Dar Release

(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".)

* * * * *

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 lamé 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."

He explained to her what he was going to do, that it would be 50 minutes long.

"What do you want me to wear?" she said.

Manuel grinned slightly. "It depends on how – how do you say it? – how bashful you are. Normally I just keep you covered with towels. Some women are shy."

Natalie smiled, almost chuckled to herself. "Oh, you don't have to worry about that with me. Shall I just lie down on the table in my robe? And you can do the rest?"

"That would be just fine, Natalie."

She lay down on the table, undoing the robe as she moved, so that Manuel could slide it off her as he replaced it with a sheet, making sure she was covered up. Natalie placed her face in the soft cloth ring at the head of the table. She just smiled at Pierre quickly before placing her face in the ring, and placed her arms down by her side. She had had massages before – she loved them – and knew the routine.

Manuel started at her shoulders. "Now this will be sooooo relaxing Natalie. A regular tennis player, are you. You are very fit. Wonderful thing in a woman."

Pierre watched. Watched Manuel's fingers move into her soft, firm flesh, all down her shoulders to the small of her back. Every few minutes Natalie sighed. Manuel started then on her calves, the strong fingers circling them, lifting them, and then running over the backs of her knees. The backs of her knees were particularly sensitive. "Are you tight anywhere in particular?" he asked. His fingers moved in careful circles up and down the muscles of her thighs, toward her buttocks, neither subtle nor obvious, persistent.

Natalie lifted her head briefly. "As a matter of fact, my butt. If you don't mind."

There was just a flicker of Manuel's eyebrows as he looked over at Pierre and then went back to his work. "Not at all, Natalie." He slowly kneaded his way up the back of her thighs, first one and then the other. Natalie's legs were slightly apart. Pierre wondered how puffy her pussy still was, how pungent the scent, and found his cock growing hard. Natalie had her head turned sideways, her eyes open as Manuel massaged first one buttock, then other. His cock had thickened in his shorts, but hadn't lengthened much, clearly outlined under his shorts about 18 inches from Natalie's eyes. She was watching it. Manuel dug his fingers in, kneaded her firm flesh, pulling her cheeks apart and together. Then he pulled the sheet up.

"The front," he said.

Natalie rolled over. Pierre licked his lips. Her nipples were two hard points, the only points, under the sheet. Manuel worked on her shoulders, her neck, then down her chest to the rise of her breasts, fingers sinking into her soft flesh, her nipples still hidden, but clearly pointed and hard. It was Natalie's sure sign of arousal. Then Manuel moved to her feet, her calves, slowly bent her knee up to stretch her thigh muscles, then put her leg down. Both legs. The sheet was barely covering her pussy. Clinically, professionally, he lifted her leg up, straight this time, stretching her hamstring. There was little he couldn't see with this little manoeuvre. He did it to the other leg also, carrying on as if no one else were in the room, as if there were nothing sexual about the movement. Then he massaged up her thighs, running his thumbs up the inside of her thighs to within a couple of inches of her pussy. Every few minutes Natalie issued a low sound, a half-groan, half moan. Her chest was lifting and falling, nipples creasing the sheet.

Then he was finished, the hour was up. Pierre was almost disappointed. Natalie's face was flushed. She had an exhibitionistic streak, which she had displayed several times since their arrival in Mexico. She knew Pierre would be watching intently, aroused by the scene. It was always arousing for him to watch another man interested in his wife, trying to hold himself back but obviously wanting her. Manuel's cock was hard, and very visible, a fact he didn't bother to hide. Pierre smirked inside. He must meet quite a few couples who get a thrill from this, even if they didn't know it before.

"The desk mentioned a special deal, three for the price of two," said Pierre. "Can you come back, tomorrow, Manuel? We will be playing tennis again, and I am sure Natalie will need another massage."

"Certainly, Sir. Same time?"

"Yes, that would be great!"

Manuel looked down at Natalie lying under the sheet, her two nipples still hard points rising and falling with her breath. She opened her eyes dreamily, pulled her robe around her and sat up slowly, two full rounds of breast displayed briefly before she cinched the robe and slumped, almost drugged, over to the couch. She sank into it sighing and smiling.

Manuel departed, wheeling his bed away. Pierre gave him a $20 tip as he left.

Pierre walked over to the couch, where Natalie was lying flat on her back, her arm over her forehead. "How was that, honey?"

She said nothing. She lifted her knees, her robe parting along her thighs, then falling to the side, her pussy exposed. "Please," she said. "I need to cum. Please. Just fuck me."

