Chapter 6: Sherry's Diary - The Vecino Surprise

Dear Diary,

For once, I'm writing about sexy stuff without pretending that I'm writing to Jen! Maybe I won't need to pretend any more at all, because my wishes came true last night – sort of. I haven't written anything at all in this diary for a while, so I probably should back up a little.

Leading up to our 2nd "anniversary", Kyle and I were going through a rough spot. We still got along just fine, but a lot of the newness had come off of our relationship and we were kinda taking each other for granted. Like an old married couple, even though we're not even officially engaged (yet???). It might have been more my fault, as maybe I'd felt that I'd let too much of my hidden self out and it was time to crawl back into my old shell. Who knows – I've been trying to psychoanalyze myself all morning.

I can't believe Kyle had remembered our encounter with the notorious "JRG" for so long without ever mentioning it. I'd forgotten about her myself, even though she'd made quite an impression on me that day back at Busch Gardens.

Things certainly spiced up between us after we talked dirty about her on our anniversary. Wonder what she'd think if she knew that former audience members used her show to electrify their sex lives? Because that's what we've been doing. It feels like we've unlocked a secret door in our relationship, giving us new places to explore. I've busted out of my shell again, and innocent little Kyle hasn't been all that innocent, at least when we're alone.

It's been an interesting few weeks. We've pretended another time or two that the JRG was in the room while we're doing it – who knew she was such a dirty girl? One time, I got so hot and bothered when I was on all-fours on the bedroom floor that I urged Kyle to stick his thing up my butt for the first time ever. When he did, I told him that the JRG was lying underneath us, licking us both. I felt a little embarrassed after we'd both gotten off, but I'd love to try it again sometime.

Even when we don't conjure up our fantasy chick, we've been naughtier than ever lately. Last week, we were at the movies when Kyle's hand suddenly started creeping up under my skirt and into my panties. He'd never gotten me off in public like that – in the middle of a crowded theater! – and I had to mash my face into his shoulder to keep from being heard. I had to reciprocate, of course. I snuggled up against him and put my hand down his pants, and though it went in clean, it came out sticky, if you know what I mean. Stuff like that. <blush>

All this craziness had me fantasizing again about a real experience with another woman. It's too bad that Jen is stuck up in DC; I might actually have the nerve to go through with it now.

That was my state of mind last week when Dave at work mentioned that he needed someone to check on his vacation house on Vecino Beach. He said he always "secured" it before the spring break crowd arrived, but this year he hadn't had time. The way he talked, you'd think "Spring Break" was the name of an incoming hurricane. Which is kinda true, actually.

Being a kind and considerate team player, I volunteered to check on his place in exchange for a free weekend rental. I was half-joking, but Dave was happy to accept my offer as long as we cleaned up after ourselves and closed the storm shutters before we left. I wasn't 100% sure if he was serious until Friday, when he gave me directions and the key to the beach house. So I called Kyle with the good news and wrapped up my work responsibilities so we could be on the road by lunchtime.

I guess Dave misjudged when spring break began. Convoys of road-tripping college students slowed our pace to a crawl about a mile before the Vecino Bridge. We got stuck most of the way next to a carful of frat boys from Tennessee blaring awful country-pop tunes, one after the other. The extra traffic made the trip to the island take at least an hour longer than usual. Having to hear Garth Brooks (or whoever) yodel (or whatever you want to call it) the whole time made it seem even longer than that.

Finally, we were over the bridge and looking for Dave's beach house. Actually, as we discovered when we arrived, it's less of a house than a big cabin. A smart real estate agent would call it "cozy" – I'd call it "smaller than my apartment". On the bright side, the place has an open floor plan with wide sliding glass doors leading to a little screened-in porch, and the screen porch literally opens right onto the beach. After we settled in, we lounged out there enjoying the seabreeze for a few minutes. I loved it.

Though Dave's place is on the quieter south side of the island, the main road out front was still clogged with incoming spring breakers at dinner time, so we left the car and walked to a nearby clam shack. I just had to laugh when Kyle raised his eyebrows significantly at me while ordering the oyster platter; we don't need aphrodisiacs the way we've been going.

