The Mexican Stand-off

This tale is the first story in the tetralogy Mexican Bedtime Stories. "The Mexican Stand-off" can be read on its own or as a prequel to (2) "Sugar Papito", (3) "The Three Amigos", and (4) "The Whole Enchilada".

**************************

For the last several years I'd been under siege by my husband to divulge some carnal secrets from my past. I found Chris's fascination with this topic both inexplicable and intrusive, so I rebuffed his incursions for the longest time. Perhaps I feared jealousy on his part, despite his eagerness for sordid details. Most importantly, I was possessive about my past affairs: They were mine, a part of my life before career, marriage, mortgages, and children. Although I had no intention of rekindling my old flings or yearning for my single life, I was unwilling to share my spicy memories of those days.

But he was covertly persistent, either lying in ambush to catch me in moments of weakness or stealthily undermining my wall of silence on the topic. I was equally determined not to yield ground, and so a subtle, yet friendly, tussle ensued over the years.

It had been a busy year, with both of us exhausted from the rigours of work and the routine of home life. The time had come to treat ourselves to a vacation. So we arranged for the children to stay with my parents and fled from our responsibilities for a glorious ten days of relaxation and play on the Mayan Riviera.

We stayed at a rustic resort with a clothing-optional beach. Before the trip, Chris had bought me a number of skimpy swimsuits, so I was looking forward to modelling them in public for him. Consequently, I anticipated a restful holiday, with my most stressful moments to revolve around the idle question of which thong to wear while tanning.

The majority of people at the resort were European—Germans, French, and Italians—so going topless was a given. Originally, I'd planned on tanning in the nude during the hot afternoons, leaving me an abundance of choice for my morning beachwear. However, none of the other women were losing their bottoms, and I lacked the courage to bare it all on my own. I was also hesitant because I'd endured a Brazilian wax before the trip. I'd never been naked on a public beach with all of my pubic hair removed. But, despite my shyness, the idea thrilled me, so I promised myself that I'd do it at least once during the trip.

Nonetheless, even without going nude, my thongs were scant, providing minimal coverage. I had ten outfits, variety enough to wear something different every morning and afternoon for five days before being forced to commit the fashion sin of repeating attire. Five of my bottoms were particularly revealing. These I saved for my afternoon tanning sessions, after the morning sun, cervezas, and a little noontime sex had lowered my inhibitions. I also planned to wear progressively less beach cover on each successive day of our week.

The sun and distance from the cares and concerns of home and work were a tonic. My libido multiplied by orders of magnitude. I was among strangers and enjoyed myself with my husband without the constraint of the wagging tongues of co-workers, neighbours, and friends.

Chris, too, was enjoying our holiday. His skin leant itself to tanning, and he quickly darkened to a beautiful bronze colour. I was proud to be seen with him—he was still sexy and desirable. Chris confided that he also loved observing the diminishing size of my apparel as the days went by and took glee in the quiet attention that my swimsuits attracted. And his camera recorded it all, whether I was lying on the sand, strolling along the shore, or returning from the ocean with, as he put it, my high beams on full.

However, I hoped that Chris's greatest pleasure came from being the happy beneficiary of my heightened sensuality. Our beachfront cabana was our retreat for releasing the energy generated by my exhibitionism, the alcohol, and the Mexican sun. We made love several times a day, and as the week went by the intensity of our sex seemed to be directly correlated to the increasing raciness of the outfits that I wore.

The days zipped by all too fast; it was already Thursday, our fourth day of bliss. That afternoon I slipped into an orange micro-thong. It was the smallest of my bottoms—a minute triangular sliver of bright, thin lycra—measuring, at most, an inch wide and three inches long. The suit barely screened my inner lips and much less if the mood for some flashing struck me. I foresaw that I'd have trouble containing my labia within this garment, especially if I became aroused and swollen. Predictably, a fold or two sneaked out as I lay on the beach. However, by the third rum & coke I stopped fussing about my extruding flaps and allowed them to bask in the sun for prolonged periods before languidly reinserting them.

My meagre bottom, coupled with an occasional peering lip, charged Chris with not only lust but also prurient curiosity. He intensified his campaign that day and several times made concerted point-blank attempts to wrench away some details about my old liaisons. Somehow I deflected his onslaught, decoying him with errands or swims, diverting his attention to the array of stunning bodies lying slick with lotion, or, when these tactics failed, retreating to silence on that particular front. Chris finally ceased bombarding me with his prying, but I was wary. I knew that he'd mobilise his efforts to a different strategy tomorrow.

