by Daniel James Cabrillo
(5/10/00)

You walk across the golf course in your short denim sundress, carrying your sandals in your hand. The kids run ahead, I lag far behind, taking pictures of you and them and the palm trees swaying in the warm, late-afternoon breeze, the surf banging against the rocky shore in the background, everything tinted gold by the sun low in the sky.

A man on a golf cart drives toward you. Because you're looking at the kids, he studies you more frankly than he could if you were aware of him. He likes the way you move, the tilt of your head, your barefooted stride on the moist green grass. He likes your voice when he hears you call the kids. He likes your body. Your sundress is his co-conspirator and teaser, revealing, concealing, hinting: the bib stretches across your breasts, hugs them together, exposes their round white tops and your bare shoulders; the denim stretches across your flat stomach and squeezes your buttocks, defining each as you walk; the hem sits high on your thighs, shows the good shape of your athletic legs; he'd like to see what happens where your thighs meet.

He'd like to fuck you.

As he guides his cart close to you, you turn and see him and smile. He smiles back. To you the smile is pleasant and polite, the greeting of strangers in a good mood at a Hawaiian resort, nothing more. To him it is much more; it is contact, and contact changes thought into feeling. Looking at you had been a critical function, an evaluation. When you made contact the center of his appreciation dropped from his brain to his scrotum.

He wants to fuck you.

He passes, looks back over his shoulder for a last glance, turns around to look where he's driving -- and sees me. Our eyes meet: he knows immediately that he is caught.

I know what he's thinking, what he's feeling.

He wants to fuck my wife; I know it; he knows I know it.

I nod at him, he nods back, guests at a resort. I let him off the hook.

But in the split second after eye-contact and before the smiles I believe I perceive -- what? Embarrassment? Yes, of course. You get caught coveting somebody's wife, you're going to be embarrassed. Yet I think I see more. What? Devastation? Desperation? No, those are too strong. Disappointment? Definitely. Embarrassment and disappointment.

He moves on.

The sun sets.We go to dinner. Halfway through our meal the man comes into the restaurant with his wife and kid and another couple. His impulse to look at you is irresistible -- he even chooses his seat to have a clear line of vision -- but my presence disorients: he can't look at you without checking to see if I'm watching him watch you. I inhibit his freedom to openly covet, and it upsets him. At one point I catch him looking not our way but down into his plate, mouth set, almost angry.

It begins to come clear to me. There's more to this than casual lust for a sexy woman.

The two women at his table get up to go to the buffet. The other man glances at our table, does a little double-take when he sees me, says something concise and cryptic to his friend. I'd bet anything that what he said was something like: Oops.

So the man was that interested in you. Interested enough to tell his friend, or interested enough so that his friend noticed he was interested. They'd talked about it, about you... that single mom over there, the little number with the hot little body. I flash back to an incident -- not even an incident, a passing perception -- that occurred last night.

You and the kids had picked me up at the airport in the evening. Back at the hotel, the kids went to their hale, we to ours and we made love. Afterward I went into the dark sitting room to get my bag, which I hadn't unpacked. I glanced outside for a look at the tropical night under the waxing, nearly full moon and saw a figure standing in the dark, looking toward our hale. I'd thought nothing of it: for all I knew he could have been meditating, or sneaking a smoke.

Now I wonder if the man who wants to fuck you had been the figure in the night shadows, looking for you, perhaps hoping you'd step out for a breath of air or an evening walk.

Now I know why my appearance has upset him.

He had big plans.

You never see these things. You should: you'd like them.

He's been looking at you since you or he first arrived earlier in the week. He saw a woman alone with three kids at a Hawaiian resort, assumed -- not unreasonably these days -- that you were a single mother. You're weren't cruising for men -- this isn't a place for that -- but that only made you more attractive. And after all these days alone with our kids, you were probably getting horny...

Probably he started thinking about ways to meet you, get to know you, get away from his wife, seduce you. As the days went by, what started as admiration evolved, became desire, then fantasy.

I'd like to fuck her became I want to fuck her.

I want to fuck her became I need to fuck her.

I need to fuck her became I am going to fuck her.

Then I showed up.

Poor guy. He has only one place to go from here:

I must fuck her.

Obsession.

You used to want to be invisible. You were quiet and meek and you dressed not to be noticed. You cultivated nondescript. You also were a great piece of ass. In bed you were extremely descript: distinctive, creative, aggressive, daring, full of fire. It took me a while to learn that your sexual self was closer to your real self than your shy public self.

In other words, the real you was the distinctive, fiery you I loved to fuck. As I gradually began to understand this, I gradually fell in love with you.