We made it back to the beach in time for sunset and watched the sun turn the horizon pink and orange while huddled together by the shore. I guess the oyster's legendary libido-boosting effect kicks in after dark, because Kyle started nibbling on my ear when the clouds over the gulf faded to indigo. We went back up to the house, and he was all over me as soon as the screen door creaked shut.

We hadn't turned on any lights, so no one saw us strip off each other's clothes out on the porch. I lay back on the lounge chair while Kyle worked his way up my body with kisses until he knelt between my knees and pushed himself in. We humped to the faint but steady rhythm of distant music coming from the crowded clubs on the other side of the island. I noticed dim figures on the beach and wickedly wondered what they would think if they knew the only thing between them and a (quietly) orgasmic nude couple was a mosquito screen and 100 yards of unlit sand.

There are few things more relaxing than waking up without being woken up. That's exactly what we did yesterday (Saturday). We had nowhere to go, so we leisurely enjoyed some bagels and coffee out on the porch, just watching the long shadows across the sparkling sand slowly shrink as the sun rose towards mid-morning.

Kyle insisted that we wait an hour after eating before heading out for a swim (damn those old wives tales!). I paid him back by waving around the swimsuit I was going to put on – the teeny micro-g that I'd bought the last time we'd stayed at Vecino Beach.

He blanched when I pulled it out of the overnight bag, but I told him that I'd paid too much for the little thing to never wear it. I went into the old Scarlett O'Hara routine and asked him if he was scared "some young beau will sweep me away," to which he replied Rhett-like that he was more afraid I'd "sweep some young lady off her feet and cause a terrific scandal." We're so funny.

Anyway, I pretended to compromise – I'd wear the micro-g top, but I'd pair it with my old and relatively grandma-ish full bottoms instead of the teeny micro-g string. Honestly, I really wasn't ready to wear that butt floss in public; I'd just been fishing for Kyle's reaction. Also for testing purposes, I asked him whatever had become of his own little micro-suit. He just frowned and pulled his old swim trunks from the traveling bag.

After all my bluster, though, the sight of my breasts spilling out on all sides of the micro-g's micro-cups in the bathroom mirror almost made me change my mind about wearing just the top half of that skimpy suit. They looked like a pair of party balloons "covered" with a couple of band-aids; my C-cups never seemed so big. It took a minute to adjust them so that I was only showing off lots of pale boob skin, not anything even more improper. Gathering my courage, I exited the bathroom and ignored Kyle's incredulous stare as I nonchalantly applied sunscreen in the living room.

I didn't feel as brave once I got outside, so I ran straight for the surf and hopped in. The weather has been so warm that it's easy to forget it's only March, but the still-cool Gulf water reminded me very quickly that summer had not yet arrived. We braved the coolness for as long as we could, which wasn't very long. By that time I had gotten more comfortable being out in public with my little top, so we walked up the beach to let the sun dry us off.

The crowd thickened the closer we got to the big touristy hotels on the north end of the island and I began to feel self-conscious again. The wide sand was full of people everywhere, most of them a little younger than us and pretty much all of them very attractive. Packs of cute college guys stared right at my out-there boobs as we walked by, not even trying to pretend that they weren't. Kyle seemed to be amused by this, but I felt kinda old among all the carefree college kids, which is silly since I'm only 4 years out of school myself. I consoled myself by noting that my body is still alluring enough to catch plenty of appreciative looks even though I'm an "old lady" of 25.

And I couldn't help returning those looks. Predictably, most of the beach crowd seemed to be the shallow frat & sorority types I had always avoided back in college. However, they were certainly very nice to look at, as almost everyone had a buff body and most of them weren't shy about showing it off, especially the girls. I didn't see a single chica wearing anything more than a bikini, and while many of them had some sort of thong-ish bottom, I didn't see anyone wearing a smaller top than mine. With all the exposed skin in every direction, I began to feel giddy, almost reckless with erotic energy.

Kyle was apparently seeing the sights as well. He gave me a nudge and a nod up the beach, where he'd spotted a sunbathing babe wearing a top almost as skimpy as mine. But because her (natural, I think) boobs were quite large and she was lying on her back, they were really hanging out in all directions.

