The Whole Enchilada

Hours passed, with only short, idle conversation exchanged between us. We were at ease with each other and with our situation, so we savoured both the caresses from the sun and each other's company. Several times during the day, Chris fetched drinks for us, so that the alcohol, sun, and our collective nudity combined to sustain my intense arousal. Many of the men on beach took good, long looks at Brigitte and me and appeared appreciative of our insouciant positions. I welcomed their gazes, and I assumed Brigitte did too, for she was as carefree about her exposure as I was.

At one point that afternoon, Brigitte waded into the lagoon to cool off. Chris whispered to me that my pussy was awash and glistening with secretions. My husband's descriptions, though welcomed, were superfluous; the occasional rill that would seep down to tickle my anus was proof enough of my wetness. But then I asked him, "And what about Brigitte's pussy?"

He hesitated before admitting, "Yeah, she's pretty wet also."

"Well, I guess you're getting quite the show today. Enjoy it, which I'm sure you are."

Brigitte's emergence from the ocean interrupted our conspiracy. She strolled back, ocean brine dripping from and running across her curves, and paused for a moment on the hard-packed littoral sand, as if posing and displaying herself for the entire beach. I chuckled: Her "reluctance" to tan nude on the beach had yet to manifest itself.

She resumed her walk back, doing so with aplomb and pride. Her breasts, as always, were thrust forward, but now they were aroused by the coolness of the water. The small patch of thick hair above her slit, decorated with trapped droplets of shining water, was eye catching and drew attention to her shaved labia, causing me to wish that I had left a little hair on my mound instead of totally denuding myself.

She returned to her same position, next to me and facing Chris, on her back with her thighs casually split. We continued luxuriating in the sun and showing off our pussies to whomever cared to look. After playing this game for a while, I was about to turn onto my front to tan my back, but Brigitte suddenly tapped my arm. I looked at her. She quickly motioned with her eyes towards a nude, young man who walked towards us. It was obvious why she had roused my attention: He was devastatingly gorgeous; he was Michelangelo's David come to life.

His strong Latin facial features, capped by black, curly hair, were heavenly, and his sensuous lips were slightly parted to reveal gleaming white teeth that sparkled in the sun. Smooth, dark, olive skin sheathed a rock-hard body composed of classical wide shoulders, flat stomach, narrow waist, and muscular arms and thighs, each component perfect in itself and in harmonious proportion to each other. Moreover, his genitals were magnificent, superior to those of the David.

The man's phallus—larger than that of Michelangelo's statue—was encased in dark brown, almost black, unwrinkled skin and hung from underneath his sparse pubic hair like a savoury, fresh Italian sausage. In turn, his beautiful cock was draped over a generous, similarly dark, hairless scrotal sac that dangled weightily due to the impressive lime-sized testicles contained within. His balls and cock oscillated in precise rhythm with his confident steps. I was mesmerised by his pendulous organs—by their beauty and balance with his body and by the potential that I imagined they possessed—and realised that I was biting my lower lip. Brigitte and I simply gawked at him as he strode close by, both of us leaving our legs obscenely open for him, yet he never once glanced towards us.

Once the man was out of earshot, Chris, aware of what had gone on, started laughing, "Well you two were as subtle as a brick!"

Brigitte sighed and said, "Him I would fuck, yes."

"Yes," I murmured in agreement with both her sentiment and her sentence construction, "him I would fuck."

Chris teased, "Well, ladies, I think you need a cold shower, but a drink will have to do." He got up and ambled to the bar for refreshments.

When he returned we all sat in a row, with Brigitte between us, facing the ocean and enjoying the view while sipping our drinks. Brigitte was staying on and would enjoy the beach for a few more days. But Chris's and my time at the beach was quickly ending. So we prolonged our stay on the shoreline, but by five in the afternoon it was time. We rose and collected our belongings. I slipped into my kimono, Brigitte pulled on her gauzy tunic, and Chris slid into his trunks, his cock slapping against his stomach as the shorts rose to his hips.

"Let us meet at the palapa bar tonight. I will be there at about nine o'clock," Brigitte suggested.

I looked past Brigitte to Chris. He shrugged his shoulders, so I said, "OK; it's a date."

Chris and Brigitte exchanged goodbye pecks on each other's cheeks, and then she and I kissed before parting ways.

