The Whole Enchilada

This tale is the fourth and final story in the tetralogy

Mexican Bedtime Stories

. "The Whole Enchilada" (

or

"Two Pink Tacos and a Burrito To Go")

can be read on its own or as the conclusion to

(1) "The Mexican Stand-off", (2) "Sugar Papito"

and

(3) "The Three Amigos".

*************************

The end of our Mayan Riviera vacation was upon us. Our last full day of carefree bliss had arrived too soon; tomorrow afternoon, my husband and I would be boarding our plane to return home to snow, work, bills, and banal squabbles among ourselves and our children.

Despite these thoughts, I was determined to enjoy our final day on the clothing-optional beach of our resort. Initially, for the first few days of our vacation, I had gone topless while wearing a variety of tiny thong bottoms. Although I had imagined tanning nude when we booked our trip, I wavered upon our arrival, for no other women were lounging

au naturel

. My hesitancy was also due, in part, to my very smooth vulva. I had suffered through a Brazilian wax before our travel, so I was bashful of baring myself so completely, even in front of strangers whom I would never again see.

However, within days the sun and heat weakened me. But perhaps more importantly, my inhibitions evaporated due to my exchanges with my husband, Chris. Throughout our marriage, I had guarded the details of my sex life from my single days. However, Chris seemed determined to pry them from me, and he succeeded several days into our holiday when I finally succumbed, telling him about a one-night stand with a handsome young stranger. In retrospect, it was no coincidence that the very next day I resolved to tan nude on the beach.

With the baring of both my body and my secrets, our lovemaking turned torrid, spurring me to tell my husband more. The climax of my tales had occurred two days ago when I recounted the indelicate details of an orgiastic weekend with three men during which I became the willing object of their lust. It was a story I had intended to keep concealed, but, in the throes of sex and booze, I weakened and surrendered it to Chris.

After disclosing the events of that wanton affair, I worried over potential fallout—specifically, my husband's reaction. However, my concerns were unnecessary; his response was delightful, and he remained true to his word, never once uttering a disparaging or derogatory comment. Indeed, we had grown closer than ever.

On the morning of our last day, after coffee and breakfast, we returned to our room to prepare for our final day in the sun. Chris went to the beach ahead of me to stake a spot while I stayed behind to prepare myself. Some stubble had emerged on my mound and outer labia, so I wanted to shave to make it as smooth as possible for my last day of public display.

After running some hot water, I climbed into the tub to soak for a few minutes before smearing my legs with gel and quickly shaving them. I then turned my attention to my pussy. With my thighs splayed, I pulled my skin taut for the razor to scrape my vulva as close as possible. My first pass with the razor was with the grain.

After I finished my initial shave, I rinsed and then took the Astroglide, a fresh razor, and a towel and padded to the bed. There, I lay back on the towel, spread myself apart, and smeared the lubricant over my newly sheared vulva. I now shaved again, only this time against the grain, leaving my mound and outer labia as smooth as silk. As soon as I was done, I returned to the tub and rinsed with cold water to close my pores, suppressing any irritating and unsightly after-shave bumps and marks. After patting myself dry and applying moisturising lotion, I examined myself with a hand mirror and was pleased that on either side of my protuberant flaps my outer labia were polished, sleek, and blemish free.

For beachwear, just like the last few days, I intended to wear nothing. But to enhance my nudity, I again wore my waist chain with its string of links that hung down my thigh and brought deliberate focus to my hairless vulva. I also decided to wear a pair of non-piercing nipple dangles, an anniversary gift from Chris, which latched onto my tits

via

adjustable circular rings. To attach the dangles, I had to pluck and tweak my nipples until they became sufficiently erect. It didn't take very long at all. Once fastened, the gentle but constant squeezing by the dangles stimulated me in a most delightful way. I added to my look by donning a thick turquoise necklace and matching bracelet and finished by applying some light make-up and lipstick and raising my hair into a loose bun.

I slipped into a pair of bright red wedge sandals, put on my oversized sunglasses, and arranged my sun hat on my head. My eyes widened in wonder when I stood in front of the mirror. Prominent at the calmest of times, my inner lips were now inflated, extruding and ballooning out of my bald outer labia, visibly proclaiming my arousal.

"Oh, you horny slut," I murmured aloud, my eyes still glued on the reflection of my flushed, meaty flaps. Had I not been anxious to get to the beach, I could have easily indulged myself with the vibrator.

