Chapter 2: The Hot Tub Secret
The next morning came in hot and bright, and Jon wandered out to the yard at ten with a mug of coffee, looking for his wife. The sliding door was open behind him. Her running shoes were still by the mat. Her car sat in the drive.
The backyard was empty except for Abdul, already sunk into the hot tub up to his chest. Steam rolled off the water in slow sheets. His head was tilted back against the wooden rim, eyes closed, his wiry shoulders above the surface and his back turned to the house. The green ring was not visible from here. Nothing was visible from here except the old man's skullcap of gray hair and the flat sheet of water lapping at his collarbones.
"Morning," Jon called.
Abdul raised one hand without opening his eyes. "Morning, neighbor."
Jon crossed to the fence line and leaned there, drinking his coffee. The filter hummed. The steam drifted. Down the block a lawnmower started up and died again.
"You seen Bella?"
For a moment Abdul didn't answer, and Jon thought maybe the old man had drifted off. Then his mouth moved, lazy, without lifting his head.
"Must be inside. Women take all morning sometimes."
"Huh. Yeah." Jon checked his phone. No texts. "She was up early. Her running shoes are still here, so I figured she was out here doing her stretches or whatever."
"She'll turn up." Abdul's voice was slow and thick, heavier than usual, and Jon put it down to the heat and the steam and the age of the man. "Sit a minute. Water's perfect."
"Can't. Got a call at ten-thirty." Jon drained half the mug. "Ok, see ya later."
"See ya, neighbor."
Jon went back up the steps and the screen door banged behind him, and inside the house it was quiet. He stood in the kitchen and looked at the yard through the window over the sink. Steam. Old man's back. Empty deck chairs. He rinsed the mug and went to find his laptop.
What he could not see, from the fence or from the kitchen window, was the rest of the tub.
Beneath the surface of the churning water, on her knees on the sunken bench seat of the hot tub, sat Bella. She had come out at nine-thirty in the cropped tank top and the short-shorts and nothing under either, wearing the tasseled outfit from yesterday under her clothes per Abdul's instruction that she wear it all day, and Abdul had been waiting in the tub with his ring on and his coffee on the rim, and he had said one word to her across the water.
In.
She had stripped at the tub edge while he watched, folded her tank top on the deck, stepped in, and he had turned his back to the house before her shorts hit the wood. That was the whole choreography. He sat facing the yard gate. She knelt facing his back, the water at her collarbones, the jets churning white around her shoulders, and his cock stood up under the water in front of her face like something grown there overnight.
She had taken him in her mouth at nine thirty-four, by the pool clock.
The water was a hundred and four degrees and her mouth was hotter, and the fat dark head slid over her tongue and she sealed her lips and began. His cock under the surface was a shadow, a long thick column of shadow, and every time she pushed down on it the water around her chin rippled in rings that broke against his back. She held his hip with one French-nailed hand for balance. The other hand she kept below the waterline on her own thigh, because the plug from yesterday was still in, red and seated, and every time she bobbed her head the jets pushed water against her framed bare lips and the plug shifted and she made a sound that came out as bubbles.
"Faster," Abdul said to the fence, to the sky, to nobody. His eyes were still closed. His voice was a low rumble that carried no further than the tub's edge. "Good girl. Take it slow on the way down, choke yourself a little, come back up. Let that thick BBC stretch your throat until tears mix with the water, your mascara running down your cheeks, your silicone tits jiggling against his thighs with every desperate bob of your head."
She obeyed. The head hit the entrance of her throat and she pushed and her throat opened and swallowed the first thick third of him, and the water splashed small at her chin. Half of him. She could get half of him down now without the bench, which was a personal record she intended to mention to someone later. Her jaw ached in the good way. Drool and water mixed and ran off her chin and she couldn't tell which was which.
Above the waterline, from the fence, from the street, from the whole visible world, there was nothing. An old man soaking. Steam. A filter hum.
Inside the tub, she came up for air, gasping, her ponytail floating out behind her like a blonde fan, and his hand found her head under the wet hair and pushed her back down without hurry.
"Jon went back in," he said.
She made a muffled sound around the head.
"You heard him. Ok, see ya later." Abdul chuckled, a deep chest thing, and it moved his whole body and moved her with it. "That's the man. Ten-thirty call. Busy guy." He pressed her down another inch. "You got ten minutes, bimbo. Make 'em count. Swallow what I give you and then sit there till he's gone gone."
She worked. She put both hands on his thighs under the water for leverage and used her whole head, deep slow strokes, the ringed base fat and hard in her grip when she came up, the veins ridged under her lips on the way down. The green ring had him swollen past anything and she could feel the pulse of it building in the shaft against her tongue, that thickening throb that meant the end was coming. Her nipples ground against the rubber linings of the clamps under the water, tassels drifting weightless off her juggs, waving in the jet current like kelp.
"That's it. There it is. Get ready, slut."
He grunted, low, once, and held her head down at the halfway mark, and came into her throat under the water. She swallowed against the force of it, pulse after pulse, hot and thick in the hot water, and she didn't come up until she had taken all of it and milked the last of it out with her hand and her lips, and when she finally broke the surface with a gasp the steam swallowed her head and the water carried everything away.
"Good bimbo," Abdul said, still facing the fence, still boneless in the heat. "Best slut in the neighborhood."
She sat back on the bench, breathing, the jets drumming at her, and stayed.
In the kitchen, Jon took his call. It ran nineteen minutes. He finished it, emailed two files, and came back down the stairs at eleven-oh-five for a refill, and through the window he saw her.
