Paradise Found: a Bnwo Romance
Copyright© 2025 by Serena Steele Monroe
Chapter 3: Operation Submission
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 3: Operation Submission - In the sultry embrace of a tropical island paradise, where the sun-kissed coconuts whisper of untold possibilities, Rebecca and Whitaker Whitney's perception of each other is forever altered when they encounter the magnetic presence of Xavier. As the scorching heat of desire collides with the tantalizing allure of forbidden passion, boundaries dissolve like mirages in the hot sand. The couple embarks on a journey that defies convention and challenges their notions of love, lust, and surrender.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma Consensual BiSexual Heterosexual Cuckold Slut Wife Wife Watching Wimp Husband Interracial Black Male White Female Masturbation
After dark, all the kids had been sent off to bed or were at the amusement center. While the adults mingled at the different swimming pools around the resort. The one near Whitaker and Rebecca Whitney’s bungalow was filled with a mixture of white and black people. In the shallow end, a black man fucked white woman, her husband by her side, encouraging her. With her legs warped around his waist, he plowed into her white pussy like a man trying to split her in half.
For the Walaces, the bungalow turned into a fort. Rebecca and Whitaker sat cross-legged on the unmade bed, sharing a plastic cup of pineapple punch and the kind of secretive, bubbling laughter that signaled mischief. Outside, the pool party shuddered on with the stamina of a small war, but inside it was just the two of them, plotting.
Rebecca had peeled off her one-piece but wore one of Whitaker’s shirts, tied at the waist. She appeared rumpled and victorious. As if she’d just returned from some illicit mission. Her legs stretched out, toes pointed at the far wall, and she dangled a cup over Whitaker’s knee every time she wanted him to drink.
“So, sweetheart, we have to make a move.”
Whitaker took a sip. It tasted like battery acid, but he tried not to show it. “What, you want to just walk up to Xavier and ask him to fuck you in front of the whole staff?”
“I mean ... that would save time, wouldn’t it?” Rebecca’s grin went nuclear.
He snorted.
“You’d get him fired.”
“Doubt it. This is a BNWO resort. We’d get him promoted. How many white women are being fucked by staff right now in the pool not fifty feet from here?”
They cackled at that, Rebecca nearly spilling the cup between her thighs. She scooted closer, until their knees touched, and used her toes to tickle Whitaker’s ankle under the thin bedsheet.
“No, but seriously. We need a plan. I don’t want to just let it ... happen.”
Whitaker tried to imagine what Xavier would say in response to a proposition like that. The guy was confidence incarnate. Sure, but there was a difference between being the object of a vacation fantasy and being drafted into one. He set the cup on the nightstand, wrapped an arm around Rebecca’s waist, and pulled her in, skin on skin. She let herself fold into him, fitting her head into the crook of his neck.
“What, you want to practice?” he asked.
Rebecca brightened.
“Actually, yeah.”
Whitaker rolled his eyes, but he didn’t fight her. He let her drag him off the bed and into the bathroom, which had every appearance of not having been updated since the Carter administration. Rebecca stood in front of the cloudy mirror, still wearing the shirt, her hair a brassy halo. She pointed at their reflection.
“You be you. I’ll be me.” She licked her lips and tried a come-hither stare. “Hey Xavier, we were just wondering if you ever ... host special experiences for guests.”
“Wow, subtle.” Whitaker grinned.
“Fine.” Rebecca dropped her voice into a lower register. “‘Is this where we sign up for the advanced beach tour?’”
He almost lost it.
“Okay, my turn.”
He squared his shoulders, stood next to her, and attempted his best I’m-cool-with-this smile. “Xavier, you seem like a fun guy, and my wife is very adventurous. Do you, uh, do private events?”
Rebecca burst out laughing.
“Oh my god, you sound like you’re hiring him to cater our anniversary party.”
“Should I have said ‘team building’?”
She jabbed him in the ribs. He flinched, spun her so she was sitting on the counter, feet dangling over the tile. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, still giggling. The shirt had ridden up, exposing the backs of her thighs and the shadow of a tan line.
She wiped a tear from her eye.
“This is going to be so awkward. What if he says no?”
Whitaker thought about it.
“Then we have to live with the shame forever. Change our names. Move to rural Canada.”
Rebecca snorted. “Deal.”
They practiced for another ten minutes, switching roles, inventing new scripts each time. They tried sultry. They tried businesslike. Whitaker gave “wanton hussy” a shot and nearly broke a rib from laughing. By the end, they’d run out of lines and just stood together in the tiny bathroom, foreheads pressed and hands tangled at the waist.
A silence settled. Rebecca gazed at him, eyes clear. “You’re okay with this, right?”
Whitaker nodded. “More than okay.”
She cupped his jaw. “I don’t want you to feel ... I don’t know. Like you’re just watching.”
He shrugged. “I think I’ll like watching.”
“Pervert,” she said, but she said it with a kind of awe.
She hugged him tight, her fingers digging into his back. He hugged her right back, burying his face in the place where her neck met her shoulder. They stayed like that for a minute, the noise from outside fading into nothing. Whitaker sensed her breathing slow, recognized the tension drain out of both of them.
He pulled back and kissed her forehead, sudden and soft.
“No matter what happens, this trip already feels like magic with you.”
She blinked at him, and for once, she didn’t have a comeback.
“Swear to be brave?” He held up his pinky.
She hooked hers through his, gripped it hard.
