I recently wrote a story called "The Surprise" - a non-consensual story with a twist. I deliberately picked a vague title, and so I will try and write a different tale under each of Literotica's twenty-five writing categories with the same inspiration over the next year. This is Number Six.
******
It was Derek who arranged it.
Every year, my friends and I travel away for a few days for a "lads' adventure." We met at university and it became an annual tradition. Three of the party are married with families, and four, me included, are in serious relationships, but we all make time for our jaunt. It's part of our calendar: on the first week of May, six guys journey to foreign climes for lots of booze, often some sun and, in our younger days, some sex.
Last year, I bagged us a cracking deal in Bratislava. In between the drinking, we had paintball fights, strippers, off-road racing, sex shows and more. It was one of our best trips. The trip before, Terry found low-cost flights to Riga, and we did the usual "stag-do" activities, even though it wasn't a stag-do. I needed two extra days' annual leave to recover from the industrial amounts of alcohol I consumed.
This, however, was Derek's turn to arrange our adventure, and it was our last event before our thirtieth birthdays. The rules were that our break could be no more expensive than the previous year's trip, plus inflation. Derek was coy about where he had booked, but he had a budget of £613 per person, and he promised he had come in under that. We each had around three hundred euros "spending money" too.
We flew to Zagreb and then took a bus to the Croatian coast. I fell asleep after the flight, but the coach was raucous with a few stag-dos and several hen-dos. The venue tour guide served alcohol, and this lowered inhibitions as I dozed on the journey.
Our destination was an enclosed resort, with a private beach and jetty. The travel company had exclusive use of the hotel for the week, and from the outside, the four-storey complex looked appealing. Balconies in every room, two sparkling blue pools, and both breakfast and dinner included. We could upgrade to the "all alcohol pass" for fifteen euros per day, that gave us unlimited local beers, spirits and wines, and we happily traded a fifth of our spending money for unrestricted booze while we were on site.
"We aren't running the clay shooting trip, unfortunately." The receptionist said, reading from her notes. Derek had made a reservation before we left London Luton airport. "But we have six spaces on the drinks boat tomorrow, if you're interested. It sets off at 10, goes to a secluded cove and there's drinking games, lots of nudity and rudeness, and swimming. Lunch, alcohol and the boat are all included. It's ten euros per person."
"Ten euros?" I asked. "That's really cheap for boat, booze and food. What's the catch?"
She pouted at my query but addressed her next comments to Terry and Derek, already tipsy from the booze on the coach. "We balance the men and women to be fifty-fifty and one of the stag parties dropped out. So we have six male tickets left."
"We're in," the tour organiser replied. He and Paul were the only single members in the group and he swapped sixty euros for six flimsy coral blue swimming shorts with accompanying plastic drawstring bags.
"It's just an accident waiver from the excursion company," she said and thrust an agreement in front of him. Before I could read the several paragraphs of legalese, my friend had signed it and tossed it back to her. "These swimming costumes are your tickets. You need to wear these and go to the jetty for ten."
I believed a cunning receptionist had scammed us, but we had a few drinks, then dinner, a few more beers, and watched one of the hen parties run naked around the pool for a dare before turning in for the night. I had to share a twin room with Barry, and I messaged my fiancée on my phone to tell her we had arrived safely. She didn't respond; I knew what she thought of our annual excursions.
The following morning, we had breakfast, and dressed in just our blue shorts. It was a warm day, and I slapped a sheen of waterproof sun cream on my skin before we walked to the jetty. Dozens of other revellers waited - all wearing the same small, flimsy swimwear. The women in the bikinis looked sexy; the tight, gossamer garments hid little, but a large three-floor boat pulled alongside the harbour and we clambered aboard.
The British captain didn't check our tickets or our names; the presence of the blue shorts was enough proof that we had purchased a ticket for his jaunt. We stowed our phones, hotel keys and personal items in lockers at the back of the boat and I had a band, with a key, around my wrist, as we pulled away from the resort.
The atmosphere on deck was bawdy and raucous. Women and men flashed their genitals as the organisers provided us with multiple bottles of beer for the short forty-minute journey to our destination. Nestled between the cliffs was an isolated white sandy beach. Impossible to reach from the land, but easily accessible via the sea. The boat dropped anchor, thirty metres away from the deserted splash of sand. We saw people on the shoreline, and the suave captain used his PA system to tell the revellers to wade to the shore.
The water was not deep enough for him to take the boat any closer, and one-by-one, we jumped into the gentle waves. It was about chest-high on me, but a few of the shorter women had to paddle. The company had set up a mobile bar with buckets and buckets of beer, wine and spirit, on the sand, alongside eight five-foot high black pillars with letters on them.
