(Natalie and Pierre are on vacation in Puerto Vallarta, where they play tennis for the right to dictate the control for their amorous activities. There are two previous installments: "Such Release" and "Deeper Release".)
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Pierre stood silently in the doorway. It was 11:30 in the morning. Natalie was lying on her stomach on the bed, breathing silkily. Sleeping? No: her buttocks were moving, squeezing and lifting slightly, her back expanding and contracting with her breath. Her legs shifted apart, silvery in the curtained morning light. Then lifting faster. A muffled groan into her pillow. Her hips writhing as she fucked her hand underneath her. Like an electrocution: a muscular tensing of her entire body, then jolt after jolt, her back, buttocks and thighs rippling with each shock. Then the pulse dying, spasm after slower spasm.
She was unaware of him. He had a good view of exquisite dunes of her body: her left side from here, and her right side in the mirrored sliding doors of the closet. Softly, he returned to the living room, tossing aside his National Geographic Adventure magazine. His cock was so hard. He brooded and looked out at the blue ocean sky. They would miss their tennis match today.
It was just after one o'clock in the afternoon when she finally did surface. Her eyes fluttered shut and open where she stood in the doorway, her hands out on either side of the doorjamb. She was wearing a t-shirt, nothing else, the one foot resting on the other, her perfect leg bent at the knee. Her dark red hair fell down to her shoulders. Her lips were parted, her breasts rising and falling slightly. Her eyes kept fluttering, almost glazed, hypnotic.
"Hi honey." She slid one of her hands over her bare thigh, gliding her fingertips over her mound under the hem of her t-shirt. "Hmmmmmm. God." She craned her neck up and shook her hair out, her nipples bouncing.
"Hi, my lovely girl. Awake yet?"
She smiled. She walked over to the edge of the balcony, kissed his forehead, then turned, her fingers slipping under the hem of her t-shirt again. "God." His eyes widened as she closed her eyes, bent slightly and slid her fingers down between her legs, and then back out. "Fuck."
"What is it, baby?"
She exhaled noisily. "Just thinking. About last night." She started to slide her fingers back down between her legs then stopped, blushing slightly.
He could smell her scent: the scent of her masturbating earlier, the scent of her pussy right now, and the scent of fucking from last night. She picked up the other girl's gold lamΓ© top from the coffee table and let it slide through her fingers. "Lara," she said dreamily, an indulgent crooked half smile on her face, "quite a girl." She leaned back against the balcony, facing him. As she lifted her elbows to lean against the balcony wall, her t-shirt rose to reveal her soft mound, her neatly trimmed pussy lips. They were pink and puffy. The tip of her clit, glistening pink, peeked out.
She went to the kitchen, poured them both a coffee. "I'll just be a few minutes," she said, taking a slice of melon with her back to the bedroom.
He heard the shower turn on and then off. Odd. He got up and went to the door of the bedroom, where again he saw her reflected in the full-length mirror. She was naked, her t-shirt on the floor. She was leaning back against the curtained window, her legs spread, her fingers moving fast in and out of her cunt. She started to press her fingers down hard on her wet clit, stroking and circling, slowly bending at the waist, arching her back. She tensed and groaned, her body shuddering as she came suddenly, silhouetted in the sunlight, her breasts bouncing, nipples like small eyes. A quick intense orgasm. He was puzzled. They had masturbated often enough for each other; why was she being so private now? Then she opened her eyes, looked up at him. Caught. He smiled.
"Oh fuck. Oh honey." She turned deep red, then giggled nervously. "I just couldn't help it. I'll be fine now." She slumped on the bed, her ass on the edge, slouched forward, her breasts hanging down. "I need a shower."
He wasn't sure why, but he was feeling particularly driven, nasty, as he looked at her flushed skin. "Yes," he said. "You smell like cunt."
She looked up at him, blushing deeper. She was in an unusual mood.
"Feel better now?"
She nodded.
"We missed our tennis game."
