Sun, Sea, Sand and Sultry Sex

"Shit!" I groaned. "Where did you find that?"

"I needed to save some stuff on a memory stick," my husband said, "and I found this one in your drawer, and ,... I mean this is Leena! What the fuck happened? Where did you? Does Peter know?"

I tried to stay calm. When the shit has already hit the fan, and is getting thrown about in all directions, the best thing to do is take it slow and keep your voice controlled and level.

"No, Peter doesn't know," I said. "You weren't supposed to know either. I promised Leena that I'd never say."

Mike hit the move-left key on his keyboard and another photo took the place of Leena's semen coated face. It was still Leena, but this was of her looking out to sea, back to the camera, but butt naked.

"Okay," Mike said. "So this was when you guys went to France two years ago. You never said anything about,..."

"It was just a naturist beach," I said. "We just thought, while in France,..."

He pressed the move-right key, which brought him back to Leena's face.

"So, this is just a naturist beach,..." he began. "I mean,... this is what the French do on the beach, is it? So what exactly happened here?"

"It was in the dunes, behind the beach," I said. "I mean,...we went exploring, and found that things happen there,... and Leena got in a situation, and, well,..."

"Just Leena?" Mike asked me.

It was the obvious question for any husband to ask. Two married women, sisters-in-law, go on a break in the sun together while their husbands stay at home because of work. One of them at least, as the photographic evidence showed in worryingly explicit, clear, high definition, had got up to some serious sexual activity. The kind no husband wants to even dream about. The chances were the other woman just might have done the same.

"Just Leena," I said, using my most reassuring tone of voice. "I only took some photographs."

"Just photographs," Mike repeated, clearly not totally convinced, but moving on regardless. "And you never thought that Peter should know about this?"

"I promised Leena I'd say nothing," I answered. "And the last thing I would have wanted was to cause them an issue."

"He's my fucking brother!" Mike exclaimed.

"I know," I said.

"He worships Leena!" Mike added.

"I know," I said again, then hesitating before risking adding, "She loves him as well. It was just,..."

I did not have words for what it was, especially since my stomach was still churning, nervous that Mike might already have looked at the other photographs, and knowing that if he had not scanned the rest of them already, he was definitely about to find them. All he had to do was use that move-right key to switch to what was next in my not so secret any more file of candid shots, and I knew exactly what those shots contained.

He pressed the move-right key.

I never knew before why they call them keys, when they are just square bits of plastic printed or engraved with single letters, numbers, symbols, and they never even see a lock, let alone get put inside one and turned to spring internal levers. I knew then why they call them keys. Keys open secrets. They give access to things that otherwise would not be seen. They open doors to private, hidden places. The move-right key was the one that opened up Pandora's box.

Leena, squatting, in front of yet another guy, three more dune guys right behind them. Like the first guy she had deep throated, she had her hands on this guy's butt, as she took his cock as far down her throat as it could reach, her face pressed against his stomach. I had been proud of that photo. I had been fascinated at watching Leena's neck as she accepted whichever cock she happened to be deep throating, the way you could actually see her neck bulging out because of the thickness of the cock head and the shaft.

Walking back along the beach Leena had laughed when I had told her how impressed I was.

"Don't you do that for Mike?" she had asked me. "You have to learn! My mother taught me. She always said that once I married I would have to do things for my husband, and I should practice well before."

"You practiced?" I had asked.

"Of course," Leena had laughed. "You have to! Otherwise you will just choke. Didn't your mother teach you about bananas?"

"My mother never got past storks and cabbages."

"What?" Leena had laughed. "What are storks and cabbages to do with it?"

I had explained the stories parents tell their children about how babies are found by, or are brought to longing parents, to avoid the embarrassment of cocks and cunts. The only sex education I had received was at my high school, and that was pretty functional. I learned more in my first year at university, from the guys I fucked back then, than from anything my mother or my school had told me. Maybe Indian mothers are less inhibited than they appear, or maybe it was just Leena's mother. But back at the villa, after we had bought some groceries, Leena gave me lessons, and I started to see bananas in a very different light.