Bella came up the tub ladder at eleven-oh-six, dripping, naked except for the white strings and the clamps and the tassels, and her hair was a wreck. Not wet-wrecked. Wrecked. The ponytail had come half loose and hung in a soggy rope, and there were red pressure lines at the corners of her mouth that she pressed her thumb against as she climbed, and her throat moved when she swallowed the way it moves after something long and thick has been going down it repeatedly. She stood on the deck wringing out her hair and then gave up and just pushed it back, and she padded across the flagstone toward the house with her juggs sitting firm and high and the tassels swinging, and she did not have a towel, which meant she had not planned on being seen yet.
Jon stepped back from the window and filled his mug with great care.
The screen door banged. She came in dripping on the tile, jaw working a little, and stopped when she saw him.
"Oh. Hi." She tugged the wrecked ponytail. "You're not on your call."
"Finished early. Where were you? Your shoes are still here. I looked for you at ten."
"I was in the hot tub."
"The hot tub." He looked at her hair. At the corner of her mouth. At the way she held her jaw. "With Abdul. Because he's out there. I saw him. He's in the tub right now."
"Yes."
"You were in the hot tub with Abdul."
"With the hot tub, mostly." She opened the fridge and got the orange juice and drank straight from the carton, which she never did, and her throat worked hard around the swallow. "It's very hot in there, Jon. A hundred and four. You have to pace yourself. I did laps."
"Laps."
"Slow laps. Breathwork. It's basically a sauna session, and the sauna is right there too, so really I was using all the amenities, which we pay for. The sauna is a barrel style 4 person unit with a glass door and lightly tinted pain of glass, just barely see through."
"We pay for half of them."
"Half the amenities, then." She capped the juice and put it back and looked at him with the bright blank face she used for closing subjects. "My hair is a mess because of the jets. They're very powerful. They have a whirlpool setting."
"The whirlpool setting." Jon set his mug down. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms and looked at his wife, dripping, tasseled, plugged, jaw slack at the hinge, red at the corners of her mouth, hoarse enough that yard air wasn't going to cover it twice. "Bella. Come here a second."
She came. She always came.
He tipped her chin up with one finger and looked at her mouth. The corners were raw. Slightly abraded. There was a specific look a mouth got, and he had seen it exactly once before, on her, two days ago, in this same kitchen, and he had let it go then because she had a story about an inspection and a thank you and the story had held together, mostly, the way her stories held together.
"Open."
"Jon."
"Open your mouth."
She opened it. Her tongue was coated. Her throat behind it was raw red in the way of friction.
"Whirlpool setting," he said.
"The jets were extremely forceful." She closed her mouth. "Also I think I'm developing a chlorine sensitivity. My throat is scratchy. Pollen season, remember."
"You said that yesterday."
"Ongoing condition."
Jon let go of her chin and stood there. Out the window, across the yard, the steam rose off the tub and the old man's back sat motionless against the rim, and there was a coffee cup on the edge of it, and there was a folded tank top and a pair of denim short-shorts on the deck boards beside it, wet, laid out neat, in a way that said she had planned to come back for them after, or that she hadn't planned at all and Abdul had set them somewhere she'd find them.
"Bella. I saw him at ten. Back turned. Head back. Steam. I said where's Bella and he said must be inside. I said ok, see ya later."
"Sounds like him."
"You were in the tub with him at ten."
"I was in the tub with the tub at ten."
"Bella." He rubbed his face with both hands. "Your mouth is wrecked. Your jaw is hanging. You're drinking juice like it hurts. He's got your clothes on the deck. You came in here with no towel because you didn't think anyone was looking, and he kept your clothes out there because he wanted them out there, and your hair looks like somebody held onto it, and all of this happened while I was standing at the fence at ten in the morning saying ok, see ya later, to a man who had my wife's mouth on his dick under the water. Am I right? Am I in the neighborhood of right?"
She looked at him. The bright face flickered, and something underneath it, something pleased and unbothered and faintly proud, came up through the crack.
"Half of it," she said. "Half of it was in my mouth. Not on it. In it. It's a depth thing and I hit a personal best and I would like that on the record."
"There's a record?"
"There's a record now. Half." She held up a palm to show the height. "And I swallowed everything, which is manners, and the mouth rule applies, which we discussed, and it's not sex, it's hospitality, and he had just gotten in the tub, and it would have been rude to leave him sitting there like that."
"Like what. Sitting in a hot tub."
"You know how he sits in a hot tub. With the ring. It's basically a presentation, Jon. It would've been rude."
Jon turned to the window. Steam. Back. Coffee cup. Two days into this duplex and the yard had a whole silent economy running in it that he kept finding corners of. At the shop it was measurements. In the yard it was inspections and thank-yous. In the tub it was apparently hospitality.
"Ten minutes," he said. "You were down there ten minutes after I left."
"Nine and a half. I wanted the full ten but he finished early and told me to wait till you were gone gone, so I did laps like a good girl." She caught herself, blinked. "Like a good swimmer. I did laps like a good swimmer."
"You said good girl."
"I'm a good girl, Jon. Ask anyone in this yard."
He looked at her, and she looked back, and neither of them blinked, and outside the filter hummed and the steam rolled and the old man sank lower in his tub and picked his coffee up off the rim like a man whose morning had gone exactly to plan.
"So the hot tub," Jon said slowly. "Is a venue now."
"It's an amenity."
"The amenity where my wife kneels."
"Kneeling is a posture, Jon. It's not a marriage status." She gathered her wrecked hair up and twisted it into a knot. "Also, for the record, he didn't ask. I offered. He got in the tub and I saw the ring and I thought, that's a presentation, and a presentation deserves a response, and I responded. That's initiative. You always say I should take initiative."
"I meant about the grocery app."
