"You never told me this was a nude beach resort," Gabriella said.
"I didn't notice that either," I lied. Not a great way to start our honeymoon, lying, but I knew my shy bride would never had agreed to the idea without trickery, and despite loving her totally, I knew our marriage could only succeed if she shed her convent school prudishness, and the best way to start that would involve getting her to shed a few clothes.
"Oh, God, no!" Gaby exclaimed, reading further in the guest pamphlet. "It says here that Thursday is National Nude Day and that nudity is mandatory. Anyone not taking part must leave the resort from sun up 'til sun down. I hope they offer a good alternative. If not, honeymoon or not, we are going home."
With that, she dropped the brochure on the bed and, sobbing slightly, ran past me, locking herself in the bathroom. I was about to follow, knock on the door, and talk nicely to her, but as I raised my fist to the wood, I reflected on the fact that Gaby, at twenty-six, was easily as good looking as any of the women out there. Her olive skin needed little sun to glisten, and her figure was toned by hours of weekly exercise, a healthy diet and regular sex. Her breasts were large, but still firm. A smile spread across my face as I imagined her bouncing as a player in the nude beach volleyball we had passed on the way to our oceanfront unit.
I was still standing there, arm raised, when Gaby opened the door a moment later, still pouting. "Oh, well," she said, "we've paid for the week, so I guess I'll just have to make the best of it."
"The nudity is optional."
"Except on Thursday."
"So we'll take an excursion. There are lots of sights to see."
"I know what sights you are planning on seeing," Gaby giggled, pointing out the window at a pair of blondes walking across the boardwalk, naked, arm in arm. "What I am wondering is what kind of husband needs this on his honeymoon?"
I considered my reply, not daring reveal my true thoughts about Gabriella needing to loosen up. Perhaps it was a bad way to start a marriage, hiding reservations about the other spouse. Still, Gaby was a dynamo in our bed, and a brilliant artist, who painted dramatic panels splashed with bright acrylics. We had met at a gallery opening. I still recalled that first introduction.
Gaby's friend Carla, who knew me from having dated my college room mate Dwight, said. "Gaby, I want you to meet Seth. You have absolutely nothing in common, so you are perfect for each other. I plan to be your maid of honour in oh, let's say seven months."
We all laughed and then someone had steered Carla away, leaving Gaby and I suddenly alone in the midst of a crowd. "Why did Carla say that about you?" Gaby asked. I recall being impressed that she did not assume any conversation had to be about her.
"I think Carla wonders why I came tonight. I assume she knows why you are here."
Gaby's laugh trilled like a song bird. I might have fallen in love at that moment, drinking in her perfume, admiring how her orange dress set off her skin tone and her blazing eyes, hazel flecked with gold. "I am one of the artists in this show," she explained. "Do you dare tell me which works you like best before I tell you which are mine?"
"That hardly matters. I can tell you are too secure to need my approval."
She had laughed outrageously, deeply roaring like a man, straight from the belly with no pretension to lady like manners. Then she took my arm and gave me an artist's eye tour of the gallery. I became her companion for the evening, but it had ended politely with her giving me her number, and joking I would never call.
Of course, I had to rise to that challenge. I introduced her to my passions for sailing, baseball and hiking. She took me to great restaurants.
Carla was wrong. It was twelve months to the day until our wedding. She was the maid of honour however. Traditionally, it is the best man who toasts the bride, but Carla usurped that right (I later learned she bribed my buddy Kevin with a blow job. On hearing that, I told Kevin he should have held out for a threesome of Carla, him and his wife).
"I said the night that I introduced them that they had absolutely nothing in common, so they ought to make the perfect couple," Carla had slurred and sputtered. "Let's hope that at least the sex is compatible."
It had seemed like she would lift her glass in the toast and then slump back into her seat, yet she added, "Let's just hope they checked that out before the wedding night."
"Why, are you offering to join in and give us lessons?" Gaby had retorted.
"You wish," Carla had offered as she subsided, almost sliding under the table.
