Only in Cap d'Agde

"You like that?" he asked me. My other ear. Just as harsh a voice and accent.

I told the truth again.

"Yes," I said. "But I prefer it to be gentle."

The truth was that it felt so good to be back. It felt amazing to go clubbing dressed like that again. Exposed. On display. Getting the same kind of looks that I had received the year before. It felt good to have men wanting me. These guys were taking serious advantage of a woman dancing on their own, but it felt good that they had chosen me. For my body. Or my colour. Either way, I did not care. They wanted me.

Then the guy in front of me turned, saw Steel standing right behind him, and he backed away. The guy behind me released his grip on my nipple stubs, and he too was gone. Steel put his arms around me.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said. "You didn't need to do that."

"I didn't like their style," he said.

Something made me say what flashed across my mind, out loud.

"Maybe I would like for them to fuck me," I said.

"Would you?" he asked me, looking at me directly in the eye.

My eyes are dark. All my family's eyes are dark. His eyes are green. They are eyes that I could never lie to. Not even just to tease.

"No," I said.

"That's what I thought," he said. "But if you change your mind, they're yours."

"Really?" I asked him. "Even two guys like that? You wouldn't mind?"

"I meant what I said on the way here," he said. "You deserve to have the chance to explore. No if's or but's."

"You love me that much?" I asked.

"I love you that much," he said.

Upstairs, later, in the couples room, we were beside another couple. This time I was lying back, with Steel using his tongue so beautifully between my legs. Another woman was seated right beside me. Her guy was standing. His cock was out, and she was using mouth and tongue to please him. Every so often she paused, and turned, and looked at me. The first, naked Indian woman she had been so close to. Not just the colour of my skin. She also seemed to like my body.

Then she turned and bent, leaning over me. Her tongue felt wonderful, lapping at my teat. She knew how to suck a woman's breast. Gently, softly, lips playing on the stub, tongue grazing it, teeth delicately nibbling the tender tissue. The pleasure side of pleasure-pain. While Steel was still licking me down there. Sheer pleasure from his tongue.

Steel noticed. He paused to watch. The woman licked and sucked a little longer. Then she moved her mouth to right beside my ear.

"It would be nice for you to suck my husband's cock," she said. Dutch accent. English words. Nicely spoken. "Maybe your husband would enjoy if I am sucking his."

She kissed my cheek, her hand moving to behind my head, so that when she traced diagonally down to kiss my mouth, her hand encouraged me to raise my lips to hers. Her lips were soft, her tongue probing, reminding me of a kiss enjoyed the year before. I gave in to her. Her tongue explored my teeth and tongue, delving into every corner of my mouth, fucking my mouth orally. Fingers probed my cunt. Slender fingers. Finger fucking me. Clit teasing. Priming me, making me want more.

Eventually I pushed back against the hand behind my neck to break from her insistent kiss. A glance confirmed the slender fingers penetrating me were hers, no longer moving, but almost knuckle deep inside me. Steel was leaning back, spectating.

"I,..." I started to say, an unwanted tremble in my voice,... "We don't,... I mean,... not with other couples,... I mean,... not my husband."

Husband is easier to say than fiancée, even if it was premature to use the term.

She sat up and said something in Dutch to her own husband, who was standing, cock in hand, still erect from her previous oral administrations. He answered. She said something else. He answered a second time. She nodded, then turned to me again.

"My husband says perhaps your husband likes to watch. Then I watch too?"

Steel was still squatting between my legs. He cycles quite a lot. Strong thighs. I looked at him. Then at the Dutch guy's cock. Then at his wife, who smiled.

"It's all good," she said. Then to both men she said, "Perhaps, you will change places, yes?"

Steel stood up. He and the Dutch guy switched positions. The Dutch guy was now standing between my legs, his cock still in his hand, still erect, but looking lonely. Steel stood watching as I raised my body from the vinyl. Took the Dutch cock in my hand, his own hand leaving it to me.

This was not my man's cock. I did not know this man. But I kissed his cock head just the same. The skin taut and purple. The flange defined. Thicker than Steel's. But stubby, not so long. I touched my tongue to it. Tongue tip to frenum. Then to its eye. I tasted precum. Dutch precum. It tasted just like British precum. Indian precum tastes a little differently, still bitter, but with an added hint of spice. This precum had no spice. Just like Dutch cheese. No flavour of its own. Just that bitter taste.