Through the years you've let the sexuality come forward. You're not meek, you're not invisible, you dress great, you know you're sexy. You know it, but do you feel it? I'm not sure you do. I tell you often enough, but I'm your husband.

The fact is that I'm as obsessed by you as the man in the golf cart, but it doesn't count. Somebody who loves you can't convince you that you're as sensual as he thinks you are. What does he know? He loves you.

I want you to feel it, though.

You deserve to feel it.

I want you to believe it.

At night after the kids go to sleep we go down to the beach, find a nice, secluded spot so we can take some pictures. I bring the Hasselblad, so you know I mean business. I put the Polaroid back on the camera to take proofs first.

I ask you to take your sundress off and I chronicle every button unbuttoned, the naked revelation of all your parts: one breast, the other, the sweet, rounded belly, your buttocks, the hairy mound in the center of your body. One picture in particular moves me. You unbutton all the buttons down to the last, at crotch-level. One breast is fully exposed, half the other, and your belly. You hitch the dress to lift it up and off; I snap the picture just as the dress is high enough to expose the underside of your buttocks and the bottom of your pubic thatch. There's a nice expression on your face, not seductive but provocative: you're looking forward to getting the dress off. You're looking forward to what we'll do when it's off.

I, too, am looking forward to what we'll do when the dress is off.

Horny and hurried, I take fewer pictures than I'd planned. You redress; I gather up my camera gear and proofs, and we walk back to our hale to take your dress off yet again.

On the way we pass the ground-level hale of the man and his wife and kid, and I drop the proofs. I glimpse the man inside, watching as we bend down to pick them up. I miss one of the proofs. It's the dress-hitching picture I just described. It stays on the ground as we continue on.

I know he will find it.

I give you the news: He wants to fuck you.

We're enjoying a beach near the hotel; the man and his wife and kid and friends are just arriving.

Who? you ask. I point him out.

I have a feeling he was very choosy about which beach to come to this morning, I say. I bet they drove from one beach to the next, and he found fault with each until they came here. What he found here was you.

You laugh.

I'm not kidding, I say; I saw it on the golf course and in the restaurant. I know the look.

You study him and his entourage.

His wife is cute, you say.

What's that got to do with it? I ask. My wife is cute; that doesn't mean I would like to fuck his.

You lean up, shade your eyes, study him. Now that I've pointed out his interest, you can't help but notice how often he looks your way.

He's not my type, you say.

That's true: he's good looking in an Izod shirt way, tall, slim, with a tennis player's body. But your type or not, he's attractive, and you're flattered.

I leave you and go snorkeling, knowing that my absence will make him bolder. He'll look at you more, and now you'll be more aware of it. He may even try to make contact. From the reefs I see him playing frisbee with his kid. You're lying prone, the top of your swimsuit untied and your breasts mashed against the beachtowel. I call every play: his moving closer to you; his one or two near misses; his jackpot -- the runaway frisbee skips across the sand and comes to a stop a foot away from you. He crosses to it, kneels to retrieve it, apologizes. I can see you telling him it's no problem; he remains kneeling, chats a little with you. As you roll over and sit up, you almost expose your breasts, but cover them with the swimsuit top in the nick of time.

Perfect!

Our kids close in, wanting you to settle a dispute, ending the man's stolen moment with you. That's okay, too.

When I return I lie beside you, read my book, occasionally and conspicuously whisper in your ear, telling you what the man would like to do to you now... and now... and now. You giggle a lot.

For his benefit, of course.

A lot of this is for his benefit. Maybe all.

It's warmer tonight and the moon is one night short of full. You and I return to the secluded beach where I took pictures last night -- this time without the camera. We lie down in the soft sand, smooch a little, take some clothing off, feel around each other to make sure everything we love is still intact. Before long you get to your knees and recreate one of our beach interludes of thirteen years ago.

Back then you were the best cocksucker I'd ever known or dreamed existed. Now you're ten times better. Impossible, but true.

After awhile, I want a turn, so I scamper away, get my face between your legs, and feast. We're very romantic tonight, I notice -- passionate but slow, gentle, delicate. Is it the moon? The warm breezes? The tropical setting? Or is it the knowledge that our lovemaking, which is so much a part of us and comes so easily to us, is something denied to yet desperately desired by someone else?

All of the above.

I eat until you begin your climb; you reach for my arms, draw me up, take hold of my cock and guide it to the niche. We fuck a slow, clingy fuck, but your climb has started and won't stop. I try to change pace, to slow down, but you won't let me, you don't want this one to last, you want to come and you want me to come while you're still coming, and so you clasp me to you, and the clingy walls of your inner cunt grab at my shaft like a thousand little suction cups, and, as you wish, I come. With my first shot your orgasm begins and keeps coming like currents in a choppy sea.

