True Confession #9-Carrie

In Jamaica

by

Alicia Night Orchid and Carrie X.

Copyright 2009 Alicia Night Orchid. All Rights Reserved.

My name is Carrie. I’m thirty-four years and divorced. I wear full panties instead of thongs, need a new pair of glasses, and work out three times a week trying to lose the extra pounds I picked up over the holidays. I have dirty blonde hair and pale blue eyes and look like the woman who sat across from you on the train this morning.

But I have an obsession. I know exactly how it began. What I don’t know is how it will end.

Three years ago I traveled to Jamaica with a black male friend from the office. Michael and I worked in the underwriting department of a large east coast insurance company. I’m not the sort of person who vacations with mere acquaintances of either gender, but the timing was right and Michael and I needed a break from the cold and snow of Connecticut. Besides, I considered Michael more than an acquaintance. He was a friend, soft spoken, funny, and reliable. And because I was sure he was gay, I considered him “safe.” Unlike my ex-husband who was “all man”—barrel-chested and hairy, Michael was beautiful in ways that a woman is beautiful, tall, and willowy with smooth skin the color of caramel. His face was in perfect symmetry—strong nose, wide-set brown eyes, high cheek bones, and sensual lips.

Of course he was gay. Right?

We stayed at one of those plush adult-only resorts, saving expenses by sharing a small villa. The perfect gentleman, Michael insisted on sleeping on the sofa in an adjoining room, giving me the bed that looked out over our personal plunge pool and the turquoise blue of the ocean beyond. No sooner did we arrive than we unpacked, changed into swim suits, and took a dip.

Surrounded by mango and banana trees, we enjoyed a glass of Champagne and made our pact—what happened in Jamaica stayed in Jamaica. I explained that while I exercised discretion at home, I was looking forward to kicking up my heels on the island and wouldn’t even mind some male company—if the right opportunity presented itself. I went on to say that I suspected discretion was also important to him and that he could count on me to keep his secret safe.

And what secret would that be, he wanted to know.

Well, you know. I mean, your gayness. I sounded as stupid as Oprah.

My gayness?

Michael smiled and went on to explain, to my embarrassment and surprise, that he wasn’t gay. Not exactly. The truth was, he enjoyed both men and women. Sometimes he enjoyed them together.

Okay. Sure. Why not?

It took a couple of days to process that.

In the meantime, I found myself looking at Michael in an entirely different light. He was my age or a little older, more muscled underneath his clothing than I’d realized, and featured a butt hard and tight as a soccer ball. I caught him looking at me, too. Once on his way to the bathroom, he shot at glance as I toweled off from the shower. Another time, he returned from an early morning walk on the beach just as I was climbing out of bed in nothing more than panties and a tee.

By the third day of living in such close proximity, we surrendered pretensions of modesty. That evening, when we returned from dinner, sun burnt and tipsy with wine, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to jump into our pool naked.

A white girl from the suburbs, I’d never been with a black man before. Of course, I’d heard the stories about anacondas between the legs and how if you go black you’ll never go back, but I’d written that off to racist banter. Chivalrous as always, Michael kept the lower half of his body submerged, preventing me from satisfying my curiosity. I was in the water, too, but did nothing to hide my breasts.

Under the glow of a soft tropical night, we drank more wine and talked about our lives, our hopes, dreams, and fears, and I came to like Michael even more than before. After a few minutes, we exited the pool, wrapped ourselves in robes, and settled into two chaise lounges opposite one another.

The conversation turned to romance.

Michael admitted to having been celibate since breaking up with a male lover earlier in the year. I shared with him that I’d been on only a few dates since my divorce. He chuckled softly and said it was a good thing his right hand was so good at sex, otherwise he wouldn’t be getting any at all these days. I said I totally understood, although in my case it was two fingers or the occasional a purple vibrator that serviced my needs. It was then that I noticed the movement beneath Michael’s robe. He was hard and throbbing.

He apologized, more than a little flustered.

Don’t worry, I told him, I’m pretty worked up, too.

Then, encouraged by the wine and the ambience, I asked him to show it to me.

He opened his robe and I gasped. It wasn’t the largest cock I’d ever seen, but it was the most beautiful, long and slender and slightly curved.

Come on, he teased, now show me yours.