"Well, I took initiative about the tub." She turned to the stairs, then stopped, and looked back over the shelf of her chest at him with the grin. "Also, if you're very supportive, you get to hear the depth details at dinner. There are depth details, Jon. There's a depth thing."
"There's a depth thing?"
"There's always a depth thing."
She clicked up the stairs, tassels swinging, plug shifting, jaw working, and Jon stood at the window with his coffee going cold, looking at the steam and the old man's back, and the old man, without turning around, without opening his eyes, raised his coffee cup a slow inch in a small toast toward the house.
A week passed the way weeks do in the duplex, one amenity at a time. Then it was Saturday, and the doorbell rang at nine.
Jon opened the door in his socks, holding a mug, and Abdul stood on the mat wearing a pair of leather sandals, sunglasses pushed up on his gray hair, a short-sleeved guayabera shirt open all the way down the front, and nothing else. The green cock ring sat fat at the base of him and his cock hung through it, out in the open, swinging free with the breeze off the yard. His balls hung loose and heavy below, swaying with each shift of his weight, gray-skinned and enormous, fully exposed above the open shirttail.
"What the hell are you wearing, Abdul?"
"Date outfit." Abdul pushed the sunglasses down onto his nose. "Bella the bimbo bought this ring for me. Gold-plated upgrade to the green one. I'm wearing it on our date."
"Date. Our. Whose date?"
"Mine and Bella's. Beach day. Just me and the bimbo, strolling the sand, getting some sun on those knockers."
"No way. Not in that. Not with your dick out on a public beach." Jon's knuckles whitened on the mug. "And no way there's a date. I thought the dates were done. I thought you and Bella were done."
"Nonsense." Abdul smiled with all his teeth. "A bimbo like her needs to be dating a huge black cock regularly. You should know that better than anyone, neighbor. You're the one married to her."
"You can't go to the beach like that."
"Why not?" Abdul looked down at himself, at the ringed shaft and the hanging sack, and shrugged, and the whole apparatus swung. "Bella bought it. Least I can do is wear it for her. A gift wants wearing."
"Bella." Jon turned and called up the stairs. "Bella, get down here."
She came down in a sarong knotted at the hip and a halter top straining over the shelf of her jugs', sandals already on, a straw hat in one hand. Her hair was done. Her lips were glossy. She looked like a woman who had been ready for an hour.
"Why would you buy him that thing?" Jon pointed the mug at Abdul's crotch.
"It's jewelry, Jon." Bella came down the last step and stood beside the old man. "It highlights his cock a little more. Like a pendant highlights a neckline. It's gold-plated, it has little beads on the ring, and it frames everything. I just want his cock out and free so I can look at it and touch it. Is that so weird?"
"On a public beach."
"It's a clothing-optional stretch."
Abdul's hand came to rest on the back of her neck, easy, like he'd done it a hundred times. "Bella. Why don't you show Jon why the ring is there. Why is my cock through this ring? Show him with your hands."
"Abdul," Jon started.
"Show him, bimbo. He asked a fair question."
Bella looked at Jon, and Jon looked at Bella, and then she turned to face Abdul and reached down and took his cock in her hand, right there in the open doorway, her French nails bright against the dark shaft. She stroked it slow, from the ring up over the head, and back down, and the hanging balls shifted with the motion.
"See, the ring goes on soft, or half-soft, at the base, trapping all that thick BBC blood when it gets hard, making it stay rock hard for hours." she said, in the tone she used for explaining. "And then once that massive black cock is rock hard, the ring traps all that blood pressure inside, keeping it swollen and throbbing for minutes. The blood can't drain back out. So the huge black cock stays hard longer. Way longer. Hours, sometimes. It's basically engineering."
"How do you know it stays hard longer?"
"Field testing." She worked her fist faster, and the shaft swelled in her grip, the veins rising like thick ropes under her French-tipped nails, the head darkening and glossing up at the tip until it shone like polished obsidian under the morning light. "Lots of field testing."
Jon stood in the doorway with his coffee and watched his wife jerk off the sixty-eight-year-old neighbor at nine in the morning. Abdul stood flat-footed and let her, sunglasses glinting, his breath going slow and deep.
She played with him for a few minutes, both hands now, one pumping the shaft above the ring while the other hand cupped and lifted the heavy sack, rolling the big balls in her palm, weighing them like ripe fruit, feeling the heat and weight of them in her small white hand. His cock thickened they got so full and the ring creaked faintly, holding it all trapped, the skin stretched taut and shining like polished leather under the morning sun, heavy and swollen with thick seed waiting to be released into her eager mouth.
"Enough, bimbo." Abdul stepped back half a pace, out of her hands, his cock standing straight out through the ring, hard as a fence post. "Now get on your knees and tell Jon what you think of this cock and balls. And show him what you like. Use your hands, bimbo, and be descriptive."
Bella hesitated. Her eyes went to Jon, and Jon gave her nothing, and her mouth worked.
"Right here?"
"Right here. Doorway's got good light."
She set her straw hat on the hall table and sank down to her knees on the mat, facing Jon's feet, and Abdul's hard ringed cock stood at the level of her cheek. She wrapped one hand around the shaft and held it steady, and looked at it, and began.
"Well." She cleared her throat. "It's very thick. Like, my fingers don't meet around it, see? And heavy too, feels like holding a thick dark bat in my small white hand." She demonstrated, spreading her hand on the shaft, the gap between thumb and middle finger wide, showing Jon how her small fingers couldn't even wrap halfway around the thick black column of Abdul's BBC. "Two days in I measured my grip against it and there's still an inch of black cock on either side of my hand. And it's heavy. When it swings, it swings like a pendulum, you can feel the weight of it when it hits your cheek or your chin. Thwack. It has its own momentum, a heavy pendulum swing that makes your whole face feel the impact, leaving a hot wet mark that takes forever to cool."