We hold each other, calm down, cool down, relax. It is very warm and very quiet.

I am aware of another presence. I open my eyes and look up toward a cluster of rocks and foliage not far away. He stands very still. Can he tell that I am looking at him? He probably can't, but even if he could he would not flee.

What he has seen is what he has been dreaming about. You make love the way he knew you would, with your whole body, with all your will, with your entire consciousness.

He would do anything, give anything, to be with you as I have just been.

We close our eyes and cling together. I hear him walking away.

Christmas Eve Day. I spoke to him. His obsession made him vulnerable, and I exploited his vulnerability. Relentlessly.

I believe that at one point it crossed his mind that I was a homosexual, using you as my beard. And the remarkable thing about that was, if I had been a homosexual, I'm sure that this straight, handsome, intelligent man -this Flyover -- would have done whatever I asked -- even a homosexual act -- if it meant getting to you.

Someday I'll tell you how I made it happen. Some aspects were amusing. But now it doesn't matter how I made it happen.

I made it happen because I want it to happen for you. I want you to feel in yourself what you project to others. I want you to know what power you have, to feel that power, to appreciate it and love having It, and love yourself as I love you.

Christmas night. A bath. I help you bathe, spreading suds all over, rinsing you with my hands and warm water. I help you from the tub, pat-dry you with a towel, lead you to the sitting room, lay you down onto a comforter on the floor, give you a slow, gentle massage.

Afterward I help you into the negligee I bought you in the hotel shop -not as trashy as I'd like but as provocative as they had, and in any case you look sexy in it. You model it for me, sit in the chair, take the glass of champagne I pour for you.

I leave you alone while I go into the bedroom and get into my robe. On my way back there's a soft knock at the door. I cross to the door, open it.

The man steps inside with his wife.

Her expression is cold, set, but her eyes are slightly swollen, her cheeks a little streaked. Not long before, we can tell, she was crying. Now there's hardness in her face. She is going to do what he wants her to do. (I wonder why. Because he begged? Because he bullied her? Or was there something he had to get even with her for -- an affair, perhaps -- and this was his chance? No way of knowing.)

I look at you. Your expression is not a lot more revealing than hers, except that yours projects no hostility. You like the way he looks at you, the way he crosses to you so slowly, never taking his eyes off you. He looks like a knight who's just found the holy grail. I'd thought he'd be more desperate-looking than this, maybe a little pitiful in his desperation, but, to his credit, his bearing, while nearly worshipful, is dignified, confident. He stands above you, looking down, extends his hands. You take them and stand up, look at me.

I lead the wife to the sofa. She won't let me take her arm but goes where I show her. I offer her champagne. She refuses. I put the glass on the table next to the sofa.

You won't have to do anything, I tell her. Just watch.

What? she asks, surprised.

It was just my way, I explain, of making sure he wants her enough. My wife for his.

Oh, he wants her enough, she says.

I know, I say. But... this is for her, not me. For them. You and I will just watch.

The wife nods, sits, still livid, but she reaches for, takes the glass of champagne. In spite of her anger, what I have just told her makes her feel better.

After we sit, you return your attention to the man. You offer him your glass of champagne. He drinks what's left, puts the glass down, takes you in his arms, kisses you. It is strange for you at first, I can tell: it has been a long time since you've been kissed so deeply and romantically by another man, and it catches you off guard, unsure. But there is so much passion in the kiss, so much depth of feeling, that you can't help but respond. Your arms slide around him, your hand on the back of his neck, and you kiss him with as much fervor as he kisses you.

When the kiss ends he steps back, takes your hands in his. You glance at the bathroom door, and he gets the message. He lets go of your hands, crosses to the bathroom. While he's inside you refill your glass of champagne, refill the wife's, smile at her. She does not smile back, but she doesn't glare at you, either. She lowers her eyes.

Her husband is in the bathroom for a minute, then he comes back into the sitting room, wearing a hotel robe. He crosses to you, takes another taste of your champagne. Then he unties the tie at the neck of your peignoir, takes it off, leaving you in a small nightie. He caresses your arms with his fingertips, your shoulders, your neck. He kisses you again. He lowers a shoulder strap, puts his hand inside, takes hold of a breast. He holds it, feels its heft and shape, then releases it, removes his hand to slide the strap down your arm, turn back the fabric, expose your breast. He looks at it, touches the nipple with his fingertip, then -- quickly but not hurriedly -- he slips off the other strap, lets the nightie drop to the floor a puddle at your feet. He steps back, looks at you naked.

