Paradise Gained

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As I paid for the panties I was left awed by Blaine's pantomime tour de force. The entire time we were in the store Blaine had offered zero words of direction or explanation. All my actions, including allowing him access to my most intimate parts had been guided by his hands.

Back on the bike, we went all over and, as Blaine had succinctly-if-inelegantly couched it, looked at stuff: local temples, an open air art gallery, shop windows, street panoramas. We lunched at a locals-only bistro in a side alley that served a most delicious beer.

Wherever we went, both on and off the bike, the wind whipped my skirt about my legs. I felt as free and as scared as at any time in recent memory. When riding I tried tucking my skirt beneath my bottom to keep it in place but when Blaine saw what I was doing, he forbade me.

"Let it wave free," he told me. "Everyone will feel better." He was right and the vibrations of the motor heightened my exhilaration. I eagerly placed my upper leg, the golden entrance to the valley of the shadow of life, in Blaine's hand every time I mounted or dismounted that motorbike, now our motorbike.

We rode out along a deserted strip of beach. Blaine parked the scooter and we removed our sandals. The sand felt wonderful in my toes. As we walked toward the water, I felt the back of Blaine's hand nuzzle against my palm. It made me feel strange. For the first time, truly unambiguous intimacy was being suggested. Certainly the things we'd done on the beach the prior day and on the scooter today were more familiar than many couples got even after several dates, but all could be explained in less intimate terms. They were part of the rituals of a tropical seashore and the necessities of boarding a motorbike in a short skirt. Even the purchase of the panties bore the ulterior motive of correcting an inappositeness of wardrobe on my part

Now we were engaged in, or about to anyway, something with no hidden rationalizations...if I allowed it. The face of my husband clouded my view of the crystal horizon. My vows to him, or one specific vow anyway, was being tested like never before. Was it about to come undone?

I clasped Blaine's hand and soon our fingers were intertwined as we walked toward the surf. At the water's edge Blaine stooped to roll up his pant legs. The wind gusted sharply, unexpectedly, treating my skirt like a spring kite, sending it skittering in every direction. I kept trying to maintain a modicum modesty like some tropical, blonde goddess standing atop some sandy subway grate.

"Don't," Blaine said, pushing my hands away. And I didn't.

The sun was behind him as he knelt on one knee. I could see the shadow of his head on my legs. As I'd been instructed, I kept my hands folded nervously against my belly, allowing my micro dress to billow above my waist. Blaine didn't disguise the fact that he could see the closely cropped "landing strip" my sheer panties revealed. The pressure of his eyeballs against my nearly naked loins forced my nipples to pop out.

"Please, Blaine," I beseeched, edging my hands lower, trying to hide myself and feeling frustrated at the need to seek his permission to do so, "my dress is betraying me."

"No, Janey, it isn't," he said, rising. "It's acknowledging you."

Blaine led me out into the surf. When his knees were wet, he turned to face me. Each of us searched the other's eyes trying to plumb unfathomable depths. I felt like I was staring into some infinite spiral hypothesized in Hawking's Theory of Everything.

Blaine gently twisted my hand behind my waist and pulled me to him. I closed my eyes just as his thick, puffy lips encountered mine. The kiss wasn't what I expected, what I was prepared to offer him, what, in truth, I wanted. It was brief, platonic, almost soulless except that what it lacked in ardor was made up for in promise. It left me more excited than had Blaine let his passions burn against my mouth.

Perhaps that first kiss would have led to more had I not become unstable on the shifting sands of the incoming tide. Blaine tried to steady me and faltered himself. Each tried to save the other and both of us tumbled into the water.

Blaine had seen virtually all of me already and whatever he hadn't was revealed as the soaked fabric of my dress clung to me like tinted body paint. But Blaine, too, was soaked. His clothes were made of a light cloth similar to mine. He wore no underwear of any kind, and it was the erotic aspects of his body that were revealed for the first time.

I'd seen his chest of course, at the beach, but the young black had worn those horribly baggy bathing trunks that Americans thought fashionable, not the more revealing European styles. Now I got to see more, so much more. And there was much more to see.

When we stopped rolling in the retreating wave, I was on my knees and Blaine his stomach. The view was brief but I saw his clenched buttocks, black and gleaming as if he were nude, as he spread his arms and legs in an effort to keep the departing surf from pulling him farther down the beach.

