Sharing Tori

We had used the wrong door.

It was only afterwards that we realised. By then we had left the sauna, and we were walking past the other door. Beside that second door was the signage that said that it was reserved for couples only.

By then it was too late. Having used the wrong door, we had paid our forty euros entrance charge and had been given towels, and a wrist band, that somehow operated the lockers banked in the next room. Put your clothes inside. Close the door. Touch the wrist band to the lock. It took a guy who was dressing to leave, to explain how it to us, but it worked.

Not that much dressing or undressing needed to take place. This was Cap d'Adge. The naturist village. It was the evening, so most people outside the sauna were dressed, whether for dinner, or for clubbing later, and whether casual, holiday style, or bare as you dare, Agde style.

We had decided that shorts and tops were all we needed. We had eaten at our tent, and just planned to spend the evening inside the sauna. No other bars or clubs. We slipped off our things, folded them, and put them in the locker. Closed the door. I was already wearing the wrist band. I touched the lock. Checked the door. It stayed firmly closed.

We looked at each other.

"Do we wear these, or just carry them?" Tori asked me, referring to our towels.

"I guess just carry," I suggested, thinking that wrapping a towel round your waist in a sauna in a naturist resort, made no sense.

I shouldered mine. Tori held hers in one hand by her side. A bead curtain was all that separated the changing area from whatever was inside. Music, certainly. Low, gentle, relaxing tracks. Some conversation audible. I used my free arm to ease the bead strands to one side, and let my wife go first.

The room just beyond had a bar at the far side, stylishly presented, low lighting, in shades of purple. The seating was double width. The kind of seating you can lie on. One couple was enjoying a full length section, using towels between the vinyl of the cushioning and their bare skin. Her head was on his shoulder. Her hand was at his cock, stroking slowly the hard shaft.

Three men were standing by the wall to the right, on either side of two doorways that led further in. They were watching the woman's hand, one of them even openly stroking his thickly erect cock while he watched. All three men, no doubt, wishing it was their cock that she was playing with.

Several more men were at the bar, three just talking quietly, another two also watching the couple, while now checking out the new arrivals, my wife and I, as we hesitated, uncertain just where to head to and what to do.

"Shall we explore first?" I suggested.

Tori took my hand.

"Sure," she said.

In fact, the first doorway on the right did not have an actual door. It led into a corridor. The one beside it had a door of black wood or steel with inset glazing, smoked so as to be obscure, with a silhouette in black of a cigarette and some curls of smoke. Neither of us smokes. I led my wife through the entrance to the corridor instead.

A short corridor. Framed photos on the walls. Black and white. Close ups of cocks penetrating depilated cunts. Then a turn to the right. Doors off, on either side, black, but no glazing on these doors. A handful of men lounging in this corridor, cocks tumescent. I opened a door and we looked in. An empty play-space. A double bed. No headboard. Just the frame and the vinyl mattress. For private play. With whoever was invited.

I guessed the other doors would lead to similar rooms, and led Tori past them, and past the guys as well, sensing their looks. At her. Not me.

Hardly surprising, although I guessed that they would have looked at any woman, wondering. But Tori tended to get looks. Petite, bubbling black hair, hour-glass figure, I married her for the way we had connected from the moment that we met, but her exquisite body helped me make that promise, to love and cherish, til, and you will know the rest. Any man would want to fuck her, other than the ten percent, that is.

A right-angled left and more corridor, with a glazed window into one of the playrooms. Clear glass. For those outside to watch. Another left and a group of eight or ten guys, all huddled to one side, where the corridor widened into a larger space.

We stopped to check out the reason for the huddle, and had to peer between male heads and shoulders to see the threesome on the vinyl mattressed bed. Easier for me, at my height, than for my wife, to see the action taking place.

My first time to see a threesome, live. The woman in the middle, on her hands and knees, sucking on guy's cock. The other slowly fucking from behind. She would have been forty something, blond, with generous breasts swaying with each thrust.

