When I opened my hotel room door I found my husband naked and spread-eagled on the bed. A young black girl was riding him like a banshee. She bounced on him wildly, her head tossing to and fro as her lithe form gyrated madly on his cock. My husband's hands gripped her hips in a desperate attempt to keep her from flying right off him. His eyes were squeezed half-shut and his teeth were clenched in agonizing ecstasy. I saw his pale cock slashing in and out of her dark brown depths. They were having the time of their lives.
"Oh, hi, Honey," he said, moving his head to look around his dancing prize and smiling at me. "I lost you in the crowd.
Without missing a beat, the girl turned her head to look at me. She shot me a dazzling smile of perfect white teeth then turned back to pay attention to the job she was doing to my man.
I turned to the skinny Rasta man I'd brought with me.
"We're late," I told him while grabbing his hand and yanking him into the room. I slammed the door and pulled my t-shirt off in a heartbeat. I pressed my naked breasts against his still sweaty chest and French kissed him hungrily. He took his cue and his strong hands grasped my buttocks and hoisted me into the air. He dumped me on the room's other bed and stripped my short-shorts and panties off me in one smooth motion. It took him five seconds to get naked and his charcoal colored body was on me. He expertly found my hole and his long, thick snake pushed inside me in one long, rapid stroke.
I shrieked. I had never been so full in my life.
"Kyto don't make no joke," he laughed as he started pounding away in me. By his forth stroke I exploded in a thunderous orgasm as his dreadlocks whipped across my face.
......
I met Kyto by accident.
It was carnival in the Caribbean and my husband, Bill, and I had opted to attend one of the many spontaneous street dances, or tramps, as they called them.
The crowd dancing and swaying down the street was enormous. A sea of people undulated in a winding river of lascivious motion in time to the loudest band I'd ever heard. I was taken aback by the kind of dancing that was going on. Men were hanging onto women from behind, rapidly grinding and rotating their crotches into the backsides of the women in front of them. The women, bowed slightly forward, were pushing their ample derrières back into the men with even more raucous movements.
I gaped. I had never known women could move their bodies in the manner these native women were.
"Come, on, Anna! Let's get into the fun," my husband yelled and dragged me into the crowd.
The heavy, heavy beat of the bass drum was impossible to resist and I instantly fell into time with the crazy street rhythm. My husband's arms snaked around my waist and I suddenly felt his crotch against my butt. He started moving his waist in a crude imitation of the other males around us.
The crowd moved us forward and down the street. Beside us, two girls had a guy sandwiched between them. The girl in front was bent almost to the ground as her rump made contact with an obvious bulge in his pants. The girl behind had her arms around his waist and was pressing her crotch hard against his bucking butt.
Oh my God! I was getting wet between the legs out here in public with thousands of people around me.
The sandwiched man next to me raised a leg high in the air, getting a tighter fit against the bum of the girl in front. The crowd pushed us forward but I turned my head to look back at them. My last glimpse was of him grabbing a third girl from the crowd and roping her into his rowdy embrace.
This was going on all around us. The band had the crowd whipped into a sweaty, vibrating, clothes-on orgy.
I felt my husband's motion change behind me. It suddenly became smoother, more rhythmic, more sure of itself. I smiled. Maybe calypso music would make a better lover out of my husband.
I reached my hand back to touch my man and jumped in shock. It wasn't my husband's arm I'd grasped. I looked behind me to see a skinny Rasta man, head raised to the sky, mouth open and head swaying in unbridled, unrestrained joy. He noticed that I'd noticed him.
"No worry. No problem, white lady," he said in a rich accent. "Have fun, miss, have fun!"
I looked franticly left and right in the crowd for my husband.
"No worry, no worry," the Rasta Man chanted. "Your man done find a princess to wuk up on."
The music was hypnotic and this Caribbean youth certainly knew what he was doing. His body moving against mine, touching me in ways I had never felt before. I felt like a sexual being, like this street dancing was what my body had been designed for. He was smooth against me. The shifting of his waist was timed incredibly to something inside me. His every move dragged me deeper and deeper into a sexual miasma that was new to me. I lost my sense of caring, my sense of time, my inhibitions. I drifted off into the music and the sensation of this stranger moving so intimately behind me. I forgot all about my husband.
My pussy leaked and I trembled in orgasm right there in the street.
.....
All too soon the tramp was over. We were at a ramshackle circle of gaily painted wooden buildings. Booths, they called them. People were crowded up to each of them calling for drinks and food.
"Come," the Rasta Man said. "I get you the best sea moss on the island."
Sea moss? I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
He led me by hand through the mingling, sweat soaked crowd. Another band was playing on a wooden stage in the middle of the booths. Some people were dancing, some were standing and talking. Everyone was dressed in shorts and brightly designed t-shirts.
"This is Mamie," the Rasta said, introducing me to a heavy set middle-aged black woman. She had a handkerchief tied around her head and a stained flower print apron around her waist.
"Kyto. I ain't see you in God's ages. What you doing, boy?" She exclaimed when she saw us. "And who you bring me now?"
Kyto grinned in a carefree way that I soon realized was his trademark.