"That there's ten pounds of manure in a five pound bag," he commented in a fake southern accent, cheesily channeling Rhett Butler yet again. I smacked his shoulder, the brat, but I indulged myself (and turned on Kyle) by openly staring at the busty babe as we sauntered past, hoping that she'd somehow fall completely out of her top. She didn't. :(

Eventually we wandered into an over-crowded beach bar for a bite to eat. The service was slow and the food lousy, but I found ways to have fun anyway. We sat in a booth along the back wall, me with my back to the restaurant and Kyle across the table. There was a big mirror on the wall behind Kyle, and I used it to keep an eye on the lovely procession of bronzed boys and babes coming and going. Kyle was looking as well, but I didn't mind at that moment. We chatted mindlessly and he never lost his train of thought, which I thought very impressive.

After a while, I noticed in the reflection that unlike the busty babe on the beach, I really had popped out; my top had shifted a bit and the darker skin along the very edge of my left areola was just visible. Instead of fixing it, I casually bumped the left strap to increase the exposure. Happily, Kyle proved that he was paying at least as much attention to me as to the passing eye candy because he immediately let me know about my wardrobe malfunction. I pretended not to hear and snarfed another french fry. Kyle smirked and shook his head in feigned disapproval, and we resumed talking as if nothing was amiss.

I spent the rest of the meal with my top askew, yet nobody besides Kyle seemed to notice my exposure. I was kinda hoping to surprise our college-aged waitress, but she never returned after delivering the food; Kyle even had to hunt down the check. Like I said, the service was lousy.

My exhibitionist urge unsatisfied, I yanked my strap a little harder when I got up to leave. That got more people's attention. Some poor guy actually did the classic spit take with his beer when he saw me coming. I peeked down to see how much was showing, and I would have spit out my drink myself if I had one. The entire bud of my nipple was out in the open for everyone to see, and it was rock hard, besides.

The last few steps to the door seemed to take forever, but I didn't fix my top, just pretended like I didn't notice the reactions of the horny guys and shocked girls by the bar. I considered walking out the door like that until Kyle kinds desperately pointed out a couple of cops hanging around just outside, at which point I quickly readjusted myself before they saw anything amiss.

Once we were out of there, Kyle asked me if I was "in that mood again". I responded with a big, tongue-filled, dizziness-inducing kiss, leaving him breathless as I turned and started walking down the beach.

We jogged and laughed most of the way back to the house, my almost-unfettered boobs jiggling enough to make the JRG blush. I had to keep adjusting my top to keep from getting too indecent. Considering the looks I got from other beach-goers, however, I was not entirely successful.

Kyle turned for the beach house when we got close. I told him I wanted to get back in the water and hushed him before he could quote the one-hour rule again.

"Fuck the old wives!" I complained.

"They'd probably like that!" he shot back. Did I mention we're hilarious?

"I'd rather do that with you," he cooed in response. Who could resist that kinda sweet talk? So we hurried arm-in-arm into the house and straight to the bedroom. We didn't bother with the preliminaries; we were naked and going at it in record time. It was a quickie, but a very satisfying quickie nonetheless. <blush>

Afterwards, Kyle wanted to take his usual afternoon vacation nap. (Typical male.) I wasn't particularly tired, so he toddled off to bed while I went "shopping." Actually, I wasn't looking for clothes; I was looking for a sign I'd seen along the road advertising the infamous "Brazilian Wax."

The little spa was in a shopping plaza a few blocks down the road. Turns out I was lucky. The place was booked solid all week, but they'd had a no-show they said they could take me right away. A middle-aged Hispanic-looking lady came in and gave me some options, and I (shyly) requested the completely bald treatment so I could wear my micro-g with confidence. Then she asked me to strip from the waist down and proceeded to bend my legs back and work on my crotch with all the eroticism of a chef working on a Thanksgiving turkey, no small talk at all. It was good thing I'd taken a quick shower after my afternoon delight with Kyle – the experience was awkward enough as it was.

