Wild Adventure at the Pyramids

You can learn a great deal about a man's health just by looking at his urine.

Without any laboratory work, you can see at a glance whether he's dehydrated. The color will out, for the stream should be transparent. Foaming indicates a potassium imbalance, very dangerous near the equator. Volume coupled with color implied intoxication. The smell can give some hint about a diet, and even alert you to a possible infection.

Of course, all of this was pure inference. Mostly, I could only tell with any degree of certainty that the drunk man was pissing on my favorite high heels.

"Are you putting out a fire I don't know about?" I asked him calmly and took a drag.

He turned to me startled and slurred a "what?" in a stupefied trance.

Exhaling smoke very unladylike I asked, "was my shoe on fire and I didn't know about it?"

He looked down, doubly mortified at what he was doing and that he was so oblivious to me being there leaning against a post. Then he stared at my erect nipples, because I never wore a bra on vacation. I'd gone out of the noisy cabana for a guilty quiet smoke in the dark, a nasty habit that grilled asparagus he ate now argued for me to seriously consider breaking. Blowing out smoke mournfully, I threw the cigarette down into his stream and he dutifully put it out for me. It was the least he could do.

"Sorry," he said meekly. But I wasn't upset. It happens. He was blinded by the light on that side and I was hiding after all. It was a case of deflection, my shoe a collateral casualty of the war on full bladders. And besides, we bonded. He put the fire out for me, so he made my words true. And that's how I came to go on a midnight treasure hunt for the nearest water spigot.

Two buildings over toward the ocean there was a trough, the outdoor kind they used for crab feasts when it was downright impossible for resort guests not to cake expensive door knobs with guts and spices. It still smelled vaguely clammy but I figured it was an improvement over what I'd walked in with.

Lift foot. Clear lip. Drop foot. Open rusty lever valve with elbow. Swirl foot under water, shoe and all. Wonder if someone had also pissed in the trough. Wait. Wish for a cigarette. And listen.

Out on the beach, a man argued loudly with someone else. "Game's afoot, Watson," I whispered to my entirely wet right foot and after shaking it dry somewhat obscenely I set out to locate the source of the fuss. I'd been bored the whole week. Bored and horny. A most dangerous combination for someone not all that freaked out about being lightly pissed on, apparently.

Closer I got to the source of this shouting, I realized how great was the potential for violence. How exciting! There was a thick defensive accent, and a thin soft voice assaulting it. Not daring to get out of my protective palm leafline, I tried to put out my cigarette so it wouldn't paint me in the dark when I remembered it got pissed on. Quitting will be hard, I dreaded.

My wet foot now had layers of fine sand stuck to it, and I thought how I absolutely deserved an entertaining fistfight for my trouble. And then a quick fuck by whoever won.

But that never happened. Minutes after what almost turned into a shoving match, the accented man shoved his hand behind a breast pocket of his jacket and threatened to pull something out. Seeing that made me want to blow him. He was fit. The other man wasn't, and whatever was in the pocket made him rethink his posture. The agitated man stood there and panted, rubbing his temple and around his eyes. He seemed doubly upset that he didn't get the confrontation he wanted and that he'd lost before it began. Finally he stalked off, to presumably drown his sorrows.

The accented man finished pulling his weapon out and then ate it, and I laughed out loud when I saw that it was a banana. Being cleverly funny could be just as sexy, I thought. And that's how I met Piotr.

"I'm Jenn," I introduced myself, "What'd that awful man want?" I asked as I approached him. His growing smile was contagious as he realized he'd had an audience. Normally, I rarely smiled, but his was convincing me to try. I'd remembered him from earlier in the evening when he was livestreaming his terrible karaoke and then tried to pick up an Australian woman.

"You know instagram?" he answered, his accent even thicker up close. Russian, I thought. Or one of them northern people from wherever the fuck they come from. Fucking Norwegian or something. Either way, way out of place in Yucatan.

"Uh, yeah, of course," I answered, slightly puzzled. Who - under what rock - didn't know it?

Piotr finished his banana and threw it into a bin a dozen feet away, which I thought was a marvelous shot in the dark. So far his chances of getting his dick sucked by a naughty married slut on vacation were looking fair, and I indicated as much with my posture. My leg started doing its thing, assuming an inviting pose.