In our cabana, I attacked Chris, wanting badly to fuck him to soothe the prolonged burning in my cunt. All day I had been craving this fuck, longing to take him within me. Initially, I rode him while he was on his back, manipulating my clit with my fingers while I pumped myself on his cock. My orgasms came quickly, in rapid succession, and now I longed for him to cum and deposit his cream inside me. I bounced vigorously on his cock, hoping to set him off, but he remained stoic yet rigid.

"Cum, Chris," I whispered, "cum inside me, baby."

He gritted his teeth and grunted, "I'm trying; trust me, I'm trying."

Without warning, he flipped me onto my back, grabbed my ankles to spread me wide apart, and began thrusting into me with delicious fury, banging into my clit with each of his plunges.

As I absorbed his wonderful punishment, something devilish possessed me, and I began imitating Brigitte's accent.

"Oui, oui, Monsieur! Allez, allez, allez! Fuck me to la petite mort!"

However, instead of being amused by my silliness, Chris really launched into me, his cock thickening as he did, so that with several robust thumps he burst inside my pussy.

Well, the cat was out of the bag—as if it hadn't been already. I let him recover a bit before I confronted him.

"So you'd like to fuck Brigitte?"

"Jesus Christ, Catherine! For the last week or so, her tits and cunt have been in my face. So, yes—she's gorgeous and sexy, and yes—I've had fantasies of fucking her! But for Christ's sake, what do you expect? Anyway, it's only a fantasy—and don't tell me you haven't seen some nice, hot cocks on the beach that you'd like to fuck."

He was right. I rubbed his chest and kissed him. "Hey, you've been prying into my past sex life these last few days, so I thought I'd pry into your fantasies. OK?" I offered.

He glanced at me, smiled, and murmured, "OK."

"So you'd like to fuck Brigitte?" I asked again, but this time without an accusatory tone.

Chris looked at me warily, paused, and then said, "Yeah, she's very attractive."

I held his limp cock, sticky with cum and juices, and said, in a very bad French accent, "Yes, she eez beautiful; she 'as a certain je ne c'est quoi—"

"Oh, stop it!" he said, laughing. "Your French is terrible."

"Non, non, Monsieur! My French is fantastique! Every homme tell me so!" And with that I knelt and took his flaccid cock into my mouth for a few seconds, sucking it clean before letting it plop out. I then fell back beside him, both of us laughing while he cradled me in his arms.

After a few seconds, Chris asked me, "What about you? Any fantasies about Brigitte?"

I knew the answer but I hesitated, wondering what to say, whether to admit to my fascination with her. Finally, I confessed, "Yes, she's very pretty."

Chris followed up by asking, "Have you ever been with a woman?"

"Once, yes."

Chris's interest immediately perked, so he pressed for details.

"It was a long time ago, Chris, when I was twenty-two. She was my best friend."

"Was? What happened?"

"Oh, we just drifted apart," I lied. I really didn't feel like talking about this affair, so to divert him I added mischievously, "Anyway, I've always preferred men."

"You delicious slut," he whispered while squeezing me.

After a pause, he said, "So I guess that means you've never had a threesome involving two women?"

"No, I haven't," I confirmed. "What about you?"

"Neither have I," he said with a smile and a quizzical arch of his eyebrow.

My fantasies about Brigitte had, to that point, only involved her and me. Now my mind was spinning with other combinations and permutations. I had to digest the new images; they were all too confusing.

"Well, enough about fantasies," I said. "Time to get ready for this evening."

And with that, I made my escape, rising from the bed and entering the bathroom. Once there, I removed my nipple dangles, waist chain, and other jewellery, lowered my hair, and entered the shower. While the warm water sprinkled over me, I quickly scraped a razor over my underarms before soaping up and washing my hair. I had already shaved my legs and pussy in the morning, so I was well ahead of the game and had plenty of time to spend on other details.

After showering, I patted myself down and applied moisturiser before wrapping myself in a fresh bath towel. I combed my hair to free it of tangles and knots, followed by a good rubdown before brushing it again while blow-drying. I then applied nail polish remover and waited for the sweet-smelling acetone to evaporate, at which point I coloured my toes and fingernails bright red.

I went to the bed, sat next to Chris, and waited for the polish to dry. He had been reading but was now snoozing. Once my nails were dry, I nudged him awake, telling him it was half past eight.

