The Biini Try-Out

It was early afternoon in July and the sun was beating down. This was the fourth day of our south of France holiday and I was lying face down on a lounger reading a book that was precariously balanced on a stack of cushions laid on the grass.

I sat up to take a sip of wine and to examine my holiday companions. My husband James lay face down on a lounger beside me giving every appearance of being in a deep sleep. He was wearing a pair of white football shorts with the silky fabric rucked up to the very edge of his small bottom.

He was well over six feet tall and his ankles hung over the end of his bed. He might not have had a classic he-man profile but a closer examination would reveal that his slim body was more than adequately muscled. There was not a spare pound on him anywhere, much of which was probably due to his genes, however the fact that he swam and ran and cycled and climbed hills or went rock climbing in every free moment also contributed to his shape and to the strength and stamina lying hidden just beneath the sinewy surface.

Cliché or not, he really was tall and dark and handsome and, as I took in every inch of his lightly tanned frame, some very lustful thoughts were running through my mind and setting off numerous stirring sensations deep in the pit of my stomach.

I often passed the time when I was sunbathing by imagining various scenarios, all of which featured yours truly being humped from every angle by a variety of men, some of whom really existed, whilst the imaginary ones were incredibly handsome or energetic or well hung.

At this current imaginary moment I was naked on a brass bedstead and the young man from work who sorted the post and refilled the photocopiers was plunging his enormous purple cock inside me whilst I howled like a dog for the third or fourth time that evening. In real life these rabid thoughts were making my pussy ache with desire and, time and time again, I surreptitiously stroked myself whilst pretending that I was adjusting my bikini.

James and I had had real sex several times in the few days since we had arrived and I wondered if I could give him a sly nudge that he would immediately recognise as an invitation for another round so that, with his expert assistance, I could temporarily bury these burning thoughts far inside me.

On the opposite side of the pool James's long time best friend, the impossibly handsome Jeff, was laid on his back on a weightlifting bench, pumping iron under the shade of a canvas gazebo. In contract to James, he was perfectly proportioned and his rich tan covered his entire body.

I knew this because he was stark naked and I watched his ample penis move from side to side as he strained to lift the enormous load. It was a fascinating sight and I amused myself by imagining what it might look like fully erect and what it would feel like if it was slamming painfully and repeatedly inside me.

It could never be, so I reluctantly pushed the thought aside and turned my attention to his French wife Danielle who lay on her stomach on a lounger not far from me. She was just as stunning as her husband and was similarly stark naked but she'd had the decency to stuff a scrap of cloth between her legs so that we were not in the uncomfortable position of staring up her chuff-box. Compared to our hosts I was positively overdressed in my jade green bikini bottoms.

We had been warned that this was how Jeff and Danielle carried on when they were on their own property. Some other mutual friends of ours had stayed here last summer and had reported on the proceedings so their nakedness was not a surprise.

I had fleetingly seen Jeff naked in the past and I had secretly been looking forward to renewing the experience, I loved to sunbathe in the buff myself and James and I had discussed whether or not we should do so once we arrived at the villa. I was in favour but James was not, so, for the moment, we had maintained a common front. I was not sure why James was so reluctant, we had abandoned all inhibitions on remote nudist beaches on several earlier occasions and neither of us had bodies to be ashamed of.

Jeff had been our best man five years previously and now he lived with Danielle in Mont Boron, a suburb overlooking the Bay of Angels in the Rivieran resort of Nice. We had not seen him for over twelve months but every time we met it seemed that he was infinitely more successful than the previous occasion. With each rise in his chequered fortunes his hairstyle and clothing grew ever more flamboyant and if you were asked to guess his occupation you might guess that he was a designer or someone in the music or film industry.

I had first met Jeff after I began dating James when I was in my early twenties. James and I had met in my final year at university and he frequently took me back to his home town in Northern England where we socialised with his old school friends and their partners. Jeff was his best friend and was undoubtedly the sexiest man I had ever met.

