Spanish Bull

So with all these scenarios playing in my head in the full colour, high definition, wide screen that was my imagination, I tried in vain to distract myself at least a little. I made a futile attempt to eat, to have a normal evening meal, finding a table at a sea front restaurant, sitting and ordering on my own, standing out like a sore thumb against the couples, groups and families all around me. Not a sore thumb. It was my prick that was sore, throbbing with everything that I was thinking might take place, and I felt a total prick, for that stupid, crazy moment when I threw Sarah's bikini bottom out to sea, and for letting my wife go to meet this guy. My appetite had gone. I grazed at some fish, drank just one glass of wine, still afraid of ending up blind drunk, left most of my food, asked for la cuenta, paid and left.

I people watched my way along the busy sea front, past restaurants, bars, clubs, shops with Spanish souvenirs, late night delicatessens, a late night hairdressers, wine shops, all the time half wanting and yet half afraid to see Sarah and the Spaniard at a table in one of the restaurants as I passed. Seeing them would at least reassure me that they were not already in his bedroom. Having them see me walking alone would be humiliating. I saw them nowhere, except in his bed, in my imagination, his buttocks humping, her legs around his waist, his cock erupting unprotected into her.

If it really was just for dinner, then by ten, or eleven at the latest, they would have finished, and Sarah might return, so I headed back through the laughing, raucous crowds, back to our hotel, to our bedroom, and to its emptiness.

The television at least made some noise, killing off the silence with gunfire, screaming cars and helicopters. Craig Daniels did his Bond routine. I wondered how he would have dealt with the situation I was in. Find the restaurant, send the guy crashing across the tables, take the woman by the arm and drag her out, kiss her deeply, then bring her back, rip off her dress, throw her across his knees and turn her milk white buttocks a stinging, palm shaped, flaming pink to punish her, then take her to the bed and show her how a real man makes love to the woman he adores, and give her the orgasm of her life.

That was when I started thinking just how I wanted to behave with Sarah when she got back. By then it was something after midnight, and dinner would have long been over. What was happening, was happening. One thing I was sure of. I was not going to let it end our marriage.

Having her come back and find me sitting up, waiting for her return, fretting, watching television to take my mind off where she was and what she was doing with her Spanish bull, would just destroy any remaining self respect I had left. I had not stopped her going, but now, at least, I had to try to play it cool.

I undressed, took my second shower of the evening, switched off the lights, and went to bed. I knew I would not sleep, but that was how I wanted it to look when my wife returned. Cool, unconcerned, unaffected.

She did not put on the light. The glow from the street outside was just enough to see by. I sensed her undress, go to the bathroom, close the door, do whatever, come back to the bedroom, and slip beneath the single sheet that was all the Spanish summer night required.

"Are you awake?" she whispered, her hand exploring, finding my arm and resting on it.

My back was to her. I turned. I reached out my arm and Sarah came to me, head on my shoulder, her hair soft against my chest.

"Yes," I said.

Silence. Then,

"Are you okay?"

Women can ask such stupid questions. She had just had dinner with another guy, someone who displayed his assets on the beach, she had come back long after one, having done whatever with this guy, and now she asked me if I was okay. Of course I was not okay. Men can also give such stupid answers, out of bravado, macho pride, or sheer inability to think what they should say.

"Yes," I said. "I'm fine."

I felt her hand, first on my thigh, then higher, then at the base, then higher, around my shaft.

"You're hard."

I knew that I was hard already. I had been hard most of the evening. I had been hard at the restaurant. I had been hard walking on the seafront. I had been hard watching Bond. I had been hard taking a shower. I had even been hard taking a leak, having to force it down to get the angle to direct my water into the bowl. I did not need Sarah to tell me that I was hard. I had never felt so hard. I hardly needed to answer her and confirm my hardness, because her fingers were wrapped around my shaft, moving up and down its hard, rock solid length, so I said nothing.

"It's bigger than Franco's," she said.

That, at least, was some comfort. I always knew that I had nothing to be ashamed of. Franco's thong had been distended on the beach and looked impressive. Mine, inside my shorts, would not have been any larger, but then, unlike Franco, I had not been not aroused.

