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From: Jonathan P <jonathanbareb@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "Aruba" {JonathanP} (MF, voyeur)
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Date: Tue, 09 Nov 2010 08:10:05 -0500
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Aruba

Natalie and I went to Aruba for a week in a last ditch effort to resurrect
a relationship that was in its dying stages.  It might have worked, had it
not been for a white string bikini.  Or, more likely, the relationship was
doomed months earlier.

We arrived at the Hyatt Regency late into the evening, collapsing into bed
in an exhaustion that comes from three airplane flights.  The next morning
Natalie was still in the grips of the Pacific Time Zone and showed no
interest in exploring the resort property, and I was more interested in
getting acquainted with the environs than in trying to snuggle with a woman
whose elbows and grunts signaled her desire for more sleep.  I found my
swimsuit and a tshirt and sandals, grabbed a hat and sunglasses, and made
my way downstairs.

The Hyatt was indeed a resort.  The open-air lobby led to walkways that
meandered through lush landscaping and descended to swimming pools - two
for adults, one for children - and descended further to the beach, where
the white sand was blistering hot, even at 9am.  I retreated back to the
adult pool area, found a towel and a lounge chair, and began to soak it all
in.  There were only three other people on the pool deck when I got there.
Over the next hour another six showed up.  All in all, seven women,
including two couples, and me.

Several things became apparent to me.  First, it seemed that a third of the
hotel guests were South Americans - probably mostly Venezuelans, which was
only a short plane flight away.  North Americans made up another quarter,
and the remainder seemed to be mostly a mix of Europeans, especially Dutch,
since Aruba was a Dutch possession.

Another thing that I discovered was that the South American women had
thoroughly embraced the concept of thong bikinis.  My preconception had
been that these presumably Catholic women would be relatively modestly
attired.  I was happy to learn I was wrong.  Hiding behind my sunglasses
and pretending to read a hotel brochure, I enjoyed the sight of
thirtysomething women, whose bodies ranged from desirably sexy to
spectacular erotic, 99% naked and wearing fabric that just barely covered
their areolas and labia.

I was in heaven!

I'm not a breast man, though I certainly do appreciate the sight and feel
of breasts.  I'm not an ass man, though I do appreciate a woman's ass.  I
am a lover of pussies.  I love everything about them, outside and
especially inside.  That being said, as I was studying these nearly naked
women, my eyes would gravitate to the treasures between their legs.  

That first morning my eyes studied a lithe woman about 20 feet from me,
wearing a white micro bikini and reclined in a lounge chair.  She was
reading a book - the title was in Spanish - and soaking in the sun in such
a way that her legs were spread just enough, and her chair was angled just
right, that I had a spectacular view of that minimalist patch of fabric.
Even better, her prominent mound was obvious, and the thin fabric did
nothing to hide her visible cleft splitting down the center.

My heart beat faster, and I was thankful that my swimming trunks were baggy
enough to hide my partial erection.

Miss Micro Bikini was one of the solo women at first, though before long a
man appeared, pulling a lounge chair next to hers and settling in.  They
spoke, exchanging a few sentences in Spanish, then she returned to her
book, while he reclined his chair and probably focused on the inside of his
eyelids.  She would occasionally glance over at him, sometimes on his face,
but more often seeming to glance at his swimsuit.  I convinced myself that
I could see her visible cleft split open even wider at the bottom.  Was it
his presence?  Or the book?  Or both?  And was I seeing a little bump at
the top that was her clit?  I glanced at her breasts - her nipples were
definitely standing tall.

I was really loving her bikini.  My mind wandered.  I imagined the two of
them in bed the previous night.  They were on vacation, and both seemed
young and virile enough - and intimate enough - that they probably had sex,
maybe even had sex that morning before she came down to the pool.  I tried
to imagine how they did it.  Was she a woman who preferred to be on top?
She would be gyrating her hips on his erection, and his hands would be all
over these luscious breasts she had on display.  Doggie?  No.  He'd want to
look at her face, and she'd want him to look at her face and breasts.  Or
would he be on top with her long legs curled around his ass and her pussy
angled high to welcome his sturdy, muscular thrusts?

He wouldn't be using a condom.  No, he would be bareback.  They had
athletic bodies, and they would be fucking athletically.  Her breasts would
be dancing in rhythm with his strokes.  Her head would be tilted back, her
face frozen in a beautiful agony of pleasure.  She would be noisy at the
end, unselfconscious in their hotel bed surrounded by strangers, as he sped
them both to orgasms.  She would climax first - she always climaxed - and
he would hold his off until she could once again focus on him, and only
then he would explode, knowing that she could feel his throbbing cock
jetting his seed into her fiery, still quivering vagina.

And when his cock softened and slipped out, her labia would still be
plumped and spread wide from the invasion of his thick, meaty flesh.
Afterwards, she would take a quick shower, don her new bikini, pick up her
sexy novel, and head to the pool.  He would linger in the shower, linger at
breakfast, and then join her.  And here I was, gazing at her still
partially aroused vulva, imagining his creamy deposit oozing out into the
fabric.  Was it an artifact of shadows, or was I seeing the hint of liquid
discoloring the bottom of that tiny patch of fabric?

It was then that my view ended.  She pressed her legs together and leaned
over to whisper something into his ear.  Then they stood up, gathered their
belongings, and walked hand in hand back to the hotel lobby.  Had she
realized she was leaking?  Were they going back to the room to fuck again?
Or had my imagination simply overstretched and they were going to find
lunch.

"There you are."  Natalie's voice abruptly brought me back to my mundane
reality.  She stood next to my lounge chair, on the opposite side of the
departing lovers, and had no doubt watched me watch them.  "Checking out
her ass, I see."  She sounded irritated.  What was I supposed to do?  Be
surrounded by nearly naked women and not notice them?

"I was trying to let you snooze."  It was partly true.

Natalie scanned across the resort pools and down to the beach.  "It's
getting blistering hot.  Is it always this windy here?"

It was going to be a long week.

I didn't see Miss Micro Bikini again, nor did I see any other woman who
approached her level of sexuality.  Tiny thong bikinis were prevalent, and
they all barely covered delectable-looking, desirable bodies, but my
crotch-watching experience never repeated itself.

Natalie and I had sex only twice that week.  Two years earlier, we'd have
be fucking twice a day.  The first time was on the third evening, seemingly
more of a perfunctory mutual release of sexual tension than intimate
lovemaking.  I imagined I was fucking Miss Micro Bikini with her long legs
and her silky, velvet embrace, and I filled them both with my liquid
release.

On the last night we were lying two feet apart on the king-size bed when we
heard the unmistakable sounds of sex coming through the wall behind the
headboard.  In that other bed the woman was vocal as she moaned and cried
out her pleasure, and the man emitted low-pitched, throaty grunts as their
headboard thumped against their side of the wall.  It sounded like they
climaxed together.  She was loud, he kept pounding into her, and she and
the headboard eventually quieted into silence.

It must have inspired Natalie.  I reached toward her and found her hand,
and before too long she was on top and we were 69'ing like old times.  When
she spun around and straddled my hips and inhaled my cock inside her warm,
slick vagina, she rocked herself to an orgasm that seemed more sentimental
than lustful.  At least it didn't feel mundane.  "Come for me" were her
first words uttered in the previous hour, and I did.  This time I wasn't
thinking about the couple in the next room, or thinking about the woman in
the white bikini.  I was thinking about Natalie, about us, and how it was
clear to me - and no doubt clear to her, also - that the spark was gone.

"There," she said.  "All done."  And we were.



Jonathanbareb@hotmail.com
 		 	   		  

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