"You enjoyed that, did you, sexy girl? That young man's hands on your body, insinuating themselves into your flesh. And his cock, I know you couldn't miss his cock, so clearly outlined in his cute shorts." He parted her robe. As soon as the cloth parted from her waist and exposed her mound, he caught the scent of her wet cunt. Her lips were swollen, puffy and wet, she was lifting her mound and her hips toward him. He lowered his fingers down to her pussy, and slid his fingertips along her swollen, wet cuntlips. "Oooooh baby, yes, you enjoyed that." He slid two fingers inside her and listened to his hissing inhalation of breath.

"Pleeeeasse" she breathed hoarsely.

He lifted his fingers directly to her clit, then down between her lips. They sunk into her so easily, so wetly he was amazed. She gasped and jerked. His cock was straining inside his shorts. With his other hand he pulled his shorts down, and let his hard thick member stand out, erect and shining. He was raging from watching her cum already that day, from watching the muscular Manuel manipulate her body. Through slitted, heavy-lidded eyes she watched him as his hand wrapped around the swollen, ridged shaft. He pumped slowly, steadily, his other fingers working in her wet cleft. He knew it wouldn't take her long, and he knew it wouldn't take him long either. She started to lift and shift her hips more vigorously as he dipped his fingers inside her, and then circled her clit. A drop fell from the tip of his cock onto her belly. She shuddered as she watched. He stroked faster. Neither of them said a word. Soon she was breathing more hoarsely, uttering low grunts as he fucked her with his fingers. Drops fell more freely from the full ripe shiny head of his cock. He started to groan. He was going to spurt any moment. Finally she lifted her hips, her body went completely rigid. It sent him over the edge. As she came, her head thrashing from side to side as he fingered her mercilessly, he shot his own cum over her belly and the back of the couch. Long thick ropes of cum over her skin, on her mound, on her shaking, quaking flesh. They both groaned loud and long.

As the orgasms subsided, Pierre looked down at her, still breathing hard. She had her forearm over her brow now, shielding her eyes. "God," she said. "Thank you."

He wiped himself off on the hem of her robe. In a few minutes, she had drifted into a comfortable late afternoon doze. Such a wanton, needy girl.

When she awoke from her short doze, she went to have another shower, washing away the oil from the massage.

They went to see the folkloric dancing that night. Natalie said she wasn't in the mood for a night out; she didn't know what had come over her. She smiled at Pierre sheepishly. "I just can't get my mind off fucking. Hard, nasty fucking. Maybe something like that show will break the spell."

But it didn't. She wore a loose silk top, and a matching sarong out to the show. Half way through, Pierre saw her fingers scratching along her thigh, then moving into the slit, and finally under the material. Very surreptitiously, but evident to Pierre, she was fingering herself. Her legs started to shift, and Pierre could see her nipples rising and falling against the soft blue silk, hard little points. Soon she was trembling, shuddering as the people around her simply oooohed and aaaahed at the dancing. She moved her fingers out, looking over at him sheepishly, and licked the ends.

Pierre gulped and ran his hand along his hard cock. She was amazing.

Afterward, they walked home, Natalie leaning right into him, almost as if he were a nest, safe and secure, protecting her from something. Maybe herself, Pierre thought. She went straight to sleep.

Next morning, Natalie was up before Pierre. He was awakened by the tapping of her tennis racquet on his thigh, scratching its way up and then lifting his cock. The cool metal of the frame tickled the length of his soft cock, arousing it into semi-hardness. "I'm going out to hit some balls, honey. See you on the court." She leaned down and kissed his lengthening cock, then turned on her heel, twirling her pleated tennis skirt so that he saw she was wearing no panties again.

When Pierre got out to the tennis court, Natalie was sitting on the bench next to the court, in a daze. She was staring straight ahead, and even after she saw him and smiled, she still looked a little stunned. Her cheeks were flushed, although by now her tan was starting to cover up the colour of her face. There was sweat on her upper lip and on her cheeks, and trickling down her throat between her breasts. Her nipples, as always these days it seemed, were hard, penetrating through her tennis shirt.

"Let's go," she said, lifting herself up from the bench like an automaton, heading to her side of the net.

Despite the daze Pierre thought she was in, she just killed him on the court. Even worse than last time. When they met at the net at the end of the match to kiss, Pierre looked at her more carefully. Something was definitely going on in his wife's head, in her entire headspace. "You were a machine out there today! Where did you get all those shots from?"

She nodded, smiled and bit her lip. "I needed to win. I have been focusing all morning." Her gaze suddenly softened a bit, she looked away, nervous, and then looked back at him. "I won, so you have to give me what I want. Right?"

"Sure, baby."

"You have to promise me. You won't be scared."

Pierre raised his eyebrows, thinking of what he might be scared of, but decided he had to say yes, partly because that was part of the game, but also because he was intensely curious about what his wife could want. "I promise."

***

She made him wait in the living room. She slipped out of her tennis dress. She looked at her naked body in the mirror, her glinting navel stud.