She smiled sheepishly. "I know. I suppose it's too hot to go out now."
"That's okay. I have a little surprise for you. Something you'll like." He looked at his watch.
Her lips parted. "Uh huh?" He told her about the massage he had booked for her.
She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, as if shaking herself free from a spell. "God. Perfect." She leaned down and kissed his lips. "Where is the spa? God I'm so spaced out."
He shook his head. "No spa. They just come up here with all the stuff. Wheel the table right in."
She nodded slowly, as if she were recording the information on some hard drive. She went back to the bedroom, and he could hear the hair blower going. He had never seen her like this, so dazed. She finally re-appeared in the living room in her robe, her hair dry, and walked out to the balcony, sitting opposite him. "What time is she coming?"
"Three o'clock. But I think it's a he."
She was leaning back looking out at the beach down below, deep in thought. She had applied her lipstick and her nail polish: dark red lips, glossy, and dark red nails, also glossy. The breeze was licking at her cotton robe. She spread her thighs, looking up at him, one leg straight and the other bent. She had that same stare, almost glazed over, almost apologetic.
Her hand went straight down to her pussy, he saw her fingers glide softly over her shaven lips.
"Fuck," she said.
She was doing it again. It was as if the woman before him was not his wife but a haunted replica of her, lost in some trance. He felt his cock grow. "You're quite the wanton girl today."
She nodded, and closed her eyes, whimpering. She moved her other hand down and spread her pussy lips, showing him the glistening opalescent skin of her inner lips. The fingers of her other hand slid slowly up and down her wet slit, her fingernail like a dark red bullet circling her clit as her hips lifted in arousal. He heard suck in her breath. Her hips were lifting rhythmically, the robe falling down the sides of her legs, her inner thighs taut with strain.
He studied her, amazed. It was as if she were enfolded in some hypnotic envelope of heat and desire, uncontrollable. Soon, he could hear the wet sounds of her fingers moving in and out of her cunt, her sultry eyes focusing on his for a second and then drifting away. He leaned forward toward her and she quickly shook her head, just slipped two fingers inside her pussy and dragged them up over her clit. He could see she was getting close, her robe now open, her hard nipples swaying back and forth in the shadows of the sunlight. Then she gasped, shuddered, and the wetness covered her fingers as the spasms gripped her. "oohhhhhhhh fuckkkkkkkkk!"
She pressed her fingers hard over her mound as the spasms continued and then slowed, low groans floating away on the breeze. Finished, she gathered the robe around herself, her eyes fluttering closed and open.
There was a loud knock at the door. Pierre's eyes widened, then he looked up at Natalie, and smiled slowly. "Your massage."
She uttered a low grunt, a low intake of breath.
His name was Manuel, he said. Behind the massage table on wheels, he stood, tall, athletic, with a tight white t-shirt over his muscular chest, and tight white shorts, almost like tennis shorts, made of some stretchy material, like you see on tv aerobics shows. His long legs were typically dark, with clean white running shoes on his feet. Through his tight white t-shirt, his pecs were prominently etched, his nipples almost as evident as a woman's. He looked completely professional, but for one thing. Pierre smirked to himself. His cock, which Pierre imagined must not be erect, looked easily 7 inches long down the side of his thigh. Pierre guessed it was a sort of an advertisement, for extra services, if you liked what you saw.
"My name is Pierre." Pierre stood aside for him to wheel the table in. Manuel smiled at him, then looked at Natalie critically standing there leaning against the balcony door, silhouetted by the sunlit sky, her third orgasm of the day fading from her like a slow pink sunset. Pierre watched him put the brakes on the wheels, and take some towels from the shelf under the table.
"And this is Natalie. She's the one who is having the massage. She's a little tight from tennis."
Natalie moved from the balcony door as Manuel extended his hand. In that Latin way he was quite open about his perusal and enjoyment of the female form. "A pleasure to meet you, Natalie. A few sore muscles from tennis? We'll fix that."