they think we swing?" I asked him.

"Probably," he said. "We did say how much we like Tantra. And I suspect most people think we do."

He was right, of course. The way I dressed suggested it. The way, whenever we went out, even if, like that night, it was just going out for dinner, whatever I would wear would leave my breasts and slit exposed. A leather corset with a satin jacket, nothing else, except the white leather heels that matched the corset. Legs and butt, bare and exposed. So people looked, and saw my palm width areoles and my hairless slit, and saw my colour, and just assumed. They swing. He likes to watch her getting fucked. Not true. Not the whole truth. Not nothing but the truth.

Just four men now. Other than John, that is, and not counting my first husband in that disastrous marriage that my parents had persuaded me to enter into, just because he too was from Kerala, or his parents were. Four men in Cap d'Agde. One whom I had never even seen, a blindfold meaning that I still have no idea who he was, or looked like. I wrote about that already. Then the Dutch guy, that I wrote about as well. Two more, since him. Two other stories. Maybe, sometime, I will write them. But only four.

The other side of the equation is that I am John's second wife, but not the second woman he has known. I still can only guess how many. The one time that I pressed for him to tell me, I stopped asking once he confirmed that it was more than twenty. They were the reason that he thought I should allow some other men to pleasure me. To even things a little, to help me forget the other, Indian husband who was too much in my head, and just for the sheer enjoyment of another cock inside me, and the climax that would bring. Just me, he said, not him. He did not need another woman. He had had his share, and no longer looked around. Not now that he had me.

We were back at our caravan by then. Our families and our friends could not believe we liked to caravan, my family especially. A well brought up Indian woman would want a nice hotel. Except I love the outdoor life, and cooking our own food when we did not feel like going to a restaurant, barbequing, salads, heading out later if we wanted to, or just basking in the warmth beneath the stars. All mod cons inside. Although I did not use the shower. I liked the open showers of the camp-site, the people watching there, and the people who watched me showering as well.

I put my jacket on its hanger in the narrow, bedside wardrobe. Unbuckled the front of my corset. Folded it. Put it away. John was undressed by then. He came to me. His cock not hard yet, but getting there, pressing against me as he held me, kissing my forehead as he does.

"Of course, he wants to fuck you," he said. "Every guy in Cap d'Agde would love to get to fuck you. And right now, I'm going to fuck that delicious cunt of yours. The one that some other guys are going to get to fuck, just like that last few times we've been here."

It was something that he had taught me, that I had to learn. That love and lust are not the same. That making love is meaningful, while fucking is just something people do when the desire is there. That love comes from the heart, that making love expresses how you feel, but fucking is something that for men comes from their cock and balls, and for a woman, comes from a craving in her cunt.

That we can make tender, beautiful love together, because we love each other, and each touch and kiss and sliding of his cock within me tells me he adores me, not just my body, but the woman that I am, but he can fuck me too, and when he thrusts and drives his cock more furiously, I sense the lust he has for me, my body, but that is not a denial of his love. Nor is my lust for him, my longing for his cock, a denial of the purer feelings that I have for him alone.

Those men that fucked me. I loved to feel their cocks inside me, loved when they exploded, loved the knowledge that they had left their sperm within. Except none of it was really love. Not true love. It had been no more than lust, each time, just womanly desire, instinctive, their cocks spearing my cunt, but not my heart. Never my heart.

John's cock hardened. He put me on our bed. Drew both my legs up, and underneath his chest. I was his willing fuck toy. His wife, who loved him, but for now was all too ready to be used. I needed this as much as he desired me. I wanted the solidity of his cock inside me, the width of it invading me, its length demanding that I take it all. The head began to open me. My cunt was wet. In Cap d'Agde, somehow, it always is. He sank it deep. Leant down. His weight on me. His head so close to mine. His eyes telling me how much he loved and lusted after me.

"Of course, he wants to fuck you," he said, a second time.

**********

John tans. I love the sun, but it does not really make me any darker. Keralan Indian is pretty much as dark as any Afro. My areolas are jet black. My labia, when my slit is opened so that they are seen, are just as dark. My skin is not quite black, but close. I still use lotion. I can burn. But I will never tan or darken more than I have always been, since I was born.

But, like John, I love the sun. The warmth of it on naked skin. Luxuriating on the beach, soaking up its rays. An eight by eight beach rug and matching towels, a beach umbrella more to keep our cool bag with our drinks in shade, and books to read, and time to think, and two days to enjoy before we would meet up again with the first people we had got to know in five years of coming here, and have another meal with them.

Too much time to think. About Nick, and his inevitably wanting to fuck me. He was nice enough, good looking enough, in his way, but had I seen him in Tantra he would not have been the guy that I would have chosen to go upstairs with. Not the way I had chosen the Dutch guy, just seeing him standing at the bar, or either of those other two. There was nothing wrong with him. It is just some guys turn you on, instinctively. Others fail to. There is no choice about it. It is not something you can analyse. It just turns out that way. Nick did not turn me on.

But he would want to fuck me. That was certain. The way that he had been glancing at my breasts had made that clear. Laura would have noticed it. Assuming they were swingers, as we thought, then she would have seen him looking at other woman too. She would be used to his fucking other women. For her, it would not matter. You could tell that. Something about the way they were with one another. You could tell they loved each other. This was their playground, not something that would come between them. Swinging was fun. That was all it was to them.

I wondered about John, and what he wanted. If Nick or Laura suggested that we go on to a club when we had eaten, would John want to go? Did he fancy Laura? Would he want to fuck her? He seemed relaxed about Nick's interest in me, but if that happened, would Laura and John just watch it happening, or would they fuck each other too?