You untie his robe; it, too, drops to the floor.

He takes you in his arms and kisses you, feels your naked body against his. His hands caress your back and buttocks, yours caress his, and kiss follows kiss as the two of you drop down to your knees, then to the floor. He kisses your mouth and neck, your tits, one, then the other; when his tongue finds your nipple his hand settles on your pussy. His fingers play with the lips until they give way, and as his fingers slide between them your hand wraps around his hard cock and slides gently up and down.

Foreplay is brief: he is hard, you are wet. He climbs over you, kisses your mouth and breasts. His torso raised on his hands and stiffened arms, he lowers his middle -- you lift your hips and turn your cunt upwards to meet him -- and rests his shaft lengthwise along your pussylips. He moves slowly, remaining outside, the underside of his shaft sliding in your channel. You caress his buttocks with little grabby pinches, match his movements with hiprolls. Any second now: you will open and he will enter.

And here, I admit, I begin to have a problem. Yes, I want this man to fuck you. Yes, I all but planned it. Yes, I want you to experience this display of your own sexual power. Yes, I want to watch it all. But what I am watching is not happening exactly as I had expected it would. I had expected to see an obsessed man achieving his longed-for goal with a virtual seizure of your body, followed by an eruption of sexual energy and an ecstatic explosion. That's certainly how I would have reacted.

The man who is about to fuck you, however, does not react as I would. Confronted with imminent realization of the holy grail, he becomes patient, deliberate. A serenity comes over him. He is determined to savor the experience. He wants you to feel it as intensely as he feels it.

And for a moment or two, this does bother me. I watch the two of you playing each other's bodies like virtuosi playing their instruments, and something deep inside of me tells me to intervene, to stop it now, to take you away. It's strange: I am willing -- no, eager -- to have this man fuck my wife -- really fuck her, give it to her, fuck her to kingdom come -- but the prospect of his making love to her in a practiced, deliberate, loving way makes me feel uncomfortable.

The man's wife, too, seated beside me, is changed by the imminence of the event. Her change, however, is the opposite of mine: while I have grown jealous, she has become more sanguine. The anger and most of the sorrow leave her face, and she can't take her eyes from her husband and you. She is intrigued by what she is watching and surprised by her measured, curious response to it.

But if I feel an impulse to stop the event, the example set by the man's wife forces me to think more clearly. I did not, after all, set terms for this encounter; I did not say, Here, fuck my wife but don't be good at it. That his performance is more expressive than I expected, I have to tell myself, is a positive element. Once I accept this, I return my attention to the two of you on the floor, glad that he will be a worthy lover.

He raises his hips back; his cock dangles, points downward; he lowers himself and finds your outer cuntlips with the dome of his cock. He pushes; resistance is negligible; your lips give way; the head of his cock enters and blazes the trail for the slow entry of his whole long shaft.

We watch it, his wife and I. We see that dangling moment, and the positioning, and the entry. While his cock sinks in, the man's wife catches her breath, holds it until the whole pink shaft disappears inside you and out of sight. Then she exhales.

When he is fully impaled you cry out, a half-sob, and slide your hands up from his ass, across his back, down to his ass again. Your cry is like a prod to him; he pulls his prick out, shoves it back in, each thrust faster and faster, until soon he is a pile driver pile driving into your juicy cunt, making your whole supple body quiver all around it.

His wife is saying Do it to her, Do it to her, Do it to her! very softly but in rhythm with his thrusts.

I wish she would say: Fuck her!

You thrash beneath him, slide your hands wherever they'll reach, clutch him to you. You plant your heels in the carpet and push, raising your ass up off the floor and pressing your pelvis against his so you can savor every thrust, feel the full length of every plunge. You and the man interlock limbs, meld all flesh, share every spasm and tick, rotate your hips together, lift and sink together, and as you begin your climb you cry out again.

This time the sound of your cry has the opposite effect on him. He continues pumping into you but more slowly, each thrust slower than the one before. You get right into the slower rhythm, substituting intensity for speed, lifting your hips higher, pressing against him harder, intensifying every aspect of the act. It's a beautiful sight to see, a magnificent fuck, and yet there's something gloriously off-kilter about it. It's clear you're climbing toward your peaks; the closer to it you get, the slower you fuck. And when you finally climax, you're jammed together almost immobile, his shaft fully buried in the wet, clingy inner walls of your cunt. He freezes for a moment, then shoots his cream into you; you take it with spasms that I can barely perceive -- but I know from having been there what's happening inside your cunt. You both collapse, still interlocked, embracing, very still.

