But of course, I was more than happy to be proven wrong in this fact, and I was only too content to see that everything around me was absolutely as I desired it to be. You know all those resort commercials you see on TV, the ones featuring couples wearing nothing but their swimsuits the entire time, drinking out of coconuts and laughing their asses off, dancing in the water, kissing, and all the while the music overtop of everything promising the potential visitor that they would have the time of their lives? You must think, surely, as I did, that these commercials at least go some distance in the way of fudging things, making a stay seem far more luxurious and exotic than it actually is in reality. It had seemed impossible, even as my husband and I embarked on this journey together, that I would genuinely be residing in the sort of sheer paradise guaranteed me. It would be nice, sure, but I didn't really believe it could transport me from the day to day monotony of my life into a feeling of such sheer, overwhelming splendor.
But then I'd arrived here. And everything had been perfect.
Everything, and I mean everything, lived up to what was promised in all of those advertisements, ads which you might find annoying when you're so cut off from attending such a resort without hopes of ever being able to do so. And maybe it was my then-present reality that made me so cynical in the matter, the extent of the period of time that I'd gone without a break, and the toll it was taking on Adam and I's marriage that neither of us could seem to get a breather, or spend almost any time together at all, for that matter.
It just hadn't seemed possible that things could be anywhere near this good. But now, I opened my eyes wide, and beheld the clear blue ocean just outside my window, and the beautiful, sweeping sands, and the palm trees swaying all around... And yes... God, yes... It was everything I could have ever have imagined, and more. So much more...
And then, if that alone hadn't been enough, I now turned my head to gaze sleepily at the man in bed beside me, the man who'd made it all possible... Or, well, not exactly “all possible.” I could have afforded to do this on my own, and I guess it's probably not the proper feminist sentiment to possess to say that I needed to rely on a man to enjoy myself in this way. But it very much was this man who'd convinced me to take this trip in the first place, my beautiful, loving husband, and without his support I might very well have worked myself straight into the ground while refusing to give myself a rest.
Even in sleep, he looked like a sweet, sexy angel beside me. He'd always been a heavier sleeper than myself, and Lord knows that he was being worn out during these hazy tropical days, and he needed to rest up and recuperate his strength. I thought vaguely about waking him up, wanting him to be with me as quickly as possible, but then I decided to let him rest, to just lie there in slumber, because I was more than content just to lie there beside him and stare at him in the meantime.
Like me, he lay beneath the covers completely naked, preferring the sheets as his only covering during these warm, Caribbean nights. This, of course, was much to my advantage as I peered down at him in his unconsciousness, as it gave me a hell of a lot more skin to inspect.
As intimately familiar as the two of us were with one another's bodies at this point, I honestly didn't think there could be a chance in hell of me ever getting tired of that glorious bombshell's thick anatomy, no matter how many times I was reintroduced to him physically, each time feeling like the first as we indulged in almost painfully beautiful acts of intimacy. His shoulders were broad and thick, sweat trickling very light and gingerly down along his body, slight, sweaty rivulets following every crevice, and then disappearing beneath the fabric of the blankets on top of him.
He was covered only from the waist down, which, of course, gave me an adequate enough view of the rest of him to be able to complete the picture on my own. Somehow, despite his own immensely busy schedule, he managed to find the time for fitness, for maintaining that supermodel-caliber body of his through rigorous exercise and dedication to eating well. And I mean hell, as far as that went, I was no slob either. With my tight, well-maintained abdomen, my near perfect proportions, everything in its proper place, and beautifully angled to just the right degree. But I was just lean, petite, and my appearance came primarily from a self-control over my eating. As beautiful as I may have been, this was a man with some actual muscle on him, and I felt all the more dizzy with arousal for him because of the fact.
His broad, sculpted pectoral muscles heaved pleasantly with sleep, their glossy forms absolutely agonizing sights to behold. Even more severe, however, were the glazed rungs of his six pack abdominals, so deeply cut that it nearly made me dizzy, along with the little heaving fleck of his navel, which, I kid you not, filled me with an intense urge to lean in and bury my tongue in the thing.