I'd heard that the all-over waxing job hurts like hell. It does, but only for a few minutes. It's actually less painful than that Epilady I tried once. After she riiiiped off the wax a few times I got used to it, tho it was uncomfortable being bent into positions right out of some naughty yoga class. After almost an hour, I was kinda sore but good to go.

I stopped at a couple places on the way back, picking up some ingredients to cook for dinner and a sexy new outfit for me to cook after dinner. My newly silky-smooth skin tingled under my panties as I tried on dresses in the beach boutique. I felt very clean and very dirty at the same time.

When I got back to the house, Kyle was already awake and wanted to go swimming again. I readily agreed and slipped into the bathroom to slip into my swimsuit. And this time, I decided that I was going to get my money's worth from that expensive wax job; I was going to wear the micro-g top AND the bottoms.

That thong is so small that I had to spend a lot of time figuring out how to actually wear it. The front panel seemed to dip waaay too low, but when I pulled it up to a reasonable height, it dug obscenely into my slit. At best, it left acres of mons uncovered along with twin strips of skin on the insides of my upper thighs; there was no way I could've worn those bottoms without the total wax job.

And around back, it was pretty much impossible to keep the butt floss from disappearing between my cheeks. I'm actually glad that I'm still kinda pale from the winter, because otherwise, my tan lines would've been a beacon calling even more attention to how much normally private real estate was on display.

It's probably borderline illegal to go out in public wearing the micro-g at a non-nude beach like Vecino – it only covers the very bare minimum, if that. The way my dirty mind was working, tho, I figured that the cops would be too distracted with all the college drunks on the other side of the island to worry about little ol' me. I was gonna go for it. I wrapped a towel around my waist and exited the bathroom, determined not to chicken out.

Kyle had been waiting on the porch. We both ran for the surf and dropped our towels just short of the water line. I was very surprised to see that he had changed into his own micro-suit, and it was bulging. "When in Rome..." he explained, hurrying into the water.

His bottoms were almost as skimpy as mine in the crotch area, so I asked him how he'd "made it work".

"I brought a razor, too..." was his sheepish response. I didn't tell him about my wax job yet, figuring he'd discover it soon enough.

With such easy access, we started grabbing at each other right away. A little nudge here and there and we were doing it under the waves. The water would have come up to about mid-chest if I was standing straight, but to get a better angle, I squatted slightly and floated into a sexual position that's impossible in the air, putting the water line across my collar bones.

Feeling the sun on my face while having sex and having the salt water flow in and out along with Kyle was a very unique sensation. Watching people lounging or strolling by only a shell's throw away at the same time made the experience even more exhilarating. This was especially true when Kyle "accidentally" untied my top while supporting my back. It almost floated away before I noticed. I caught it, but didn't bother to put it back on. I just squatted a little lower to keep my bare boobies under the surface while we kept rutting, the feeling of near-nakedness making me feel even warmer in the cool water.

We tried to be careful about splashing around too much for fear of attracting attention, but perhaps we were not careful enough. A cute chica about our age was walking alone down the shoreline, frequently stopping to look for shells while glancing in our direction. Kyle got uptight and wanted to stop, but I thought she was dawdling on purpose to figure out if we were really doing what she suspected we were doing. If she were truly offended, she would've moved along quickly and gotten out of there, right? So I coyly asked Kyle if we could keep going "only a little more". He tacitly agreed by continuing to hump me while she continued to apparently check us out.

The fact that she eventually walked away without a clear reaction gave me that same naughty frustration that'd felt in my office dream. I glanced around the beach; there was nobody else close by. As I felt myself inching toward orgasm, I gradually straightened out of my crouched position until my nipples emerged into the sunlight. Kyle was in the same crazy mood, I guess, because instead of pushing me back under the water like I thought he might, he stared down at my bare wet boobs while humping me faster, no longer caring about the splash.

That was it; I gasped and reached orgasm. And then Kyle got even crazier; when he noticed that I was coming, he lifted me so high that my entire naked torso from the waist up was out of the water for a moment. I came even harder, curling up against him as I tried not to scream out in simultaneous surprise and ecstasy. I was still shuddering when he quickly lowered me back down under the waves. Once I'd caught my breath, I called him a "perv" and splashed him, but he knew I'd really loved it – god, I came so hard.