The guy whose cock she sucked would have been around her age. The other, maybe thirty, a decade younger. The one enjoying her lips around his cock, her husband, I guessed, enjoying his wife's mouth, while allowing one of the men who were clearly on their own, but hopeful of this kind of scene, to fuck her cunt. The single guy's cock sheathed in a condom, I noticed. But sizeable enough for her to enjoy regardless of the latex between skin and skin.

A guy moved out from in front of us, and I moved in closer, curious at the scene, still holding Tori's hand. She moved in beside me, as close to me as she could get. I sensed some guys move in behind us, presumably also wanting to get a better view.

Best case, if you are single, you get to fuck a willing wife, while a consenting husband let it happen and looks on. Second best, you get to watch a scene like this, live action, only feet away. Coming in a poor third, you see some naked women, and imagine what you would like to do, had you half a chance.

Then there was a variation on the second best, a couple of the voyeurs closest to the vinyl mattress edge, were stroking the woman's back and butt. Another was reaching beneath her, cupping her swaying nipple with his upturned palm. Enjoy the scene and get to touch and fondle too.

Whether I would have paid, without the certainty of fucking, I was not sure, but these guys had. Although I have Tori, and can fuck her any time, so I have no need to find another woman in a club like this.

While we watched, the guy behind the blonde arched his back and drew back his head. He stopped moving, his cock deep in her as it could go. He was holding her butt on either side, to keep things deep. Moments later, he withdrew, cupping his cock, and moving off the mattress, his semen safe in latex.

The husband nodded imperceptibly to another of the men, also around thirty. He moved into the vacated space, kneeling between the woman's legs, and slid his already sheathed cock into her cunt. His lucky night. Best case scenario achieved.

We watched a moment, Tori's hand holding mine tightly. Then I guided her away, easing between the men who had moved in to standing behind us. One, I noticed, let his hand trail against Tori's butt as we moved on. I wondered just what that hand might have been doing while I had been focussed on the scene. Or whether other hands had fondled her as well.

If they had, I thought, then that is what we can expect. Another variant of the second best scenario, or maybe of the third as well. Fondling female flesh, even if you do not get to fuck. A turn on in itself, to think about at home while you jack off. It was rapidly becoming clear, these guys would try it on.

Just marginally further down, a doorway on our right led into a room with showers and a large, glass sided hot-tub. Two men were showering, as was one woman. Three men were in the tub, just chilling, if that word can be used in the context of a sauna, or the temperature that that water would have been.

"Do you want to try the tub?" I asked my wife, wondering if she would be put off by the men already sitting there.

"Maybe in a bit," she said.

"Go back and get a drink?" I suggested, as the alternative.

"Sure," she said.

So we went back, past the scene with the guys watching the threesome, noticing that in another room we had not registered before, a massage table could be made out in the dim lighting, through the open door, several guys around it, one at the end, rhythmically thrusting, a woman's legs against his shoulders, feet in the air.

I was tempted to go in, but instinct told me to just head back the way that we had come, past the waiting men, back to the bar. We had seen live action sooner than I had thought would happen. I was not yet sure how Tori felt about it all. We had discussed just checking out the club, and maybe making out ourselves, no more than that. Not Tori being shared.

The couple who had been on the seating were no longer there. The same men as before were still there, or pretty much the same, with maybe two or three new arrivals. A mix of thirty up to sixty something. Mostly tanned. Mostly white, or rather European. A couple of Middle Eastern looking guys. One black guy, thirties. One Indian, or that sub-continent, likely over fifty. All men.

Several were wearing towels round their waists. Most were not. The visible cocks were all tumescent, not yet erect, but thickened in hopeful anticipation. No pubic hair. Removed. No sign of stubble. Maybe waxed. For cleanliness, or for the look, or to emphasise the size. Basic advertising. Make sure the potential customers can see what is on offer.

"Negroni," Tori confirmed, when I asked her.

So that was what I ordered. That and a diet Coke. I prefer not to drink too much alcohol before sex, although I was not sure where we could fuck. In one of those private rooms. Maybe that one with the window to the corridor. Coke worked for me. The liquid, not the powder. Alcohol can be relaxing, but I do not like to be too relaxed.

