Margaret Goes Dutch Pt. 01

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Brunette

‘What you think?’ said Margaret, ‘does my bum look too big in this?’

She sashayed out of the bedroom of our Toowoon Bay resort chalet, in the most alluring bikini I had ever seen her wear. Pale green, the separate bra cups exposing all her ample cleavage and with high cut bottoms that revealed plenty of her shapely buttocks, it beautifully complimented the all over tan she had worked on in the privacy of our back lawn. With her mane of dark brown hair and voluptuous curves, Margaret reminded me of TV personality and cook, Nigella Lawson, although I doubt Ms Lawson would ever have worn such a bikini in public. I had pointed out the resemblance to Margaret on several occasions. ‘But I’ll bet she wouldn’t suck you off and let you leave red welts all over her bum,’ she had replied, which was embarrassing if we had company.

‘Your bottom looks great in anything,’ I said, diplomatically, as she paraded in front of me. ‘But if you keep that up Mrs Reynolds, I might have to rip that bikini off, bend you over a chair and make the congress of the cow.’

‘I’ll dutifully accept being taken in anyway my husband chooses.’ She was grinning widely, but made no move to shed the bikini. ‘I’ll moo like a cow or howl like a bitch if it pleases you, but not before we’ve had a swim and some lunch.’

It was the start of a long weekend away at the Toowoon Bay beach resort, and I was looking forward to a hedonistic few days of good food, good wine, swimming, sunshine and, most importantly, sex. Margaret’s new bikini suggested she was also looking forward to topping up her tan on the beach. But it looked sufficiently sheer that I suspected it would be almost transparent when wet. Whether this was to get me in the mood, or to satisfy any exhibitionist tendencies Margaret might be developing, or both, was something more to look forward to. Margaret caught me staring at her crotch and grinned, as she read my mind.

‘I’m thinking of unpicking the lining of the gusset,’ she said. ‘That should give you, and all those beach going amateur gynaecologists, something to look at.’

‘They don’t know much, but they’re happy to look into it for you,’ I laughed.

‘Well let’s not keep them waiting,’ she replied, ducking back into bedroom and returning in a sundress and straw hat. I picked up the beach bag with the towels, and followed her down the path from the chalet, through the Norfolk pines and onto the beach.

It was warm on the sand, the sea breeze had not kicked in, and the water was a rippled sheet of shimmering blue. Small waves lapped the shore, children paddled in the shallows and a few adults cooled themselves in deeper water. Margaret stretched full length on her towel, turning over periodically, to ensure an even exposure to the sun. I sat on a beach chair, a broad brimmed hat shading my face and the kindle as I read the latest Bernie Gunther novel. Occasionally I glanced down at Margaret to check she was not burning, and let my eyes feast on the near naked body that turned me on so much.

She was on her back, eyes closed against the strong sunlight. Small beads of sweat glistened between her breasts and on her stomach. The outlines of her nipples were visible through the bra. She must have sensed me looking at her, as she shaded her face with a hand and opened her eyes.

‘Like what you see, lover?’

‘Mmmmm,’ I nodded. ‘But the sun’s getting strong and you look hot. Time for a swim before lunch?’

‘I’m always hot for you,’ she replied reaching out to stroke my leg. I heaved myself out of the chair and offered her a hand. The sand was hot, and we skipped the last few steps into the cool of the water. Dressed in board shorts that stretched over an incipient paunch, and still wearing my floppy sunhat that hid my thinning, greying hair, I felt a touch overshadowed by the rounded, but still firm figure of the mother of our two children, as she splashed her way into the water. With her generous breasts, ample bottom but still firm thighs, she remained a head turner, and I had the satisfaction of noting a number of pairs of eyes enviously watching as she jiggled her way across the sand, some of them from bronzed surfer lads young enough to be our son.

But if her progress into the sea had caught some roving eyes, her emergence a few minutes later, shedding water amid joyful, girlish peals of laughter, like a bikini clad, suntanned, slightly Rubenesque Venus rising from the sea, was an attraction few could resist. As I expected, the sheer material clinging to her figure exposed the outline of her firm nipples, and, between her thighs, the camel-toe of her plump labia. I enjoyed watching the heads, male and female, turn to watch as she strutted up the sand. Slightly more disconcertingly, her bikini bottom had ridden up between her buttocks, to display more flesh than she would, knowingly perhaps, have intended. Especially as it bore the faint traces of the welts caned onto it by her recent visit to the headmaster.