It took me a minute to realize that Kyle hadn't finished and I thought about helping him out with that. But as usual after the rush has passed, I got shy again. I fixed my suit under the waves, and we emerged from the suddenly too-cool gulf waters.

I'd almost forgotten exactly how "micro" my micro-g really was until I splashed out of the surf and a dirty old man walking by with a metal detector stopped and gawked as blatantly as any of the college boys. I had to make sure that all my important parts were re-covered. They were, technically, but the suit still showed off a whole lotta skin. Also, the combination of cool water and hot sex had my nips poking up like pencil erasers beneath the thin material of the top. I smiled weakly at the practically-drooling old coot and wrapped myself in a towel.

Only when Kyle and I were away from the shoreline and right outside the screen porch of the house did we unwrap ourselves and settle on lounge chairs, relaxing while tanning nooks and crannies that had never seen the sun.

After a little while, I told Kyle he could stay outside while I cooked. I did so wearing only the micro-g suit, however, and the combination of yummy aromas and a half-naked me soon lured Kyle into the kitchen to "help make dinner". I've never seen a recipe that calls for "boob groping", but Kyle says it gives the sauce "that special something." Whatever; I didn't mind.

Anyway, he liked dinner almost as much as the new outfit I put on afterwards: a real cute sleeveless bright floral sundress with thin straps. Well, it's not exactly a classic sundress because the top half is stretchy and hugs my torso pretty tightly. But the skirt part is loose and flowing like your typical sundress from the waist down to the hem, which hung a bit above my knees.

The only articles of clothing I wore along with the dress were my micro-g string bottoms and a pair of simple leather sandals. Kyle wore a pair of casual shorts and an old tropical-print shirt that he left open to show off his tone torso and perfect tan (freakin' health-freak / lawn care specialists!)

We both wanted to get away from the college crowds, which meant that'd we'd have to get off the island. I hinted that I'd like to go back to Beach Bunnies and see if Roxanne was still working there, but my hopes were crushed as soon as we looked outside. The traffic on the main road was at a complete standstill in both directions. I guess a big flock of spring-breakers had arrived during the day. So we decided "if you can't escape 'em, join 'em" and walked north along the beach towards party central.

Though the sun had long since dropped below the horizon, the sea breeze was still enough to kick up my loose skirt. The cool salty air felt exhilarating blowing against my newly baaaare skin – I was getting moist already. But when we finally got to the busy part of the island, I got turned back off, at least for a while.

The beach and the bars were packed with sloppy drunk students desperately pretending they were having the time of their lives. The scene was so superficial, as everyone was trying way too hard to act cool – and, of course, to get laid. (It reminded me of the joke about the sorority sisters' mating call: "I am soooo drunk!") So we wandered from club to club sipping overpriced, watered-down beers, entertaining each other by making rude remarks about the pathetic people all around us.

I spotted a sign for a wet t-shirt contest at a place called "Tooters" and pulled Kyle towards the door, telling him it was time for him to get his first look at some "hot female flesh" for the night. He provocatively commented that it would probably be my best chance to see some boobs as well, so I should "enjoy it". (Turns out he was wrong... )

Inside, the club had all the charm of a warehouse. A rowdy mob had already gathered in front of a raised stage. Of course, most were guys. Their obnoxious behavior and bright red faces made it obvious that they'd tossed down more than a few Buds.

A few girls were there, too, and were mostly either carrying on way too loudly to get the guys' attention or standing next to their drunken boyfriends looking annoyed. Tooters' employees circled around repeatedly asking them (and me) to sign up for the contest. I had no desire to entertain this bunch and refused, but a few others volunteered when they heard about the $250 first prize. A bored-looking chick right beside us volunteered, and her boyfriend's expression went from confused to excited to uncertain as she waved at him and left for the backstage area. It was pretty funny.