"You know fat rich asshole who post Ferrari and cash and gold plate Kalashnikov?" he asked, sliding gracefully over 'r', 'h' and 'sh' sounds, but chopping up rest of English into a bunch of untidy firewood.

I nodded, "Sure, yeah, I've seen some of that." Though, I wasn't sure if he was referring to a specific asshole or plural assholes, because I imagined there were many.

"You know what happen when they get ban on instagram?"

"No,... what?"

He briefly glanced at my nipples and answered, "They pay another asshole to make them their own instagram," and laughed, "so I make him fake instagram app."

Without meaning to be rude I smiled along and yet I was puzzled. What did that have to do with the confrontation I'd just seen? Maybe just a handjob, I downgraded him in my book.

"Anyhow," he laughed heartily, "much later he discover there are no people on rich asshole instagram." Piotr caught my confused look and explained, "No one see rich asshole pictures, you understand? Now his Ferrari useless, no one know it there."

That actually started to make sense to me. Back to a bj but no swallowing, I thought.

"Anyhow, I tell him, more money and I make him people too," he paused and took out a cigarette out of a metal case, "but instead he say he will cut off my balls."

"Oh my," I said, wincing at the horrid thought, "So that ugly man had a Ferrari?" I asked skeptically because I didn't know what crazy rich people looked like. I accepted an offered cigarette and decided I'd quit smoking tomorrow instead.

"No, that lazy piece of shit is messenger," Piotr explained how his testicles were still in danger. For all my horniness running through my head, I wasn't so bold and trashy to offer to be the last woman to swallow his sperm before his balls got cut off. Besides, I explained I was vacationing here with my husband and he instantly took that as a harsh rejection. If he only knew what went through my head. He was handsome and at this moment I was shallow, which meant his chances of giving me a facial were promising.

"What happen to your foot?" he gestured with his cigarette at sandy patches of my skin gleaming in the moonlight.

"Jellyfish attack," I explained flatly, and he just nodded while smoking.

We finished our smokes and I wished him best of luck with his balls and then rejoined my sweet husband, discovering that I wasn't missed. Not even for a second. "And this is my wife, Jennifer," he introduced me as I sat down at the bar. For some reason I was ok with strangers using my full name, but not him because he should've taken more liberties with it. Jenn, he should've said. I absolutely loved him, but he was boring vacationing strangers with some dumb story about his job and wasn't even doing a good job at that because they were merely pretending to yawn. It was late and even the tequila twins from Scotland were gone by now. I sighed, and concluded I totally deserved to succumb to my impulses and get fucked by a handsome stranger. Damn the guilt.

The next day my husband sweated like a pig in the harsh sun, dragging a heavy object in tow.

We were on a tour of the pyramids. The exotic kind, the jungle kind, the kind we flew far for in the first place. Not the kind of pyramids where you should buy a 20 pound souvenir from the first person you run across before you ever see the pyramids.

"You see hon, the board is made out of local marble, and the pieces out of malachite and jade," he proclaimed proudly at a heavy chessboard he bought from scarred hawkers off the side of the road. "It's just incredible," he reinforced the value of his purchase and kept staring at a green bishop he'd pulled out of the case. He clutched it like a child holding a toy soldier.

What I thought at the time was that I didn't see any mountains nearby, so where would they have a marble quarry? And we were barely fifty feet above sea level. Those poor scuba miners, diving for malachite. And then I was very puzzled because I wasn't sure he even knew how to play chess. It was remarkable how suggestible he could be.

Around the next corner we ran into another roadside stand with hawkers, selling yet more kitchy things. A very rough-looking man with an eyepatch was advertising his wares to the passing tour. "Necklace make of jade and malachite," he intoned in a clipped accent. His assistant whisked a tree of necklaces toward leaving tourists and then the arriving group and echoed him, "si, jade y malachite."

My husband's ears perked up hearing that perhaps his toy wasn't so unique. Or perhaps authentic. I'd grinned at his naivete and he avoided making eye contact. He kept pretending the board weighed far less than it did but he was basically carrying a cinder block in 100 degree heat.

"Hey sir," he butted into their sales pitch, "are you with those guys who sold me this chessboard?" he pointed behind the woods, as if pointing at something imaginary helped. Where was his skeptical curiosity before he shelled out $200? Suddenly he had questions about the board and he kept trying to get their attention.