I had intended to wear a thong for my stroll to the beach, but the glowing between my legs and the sight of my blatantly aroused sex seduced me into forgoing a G-string. Furthermore, I even debated walking without my kimono—such was the intensity of my sexual charge. But in the end, I lacked courage and donned the robe; however, I compromised by leaving it daringly unfastened, secure in the knowledge of its availability for cover should the need arise.

Walking like this, essentially nude, left me breathless. The waist chain and other jewellery along with the open robe were all fuel for the fire blazing in my core. These accoutrements brought my nakedness into focus for anyone who walked by me during my trek to the beach. The trinkets around my neck and wrist and my high-heeled wedge sandals, although incongruous given my lack of attire, served only to emphasise my exposure. My unfastened kimono, streaming on either side of me as I strolled, centred the eyes of any passer-by on my naked torso; thereafter, the racy dangles highlighted my bare tits and erect nipples while the risqué strand of waist chain hanging down my thigh drew attention to my freshly shaved cunt with its swollen, glistening folds.

As I walked along the shaded path, I glimpsed Tito the bartender coming the other way. But instead of battling an impulse to cover myself, I grew excited at the opportunity to show myself to Tito and actually sensed more blood rush to my loins. He saw me and stopped to inquire about my headache from the other day. God, I stood there while we chatted, my right leg bearing my weight and my left delicately bent and off to the side, subtly opening myself to provide him a better view. As we spoke, he stared at my tits and pussy, making no attempt whatsoever to avert his eyes. I'm sure that my vulva bloated and flooded even more during his examination—not from attraction to Tito but from being so brazenly on exhibit for a relative stranger and from pretending that it were an everyday occurrence for me to walk in public with my cunt on parade.

Tito complimented me, telling me that I looked good—very good. Finally, an urge to cover myself welled up, to place my beach bag in front of my smooth delta. But I stood my ground and thanked him, leaving myself exposed and bare the entire time. I then excused myself and continued my trek to the beach.

My pussy effervesced with excitement! I had dampened so much that wetness smeared my inner thighs as I walked. I didn't dare stop to wipe myself, so I continued my promenade, feigning nonchalance and elegance despite the fluids brewing in and emanating from my overheated cunt.

When I arrived at the beach, I searched briefly before spying Chris sitting with Brigitte, a vacationer from France. She sat facing him, cross-legged, wearing a short gossamer gown that had ridden high up her thighs. It occurred to me that she was giving my husband the same explicit view of her pussy that she had given me the other day. I was momentarily troubled by the scene, but I chided myself, "Get over it—didn't you just let Tito have a good, long look at your oyster?"

For the past several days, Brigitte had become our tanning partner. She had approached us a few days into our holiday and asked, in her straightforward way, if we would object to her tanning with us. The basis for her unusual appeal was that she was hesitant to tan in the nude by herself. Although I certainly sympathised with her situation, I was reluctant to oblige her peculiar request, especially since one day before her petition I'd caught her eyeing Chris and me. However, Chris had no reservations about her proposal—hardly surprising since she was a knockout—so I finally gave in out of curiosity and, dare I say, attraction.

Brigitte, a recently divorced, forty-four year-old blonde, carried her well-tanned, voluptuous body with

hauteur

that beguilingly fit her. She oozed sex appeal, and I was fascinated by the barrage of large, dark freckles that adorned her skin, mimicking a pattern not unlike that of a cheetah or an ocelot. But her breasts were, without question, her outstanding feature. Frankly, they were amazing. Capped with large, dark areolae, her slightly sagging tits were decadently full and voluminous—I spotted Chris ogling them numerous times, and it was hard to blame him, for I, too, found myself admiring them with envy.

Brigitte proved to be a delightful beach companion; however, a subtle, yet significant, change in my relationship with her had occurred a few days ago—an event of which Chris had no knowledge. Brigitte and I had returned from a long—and nude—shoreline walk, after which Brigitte sat on the beach facing me, cross-legged, exposing her intimate bits for my benefit. I looked in awe at her thin, girlish petals, which barely protruded past her outer labia, and then I impulsively spread my thighs to display my cunt to her. Our show had ended there, but since that day, Brigitte was far more flirty and suggestive with both Chris and me.

