Secret rendezvous

We kissed standing there behind that wall on the side of the street, opposite the resort gate again, and for a moment it was all soft again, that unhurried first-time feeling, until it wasn't. My hands found the hem of the crocheted dress and lifted it over her head in one motion, and Elisabeth stood in front of me in nothing but the white bikini bottom, her nipples hard and her breath already shallow.

I picked her up under her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around my waist like she'd been doing it for years, and I carried her the couple of steps further behind the wall. I pulled the little bikini bottom down to her ankles, and she quickly shook it off her feet. I just looked at her. Her married, cheating, soaking pussy; the dark patch of hair; the lips already parted and glistening.

She turned around towards the wall and spread her legs for me without being asked, placing her arms against our lover’s wall. I knelt between them from behind and put my mouth on her and made her ready with my tongue before my cock touched her. I stood up and slid my throbbing cock easily into her dripping wet slit as I started fucking her slowly at first, then not so slowly, as she came again with her heels digging into the sandy bottom, and when she felt me getting close, she pushed back against me even harder, moaning "inside," and I gave her all of it. She left around six PM, with my cum still warm inside her and a smile that made the whole ride back to my place worth it.

That was the high-water mark. After that, the husband tightened the screws.

He must have smelled it on her. Or noticed the little changes. Women come home from a good fucking different, and a suspicious man reads the difference like a menu. From then on, she was under surveillance. She could not book a course, so she could not come to the dive center without raising questions. She stopped sending emails too, because he was always near the laptop. And the pool, my pool, the one place we had, suddenly became his place as well. He started sitting on the loungers by the shallow end with a book and a beer, watching. Not watching her exactly. Watching around her. The way a man watches when he is sure there is something but has not found the shape of it yet.

Our contact collapsed down to a single channel. Eye contact. Flirting. Nothing more.

And that was almost worse than nothing. Still, every day she would find her way past the dive center on some invented errand to the shop, to the beach bar, and every day she would look at me. I would look back. She would bite her lip, and I would let my eyes crawl down her body slowly enough that she felt it. Once she dropped her sarong on purpose and bent over to pick it up right in front of me while her husband was paying at the bar and gave me three full seconds of that white bikini bottom, and then straightened up and acted like she'd noticed nothing. Little sparks. No touching. No talking. Days of foreplay in daylight with a man holding a book ten meters away.

I started to wonder if that was it. If the fucking we had had was the whole story.

Then came the whisper.

I was loading tanks at the pier, that pier, the one from before, when she walked past on her way back from the beach, alone for once. She slowed down, then stopped and pretended to fix her sandal strap, leaning on the pillar. She didn't look at me when she said it. She looked straight ahead at the road.

"I have one hour. Tomorrow. Three o'clock."

"Where is he then?"

"Lunch with the boys. Beach restaurant. Two hours at least."

I kept loading tanks like nothing was happening. "The wall opposite the entrance. The old one behind the palm."

"Three o'clock." And she was gone, walking up the drive with her hips doing that thing, and I stood there with a tank in my hand grinning at the sea.

The next day she came out of the gate at two minutes past three in a loose sundress and flip-flops, sunglasses on, handbag in the crook of her arm, exactly like a wife stepping out for nothing in particular. I was already leaning on the wall, in the shade, arms folded. She walked past me and around the corner, casual, and the second we were out of sight of the entrance, she dropped the bag, and I had her against the warm stone.

The wall was chest high on her, sunbaked and rough, a big hedge on the other side and the road beyond it. Total cover unless someone leans over the hedge, and nobody leans over hedges. I turned her around, because standing from behind is the only way this works, and pushed her hands flat on the top of the wall. She knew. She arched her back and pushed her ass out at me and looked over her shoulder with her sunglasses still on.

The sundress went up over her hips, and the panties came down to her knees with one yank, and she was already wet, God, already dripping, with three days of eye contact and bent-over sarongs sitting there between her legs. I put two fingers in her to feel it, and she dropped her head and groaned into the wall.

"Hurry." She said. "One hour."

I unzipped and let my cock out and slid it into her in one long push, and her whole body went rigid against the wall, hands scrambling on the stone, a long breath out through her teeth. Standing, from behind, she takes it deeper than on the bed, and I felt the little bump at the end of her when I bottomed out. She whimpered.

Then I fucked her. Properly. Both hands on her hips, pulling her back onto me on every stroke, so she took the last inch every time, the slap of it loud in that quiet little pocket between the wall and the hedge. She reached back with one hand and grabbed my thigh for leverage and pushed back to meet me, and we found the rhythm fast, the wet, sticky, filthy sound of it, her dress bunched up around her waist, her bag on the ground, and her sunglasses slowly sliding down her nose.

I bent forward over her back and put my mouth on the side of her waist, on the smooth place on the right, at the height of her breast, and I sucked. Hard. I had decided on the way over that I was going to mark her this time, on purpose, but somewhere he might miss. She felt it and gasped.