The shorter man standing next to the eyepatched guy walked around the makeshift table and held a necklace up to my husband's neck and said, "si señor, con jade y malachite." It was slowly dawning on him that something didn't add up here. He spoke exactly zero Spanish, and they pretended to speak zero English.

By the time we got to the ceremonial courtyard protected by statues called 'chacmool', his hand was turning slightly green. Jade didn't normally leak, I thought. The tour guide took pity on my husband and offered for his assistant to unlock the tour bus so he could put it away. Then he resumed holding a tour of the main pyramid. His accent was almost flawless, a criminally underpaid teacher moonlighting for tourists. I decided to leave him a sizeable tip when we got back to the resort.

"Sorry, ladies y gentlemen, that chain over there means climbing on top of the pyramid is off limits. Ancient peoples were much shorter than us, and the stairs just like in the courtyard we passed through earlier are very narrow. There was an accident a few years ago,..." he apologized. That news came as a surprise to me, I'd assumed it'd been a long time since anyone was allowed up there, not mere years, but I felt no regret because I had no set expectations.

As my husband walked out of sight, the harsh sun made me feel glad that I wore a short summer dress. Then I was doubly glad of it because I saw Piotr trailing another tour group and the dress looked great on me. He waved and my unpracticed smile beckoned where my hand failed to reach his notice. We both half-abandoned our groups and caught up.

"Still have your balls?" I asked him and grinned.

He laughed out loud at my crudity, and thanked me for my concern, "yes, both of them, thank you so much for asking."

"Good," I said carelessly and glanced down for a second, "that's really good," my horniness betrayed me and it didn't take any language skills to recognize my partly open mouth and lip-biting. That not-so-subtle language genuinely surprised him. Apparently, he didn't realize he had a chance last night.

"You look beautiful," he said and I batted my eyelashes quietly, "where is husband?" he probed for just how willing I was. Oh, yes, he knew how this game was played.

I pointed at the parking lot now somewhat far away, "he walked back to wash his hand."

Piotr was puzzled. "His hand? Right now?" he gestured at how far the tour made it, not understanding why my husband would turn back halfway into it, "how did it get dirty?" he wondered.

"Another jellyfish attack," I shrugged. He nodded, remembering the little lie about my foot and decided it didn't matter.

"So are you here alone?" I flirted leaning into him so he could smell me. The pyramids were nice and that's why we traveled out here, but I'd been horny for a long week and only got half of a drunken fuck when we arrived, so my brain was channeling my inner whore in all sorts of creative little ways. Now I was sure I wanted some cock on the side, and I'd deal with the cheating guilt afterwards.

He was, and he started telling me about his trip and how he ended up here. It was a slightly longer story and we cleared past the pyramids onto another jungle complex. The tour guide was doing a very good job explaining what it was and yet I paid no attention to it. We were lost in conversation. Our hands touched a few times, I made sure of it. Piotr was warm to me, to my subtle advances. Then he glanced ahead of the tour group, and his face turned white.

"Shit, Mr. lazy and his friends are here," he croaked. I could feel his balls shrinking because the three men heading toward us looked absolutely scary. "And I don't have another banana," he confessed.

As I glanced back and forth at them, he said his goodbye. "Afraid I must insist we continue this conversation later," he apologized and started walking away rapidly toward the parking lot. After a dozen steps, he realized I was hoofing it behind him and grinned at me but didn't slow down. This was serious. Luckily I was in shape and my summer dress fluttered in our combined wake. As we rounded a corner, I grabbed his hand.

It felt electrified. I meant to just silently grab his attention, but I didn't realize it'd make me feel as excited as it did. Truthfully, I was a neglected wife. And yet this made me feel just how neglected. "Oh shit, " I said quietly, realizing the sheer depth of my excitement. I think he felt something too.

Feeling mischievous, I pointed at the pyramid with my eyebrow and offered him an escape. "According to the guide, it's 365 steps."

He looked skeptical and I continued my pitch, "If we skip two at a time, crab-walk diagonally, we can make it up in two minutes. Three minutes to out of sight?"

Before he could shoot down the bad idea, I ran past him and stepped over the chain, starting my sideways journey up the steps. No shit, that tour guide wasn't bullshitting- these things were really fucking narrow, but I was going up so it didn't feel as scary. And it felt exhilarating. We were running away from real goons, like in a fucking movie. There was no time to look back so I hoped he followed me in my steps and I wouldn't look like an idiot when I turned around.