As I trudged towards them, Brigitte and Chris stared at me, their eyes focussing on my smooth delta, and then stood to greet me while enthusing about how sexy I looked. I returned the compliment to Brigitte; she looked stunning and had placed as much effort into her appearance that morning as I had. She wore a sheer white tunic with a plunging neckline, and although her tits were quite visible through the thin fabric, the cut of the frock augmented her ample cleavage. To draw yet more attention, a large silver pendant on a long necklace played in suspension at the top of the valley of her breasts. Similarly, her scant pubic hair—a small, thick patch on her mound above her shaved pussy—screamed for attention through the gauzy, short tunic. Her make-up, I could see, had been applied with painstaking care that morning and highlighted her wonderful blue eyes while bright red lipstick accentuated her mouth. Sexuality exuded from her every pore.

Brigitte and I traded kisses, one on each cheek. During our exchange of pecks, she briefly laid her hand just underneath my left tit. I was amused, curious, and, to be truthful, excited by her aggressive behaviour. She then became intrigued with my dangles and fondled one of the jewels, her lacquered fingernail brushing and lingering against my nipple as she did so. It tensed and throbbed, causing my areola to gather and pucker under her gentle touch.

"

Mon Dieu

, these are very beautiful," she exhaled in her charming French accent.

I was still shaking from the thrill of my naked stroll to the beach, and Brigitte's subtle scratching of my nipple added to my agitation, but I managed to counter, "Not nearly as beautiful as yours."

She cocked her head and smiled inquisitively for a moment before saying, "You are very sweet, Catherine."

Chris blurted out, "You have no idea how sweet!" and started cackling.

My husband was already nude, and his cock, while not erect, was not entirely flaccid either—he'd obviously become aroused while sitting and chatting with Brigitte. I then noticed that Chris was a little glassy eyed and had an impressive collection of empty plastic drink cups next him. He was drunk at eleven in the morning.

I ignored his crude comment and sighed, "Well, it's our last day," while letting my kimono slide off my shoulders and onto the sand. Brigitte followed suit, quickly pulling her tunic over her head and tossing it next to my robe.

She sat between Chris and me and resumed her same position, cross-legged and angled towards him, confirming to me that she was indeed supplying my husband an unadulterated view of her shaved cunt. However, instead of jealousy, it was exhilaration and excitement that welled up inside me—exhilaration at the freedom that the three of us were adopting on this our final day together and incomprehensible excitement over my husband gazing blatantly at Brigitte's pussy while I sat nearby. My excitement confused me: Did my attraction to this woman and my eagerness to please her allow me to lend her my husband for her exhibitionist needs? Whatever the reason, I was at ease with Chris eyeing and even getting excited by Brigitte's luscious body.

I sat next to her, my knees apart and scrunched, giving anyone within range an explicit view of my inflamed vulva. Chris gazed at my exposed sex, then at Brigitte's, and with a big smile said, "I think I'm the luckiest man on the beach."

Brigitte turned her head towards me and said, "Chris was about to tell me how you met."

"Oh?" I said, wondering just how detailed a recounting Chris was planning.

"Yeah," Chris began, "I first saw Catherine in the youth hostel in Florence. It was like about two or three in the afternoon. I'd just checked in, and she was in the kitchen putting stuff away. Anyway, our eyes met and I could feel myself get hard."

"Christopher! Really! Is this necessary?"

"

O, ma belle

, please do not stop him," giggled Brigitte while placing a hand on my thigh. "I must hear this story very much."

"Well, if I have to listen to this then at least I could have a drink," I said with some petulance. Chris passed me his cup. I took a sip and coughed at its strength. It must have been five parts rum to one part cola.

"Anyway," Chris continued, "I saw her again later that evening. I'd splurged and bought myself a bottle of cognac, so I asked Catherine to join me and some other people in the main room of the hostel in about an hour's time. I didn't think she'd show, but she did. It was an interesting group of people, and we had a good time sharing travel stories. Catherine certainly demonstrated a fondness for the cognac. In any event, the room emptied bit by bit as the night went on, so sometime after midnight only Catherine and I were left. We sat on a couch, and all at once we stopped talking and started kissing. Before long, I was lying on top of her, grinding my hips into hers. But we really couldn't do anything in the common room, and I couldn't invite her into the men's dorm—but now that I know Catherine better maybe she would have enjoyed that."

"Chris!"

"I'm just joking, Catherine; don't get your panties in a knot. Oh, wait—you're not wearing any."