We were laughing good-naturedly at our unexpected predicament, me, knees spread wide in the sand, both dress and panty virtually transparent, breasts pointing proudly. Blaine rolled onto his side, pant leg plastered to his thigh, an enormous, overly proportionate, fat, black tube extending from his groin as if an x-rated cartoonist had drawn a caricature of a cock there.

The cock flopped and I gasped reflexively. It was so large it almost looked menacing. In fact, for just a moment, it appeared alive, like Blaine's bike lending buddy was also an anaconda smuggler and one of the contraband wrigglers had slithered up Blaine's trouser leg.

"Don't be frightened," Blaine laughed in that deep baritone that could mesmerize many women...or me anyway. "It's only me," he said and caused his cock to undulate along his leg. I don't know what I was thinking by then except that I wanted that first kiss back. Regrettably, the moment was broken; the kiss was gone.

We were dripping wet when we again mounted the motorbike. Blaine slid his hand high on my thigh, ostensibly to assist my balance, but that assistance had long ceased being necessary. He did it because he had done it every other time, and because he enjoyed touching my leg. I allowed it because I'd allowed it every other time, and because I enjoyed him touching my leg.

That invasive hand again kept going up my leg and more forcefully encountered my (now for a couple of reasons) sopping wet panties. Perhaps my leg had become slicker from the briny sheen glistening on my skin. I was kissed again. I opened my mouth eagerly, yearning, waiting to be assaulted. But again, I was not invaded. I blushed furiously when Blaine pulled his hand away from my soaking crotch and said, "And I thought you'd gotten the seat wet before."

I wanted simultaneously to slap Blaine's face and pull him onto the sand and have him right there. But Blaine started the bike so I did neither. I sat and soaked the scrumptious seat shivering delightfully like some gasoline powered vibrating mega-tongue.

Our clothes were still damp when we got back to the hotel. Blaine invited me up to his room and I accepted despite the mixed signals I felt he'd been sending. I wanted him badly and was prepared to put up with more than the usual amount of crap to get him.

Blaine showered while I sipped beer from a plastic glass. I thought of joining him. There was nothing my being naked could reveal that he hadn't already seen. Still, I hadn't been invited. I wasn't certain I'd be unreservedly welcome and that kept me seated and sipping.

Blaine came out of the shower dressed only in a pair of light shorts with a belt that looked like it could wrap around him twice. "Who the fuck knows how to buy a belt in this hemisphere?" he laughed and flipped the dangling end about like some exaggerated, if oxymoronically phrased, limp phallus.

Blaine wore his shorts very low around his hips. Not gangsta style, more like a teenage girl in low riders...extremely low riders. It appeared that little more than a half hearted yank would have them below his knees. I needed a shower myself...a cold one...at that instant!

After I'd dried off, my only options appeared to be re-donning my now skanky dress, remaining naked, or fashioning one of the room towels into a makeshift sarong. Despite the brevity of the towel, I chose the latter. Given their salty crustiness, I elected to leave my panties on the floor and returned to the room as-was.

With my breasts covered, my vulva was barely hidden. My own arousal was now strongly driving a desire to evoke a similar desire in Blaine and that caused me to abandon good judgment. He'd already seen my breasts. Perhaps it was time to show him a little pussy.

I accepted a bottle of beer from the disarmingly handsome youth, sat, and crossed my legs. I shivered at my naughty thoughts.

For more than an hour I squirmed as we chatted and drank beer. I maintained the personal delusion that I might somehow be in charge, that, despite the strong forces pushing me toward him, that, even as the beers relaxed the towel I was wearing as much as they did me, I still had the option of leaving that room at any time as chaste as I'd entered.

Eventually, the knot securing the white bath towel above my breasts failed. I had known since exiting the shower that at some point it would and had done nothing to prevent it. With my boobs finally on view, I abandoned all pretense of modesty. I made an exaggerated display of draining my beer. Hoisting my hips, I extracted the towel and tossed it into the corner glorying in my nakedness. As I returned my bottom to its cushioned resting place, I fisted the brown neck of the empty bottle, slid the cool glass between my thighs in a salacious display, and stroked my very own male appendage replica.