She stroked up, and the foreskin-bunched ridge slid under her fingers, tracing the thick vein underneath with one French-tipped nail, feeling the heat and ridges of his massive BBC pulse against her palm.
"The vein is my favorite part. It's raised, it's like a cable, and it pulses when he's close. I can feel it throb on my tongue. And the head." She thumbed the crown, glossy and dark, and it bobbed like a heavy pendulum, leaving a trail of slick precum on her French-tipped nail. "The head is huge but it's smooth, and it flares wide right at the crown, so when it comes back out of my throat it drags on everything on the way. That's the best sensation. That drag on the way out."
"The balls too, bimbo. Don't leave my balls out."
"Right, the balls." She reached under with her free hand and cupped the hanging sack, lifting it, letting it settle heavy into her palm. "They're enormous. They hang low, they sway when he walks, and they're full. I can tell when they're full, they get tighter and higher right before. When they're loose like this they slap. During, they swing and slap against whatever's available. Chin. Tits. It's a lot of mass moving around."
"You like all that, don't you, slut."
"I like it," Bella said, and her hand kept a slow rhythm on the shaft, up and down, keeping him iron hard under the ring. "I like the smell of it, up close it's musky and it goes straight to my head. I like the heat, it's the hottest part of him. I like how the skin moves, you can slide the whole shaft skin up and down over the core, it's like it has a sleeve. I like that it doesn't fully fit anywhere. Not my hand, not my mouth, not halfway down my throat, there's always more of it left over. I think about the leftover part a lot."
Jon set his mug down on the hall table next to the hat.
"I like how it looks against my skin," she went on, her fist sliding, the ring's little gold beads clicking faintly with each stroke. "The color contrast. Dark against tan. It photographs well. I've thought about that. I like how it bulges in his mesh, bulged in the cock sock, and now with the ring it just stands there, out in the open, all the time, like it's on display. Because it is on display. And I like that it's old. That's the part people don't get, Jon. Sixty-eight years old and it works like this, ring or no ring, and that's because of me, because I keep it worked, keep it drained, keep it hard. It's my maintenance project. It's the best-maintained cock in the neighborhood and I have the receipts."
"Bimbo." Abdul's voice was a low rumble above her. "Hands off a second. Show him the fit."
She stood the shaft upright against her face, pressing it alongside her cheek and up past her eye, and the head reached above her hairline. She held it there for Jon to see, the whole length mapped against his wife's face from chin to scalp.
"That's the fit," she said, muffled against the shaft. "Chin to hairline. And that's just what shows."
"Chin to hairline. And that's just what shows."
Abdul patted the top of her head, twice, like closing a business meeting. "Good report, bimbo. Very thorough. Jon, you heard all that. You got a well-educated wife."
Jon picked his mug back up. His hand wasn't entirely steady on it. "Sure. A report."
"Now." Abdul stepped back, tucking his sunglasses up into his hair, and his hard ringed cock bobbed with the motion, pointing at the stairs like a compass needle finding north. "Bella. Go get the new white micro bikini. The one you bought for me. We're off to the beach."
Bella's head came up from the floor. "Right now?"
"Right now. Sun's climbing. Best light for those knockers is mid-morning." He checked an imaginary watch on his bare wrist. "Go change. Sarong and halter stay here."
She looked at Jon. Jon looked at the floor. The silence stretched three full seconds, which was long for her, and then she got up off her knees, took her straw hat off the table, and went up the stairs. The sarong came off on the third step and dropped in a heap. She didn't look back.
Jon stood in the hall with Abdul. The old man's cock was still hard, standing straight out through the gold ring, swinging gently as he hummed something. Jon stared at the ceiling.
"You're really taking her to the beach like this."
"Like what?" Abdul smiled. "In a nice outfit. Her new swimsuit. Bought special. You should be flattered, neighbor. Your wife has excellent taste in jewelry and excellent taste in bikinis, and both of them involve my cock."
"It involves your cock."
"Everything good involves my cock. That's the duplex rule." He strolled into the living room and settled onto their sofa like he owned the deed, one ankle on his knee, the ringed shaft lying heavy along his thigh, balls settling onto the cushion in plain view.
Fourteen minutes later she came down the stairs, and the room changed temperature. The white micro bikini was three triangles and four strings, white against the tan she'd been building all spring, and it covered almost nothing and hid even less. The top was two small triangles of thin white lycra that sat on the front of her juggs like stamps on watermelons, the underboob exposed in a full curved shelf, the top inner corners barely catching the edges of her pink areolas. The nipples themselves, hard and pointing, pressed visible bumps against the fabric, and half of each areola's white ring peeked out over the trim. The bottom was a strip no wider than a headband riding low on her hips, cut so narrow at the crotch that her bare lips bulged slightly at either side of it, and the back was a thong that vanished into her tan cheeks and reappeared nowhere at all.
"There is the bimbo," Abdul said, rising off the sofa. "Look at that. Look at that, Jon."
Jon looked. His mouth went dry and stayed dry.
"She's perfect." Abdul walked a slow circle around her in the living room, appraising, and she stood still for it, chin up, arms slightly out, the way she'd learned. "Look at her. Made for this. That tiny white bikini was crafted by the devil himself for her massive juggs to spill out of and her tight pussy lips to bulge around the thin strip like a second skin. " He stopped behind her. "Turn around, bimbo. Let Jon see the whole package."
She turned. The back was worse and better, a thin white strip up the crack, both cheeks out and bare and firm, her whole ass on display with nothing but string and sunlight.
"There it is," Abdul said. "That's the best ass in the county and it's wearing nothing."
"Abdul," Jon started.
