By Paul Barrell
The searing heat of an Algarve afternoon. Two scantily clad sun worshipers walk languidly, hand in hand amongst the dunes. The sand is like hot coals under our feet. Earlier a toothless, old hag had interrupted our early morning solitude. Grabbing my arm as we passed she recounted a whimsical tale about a remote bar hidden in the dunes. Then in an instant she was gone.
The track we follow undulates and the sand is deep. The Midday heat is oppressive and we move slowly. Faint music is just audible somewhere in the distance. We are just about to turn around when out of nowhere, we stumble upon a secluded private oasis, a hotchpotch of white tables and chairs surrounded by ornate statues and walls of funky shell and stone ornaments. A solitary barman stands behind the bar. We appear to be the only customers and as my wife reclines in a chair I browse the mouth-watering cocktail list. My thirst feels unquenchable. We order two fresh fruit sangrias from the bronzed barman who is clad only in tight black trunks. Wisps of black pubic hair protrude below his navel. My wife cant take her eyes off his muscular torso and the generous bulge within his brief trunks .
The music is very chilled, ‘Groove Armada’ or something similar. The drinks when they come are massive bowls of fruit punch with unfeasibly long straws. We return to a table nestled below a dune and sip our drinks in unison, eye to eye. The fruit cocktail is unsurprisingly strong and soon we are kicking back in our chairs, lost in the moment.
The afternoon sun grows more intense and as my wife drinks I watch rivulets of sweat run down her neck, before merging and running between her ample breasts. She regards me flirtatiously as she wipes a drop of sweat from her moist cleavage.
As we sip our Sangrias a few beach goers meander through, stopping to use the shower facilities at the rear. The cold pressure hoses are an excellent way of cooling off and I shamelessly watch two tanned young girls, sensually spray water over their firm young bodies. My wife has her eyes on the barman and is unaware of my interest. The young girls frolic before moving on. I watch them go lost in my own carnal thoughts.
Maybe it’s the chilled music and sangria, maybe it’s the oppressive heat and humidity, either way my imagination is fired and I begin to concoct a lustful fantasy.
Adjacent to where we are sitting there’s a flimsy bamboo lean to housing an outdoor toilet and shower cubicle for public use. I gesture my wife over to the rear of the hut and we start to hose each other down with the cool water, first spraying each others legs and feet, then our backs and torsos. The cold water feels exquisite and our skin tingles under the high pressure jets. I single out my wife’s breasts for extra attention concentrating the water jet on her dimpled nipples until they stiffen like hard bullets. I turn the water off and beckon her to the shower cubicle. She follows knowingly, exaggerating the sway of her hips, water still dripping from her breasts. As I reach the door to the shower I check no one has seen us enter together .
The shower is at the rear of the bar so we’ll have to be discreet. Its bamboo surround allows sunlight to slant in but not enough, hopefully for a passerby to see us. As if in a trance we enter and I securely lock the door. The space is cramped and we stand face to face. I pull the shower lever and ice cold water cascades over us. Intoxicated by the sangria we set upon each other in a frenzy of hands and mouths. I stoop to kiss and lick her nipples while she caresses my cock through my trunks. I pull her thin bikini bottoms aside and slip my fingers between her legs as my swimwear is dispatched earthwards, releasing my full length to her admiring gaze.
‘I want you to come’ she whispers huskily under the cascading waterl.
‘ Together, but quietly. You don’t want the barman to hear.’ I reply, my lips close to her ear.
‘Maybe I do.’
So in perfect tandem we urge our eager bodies on towards our own individual climaxes.
As the tremors of our joint orgasms course through our bodies my wife bites her bottom lip to stop herself crying out. Unsteady she clings to me in a frenzy of oil, water and sweat.
Then it’s over and I’m snapped back to reality!
Sitting opposite me my wife finishes her drink and checks her watch. ‘Time to go Darling, the children need collecting.’