The Three Amigos

This tale is the third story in the tetralogy Mexican Bedtime Stories. "The Three Amigos" can be read on its own or as a sequel to (1) "The Mexican Stand-off" and (2) "Sugar Papito" and as a prequel to (4) "The Whole Enchilada".

*

The Morning After

Monday. The eighth day of our Mexican holiday. I woke with a headache. A few too many drinks. I was dreaming. A strange dream. I was on a stage, nude, surrounded by a jazz trio who were also nude. Trumpet, trombone, and drummer. Was that Dizzy Gillespie? And the trombonist—oh my God, what a cock! They were wailing away while I danced and gyrated in frenzied abandonment. Chris, my husband, was in the audience, watching me, shouting encouragement. Weird.

But now I was awake, and my head pounded as I listened to some sort of creature scurrying back and forth over the palapa roof of our cabana. Chris, oblivious to the rooftop commotion, lay on his side in a semi-foetal position, his mouth open like a dying carp. I rested on my stomach, trying to stretch the small of my back by splaying a knee off to the side.

My foot brushed against the cool plastic cylinder, causing me to start before I realised that it was the vibrator.

"Yes, we got rather vigorous last night," I reminded myself. The ache in my anus was further testimony to that.

Eventually, I rose, somewhat unsteady. The need for water hammered in my head, so I groped for a bottle, opened it and poured the liquid down my throat.

"Coffee. God, I need a cup—or three," I quietly moaned.

I rummaged for my kimono, threw it on and glanced at my watch.

"Shit! Six-in-the-fucking morning," I cried to myself.

I considered going back to bed in a quest for sleep, but I would've only tossed about and disturbed Chris's slumber. I looked at him. The white bed sheet had slid off, exposing him, and a moony grin twitched on his lips while his eyelids fluttered. He moaned something, and then I noticed his hand cupping his erection. I shook my head. Unbelievable.

I padded into the bathroom, the tiles cool on my feet. The face in the mirror staring back at me was ghastly. I found my cotton pads and cleanser and started wiping my face, removing make-up. And dried cum. God, what a mess. But my hair looked OK; it was still up and had that tousled, just-been-fucked appearance. Only it wasn't due to meticulous styling, but rather it was a telltale sign of last night's spree. The dull ache in my pussy, courtesy of the vibrator and Chris's cock simultaneously filling my cunt, was tolerable—dare I say, pleasant? But the pain in my ass was, well, a pain in the ass.

Coffee consumed my thoughts. I should've just jumped into the shower, but instead I continued removing the cum and make-up. Once I'd finished cleansing my face, I splashed it with cold water, fastened my kimono and went back to the bedroom to hunt for my sandals. I managed to locate one, but the second proved elusive. My search ended when my toe abruptly found a bed leg, causing me to hop in silent agony. Christ, what a start to the day!

I gave up searching for footwear and left the shack barefoot. Halfway down the path towards the restaurant, I realised that I wore only a flimsy kimono. "Fuck it," I thought, "'I need coffee." Thankfully, the staff had arrived and the delectable aroma of brewing beans soothed my nerves as I approached the restaurant.

"Buenos Diaz, Señora," greeted the man behind the bar. His name tag read "Tito".

I replied as pleasantly as possible, but my dry, croaking voice didn't fool him.

"Buenos Diaz, Señor. Coffee, por favor."

"Si, Señora." He poured me a cup and then asked, "Too much tequila, Señora?"

Tito's question betrayed that I was a shambles. Resigned, I answered, "Si, mucho tequila."

He grinned as he wiped the counter and then advised, "Señora, to kill the tequila from last night, you must drink more tequila this morning."

Tito, chuckling at his own joke, then turned to Juan, his helper, to see whether his humour was being appreciated. His young co-worker, however, remained silent while eyeing me. His sullen stare made me uncomfortable, especially given that I was clad in only a scanty robe. Then I panicked.

"Shit! Is there dried cum in my hair?" I wondered with alarm.

My terror evaporated when I realised that Juan's eyes were fixed on my chest, on my nipples jutting against the thin fabric. It was comical in a perverse way: I was relieved that he was ogling my tits. Let him look, so long as strewn sperm wasn't the attraction. "God, just give me some coffee," I silently begged.

"I'll keep that in mind, Tito, but I think I'll stick with coffee this morning. Actually... could I?" I asked, pointing at a carafe.