We worked our way over to the side of the room where the crowd was thinner but the view of the stage still pretty good. That's where I noticed a couple of atypical college-aged girls standing nearby waiting patiently. One was a curvy blonde with flowing shoulder-length hair wearing a two-piece flowery outfit right out of an Austin Powers movie. Her top was basically a tie-dye bandana tied over her breasts and connected to long sleeves ending in ruffles, and her bottoms were low-cut pink hotpants. She completed the theme with a pair of white go-go boots. In that retro-naughty getup, her midsection and most of her long, tan legs were uncovered and very nice to look at.

Her companion was about as different as she could be. She was pale and petite with very short dark red hair, almost maroon. She wore a men's (or maybe a boy's) white tank "wife-beater" style undershirt with black suspenders and long black slacks. Her nipples were obvious under the thin undershirt, but she didn't really need a bra because her breasts were about the smallest A-cups I've seen on a grown woman. And something about her looked vaguely familiar.

I pointed her out to Kyle and asked if he recognized her, but he just made some smartass remark about being "happy to meet Heather Graham". Before I could tell him that I wasn't talking about the 60s-wannabe blonde, the music cranked up, the crowd roared, and the show began.

The first contestant was an average-looking brunette who came out wearing denim shorts and a white Tooter's t-shirt. She seemed very nervous as they poured pitchers of icy water over her chest, and she stiffly danced at the back of the stage with her top sticking weakly to her skin.

Her uneasiness was not helped by the bunch of drunks right in front chanting "Show us your tits!" She actually lifted her top really quickly to their delight, but the cheers turned to boos when they realized she wouldn't do it again. She scurried off stage to a chorus of catcalls and insults as soon as the song ended.

Though the idea of watching girls expose themselves had sounded like fun, it wasn't so great in practice, and I began to get the same uncomfortable feeling as I'd had among the testosterone-crazed mob at Beach Bunnies. If the vibe didn't change quickly, I was going to insist that we get out of there.

In the lull between contestants, I noticed that the pale girl standing with the go-go dancer was looking at me thoughtfully. A light seemed to go off in her head and she came over with a lecherous smirk. Leaning into my ear so I could hear over the noise, she asked me if I was having fun and wondered why I wasn't in the show because "I know you like to give one."

I had no idea what she was talking about. When she said something about a "baked potato", though, I instantly remembered where I'd seen her before: she was the girl at Wendy's whom I had flashed in the car while Kyle's stuff dripped off my chin. It'd been over a year and her dyed hair threw me off, but that impish grin and those piercing green eyes were unmistakable.

I stared back at the stage unseeing as my mind reeled. When I did what I did that night in the car, I certainly never thought I'd see that girl again. But here she was, flirting with me. And at a wet t-shirt contest, no less. Kyle tried to tell me something (probably asking what the girl had said) but I couldn't hear him over the loud hollering that had erupted from the crowd.

The next contestant on stage had stripped off her t-shirt and was spinning it over her head. The MC warned that she was breaking the rules while other Tooters' employees tried unsuccessfully to get her to cover her terribly fake-looking boobs, finally hustling her off the stage. "She paid enough for those things; let her show 'em off!" Kyle shouted mockingly over the music. The mob didn't appreciate losing their view of her "fine" titties and began to get really ugly, the music cutting off suddenly to add to the growing chaos.

"Isn't this lame?" asked the Wendy's girl. She leaned over to her companion and whispered something in her ear. The blond nodded and turned back to the stage while the skinny chick shot me a look that was somehow both inviting and sardonic and started making her way towards the exit.

I had to go after her. I asked Kyle if we could leave and he agreed (what a nice guy!). As I'd hoped, the girl was waiting outside. Before I could say a word, she mentioned a "better place" around the corner and started leading the way. Kyle tagged along but was obviously confused and asked who the heck she was. I just said "Wendy's baked potato" and let him figure it out for himself.

She led us down a side street farther from the water to an old building with a sign saying simply "Coffee House". The inside was not what I expected; this wasn't your typical Starbucks. The place was dim, with a bunch of multipli-pierced young people sitting around chatting, drinking, smoking very odd-smelling cigarettes, and somehow ignoring the awful screeching alternative music coming from the battered stereo behind the bar. The Wendy's chick held on to my hand and guided me to an even dimmer side room filled with candles, black lights, and ratty mismatched furniture.