by Roy Eldorado
(09/16/09)

The nude beach was located two miles from downtown Nice. To get there I had to walk the Promenade des Anglais westward toward the airport, Pink Floyd beach blanket in hand, until I reached the hidden turn-off described to me by my hotel's bartender. At the split in the fence, I made a left down a narrow foot-beaten trail, following its winding curves around wind-swept dunes and waist-high beach grass. In the clearing, as I set foot on sand, the blue-green waters of the Mediterranean unfolded under a blazing yellow sun.

Now I sat naked on my blanket, applying sun screen to my fair-haired chest and arms. The beach was sparely populated -- just a dozen or so couples and a few scattered singles, strolling along the edge of the ocean or snorkeling in a nearby cove. At first, being naked in public made me self conscious, and I kept looking down at myself and glancing around uneasily. What would my buddies back home think -- especially Alex and Todd -- if they saw me here, bare-assed in my blond crew cut and sunglasses, my penis shaved smooth and hanging flaccid against my thigh? Would they think I was queer?

I lay on the blanket and closed my eyes. The sound of the ocean helped to soothe me. For a moment I thought about masturbating, but I knew this was against beach decorum. It was probably also against the law, and the last thing I wanted was to end up in a French jail somewhere. I decided to just lie there and enjoy the sun and the ocean breeze. I took a deep breath and inhaled the salty sea air, drifting, drifting, drifting...

Someone was tapping my ankle. I had fallen asleep and the world had faded, but now I was awake and my surroundings were rushing back. There was a woman standing next to me, trying to get my attention.

"What?" I said, my voice hoarse from sleeping.

"You're starting to get red," she was saying. "You've got to be careful out here. You can get burned pretty fast."

The woman was completely naked. She was tall, thin and tan, about 35 years old. Her tits jiggled when she moved. She had long brown hair, and was wearing a big pair of sunglasses with white frames.

"Did I startle you?" she asked me.

"No," I said. The sun was bright and hurt my eyes.

"I didn't mean to bother you, but my husband and I saw you sleeping over here and we figured one of us should say something. You're starting to get red..."

I sat up and looked myself over. I had a base tan from spending the past week on the beach, but I was a towhead with German ancestry, and I knew I had to be careful. I grabbed my sun screen and began reapplying it.

"Thanks," I told the woman, feeling self conscious and crossing my legs to cover myself.

"No problem," she said, and walked away. As she turned I got a full view of her bush, which was dark brown and ungroomed. My first thought was, She's got to be French, but then I thought about it and knew this probably wasn't the case. She sounded American, and spoke perfect English, with no accent whatsoever.

I watched her go back to her blanket, which was about ten yards away from mine. She sat down next to a man I assumed was her husband. He was completely naked and lying on his back with a Cubs baseball cap over his face. His body was thin and lean -- with a runner's build similar to mine -- but I could see he was taller with broader shoulders. He looked a good ten years older than me, close to 40.

I put away the sun screen and lit up a smoke. It was starting to get hot so after my cigarette, I put my swim trunks on (I was feeling self-conscious around the brunette) and took a nice long dip in the ocean. The water was cool and refreshing. Several couples were snorkeling around a nearby reef, taking pictures with underwater cameras.

When I'd had enough, I headed up the beach back to my blanket.

"Hey, you've got a swim suit on!" the brunette woman shouted at me. "This is a nude beach, no swim suits allowed!" She was still naked and sitting on the blanket with her husband, who was also naked but now in a beach chair reading a newspaper.

I wasn't sure how to answer, so I just nodded and smiled.

"You got sunburned, right?" she continued. "That's the reason for the swim suit?"

"I didn't want to make your husband jealous," I said dryly, surprised at my boldness.

The husband put down his paper and started laughing. "Penis size is based on height, sonny boy, and I'm six-foot one. How tall are you?"

"Five-ten."

"There you have it. Ten bucks says I'm longer. Should I go get a tape measure?"

"Knock it off, Paul," the brunette told him.

"He started it."

"You a Cub's fan?" I asked the husband, pointing to his cap.

