A Tat for a Trist
Mary the Wollstonecraft Woman
A white woman and a black man find lust at a swingers' resort. In the humid heat of an island refuge, a married woman allows herself to be carried away in passion by a stranger under the watchful eyes of the other guest.
A Tat for a Trist
--1987--
I'm a terrible person and make no excuses for my bad behavior. With that said, I'd do the same thing again, and I have no regret. Without our children, my husband and I took a vacation to a resort on an island in the Pacific. The trip to one of those all-expenses included destinations where we realized anything could happen a bit too late.
My husband, Buck, and I, aren't what you would call swingers. In truth, we were uncomfortable and agreed we'd change hotels if we could get at least some credit to cover the cost of the rooms. The resort demanded to know why we wanted to leave.
"We're not swingers," Buck told the hotel manager.
"Not everyone here is," he said. "For you, sir, we have deep sea fishing, scuba diving, and golf. At night, you two can dance at the Perry Como Club, for squares like the two of you. Mrs. Livingston can attend yoga, water aerobics, lay in the sun at one of the clothing-required pools, or an art, dancing, or quilting class while you're off doing your thing. You, Ma'am, might like tennis or golf with the ladies on our par three course."
"Oh, Hun, you'd like the manly things, and I can just lay out at one of the non-swinger pools."
"Well, you're sure we won't have extra charges for the non-swinger activities," Buck asked.
"Everything is inclusive. You've already paid for it. However, I can compensate you for a hotel charge in town if you wish. But honestly, sir, you've paid for your meals, drinks, tips, excursions, and anything we offer. Why incur additional entertainment expenses? If another couple, single man or woman, hits on you, like your first lady's motto, '
Just say no
.'"
"Holly, my love, what do you think?"
"Buck, baby, I really don't want to change hotels. What I want to do is slip into a bikini, read my book, and get a tan in the sun."
So, soon, Buck was off snorkeling and parasailing. While I relaxed, unaware, at one of the clothing-optional pools.
If truth be told, I may have subconsciously gravitated to a swingers' pool. Picking my spot, not noticing or ignoring the signs about Swingers and Squares, I found a lovely sunny spot, spent a few minutes spreading my sunblock over my body, and getting ready to dive into a romance novel.
"Did you get your back covered, Miss?" the man's voice rumbled, deep, a bit scratchy, and ever so masculine.
Gazing up from the novel, I beheld a black as-coal god. The man's gorgeous swarthy flesh gleamed from his own lotion in the bright rays of afternoon sunlight. With his hands on his hips, an ebony superman stared at me with lusty eyes.
Fixing his X-ray vision on me, he analyzed my body. Without trying, he caught my attention with the incredible, unexpected view of his limp cock, thick as my wrist and the cockhead hanging seven or seven and a half inches below his balls.
Buck's dick wasn't much smaller, but couldn't compare to the stranger's girth. Even so, this wasn't the attraction. The darkness of the man drew me to him, the contrast of his size and color to my whiteness and petite build. After all, opposites attract.
In vain, I tried to keep my eyes on his face, but my gaze returned to his cock only moments after each fleeting glance at his face.
"I'm married," I stammered. "My husband isn't a swinger. I mean, we, um, ah, we... aren't swingers."
"I'm single," he said. "So, why don't we get to know each other and not worry about labels?"
Kneeling beside my Nautical Chaise lounger, running his hand over my forearm, he touched me insistently, firmly, like placing a brand on me. And I didn't say no. The stark contrast of his dark hand and my white skin gave me a slight tingle, as did his rough hands.
"Wow," it came from my mouth before I could stop myself. "Your hands are so hard and callused. Buck's hands are soft like one would expect from an accountant."
"Is that a fact?" he said, more a statement than a question.
"Very much," I said. At that moment, my willpower dissolved as I betrayed my husband in spirit for the first time. "You're quite handsome. Far more attractive and masculine than Buck." These are words no wife should tell another man.
His hand moved, first to my belly, as he leaned to me, his mouth hovered over mine. "Thanks, you're hot as hell, baby."
"Holly," I said as his right hand moved to my left breast, pushed up my top, and cupped my tit, squeezing tenderly as he pushed our lips together. With his tongue passing between my lips, plump and long, he danced with my tongue, and all thoughts of my husband vanished.
For many years, I'd been curious about cheating, about black men, those things decent women never think about or, if they do, never admit. Following our kiss, his hand moved to my face. Those powerful hands caressed my tender flesh, and emotions inside me took control.
"We need to go to your room," I said.
"No, take a gander," he told me.
There were men and women fucking on the other side of the pool. A girl sucked a man off in the shallow end of the pool. The man standing, an appearance of joy on his face, while her head bobbed underwater. Her head broke the surface every so often, and down she went. Another man, next to the first but on the edge of the pool, gave his encouragement.
In fact, there were at least half a dozen people fucking one another.