The next day, Friday, proved to be particularly hot, bordering on oppressive. It seemed fitting that I wore the most risqué item in my arsenal, a black thong made of open fishnet material. The suit, if you could call it that, concealed nothing. So that afternoon as I lounged on the sand, exposed for the sun and strangers' eyes, I became extraordinarily aroused. Moreover, the excitement was greater than if I were simply nude. The pretence of being clothed yet knowing that the thong I wore was hopelessly ineffectual in covering me, but superbly efficient in highlighting my charms, incited a spectrum of sensations.

My husband was also ecstatic and, while plying me with margaritas, whispered delightful promises about our upcoming romp. Furthermore, Chris had decided to go nude, as had several other men on the beach; some of the eye candy was scrumptious indeed. All of these factors meshed to make me weak, giddy, and unrestrained. In the late afternoon I turned to him, placing my hand on his upper thigh next to his groin, and cooed, "I want you. Let's go back to our room."

Chris got into his trunks. I stood and slipped on my kimono, leaving it breezily open. We collected our belongings and headed back to our shack, trudging through the sand and passing several men along the way. Many of them stole looks, a few smiled and said hello, and one even complimented me on my attire, or lack thereof.

Once we were off the beach and onto the path, Chris rubbed my bum and gushed, "God, Catherine, you look fabulous. You're so hot in that thong. And walking around like that... Wow, what a gorgeous piece of ass! So many men are gawking at you. Man, what a delicious babe! Anyone who was fortunate enough to have fucked you was one lucky guy."

His speech was way over the top, making it obvious where he was headed, but I didn't parry his thrust. His words and touch sparked me, despite his ulterior motive. I smiled and replied, "Yes, I'd like to think so."

"No, honey, don't think. Know. All of them were extremely lucky."

"All of them?" I teased. "You make it sound like I slept with a battalion."

He was smooth, never missing a beat. An unguarded flank had presented itself, and he claimed it at once. He put his arm around me and said, with genuine affection, "Baby, nothing can change the way I feel about you. Even if you'd slept with a battalion, I'd love the battalion. Honestly. Look at me strange if you want, but I mean it. As far as I'm concerned, everything you did in the past is essential to the wonderful, sexy woman that you are today. I wouldn't change a thing. So, a toast: To the battalion!"

He stopped and raised his drink. I considered saying something about Trojan Horses, but instead I grinned at his antics and joined him in his absurd toast. After we resumed walking, he mused aloud, "How many men are in a battalion?"

"Oh, stop it!" I laughed and playfully hit his shoulder. "No battalions here."

We sauntered along in silence. A balmy wind caressed my body and lazily flapped my unfastened robe. My bared nipples rose in response to the soft kisses from the warm breeze. Had I not said anything more, I'd have halted his advance. But my exhibitionism, the tropical sun and drinks, and his joyful curiosity had weakened me. However, in the end, it was my brazenly opened kimono, reminding me of a past adventure, that swayed me. My outer defences crumbled, and I confessed, "But I did have a one-night-stand that was rather fun."

He visibly perked at this but, instead of launching a blitz, contained his excitement and asked, "Really? When?"

We had reached our cabana. I kicked off my sandals, shed my kimono, and lay on the bed, propping myself on one arm.

"Let me think. It was about a year before I met you, so I was twenty-seven—around '84."

He was fixing our drinks, looking at me often, as he said, "You're as beautiful now as you were at twenty-seven."

It was a blatant lie, a bonbon to lure me further out of my bunker, yet I appreciated his remark and thanked him. I detected no jealousy but still asked, "You're sure you want to hear about this?"

"Baby, you know I do."

"And I presume you want all the gory details?" I asked, quizzically arching my eyebrows.

"Absolutely. Tell me everything."

"Alright," I said, putting my sunglasses away. "I hope you mean it," and I began my story.

"About six months had passed since I'd gone out with anyone. I was happy on my own and enjoyed doing my own thing without catering to someone else. As for sex, I was celibate for that half year, unless vibrators count. Anyway, Sandra called me one night to go out to a club."

"Is that your blonde friend from undergrad days?"

