Caribbean Heat

[ This story is a slight update to one I previously posted to Usenet a couple of years ago under a different penname ]

*

Natalie and I went to Aruba for a week in a last ditch effort to resurrect a relationship that was in its dying stages. It might have worked, had it not been for a white string bikini. Or, perhaps more likely, the relationship was doomed months earlier.

We arrived at the Hyatt Regency late into the evening, collapsing into bed in an exhaustion that comes from three airplane flights spanning 15 hours. The next morning Natalie was still in the grips of the Pacific Time Zone and showed no interest in exploring the resort property, and I was more interested in getting acquainted with the environs than in trying to snuggle with a woman whose elbows and grunts signaled her desire for more sleep. I dug through my suitcase to find my swimsuit, tshirt, and sandals, grabbed a hat and sunglasses, and made my way downstairs.

The Hyatt was indeed a resort. The open-air lobby led to walkways that meandered through lush landscaping and sloped down to swimming pools -- two for adults, one for children -- and descended further to the beach, where the white sand was blistering hot, even at 9am. I retreated back to the adult pool area, found a towel and a lounge chair, and began to soak in the atmosphere. There were only three other people on the pool deck when I got there. Over the next hour another six showed up. All in all, there were seven women, including two couples, and me.

Several things became apparent to me. First, it seemed that a third of the hotel guests were South Americans -- probably mostly Venezuelans, which was only a short plane flight away. English-speaking North Americans made up another third, and the remainder seemed to be mostly a mix of Europeans, especially Dutch, since Aruba was a Dutch possession.

Another thing that I discovered was that the South American women had thoroughly embraced the concept of skimpy thong bikinis. My preconception had been that these Latina Catholic women would be relatively modestly attired. I was happy to learn I was wrong. Hiding behind my sunglasses and pretending to read a hotel brochure, I enjoyed the sight of thirtysomething women, whose bodies ranged from desirably sexy to spectacular erotic, wearing thin fabric that just barely covered their areolas and labia.

I was in heaven!

I'm not a breast man, though I certainly do appreciate the sight and feel of breasts. I'm not an ass man, though I do appreciate a woman's ass. I am a lover of pussies. I love everything about them, outside and especially inside. That being said, as I was studying these nearly naked women, my eyes would gravitate to the treasures between their legs.

That first morning my eyes studied a lithe woman about 20 feet away, who wore a white micro bikini and reclined in a lounge chair. She was reading a book -- the title was in Spanish -- and was soaking in the sun in such a way, with her legs spread just enough and her chair was angled just right, that I had a spectacular view of that minimalist patch of fabric. Even better, her prominent mound was obvious, and the thin fabric did nothing to hide a visible cleft down the center.

My heart beat faster, and I was thankful that my swimming trunks were baggy enough to hide my partial erection.

At first, Miss Micro Bikini was one of the solo women, though before long a man appeared, pulling a lounge chair next to hers and slumping into it. They exchanged a few sentences in Spanish, then she returned to her book, while he reclined his chair and focused on the inside of his eyelids. She occasionally glanced at him, sometimes looking at his face, but more often seeming to glance at his swimsuit. I convinced myself that I could see her cleft split open even wider at the bottom. Was it his presence? Or the book? Or both? And was I seeing a little bump at the top that was her clit? I glanced at her breasts -- her nipples were definitely standing tall.

I was really loving her bikini. My mind wandered. I imagined the two of them in bed the previous night. They were on vacation, and both seemed young and virile enough -- and intimate enough -- that they probably had sex, or maybe even had sex that morning before she came down to the pool. I tried to imagine how they did it. Was she a woman who preferred to be on top? She would be gyrating her hips on his erection that was embedded hard and deep inside her, and his hands would be all over these luscious breasts she had on display. Doggie? No. He'd want to look at her face, and she'd want him to look at her face and breasts. Or would he be on top with her long legs curled around his ass and her pussy angled high to welcome his sturdy, muscular thrusts?

He wouldn't be using a condom. No, he would be bareback. They had athletic bodies, and they would be fucking athletically. Her breasts would be dancing in rhythm with his strokes. Her head would be tilted back, her face frozen in a beautiful agony of pleasure. She would be noisy at the end, unselfconscious in their hotel bed, as he sped them both to orgasms. She would climax first -- she always climaxed -- and he would hold his off until she could once again focus on him, and only then he would explode, knowing that she could feel his throbbing cock jetting his seed into her fiery, still quivering vagina.

And when his cock softened and slipped out, her labia would still be plumped and spread wide from the invasion of his thick, meaty flesh. Afterwards, she would take a quick shower, don her new bikini, pick up her sexy novel, and head to the pool. He would linger in the shower, linger at breakfast, and then join her. And here I was, gazing at her still partially aroused vulva, imagining his creamy deposit oozing out. Was it an artifact of shadows, or was I seeing the hint of dampness at the bottom of that tiny patch of fabric?

It was then that my view ended. She pressed her legs together and leaned over to whisper something into his ear. Then they stood up, gathered their belongings, and walked hand in hand back to the hotel lobby. Had she realized she was leaking? Were they going back to the room to fuck again? Or had my imagination simply overstretched and they were going to find lunch.

"There you are." Natalie's voice abruptly brought me back to my mundane reality. She stood next to my lounge chair, on the opposite side of the departing lovers, and had no doubt watched me watch them. "Checking out her ass, I see." She sounded irritated. What was I supposed to do? Be surrounded by nearly naked women and not notice them?

"I was trying to let you snooze." It was partly true.

Natalie scanned across the resort pools and down to the beach. "It's getting hot as hell. And is it always this windy here?" She brushed loose hair away from her face and looked annoyed.

It was going to be a long week.

I didn't see Miss Micro Bikini again, nor did I see any other woman who approached her level of sexuality. Tiny thong bikinis were prevalent, and they all barely covered delectable-looking, desirable bodies, but my crotch-watching experience never repeated itself.

Natalie and I had sex only twice that week. Two years earlier, we'd have been fucking twice a day. The first time was on the third evening, seemingly more of a perfunctory mutual release of sexual tension than intimate lovemaking. I imagined I was fucking Miss Micro Bikini with her long legs and her silky, velvet embrace, and I filled them both with my liquid release.

On the last night we were lying two feet apart on the king-size bed when we heard the unmistakable sounds of sex coming through the wall behind the headboard. In that other bed the woman was vocal as she moaned and cried out her pleasure, and the man emitted low-pitched, throaty grunts as their headboard thumped against their side of the wall. It sounded like they climaxed together. She was loud, he kept pounding into her, and she and the headboard eventually quieted into silence.

It must have inspired Natalie. I reached toward her and found her hand, and before too long she was on top and we were 69'ing like old times. When she spun around and straddled my hips and inhaled my cock inside her warm, slick vagina, she rocked herself to an orgasm that seemed more sentimental than lustful. At least it didn't feel mundane. "Come for me" were her first words uttered in the previous hour, and I did. This time I wasn't thinking about the couple in the next room, or thinking about the woman in the white bikini. I was thinking about Natalie, about us, and how it was clear to me -- and no doubt clear to her, too -- that the spark was gone.

"There," she said. "All done." And we were.