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*****
It was just a bit of horse-play. Nothing more. I did not even think before I did it.
We were playing beach tennis, not on the sand, but in the sea, thigh deep, more to cool down and ease the boredom of lying in the sun. It was one of the Spanish resorts where bikini tops were optional, and bikini bottoms miniscule.
Sarah wore just her bikini bottom. She liked to get an even tan, and not have to worry that her evening wear maight bare white skin that had been covered by bikini straps while she tanned. Besides, she is petite, with neat breasts, which meant that they did not cause a problem with the jumping and stretching involved in getting her bat onto the ball, so she was playing hard. We had got a record of forty three hits without a break, and we had agreed to try for the fifty before we stopped.
It happened after one of our better efforts. We got to thirty nine. Sarah's shot went a little wide. I clipped it with the edge of my bat. The ball went high and dropped mid-way between us, plopped into the water, and then popped up again to float teasingly on the surface. Whatever was happening with the tide, it started moving out to sea.
We both half ran, half dived to get it, suddenly in competition. I touched it, but managed only to nudge it away instead of catching it. Sarah grabbed for it, standing triumphant, bat in one hand, ball held in the air with the other, grinning, the water lapping at her waist. She turned to make some space between us. That was when I did it.
It was over exuberance, I guess. Being twenty six does not mean you are mature and sensible. Still being in the extended honeymoon of our marriage, albeit a year after the actual honeymoon, might have explained my acting as if we were alone, and not on a busy beach.
I dived after Sarah, intending to grab her and wrestle her for the ball. She realised what I was doing, turned in the water, and kicked with her feet. Avoiding her legs, my hands found her waist, but she was slippery. Sun lotion, perspiration, sea water, and her slender body shape combined to mean I could not hold her still. My hands slid down, reaching the side ties of her bikini bottom. Then I had something that I could hold onto.
One side opened. Sarah was still twisting and turning in the water, trying to keep her head above the surface. The other side of her bikini bottom stayed tied, but I was still holding it and with her struggling it slid down her leg and off before I even realised. Sarah got away.
I had not got the ball, but I had got something else. Two triangles of black fabric with several inches of black tie string were hanging from my fingers. Still carried away, I balled them into my hand.
"Fetch!" I called to Sarah, throwing the balled fabric out to sea.
"Nooo!!" Sarah shouted back, just too late.
The ball opened as it flew through the air, the triangles separating, becoming wings, the tie strings hanging. I had thrown it as hard as I could, and had the momentum of being wet. It flew twenty feet or so before it hit the water. I watched it float for a few seconds, as first one, and then a second wave lifted it up, and dropped it down again. Then it went below the surface.
Sarah had dropped the bat and ball, and was swimming for her lost bikini bottom, her naked buttocks flashing white in contrast with her tanned, lean body. She reached where the black fabric had disappeared and looked around. Then she dived beneath the water, surfacing again, getting back her breath, diving, surfacing.
I went to help. Both of us went under at least half a dozen times. Neither of us could find it.
"Why the hell did you do that?" Sarah demanded, when both of us had given up.
We were treading water, out of our depth, and still breathless.
"It was just a joke!" I answered, knowing that whatever I said would not be good enough.
I had been pretty stupid, and Sarah now was in the sea, naked, with maybe a thousand people on what was a town beach, myriad hotels forming the skyline behind.
"Some joke!" she said. "Now what am I supposed to do?"
I did think, for a split second, of offering to give her my swimming shorts, but just as rapidly I realised that a man walking out of the sea stark naked would be dealt with more seriously than a woman. I could get arrested. Sarah would just get looks of appreciation. I decided not to make the offer.
"I can get you your towel," I suggested instead.
"How stupid am I going to look like that?" Sarah retorted. "I'll just go naked, but don't think I'll just forget this."
I was still working out the nuances of self esteem that make walking from the sea with a soaked towel wrapped around your body to protect your modesty a worse option that walking stark naked onto a beach where bodies might be mostly bare, but even the most daring of sunbathers wore at least a thong.