Anway, I had been proud of that shot of Leena deep throating the guy. You cannot just delete a shot like that. I had got the angle perfectly. You could see where her neck was stretched and expanded, and where just below that bulge it was its normal diameter, and it was not rocket science to know what caused the bulge. Now, however, I wished that I had not got that shot quite so perfectly, or that I had deleted it, or at least, not left it on the memory stick, because then my husband would not be staring at his brother's wife devouring a stranger's cock on his wide screen monitor that should have been featuring Zelda instead of Leena.

"Jes,... Oh my God,... is that what you two were doing when we thought you were just relaxing on the beach?" Mike groaned.

This time, I thought it better to say nothing. If he was going to check them all, then even more incriminating money shots were yet to come. Watching, as he went through the next few photographs, was sheer agony. Always of Leena, more men, more blow jobs, until Mike got to where things went much further.

It was the eighth photograph, even more incriminating. Leena, on all fours, like the woman in that couple we had come across the first time we had gone into the dunes. Leena was darker in this photograph. Even Indians can tan, although culturally Sikhs prefer the shade. Indian complexions darken easily, and an educated Sikh will not want to be mistaken for a lower class Indian just in from working in the fields. Except while Leena was educated, she had no concerns about going back to London looking several shades darker than her usual light tones. She had loved lazing in the sun, and something over a week had turned her to a shade of brown that other people on the beach could only envy.

So in the photograph, on the last day of our holiday, Leena's skin was dark, and it was gleaming. The ease with which her skin cells produce protective melanin meant that she had not bothered with a high factor lotion. While I had been smothering myself with thick, white, creamy factor twenty to protect my own fair skin, Leena had used an oil which claimed to maximise a tan. It worked for her complexion too. It was like she had been basted with it. In this shot, her dark skin glistened, slick and slippery.

Again, I had framed the shot with care, from low down, level with her buttocks and her shoulders, and directly from the side, twenty feet away, but with a zoom. Distance and zoom lenses aid perspective, and the low angle emphasised her perfect body. Her breasts hung, full, darker because of the shade beneath her torso, the curves exquisite, the downward pointing tips of her nipples framed in silhouette.

My guess was that Mike was not admiring my photographic technique, but taking in the guy on his knees behind Leena, arms stretched forwards, hands holding her pelvic girdle, in mid thrust, his shaft visible, his cock head so clearly buried in Leena's cunt. On the other side of her, a guy was crouching, fondling one of Leena's breasts. Behind that guy four other men were standing watching, two of them in mid stroke as they played with their stiffly erect cocks. Maybe it had been a bad idea getting the guys to leave my side of the scene open, so that I could take that shot. It was a great shot, but nothing could have been more incriminating than that photograph. Except the next, and the one after that.

"Fuck!" Mike was swearing, whether at the screen, at Leena, at those men, or maybe it was at me. "Fuck, fuck and fuck!"

He pressed the move right key again. I was beginning to dread and hate that fucking key.

The same guy, now deep inside Leena's cunt, but both their bodies at different angles that the previous photograph. Before, Leena had been on all fours, her back angled slightly upwards from waist to shoulders, her arms straight, supporting her upper body, her head raised, her nose and mouth beautifully profiled. Now her back sloped downwards, her butt still high, her head resting on her folded arms, on the towel she was kneeling on. Her face was towards the camera, open mouthed, as she got back her breath.

In the previous photo, the guy had been on his knees as he fucked Leena from behind, his back upright, his butt taut, because it was the muscles in his butt that gave him thrust. His head was high. Now he was bent over Leena. His arms were on either side of her, although the shot showed only the arm closest to the camera, his hand flat on her towel, sparing her the full weight of his upper body on her fragile frame. His head was no longer held high, the muscles of his neck now relaxed, in post-ejaculation mode.

I had been proud of that shot too, the way that it expressed the sheer contentment that orgasm brings to woman, and ejaculation to the man, and Leena had just enjoyed a withering, howling, groaning, screaming, shuddering explosion of an orgasm while the guy had grunted and sworn his way through his ejaculation as he released his flood of semen deep inside her cunt. You could almost sense the echoes and reverberations of her orgasm and his coming in the scene depicted in the shot.