We realised as we reached the sandbar: the swimming clothes we had worn had dissolved. The shriek as the first woman comprehended her situation, standing in the water and holding her hands over her genitals. The guy beside her showed her it was not a freak accident, with his dick moving with the swell of the surf.
The clothing fastened to my waist became just a few rags, rapidly dissolving in the salty seawater. Completely naked, I stepped onto the sand, looking at the mixture of emotions around me.
Some, particularly the larger women, had fear and anxiety etched on their expressions as they took in their friends' bare bodies. Those worries about their body shape were not dampened by a few glasses of cheap alcohol and the captain's trick had plunged them into their worst nightmares.
Some, mostly those who had drunk the most, laughed raucously and boisterously at the sudden and unexpected situation. They splashed in the water, revelling in their exhibitionism, and openly ogled those around them.
An array of excitable voices and cries surrounded me.
"Lovely tits, love!"
"Show us your baps."
"Look at that hairy muff. Fuck me, that's from the eighties!"
"He's tiny. And he's massive!"
"Wow!"
Derek whooped. None of my party seemed worried by the sudden turn of events as we all admired the female flesh on display. "It's better than going to a strip club!" He remarked, staring at the slightly chubby young woman using her arms to hide her breasts and crotch. "Love, that's a cracking pair of knockers!" He said. "You're fucking sexy as fuck!" She blushed at his candour.
Most of the attendees, however, were a little shocked and uncertain. Not sure how to respond to their abrupt and surprising nudity. I padded onto the soft beach, as the captain - a young, topless man in a white sailor hat and white swimming shorts, bounded through the water, calling us to him. "Come on. Come on. Let's get some games going. First, let's pair you up."
"But I'm naked," a girl shrieked.
"I know," he laughed. "I can see. But you all are! Now, lads with me, girls with Zeljko." He gestured to his colleague, stood beside the large portable table, and shuffled a set of cards in his hand. "Boys, come grab a card from me. Do not say or show your number to anyone." He waved us towards him, and he passed me a laminated rectangle as I approached.
Blue 33.
Once the men and women had all received their number, the captain spoke again. "Now, let's pair you up. You need to find your partner, who has the same numbered card as you. Blue 1 needs Pink 1. And so on. Guys, to see a girl's card, you kiss them on the lips for twenty seconds. If you don't match, try again. When you've matched, both of you go get a drink and sit behind the bar. Pillar C."
His words drew a few shrieks from the female players, and several smirks and smiles from the men. He blew his whistle as I pondered my situation. I was in a relationship and was certain that my fiancée would not approve of me kissing multiple women on the lips. But things had been strained between us for months, and this was an isolated beach. I was on holiday and here to have fun.
At that moment, a large, buxom black girl, with her hair in braids and with a wide smile on her face, planted her lips on my mouth, pressing her bosom against my chest. Her tongue ground against mine, and she tasted of the fruity aniseed spirit drunk liberally on the boat.
Her hands gripped my buttocks as she snogged me, grinding her palms into my flesh. The most passionate kiss I'd had in months.
"Pink 12," she said, when she finished sexually assaulting my mouth.
The more inebriated women were more confident and bashful. A lithe, athletic beauty with shimmering gold hair and a wicked grin was 45, and a bottle-sized, green-haired goth, who tasted of lager, was 19.
I snogged my eighth random woman, as a few couples formed beside the black pillar. The captain rang his bell. "And stop! For the next five minutes, men will need to suck and kiss on the women's nipples to see their number."
"What?" a tipsy female voice squealed. "I can't do that in public!"
The captain smiled. "You don't want to get to the next stage if you don't like men sucking on those juicy bangers!" He chuckled. "I have a limited number of T-shirts on the boat, so you need to win some games unless you want to walk from the marina to the hotel in what you have on now!" Her friends roared with laughter at her realisation.
A few seconds later, my lips closed around the nipple of a short brunette woman in her forties. She sighed as my tongue flicked her erect nub, licking her point as my right hand groped and touched her other breast. I almost forgot where I was, enjoying the intimacy with a stranger. "Pink 39," she muttered.
"Fuck!" I moaned, standing from my kneeling position and moving onto the next free lady. And the next.
Five delicious nipples entered my mouth, and my tongue swirled over the textured points, sucking and licking around their sensitive flesh. Each time, I didn't find Pink 33. His whistle blew, and I looked across to see several more couples waiting beside the pillar; most held drinks from Zeljko as they watched the remaining seventy attendees attempt to find their match.