I was not alone in this opinion because he had been legendary in his home town for his numerous girlfriends and his insatiable bed-hopping. He was over six foot tall with wide shoulders, blue eyes, perfect white teeth and a blond mane of long hair which he brushed back and flicked around at frequent intervals.

He was a working class boy brought up on a small town council estate but his good looks and intelligence and his street-fighter energy had helped him break free from his background. When I first met him he was a business studies graduate working for a bank in Manchester during the week and manning an estate agency at the weekend.

Eventually Manchester could not contain him and, in his mid-twenties, he moved to London and his connections secured him a career as a futures trader for several years. He started his own business ostensibly as a middle man matching lenders with borrowers and on his frequent visits home he gave every indication that he was doing particularly well. He was also earning considerable rental income from several expensive properties although James had never been able to get a straight answer from him as to how these properties had been funded.

Some years later we were aghast to hear that he and a number of his business acquaintances had been charged with mortgage fraud and money laundering and the only thing that saved Jeff from jail was a considerable sum of money expended on his legal team.

It was two years before the charges were eventually withdrawn and Jeff decided not to push his luck any further and he moved to France where he looked up an old girlfriend who was as beautiful as he was handsome. They moved into an apartment in Paris together whilst the storm subsided and Jeff had let it be known that he was down but not out.

In fact he was using the time to dispose of various properties and to move his wealth from one bank account to another. In time he bought this beautiful villa in the hills and settled down to a life of luxury and internet speculation high above the French Riviera.

We were here because of Jeff's insistence that we visit him. He missed the life he had left behind and he frequently invited his friends over to re-live the memories of their laddish circle, their riotous weekends and drunken away-days watching the local football team and brawling in seaside night clubs.

James had eventually grown out of it but Jeff the exile didn't and he never tired of talking about the old days and the crazy incidents that peppered their late teens and early twenties.

Danielle had first dated Jeff in London when she was a drama student. Now she was a model, neither famous nor edgy but no less stunning in spite of that, doing routine work for fashion houses and catalogues. She did catwalk shows which were generally attended by buyers and fashion writers rather than celebrities. She did location shots which rarely involved travelling because the south of France could pass for numerous parts of the world and she had her own studio in town for her more mundane assignments.

She took me there one morning and I watched with interest as she and her assistant, a hairdresser cum make-up artist, worked their way through the boxes of garments that arrived by courier. She put them on, a photographer took photo after photo and then the garments went back in the box and the photographer went to work with the raw images.

She was tall and perfectly proportioned with blue eyes and choppy bob-cut hair the colour of straw. She attended exercise classes or swam almost every day of the week and I never saw her finish a meal. It wasn't just vanity, her career rested solely on her face and figure, added to which was her full knowledge of Jeff's wandering eye, although I had to admit that I had never seen Jeff as enamoured with a girl as much as he was with Danielle.

She rose from her sunbed to pour a drink and I found that I couldn't take my eyes from her naked body despite the more obvious attractions of Jeff's substantial cock and powerful build. Her muff was totally clean shaven leaving the opening to her sex in full view of all who cared to look.

Her ample breasts had absolute poise without a hint of droop and her bottom was as smooth and rounded as a child's. Her stomach was mirror flat and her olive skin totally free of imperfections and, if that wasn't enough, she walked and swam gracefully and spoke English with a sexy French accent that made her male listeners curl up with desire.

I had no hesitation in going topless around a crowded swimming pool or along a beach shore but I was still in a lower league to Danielle. I was more than content with my own body, I had a flat stomach, I weighed less than eight and a half stone and I could attract admiring glances from most men but no amount of dieting or exercise could have given me a profile like Danielle's. James would argue otherwise but, if I was to be critical, my breasts were too small, my ass too big and my legs too muscly from years of hockey and netball and tennis.