She exposed more of her escort sincan buttocks as she bent down to pick up her towel, and, as she dried herself, I noticed a woman in a kaftan momentarily pause her stroll along the beach. Her eyes were shaded under a Panama hat and hidden behind large dark glasses, but the corners of her mouth were turned up in an impish grin. She nodded appreciatively, then continued past and on into the resort.

After a refreshing shower and a change of clothes, we were waiting outside the restaurant to be shown to our table, when a voice interrupted our thoughts.

“Would you mind if I joined you for lunch?’ It was a simple enough request, voiced in a European accent that I judged to be Dutch, or possibly Belgian, spoken by the woman from the beach, still wearing the flowing kaftan. Without the hat and glasses, she appeared to be in her late forties. The corners of her eyes were etched with experience lines and there were pink highlights in her greying, short-cropped chestnut hair. She would have been striking in her youth, and even now, there was a bewitching, elfin quality about her.

‘Of course,’ said Margaret, unhesitatingly. ‘Are you on your own? We’d be delighted to have company.’

It was only for lunch after all, and we had all the rest of the day ahead of us.

Sofietje was indeed Dutch. Over lunch, she told us she was a clerk at the Dutch parliament, taking the opportunity of its annual winter recess to travel in search of warmer climes. Even the little experience I had of Dutch winters was enough to appreciate the wisdom of her statement. Despite my initial misgivings, she turned out to be an interesting and animated companion, unafraid to share her opinions, some of which were very quirky, and soon had Margaret giggling.

It might have remained just a pleasant lunch, enlivened by good conversation and a bottle of Hunter Valley chardonnay, until Margaret excused herself to go to the toilet, and Sofietje took the opportunity to lean across the table and state, in a tone which implied it was not a request, ‘I should like to see your wife naked.’

‘Do you?’ I said, lamely. ‘Are you asking my permission?’

Sofietje’s brown eyes held my gaze like a cobra eyeing its prey, and her mouth twisted into a sly smirk.

‘No, I am going to ask her permission. But don’t worry; I’m not going to steal her from you.’ She slid a hand across the table and patted my arm reassuringly. ‘And you’ll get to see her naked too.’

I was still wondering whether to be reassured by that when Margaret returned. Sofietje rose to greet her and suggested they inspect the dessert trolley. When they returned, bearing slices of ice cream cake for themselves, and a peeled banana in between two large scoops of strawberry ice cream which they had chosen for me, their eyes were gleaming conspiratorially, and I guessed it was going to be an interesting afternoon.

‘Are you sure you’re okay with this,’ I said as we spread our towels on the sun lounges on the decking of our secluded chalet, waiting for Sofietje to re-join us.

‘I thought you said you’d be happy to see me naked with another woman?’

It was true, that was one of the fantasies I had admitted to, but I hadn’t expected to be offered the chance to fulfil it with so little notice.

‘Just checking,’ I replied, trying to calm my heart beat and keep my voice under control.

There was not much I could do about my penis, which, ever since lunch, seemed to have a mind of its own. I took another glance around the sundeck. We were half way up the slope, well screened by pines and hibiscus. There were some houses higher up with distant views of the deck, and anyone coming up the path could not fail to notice us. But the cleaners had probably seen nude bodies before, sunbathing or enjoying the spa-tub.

‘Hi!’ said a voice, cutting short any further time for cold feet, and we turned to greet Sofietje. She was still wearing the kaftan, and she carried a large beach bag. She pulled out a towel, spread it on the centre of the three sun lounges, and gazed at us smiling widely.

‘I thought you would be naked by now,’ she chuckled, dropped her hat onto the sun lounge, and reached for the waist of the Kaftan. ‘Okay, if you want me to go first.’

She lifted her arms and pulled the Kaftan off over her head, to reveal her naked beneath.

Making no move to conceal herself, or to lie down on the sun lounge, she stood, arms akimbo, left hip cocked with her legs apart and allowed me, and I suspect Margaret, an unhurried study of her body.

My eyes travelled slowly south, lingering on her small firm breasts with large dark nipples that were already puckered and erect. Below them was a softly rounded belly, the curves, creases and wrinkles evidence that her skin had lost some of its elasticity with age. Below that, her mons was decorated with a narrow landing strip of short-cropped pubic hair, at the bottom of which her large escort tandoğan clitoris protruded, and nestling between her thighs was a pair of meaty, crinkled inner lips, still folded together. Sofietje merely grinned and shifted her weight onto the other hip, allowing more time to appreciate the muscle tone of her arms and legs, and also the honey coloured all over tan, lighter than Margaret’s, who had Mediterrean blood in her veins.