He nodded. "I've had season tickets since 1997."

"You from Chicago?"

"The suburbs. Born and bred in Oak Brook."

"Where are you from?" the brunette asked me.

"Philadelphia," I told her.

"Hmm," she said, "the home of the cheesesteak and soft pretzel."

"And the Italian Stallion," the husband cut in. He curled his bottom lip and did a generic Rocky impersonation: Yo Adrian!

I laughed politely. "Everybody loves Rocky," I said. Being a proud Philadelphian, I felt the need to enlighten them on the richness of the city. I went into my standard mini-lecture about how Philadelphia has one of the biggest collections of French impressionist art in the world outside of Paris, how our orchestra is internationally known, how our sports fans are amazingly passionate and good-natured despite the fact we booed Santa Claus.

"Philly sports fans are brutal," the husband said. "I was at an Eagles game about ten years ago, at Veteran's Stadium. I watched a drunken fan throw a beer on a 70-year old woman because she was wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey."

"Can we not talk about sports please," the brunette cut in. "We're on vacation in the South of France for Christ's sake."

The husband frowned and went back to reading his newspaper.

"By the way, I'm Morgan and this is Paul," the brunette said. She extended her hand and I shook it. Her fingers were thin and sexy. Next I shook Paul's hand. His grip was firm and oddly arousing.

"I'm Tom," I told them, breaking off the handshake. "Good to meet you guys."

"Good to meet you," the couple said in unison.

Morgan opened a white styrofoam cooler and brought out some fruit -- one cold juicy peach and two plums. She also unpacked several bottles of Evian. The three of us ate the fruit and drank the bottled water. Morgan energetically kept up conversation, and every so often she would suggest I take off my swim trunks, insisting clothes weren't allowed on a nude beach. After her third request I relented, only because this time Paul commented on it, and I didn't want to be viewed as prudish or hypocritical -- enjoying their naked bodies while I covered mine.

Some time later the three of us went for a swim. At one point Morgan got between Paul and I, put her arms around the both of us, and spat water in each of our faces. Then she swam away and shouted, "Who wants to come and punish me!"

Paul put his hand on my shoulder. "Morgan and I are swingers, if you haven't figured that out by now."

I nodded, secretly excited.

When it was time to go home Paul offered me a ride in their rental car, insisting that it was too dangerous for me to walk the shoulder of the road all the way back into town. I didn't argue. I gathered my blanket and helped with their chairs and cooler, and was ready to walk the half mile back to their car stark naked if they suggested it, but they got dressed so I did as well.

We made it back to the center of Nice in under 10 minutes. Paul and Morgan dropped me off in front of my hotel, but before I got out, Morgan wrote down some information on the back of one of Paul's business cards and handed it to me.

"We're staying at the Palais de la Mediterranee," Morgan said, her French not bad for a Chicagoan. "It's literally only six blocks away. We'll be in town for the next six days, so if you don't have anything better to do, give us a call."

I nodded and took the card. "Great. I will. Thanks again for the ride."

"No problem."

"You guys have fun on the rest of your trip, and if you're ever in Philly, look me up."

"Will do," Paul said. "But hopefully, we'll see each other sooner than that."

"Right," I said. "I'd like that a lot."

We shook hands and I stepped out of the car.

I wanted to have sex with them. The urge was so strong that when I got back to my room, I masturbated. I fantasized about going to Paul and Morgan's hotel, and watching Paul fuck Morgan up the ass. I pictured Morgan sitting on Paul's cock, rocking up and down on it, moaning, gritting her teeth while I stood between her legs and licked her clit.

The fantasy was so vivid I came in under a minute. When it was over, when I'd caught my breath, I grabbed a dirty pair of underwear from my suitcase and wiped myself up. Naked, I collapsed on my bed and fell sleep.

I woke up an hour later. I took a shower, brushed my teeth, dressed. I put Morgan and Paul's phone number in my wallet, and went around the corner to a café where they served liter mugs of Heineken. I drank two of them, the whole time thinking about my two new acquaintances. Was Paul serious when he said they were swingers, or was he just being facetious? More importantly, could I trust them? I had spent most of the day with them, and they seemed pretty level-headed and normal. Plus, I had Paul's business card. He was a consultant for a telecommunications company in Chicago, and was clearly polished and professional.