Twenty other women. More. How many more, I did not really want to know. I just wanted him for me. For me alone, and not for Laura. Not for anyone. Not now. Not now that we were married. What was in the past should stay there. Except it was already in my head. Laura, squatting on him. Her slender body naked. His cock inside her cunt.

The stretch of beach we use is not just naturist. It is frequented by those who liked to play as well as lie. Mostly casual, and subtle and with their partner. Mostly hands, or mouths, but sometimes, every other day, perhaps, we would notice full blown fucking, one lying on the other, or side by side as spoons, not drawing attention to themselves, but doing it, just the same.

Thinking about John with her, I glanced at him. I so love his body. He keeps himself in shape. Uses an electric trimmer on his hair, close to his scalp, and to his groin. It emphasises the size of it, not that it needs to be emphasised. I did not want that cock in her.

I turned onto my side, leaned across, and kissed the head. Flaccid. But it swelled a little as it felt my lips. John's cock. My cock. It belongs to me. Not her. I licked it. It stirred some more. Grew. It grew for me, for my lips, my tongue, my mouth. It began to rise, stiffer now. I felt his hand resting on my head, encouraging me, and I opened my mouth and took the now bulbous head between my lips.

Nothing too obvious. Lying on my side, my head on his lap, the way that you would do on any beach, but not in swimwear, not just resting, because here it did not matter that his cock was hard, and I was sucking it, lapping at the head whose taut skin I knew would now be so sensitive to every touch. I could even look around a little as I sucked his cock. No one noticing. Then one woman did, and smiled, and went back to her i-pad, or whatever brand it was.

Pre-cum. Bitter on my tongue. John's pre-cum. Mine. It belonged to me. Everything that emerges from his cock head has been promised to me. Part of our wedding vows. Love, honour, obey, and reserve all semen for my loving wife. For me to swallow, or to carry in my womb. Mine. Not hers. Not for sharing, even if he was willing to share me. Except, if we were in a club, and Nick were to fuck me, she might go down on him, Laura, on my husband, do this to him, taste him, take what is mine.

That image flashed across my mind again. Laura squatting on him. Not in a club. Right here. The way some women mount their men. Squatting. Appearing playful. But skewering herself. Riding him. Ever so slightly moving to and fro, squeezing her vaginal muscles round him, drawing pleasure from him, drawing more than pleasure, drawing semen from his balls. Laura, squatting on my husband, doing that to him, in my head, jets of semen that belong to me, spewed into the slenderness of her body, stealing it from me.

I love that John can come in the day-time after fucking me at night. He came. Spurting into my mouth. Globules of it, that I swallowed, not just because I needed to, to keep what we were doing on an open beach, discrete, but because I love that it becomes a part of me, that swallowing means that it gives me nourishment and sustenance, that the molecules and atoms become one with me, absorbed into my system, become my flesh, my skin, my hair. I wonder if all women think of that, or if it is the scientific nerd in me, that gained me my degrees, and my promotion in the school in England where I teach my classes, and dress to look so proper and so prim.

Swallowing his semen, I thought of my first husband. He too is part of me. His semen swallowed, in my attempts to please him, to be the wife that I should be, not from instinctive love or need, but out of duty. Then those other men. Not all swallowed. The Dutch guy was. His semen is now part of me, absorbed. One other man, I swallowed, before he fucked me. The others came only in my cunt, and what enters a vagina or a womb is not absorbed. Not in that way.

How many women already have traces of my husband in themselves? How many mouths sucked on this cock of his? How much of his semen had been swallowed and ingested long before I knew him? There was, I knew, inside me, an intense jealousy that any other woman should have known him, that he should have come inside them, mouth or cunt or anywhere. Irrational, I knew. We love each other. Nothing, not even Laura, ever would extinguish that.

I knew than that I would go along with whatever was suggested. I would hide whatever misgivings I would have. Disguise my jealousy. Allow it. My head told me that was how I would behave. Two reasons, all too clear. My parents' influence, that at all times a well brought up woman is polite, and uncomplaining, puts others first, before herself, and is accepting of what happens. That was too well embedded in me. The second reason was my instinctive sense of fairness, that if, even after marriage, I had allowed those other men to fuck me, and my husband clearly loved me just the same, so the only was that I could be, was to be as loving and accepting in return.

**********

It happens sometimes. You walk into the staffroom and another teacher is wearing the same colours that you are, not just the same colours, but the same items of clothing, different brands perhaps, but both of you in a black skirt and red turtle neck top, or you are at a party and your little black dress is the same as someone else's, same cut, same everything, because there are only so many shops on the high street, and you both went to Zara, or wherever it might be.

There are only so many online stores selling body harnesses for women, and even those carry the same lines as each other, Chinese or eastern European in the main. Most are black, real calf leather or what they describe as vegan, as if you are going to enjoy it with a salad. Some, mostly the eastern Europeans, make them on other colours too. Mine was white. Laura's, identical, but black.

Just straps and steel rings and appropriately located buckles to enable the size to be adjusted for the body it is harnessing. Triangles that frame the breasts. In my case, caging them. I had had to ease their fullness through, and the lower side of each triangular cage was mostly hidden beneath the ample flesh. Laura did not have that issue. I had been right. Her breasts were just slight mounds. The black leather triangles framing them were almost needed to confirm that they were there. Her nipples were so different from mine as well. No areolas. Just brown stubs.

Our matching harnesses had straps that went over our shoulders and fastened to a central ring midway up the back, more straps round our sides, fixed to the same ring, buckles to tighten them around the torso. More straps in front that formed a wide diamond centred roughly on the navel, then two that diagonally to each side and down to double width thigh straps instead of going between our legs, so that our slits had no leather that might pull them open, or graze a penetrating cock shaft. My slit, that is. Laura's was so much more, with protruding labia like curtains to the show, an inch of fleshly decadence that hung between her slender but so nicely toned, pale legs.