‘Well!’ snapped Sofietje, still grinning, obviously enjoying being the centre of attention. ‘You are liking what you see, ya?

I was. It’s not every day an attractive woman invites you to look at her naked. Margaret and I were no strangers to public nudity. We had swum at clothing optional beaches and bathed in communal bathhouses, where men had enjoyed surreptitiously ogling Margaret, as much I had their wives and girlfriends. Now I had the feeling that Sofietje intended to enjoy more than just an afternoon’s nude sunbathing, and, judging by her self-satisfied grin, Margaret was obviously happy to indulge her.

‘Well then,’ grinned Sofietje. ‘Who are you saving yourselves for?’

I reached for the waistband of my board shorts, suddenly self-conscious that while I had been enjoying the view of Sofietje, my cock had stiffened into semi-hardness and was already tenting the front of them. I glanced across at Margaret, and was encouraged to see she had already shed her bikini bra and was wriggling the bottoms down over her hips.

‘Come on, don’t be shy,’ encouraged Sofietje, her tongue flicking between her lips. ‘Let me see your cock. I bet it gives Margreet (she pronounced it the Dutch way) much pleasure, ja.’

‘Ja,’ chuckled a naked Margaret as sat down on her sun lounge. ‘Show the nice lady what you’ve got, big boy.’

I shucked off my shorts and briefs and stood facing them, enjoying the feel of the sun and the cooling sea breeze on my rising cock.

‘Very nice,’ said Sofietje. ‘I shall enjoy keeping him at attention.’ She sat on the end of Margaret’s sun lounge and patted the one next to it, inviting me to sit down. The she turned to Margaret.

‘Margreet, let me have a good look at you. Please open your legs?’

I hadn’t expected such a direct request, but there was a commanding edge to her voice that, from our own role-playing, I knew Margaret enjoyed. And my intuition was confirmed when she swivelled around and lifted one leg over the sun lounge so as to straddle it. Then she lay back against the headrest and spread her legs wide.

‘Aaaacccchh,’ breathed Sofietje, admiringly, ‘you have a beautiful kut, not like my worn old thing.’

She bent forward for a closer inspection. ‘I like that you are shaved completely. So naughty, ja, for a middle aged woman to have a bald kut, like a hoer’s.’ She raised her eyes challengingly at Margaret. ‘Like a fresh, young Amsterdam hoer, ja?’

The directness of her speech was exciting; I could feel my cock swelling to full hardness, and I almost gasped as she placed a hand on my thigh and gently squeezed the flesh. ‘Ach, he likes hearing your wife compared to a hoer,’ said Sofietje. ‘It sounds so much nastier in Nederlands. To a Dutch ear, the English sounds too polite. Whore! What is that, a bank or a type of frost,’ her body heaved with laughter. ‘And cunt? It sounds nice. Could I please have a cup of tea and a slice of cunt,’ she mimicked a plummy Englishwoman. ‘But hooooeerrrrr,’ she rasped it deep in her throat, that’s a nasty slet who sells her kut to any man who wants to fuck her.’

She lifted her bottom and swung over the sun lounge, facing Margaret with her legs apart. The outer lips of her vulva were like two neat, well separated, half-moons, between which sprouted a large pair of meaty, crinkled inner lips. They were still folded together to conceal her cleft, but at their apex the large bud of her clitoris sprouted like a small erect penis, much larger than Margaret’s.

‘So, Margreet, we have a good look at each other, ja?’ And you,’ she patted my knee, ‘you keep to attention and look at both of us.’

The initial embarrassment had faded. Now I felt wonderfully free and natural, sitting naked on the sun lounge with a huge erection, feasting my eyes on two naked women, and knowing they were both enjoying the sight of my obviously aroused state.

Or perhaps I flattered myself, as neither of them paid me much attention. I don’t suppose Margaret had had much opportunity to examine another woman’s vulva close up, in the flesh, and she gazed at it with interest, no doubt comparing the large, wrinkled lips to her own more delicate ones, perhaps envying Sofietje her large clitoris, and wondering if its size increased the pleasure it offered.

Any further illusions that this was just a nude sunbathing afternoon were instantly dispelled when Sofietje said, ‘May I touch you?’

There was a soft intake of breath from Margaret. ‘Jaaaaa,’ she nodded, smiling.

Sofietje leaned forward, escort tunalı placed her hands either side of Margaret’s neck, caressed them down over the swell of her bosom and then rotated them palms upward, cupping a breast in either hand. She lifted them, weighing them, gently squeezing the soft, rounded globes.