I ordered a steak and drank a third mug of beer. After I paid the tab I took a walk on the Mediterranean. It was dusk but the ocean was still a vivid greenish-blue. Seagulls swooped on the horizon, gliding along the surface of the sea, searching for dinner. Couples strolled barefoot on the beach, holding their sandals in their hands.

I took out my cell phone along with Paul's business card. Without thinking I dialed the number scribbled on the back. It immediately went to an automated voicemail.

"Hey Morgan and Paul, this is Tom," I said. "Just calling to see what you guys are up to tonight. Give me a call back when you can. Thanks."

I put the phone and business card away. I lit up a smoke and drank in the view of the ocean. If they called me back and wanted to party I'd go along with it. I was in the South of France, and this kind of thing was never going to happen back home in Philly, especially to an average everyday Joe like me. My vacation ended in two days and I had to take a chance.

I stayed on the beach until nightfall, then went to the hotel lounge for one last drink -- a vodka martini. A bunch of people were watching a soccer game on television. I had no interest. I went to my room, tried to read a novel but was too buzzed to focus on the words, so I went to bed. My cell phone never rang.

The next morning was my last full day in Nice, and I wanted to make the most of it. I got up early and took a cab first to the Henri Matisse museum and then to the Marc Chagall. On the way home I grabbed some French bread and some meats and cheeses from a local grocery and had a picnic lunch on the beach. For dinner, after I went home and showered, I returned to my favorite café for more steak and mugs of Heineken.

When I got back to my hotel, to my surprise, there was a message waiting for me at the front desk. It was from Morgan and Paul. Call us, is all it said.

I grabbed my phone and the business card and tried their number again. This time, Morgan answered on the first ring. She said she never received last night's phone message, that she was having trouble with her voicemail. I explained that I was ready to party the night before, but that I was catching a cab to the airport early the next morning, and that I really couldn't stay out late and party.

"We'll have you home by midnight," Morgan assured me. "Okay Cinderella?"

With butterflies in my stomach I agreed.

They met me in the lobby of my hotel. I was stunned at how good they looked, how tan and sexy. Paul had on a white linen short sleeve shirt which he left partially unbuttoned. He had on sandals and snug-fitting beige khaki shorts. For the first time he wasn't wearing the baseball cap so I could see his hair, which was salt-and-pepper and cut very short.

Morgan looked even more incredible. She had on flip-flops and a light blue knee-high sundress. Her long brown hair, now shampooed, spilled over her thin shoulders like bundles of silk.

"Hey, Tommy-boy," Paul said when he saw me in the lobby.

"Hey, what's up Paul," I said. We shook hands.

Morgan stepped forward and gave me a long, warm hug. "Glad you decided to come out and play with us," she said. She felt incredible. I could smell her perfume, which was sweet and exotic.

"So what's the plan?" Paul asked.

"Let's go back to our room and fuck each other's brains out," Morgan said half-jokingly.

Several people in the lobby overheard this and looked both appalled and curious.

"Seriously," Paul said. "What's the deal? Drinks? Dessert? I'm getting thirsty, and I could use a cocktail."

We walked to a restaurant across the street. We sat outside at a table that overlooked the ocean. We ordered crème brulee and a carafe of chardonnay. After that Paul and I started ordering liter-mugs of Heineken, while Morgan continued to drink her white wine.

"These mugs are goddamn huge," Paul said.

"Hell yeah," I responded, tying-on a nice buzz and trying to pace myself. "I've been ordering these all week. I got talking to a waiter the other day and he said they have these big mugs because of the Germans. When the German's come to the South of France, they don't fuck around. They want their beer."

"God bless the Germans," Paul said, and toasted the table.

Morgan lit up a cigarette and passed around the pack. Paul waved his hand and declined. I took the smokes and gladly indulged, borrowing the lighter from Morgan.