"Hold on. I'm not done." Abdul stepped in close behind her, and his hard cock, standing out through the gold ring, slid up the outside of her thigh. The heat of it was visible even from across the room, the dark shaft against the tan skin, and it rode up along her leg until the head cleared her hip and stuck out past her side, five inches of dark cock emerging from behind her body into the light like a periscope surfacing.
"Jon. Look at this bimbo. So perfect." He walked his cock up her thigh, slow, savoring it, until the shaft sat parallel with her pussy, the underside pressed along the thin white strip of the bottom, the head pointing forward out from under her belly. "Now close those legs tight, bimbo. Trap that thick black cock between your smooth thighs and hold it there, make it all disappear except the head peeking out like a dark promise."
Bella closed her legs. Her smooth tan thighs came together and clamped the shaft between them, and the dark cock disappeared between the white string and the tan skin, gripped thigh-tight, the head still showing in front of her, the gold beads of the ring clicking against the string at her crotch.
"Isn't she the best bimbo," Abdul said over her shoulder, his voice thick with pride as he watched his hands work on her perfect body. Abdul said over her shoulder to Jon.
Jon had sat down. At some point his legs had decided the sofa was the right place, and he sat on the arm of it now with his keys in his fist. "She's something."
"Grab it, bimbo. Stroke me a little more. Feel that thick BBC pulse in your small white hand as you work it, feel the heat radiating from the massive shaft into your palm, the veins standing out like thick ropes under your fingers."
She reached down between her own legs, one hand disappearing under her belly, and her French nails closed around the shaft where it stood out in front of her trapped thighs. She stroked, short strokes, the head sliding in and out of her fist right there above the white string, her knuckles brushing her own covered pussy with every pull.
"See how she does that, the perfect bimbo, her thighs clamped tight around his BBC while she strokes the head, making my massive cock pulse in her small white hand." Abdul said. His hands came around her from behind, both of them, and cupped her juggs through the white triangles. The fabric was barely there under his palms. He squeezed, slow, lifting the huge firm weight of them, testing the shelf of underboob with his thumbs. "This top is perfect. Barely covering the nipples, letting those huge juggs spill out like ripe melons for all to see and admire. That's the whole point of a display top. You can see everything, and what you can't see, you can imagine, and what you imagine is better than what's there. Look how they sit, Jon. Two perfect cantaloupes in tiny white strings, barely covering her massive fake tits at the public beach for everyone to see and admire, the nipples standing out hard against the thin fabric as the sun made the white top nearly transparent."
He traced her nipples through the fabric with one finger, circling each hard point, and the bump of each eraser nipple pressed white fabric up and let go, pressed and let go, until Bella's breathing changed.
"Abdul," she said, a little breathless.
"The bottoms are good too." His fingers left her nipples and slid down her flat stomach, over the strip at her hips, and he hooked the edge of the crotch strip and pulled it up, cinching it tighter, and she gasped. "Good and tight. Everything's framed perfectly. Nothing's wasted in this scene, every detail captured for maximum impact."
His hands came back up and went under the triangles this time, bare palms on bare juggs, the fabric pushed up to his wrists, her pink nipples hard between his fingers. He rolled them, pinched lightly, traced the pale white ring around each areola with a fingertip. Bella kept stroking him between her legs the whole time, her fist working the head out in front of her body, her thighs clamped tight on the shaft.
"And the lips," Abdul said, and his voice dropped, right at her ear, a low rumble Jon could barely hear from the sofa arm. He said something into her hair, quiet, two sentences, and Bella's eyes went wide and her mouth curved.
"Isn't that right, bimbo. Your lips are free and anyone can see everything, all those smooth wet folds waiting for the sun and all those eyes on your perfect body." His hands kept groping her, kneading the huge firm jugs, pinching the nipples out stiff. "Isn't that right?"
"That's right," Bella said.
"And at the beach, the lips stay free. Everything stays on display."
Her hand kept stroking, faster now, and then he did the whisper again and she took the shaft in her grip between her clamped thighs and slapped her pussy with it. She grabbed the hard column of cock with her inner thighs and let the shaft swing free and smacked the fat head down against the white strip over her lips, once, twice, three times, a wet flat smack each time, the beads of the ring clicking, her own breath coming out sharp on each hit.
Jon watched his wife slap her own pussy with the neighbor's cock in their living room at ten in the morning.
Slap. Slap. Smack. Her lips pushed against the white fabric on each hit and the strip darkened slightly with damp.
"Good girl," Abdul rumbled, his voice thick with approval as he watched her adjust her hat, her breath still coming in quick little pants from the shock of his sudden withdrawal. "Such a good girl ready for her beach date." Abdul breathed, and then he pulled out of her thighs fast, a sudden yank of his hips, his cock popping free from between her legs and springing up and slapping wet against his own stomach, and Bella yelped, a genuine startled little shriek, stumbling half a step on her sandals, her hands still in the shape of his shaft in the empty air where it had been.
"You jerk," she said, laughing, breathless, one hand on her chest above the triangles. "You gave me a shock. My legs are shaking."
"That's the point, bimbo. Keeps you ready." He winked at Jon. "Keeps the motor running. Nobody walks onto a beach flat."
"You scared me half to death."
"You loved it. Your nipples got harder. I watched it happen." He stepped back, buttoned nothing because there was nothing to button, and picked his sunglasses off the hall table next to her straw hat and handed her the hat. "Go on. Shoes, hat, bag. We're off."
She stood there a second longer, catching her breath, thighs pressed together, the white strip at her crotch visibly warmer-colored than the rest, and then she clicked upstairs for her bag.
Abdul settled back on the sofa, completely at home, his hard ringed cock still standing up proud through the open guayabera, and looked at Jon.