But that was how my wife ended up emerging naked from sea onto a busy beach, with families, couples, single guys and single women, groups of teenagers, everyone, all enjoying the Spanish sun and enjoying the sight of a tanned, slim, petite twenty three year old blonde with triangles of pure white skin, front and back, where her bikini bottom no longer protected her from the sun, or from their gaze, with her slit exposed, the hair waxed from her pubis back in London before we had flown out, walking determinedly to where our towels were spread out, followed by her husband, feeling stupid, remorseful, and wondering how he could make amends and get back the romantic holiday relationship that had just been drowned beneath the sea.
Following Sarah, I assumed that she would pull on her shorts when she reached our towels. Her shorts, and a tee shirt were all she had been wearing as we walked down to the beach from our hotel. Her spare bikinis were in out bedroom, so I assumed that we would pack up, and head back, while she cooled off. I failed to allow for just how headstrong my young wife could be.
Once at our towels, Sarah picked up hers, not wrapping it around her waist, but throwing it casually over one shoulder. Then she grabbed her beach bag by the handle, took her sandals by their straps, and walked further down the beach, leaving my things exactly where they were.
Walking down the beach meant weaving between other sunbathers. The towel covered her rear on the left side only. On the right, the white triangle of cute, tight buttock was still bare. I guessed that the front view would be similar. Her daring might have been the result of anger, but I had to admire her nerve.
She stopped as I got to where my towel lay alone and deserted. She spread out her towel in a vacant space, got her book out from her beach bag, and lay down on her front.
You can tell when you are not wanted, when it is best to stay away, when you need to let the temperature come down a few degrees, not that the Spanish sun was likely to let that happen before late afternoon.
I resigned myself to staying with my towel, alone, feeling if not quite in the dog house, at least as if I had been told to stay on my blanket until I had been forgiven.
Lying down reluctantly, I glanced in Sarah's direction. The beach was just too busy. I could not see her. I could still picture her slender body stretched out naked, tense with barely contained rage. I just hoped she would remember to put some high factor lotion where it was most needed.
I got out my own book. Estimating, I thought perhaps two chapters might allow the time that Sarah needed before I should try approaching her, my towel if not my tail between my legs, to apologise and try to make amends. Meanwhile, the action guy who was the hero of my novel, had to locate a bomb in a New York department store and defuse it before it would explode. Compared to defusing the time bomb that was my wife, I thought his task was easy.
The bomb was in a brand new suitcase that had been left with a display range, so that no one would notice one more case. Carefully open the case, fingers checking for hidden catches that might set off the charge before lifting the lid right up. Key in the disarming code. Mop your brow. I wondered if there was a disarming code for wives.
It must have been an hour. I put my book away, got up, picked up my towel and my bag, and walked down the beach. I saw her, and I stopped. I was disarmed. There was a guy beside her, well built, deep tan, short cut jet black hair, buttock baring, minimal, red thong.
Sarah was on her front, or nearly. She was propped up on one elbow, facing slightly towards the guy. He was on his side, facing her. Whatever he was saying, she was laughing.
I could not just walk away. Getting up my nerve, I walked towards the two of them.
It was as if nothing had happened between us. We were the best of friends.
"Hi, darling. I wondered where you'd got to. This is Franco. He's been keeping me company til you got back," Sarah said, beaming a smile at me.
I knew her, and other women, well enough to know that this did not mean that I had been forgiven. That smile signalled danger.
"Hola, signor," the guy said, giving me just as broad a grin. I could not help noticing the bulge of his red package.
The Australians call them budgie smugglers. Judging by its size, I reckoned this was less a sweet innocent little budgie, and more a bird of prey, straining for release. He caught me looking, and just grinned some more. Even his nose was curved like an eagle's beak. There is something they say about the size of your nose.
He got up, offering me his hand. I am English. If a guy offers you his hand, you shake it, even if he has been chatting up your wife, has been enjoying her naked body, and has a package encased with the colour known to attract more attention than any other. I shook his hand.
"Okay," he said. "I will leave you."
That was good to hear. What came next was not so good.
"I see you later, yes," he said to Sarah. "Half to eight?"
"See you later," Sarah confirmed.
He gave me that wide grin again, and left, buttocks tautening alternately as he walked away.