"What are you doing?"

"Giving you something to explain."

"Oh. "And then, quieter, half laughing, "You're a devil." But she turned her waist to give me more room.

I sucked a fat purple bruise into that soft skin, and then I straightened up and gave it to her harder, fucking her deep again, both hands full of her hips, and she came the first time like that, sudden and violent, legs shaking, one flip-flop falling off, and a sound into the wall that she had to bite off because we were still thirty meters from the hotel gate. Her pussy clamped down on me so hard I nearly lost it.

She came down, panting. "Again." She whispered. "Please. Again."

"On your terms?" I said. "Or mine?"

"Yours." She said it fast. Like she'd been saving it.

I stopped being polite. I pulled her upright off the wall, back against my chest, one arm across her collarbone holding her to me, the other hand flat on her belly, and fucked up into her short and fast while she went limp in my arms like a rag doll and let me use her.

…

She looked down at the sand and saw the flip-flop and saw her panties around one ankle and her own dress up around her armpits and probably realized exactly what she looked like, a married woman wrecked against a wall behind the resort, and she came the second time moaning my name low and long, and her knees buckled.

And if you'd been crouched down behind us, three feet away, this is what you'd have seen.

That was when she said it, her head thrown back on my shoulder, eyes half shut.

“You didn't cum inside me, right?"

"Not yet," I said.

"Fuck me again." She cried. "Fuck me, fuck me, come on, do it—"

And that was all the permission I needed. I grabbed her hips back off her ribs and slammed into her three, four, five more times, hard and deep, and then I buried myself to the hilt and let go. I felt it go, the long, hot, heavy pulse of it, rope after rope of it up into her, and I kept grinding into her while I emptied, making sure it stayed, and she just hung there against the wall, taking it with a small satisfied hum, her hand reaching back to hold my hip like she didn't want me to pull out yet.

My hand flat across the top of her ass, fingers spread wide on the round cheek, thumb pressed into the little dimple above it, holding her open and steady while the rest of me worked. Her skin flushed pink under my palm, the print of my fingers already starting to show where I'd been gripping her. Below that, the wet mess of it. My cock sliding out halfway, thick and glossy, absolutely soaked in her, the shaft shiny all the way down to the root, a bead of her slick running down the underside and into the dark hair at the base. Her lips stretched around me, pulled out a little on the retreat, clinging, sucking me back in, puffy and swollen and red from a month of waiting and ten minutes of this. The little hooded bud at the top of her slit was standing out proud and shiny, and below it was the tight ring of her stretched around my girth, gripping, swallowing.

My balls hung heavy and low between her legs, slapping up against her clit on every push, slick and wet from where they'd been resting against her. Her thighs were trembling, spread just enough for me to fit, one knee bent, and on the inside of her leg a thin, glistening line where she'd already dripped down. In the mirror-glass of the little restaurant window behind the wall, half of it was reflected back, the two of us folded together, my hips moving, her back arched, my hand working on her ass, and it looked like something from a film, except it was a married woman from the resort and a dive instructor with his trousers round his ankles behind a wall at three in the afternoon.

I pulled her open a bit wider with the thumb, just to see it, the way she stretched and bloomed around my cock, the pink of her all around the pink of me, and she felt the air on it and moaned and pushed back and took me to the hilt again. And I watched my cock disappear into her, all the way, until only my heavy balls were left out in the sun, and then slide back out wet and gleaming, again and again, that slow obscene in-and-out of it, her whole cunt wet enough that the sound of it carried in the quiet.

She looked back at me down the line of her own spine, sunglasses down her nose, hair stuck to her cheek, mouth open, and she said the thing that finished me off.

"Fuck his wife!"

When I finally came, it gushed out of her. Thick, white, already starting to run down the inside of one thigh, the string of it stretching and breaking and dribbling onto the sand between her feet. She didn't even look. She just stood there, legs apart, dripping, dress around her waist, one shoe on, hair everywhere, the fresh hickey blooming on her neck. She looked exactly like what she was. A used, well-fucked, married slut with a stranger's load running out of her.

"Shit!" She breathed. "Look at the time."

She pulled the panties up over the mess, yanked the dress down, shoved her foot back into the flip-flop, and grabbed the bag, and I watched her check herself in the phone camera, push her hair back, straighten the sunglasses, and wipe the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

And then she walked. Fast, but not too fast, a woman with somewhere to be, up the drive, past the guard who didn't look twice, back into the resort and up towards the beach restaurant where her husband was finishing his fish and his beer and had no idea that forty seconds ago his wife had been begging a dive instructor to breed her against a wall.

I leaned on the stone and watched her the whole way. Watched the little hitch in her step, the way she touched her thighs together once, feeling it. Watched her reach the corner and glance back at me for half a second and smile before she disappeared.

An hour. She'd been gone fifty-one minutes. Just enough.

I picked up my shirt off the wall and walked back to the dive center with a hickey on my conscience and her taste still in my mouth.

To be continued.