"Jon," Bella said, coming back down with her beach bag over one shoulder. "You're doing the face."
"I thought the dates were over." Jon looked at Abdul, then at her. "We talked about it. We agreed the dates were done."
"Well, Abdul really wants to date, and it's not really in the way." She shifted the bag and adjusted her hat. "Only a few here or there. It's tanning, mostly. It's just tanning on the beach, Jon. Sun, oil, a blanket. That's a date?"
"Yeah, Jon, come on." Abdul spread his hands, the picture of reason. "Just a couple of friends hanging out at the beach tanning. I'll bring her back in a few hours, no worries. You want us to pick you up anything? Shaved ice, something?"
"You're going to the beach with your dick out and my wife in three strings."
"Sunscreen gets everywhere." Abdul stood up off the sofa, and his hard ringed cock bobbed with the motion. His hand came around and landed flat on Bella's ass cheek, a loud smack of palm on tan firm flesh, and he squeezed it, kneading the whole cheek in his rough old fingers while she stood there adjusting her hat strap, his thick black cock pressing hot against her ass as he held her in place, the gold beads of the ring clicking against her smooth skin with each squeeze, her nipple hardening into a sharp point under the thin fabric against his chest. "Let's go, bimbo. Time's ticking. Best light waits for nobody."
"Six hours," Jon said.
"Four, maybe five," Abdul said. "Traffic."
Bella blew Jon a kiss off her glossy fingers at the door, and the tassels weren't on her today but the string bikini was, and then the door shut and the car pulled out of the drive, and Jon stood in the hall with his cold coffee and the phone he had decided not to check every twenty minutes, and failed at by twelve-fifteen.
The beach was forty minutes up the coast past the county line, a curving half moon of sand below a dirt lot with no signs. Abdul parked nose-out at the far end and killed the engine.
"Nude beach?" Bella looked down the slope. Figures were scattered along the waterline, most of them dark against the sand.
"Nude beach. Clothes come off in the car, saves the walk." Abdul was already unbuttoning the guayabera, which was nothing, which was theater, and pushing his shorts down over his sandals. He sat naked in the driver's seat, hard still, the gold ring with its beads fat at the base. "You weren't wearing anything anyways. Three strings. Might as well be nothing."
"Mine stay on till we're on the sand. The bottoms are a..., Jon's, I mean, the neighbors, they think about the physics." She was already reaching behind her neck, untying the halter triangles, and then the string at her hip, and the whole thing came off in four pulls and went into the bag. She sat naked in the passenger seat, tan all over except the pale bands where the strings had been, her juggs sitting up firm and high on her chest, nipples pointing forward at the windshield. "Okay. Blanket and lunch?"
"Blanket and lunch." He gathered the rolled blanket and the cooler bag off the back seat with one arm and his cock stuck out the whole time, horizontal, leading the way down the wooden stairs and onto the hot sand like a divining rod.
They walked the length of the beach. Bella got looked at the whole way. A man lying on a towel lifted his head and tracked her past. Two guys under an umbrella turned together, synchronized, and one said something low that made the other laugh. A broad-shouldered man coming up from the water stepped aside to let her pass and said, loud, "Damn, ma'am, them some serious titties," and Bella said thank you and kept walking, and Abdul said, "Told you. Best in the county."
His spot was at the far end, past the rocks, a flat shelf of sand where the crowd thinned to a handful. The men out here were mostly Black, older, spread on lounge chairs and towels, and when Abdul shook out the blanket three of them lifted chins at him in recognition. Bella laid out on her stomach while Abdul sat cross-legged and unscrewed a bottle of oil.
"Lie still, bimbo. Five hours of sun on that body, we're doing it right."
The oil went on slow. He started at her ankles and worked up her calves, both thumbs digging, then the backs of her thighs, then her ass, each cheek handled thoroughly, oiled, spread slightly and released, the tiny tan pucker and the framed lips getting a full coat that made her breath catch against the towel. Then her back, then he rolled her over and did the front, and the front was a production, the oil pooled in the shelf of her underboob, his hands sliding over the huge firm jugs' until they shone, her nipples rolled between oiled fingers until they stood out a full half inch. A man forty feet up the beach had turned fully onto his side to watch.
"Everyone's looking," she said, eyes closed.
"Course they're looking. Oil that slick on those knockers, that's a billboard." He poured a line of oil down her flat stomach and dragged one finger through it, over the bare lips, between them, not lingering, just coating, and her hips came up off the towel a half inch. "Flip your hair back. Even tan."
They traded. She knelt astride his legs and worked oil across his thin old shoulders, down the wiry arms, over the sun-spotted chest, and when she reached his lap his cock stood straight up and her oiled hand closed around the shaft without either of them discussing it. She stroked him slow, the oil crackling faintly, the gold beads clicking against her ring finger, and the dark skin shone.
"There you go," Abdul said, leaning back on his elbows. "Maintenance."
She worked him with her fist, long full strokes, up over the flaring head and back down to the ring, and his sack hung heavy against the blanket and swung with her rhythm. Two of the men down the beach had a clear line on it now. One had sunglasses on. One didn't bother with them. She could feel the eyes and it ran a warm current straight through her stomach and her hips started moving without her permission, small slow humps against his thigh.
"Get on it, then," Abdul said. "It's been an hour, that's enough tanning for round one."
She straddled him. The lips parted over the head and she sat down onto it slow, taking him in inch by inch, her jaw dropping on a long exhale, the stretch of it making her go up on her toes and grind down in little circles. She got a quarter of him in and stopped, breathing hard.
"He's wider at the base." She looked down between her legs. "The ring holds all that blood in, so the base gets fat. It's like a bottleneck. I have to work past it."
"Take your time, bimbo. Let the pussy get used to it."