Her eyes met mine every time I glanced at her and I was always the first to look away. I couldn't decide if she was determined not to be embarrassed about her nakedness or whether she was issuing some kind of challenge.

One afternoon she had warned me of the danger of the midday sun and had offered to apply lotion to my back and legs. She did a thorough job on my back and shoulders but I was quite surprised when her hands lingered on the sides of my breasts. Seconds later her fingertips had probed the inside of my thighs causing me to tense but the involuntarily flush of warmth in my groin had opened my legs as if by remote control.

Danielle worked the lotion in and around the hem of my bikini bottoms and I struggled to resist grinding my groin into the mattress as inexplicable waves of desire erupted from within me.

"I don't know why you bother with these, she had said, no one can see you here except Jeff and he will look once and then it will be over and done with. You too James, she admonished, let yourself go, you ridiculous English person".

James had replied with some quip to the effect that Danielle was not ready to see what he had tucked in his shorts but she had simply said "pffft" at him in a uniquely French way and Jeff had joined in to imply that James was keeping his shorts firmly on because he was quite obviously worried about the comparison.

I loyally defended James by reminding Jeff that I had seen both cocks and it would be a close result. Danielle dared them to get their penises out and lay them side by side on the patio table and she and I would judge who had the biggest.

As expected, my cool, reserved (and medium hung) husband refused to take the bait. "I can wait" said Danielle, "any day soon your shorts will be coming down"

On most days, Jeff and James would drive into town, allegedly to buy groceries, but in reality to do a tour of the beachfront bars. Once they had departed Danielle moved onto James' lounger and opened a conversation with the words "so James has a big penis then? I was initially stunned by the question but I told her that it was adequate which was the absolute truth. She persisted by asking if it was long and slim like his build and I laughed and said that it touched every side.

She seemed pleased with the answer and said we would have to get him drunk enough to drop his shorts and give his little white bottom a touch of the sun.

She asked my opinion of whether a big penis on its own was sufficient for good sex or could a man with a small penis compensate in other ways? She said it naturally without a hint of embarrassment, as if she was asking for advice on buying a new handbag.

To my surprise I managed to give a lucid reply and I related a tale from my university days of a one night stand with a rugby player known as the Bull who had a penis, known as the bullwhip, which was legendary on the campus. He was only five foot eight tall but he was almost that wide and had a fearsome reputation for violence on the rugby pitch which accounted for his battered and lopsided face.

A farmer's son, he was a law student and captain of the first eleven and he was loved and feared in equal measures by every member of the team for his scathing wit and his abilities in a brawl. He never had a girlfriend that I was aware of so he reserved his most scathing (but funny) comments for his team member's girlfriends, of which I was one, so I took great care to ensure that I never found myself as the butt of his jokes. I generally avoided his company and restricted any conversation with him to the bare minimum.

Late one Saturday evening, in our first year, as the clubs were emptying he walked a fellow student home. She was drunk and was just getting over being dumped by her boyfriend. She invited him in, one thing led to another and the Bull showed her his ten inch cock. She pounced and he fucked her from one end of her flat to the other for the next two hours. The following day she could barely walk but she related her amazing experience to a few shocked friends. The legend of the bullwhip was born.

In no time at all, a host of pretty girls who would not have been seen dead talking to the Bull in daylight were scheming as to how they could experience this monster just once. It became a university rite of passage for the football and rugby groupies and the Bull's reputation spread throughout the colleges.

He was totally discreet because he knew he was not pin-up material so he never discussed his conquests for fear that the queue might dry up. The usual arrangement was that the Bull would linger by the cloakroom or by the hot dog stand or some other pre-arranged spot, his victim would approach at the last minute and he would discretely usher her into a cab and treat her to the stretching of a lifetime.

One Saturday night I was partly drunk and in between boyfriends so I had tried it once out of curiosity. The magic password was "do you want to share a cab home" and with a knowing glance the Bull had said that he would wait for me outside a late night kebab shop.