When we finished our cigarettes, Morgan announced flatly, "I'm horny, I want to head back to the room now."

"I still have a full beer," Paul said.

"You're going to choose beer over pussy? Fine. Forget the plan then."

"Okay," Paul said. "Calm down." He took one last swig of his giant beer. Then he turned to me and said, "Alright, Tom. It's time to put your game face on. Are you ready to go back to our hotel and have sex with my wife and me?"

"Both of you?" I asked, uncertain.

"Yeah," Paul said. "Both of us. That's how we do it. Morgan likes to start by watching me with another guy. It drives her fucking crazy. After that, she'll do anything."

Morgan leaned across the table and started rubbing my cock through my cargo shorts. "You want to come back to the hotel with us?"

I grinned.

She started French kissing me. "I could tell you liked to party the first time I saw you, lying naked on your beach blanket, your pretty little cock getting red in the sun."

Morgan now had her hand inside my shorts. "Ooo, you're a nasty little boy. Come back to the hotel with us. I bet I can make your cock fucking explode."

Morgan took her hand out of my shorts and winked at me.

I felt like I was floating, like there was no ground under my feet.

"Waiter," Paul said, and motioned to our table.

We paid the tab and left.

When we got back to the hotel, Paul and I agreed to role play with Morgan. We pretended we were both sex slaves on the open market, and that Morgan was a bored rich housewife looking to invest in some new toys.

At her command, Paul and I stripped naked and let her inspect us. She poked and prodded us with her index finger, lifting our genitals, noting the firmness of our thighs and calves, the flatness of our abdomen. Then she had us bend over and did a cavity search, spreading our ass cheeks and even taking a whiff in the process.

"Tommy's ass is stinkier," she declared. "That means he's going to have to get it up his ass."

Next, she made Paul and I get into a 69, me on top. Panting, I guided Paul's cock into my mouth. I sucked him and he moaned. Behind me, Morgan squirted a pile of lube in my crack, worked two fingers into my asshole, then slipped a plug into my butt. It felt incredible.

Paul was fully erect in my mouth. Morgan got jealous and took over sucking his cock, deep-throating it. Together we licked and sucked him, Morgan stopping occasionally to kiss me sloppily on the mouth.

I got off of Paul and lay on my back. Paul slipped on a condom, got between my legs and pulled the plug out of my ass. He grabbed my ankles and pushed my legs back so my feet were pointing at the ceiling. Morgan turned and squatted on my face, helping Paul hold back my legs.

Paul entered me slowly, cautiously. Soon I relaxed and Paul went faster, all the while Morgan shoving her ass in my face while she leaned forward and sucked my cock.

"You like my husband's cock up your stinky little ass, don't you?" she said. "Yeah, it feels so good..."

A moment later I was coming in Morgan's mouth. She stroked me until my orgasm was over, swallowing all the evidence.

Paul was still in my ass, hard as ever. Watching his wife suck the load out of a stranger's dick must have excited him, because now he was fucking me faster, and I could tell he was ready to come. He grunted and withdrew, pulling off the condom and ejaculating everywhere.

"Oh yeah!" he shouted. I felt his warm sperm splatter on my stomach and chest.

Morgan scooped some up and tasted it, then started rubbing it on her nipples.

"Hhhmmm, soooo goooood," she said.

She grabbed a vibrator from her suitcase and used it to finish herself off. She moaned loudly when she came, convulsing on the bed for a full minute after it was over.

All of a sudden I was exhausted. My head was pounding and I was extremely thirsty. It was 11:47 pm according to my wrist watch, and now I just wanted to get back to my hotel, take a shower, and get ready to head to the airport in the morning.

I looked around the room. Articles of clothing were scattered everywhere: a bra, panties, boxer shorts. Two half-full glasses of Chardonnay sat on the kitchen table. In the sink, an empty wine bottle floated in ice water.

There was a moment of awkward silence, me staring at Morgan and Morgan staring at the floor. No one said a word. Finally, to break the tension, Paul shouted Yo Adrian!

Then the three of us burst out laughing.

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