Like all guys, I knew what the average cock size was, and I knew that when my erection was complete, I had more than an inch above that, so I had never felt inadequate. Still, it was nice to know that I was larger than Franco.

I could only assume, though, that the comparison that Sarah was making was based on seeing Franco's cock, not in his thong, but in the raw. As Sarah curled her body, bringing her head down to the throbbing head of my cock, taking it between her lips, I pictured her doing the same to Franco, stroking his cock while sucking on it, pleasuring him ready from him to use his slick, saliva saturated cock on her.

My wife's mouth still felt wonderful. I bet that Franco had thought the same.

She used her tongue, lapping it around the taut skin of my cock head, finding the frenum, teasing it, touching the eye with the tip of her tongue, probing it, tantalising me with the impossible thought of using her tongue like a lizard to lick right inside.

She paused.

"It tastes nicer too."

I can understand preferring chocolate chip ice cream to plain vanilla, but taste testing cocks does not make sense to me. Never having tasted one, and not intending to, the concept seems seriously strange. Although, when you think about it, as a guy I have found delicious differences in taste when going down on women I have slept with. Ranking the subtle varieties in order is still something I have never thought to do, and while I enjoy the taste of Sarah's slit, I have never told her how it compares with that of other women.

So tasting better than Franco was good, but the real message that Sarah's comment had conveyed was worrying. In four short words my wife had told me that she had done exactly this to Franco too. She had sucked his cock, tasting his pre-cum, and was now comparing it to mine. If it had gone that far with them, it had to have gone all the way.

Sarah paused again. Women can read your mind.

"I promise I won't do it again, but you have to admit that you deserved it."

I did not have to admit anything, but now I knew for sure. She really had done it. She really had gone all the way. Franco had fucked her. What I did not know, and did not want to ask, was if he had come inside her. Had Franco fired his Spanish semen into her fertile English womb. Had my wife risked insemination from this bull that she had barely known for hours before she let him spew his sperm inside her.

As if it did not matter, as if she slept with other guys every other day, Sarah went casually back to sucking on my cock.

I should have been upset, annoyed, angry, furious even, but all I felt was my intense arousal and the need to fuck six hours of tension from my body and take it out on hers.

It was time to be assertive. I did not need any more foreplay. I did not care whether she needed it or not. She had had Franco as her foreplay.

I used both hands, holding her by the shoulders, moved her off my chest, turning her, so that she lay beside me, face down.

I climbed between her legs, opening them to make space for mine, and when she tried to turn around to face me, I pushed down on her shoulder blades, forcing her into the mattress.

I have always liked petite. Most of the women I bedded before Sarah were petite. Not necessarily blonde, nor even necessarily white, but nine of out ten were petite. Petite is easier to manoeuvre in the bed, to turn around, or lift or hold her wrists. I have fucked petite standing up, lifting her onto my cock while she wrapped her arms around my neck, holding her under her buttocks. I have had petite squat on my cock while I was lying on the bed, locked arms with her, and then stood up, while she wrapped her legs around my back. I have even held petite upside down, while standing, licking her slit while she has sucked my cock. For that, she has to be not only petite, but daring, adventurous, flexible and lithe, but it is an experience to be savoured, both literally, and in the memory.

One of the delicious advantages of petite, are the neat buttocks that match petite's slender frame, more muscle than they are fat, which enable you to take her from behind when she is lying flat on her front. It helps, of course, that my cock has that extra inch over and above the average. With petite, your cock head can still find her slit, even when she is lying flat, because there is no massive rump to impede your access, and you can slide right in and fuck her almost as readily as if she on her back and facing you. That is what I did right then to Sarah.

I did not want to make love to Sarah. You do not make love to someone who has just been with another man. This would be pure and simple fucking. Nothing more.

My cock slid in easily.

I dismissed the thought that her wet cunt might be lubricated with more than her own secretions. I really did not want that foremost in my mind. Franco might have left her slick with semen but all I cared about was that she was wet and ready.

I started fucking, and she started moaning.