My organ had surged at the suggestion. As unlikely as it was that Carla would be conscious later, it was even less likely that Gabriella would do a group scene. She defied any concept of a free spirited artist, at least in the sex department. She was strictly into monogamy, and mainly missionary style. Certainly nothing kinky.
As I stood there at the resort, looking out the window, I recalled our wedding night sex, which had after all just been the day before. After Carla passed out, we cut the cake and disappeared to change. I had tried to start something up, but Gaby was not willing, swatting my hands away, but also laughing, teasing, kissing as she had darted about. This created false hopes for later.
Kevin had driven us to an airport hotel, where we were handy for our flight. I had tried to get Gaby to blow me in the backseat, not just opening my fly but also moving my face into the valley of her breasts, licking the flesh until I had nuzzled her dress aside to expose her swollen nipples. Taking this to be a good sign, I had started nibbling, tugging the tender points away from the mounds. Suddenly though, Gaby had gasped. I later learned that she had made eye contact in the rear view mirror with Kevin. As she had explained, her opinion was that "The idea of someone watching creeps me out."
Kevin had handled the registration earlier, so I just had to carry Gaby up to the bridal suite. I wondered whether Kevin and Carla might stop off on the way home to scratch an itch. When I verbalized that thought, Gaby said, "Oh, gross. He's married. Cheating would be so awful."
I bit my tongue and did not point out that over half of all married people cheat. I had always thought monogamy was overrated, but our wedding night hardly seemed the time for that conversation. Merely finding myself thinking that way had freaked me out.
Fortunately, Gaby had not shirked from consummating the marriage, making a joke about "good Catholic girls know that it isn't official until you try to make a baby."
When she said that, I had almost asked her whether she had packed her convent school uniform for good measure. Her friends had done me one better, throwing a lingerie shower. Gaby had changed in the bathroom, from a need for drama, not shyness. She had hummed "Hey Big Spender" as she had emerged one limb at a time, finally tossing the door fully open to reveal a tiny red camisole over top of an even briefer lace thong. We had slept together many times, and travelled a bit, but Gaby had never been so daring. For a single shining second, I thought either the wedding or Carla had brought a different, freer Gaby. I had liked the sensation. My cock especially responded by surging upwards without being touched.
Gaby had broken the spell when she ran across and dove under the bed covers. "Control yourself, stud," she had giggled nervously, even as she wishfully added, "this is no different than any other night."
"I can tell that," I had replied, "there's no Carla in our bed."
My joke had totally ruined the moment. Gabriella turned her back to me and had turned out the light with an indignant "good night."
If it had ended there, so perhaps would have our marriage. Gaby sobbed herself to sleep while I lay there aroused, unable to doze, torn between thoughts that this was all a huge error, alternating with mental pictures of threesomes with Carla and Gaby.
Sometime a short while later, Gaby had begun stirring in the bed, her hips shuffling against my side. I had instinctively rolled over to spoon up to her, not consciously considering that my cock was still half hard, and that rubbing her thong clad, or virtually unclad, butt would likely add to the stimulation.
I had reached around, still half asleep myself, and hugged Gaby's body tightly to mine. I can not claim that I had thought through any plan. If I had, I certainly would have realized that Gaby never had sex in this position. It reminded her too much of anal sex, something which the nuns apparently thought best suited to sheep and Protestants. Well, I was from a long line of Methodists myself.
Gaby had moved her body against mine as the friction did its work with predictable results. I had become rock hard with a few strokes, still just nestling in the cleavage of her ass, which I presumed to be virginal. I still had not been sure whether Gaby was awake or asleep as she wriggled against me, drawing my hardness more deeply between her cheeks. I had become relaxed, just enjoying the sensation as Gaby's wetness had started staining the sheet beneath us.
Not too relaxed though. As we stood watching the blonde girls walk topless down the beach, I recalled almost wilting in bed the night before, afraid that Gaby might moan some prior lover's name. That had not happened though. Instead, her hands found mine and drew them to her breasts, willing me to squeeze them firmly. Gaby moaned in ecstasy as I had trapped her nipples between my fingers and tweaked them with a gentle but slowly increasingly intense scissoring action.