"Yes. I hadn't heard from her in awhile, so I was looking forward to catching up on some news. She arrived at my place by eight o'clock. We had a drink or two, gossiped, and relived old times."

"What did you wear? Tell me everything."

I sighed, "It seems like ancient history. She was wearing a gorgeous dress that showed off her cleavage. That girl could turn heads. I remember wearing a black, knee-length skirt with a modest slit in front."

"So you could show a little thigh if the occasion warranted?"

"You know me."

He handed me a drink and, having slipped out of his swimsuit, joined me on the bed. He put his hand on my hip and asked, "What did you wear for a top?"

I placed a hand on his chest and, rubbing his pecs, replied, "That lacy brown body suit with sleeves."

"The nipple-coloured one with snaps in the crotch?" he asked with a grin.

"That's the one," I said, laughing at his description of the hue.

"You evil girl! No bra, I bet. Or panties."

"I suppose, but, really, there's no reason to wear panties with a body suit: One may as well wear a chastity belt. As for lack of a bra, I'm guilty as charged. Let's just say that I was in an adventurous mood. Oh, and some black calfskin pumps. They were my first expensive shoes."

"You must have been a vision! I remember that top. It was deceptive. I never knew whether I was catching glimpses of your nipples. What about your legs? Did you wear stockings? Tell me everything."

He kept repeating that phrase: Tell me everything. I hoped he meant it, for that was my exact intention. Now that he'd busted through my gates, looting and pillaging, I wasn't surrendering without raining down all the fire I had.

"It was summer. I went with bare legs."

"Did you trim your bush? You knew you were going to get laid that night, didn't you?"

"Yes, I trimmed my pubes; no, I didn't know I was going to get laid. But I admit that it'd crossed my mind. After all, it'd been six months, and I was beginning to crave physical contact. But I wasn't going out simply to jump into the sack."

I gave him one last chance to retreat and asked, "You're sure you want to hear this?"

"Of course, honey. I'm loving it! How much did you trim your bush? Details, baby, please!"

"Nothing outrageous. I shaved close, but I didn't strip my labia, although I did use my clippers to shorten the hair."

"God, you're making me horny! Where did you go?"

"The Blue Note. We got there at about ten o'clock."

I raised my bum to aid his efforts at removing my thong. Once its waist string had cleared my hips, it sped down my legs, navigated my feet, and floated onto a nearby chair.

"How did you meet him?" Chris asked.

"He bought me a drink. Used a real corny line. I almost sent him packing."

"Why? What did he say?"

"He had the waitress bring me a drink. Then, after several minutes, he came over and, very apologetically, explained that he'd been backpacking in Europe. He said that I reminded him of a painting of a woman that he'd seen in one of the art galleries. So, according to him, he just wanted to thank me for reminding him of it."

"Oh my God! That was brilliant!"

"That was bullshit. Please. I didn't know whether to tell him to scram, start quizzing him about the Medici, or ask if he was referring to The Potato Eaters."

"Ouch! That's harsh!" he laughed. "But still," he said slyly, "it was brilliant. He got into your pants, didn't he?"

I stopped and let a flicker of a smile play on my lips, drawing him in yet deeper into the citadel. Chris grinned, kissed me gently, and, narrowing his eyes, whispered, "He got to fuck you, didn't he?"

He had marched in far enough—I was free to scorch the earth. My hand moved from Chris's waist to his buttocks; my eyes were steady, gazing into his. Ever so softly, I acknowledged, "Yes, he fucked me. He fucked my brains out."

Chris trembled as he held me. His hands wandered over my body, returning often to the dampness of my smooth delta. I sensed his erection against my abdomen and was surprised. I couldn't believe how aroused Chris—my husband—was by the idea of someone else with me—his wife. I fondled his shaft and held his balls as he started talking again.

"Then he was one lucky guy to experience a fabulous woman like you."

"Mmmm, thanks for saying so, sweetheart."

"Oh, I mean it—he was. So if you didn't tell him to get lost, what happened?"

"Honestly? I had no desire to make a big deal about it. Besides, he was handsome. And although I knew he was lying, a part of me was amused by his line. Simple as that. He wanted to talk to me, which was fine with me."

"What did he look like? How old was he?"

"He was about six feet. Boyishly handsome. Fit but not overly muscular. Dark hair and eyes, and an enchanting smile. In retrospect, he looked like John Cusack."

"How old?"