Fit or not, that was still three hundred sixty five fucking steps. I broke out in sweat twice over and nearly tripped once. Luckily a breeze cooled me down and when I got to the top I rushed through a summit doorway. That tour guide knew a thing or two about history because the keystone was placed shorter than it seemed for a normal person. Piotr did end up following me after all, I discovered. We spent a minute panting and once he caught his breath, he carefully took a peek.

"It looks they did not see us," he said with relief, "of course they will turn back after they don't see us in parking lot."

I nodded. And I inexplicably wanted a cigarette despite being out of breath. When I did settle and finally took a look, I nearly gasped in surprise. The overview under the eerie blue sky was fantastic, thin jungle and distant mangroves were so exotic, the local birdsong unrecognizable, the steepness seemed steeper and the danger of it all came to me in form of a smile.

"We might be stuck here a long time," Piotr apologized. I grinned, and walked toward the center of the room. There was a stone table in the middle with subdued carvings which drew my eye.

"You know, they used that for human sacrifices," Piotr narrated.

At that moment, I was so done playing. There was no way he had any condoms on him and I was beyond the point of caring. Grinning at him, I reached under my dress and pulled my purple panties off, dropped them on my shoes and stepped out of them. If that wasn't a hint, then the large glistening spot over the crotch was.

He approached me wordlessly and leaned into me as I sat down on the table, my legs spread. We kissed. He stood over me, his legs inside mine. That electric feeling came back when he put his arms around me. The kiss was rich, but also porny, tongues flicking. It was a signal of sorts, that he's allowed to be greedy. That I was horny for it.

"I love your perfume," he said, and I was glad he liked honeysuckle.

My breasts came out through the neckline and the dress became a later reminder of my sluttiness because I could never iron that stretched part flat. His tongue was all over my nipples, sucking and kissing them. Pants are pants, and my hands mechanically unzipped him and pulled his cock out without looking and I was stroking him within seconds. His tongue went down my throat and I sucked it in, and his cock throbbed at that. He needed this as badly as I.

Piotr correctly read my body language when I lowered my head and turned sideways and freed me so that I could pump his hard cock straight into my mouth, slowly, inch by inch, hungrily sucking on it. It was somewhat reminiscent of what I did to his tongue earlier. He moaned at the sensation, and I kept greedily sucking his cock for what simultaneously felt like both a short and a very long time. My two wedding rings obscenely slid over his veiny shaft and clacked just ahead of my mouth.

Not only was he exotic and handsome, he was a badass, shirking tinpot wannabe moguls from unpronounceable countries. This felt so erotic because it was naughty, sneaky. Idea of being a cheating wife taken by someone like that held the allure. I wanted him, I had to let him fuck me.

So I did. I turned around and bent over the stone table and hiked my dress up over my midriff. The Mayans sure cared about sacrificial altar ergonomics, because it was just the perfect height to be bent over. "Stick it in me," I pleaded. Piotr only took the time to drop his pants entirely and unquestioningly positioned himself behind me.

I nearly gave us away when he entered me because I actually screamed in pleasure. This is what I needed all week, and I was finally getting it. And here! Of all the places, right on top of a pyramid I wasn't allowed to climb. My knees hurt on the rough stone, but I didn't care - I couldn't care this second - I just wanted him to take me and shoot cum in my pussy as fast as he could.

His hands around my waist felt so hot, so exciting, like he really wanted me. They were pulling my whole body in as he was thrusting inside me, and I felt taken. Not neglected anymore, but properly used. My moaning was involuntary, I knew my knees would get scratched up and I'd have to explain it later, but that somehow made it feel hotter. Two abridged days of complicated social ballet and the raw primal urges were being fulfilled. In the simplest world I now existed in, he was just fucking me and that's all there was to reality.

His cock felt thick and his sliding into me felt purposeful, I was starting to really get into it when suddenly he pulled out and walked around the stone table. Immediately I knew what was happening and leaned forward, aiming my head right for his cock and sliding my lips over it. His hand grabbed my hair and guided me to finish him off. I tasted myself on his cock and grunted in nastiness of the moment. He started moaning intently and flooded my mouth with cum, which I swallowed.