"Catherine," Chris groaned, "I will shit, shave, and shower before you can say orgasm. Give me a few more minutes." With that, he turned onto his side for more sleep.

I left him and returned to the bathroom mirror to fix my hair and apply my make-up. My hair I simply piled atop my head into a loose bun, securing it with a couple of clips while allowing several wisps to hang randomly about my head and neck. As for my make-up, I wanted a sultry look, so I painted my face more heavily than usual, taking the greatest care with my eye shadow, first priming and then blending the colours to give myself a pair of plum-toned 'smoky eyes'. After that, a touch of blush brought out my cheekbones. For lipstick, I used a neutral colour, not wanting to detract and take attention from my eyes. I examined my face and was pleased with my job.

I dropped my towel and padded nude into the bedroom. At that point, I woke Chris again. He stretched, looked at me, and then jumped up to grab me.

"Come on, let's have a quick fuck!"

"Chris! I'm made up—go away!" I laughed, pulling away from him.

"You look beautiful," he called over his shoulder as he strode into the bathroom.

My evening wear that night was to be a fetching red silk chiffon dress that had a sexy low-cut halter top to show lots of what little cleavage I have. The empire waist of the dress, just below my tits, allowed the garment to drape airily to a flirty, slightly ruffled hem that lay at the midpoint of my thigh. The dress was shorter and more revealing than anything that I'd ever consider wearing at home among friends, acquaintances, or colleagues. But it was perfect for dancing, and I planned on executing lots of dress-raising salsa spins.

Furthermore, the thin, unlined dress was translucent enough to give hints of what lay underneath, especially under the right lighting. When I tried it on in the shop, the young female clerk stared at my bulging nipples and black panties, both visible through the dress, and advised me that I should wear flesh-coloured underwear and nipple covers. Since I had brought neither of those garments to Mexico, I considered wearing the dress without panties. But then I imagined how the dress would flare out and up as I spun on the dance floor, revealing all of my legs and more. So I chose a small red G-string, stepped into it, and slid the thong into place. I then got into my dress, deciding not to worry about my nipples showing through or jutting out against my dress.

For footwear, I selected a pair of gold snakeskin peep-toed slides with three-inch spiked heels. I finished my look with gold jewellery which included earrings made of large, thin gold hoops, a necklace and matching bracelet composed of numerous strands of fine gold, and a variety of rings for my fingers.

Chris came out of the bathroom, scrubbed and shaved, his dark hair sexily slicked back with mousse. He slipped on some fresh light-coloured boxers, a pair of white linen trousers, and a white cotton short-sleeved shirt. He called out, "I'm ready," just as he slipped his feet into his leather sandals.

"I hate you," I muttered aloud. "A shave, a run through the water, some clean clothes, and you're done."

He sat on the bed, watching me fiddle with the last of my jewellery, and said, "Well, sweetie, you look fantastic."

I thanked him and continued struggling with the bracelet.

"Let me," he offered and stood next to me trying to fit the minute hoop into the clasp.

"So," Chris said while working on the bracelet, "that, um, wild gang bang weekend you described to me a few days ago? I've been thinking about it. I know you said that it was unplanned, but do you think that it was schemed beforehand by the guys?"

I sighed, "Yes, that thought has crossed my mind plenty of times. I don't know, but it would bother me if there'd been a plot to, well, gang bang me, as you so charmingly put it."

Chris finally closed the clasp of the bracelet and replied, "But, why would it bother you if it were planned? You weren't forced. And you obviously enjoyed yourself—"

"It's easy to explain, Chris," I interrupted. "Even though John and I had stopped seeing each other, I still had feelings for him and would hope that he also had feelings for me. So if he had conspired for that weekend to turn out the way it had then, yes, it would bother me knowing that he had manipulated me into that situation, had deliberately turned me into an object. So having said that, I'd like to continue thinking that it was spontaneous on all our parts."

Chris, mercifully, dropped the topic, and we walked out, arm in arm, into the warm tropical night and headed towards the palapa bar.

The small palapa bar was boisterous that night. Music played over the sound system, and a score of couples were dancing. Brigitte had already arrived and was chatting with some other travellers from France. Chris and I wandered over to her, saying hello along the way to several people whom we had befriended during our holiday.