"About twenty-one, maybe twenty."

"Catherine the Cougar!" he crowed.

"Hardly!" I said a bit too defensively. "I thought cougars were at least in their late thirties or forties?"

"As you wish. So you talked. What next?"

"We chatted a bit, danced a little. He impressed me as intelligent. And he was always a gentleman."

"What was Sandra up to?"

"She was flirting with someone. But she left by midnight, alone."

"What next?"

"At the club? Not much. Around one o'clock, I decided to go home. Rob eagerly offered to drive me."

"His name was Rob?"

"Yes, but please don't ask me his last name." We chuckled, and I continued, "We got into his car. He was shy. I wanted to kiss him, so I took the initiative."

"Like this?" Chris began to kiss me, gently sucking on my upper lip.

"No."

"Ah, then like this?" Chris's tongue invaded my mouth suggestively, probing, seeking, and activating me.

I caught my breath and acknowledged, "Yes, like that." I took in some more air and resumed, "After a while we stopped necking, and he drove me home. We kissed a little more in his car, and, feeling safe, I invited him up for a drink."

Chris was listening more, letting me tell my story, but his hands were busy, urging me to go on.

"Once inside, we sat on the couch and started kissing again. Rob began kneading my tits and pinching and rolling my nipples, which were extremely erect. The slit in my skirt had exposed my thigh, and he placed his hand on it. I spread my legs apart right away. I was incredibly horny. He inched up the inside of my thigh and started petting me through the lace. He was so yummy! I adored kissing and watching him as he enjoyed my body.

"But I needed a minute alone to decide if I wanted to proceed. I apologised, disentangled myself from him, and went into the bathroom. I regained my poise and thought about whether or not I should sleep with him. There was nothing to think about: I wanted him badly. But then I did something daft. I don't know what prompted it. Maybe the age difference gave me some crazy kind of confidence; maybe because it'd been so long since I teased and played with a man—I can't explain. Whatever it was, I decided to go for it and have some fun. So I reapplied my lipstick and adjusted my hair, took off my skirt, and returned dressed in only my body suit and heels."

I heard Chris moan, "wow." His finger parted my folds and played within. I turned onto my back, my thighs apart, and enjoyed the gentle penetration.

I ran my hands up and down Chris's arms, and went on, "Rob's jaw dropped when I returned. My pubic hair was visible through the body suit. I could tell he was focussing on that. It was tempting to sit next to him and pick up where we'd left off, but that wasn't my plan. Instead, I sat across from him, legs crossed, chatting with him as if nothing were amiss. He was puzzled but remained good humoured. He asked me to sit with him, but I smiled and answered, 'Not yet.'

"After a while, I uncrossed my legs and widened them over the course of ten or fifteen minutes. I also let my hand drift to my pussy to rub it for a few seconds at a time. My other hand was preoccupied with my breasts, touching one then the other. How I managed to maintain a conversation is beyond me. Rob was very distracted and several times asked if he could do anything for me. I kept saying, 'No, not yet.' Despite being turned down, I believe he enjoyed the show."

"He'd have been a fool if he didn't. Jesus, Catherine, you're a hot little dish!"

"I'm glad you think so, sugar. Anyway, I continued my exhibition for a while longer before excusing myself, again retreating to the bathroom. I'd worked myself into a lather and was nervous about my next move. So far Rob had played along, but he was a stranger—I suppose that added to the excitement—and I didn't know what his reaction would be. Nevertheless, I took the plunge and stripped off my bodysuit. When I went back to the living room, I was wearing my pumps and a smile, nothing else."

"Holy smokes—"

"I acted as if nothing was different. But, Chris, I was so excited! I'd touched myself in the bathroom—my pussy was dripping, and my nipples were at attention. Rob started to rise off the couch, but I said, as calmly as I could, 'No. Please. Be patient.' Luckily, he obeyed and sat down and started telling me how good I looked, how he'd like to touch and kiss me. I turned my back to him to put some more music on, giving him a view of my ass. Then I walked back to the chair across from him to repeat my routine, sitting with my legs crossed, talking to him about his studies and who knows what else."

"This is wild! What was his reaction to all this?"

"He was confused but, I think, very aroused. But he behaved himself and carried on the conversation. Rob was very sweet, telling me now and then that I was beautiful and sexy and that he wanted to make love to me. Deep down I think he thought I was insane.