Lizzie and I were lucky to spend a month in Barbados last winter.
Neither of us had ever been before, and as Lizzie could work from anywhere, we decided to make it an extended trip.
The weather was glorious -- February in Barbados avoids rain and the occasional hurricane, which is why we chose that month.
Our hotel room was wonderfully comfortable. The huge ornate fan--completely superfluous in the air-conditioned coolness--spun lazily, suspended from the ceiling over the four-poster bed with its carved dark wooden legs and substantial headboard.
The balcony, which, due to clever architecture, was secluded like all the others, gave out directly over the private beach; the sound of lapping waves and the occasional stiff breeze woke us up every morning.
The place was heaven, and Lizzie and I enjoyed our trip perhaps more than any other. We had been talking about the potential for some adventures for weeks before we left home.
We were both very much in the mood to play.
Like I imagine many men, I wake almost every morning with a rock-hard erection, tenting the bed clothes. Sometimes, I do something about it myself; sometimes, Lizzie helps me, and sometimes, I ignore it and go back to sleep.
Now and then, even in my 50s, I am woken up by the very act of cumming -- something that happened almost daily as a teenager.
Lizzie has watched me do this several times, woken by my moaning in my sleep. I would wake up, slightly disoriented, cum pumping from my cock, and see my naked wife kneeling next to me, masturbating as she watches me intently.
Lizzie and I have sympathetic orgasms in the same way that some people are sympathetic criers or yawners -- if we see each other cum, it pushes us over the edge, so we're soon both in the throes of an orgasm.
When it happened on the second or third day in Barbados, I was amazed that I could remember what I had been dreaming of. Lizzie always asks, and I always answer with, "You," which she snorts at because she knows it's probably a lie. Truth is, I can never remember, but this time, I did.
I told her, as she propped herself, naked, on her elbow next to me on the bed, that I'd seen her, in my sleep, dressed as usual for the beach -- i.e. hardly at all -- sleeping next to me in the sand while men, and some women, walked past.
Each of them did an apparent double take before staring brazenly at Lizzie, ignoring the obvious fact that her husband was right next to her; they came over in ones and twos and closely examined her body, her bikini exposing her as she slept. Everyone began to masturbate, getting off on staring at Lizzie and each other.
I woke at the exact moment in my dream that a kneeling man began to cum over Lizzie as she lay there unaware, cumming hard myself.
I love that men find Lizzie hot and pay her attention when we're out and about. Lizzie loves this, too, and plays up to it with an exaggerated hip sway or a slow bend from the waist to examine something on a lower shelf in a store when she knows eyes are on her.
It's become second nature, over the years, for me to remember details of guys I see checking her out -- what they looked like, what they were looking at, whether they were hard in their trousers, etc. so that I can relay what I saw in great detail to Lizzie in bed later as she goes down on me. She especially loves to hear when men are caught staring at her by their wives or girlfriends, and this will lead to a conversation about what I thought of those women, how I thought they would be in bed etc.
If we've been out for the day, especially in the summer when her clothes are skimpy and her skin bronze, I often have so much to tell Lizzie about that she can make me and herself cum twice before I've remembered everything -- taking my cock from her mouth, a string of saliva joining it's engorged head to her lower lip as she gasps for breath and asks for more detail, or for me to repeat some fact she finds particularly exciting.
Now, lying naked next to each other on the bed cover, we drift into and out of a doze as the sun streams through the open balcony doors. The sounds of activity in the distance get more pronounced as people finish their late breakfast and head to the beach.
When we both wake fully, Lizzie hops off the bed, and I hear the shower begin to run.
Popping her head around the bathroom door, toothbrush in hand, vibrating uselessly as she talks, she says, "It would be a straightforward thing to replicate, you know."
I raise my eyebrows at her.
"Your dream", Lizzie continues, "everyone staring at me. I could pretend to sleep on the beach, somewhere busy with footfall. See if anyone stares."
I very much liked the sound of that.
"Yes, although I don't think they'll be as brazen or unrestrained as in my dream," I said.