I resisted the urge, however, and allowed myself to relish for a while in the swooping lines of his Adonis muscles, the most splendid physical asset a man could possibly possess, as far as I was concerned, or, at the very least, the second best. Its deep arrow led my eyes down along his body to the treasure below his belt line, but of course this was covered up by the sweaty heap of blankets. Though, admittedly, my man was one particularly well-endowed specimen, and imagining what resided down there was no difficult feat while staring at the immense lump in the fabric. And of course, I should have known better than to get too immersed in this section of his anatomy at this point in time, given that I'd been attempting to focus on avoiding waking my sweet, sweet lover, and the more and more I thought about his immense package, the harder and harder it became to avoid pouncing on top of him right then and there on the spot.
But, once again, I managed to somehow remain a good girl through all of this, clearing my throat, and blinking hard so as to shoo away the sight of him from my field of vision. I leaned back over onto the head board, trying to keep to my side of the bed and avoid coming into contact with him to the extent it was possible, lest the temptation of even the slightest physical contact set me clean over the edge with sheer, perverse horniness.
Of course, though, now that the picture was in my head, it became impossible not to let it roam free in my mind, and I decided to surrender myself to the impulse. Letting my imagination run wild until Adam woke up couldn't possibly do any harm, I reasoned, and accordingly I brought my hand down beneath the covers, and began to play with myself. I slid my fingers delicately through the floral folds of my pussy, stroking along to the mental imagery of being plowed by my husband, having that thick, hard cock pushed into me, and stuffed so tightly into my body that I could barely see straight.
I shuddered, trembling from head to toe with pleasure, sliding my legs up and down along the mattress as I struggled to contain myself, but my fantasies only getting hotter and hotter with each passing minute, not to mention dirtier and dirtier, and my fingers sinking deeper, deeper, deeper into my anatomy.
And good, God, I thought. I was beginning to turn into a damn nymphomaniac...
Really, though, it had largely been this way throughout the whole duration of the trip. I don't know if it was the tropical atmosphere, or the exotic locale, or just the simple change in circumstances that did the trick, but something, some glorious, mysterious source, was really keeping me pinned down with sex on the brain at nearly all hours of day. And it wasn't just my husband who was turning me on, either. Half of the male staff at this place looked as though they could reasonably be male models (or fucking escorts, for that matter,) and for me it was the female equivalent of a man being cast onto an island with a bunch of Amazon goddesses. Everywhere I looked, my mind raced toward opportunities for hot, lurid, and mind-blowing sex, every man I passed a candidate for bedding me and pounding me so hard that I cried, and the women, for that matter, not so unattractive in their own rights.
There was one guy in particular I'd noticed on the very first day of our week long stay, and I'd kept encountering him around the island every single day since then. He really got my imagination running, even if for a reason I couldn't immediately place my finge
r upon, and at some points I felt incredibly guilty for lusting so devilishly after him on what was essentially a second honeymoon with my husband.
The man was a black guy, his skin dark and tantalizing, with penetrating black eyes and a smile that made my heart melt almost as badly as my panties. I tried not to gawk at him for too long, with his thick body and his exquisite features, every single thing about him conspiring together to paint a picture of an absolutely decadent sexpot. And the fact of him being black probably didn't help that much either. I'd always had a bit of a secret thing for black men, and particularly black men who looked like this man did... I'd dated a couple of darker complected gentlemen in college, too, and if it hadn't been for my pasty white husband coming along and sweeping me off my feet, I might have continued to do so to this day.
Suffice it to say, being in this man's presence was something of an unnecessary temptation for me during my time in paradise, but I tried not to let it get to me any more than it had to. I could control myself, after all, and I was a fully grown adult. Although I'm certain he caught me staring unintentionally at him on any number of occasions, I was preoccupied enough on my own without this extra bit of fantasized-about nookie on the side getting in the way.