She braced her hands on his thin chest and hiked up and dropped, hiked and dropped, gaining ground each time, a quarter, then a third, her slick lips stretched around the dark shaft, the oil and her own wetness running down his skin. Half of him was in when the stretch at the base started to fight her and she whimpered, a real sound, and held there, shaking, full, stuffed at the narrowest point of entry.
"There. There it is." She sat still with half his cock in her and let her body loosen around it, and then she started to ride, long slow strokes, coming up until the flared head dragged at her entrance, sitting back down onto it, and the spectators were watching openly now. A man in his fifties sat up on his towel with his arms around his knees, watching her ride the old man, her oily juggs swinging in tight little arcs above Abdul's chest.
"Grab my ankles," she gasped, and Abdul reached back and held her ankles and she rode harder, and it was hot and heavy then, the slap of her ass down on his thighs, the wet suck of the shaft, her tan skin shining. She ground down when she came, her whole body seizing, and Abdul grabbed her hips and hammered up into her from below, fast old-man thrusts that caught her on the downbeat.
"Don't cum in me," she said into his ear, breathless. "Not today. Pull out, okay?"
"Today, sure." He rolled her off him onto her hands and knees on the blanket and took her from behind, driving in, her cheeks clapping against his hips, the whole shelf of her juggs swinging and slapping together underneath her, the nipples dragging through the sand-flecked towel. He fucked her like that for ten full minutes, grunting, sweat running down his old ribs, and a fourth man had drifted closer along the rocks and stood at a respectful distance, watching only, hands at his sides.
"On your back," Abdul said, and she flopped over and he put her ankles on his shoulders and folded her, fucking down into her, her knees beside her ears, her body a folded display under the old man, and he pulled out at the last second and stood over her on his knees and came onto her chest and stomach, thick ropes across the oiled juggs, one shot reaching her collarbone.
The nearest spectator exhaled through his teeth. Bella lay there glazed and panting with her legs still up.
"Round one," Abdul said, and sat back on his heels, breathing hard.
She went into the water an hour later, after he'd rested and dozed with his hat over his face. She waded out past the break and ducked under, came up slicking her hair back, and stood in the waist-deep water scrubbing her chest and between her legs with handfuls of seawater. Half a dozen men were in the water or at the edge of it, and every one of them looked. The tanned body and the huge firm white jugs' floating high on the water, the pink nipples, the bare lips, there was nothing left to imagine and they all looked anyway. A young man bobbing nearby watched her wash herself for a full minute and said, "You need help with anything, miss?" and she laughed and said she was fine, and he said, "That old man out there is a lucky man," and she said, "He's my neighbor," and the man laughed too, and she felt the warm current again, all the eyes on her, and floated a while on her back with her jugs' breaking the surface like two oiled islands.
She came back to the blanket aroused and told him so.
"Abdul. Wake up. I want round four."
"Bimbo, I'm sixty-eight." He lifted the hat brim. His cock lay spent and heavy over his sack on the blanket, the ring loose around it now. "Three times in four hours. That's the ring doing God's work. Let an old man die."
"You can't be tired." She knelt astride him, took the soft heavy shaft in her oiled hand and began working it, stroking, leaning down to drag her tongue across the dark head. She humped against his thigh, her bare wet lips sliding on his skin, and fed the soft cock into her mouth, sucking it warm, and it thickened faintly, half a phase, then settled back. She climbed up and sat her pussy down onto it anyway, grinding, humping him with her whole body, rolling her hips in circles, trying to rouse it, her juggs swaying over his face. "Come on. One more. For the record."
"Keep doing that," he said, eyes closed, "and I'll get hard, but I won't get it up all the way, and you'll be riding a nice warm half-mast with nothing to show. I'm worn out, girl. My sack is empty. Feel it." She reached back and cupped his balls, and they were drawn up small and slack, spent. "Sixty-eight, bimbo. The maintenance department did overtime today."
She humped him a while longer anyway, a slow frustrated grind, his soft cock embedded in her warm and useless, and finally she laughed and lay down flat on top of him, her weight across his chest, her cheek on his shoulder.
"Fine. You rest. I'm noting a three in the log."
"Three's respectable." He patted her ass. "Bring me my water."
The sun was low and orange when they packed up. She'd done the last two hours on her stomach, oiled twice more, and every man on that end of the beach had taken his turn watching her. Abdul walked her back up the sand, and the umbrella men from the morning looked again on the way out, and one said, "Same time next Saturday?" and Abdul said, "We'll see."
They dressed in the car, which meant she pulled the three strings back on and he pulled the guayabera over his shoulders, and his cock hung out the whole drive home with the ring on, soft now, swinging gently with the road. She ate the rest of the lunch container on the way, sitting naked in the passenger seat with her hair full of salt.
It was 4:10 when the car pulled into the drive, six hours to the minute from when it left. Bella came up the steps with her bag and her hat and her hair stiff with salt and oil, and the door opened before she touched it.
Jon stood in the doorway. He'd checked his phone forty times and it was fine, and she was fine, and she glowed like a lamp, browned two shades all over, walking on the loose-jointed legs of a woman who had spent six hours being thoroughly handled.
"Six hours," Jon said.
"Five and a half of it was tanning." She came in and set the bag down and looked around at the house like she'd been gone a month. "We packed a lunch. It was very wholesome, Jon. Sandwiches. There was a thermos."
"There was a thermos."
"A small one." She kicked off her sandals and went to the fridge and got the orange juice. "Also I want you to know I set a personal record for depth, and a separate record for frequency, and the frequency record has an asterisk because round four didn't count on account of him being tired."
Jon leaned against the counter and looked at his wife. Oil still shone in the crease of her neck. There was a dried white flake at the edge of her collarbone he decided not to identify. Her mouth had the look again.