‘They are beautiful,’ she breathed, gazing deep into Margaret’s eyes. ‘To how many kinderern have they given suck?’

‘Two,’ said Margaret, chuckling at the old-fashioned phrasing.

‘You are lucky, they are so firm. I bet he loves to be squeezed between them,’ she nodded in the direction of my penis, addressing it as if it had an independent existence, which to some extent, I suppose, it did. ‘Squeezed while he rubs himself against them,’ she continued, ‘until he anoints them with his seed.’

‘He likes to fuck my cleavage,’ agreed Margaret with a wicked grin, ‘and pump spunk all over them.’ She was clearly enjoying Sofietje’s switch between poetic and crudely explicit language.

Margaret’s nipples had been puckered and erect ever since she removed he bra. Now I could swear they hardened still further as Sofietje’s fingers and thumbs closed around them, and she gently, tweaked and pinched and rolled them, causing Margaret to squirm and coo with delight. As far as I knew, Margaret had never been touched this way by a woman (I discounted the fairy tale of her having sex with her parents), and I had to admit a touch of envy at the way that Sofietje was expertly extracting the kind of responses that, until now, I thought only I (apart from herself) aroused in Margaret. But any fleeting jealousy was overridden by the response of my ramrod stiff penis. I’d watched plenty of girl on girl action in porn movies and in sex clubs, but nothing as exciting as this, watching my own wife being aroused and seduced by a Dutch woman we had met only a couple of hours before.

And there was no doubt that arousal and seduction were taking place, as Sofietje let go of one of Margaret’s breasts, reached between her legs and gently brushed the tip of her index finger over one of Margaret’s outer lips.

‘So smooth, so plump, just like little soft pillows,’ she said, stroking the other side. ‘I saw them when you came out of the water, what you call a camel-toe in English, and I knew I had to touch them.’ She continued brushing them with her fingertip, coaxing a delightful sigh out of Margaret.

‘And between them such nice lips,’ said Sofietje. ‘Not like mine, all thick and meaty and crumpled.’ She laughed, ‘Look, we compare,’ she stopped stroking Margaret and moved her hand to her own vulva. ‘See, like leather flaps,’ she flicked them from side to side with a finger, chuckling. ‘Piss flaps, kut flaps. Not like yours Margreet. Yours are delicate, like little wings, fairy wings, butterfly wings.’

Sitting to the side, I had a good view of both women’s vulvas, and was thoroughly enjoying Sofietje’s comparison. Margaret’s inner lips had parted slightly to reveal a hint of her rose, and I could see glistening beads of her nectar, while Sofietje’s larger, thicker ones still remained folded together.

‘Watch, I’m going to spread my kut flaps for you Margreet,’ said Sofietje, placing her fingers either side and then, as we both stared transfixed, spreading them wide apart to reveal a deep red cavern, the walls dripping with her arousal.

‘Big eh?’ she chuckled, placing her other hand high up on my thigh. ‘Big enough for a … well, maybe that’s not polite, but,’ she nodded towards my erect cock, from which pre-cum was already oozing and sliding down the purple, bulbous glans, ‘big enough for him.’ Her hearty laugh boomed over the sundeck, and I wondered if anyone was listening to this most interesting conversation.

‘Your turn now,’ continued Sofietje, reaching towards Margaret’s vulva, ‘I open you, ya?’

‘Yaaaa,’ agreed Margaret, shivering with anticipation as Sofietje placed her fingers on either side of Margaret’s inner lips and spread them gently, fully revealing the rose pink cleft from which trickles of moisture seeped. I glanced from one opened vulva to the other, spoiled for choice, and the hot, musky scent of two aroused women filled my nostrils.

Sofietje had noticed it too, and she sniffed like a dog picking up a scent.

‘You smell that, ja. We stink like two old hoers ripe for fucking. Inside you now, okay?’

Margaret’s eyes were wide and her mouth gaped into a soft moan as Sofietje dipped her fingertips into her cleft and ran them gently around the opening, teasing her wider. There was another deep-throated moan as Sofietje’s fore and middle fingers slid deep inside her, as easily as if they had been swallowed. She probed the depths of Margaret’s vagina, feeling for her cervix, and causing her to squirm when she found and pressed against her G-spot. Then she hooked her fingers against the vaginal wall and tugged, stretching it, as if to test its resilience. Finally, she withdrew them, wet and shining, and trailing strings of Margaret’s arousal.

‘So wet,’ she said, gazing at her fingers in delight. ‘My God, you really are a slet, five minutes only, and I think you are wet enough to take a football team.’ She laughed again, raised the fingers to her mouth and sucked them.

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