Frankly, I think the fact that this was my husband and I's first real vacation in God only knows how long contributed to the fact of my almost insatiable libido, because prior to now it was like I could never get a break. On the rare occasion that the two of us were at home at anywhere near the same time, we were both far too exhausted for sex or intimacy, at least past the point of me giving him a tug job beneath the blankets right before bedtime or him massaging my pussy with the vibrator for about ten or fifteen minutes.
We were, quite simply, repressed, and it was like this first break for the two of us in so long somehow served as a sort of great sexual awakening for our marriage. When I wasn't lusting after the resort staff, you could bet your ass I was in some way getting down and dirty with Adam himself, any time of morning, noon, or night. That beautiful bastard just couldn't seem to keep his paws off of me...
And I'm talking, like, multiple times a day we were having sex. We were getting up to levels that neither had experienced since we'd first been dating, and although the two of us were already up to the midpoint of our weeklong outing, it didn't seem as though either of us were showing the least sign whatsoever of slowing down.
For instance, the day before the two of us had been lazing around out on the beach together, him peering out into the ocean, and me lying in a beach chair with sunglasses on, an alcoholic beverage on a tray beside me and a cheap dime store paperback lying open in the sand. Mind you, at this point in time, the air of eroticism hovering over the two of us had become an almost unshakable presence, a haze that never left, and which pleasantly infected every single action in which we partook.
And so, as I lay there in the chair beside him, I was completely aware of the fact that an incredible sexual tension was looming over the scene, and I thought it only suitable that I torment him accordingly with my glazed, nearly naked beach body.
Every so often, while lying in the chair, I shifted my wait, letting the fabric of my bikini slip and slide in tantalizing fashion all over my bones, always looking like it was on the verge of slipping off, yet remaining in place so steadfast that I knew it must be driving him wild.
I could actually begin to feel his lustful bedroom eyes boring into me, and I made a few light whimpers as I adjusted myself yet again, just to get his goat. Then, I allowed my bikini bottom to slide just ever so slightly down along my buttocks, so that the wet crack of my ass came peeking up at him, and at this point I could actually hear him squirming in his chair above the roar of the waves from the discomfort of his erection.
Finally, just to drive the knife in all the why, I undid the straps of my bikini top, lying face down and allowing the thing to fall from my shoulder blades, under the excuse that I wanted to try and avoid tan lines across my back. Then I extended a hand to him with a bottle of sun tan lotion gripped in my fingers, giving him a lurid, tempting little smile, thinking certainly he would pick up easily on the hint I was dropping for him.
And sure enough, he began to apply an abundance of the stuff, slathering me up like a glazed turkey, really putting too much on me in his enthusiasm, so that I had to giggle at the notion of potentially sliding clean out of the chair. But then, the more he touched me, kneading me up and pushing his hands into me, the more and more aroused I became, my nostrils flaring with lust, until at last I could stand no more of his warm, firm touch, and I turned around to face him.
I glared at him with the expression of a damn animal in heat, more than ready to leap up and devour him at a moment's notice. My bikini top, mind you, was now fallen to the sand, and I had my arm over my tits, pressing into them and squeezing them up against my body, in a manner that I knew was driving him wild as he gawked like an idiot at me.
And at last, the two of us could stand the temptation no longer, and we flung our faces onto one another with an almost excessive vehemence. His lips were on mine, his hands framing my face, and I pushed my tongue into his mouth, gouging toward the back of his throat as though with the aim of suffocating the sweet bastard, moaning and whimpering with delight, wishing that I could dissolve in his flesh right there on the spot, and get lost in him forever.
Then, before I knew it, the two of us were stumbling around across the beach, me completely topless at this point, my arm still crossed for dear life over my breasts in fear of getting arrested. Then, however, we decided to wade out into the ocean, under jurisdiction of maritime law, we jokingly assumed, and therefore the restrictions on decency presumably far more lax.