I looked up at him. Brown eyes, like mine. Not green, like Steel's. Then I moved a little further forwards so that I could take all of the Dutch guy's cock head between my lips. It was fuller in my mouth than Steel's. I was actually doing this. Sucking on this stranger's cock. Generating rhythm. The same kind of rhythm he would have used on me, had his cock been in my cunt. Syncopating with my thumb and finger on his shaft. Perfect rhythm. More precum seeping. Delicious, not just the taste, the fact of stranger's precum on my mouth, of swallowing.

My God, I was actually swallowing. Just the precum, and my own saliva. More rhythm with my hand. His cock pulsing to the beat. A touch more precum seeping, still bitter on my tongue. I held his cock just that bit more firmly, just at the frenum. That works with Steel. It makes him come. I love that moment. The taking him from his strong, controlled persona to the uncontrolled release of semen spurting from his cock. It works for Dutch men too, that squeezing at the frenum. A spurt of semen hit the roof of my mouth. I closed my mouth around his cock head, swallowing the thickness of it, the bitter taste.

More semen jetted through his cock. Spewed into my mouth. More bitterness. Another swallow. Then more semen. More swallowing. More semen. Swallowing. Then just dregs, dribbles, my tongue licking them from his cock. Swallowing. Then keeping still. Knowing that like Steel's, his cockhead would now be ultrasensitive. Let him enjoy the moment when a dark face had looked him in the eye and swallowed all he had to give.

"You have no idea just how beautiful that looked," Steel told me later. "It was stunning. The way you swallowed everything was just amazing."

He was holding me, downstairs, in the bar, a loving hold, his arms around me strong, hugging my body to his own. His cock was hard again, rigid, between his stomach and my own. It felt so good to be so close to him, to hear him telling me how wonderful it had been to watch, that he was so proud of me, and loved me, and to know that he could be aroused by watching me.

"Will you marry me," he asked.

Not the actual proposal. That was asked and answered months before, and I now wore his ring. But since the real proposal, every so often he would say the words again, and I would answer, yes, a reinforcement of our mutual love. He asked it then.

"Of course I will," I said, all too conscious that all around us men were looking, intrigued by me, by the colour of my skin, and wondering if by any stroke of luck, they just might get to fuck me.

Sometime, it just might happen, but not then. And it would be no more than that. A stranger's cock inside my cunt. But nowhere near my heart, for that would beat for just one man, the one who held me then.

**********

No, not that year. I did use my mouth on two more men that holiday, both at the request of wives who liked to see their husbands satisfied, and who seemed just as interested in my complexion as the Dutch wife had been, but that was all. Penetration was still a step too far for me, with or without Steel's free pass. I wanted only to be made love to by my fiancé, not by other men.

In giving gifts, they say it is the thought that counts. I knew that Steel would love me even if I allowed another man to do as so many men in Cap d'Agde wished to do to me. I knew a stranger's cock within me would not diminish his love. That knowledge was his gift. It was the thought that counted, not the deed. The permission, not the actuality. That year, that is.

**********

Our wedding was the next May. I was obviously not a virgin, but I still wore white. My first time in a white wedding dress, since my marriage to my Indian ex had been more colourful. I made my vows, including the one that promised faithfulness, that conversation in the car in France replaying in my mind as I repeated to the questions those two words, "I do".

So, yes, I promised to be faithful. To forsake all other men. I meant those promises, but something in my head was saying that they really meant that I would never love another man, or seek his love. I would forsake all meaningful relationships with anyone but my husband. I would never betray him with my feelings. I loved him then, and love him now, and no other man has ever meant so much to me, or ever will. That was what was in my head each time I said, "I do".

It was not that I planned to have sex with anyone else. It was more that I realised that it was possible, and if it did, then I would not want it to mean that I had broken my wedding vows. That conversation in the car had kept replaying in my head, not just on our wedding day, but every so often, day to day. I knew that Steel had meant it. Not just from what he had said then, but from things he so often whispered in my ear while we were making love, both before we married, and afterwards.