I gave him an “eek face” and parted my legs. My pussy glistened in the starlight. Without a word, Michael gripped himself and began to stroke. I dipped a finger into my wetness, then rubbed my clit. Eyes locked on his, I circled and dipped. Michael slickened himself with saliva. I moaned and squirmed. He tugged and grunted. In no time, I was melting, grinding out my orgasm. He was right behind me, spurting creamy and white onto his belly and chest.

Our passion spent, we repositioned our robes, and collapsed into separate chairs.

I can’t believe we did that, I said.

He stood, crossed over, gave me kiss, and said good night. We slept in separate rooms.

The next morning, we were too embarrassed to even take coffee together. He left early to scuba dive and I went shopping.

I didn’t see Michael again until late afternoon. By then, he was frolicking on the beach with a tall, slender black man we’d talked to briefly earlier in the week. After a while, they joined me at my cabana. Michael re-introduced Alex and I and asked if they could buy me a cocktail.

I was just glad that Michael and I were talking again.

Over two of those tropical rum drinks, I learned that Alex was a teacher from Atlanta on spring break. He was younger than Michael. His hands were as small and delicate as a woman’s. When Alex disappeared into the toilet, I finally made eye contact with Michael.

About last night…

The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, he said.

Then he leaned over and kissed me, and I thought I might melt.

Me too, I managed.

Do you trust me, he asked.

Absolutely.

Then follow my lead, he said as Alex rejoined us at the table. We finished out drinks and after a quick shower and change of clothes reconvened for dinner.

I spent that evening bathed in candlelight and seated between my two men. At one point, Alex brushed my forearm and raised gooseflesh on my back. Later on, Michael placed his hand on Alex’s knee. Wrapped in a night sultry as a womb, we walked arm and arm back to the villa. Caught in the middle, I was a conduit for the electricity pulsing between Michael and Alex. I'd never been shared by two men, much less shared by two men who wanted each other as much or more than they wanted me.

The anticipation was overwhelming.

Behind closed doors, I lost my dress and settled onto a loveseat. Across the darkened room, Alex and Michael kissed. Tongues swirled, fingertips danced across smooth chests and over taut thighs.

I wondered if I was a fly on the wall or a delicacy about to be devoured

Michael nipped Alex's ear. The younger man pulled away, laughing. Michael shucked his trousers. Alex followed suit. They were both hard. My nipples stiffened.

Alex perched on the bed’s edge. Michael teased his way down the younger man’s belly. I moaned when Alex’s long, dark cock disappeared between his lips.

Alex glanced at me. You want some?

I didn’t have to be asked twice. Kneeling next to Michael, I flicked the length of Alex’s shaft. Michael dove lower and licked hairless balls. While I sucked Alex, Michael’s hand pushed my thong aside. I welcomed his fingers like an inn welcomes a guest. When I thought it couldn’t get better, Michael positioned himself underneath and stabbed my clit with the end of his tongue. Alex cupped my breasts and tugged at my nipples with hands soft as butter.

Suddenly, the young man tensed and groaned. Michael must have sensed the moment. He re-positioned again, removed Alex's cock from my mouth, and began to stroke. Our tongues swirled, around and over that pulsating member. Alex bucked and fired burst after burst onto our chins and cheeks.

He collapsed onto the bed. Michael and I kissed, sharing our messy reward. Then he moved behind me. I kicked off my thong, spread my legs, and grasped the bedpost. Michael’s beautiful cock filled me and we found our rhythm. He finished quickly, but so did I. Surely, everyone on Jamaica heard the cry of my come.

We joined Alex on damp and sticky sheets. I dozed, but awoke to see Alex, hard again, rubbing Michael’s fine ass. Sensing his purpose, I retrieved lube from my nightstand. Mesmerized, I lay next to the grunting, sweaty men as Alex parted Michael’s buttocks and pushed his cock into the pucker. Behind closed eyes, one hand grasping Michael, the other working furiously between my legs, I came a second time. My two men weren’t far behind.

The three of us were inseparable the rest of the week.

That’s where my obsession with men who like other men began.

When we returned to Connecticut, Michael and I resumed our work-a-day lives. We kept our pact and left what happened in Jamaica in Jamaica. We haven’t been together since.

But I can’t get it out of my mind. At night, I haunt the bars. Mornings, before work, I post on Craig’s List. There have been a couple of encounters, but I want more.

That’s my confession. I'm the woman who sat across from you on the bus this morning and I want men who fuck me