"Well", replied my wife, wagging the noisy toothbrush around like a pointing stick as she considered, "If anyone looks closely, you can encourage them. Maybe beckon them closer, lower a strap or something. I'll wear very dark glasses. I can watch while I pretend to be asleep. What do you think?"
What I thought was evident, and for the next couple of hours, I had a tingling sensation on my cock from the mint toothpaste Lizzie had in her mouth.
We spent that day pottering around, wandering around to orient ourselves in the vast resort, making sure we knew where the important things were--bars, food, gym--but mainly bars.
We never stay inside a resort for long when we're abroad--it's great to come home and be waited on in luxurious surroundings, but we believe that the point of being abroad is to see new things and learn about other cultures and attitudes.
Being British, this often means, of course, awkward moments in every tour, no matter where we are in the world when the guide recounts some episode where the British either discovered something then ruined it, stole something, killed vast amounts of people or named everything in sight after their wives. We're horrific people when you think about it.
That was all pretty far from our minds as we changed into beach wear and wandered down to the shore late in the afternoon -- the sun colouring everything a glorious orange-gold.
I was in my usual board shorts and open shirt for the occasion, my wife wearing a pair of white, skimpy, tight cotton shorts which clung to her incredible ass -- no panties -- and a white halter top which exposed her tanned midriff, held up by two thin shoulder straps, her nipples prominent on her small tits. Lizzie also wore a light, floaty shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
The beach had become less hectic as the sun began to wane, and people drifted towards their rooms for a siesta before dinner, but it was still busy with sunbathers and the odd volleyball or cricket game.
Although we hadn't talked any further about it, Lizzie and I both had this morning's conversation on our minds. We chose to spread our towels out in a spot that was not in full view of the whole beach--a sandy hillock was behind us, and we lay in a very slight dip--the sea about twenty metres in front of us.
Lizzie handed me her shawl, kicked off her sandals and wandered down to the water, paddling up to her knees as I propped myself on my elbows to watch, as relaxed as I can ever remember.
Lizzie often bent as she wandered, pulling her hair back with one hand as she peered closely at the crystal-clear water. Having seen something interesting, she wanted to examine it beneath the surface.
It was when the older guy stopped, less than ten feet away from Lizzie, to stare openly at her ass as she bent in front of him, his hands on his hips, his sunglasses pushed onto his head for a better view, that I became alert.
Lizzie straightened and turned, seeing him, and they had a short conversation -- I couldn't hear what was said, but it was flirtatious -- I know my wife's body language and gestures very well.
Lizzie strolled back towards me, and the older guy -maybe my age, mid-50s, naked, tanned torso, a little tubby but not to excess, wearing well-used but comfortable-looking shorts -- followed her every step of the way with his eyes.
Grinning, Lizzie dropped down next to me, wet sand clinging to her beautiful, toned legs, which seemed to tan before my eyes.
"He looked smitten", I said.
"I think he liked me. I told him I liked older men", Lizzie chuckled.
My cock gave the first inkling of stirring in my shorts.
"Did he say he liked younger women?" I asked.
Lizzie looked at me, pulling her sunglasses up so I could see her eyes.
"He didn't have to tell me anything; I could see how he felt about me.", she said, grinning, as she let her sunglasses fall back to her nose and lay back on her towel.
"He's coming this way", I said softly.
"I'm asleep. See if you can make at least part of your dream happen before I wake up," my wife murmured, letting her arms fall to her sides. Her long legs and bare feet stretched out in the sand.
I continued, propped on one elbow, facing away from my wife, to pretend to read. I could see, not far away, the older guy standing with hands on hips, sunglasses on, looking in our direction but pretending to be looking past us, over us, to the lovely scene beyond.
I knew he was pretending because even at some distance, I could see the bulge in his shorts.
I wasn't at all sure Lizzie hadn't said more to him than she let on to me, which made my cock twitch.
In no hurry, the guy sauntered closer, nodding to me as he sat casually on the other side of my stretched-out wife. She had shades on, the brim of her cap pulled down, her arms raised above her head, and her wrists crossed--a picture of perfect relaxation.
Only my experienced eye could tell that she was very alert indeed.
"Hey.", said the stranger, deep, gravelly voice, Southern States.
"Hi", I replied, nodding at him.