They had made space for us at the bar, and Tori was beside me. Two of the men moved behind Tori while we were watching the barman make the Negroni. They might have been waiting to order. On the other hand, they might not.

The general assumption, even in the naturist village, is that the rules of personal space are adhered to. No touching by those you do not know. Casual touches of the arms, once talking, to make connection, was of course the norm, as anywhere. Kisses happened, exchanged to say hello or goodbye, on cheeks. No uninvited touches of female breasts or genitals of either sex. Hugging, reserved for seriously close friends, or perhaps someone you might have fucked in one of the several clubs, or back at one of your apartments.

There seemed to be no such rules in the sauna. Close and personal was fine. One of the men had put his hands on Tori's shoulders, his chest against her back. There was no way his cock could be anywhere except against her butt.

He saw me noticing, and gave an understanding nod and smile, and it was really only then I fully got it. The couples here came to enjoy the attention of the single guys who paid a premium rate to enter. Tori was an available woman. I was a husband, or partner, clearly willing to share, or even eager, or we would not be there. That was the whole modus operandi of the club. The willingness to share.

The guy beside him clearly felt the same. He had reached around my wife. His hand was fondling Tori's breast. Cupping it. Covering the width of her areola, and my wife's areolas are as wide as areolas come. Fingering her teat.

In some stores they put up signs on the displays asking customers not to handle the merchandise. This was the opposite. The merchandise was there precisely to be handled. Fondled. Caressed. Just assumed. It was the way it worked. Take it as a compliment. Their acknowledgement of your good taste in women, or your good fortune. People only handle goods that interest them.

We should have used the couple's door, had we known. It was only later we discovered that it led to an entirely different set of rooms, with a single, adjoining door, unlocked only by a couple with their electronic wristband. Couples used those other spaces to exchange partners stayed on their side of that single door. The side we had come in, was for those interested in random single men.

**********

The sun was blazing hot, as it was every day that we were there, and we had spent the morning lazing on beach towels on our beach sheet before deciding to take a walk along the shore-line.

We left our things. We bring no valuables to the beach. Those were in our car beside our tent. No swimwear. None worn by anyone. Not here. Not on this length of beach. No flip-flops. We left those with our towels. No one would take them. It was just ourselves, walking barefoot in the sand.

At a guess, that beach must hold a few thousand people at its peak, all lying naked, when they were not either bathing in the sea, or walking, like ourselves, the select few hiring loungers at the beach bars, most of us just lazing on the sand, on towels, or beach sheets.

From the built village, with the apartments, stores, restaurants, bars and clubs, as far as the furthest beach bar, fifteen minutes walk on down, the front of house location, closest to the sea, is always full, with some just behind, mostly couples, a few groups of friends, some families, even some kids, playing in the sand. No action here.

From that last beach bar onwards, the beach is always packed like sardines, six or seven rows deep, although never even rows, no pattern visible, just towels and beach sheets filling every space, no patch of sand unoccupied, sun umbrellas spoke to spoke, lotioned bodies everywhere, right to the section where the gays hung out, both metaphorically and literally, loving couples, no different from any of the hetero couples, except both male, and beyond that, the beach gradually becoming sparser until you reach the signage saying that the naturist area ends here.

People walked right where the sea water coloured the sand brown, and made it firm. It was the only way to get from one end to the other. Try to walk on the sun drenched, dry, soft sand, and it would take more effort with your thighs, the soles of your feet would burn like walking on hot coals, and, anyway, finding a route between sunbathers would mean zigzagging in between, and ducking under spokes of sun umbrellas all the way.

So the hard sand on the shoreline was always busy. Two-way traffic, mostly couples hand in hand, like us, but just one lane, so continually swerving round each other, or giving up and walking in the shallows, splashing as you went.

Except we walked on auto-pilot, too into each other to pay attention to those around us. There were just the two of us. No one else. When you need to talk, no one else in relevant. Just the hand that you are holding as you walk.

"Are you okay?" I asked Victoria, looking down to see her face, in profile. Tori. My wife.