Right then, I was still leaning on my arms, just my lower stomach hitting her buttocks as I fucked her. I thought of Bond, leaving the guy lying in the corner of the restaurant, putting the girl over his knees in the bedroom, still dressed in black tuxedo and black bow tie, his hand rising and falling, turning her buttocks red.

Even in the dim light that seeped between and around the curtains from the street, I could make out the white triangle across Sarah's buttocks where her bikini bottom had, until that morning, shielded her from the tanning rays of blazing Spanish sun. Instead of supporting my torso with both arms, I balanced with just one hand.

Sarah has two dimples, one on each check, each just off centre. I do not mean on her face. I mean the two cheeks of her buttocks that I was gazing down at, that from the top of her cleft were still pure white, diagonal tan starting again on the lower outside curves. The dimple on her right cheek made a perfect target. The crack as my palm swiped her buttock, making the flesh ripple with the shock waves, sounded wonderful.

Sarah groaned, a loud, prolongued groan of pain that she totally deserved.

I fucked her some more, and she was whimpering. Then I paused.

"No, please,..."

I guess this time, reading my mind was not so difficult. Sarah knew what was coming next, and I was not listening to her asking me not to do it.

Same hand. Same buttock, except that even in the dim light I could see it reddening already. Same dimple. Same rippling of her flesh. Same extended groan, or maybe longer, and maybe a little quieter as well, as if she was accepting the inevitable now.

I fucked her some more, loving her delicious tightness. Franco might have fucked her just two hours before, but he had not stretched her so much that her natural tightness was no more. Another delightful advantage of petite.

Now I balanced with the other hand. I wondered if Bond had ever punished a girl while he was actually fucking her, and if he was ambidextrous too. Then I corrected my imagination. He is a non-existent character in Fleming's books, and Brocolli's films. Who cares what the fictitious Bond has or has not done.

I am ambidextrous. I write with the right because that is what I have always done, but I can throw with my left, play snooker left handed, and can paint with either hand, walls and woodwork, if not portraits. I can balance with either hand. Strike with either hand. It was not fair on Sarah's right buttock for it to receive all the pain. The left deserved its turn.

I was not holding back. I should have done something like this before she had left, made it clear who was in charge. Okay, throwing the bikini bottom had been stupid, but it was hardly the equivalent of letting another guy fuck you. Making an extra effort with my left hand, I was rewarded with Sarah's shocked, gasping cry of pain.

One more time. One more delicious smack, my palm bouncing sideways off her buttock, and Sarah whimpering. Enough of punishment. It was time to enjoy her.

You have to practice holding back. You can do it as you urinate. Squeeze and cut off the flow. Isolate that muscle and work on it. Contract it on the bus when you are a student, while commuting in the car when you have a decent salary, watching television, in the cinema, not at the dinner table, because it disturbs the enjoyment of the meal and conversation, but in the office will work just fine, especially in the interminable, tedious, pointless meetings.

Think of it as an investment to extend the enjoyment you will have when fucking. Guys who come soon after entering miss all the fun. The real enjoyment comes from thrusting, varying the frequency, speed, power, angle, the lengths of the thrusts, the pauses in between, keeping her guessing, taking her by surprise, shocking her with sudden ferocious pounding, or slowly sliding just the head between her lips. And if you cannot master holding back, you cannot enjoy that exquisite pleasure of prolonged, everlasting fucking of a woman.

I can never know what the woman actually feels herself. I have no idea what it would be like to have a cock sawing in and out of me. I do not know what it is like to be stretched, or to be filled, to be taken slowly, or to be hammered, to be pounded rapidly for minutes on end, thinking it will never stop, or to be made to wait, a cock head just inside the entrance, not moving, but ready to thrust again in a split second.

What I do know, is how good it feels to do all those thing to an appreciative woman, to hear her noises, gasps, grunts, moans, little cries of joy, screams of agonising but exquisite pleasure, and to feel or watch her movements, sense her giving of her body, her relaxing, letting you do to her exactly as you want, her shudders, her little spasms, her open mouth, her thrown back head, her thankful strokes and caresses of your own body, and then the ultimate, the shivering, vibration of her orgasm. Learning to hold back is an essential prerequisite to giving her those pleasures and to rejoicing in everything you do to her.