"Anything for Señora," he said with a wink while filling the jug with coffee.

"Muchos gracias, Señor," I smiled. I then took my cup and carafe and retreated to the restaurant patio to be alone, conscious that they were examining my bum and legs as I walked away. They spoke in what I assumed was Mayan, and then a couple of brief earthy guffaws rang out. No doubt it was a joke at my expense—the scantily clad, hung over gringa. But then another small panic attack gripped me.

"Please don't let anything run out and down my thigh. Please?"

My pleas answered, I made it without springing a leak and, in a corner of the patio, sat on a wooden chair. But my anus was still tender, so I moved to a nearby cushioned seat. I then settled in and gulped down three cups in succession. The coffee worked its magic, clearing my head of cobwebs and letting me think.

I finished my fourth cup, got up and, lost in my thoughts, wandered down to the shoreline. It was empty. I plopped myself onto a beach chair and stared at the water.

"Why did I tell Chris that story?" I asked myself in puzzlement. "I promised myself that I wouldn't, yet at the first opportunity I caved in and sang like a canary—or did I actually cackle like a crow?" My self-esteem had hit rock bottom that morning.

"How did it get so out of control yesterday? Why did I share that slutty little secret? Why?" I questioned anxiously.

*

The Previous Day

The previous day had started well enough. It was another day in paradise, lying nude on the beach and exchanging stories with my husband. It was only several days ago that I'd finally succumbed to Chris's prying about my single days and described a racy one-night stand. Then, a few days later I'd told Chris about my time with Doug, an older married man whom I saw for about six months for casual sex. And Chris had received my revelations well. He loved my stories, and his reactions to them were adorable, resulting in frequent steamy sex.

To augment my lustfulness, I had, during the first few days of our vacation, worn beachwear consisting of a series of meagre thongs while going topless. But the last few days I'd finally raised my nerve and started wearing nothing on the beach. Coupled with the Brazilian wax I'd undergone just before our trip, the effect of being so totally exposed in front of numerous strangers had my libido aflame.

So, yesterday began more or less like the previous days of our holiday. That day, I decided to wear a thick waist chain that I normally reserved for bedroom romps. Chris certainly approved, and I adored how the metal links rested on my hips and especially the strand of chain that hung down my thigh, bringing coquettish attention to my waxed vulva.

While we lay nude on the sand late that morning, Chris asked me if I'd ever had sex on a beach with someone other him. I had, of course; but I decided to tease him by telling him about a special day he and I once shared.

"Eighteen years ago? While we were married?" quizzed Chris while trying to hide his worry.

"Yes. We were married. He was so nasty with me, wonderfully nasty. Did all sorts of things to me."

"Did he? Like what?"

"Well, fucked me silly, for one. But other things, too."

"Like?"

"He put fruit in my pussy and then fed it to me."

"What a pervert!" exclaimed Chris, knowing now that I was talking about him. Nonetheless, he kept playing along by asking, "What kind of fruit?"

"Yes, but he was a delightful pervert. Strawberries and sliced up pears. He also rubbed an iced bottle of wine against my pussy. Said he wanted to cool me down, but that actually made me hotter."

"That does seem deviant. What else did this freak do?"

"He ate my pussy throughout the day. Would fuck it, then eat it, then fuck it some more. Had me suck his cock too. Once, he came on my face and then he licked it clean."

"Now that's sick. How many times did this pervert fuck you that day?"

"God, I don't know; I lost count. But at the end of the day, after all that fucking, I showed him my pussy—opened it wide for him. He went wild and dragged me to the surf, fucked me one last time, really pounding me, 'til I saw stars. I asked him afterwards what set him off. He said it was the sight of his cum bubbling in my cunt."

Chris moaned and sighed, "Well, I could see how that turned him on."

"Oh, it did."

Chris lay on his stomach, obviously hard, and pressed for more.

"So he pumped your cunt full of cum that day, did he?"

"He did. In fact, I think he got me pregnant that day."

Chris grinned, "Hmm, the timing does seem right."

"It does."

Chris shuffled over to me, staying on his stomach, snuggled against me and, after a tender kiss, whispered, "God, I think of that day often, baby. And I'm so glad that you do too. I get so hard when I think about it."

I was about to tell him that my pussy gushed at the thought of it, when Brigitte's heavily French-accented voice sang out.