We went back to his flat where we kissed and undressed in silence with little attempt at foreplay. His cock was a sight to behold, longer than both my palms and so fat that one hand could not encircle it.

He was as strong as an ox and at one point he held me upside down with his massive arms gripped around the small of my back and my thighs resting on his shoulders. I sucked and licked and pulled on his cock as his tongue lapped frantically along my slit and in my hole whilst at the same time I was fighting a separate battle, trying to stop his organ going down my throat.

Within minutes I could feel my orgasm forming and I urged him on using the crudest of language but he was on the verge of coming himself so, without warning, he changed his grip on me and carried me to the sofa.

He bent me face down over the arm, opened my legs to their full extent and one by one he inserted his four fingers deep inside me in a vain attempt to ease the entry of his engorged cock. He had used liberal applications of lube and had entered me gradually but his brutal thrustings had almost split me in two and it was impossible to suppress my shrieks of pure shock.

He also delivered several truly stinging slaps to my bottom which had brought tears to my eyes but I manically urged him on and he had literally thrown me around the room as he screwed me in half a dozen different ways, only pausing between each position to delay his ejaculation.

He had picked me up from the bed as if I was a rag doll and, standing in the middle of the bedroom floor, raised my ankles to his shoulders whilst I wrapped my arms around his neck as he effortlessly bounced me up and down on his cock. I was in a complete daze from the pain, the alcohol, the exertion and the pure euphoria. It hurt like hell but it was absolute heaven.

Twenty minutes of his ferocious repertoire had passed before he laid me on my back on the creaky dining table. With my feet pointed to the ceiling and my legs pinned to his chest he had slammed into me repeatedly.

It was not unlike riding on the rickety Grand National roller coaster at Blackpool, I wanted to play with my clitoris but I could do no more than hang on to the sides of the table with whitened knuckles and shaking teeth. I was bruised and sore and slapped all over and I now knew why the table was so wobbly, if every one of his conquests had to endure this it was a wonder that the legs were still attached. I had almost reached the point where I could not take any more when he finally pushed himself fully inside me and shot his warm load up my chuff box.

He stood over me, gasping and heaving, whilst his cock pulsed and twitched inside me and when he finally withdrew he led me to his bed where we lay exhausted and sweaty until we gathered our breath.

He asked me why I had never spoken to him before and I let him know in very plain terms how unapproachable he appeared to be. He took it well and before I knew it we were laughing and joking as I reminded him of a few incidents where he had said or done something to upset or alarm one or other of the girls that hung around with the rugby crowd.

Eventually he had me laughing at his farming and rugby tales and I realised he wasn't quite the inconsiderate brute that he pretended to be in the common room bar. He complimented me on my tits and on my suntan and stroked my butt as he pulled me close to him. We swapped stories of how we had decided on this university and, much later, he gently pushed my head in the direction of his limp cock and I licked and sucked and pulled on his meat until his massive erection returned.

Painful as the first penetration had been, it had not been so bad as to dissuade me from letting him mount me again. I buried my face into the pillow whilst he trickled lube over his cock and drove into me from behind.

This time a slower pace and my own massaging of my clitoris meant that I managed a decent orgasm although I still couldn't be sure that the Bull cared one way or another whether his victims came or not.

It was another ten minutes of slightly less painful penetration before he ejaculated again and when he withdrew I felt his semen run down the back of my legs and I marvelled at the quantity soaking into the sheet.

After it was over I had cuddled close to him for a while and he had asked if I was staying the night. However enough was enough and he had the grace to ring for a taxi to take me back to my Uni digs. When I tried to pay the driver it was explained in bad English that Mr Bull would take care of it and I gathered that they had some long standing arrangement for transporting saddle-sore students safely home.

Some of the girls repeatedly went back for more but I never did even though, every now and then, the Bull would wink at me across the University bar and I would flash a secret smile back at him.