It was not that I wanted that shot to be a record of my sister-in-law fucking a stranger in the dunes. It was emblematic of the bliss that sex provides for both man and woman. Leena and the guy were symbolic of every man and woman placed on earth, of how humanity evolved, from cave men and women fucking without the rites and norms of civilised society, without the romance or heartache of love, or marriage, or commitment, but fucking for no other reason than sheer, evolutionary lust. It was a great shot, but I was pretty sure that Mike was not thinking its artistic merits. He was checking something else.

Mike hit the reverse key, back to the previous photo. Same guy, mid thrust, shaft visible, mushroom head in Leena's cunt. I waited. My husband is not stupid. He could read a photograph, what it depicted, and more to the point, what was not depicted, because it was not there.

"Fuck!" he said again.

"I know," I said. I did not dare express in words what he and I both were thinking.

Mike keyed forwards through the photographs again, moving straight past the shot of the guy taking his moment to recover before easing out of Leena, and he reached the last and most damning shot of all. They call it spit roast. I am not so naïve about things sexual not to know the term, even if it is obscenely crude. I know exactly where the phrase comes from. Barbeque an entire hog and it will have the metal spit skewered right through its body, anus to mouth, before being mounted on the rotisserie and turned to cook. Cocks do not actually do that, but in the observer's head it seems like that. One cock in the woman's mouth, and down her throat. The other deep in her cunt. Skewered, through and through. Crude, but descriptive.

That was the last photograph, Leena, still on her knees, head up, mouth open, nuzzling a guy's groin, his cock not just in her mouth, but in her throat, that tell tale bulging of her neck a dead give away of just how deep she was throating the thick head. One of the guy's hands was at the back of Leena's head, the other on her shoulder. Her butt length hair was partly on her back, and partly hanging straight past her shoulders to her beach towel, forming a black puddle there.

A second guy was caught in mid thrust, cock head in Leena's accommodating cunt, three inches of shaft still on the inward slide. This guy's hands were both on Leena's butt. Not only was our sister-in-law so clearly being fucked spit-roast, she was literally being roasted, her body glistening with droplets of sun-oil fuelled perspiration, the rays of the blazing mid-day sun browning her body even darker by the second.

What Mike was looking at was just a still. There was no movement. I can still remember watching, the two men somehow thrusting to a mutual rhythm. It was not that fast. Both men were mature enough to know that fast fucking is not always the best fucking, or the most pleasurable, either for the woman or the man. Leena must has done some serious practice with that banana, because the guy fucking her mouth was enjoying her ability to take it deep. That neck bulge appeared repeatedly, even time he thrust forwards, bouncing his torso off of Leena's upturned face. Yet somehow, through that rhythmic fucking, she found time to breathe, to draw in air and let it out.

Meanwhile, the guy behind her was thrusting at her cunt with the same steady cadence. He did more than that. Occasionally he used his palm to swipe at Leena's butt, the smack of flesh on flesh resounding in the hollow of the dunes. Maybe he was punishing her for behaving like a slut. Maybe it was for having such an alluring, lustrous tempting, body, one that in the weakness of his male desire, he just could not resist. Maybe it was for being available to him to fuck only on that day, for not being the kind of woman he could bring home, and fuck each night in the loving comfort of a marital bed. He punished Leena's breasts as well, reaching below her to where they were swaying as rhythmically as she was being fucked, sometimes playing with a teat, squeezing and pulling on it, as brutally as a farm hand with a heffer, drawing milk, and sometimes smacking sideways at the breast flesh, Leena's body flinching, her mouth too occupied to even groan.

What the photograph also did not show was Leena in the throes of orgasm. There was no crying out or screaming. Instead there was uncontrolled shaking and shuddering, what I can only think of as a body-quake, her torso trembling, breasts quivering, spasms rippling through her, not just for a moment, but on and on and on. Both guys came. Of course they came. With the sexual greed of orgiastic lust, Leena was trying to devour the cock that she was swallowing, her hands around the guy's butt, her face pressed hard against him. He came. Meanwhile her vagina would have been tightening and pulsing around the cock that had been thrusting just as deep, but with the onset of her orgasm that guy had paused, his pelvis pressed tight against her butt to gain every last fraction of an inch of depth before he let go his load. He came. Of course he came.