"What I said in France,... I meant it,... not just for that holiday,... for any time we're there."

"You know that just because I love you,... it doesn't mean I own you,..."

"I wouldn't have minded,... that time you sucked the Dutch guy's cock,... if you had let him fuck you,... I even picture it sometimes,... you on your hands and knees,... wet for his cock,... him sliding inside,... fucking you,... making you come,... then emptying himself in you,..."

So, I had good reason to think that, sooner or later, it would happen. It seemed to turn Steel on, saying those things to me. At first, I was concerned about him thinking I would want to do that, but then I found it turned me on as well.

Having that pass from Steel, to use whenever, I even gave myself a slightly different kind of pass, to fantasise about it. To daydream. To close my eyes and let it happen in my head. To feel the tingle of arousal at the thought. Even to close my eyes while Steel was making love to me and whispering those things, and let myself pretend it was not Steel inside me, but another man. To use my fingers, at those times when I might be in bed alone, and strum my clit to thoughts of being taken by a stranger, and enjoy the all too illicit orgasm that the fantasy would always give me.

That was why those promises made the day that I became his wife, were not about whether I would ever allow another man to penetrate me, but about never having feelings for, caring for, or loving any other man, and my commitment was to my husband, for ever more. That form of promise was not hard to make. I knew there would be no other man for me. Just possibly, at some time in the future, another man might slide his cock into my slit, but should that happen, it would be no more meaningful in terms of love, than playing tennis partnered with another man, or dancing at a party with a friend.

**********

It happened, of course. That is why I am writing this. The summer after we were married. I do not know who it was, which might seem strange, until I explain exactly how it happened. Steel will not tell me who it was. I know the cock felt good. The sensation of the head nudging at my entrance, while I knew for sure it was not my husband, will stay with me for ever. It was as beautiful a gift as any man can give his wife, the freedom to enjoy another. It felt incredible, to have it open me, to feel it glide within, taking full advantage of my wetness, the head nudging deep within my womb, as deep as Steel himself can go, the shaft as thick and solid, his body pressed against my groin and upstretched legs.

We had been to this club before, although I have not mentioned it so far in writing this. BDSM. I never remember exactly what those letters stand for, but bondage is there, and domination. Soft orchestral music, dim lights in red and black surroundings, medieval mock-dungeon rooms, where you can be tied, and gently tortured. Or not so gently. We had watched some scenes there, for that is what they call them, as if they are plays set on a stage, except it is not acting. What happens there is real.

A woman being tied with rope and then suspended while her slit was left exposed and gently punished with a crop. Another secured by ankle cuffs to rings set in the floor, then forced to bend forwards, where her wrists were fastened to a curtain wall made out of bulky chain, and then her back and buttocks were softly thrashed with fronds of leather, with underarm swishes landing at her cunt, and then the handle of the crop inserted in her vaginal wetness so that the fronds became her tail.

A woman secured by ankles, wrists and waist to a cross, like the Da Vinci painting of the man within a circle and a square, except this cross was on a wheel and could be turned so that the woman was head down, feet uppermost, and a candle was inserted in her vagina, and lit, and left to burn, while she too was flayed with some form of whip or crop. Visually dramatic, but perhaps not quite so much real pain as the scene attempted to convey.

The scene that stayed with me, that I had fantasised about so often since we witnessed it, involved a leather swing, on which a woman lay, her back supported, legs in the air, tied to the ropes that held the swing seat, her arms as well, tied to the ropes above her head, blindfolded with a mask, and then play punished with a crop of fronds, her cunt softly whipped, and then her breasts, and then the husband who had used the crop on her, penetrating her, and fucking her, not stopping when she came, but thrusting more and more, while she screamed and cried for him to stop, and thrashed about in ecstasy, pulling at the straps that held her there..

Something in me was attracted to the thought of being bound. My body not my own, but tied, secured, so that I no longer could control what would be done to me. My instinct told me that being secured like that, strapped to the swing seat, rather than feel trapped, I would feel free. I would no longer be responsible. I would be free to experience whatever was done to me, to enjoy it, or endure it, but free from any sense of guilt or blame.