I just shook my head in exasperation at his silliness and then impishly spread my thighs wide apart, lewdly showing him my cunt while sticking my tongue out at him. Chris laughed but his eyes were fixed on my vulva. Brigitte was also looking at me, so, with his eyes wide open, he silently mouthed, "You're wet!" and then grinned before continuing his monologue.

"So, Brigitte, Catherine was grinding back at me. She obviously wanted it as much as I did. Finally, I had an idea, so I said, 'How about you and I go to one of the showers for a little privacy?'"

I took a deep breath but remained quiet. Brigitte was keenly listening, and her fingers had inched further up my thigh. Then my eyes were drawn to her boobs—her nipples were puckered and hard. She really did have amazing tits.

"Catherine kissed me and said that she liked that idea. So off we went to the women's shower. It was about two in the morning. I stripped out of my clothes in no time, went into one of the large stalls, and turned the water on nice and hot. A minute or two later, Catherine followed in wearing even less than she is now."

"It is delicious!" Brigitte gushed and giggled.

I fully expected Chris to stop there, but—to my horror—he continued.

"So here's this beautiful woman in front of me, complete with firm tits, nipples like bullets, and a lovely, lush pussy. I'm as hard as a rock; I'm just aching for her. We kiss, and my hand went straight to her pussy. Well, Brigitte, she was flowing like Niagara Falls!"

Brigitte squealed with glee and clapped her hands. I took a big gulp of Chris's drink and impatiently strummed my fingers on my thigh.

"So, when I touched her soaking pussy, I just had to taste it. I laid her on the shower floor and devoured her while the water cascaded over us. Catherine was quite randy and spread herself wide apart for me."

"Good grief," I muttered aloud.

Chris ignored me and continued, "So I just feasted on her, and she climaxed two or three times."

"Once, actually," I corrected as pleasantly as possible.

Brigitte was now looking at both of us, back and forth, as Chris and I bantered. She was obviously enjoying herself, and, to be honest, my displeasure was a bit of an act: I really wasn't upset. Brigitte would disappear from our lives after today, so what was the big deal? Truthfully, it was bizarre—in a hot, erotic way—telling a virtual stranger about our first tryst while the three of us sat nude under the Mexican sun.

"Sheesh, OK, once," Chris confessed. "Anyway, here we were, together in a shower, barely twelve hours after first laying eyes on each other. So, after eating her, I got on top of her, and we screwed for a bit before she stood me up to give me a blow job."

"Blow job?" Brigitte queried.

"Fellatio. Sucking cock," I explained in a bright, matter-of-fact tone.

"Ohhhh," exclaimed Brigitte, her eyes widening with interest.

"If I may, I'd like to correct something," I interjected, having decided to give Chris some of his own medicine. "Chris did indeed mount me after licking me, but we did not fuck."

"

Non?

" asked Brigitte.

"No," I confirmed. "You see, Brigitte, he was too soft. My darling Chris either had drunk too much or had some sort of performance anxiety issue—Chris can tell us."

Chris was unruffled and seemed happy that I was now participating. He shrugged while smiling and said, "I was nervous in the presence of such beauty; what can I say?"

"So you see, Brigitte, I took pity on him and sucked him to help the poor fellow out."

Brigitte was now laughing at our repartee. I took another swig from Chris's drink and felt the booze immediately.

"But I did make it up to her," Chris resumed. "We took a private room in the hostel the next day and fucked and sucked our brains out for three days straight. Isn't that right, sweetie?"

"Yes, that is correct," I confirmed, "but this is why, Brigitte, Chris must take me back to Florence. Not for the sex, but because I didn't get to see that wonderful city!"

Brigitte and Chris politely chuckled at my weak attempt at humour. The whole scene was so frivolous and silly that any displeasure that I may have harboured had long ago vanished.

I reclined on my blanket, lying flat on my back to absorb the rays from the hot sun. Its heat, like through a magnifying lens, seemed focussed on my clit, multiplying my already immense arousal. My thighs were shamelessly parted to allow the sun to shine its glorious fire upon the whole of my sex. I turned my head towards Brigitte and saw that she too had adopted a similar pose so that both our slits were facing Chris. She turned her head to look at me, smiled, and then closed her eyes, apparently concentrating on the kisses of the sun. I looked at Chris to see that he lay on his side, towards us, unabashedly examining our twats.