His wife gets up, stands above you, looking down at his body sprawled on yours, locked against yours. If he feels her watching, he doesn't respond. You do, though, and look up and her and smile. She turns away, not knowing how to react, looks at me. I shake my head, as if to say no, no, leave them alone. I know you're not through.

She sits down next to me, very tense. She doesn't know what to do with her hands, folds, unfolds, refolds them in her lap. I reach for them, but when I touch one she pulls her hands back as if burned. I try to smile comfortingly at her, and it works. She extends her hands to me. I take them both in mine, hold them.

The room is very still, the only sounds the sounds of your breathing, his, mine, hers...

Eventually -- it might have been minutes later, an hour later -- the man rolls off you, gets to his feet to fetch the champagne. While he is gone you scamper to your knees, creep across to his wife and me, take her hands from mine, and undress her quickly. She does not resist; she does not cooperate. You open my robe, exposing my erection.

The husband returns, refills the glasses. He sits on the floor, you lie down with your head on his thigh; both of you watch his wife and me. You reach back for his flaccid cock, toy with it; she reaches for my hard cock, takes it in her fist, strokes it. You turn your head and kiss the tip of his cock. She drops her head into my lap and engulfs my cock with her mouth. She lacks your finesse, but I'm not complaining. She sucks me off and plays with her cunt at the same time; I like the way that looks. She's not far away from a quick climax, I can tell, and so I make her stop, lift her face away. She's confused but a moment later doesn't care as I get her down to the floor on her back, climb between her legs, find, plunge, fuck.

She's like a bucking bronco, just released, not yet broken, tossing and turning and thrashing. I try to stay with her.

Do it to me! she cries. Do it to me, Do it to me, Do it to me! I do it to her. I wish she'd say Fuck.

Do you turn the light out, or does he?

Your tits flatten on my back; I don't need light to know what's happening. You're on your knees beside me, doubled over me, your arms on the far side of me, your ass in the air. The man is on his knees behind you, his cock under your buttocks, sliding in and out of your cunt.

He fucks you while I fuck her; your body is the conduit, the link that unites his fucking to mine, yours to hers.

Rolling now... me off her, he off you... and we weave limbs and hands and fingers, just flesh now, eight arms, eight legs, four asses, two cocks, two pussies, four mouths, four tongues, eight lips, four tits, slipsliding, fucking, sucking, whose is it? who cares? and she never says fuck.

I am buried inside her when she comes; she comes loudly, almost violently, clutching the skin of my back with her fingers, jerking her ass upward with each spasm, and with the last spasms straightening her legs flat on the floor, closing her legs within mine, her cunt squeezing my cock and making me come with a series of explosive jerks. She is still trembling when I have given her all I have, her clamped thighs and tightened cunt holding my cock inside even as I subside and shrink until, finally, I've scarcely anything left for her cunt to hold on to, and I slip out.

Then she is negligible.

She was always negligible: she is neither obsessed nor the subject of obsession.

Exhausted, we drain together, all of us, just short of sleep, flesh against flesh, hands lazily stroking, not quite dozing, dozing...

Later -- no way to tell how much later -- I feel your cool ass against my hip, rolling gently, and I surmise that his hand is stroking your pussy. I turn to my side and press my front against your back, my cock nestling lengthwise in the crevice between your buttocks. I put my arms around you, reach for your breasts; one of my hands encounters his face as he suckles. He lifts his face away, takes my hand and places it on your tit. then flattens himself against your front as I press against your back.

I'm not sure how I know, but I know that his wife is gone, and that's fine, we are just us three, as it should be.

For only he and I are obsessed, and you are our obsession.

So we, the obsessed, close in on you, our grail, touch, feel, kiss, embrace, adore you, in perfect rhyme, he in front, I in back, head to toe, then turn you around and reverse the ritual, I facing your front, he your back, up, up... When I reach your face I kiss you as deeply and lovingly as I ever have, and know that he wants to kiss you, too, so I turn you yet again.

The communication between us two men is wordless and perfect and wholly committed to you. Our hands meet at your juncture, share your juices, then depart, leaving our cocks to find their niches, and they do, and enter you in concert, his cock in your cunt, mine in your ass, both sliding slowly, surely inward until we are fully impaled, the domes of our cocks separated only by a thin membrane, and then we move in harmony, stroking within you, adoring you with our cocks, our length and hardness and endurance testament to the depth of our passionate obsession.

We stroke, we love, we fill you up together through the night, and when you come so do we, together, until we're drained, and sleep.

When dawn breaks you and I are alone.