"Want to compare?" Blaine asked, putting his thumb behind his belt, extending the leather outward before an inbred politeness reminded him he'd forgotten his manners. "I'm sorry, my mother would be so embarrassed. May I get you another to drink?" Blaine asked, tugging at the bottle separating my thighs, dragging it across my clit as he pulled it free.

The black loop of Blaine's half opened belt protruded outward from his groin like some obscenely cantilevered strap-on accessory while he retrieved another beer, opened it, and handed it to me. I didn't much appreciate my thoughts at that moment but was obliged to think them in light of the close resemblance to and positioning of a pseudo-phallus Blaine's belt presented as it jutted from his groin and at my face.

"I'm always more comfortable nude when I'm at home," Blaine said, resuming a conversation begun before the ghost of Emily Post had intervened. "I hope you don't find this too distracting."

I didn't know what to say and watched slack jawed as Blaine stripped off his pants and stroked himself. I struggled mightily to look him in the eye as he spoke but found it impossible given his monstrous dimensions. My eyes were fixed on the almost wholesome organ that dangled between his thighs.

"I want you to do me this way first," Blaine said as he stood next to my face.

On one level his words infuriated me. He used pronouns improperly, without firmly grounded antecedents. He said "this" without first identifying his penis...or cock, or pecker, or one-eyed trouser trout, or any of the other myriad terms men have for their lifelong buddies. He said "this way" without specifying that what he wanted me to do was fellate him. Yet despite the irregularities of his speech, Blaine never miscommunicated. Not once. I knew exactly what "this" was and how "this way" was to be performed.

Blaine behaved in ways that normally were far too direct for my liking. I much preferred the subtlety and nuance of a European seduction...or did I? Blaine's awkward directness had me off balance. Then again, perhaps what I was attributing to heritage was more related to youth. Perhaps the ways of the dark Houstonian by way of the Netherlands Antilles were the ways of the future. Perhaps I was just fearful that young men now saw me as desperate and easy.

Worse, I hadn't even decided if I'd "do" him at all when Blaine made his prurient pronouncement. It was exactly the sort of entitlement attitude that would have gotten him thrown out of my room (had we been in my room) had he been one of the other guys from the beach. My real confusion over our half-week, sex-unencumbered-by-romance relationship had yet to begin, and I've never been able to understand what it was truly about.

What was it about the young man with the enormous cock that convinced me to comply with his "I want you to do me this way first" command like he were some sexual magician uttering "abracadabra" or phallic Aladdin commanding my oral cavern to "open sesame" or some horny hypnotist with a pocket watch strapped to his swinging cock and talking softly until he controlled me through trance?

Whatever it was, I knew then that we'd have sex at least once, or at least one of us would have sex (I've forgotten the rule for which participant(s) blowjobs count as sex). I cupped my hand under Blaine's bulbous scrotum. The shaft of his penis lay along my forearm as I brought it up to my face. I lowered my lips and kissed the purple-black cockhead nestled in the crook of my elbow even as his testes rested in my hand.

It wasn't that the movements associated with fellating such a big dick were different from those for more modest members, just that they needed to be so exaggerated. My jaw didn't simply open; it stretched, distended, to the point of discomfort. My hand didn't just wobble about like a craps shooter at a table in Vegas; it made sweeping arcs like a window washer on the Sears Tower. My mouth didn't just moisten; it salivated like Pavlov's best dog awaiting dinner in the bell tower at Notre Dame on Christmas Eve.

No one could have gotten me to admit to being racially bigoted for I didn't believe for a moment I was. Still, I used expressions to myself like "first black man" and "first black cock" as I sucked Blaine off. After he exploded in my mouth I was ever so slightly embarrassed (and relieved) that my first thought at the sensation of Blaine's semen splashing against the roof of my mouth was that "black cum" tasted like any other cum. It wasn't that I expected a difference but one doesn't know until one knows.

What was true was that I was infinitely more eager than usual to have Blaine fill my mouth and that was due to the newness of his color...and his size. Even as Blaine stood, knees locked for support, me swiping my tongue at his cock or pressing soft kisses against it, I felt a special, stronger excitement that I'd cheated for the first time with a black man.

"Would you like me to mount you now?" Blaine asked when his recovery was fully underway.