"Allo, look at the lovebirds!"

Chris froze while I giggled and stood to greet her, exchanging kisses on each cheek a la française. Our breasts brushed when we pecked, and my nipples perked from the brief contact. I dismissed my reaction as involuntary, no more meaningful than my nipples puckering due to cold.

Brigitte, the woman to whom a few days earlier I'd rather rudely shown my backside, had become our new tanning partner. She had approached us two days ago and, in her delightful French accent, simply asked if she could tan with us, explaining that she was travelling on her own and was reluctant to tan in the nude by herself. Chris, I sensed, was agreeable, but I wasn't so keen. I hadn't forgotten the first time I saw her and how she looked at Chris—and at me—so I wasn't sure I wanted to venture in that direction.

However, I gave in, and to my delight, Brigitte had a keen sense of tact and seemed to know when to hangout with us and when to make herself scarce. In short time, I'd actually become fond of her and looked forward to our walks and chats. And, truth be told, tanning nude with a relative stranger did possess a titillating aspect.

When she tanned with us, she would always lie next to me, placing me between herself and Chris. She was chatty with both of us, yet never flirted with either Chris or me; nonetheless, there was a wonderful sexual tension whenever she joined us on the beach.

She was short—no more than five feet three—blonde and curvy. She carried herself proudly, with an air bordering on arrogance, but it suited her. Her upright walk drew attention to her round, heavy breasts tipped with large, dark areolae. She was well tanned, and the sun seemed to have brought out numerous large dark freckles, giving her skin a sexy leopard-like appearance.

Brigitte dropped her beach bag and sat next to me. She wore a full red bikini bottom, nothing else. She then, with much hand waving and animation, told us about her snorkelling trip. I listened to her captivating oo-la-la voice with amusement but paid greater attention to her facial expressions than to her words. Chris expressed amazement at the size of the barracuda that she described, although his eyes seemed more amazed with Brigitte's tits.

After a while, a breeze came up. Chris told us he was going for a sail on the Hobie cat; were either or both of us interested? Chris tended to push the limits of the boat, and I wasn't in the mood for an ocean adventure. So I declined, as did Brigitte, but she added, "Catherine and I will go for a walk."

After Chris left, Brigitte and I chatted for a bit before she asked, "Shall we?"

"Yes," I said and grabbed my bottoms to begin sliding them on.

"No, Catherine. Let us walk au naturel today."

And with that, she peeled off her bikini bottom. Right away, I noticed that she had, since yesterday, trimmed and shaved a good deal of her pubic hair, leaving only a small, thick triangle on her mound above her slit. Below that, it appeared she had removed all her hair.

"Oh my, you look very nice! This should be fun," I giggled.

My pussy was still smooth and bare from the wax treatment that I'd endured just prior to our trip, so she and I were going to make quite a pair. So off we went, with Brigitte wearing only a sun visor and me clad in a floppy hat and thick waist chain that hung loosely around my hips.

For someone who was concerned about tanning on her own, Brigitte certainly had a devil-may-care attitude regarding her nudity. As we strolled, she was totally at ease and conversed with me as if we were dressed for a day of shopping. At first I was conscious of walking along the shore, nude, and of the ogling men, but soon I forgot about our state of undress and became absorbed in chatting with Brigitte.

During our walk, I discovered that she was forty-four years old and recently divorced. Her ex, to whom she'd been married for ten years, had built a successful restaurant business but had developed a taste for the younger waitresses whom he employed. Brigitte tried to put up with it but in the end filed for divorce, receiving a generous settlement when all was said and done. This trip was her way of treating herself for putting up with her ex-husband's philandering for the last few years.

After about a forty-five minute stroll, we arrived back at our spot. Chris was still out sailing. Brigitte and I sat and chatted a little more. However, she shocked me by sitting cross-legged, facing me, giving me a clear view of her vulva. I was taken aback and tried keeping my eyes on hers, but I kept returning my gaze to her pussy. Because of the insouciant way in which she sat, I saw, for the first time, her intimate bits in detail. Unlike my pussy, her petals were thin and small, girlish, and usually hidden by her dark outer labia. My eyes, despite myself, continually darted to her bared cunt.

Finally, she acknowledged my scrutiny by saying, "It feels so nice and sexy. I liked how yours looked," pointing with her nose at my smooth crotch, "so I decided to try." With that, she briefly rubbed her pussy.