Something also resonated with me when I watched the woman's cunt receive its whipping. Nothing severe. Just play. But my own cunt deserved to be punished for the thoughts it generated, the desires and longings, and the things it made me do. It drives the body's lusts and needs. My cunt deserved the same chastisement, for the dark fantasies it induced, not least the fantasy of stranger sex that so often echoed in my head.

Then there was the fact of being blindfolded, a mask covering my eyes, forcing my thoughts inwards, closing off the world, yet allowing anyone who cared to watch to do so without my knowledge. That would be amazing to experience. I wanted my own husband to fuck me just as that woman's husband had fucked her, while I would have the freedom to pretend that it was not him, but someone else, another man, a stranger that I could not see and never would.

So, three short months into our marriage, that August, we were back in Cap d'Agde, and we had clubbed a little, played a little, enjoyed the looking and the touching and the making love with others alongside, and I had even sucked another cock, and had my slit licked by the same man in gratitude, but I had not yet been penetrated, other than by fingers and that man's tongue, and we had paid our entry fee to the BDSM club and gone inside.

The dress code there was strictly black. I wore my leather corset, and my heels. Nothing else, until Steel produced a pair of nipple clamps. Circles of metal, each with four small thumb screws, that closed inwards. I knew of them, but had never seen them worn, let alone worn them myself.

Steel had me wait just inside the entrance to the club while he put each of them in turn around first one and then the other of my nipple stubs and turned the thumb screws until the blunt ends pressed into each stub enough to hold the clamps in place. Which meant they hurt. They throbbed. Painfully enough for me to be unable to forget their presence. Which made sense. After all, it was a BDSM club. And once we went inside, i even got some looks of sympathy. But it made me wonder if Steel had somehow sensed my unconscious need for punishment.

Inside, I received the kind of interested looks and stares and scrutiny that I had become so used to as an Indian woman in Caucasian Cap d'Agde. An Indian woman in nothing but a corset. An Indian woman whose breasts were bare, exposed, and whose nipple stubs were being gently tortured by the clamps screwed into them, whose butt and mons were naked, whose slit was exposed, on view, and so easily within reach of any exploring hand, and whose flesh was soft and smooth, the colour of dark coffee, the object of erotic interest, no longer a person but a plaything, in the darkest playroom of them all.

Clothes give you personality. They tell other people who and what you are. My office clothes define me. The grey striped skirt-suits that I wear convey my expertise, the professionalism that I have to offer, my status in my firm. Nakedness, in Cap d'Agde, strips that away. It removes identity. Women become mere toys. Their husband's playthings, to be shown off, or to be shared.

Ethnicity has that effect as well. I knew, in that club, that others around me in that club saw only my nakedness and the colour of my skin. My colour made me different. Less of a person. An exotic body, all social norms removed, just sexual, dark flesh to be caressed, breasts to be fondled, nipples to be teased or tortured, slit to be explored. A living, breathing, dark skinned, sexual android, sensitive to touch, yet whose feelings, nerve endings, could be played with any way you chose. And those steel nipple clamps already spoke of my submission, to being just that erotic plaything for my husband. And for others. Nothing more.

Not all the women were submissive. Not all the men were dominant. One couple were very much the other way around, a muscular guy in nothing but leather shorts, being led by a steel chain leash attached to his leather collar, by a woman in thigh length leather boots, and a leather corset, not unlike my own. The woman saw me, and gave a smile as she came up to me.

"Schon," she said.

I knew what it meant.

Without asking either my husband or myself, she started fingering one of my nipple clamps, testing it by pulling it to see how firmly it was in place. It hurt, of course. Both my nipple stubs were still throbbing, but her pulling on the right one, enough to distend my breast, made it hurt even more. She looked me in the eye, daring me to show that she was hurting me. Toys should not complain when they are played with. I looked down at where she was holding the circular steel clamp and tried to disguise the pain.

She turned her wrist, which turned the clamp, which twisted my nipple stub and made me winch with pain. I felt my eyes begin to water. Then she turned the steel clamp further. My breast flesh at my nipple stub was twisted even more. More pain. Agonising pain. I bit my lip, to hold back the gasp I would otherwise have given out. There was no way in this BDSM hell that I would let her think I could not take what she was doing.