What I also know is that the sensations in my own cock as I fuck, around the taut stretched, nerve dense, cock head itself as it glides within, repeatedly opening her to take its width, and on the frenum, pulled so gently and exquisitely by the thrusting, and on the shaft, softly gripped by her surrounding muscle, all of these are so wonderful that every extra second that I enjoy a woman's body makes strengthening that muscle so wonderfully worthwhile.

I fucked Sarah, her body yielding underneath me, for a sublimely extended eternity, taking her to an orgasm that was hers alone to know in its intensity, but mine to appreciate from the evidence of her enjoyment as she squirmed and shuddered and scrabbled on the bed beneath me, and as she spasmed around my cock, vaginal muscles gripping my shaft in rapid, involuntary pulses of pleasure, and when her orgasm had eased, I fucked her more, while she tried to reach behind her and grip my flanks to pull me deeper, moaning with animal lust, and while I wondered if Franco had fucked her half so well.

Holding back is delightfully exquisite. Releasing is sheer perfection. The reserve of semen builds at the base of your cock, the fluid increasing in volume as you fuck, held back by that controlling muscle, the pressure growing, and then with release it shoots through the entire length, jetting from the eye, in spurt after delicious spurt, flooding her womb and wracking your body with an intensity of sexual pleasure indescribable to those who have not known it.

I came, and that night I filled Sarah with more semen than ever I had ejaculated inside my wife or any other woman. It was as if a dam had burst. It spewed from my cock. She felt its power and gave out a cry, shocked at its force. Now it was my body that shuddered and spasmed, and it was divinely beautiful.

I knew for sure that Franco would not have come in her like that. If his sperm was still teeming inside my wife, it was going to have some serious competition. His might have a couple of hours start on any fertile egg that was nestling in Sarah's womb, but mine was giving chase.

We slept. In the morning, when we woke, nothing was said, but we fucked again, except this time it was face to face, and while there was still instinctive, impersonal, animal enjoyment, there were moments too when we made love, and touched gently, and caressed and stroked and kissed.

Sarah had another orgasm, quieter, less intense, but beautiful to behold. I came again, not as copiously, and thinking as my semen spurted into her, just how we would handle it if we discovered that she was pregnant. Our first child might be another man's.

Sarah was subdued, showering, dressing, back to shorts and tee-shirt, taking breakfast on the open roofed hotel buffet area, then walking to the beach. Perhaps she too was thinking of the potential consequences of the night before.

As she had showered and dressed I had seen her buttocks, still pink, and wondered if she still felt them throbbing. She did not complain when I told her not to take either of her remaining two bikinis. If she could lie naked yesterday, we could find a place today where she would do the same again.

It seemed only appropriate, after all, that some other users of the beach at least, would see her buttocks, and know that she had accepted punishment, even if they did not know that it was for offering herself to Franco.

Sarah was still hesitant to remove her shorts. She sat on her towel, and just slid them down discretely. It is amazing that on a crowded beach, people are so engaged with their own group that they fail to notice what is happening right beside them.

I smoothed lotion over her, careful with her buttocks, not to increase any residual pain that lingered where they were pink, but also to ensure that they were well protected from the sun. Moving her luscious hair from her shoulder blades to smooth the lotion there, I thought it glinted even more golden that it had before, no longer pure, even blonde, but with streaks that were almost white, radiant in the sun.

It was while I was smoothing the lotion onto her body that Sarah spoke to me.

"I didn't expect you to react like that. I thought you'd be upset, not excited. The way you made love to me was wonderful. It felt as if you owned me, and I belonged to you."

"You do belong to me," I said.

She smiled.

"Do you want to know the truth?" she asked.

If she meant the details of what had happened the night before with Franco, the answer was that I really did not want to know. Not then, not ever.

"No," I said.

"Okay," she said. Then several quiet moments later.

"Just promise me that you will make love to me like that forever."

"I promise," I answered.