A white woman and a black man find lust and sex at a swingers’ resort

An Interracial Cuckold Tale

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

—1987—

I’m a terrible person and make no excuses for my bad behavior. With that said, I’d do the same thing again, and I have no regret. Without our children, my husband and I took a vacation to a resort on an island in the Pacific. The trip to one of those all-expenses-included destinations where we realized anything could happen a bit too late.

My husband, Buck, and I aren’t what you would call swingers. In truth, we were uncomfortable and agreed we’d change hotels if we could get at least some credit to cover the cost of the rooms. The resort demanded to know why we wanted to leave.

“We’re not swingers,” Buck told the hotel manager.

“Not everyone here is,” he said. “For you, sir, we have deep sea fishing, scuba diving, and golf. You two can dance at the Perry Como Club for squares like y’all at night. Mrs. Livingston can attend yoga, water aerobics, lay in the sun at one of the clothing-required pools, or an art, dancing, or quilting class while you’re off doing your thing. You, Ma’am, might like tennis or golf with the ladies on our par three course.”

“Oh, Hun, you’d like the manly things, and I can just lay out at one of the non-swinger pools.”

“Well, you’re sure we won’t have extra charges for the non-swinger activities,” Buck asked.

“Everything is inclusive. You’ve already paid for it. However, I can compensate you for a hotel charge in town if you wish. But honestly, sir, you’ve paid for your meals, drinks, tips, excursions, and anything we offer. Why incur additional entertainment expenses? If another couple, single man or woman, hits on you, like your first lady’s motto, ‘Just say no’.”

“Holly, my love, what do you think?”

“Buck, baby, I really don’t want to change hotels. What I want to do is slip into a bikini, read my book, and get a tan in the sun.”

So, soon, Buck was off snorkeling and parasailing. While I relaxed, unaware, at one of the clothing-optional pools.

If truth be told, I may have subconsciously gravitated to a swingers’ pool. Picking my spot, not noticing or ignoring the signs about Swingers and Squares, I found a lovely sunny spot, spent a few minutes spreading my sunblock over my body, and got ready to dive into a romance novel.

“Did you get your back covered, Miss?” the man’s voice rumbled, deep, scratchy, and ever so masculine.

Gazing up from the novel, I beheld a black-as-coal god. The man’s gorgeous swarthy flesh gleamed from his own lotion in the bright rays of afternoon sunlight. With his hands on his hips, an ebony Superman stared at me with lusty eyes.

Fixing his X-ray vision on me, he analyzed my body. Without trying, he caught my attention with the incredible, unexpected view of his limp cock, thick as my wrist, and the cockhead hanging seven or seven and a half inches below his balls.

Buck’s dick wasn’t much smaller but couldn’t compare to the stranger’s girth. Even so, this wasn’t the attraction. The darkness of the man drew me to him, the contrast of his size and color to my whiteness and petite build. After all, opposites attract.

Even with a tan, Buck’s was no more than a pale shade of brown, less than toasted bread. The stranger was dark, almost ebony. The stranger’s cockhead was big and bulbous, like a mushroom cap. It would be a mouth full for a hungry gal, a veritable feast.

In vain, I tried to keep my eyes on his face, but my gaze returned to his cock only moments after each fleeting glance at his face. Arousal surged through me like a flash flood.

“I’m married,” I stammered. “My husband isn’t a swinger. I mean, we, um, ah, we ... aren’t swingers.”

“I’m single,” he said. “So, why don’t we get to know each other and not worry about labels?”

Struggling to maintain composure, I joked nervously, “Well, to be perfectly honest, I can’t reach all that far on my back.”

“Who can?” he said with a deep chuckle. “It would be no trouble at all.” His offer seemed like an indecent proposition as soon offered. His sexy bass voice vibrated with heat.

Kneeling beside my Nautical Chaise lounger, running his hand over my forearm, he touched me insistently, firmly, like placing a brand on me. And I didn’t say no. The stark contrast between his dark hand and my white skin gave me a slight tingle, as did his rough hands.

“Wow,” it came from my mouth before I could stop myself. “Your hands are so hard and callused. Buck’s hands are soft like one would expect from an accountant.”

“Is that a fact?” he said, more a statement than a question.

“Very much,” I said. At that moment, my willpower dissolved as I betrayed my husband in spirit for the first time. “You’re quite handsome. Far more attractive and masculine than Buck.” These are words no wife should tell another man.

His hand moved, first to my belly, as he leaned to me, his mouth hovered over mine. “Thanks, you’re hot as hell, baby.”

“Holly,” I said as his right hand moved to my left breast, pushed up my top, and cupped my tit, squeezing tenderly as he pushed our lips together. With his tongue passing between my lips, plump and long, he danced with my tongue, and all thoughts of my husband vanished.

For many years, I’d been curious about cheating, about black men, those things decent women never think about or, if they do, never admit. Following our kiss, his hand moved to my face. Those powerful hands caressed my tender flesh, and my emotions took control. My imagination ran wild. I wondered what it would feel like to have his prick inside me—his smooth, dark skin contrasting with mine in a sensual show of desire.

“We need to go to your room,” I said. Shivers ran over my spine, and goosebumps of anticipation erupted on my hot flesh. I felt dizzy and lightheaded, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through me.

“No, take a gander,” he told me.

There were men and women on the other side of the pool. They were engaged in intimate contact with one another. One woman had her face buried in a man’s crotch as he leaned back against the wall as if enjoying himself immensely. The other gal was bent over at the waist with the fellow behind her thrusting away his hips. Both couples seemed too distracted to even notice anything but their pleasure.

On the other side of the pool, a girl was kneeling, facing away from us. She bobbed up and down underwater as a tall, muscular black man stood above her. His wide grin told me what she was doing beneath the water. The man standing showed appreciation while her head bobbed underwater. Her head broke the surface every so often, and down she went. Another man, next to the first but on the edge of the pool, gave his encouragement.

I could barely contain my arousal at this scene of depravity and lust unfolding before me.

In fact, there were at least half a dozen people fucking one another. These people are so committed to living out their fantasies. All the time, others, far more others, were spectators — voyeurs if you will — able to watch but not join.

“But Buck might come back.” My heart raced so fast that I thought it might burst out of my chest at any moment while desire raged within me.

“Who cares?” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, he can watch us fuck.”