It was time we talked. That night we just cuddled up and slept. Then breakfast at the camp-site cafe in the morning, deciding how we would like to spend the day. Sunbathing, was the usual answer. That day was no different. Towels, lotion, books, and drinks. But nothing said about the night before. Not yet.

"Are you?" she asked me back, turning her head and looking up to meet my gaze.

It was not a trite response. I could hear the love and care and concern in her voice. That was genuine. But then my asking her had been just as loving too.

"I mean," she added, hesitantly, "are you okay,.. with what happened?"

I was taking in the woman I was walking next to, whose hand was so comfortably in mine. For those, like me, who like petite, she is a ten. Cute body, good legs, delightful breasts, wonderful black hair, and those sea blue eyes that were looking up at mine.

Real talk requires thought, finding the right words, expressing how you feel as sensitively as you can, avoiding any inference of blame, saying it the right way, so I took a moment, and it was a few paces on, that I began to answer.

"I was kind of surprised," I said. "But kind of impressed,.. as well."

"I wasn't expecting,.." she said.

"I don't think either of us was," I said.

"I mean,.." she went on. "They were much more full on than I expected."

I thought back to that moment at the sauna bar when it had clicked, when I had realised what it was all about. When those guys had been fondling Tori, while acknowledging that she was with me.

That was when the guy on my left had said something, in French, and I had had to say I had not understood, and he had used broken English to ask if it was our first time in the sauna, and to welcome us.

By which time another guy had subtly moved between Tori and myself, and when I turned back, there were three of them, surrounding her, and fondling her. The new guy's hand clearly caressing her, but, judging by the angle of his arm, not her breast. His hand was lower. Intimately low. The barman needed to be a little faster mixing my wife's cocktail and my own drink.

I remembered thinking about that word. It suited what was going on. That guy behind my wife, whose hands were lower now, not on her shoulders, more like at her waist, was still right up against her. To him, I guessed, she was a piece of tail, and his cock had to be right there, nudging up against her tail. Hanging thickly, or maybe solidly erect by now. His private cock-tail.

"We should have used the other door," I said, avoiding a couple coming towards us, the guy pulling a sack trolley laden with their folded-up beach loungers, sun umbrellas, and everything else that they had used, before heading back to their apartment.

I meant the door that led directly to the couples' changing space, the couples' bar, the couples' hot tub, the couples' sauna, and the two large couples only mattressed spaces where the couples played. But Tori would have known which door I meant.

"It might have been a gentler intro to the scene." I added.

"I didn't expect so many guys," she said, "or that they'd,.."

"You did look incredible," I told her. "I mean, before you showered."

"I must have looked a mess," she said. "Weren't you disgusted?"

"Did I seem to be?" I asked her. "I loved fucking you after what had happened."

"That was nice," she said. "I really needed it by then."

After her shower, we had found a space amongst the couples. We had not taken in the door, until a couple came through while we were walking past, and we explored, and found the other section of the club.

I had licked out Tori's cunt, taking my time, enjoying the taste of her, and the perfect smoothness of her depilated mons, while replaying in my mind what had happened in the other space.

Her moans and cries of pleasure had blended with those from other couples near us. Whether it was my tongue, or the woman's hand that had reached across to find her breast, or both, the shuddering climax that she had reached was just exquisite. To give a woman that much pleasure is more rewarding than to fuck her selfishly, just for your own release.

Of course, I had then fucked her, moving up Tori's delightful body to take possession of her, and reclaim her as my wife. Luxuriating in the wetness of her cunt. However wet she gets, it still feels tight, the difference in our sizes ensuring that my girth eases into her, and the million nerve receptors of my mushroom cock head always spasm so deliciously as I sink ever deeper into her, and as we fuck, relishing each and every thrust.

Slow fucking. I might have chosen to punish her with my cock. I might have fucked her hard and fast, but even while still replaying in my head what I had just seen her do, I had wanted to express the love I felt for her, and so I had fucked her gently.

Besides, slow fucking means not coming sooner than you want to, prolonging the pleasure of easing in and out of slick, warm, all embracing cunt, pleasure shared, cock and cunt both pulsating to every movement that you make.