I don't know what overcame me, but I unfolded my legs from beneath me and sat facing her with my feet and thighs wide apart. So here I was on a public beach—albeit a nude one—displaying my cunt for the second time in the space of several days to this woman whom I hardly knew.

She seemed at ease with what I'd done and stared at my pussy while faintly smiling, finally whispering, "You are very beautiful."

"So are you," I replied weakly but truthfully.

Suddenly, she looked at her watch.

"Mon Dieu! My massage!"

She leaned forward, placed a hand on each of my widened knees and, after two quick pecks of my cheeks, whispered, "Au revoir. See you tomorrow."

With that, she slipped into her sundress, quickly adjusted her boobs, scrunched up her bikini bottoms, stuffed them into her beach bag and scampered off.

I watched her walk away, and after about thirty paces she turned and waved. I waved back, at which point she continued her hurried journey to the massage facilities.

Wow. I was in a tizzy. My head reeled while I tried to make sense of what had just happened.

However, I didn't have long to think as Chris had returned with drinks for both of us. I gulped at the pina colada, hoping the alcohol would steady my nerves.

When I regained my composure, I inquired about his sail, and he, in turn, about my walk. I recounted our conversation, but I didn't mention what had just transpired between Brigitte and me. I wouldn't have known what to say, "Oh, we had a nice walk, and then Brigitte and I examined each other's oyster"?

Chris was in an expansive mood and began, bit by bit, exciting me with tales about his times with Jennifer, a girl he dated when he was in his early twenties. I welcomed the distraction and soon listened with keen interest to his lustful adventures.

One time, he told me, while travelling by train, he and Jennifer ducked into the washroom for a quickie. Once inside, however, it turned into a prolonged session, with Jennifer seated spread-eagled on the edge of the sink while Chris stood and fucked her. Finally, when they'd finished and put themselves together, Jennifer cracked open the toilet door to see, to her horror, a line of people. At first, they thought that the queue was for the toilet, but then they realised that the train had stopped. They were in a station—their station! Quickly, they piled out of the washroom to a mixture of chuckles, cat calls and indignant scolding and scurried to retrieve their luggage. According to Chris, they barely made it off the train before it chugged out of the station.

He had a lot of stories about Jennifer.

"Did you love her?" I asked.

He paused and smiled.

"Yes, I did. I loved her very much."

I reached out to stroke his face. I understood him. That first intense love affair in which sex elevates itself to mystical heights is so very special.

"What about you, Catherine? Tell me about someone you loved," Chris asked. "Tell me about that guy in university whom you dated. What's-his-name? John?"

I smiled remembering an incident vaguely similar to the one Chris had just described.

"Yes, John. I saw John off and on for about five years. We got along well together, and the sex was superb, but both of us were curious—curious about sex with other people. We'd been steady for about the first three years, and everything was good, but I just felt that I was too young to be tying myself down. I think John would've been happy staying together, but he was a true friend, so we remained in touch. Although both of us were playing the field, every now and then we'd get together for sex.

"Interestingly, it seemed as if our sex got wilder once we parted. Once, I ran into him one afternoon in the student union building. We talked for a bit, and then he asked if I wanted to get high with him. I had no classes for the rest of the day, so I said, 'Sure,' and followed him into an empty conference room where we shared a joint.

"Well, one thing led to another, and we started kissing. The pot had made me horny. I went braless a lot in those days, and I didn't object when he started squeezing my tits. God, it felt good, especially when he undid the buttons of my blouse and started sucking my nipples. The next thing I knew, he lifted me onto the large conference table and stripped off my jeans. Soon, I was on my back on the table, wearing only an undone blouse, while John gave my pussy a very thorough tongue bath. And the excitement was intensified by the fact that there was no lock on the door—anyone could've walked in! I had an amazing orgasm, and then John mounted and entered me on the big conference table. I was so horny; I was soaking!

"We screwed for what seemed an eternity, rocking and banging on tabletop. John just kept slamming into me, harder and harder until he finally came, squirting what seemed like a quart inside me! After cuddling for a while, we sat up, and his cum spilled out of me onto the table. We looked at the puddle of sperm, then at each other and started laughing hysterically. Both of us were so high that we thought that this was the funniest thing that we'd ever seen. Finally, paranoia took over, so we hurriedly dressed and left. Crazy days."