Brigitte looked radiant in a short, flowered sundress with spaghetti straps—needless to say, the dress had a neckline that flaunted her cleavage. On her feet were bright yellow strappy sandals with heels that made my feet ache just looking at them. It was the first time that I'd seen her without a ponytail. Instead, her blonde locks were arranged in long curvy layers that framed her face. Her hair, parted slightly off to the side, allowed a flattering fringe of soft layers to flow down each side of her face, accentuating her eyes. She, too, had decided on a sultry look and had applied dark blue and green eye shadow, which suited her cornflower eyes. But her heavily applied bright red lipstick detracted from her appearance, in my opinion.

We greeted each other and pecked at the air beside each other's face. However, she purposefully kissed Chris on the cheek, marking him with her lipstick, causing several in our group to chuckle. Drinks were ordered, and after some chit-chat, Chris sauntered off to mix and mingle with some of the other patrons while I stayed with Brigitte's group.

We talked and laughed with one another, including with those outside our group. Soon, I was approached to dance, and I readily accepted. That night I chatted and danced with many of the other guests, including the handsome young man who earlier in the day had transformed Brigitte and me into goo. It turned out that he was an excellent dancer, so I enjoyed four or five salsas with him, executing numerous dizzying spins and dress-raising twirls.

I took a breather from dancing and found Chris, who was listening in on an entertaining debate about which movie had the sexiest dance scene. Dirty Dancing was the most popular choice, although several people nominated the scene in Ballroom Dancing. Al Pacino's tango in Scent of a Woman also received praise, as did Kim Basinger in 9½ Weeks.

I threw in my two cents and argued for the tango between Salma Hayek and Ashley Judd in Frida. Nobody knew the scene except for Chris. My husband described the dance to the table—especially the wet kiss at the end between the two beautiful women—and, being the devil that he is, began to encourage Brigitte and me to re-enact the dance. Soon everyone at the large table joined in, egging us on. Brigitte seemed game, and several Black Russians had supplied me with sufficient bravado to finally give in.

The bartender put on some tango music, so Bridget and I took up our positions on the dance floor. I laughed and warned her that I didn't know the first thing about tango. She responded that she had no clue either. Nonetheless, we looked each other in the eyes and began our dance, stumbling through our woeful portrayal. But I knew that the quality of the dance didn't matter: Our audience wanted to see us entwined in various positions and especially wanted the passionate kiss at the end. It was silly, harmless fun, bred by booze and the freedom that comes with anonymity, yet to say that I wasn't excited by the prospect of a kiss with Brigitte would be a lie.

We continued our sorry dance, lurching and bumping into one another but giggling and laughing all the same. At one point during the number, I held Brigitte from behind, pushing myself into her back and ass while my hands gripped her breasts. A huge cheer rose from the audience! Her nipples bulged through the cotton fabric of her dress to poke my palms, so I lingered on her tits before sliding my hands down to her bare thighs. Then, with deliberate mischief, I moved one hand upwards to her belly, lifting her dress in the process. The crowd went wild with debauched shouts and whistles—I assumed because they could now see Brigitte's undergarment. But when I raised my other hand to her crotch with the intention of theatrically touching and rubbing her through her panties, I felt only bare skin and her scant patch of pubic hair! I was aghast, realising in that instant that she wore no panties and that I had exposed her pussy to the crowd, which certainly explained their lecherous enthusiasm.

We separated while holding hands, my mouth still agape, shocked at what I had done to her. But she laughed and playfully wagged a reprimanding finger at me before we again came together, this time with her clinging to me from behind. I expected her to reciprocate, to grab my tits and lift my dress, just like I had done to her. Instead, as quick as lightening, she undid my halter-top and caught both my wrists. The top of my dress suddenly flopped down to bare my boobs to the crowd, spurring it to roar with lewd laughter and applause! With her arms encircled about me whilst clutching my wrists, I was immobilised and unable to cover myself.

Even though these same people had seen a good deal more than my tits on the beach these past ten days, my face redden, so I fumbled to raise my top when Brigitte and I separated. But I couldn't tie it fast enough, for Brigitte quickly resumed our dance, again grabbing my hands, so that my breasts remained exposed. Despite my embarrassment, my nipples pinged from excitement, so I decided to act unconcerned and not fuss about hiding my tits for the rest of the tango.