At any rate, the beach around us was deserted enough that we didn't think we would get caught, and so it was that I ended up dipping down beneath the surface, opening my mouth wide, and giving my man an undersea blow job, the saltiest oral sex I'd ever performed, mind you, an act so intimate and so devastating that I could scarcely even believe it had taken place after the fact.
And that was only the first half of the day...
We still had an entire afternoon to kill together in whatever seedy and magical ways we saw fit. Admittedly, the two of us had become fairly experienced day drinkers over the course of our vacation, and so accordingly there was enough alcohol in our systems to get us going at just about any hour of day.
At some point, the two of us found ourselves in a luxurious steam room together, sweating intensely, our breathing hard and hot, and the circumstances just such that eroticism couldn't possibly be far behind at all. The two of us had the entire place to ourselves, and were wearing nothing at all but a couple of towels wrapped around our middles, my nipples just barely concealed and his erection bulging fiercely through the fabric as we leered across the wooden room at our steamy selves.
And suddenly, the next thing you know, the two of us were on one another, wrapped together in each other's arms, making out like newlyweds after so long together, his lips on my neck and his tongue all over me, getting me so worked up I could hardly stand it in my lightheaded arousal.
Then, in as sexy a manner as was humanly possible, he took me from behind, in what might have been one of the most brutal and animalistic fucks I've ever indulged myself in. There was an extra layer of taboo about it from the fact that the two of us kept our damn towels on throughout the entire ordeal, him whipping his cock out from beneath the plush fabric, bending me over, and penetrating me though the opening in his scant wardrobe. He slammed viciously into my bent over body, my hands on the bench as he pushed and heaved into my body, my breasts flying free of the towel as well as he screwed me, swinging like two fleshy pendulums as I tried to suppress my screams of passion.
And then, if that wasn't bad enough, the two of us fucked again upon our return to the room that night, me climbing up on top of him and bouncing up and down on top of his cock like it was a damn pogo stick, our genitals apparently inexhaustible f
or the extent of our stay, and each hard, wet lay more agonizing than the last.
And in the present that morning, as I reflected fondly on all these encounters, growing hotter and hotter by the minute, I began to feel as though I wanted today's miscellaneous sexual events to start unfolding in as timely a manner as possible.
I gasped suddenly, having hit a sweet spot while fingering myself to these glorious memories, and a shiver of pleasure ran down along my body. It wasn't quite an orgasm, exactly, but a sort of warning flag, a tingling that let me know I was good and ready, and that I couldn't possibly resist the return of my husband's flesh for a moment longer.
I'd let him sleep long enough, I decided, and it was due time for him to get back around to doing his duty of servicing me as I needed to be serviced. I decided to wake him as lightly as I possibly could, easing him into consciousness in as gentle a manner as I could conceive. I put my hand on the side of his slightly wet face, and allowed my fingers to go trickling down along him like raindrops. They slid down along the contours of his skull, following down along his neck, and trickling along his chest.
My palm practically burned as I swept across his sweet abdomen, and as great was the temptation to plunge my fingers beneath the covers and begin masturbating him, I somehow resisted the impulse. Instead, I swept up on top of his bulge and very lightly stroked him through the covers, not abruptly seizing him, but making my presence known.
I looked over at him, in order to gage his reaction, and though his eyes were closed, I could tell he was beginning to stir, twitching lightly, and slight groans of pleasure issuing faintly from his throat.
I took things a step further, then, leaning in, and pressing my lips onto his neck, running hot, wet kisses up and down all along him, savoring the taste of his flesh more than ever in its moist, salty state, craving his tongue on mine, but remaining patient in my efforts at rousing him to consciousness. I allowed my kisses to sweep gently down, down, down, drifting from his neck to his chest, suckling playfully for a moment on his nipple, and sinking my teeth ever so lightly into him.
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