“Swear.”
They went back to bed. Rebecca curled up behind Whitaker and spooned him, arms wrapped tight around his chest. They whispered nonsense to each other until the party outside died down. When Whitaker slept, he dreamed of water, of heat, of bodies moving together in the dark.
But not him with her. It was always Rebecca with a black man. A body and face he couldn’t bring into focus. A man who conquered her with strength and a cock three times the size of his. And when he woke, Rebecca was still there, clinging like she never wanted to let go.
The full moon crept up, white and bloated, and poured itself through the half-open curtains. The fan ticked overhead. Flicking shadows across the tangled bed. Rebecca’s arm slipped off his chest, slid around his waist, and her fingers ran along his spine. He shivered, goosebumps prickling to life on his bare arms. For a long minute, neither moved. The only sound was the slow hush of the surf and the offbeat drumming of distant reggae.
Rebecca pressed her lips against the back of his neck, a slow tease. He rolled to face her. Their legs wound together, sticky flesh intertwined. She reached for him, cupped his face, and kissed him with a new sort of patience. Delicate and measured, she tried to memorize the flavor of the combined fluids.
“You’re thinking much too much,” she said, brushing his hair back from his temple.
“You’re not thinking enough.” He grinned.
She licked his jaw, kissing and licking a trail down to his collarbone and chest. Her hands found his hips, fingers flexing. She pushed herself on top, straddling him, the oversized shirt falling open to bare her breasts. The moon caught her in profile, turned her into something out of a myth.
Whitaker let his hands drift up her thighs, to her waist, higher. He gripped her breasts, thumbs circling the dark peaks, and watched as she rocked forward and let him in.
He was so hard it hurt.
She slid down, slow, wet, eyes closing to him, inching him inside. He groaned, struggling to hold still. She rocked, a slow grind, clenching around him with every bounce. Whitaker tried to focus, tried to last, but he could feel it building. The pressure coiled, nerves fired all at once.
“Wait, I—”
“Shush!”
She shook her head, hair wild around her face, and rode him faster. She smiled, a wicked little smirk, and squeezed him with her whole body. He lasted ten seconds and came. With his hips bucking, hands clenched on her thighs. His face burned with embarrassment, even as the pleasure ripped through him. Three rapid-fire surges of heavy cream, two less frantic thinner bursts, and five watery dribbles afterward.
Rebecca exhaled a laugh, amused by his failure but not angry. She leaned over, kissed his forehead, rolled off, and let him catch his breath.
He groaned and covered his face with his palms.
“Fuck. Sorry.”
She patted his chest.
“Stop. It’s cute.”
He peeked at her through his fingers.
“No, it’s not.”
She slid down the bed, lips grazing his stomach, lower.
“Well, sweetie pie, lucky for you, I don’t mind.” She paused, gazing up at him. “Besides, I know what you’re good at.”
He didn’t need more encouragement. He rolled over, pulled her thighs apart, and buried his face between them. She tasted like sweat, salt, and faint traces of chlorine. Whitaker lost himself in it, tongue working from and into every angle, every fold. Her hands tangled in his hair, first pulling, pushing, guiding him. He slipped a finger inside her, two, curling until he found that sweet spot that always made her shiver.
She arched her back, pressed up into his mouth, her breath coming hard and fast. He kept going, licking and sucking, fingers twisting, until she went rigid and shuddered against his tongue. She cursed, a low hiss, and dug her nails into his scalp.
He didn’t stop until she pushed him away, gasping. She lay flat on her back, hair splayed out, arms limp at her sides. She blinked at the ceiling, dazed.
“Goddamn, At least, you have an educated tongue.”
He laughed, proud and relieved.
She pulled him back up, kissed him deeply, and didn’t mind the taste of herself on his lips. They curled together, facing the window, bare legs knotted in a sweaty heap.
Whitaker drifted fast. He felt like he could sleep for a week. Rebecca’s breathing slowed, but she stayed awake. Her fingers tapped a silent rhythm on his shoulder blade, traced the curve of his ribs. The fan spun above, restless as a wasp. Outside, the party had gone silent. Only the ocean kept going, always just out of reach.
He must’ve slipped under, because the next thing he knew, Rebecca’s side of the bed was empty.
He blinked. The digital clock glowed 2:14. The sheets still held her shape, but Rebecca was gone. He heard something. The back door, or nothing. The sound of disappointment or escape, he wasn’t sure which.
Rolling to the edge of the bed, Whitaker peered through the window. He glimpsed Rebecca, a blur in the dark, stepping across the patio stones. She wore a plain sundress, nothing else, hair still wild from the pillow. She didn’t look back. The only thing ahead of her was the distant smear of light, the neon beacon of the beach bar.
Whitaker thought about calling her name, or following, or waiting up. Instead, he pulled the sheet over himself and stared at the ceiling. He listened to the hush of the surf, the slow tick of the fan, and wondered how the hell tomorrow would taste.
The bar at night belonged to ghosts. Rebecca perched at the far end, back to the water. Picking at the condensation on her glass. The ice had but melted. Leaving her drink a sickly blend of turquoise and brown. Around her, three or four tourists slumped in their seats. All of them were more interested in their phones or their own sadness than whatever the bartender played on the Bluetooth speaker.
They were either single white men who hadn’t been able to hook up with a black woman, or white husbands cast out from the fun. It was almost funny. The one night she wanted to be noticed, nobody noticed her at all.