"You didn't use anything."
"We did everything. That's the distinction I want on the record." She drank, and her throat worked. "He respected the boundary. I told him not to finish inside and he pulled out every time, which I thought was very polite. One of them I didn't even get all the way down on, the first one, he's got this bottleneck thing at the base from the ring, it's a whole physics problem. I got a third in. On the second try I got half, which ties my personal best, and I'm counting a tie as progress because it was on sand, and sand is an unstable surface, Jon."
"Unstable surface."
"Everything shifted. Footing was a real factor." She put the juice away and turned and leaned back against the fridge, arms folded under the shelf of her jugs', and there was something new in her face, something settled and pleased that hadn't been there this morning. "Everyone watched, by the way. That's a thing that beach does. Nobody touched, nobody said anything gross, they just watched, like an audience. A man called them serious titties. I said thank you. He was being sincere."
"Sincere."
"Very. You could tell." She pushed off the fridge and came over and stood in front of him and turned around, presenting the back of the bikini, the string up her crack, both browned cheeks. "Do I look tan to you? Like, properly tan? Because I feel tan. I feel like I tan better when there's nothing on and everyone's looking. It's like the sun and the attention work together."
Jon looked at the tan lines, or the absence of them. Four pale bands where the strings had been and nothing else, the whole rest of her an even golden brown, and where the bikini bottoms should have protected her, the skin was just as dark.
"Bella. Where did the bottoms sit."
"The bottoms sat where bottoms sit, Jon, briefly, at the beginning, for form." She looked back at him over her shoulder with the grin. "There's an asterisk on that too."
Abdul's headlights swept the window as the old man's car pulled across the shared drive and went dark. Somewhere out there the peg by his door was getting a guayabera hung on it.
"He said next Saturday's optional," Bella said. "I told him I'd consult my schedule."
The following afternoon was bright and heavy with heat. In the shared yard between the duplex units, Bella lay flat on her stomach across a wide blue towel spread out over the manicured grass. She wore her tiny white micro bikini, the back string lost entirely between her firm, round ass cheeks, leaving her pale tanned globes completely exposed to the sun. Her huge cantaloupe breasts were pressed flat against the terrycloth, squishing outward like twin overfilled balloons.
A few feet away in his white plastic lounger sat Abdul. The old Black man had on nothing except his rigid green cock ring clamped tight at the root of his massive genitals, forcing his thick, dark, purple-headed cock to thrust straight outward into the open air. The heavy sack beneath swung loose and low in the heat, completely naked to the world.
The gate clicked open, and Jon walked in carrying a bag from the hardware store. He paused on the stone path, blinking against the glare, looking down at his surgically enhanced wife lying face down and the sixty-eight-year-old neighbor airing his enormous member.
"Hey," Jon called out, shifting his bag. "Bella?"
"Hi honey," Bella chirped into the towel, lifting her chin with a wide, bright smile. Her blonde ponytail was tied up high, leaving her slender neck and bare golden shoulders glistening with a light sheen of sweat.
Abdul did not even look at Jon. His dark, weathered eyes remained fixed entirely on the exposed curve of Bella's bottom and the slender arch of her back. He picked up a plastic squeeze bottle from the lawn beside his chair.
"This bimbo needs some lotion," Abdul said bluntly, his voice gravelly and dismissive. "Skin's drying out under this sun. Good bimbo meat needs grease."
Jon opened his mouth, but Abdul was already out of his chair. The old man stepped onto the blue towel without hesitation, his leathery, bare feet settling right beside Bella's smooth thighs. He squirted a generous palmful of baby oil into his hand, the liquid catching the noon light in thick, transparent ripples.
Abdul dropped to his knees, straddling Bella's tanned thighs from behind. He positioned his hips so that his massive, ringed cock pressed firmly against the cleft of her ass, the heavy shaft pointing straight down at her tiny white bikini string and the tight pussy lips hidden beneath, the purple head pulsing with heat against the fabric, sending a shiver through her exposed cheeks. He didn't push inside. He just let the heavy, throbbing heat of the dark shaft press firmly against her damp fabric, pinning her lightly while he went to work, the ringed base pulsing against her sensitive skin as his thick fingers explored every inch of her exposed flesh.
"Keep still, snowbunny," Abdul grunted, slathering both hands with oil and placing them squarely on her back.
He spread the warm oil over her shoulder blades, digging his thick, calloused thumbs into the muscles around her spine. His weathered hands slid down the narrow line of her waist, coating her flawless golden skin in a slippery, mirror-bright sheen. Bella let out a soft, pleased hum, burying her face into her folded forearms as the old man rubbed down her ribs, his fingers brushing against the outer slopes of her huge, firm breast implants where they ballooned out from her chest wall.
Jon stood frozen on the pathway, staring down at the scene. "Abdul, what are you doing?"
"Taking care of property," Abdul muttered, not breaking rhythm. His large hands slid from her ribs down to her legs. He coated her calves in oil, working the slick grease over her shins and the backs of her knees, his fingers gliding effortlessly across her smooth, hairless flesh. He moved his hands up to her hamstrings, kneading the firm flesh shaped by hours of running and yoga, his knuckles repeatedly bumping against the sides of her hips.
All the while, his heavy, dark cock stayed pressed right against the cleft of her ass, the purple crown resting directly over her tight pussy lips, trapped between her thighs and his pelvis, the heat of his cock seeping through the thin fabric and making her slick lips throb with anticipation. Every time Abdul leaned forward as one motion, his heavy cock slid along her covered slit, his thick purple helmet grinding against the cotton barrier, his warm essence seeping through to her eager lips concealed beneath her scanty bottoms.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.