Suddenly I was frightened. I'd been with enough men to have experienced the average, the above average, the below average. Until that moment I had always been much more a motion-of-the-ocean than a size-of-the-wave girl. Not even with that guy who I more or less sought out because I'd heard he was "gifted," the guy whose cock I actually measured like he was a trophy catch in some phallic fishing contest.

Perhaps fortunately, the former record holder in my mini-pantheon of lovers had been both a size and a motion guy thus never forcing me to switch sides in the "Does size matter?" debate. Would I feel ugly inside if Blaine caused me to conclude it now did?

Blaine was different though. His dimensions weren't found even in porn. What would it feel like, I wondered, to be penetrated by the virtual centaur asking me if I wanted to be fucked? What I said was "Please."

"Are you on the pill?" Blaine asked as he encouraged his own erection.

"Yes," I said, shivering as I answered and wondering why I lied.

Jeremy and I planned to start a family when I returned from overseas. Just entering my thirties, it seemed the right time. I'd gone off birth control just before leaving British Columbia, thinking the two months of the assignment the perfect duration to flush the drug from my system.

I'd never been unfaithful and it didn't seem likely that my trip to paradise would prove the exception. The amount of work I needed to accomplish in that short span of time was just too great. I thought my husband's arrival might even result in a tropical pregnancy.

But Jeremy hadn't come I thought derisively at my cruel double entendre. If he had, I wouldn't have had the taste of a young black man in my mouth and an irresistible desire to fuck the largest cock I'd ever seen.

"Still," I equivocated, "perhaps a condom wouldn't hurt. You look exceedingly, uh, virile," I said while smilingly broadly. "Do you have one?" Blaine shook his head. "I think they have them in the mini-bar," I said, knowing full well they had both regular and extra large sizes, having seen them in my own room.

I shivered excitedly and giggled softly as I ripped open the bag and extracted two strips of sealed squares. The only difference between them was that one set of condoms was stamped "Extra Large."

"We won't be needing these," I giggled and tossed the strip without the lettering over my shoulder.

Never before had I used, nor needed, sheathing designated "magnum" and I was anxious to see what the foil packet contained and how it would look on Blaine's meaty monster. I ripped at the packaging with my teeth. I spat out that piece of shiny foil wrapper that clung to my lower lip like a statically charged balloon to a cat.

I felt the oozing, entry-assisting lubricant seep between my teeth and onto my tongue and discovered its minty seasoning.

One of those choad jackets intended for oral pleasuring? I thought snidely, wondering what guy would put up with wearing a raincoat to a blowjob. Or what woman for that matter.

Long ago, I had discovered the sensuous pleasure of unrolling latex membranes over rigid cocks but helping Blaine into his went far beyond any past adventures. It didn't fit! Even Trojan's husky version was far too small to contain Blaine.

Just as I was about to give up, Blaine used both hands and stretched the band beyond what I believed possible and squeezed it over his cock head leaving it encircling his dick just below the crown like his lower noggin had been the object of some genital lynching.

I was left to complete Blaine's suiting up on my own. It was still easier said than done. I pushed and scratched at the rolled rubber like a house cat sharpening its claws. Eventually, it reached about half the way down Blaine's cock and stopped.

What utterly amazed me was the hardness of Blaine's erection. I'd read that larger men often suffered a certain sponginess of weaponry. Blaine was like a pubescent smut burglar who'd located the key to the erectile dysfunction medicine cabinet next to a stack of "Hot for Teacher" DVD's.

I mounted Blaine as he lay on the floor on his back. I'd insisted on taking top as a safety precaution. Blaine said he was used to it. I eased my way onto his breath snatching boner. I was so wet the first few inches went in with surprising ease. I got stuck for a while at about the six-inch mark before building desire made me press down with greater force and urgency.

I had some unknown urge to be more than just another average white chick hung up at the middle of this colossal cock. I had a mini-breakthrough when another inch squeezed past my taut labia. I could feel the edge of the condom ring rubbing my nether lips. Was that really all I'd taken? I eased my hand back and clasped the part of Blaine still outside me and discovered I couldn't contain it in one fist.

I rolled over, pulling Blaine with me. On my back, I reached through my open thighs and grabbed his cockshaft with both hands. I was amazed. I was completely full yet enough dick remained ex-vulva to fill both of my hands.