Paul’s wife grinds it in his face

I never cease to be amazed by what stories people will tell me in bars. Perhaps I should become a bartender. I’ve spent enough time in bars and heard enough stories. I have always wondered how much of what I hear is true. There’s something about the anonymity of the setting, the booze, and the mood. I don’t know. Maybe they’re truer than those told in the bald light of day. But one night a number of years ago I met a woman who’s story was hot enough to keep me warm on cold winter nights for years to come. Her name was Maria.

I was in Barbados on a business trip. I know; tough job. As they say, somebody’s gotta do them. I was often able to bring my wife along, but that was one trip she didn’t make. During that era of our marriage she was doing some work either as a personal fitness trainer or as a tennis coach for individual, mostly wealthy clients. I’m pretty sure she was also doing some serious shagging of either her clients or, in particular, one other guy she worked with. But I could never prove that. It’s just something I thought about. A lot.

So maybe it was my subconscious train of thought that made it so easy for people to talk to me about their sex lives. I’ve lost count of how many guys I know who’ve told me their wives were screwing around on the side. With some of the guys it was kinky sex and consensual and in other cases not. I’ve heard some stories from women as well, though not as many. Those have always been pretty awesome, but Maria…well, she takes the cake. Or perhaps, cock?

The bar in Barbados was classic Caribbean, with soft lighting, mostly gentle music, lapping waves, warm breeze, and the smell of ganja (or whatever it is they smoke) in the air. As I sat there enjoying my fruity drink, I got roped into a “situation” with a married couple sitting next to me. She was a full-breasted and braless, coffee-skinned beauty from Colombia; he was some average white guy from Iowa. She wanted to dance; he didn’t. She made a fuss; he turned red and tried to shush her. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the dance floor; he didn’t complain.

What the hell had just happened?

She was quite athletic on the dance floor regardless of the tempo of the music and was clearly trying to make him jealous. I was extremely self-conscious of her bumping and grinding and stole glances at hubby whenever I could. He didn’t seem to care, so I relaxed. After half an hour of her gyrations I was sweaty, horny, and seriously considering taking her to my room. I didn’t stray very often in my marriage, but this girl…damn…she just threw her body against mine. She made contact–firm contact–with her hips, her thighs, her hands, her breasts. It was incredible. And the sweat and the heat and the raw hormonal power she had–I would’ve done her in a heartbeat. She clearly knew she had me in her seductive power and knew it was time to rein me in. Her smile was absolutely stunning when she told me it was time for another drink. So with me panting in lust, and with my hand in hers, we went back to the bar to sit down next to her husband.

Turns out Paul was his name and he had picked up some kind of minor intestinal bug. He wasn’t feeling that great–or so he had said–so he had not danced. She pooh poohed that idea and said he never danced, that he was always worried about germs, never liked to do anything exciting, etc., etc., etc. I felt bad for the guy (despite the fact I thought I might get to bang his wife). At some point in her harangue Paul decided he’d had enough and excused himself to their room. Maria, on the other hand, stayed firmly put.

Goody for me.

Our conversation very quickly turned to their marriage while at the same time I wondered if I had any condoms. But she quickly captured my attention and I hung on every word, every expression, every breath. Turns out they’d gotten married about ten years prior. She’d been twenty-five years old, had been scraping by in Cartagena, desperate for a way out, and along had come thirty-seven-year-old Paul. He had been an industrial engineer on his first job in South America, very sweet, secure in his job, and head-over-heels infatuated with the young latina. He had been her way out of poverty. They were married six months later and continued to live in Colombia while he finished his contract job.

She had had a couple of miscarriages before she met Paul and together they found out soon after they were married she was unable to bear children. It didn’t surprise her, but Paul had wanted kids. That had been a rough period for them, with Paul acting moody and immature, so she promptly started fooling around on the side.

The first time she had done it, she told me, the setting was just like it was that night there in Barbados with me. When she said that I couldn’t help but get my hopes up. She certainly held my attention. She had this way of saying things while looking deep into my eyes (which made it hard to look at her cleavage) and touching me at the same time. Like, she’d say something about her story and would just grab my shoulder and with her accent say something like, “Choo know what I mean?” with eyes wide and eyebrows raised. And every time it was like she had just told me the most amazing thing in the world. After I responded appropriately, generally by nodding earnestly, she’d look away and her hand would sort of glide along my bicep before falling into her lap. It was riveting. I was hypnotized.

So her first fling had been while they’d been on a vacation just a couple months after they got married. She and Paul had had strong words about something (my guess was it took precious little for the strong words to come flowing from her and they probably never came from him) and he had stormed off to their room. Apparently he thought she’d come along begging for forgiveness or something. Quite the contrary. A typical Colombian lover-type came along just moments later to commiserate with the young beauty. Less than half an hour later she had his big latin cock in her mouth (Those were her words, by the way, “big Latin cock”) in the darkness by the swimming pool. There were no lights and no moon. She told me she had had an orgasm just sucking his cock. I was hard (and very warm) just listening to her. I could just imagine those beautiful red lips wrapped around that brown cock (okay, big brown cock), one hand wrapped around his shaft, the other up her own skirt, working herself into a lather. Damn.

He had wanted to fuck her, but neither of them had a condom and she wasn’t ready for that. The man had ended up putting her on a chaise lounge and had buried his face in her crotch which brought her to a second orgasm. Then they had switched positions and she had finished him off in similar fashion. She laughed when she told me that there were other couples out by the pool that they hadn’t seen when they first began their little fun. It had been so dark, she had said, with no lights out there at all, but by the time they were done their eyes had adjusted and she saw the others. According to her, no one complained.

I believed her.

Her lover took her back to the bar where they had had a drink. Her husband was not around, but she told me with a toss of her hair she would not have cared if he had been. She’d actually been disappointed at his absence. The man eventually escorted her to her room where, just outside the door, she had made love to him.

What about the condoms? I had asked. She knew it had been dumb, but she just couldn’t resist. He had held her off the ground and up against the wall outside their room and she had straddled his waist as he had thrust himself up into her repeatedly. He hadn’t lasted long and she didn’t come that time, but it was fun, she had said. So much fun. Oh that big Latin cock.

Right; I hadn’t forgotten the cock, but I liked it when she talked about it. So what had happened next? I had breathlessly asked.

She had found her husband moderately drunk and watching adult movies on the TV in an otherwise dark hotel room. She had been disgusted with him. She told him to come out to the balcony. After enjoying the view for a minute and making sure no one was around she told him to get down on his knees. Then she had taken off her dress and her panties (she had not been wearing a bra) in front of him. She enjoyed seeing his shock at her nudity. After a few moments she had leaned back against the concrete railing, spread her legs, and told him to eat her out.

By this point in the story I had drunk my drink and hers. I briefly considered gulping down someone else’s, but ordered another for both of us.

Had she really done this? I had asked with amazement. I mean, really? Hell, yes! She had said, slapping my thigh sharply. Then she had put both her hands on my thigh and asked if that had hurt.

I had just laughed goofily, wondering if this were all a dream. So…then…what next?

I regretted asking because she had sat back up straight, pulled her hands off my thigh and began gesturing again as she rattled on. That episode had apparently just been the start of her hijinks. Ever since then, she’d said, if she sees someone she wants to fuck, she fucks them.

What about Paul?

What about him?

Does he know?

She made a flip-flop motion with her hand. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t. She had laughed. It didn’t matter. She was in charge.

So did I score that night? Alas, no. After she told me her story she slid down off her stool, leaned into my ear, tweaked my nipple and said, “Maybe I fuck you tomorrow night.”

But I never saw her again.