Nor did that shot show Leena collapsed on her towel, the men already having wiped their cocks clean, and gone, spasmodic shudders wracking Leena's body as she enjoyed post orgasmic aftershocks, and as she regained her consciousness of where she was, and why.

At that point there were still at least a dozen men who had been watching, and who were now waiting, wondering, hoping, wanting each to have their turn, but unsure if the slender form curled on her beach towel could take even just one more of them, let alone each and every one. Leena slowly raised her head and looked around. Then she eased herself up with her arms, brushing her hair to the right side of her head. She drew her legs together, then raised her back and butt, and once again she was kneeling on all fours, and this time it was Leena who was waiting. In that moment, I watched a trickle of semen slip from her vulva to start its slow slide down her dark skinned, inner thigh. Then a man's butt blocked that line of view. One defenceless woman. Twelve cunt-hungry men. Leena needed help, and no one else was there to give it.

Mike had been staring silently at that last photograph while all those memories flooded back inside my head.

"Okay," he said at last. "This was July, eighteen, yes?"

"Yes," I said. By eighteen, he meant the year. The exact day of the month was less important. That afternoon, when Mike had found my memory stick and called me to our office from the kitchen, was last December, twenty-twenty, more than two years from that sinful summer.

"And Sarpreet's birthday is the seventeenth of April?" Mike said, telling me what we both knew.

We had been at the hospital, Mike supporting Peter in the corridor, steading his nerves, while I was in the room as Leena perspired and swore and gripped my hand and pushed and swore and pushed some more. We had celebrated Sara's birth that night, her first birthday twelve months later, and her second birthday another twelve months after that, so we knew the seventeenth of April as fluently as we knew each of our own birthdays, and that of our son, and that day that we got married and exchanged those vows, the same ones that Peter and Leena had exchanged three years before that holiday.

Mike can count. He works in finance. If he needed to, he could count all twelve months of the year, in his head, without a pen and paper, but he only had to count nine of them, starting from July, so all I could do when he confirmed Sara's birthday was in April, was to nod.

He keyed back two photographs. No spit roast, just doggy, the guy in the act of thrusting, most of his shaft visible, waiting to slam into a cunt that had already been fucked by several other guys, although those photographs had been deleted, so Mike was unaware of just how many men had fucked his brother's wife.

"You can see the guy's shaft" Mike said. "You can't see a condom."

I did not say anything. There was a simple and straightforward reason why Mike could not see a condom. The guy had not been wearing one. None of the guys had worn condoms. Condoms are for respectable, planned ahead, sexual intercourse between responsible, adult participants. Dune fucking is strictly skin on skin. Leena was a stunningly striking gift of a woman to those guys, a delicious cunt to fuck and maybe even hope to fuck again, but ultimately she was no more than that to them. What happens afterwards to the woman you have fucked is not something that would trouble any of those guys. You do not need to wear a condom.

"Was he wearing one?" Mike asked.

I hesitated, but you know when you cannot argue with the evidence, and a photograph does not tell a lie. Neither could I. There was no point.

"No," I said.

"Were either of them?" he persisted, thinking, I guess, of the only two guys the photographs depicted actually fucking Leena.

"No," I said, thinking "not any of them", and I had no number to place on how many dune guys had let loose their loads with no condoms to contain the floods of semen they discharged that day.

Mike would not have believed anything else. For a moment neither of us said anything. Then my husband said out loud what we both already knew to be the case.

"So Sarpreet might not have been premature."

Sara had arrived two weeks before the official due date. These things are never that precise anyway. Sara had come in at six point something pounds, healthy, kicking, and even screaming, so there had been no concerns about her arriving early. Not until now.

"She might not have been," I had no choice but to admit.

That was as close as either of us came to saying what we both now knew was possible. At least Tom had not arrived until three months after Leena had given birth to Sarpreet. There was no question that Mike was Tom's father. Like I said, Mike could count to twelve so he would know that I was back in London when our son had been conceived, and he was a love child from a happy marriage. Of that there was no doubt.