This is a sequel to "Show Time." It is a new, more elaborate, and somewhat more
daring adventure, with a beach setting and a larger cast.
SHOW TIME II: SPRING BREAK
by
C.Lakewood
It had been some months since my wife and I had put on that show
in the Santa Monica hotel room window (beautifully caught on video by
my protege, Jeff, unbeknownst to Betty). Both Betty and I have long
been privately kinky, but she's become an even greater exhibitionist
since her introduction to public humiliation that memorable night.
All her former reluctance has disappeared, and she has been bugging
me to set up another "adventure." Since she is a high school teacher,
however, and ultra-conscious of her reputation, it would have to take
place out of town...and, preferably, out of state.
Betty is in her late 30s, but looks a few years younger. She has
short, prematurely greying, light brown hair. She's 5'4" and 127
pounds (now), with a high forehead, thin expressive lips, a roman
nose, and a nicely toned figure. Her plump tits with their large,
dark areolae, still sag very little, considering her age. With my
encouragement, she's turned into a hot, compulsive masochist and
frequent masturbator (masturbatrix?), as well as a wannabe show-off.
I'd been thinking hard about the next set up and wanted to do
something a bit different. I either discarded or postponed several
possibilities and finally decided on taking her to Florida for Spring
Break....
(Of course, Jeff and his camcorder would be there, too, but she
needn't know that. In fact, she'd freak if she found out. Jeff is
now 20, a sophomore in college, but, two years ago, he was in my
wife's class -- was teacher's pet, as a matter of fact. A fairly
good-looking, well-built, but somewhat geeky kid, he was always
staying after class for extra help -- even though he was an "A"
student. He still comes over to the house during the summers to help
with the yard work -- and to ogle Betty while she works in the garden,
wearing only a sweat-soaked t-shirt and thin cotton shorts. She
always made sure that it was plausibly innocent -- but he always left
with a raging hard-on. And I always spanked her soundly afterward --
but it didn't seem to discourage her any. I collared Jeff after one
of these occasions, took him out for coffee, and had a long, frank
conversation with him, by the end of which we had worked out the
essentials of the Santa Monica adventure that I described in "Show
Time.")
I broke the news to Betty on New Year's Day, so she would have
more than ample opportunity for several visits to a tanning salon. I
also warned her that I would be buying her a new bikini, the exact
cut of which was as yet unknown, so she'd better get ready for
anything by getting her pubic hair removed entirely. She blushed,
but agreed. She even joined a gym and began faithfully working out
three evenings a week.
In mid-February, I had to make a brief trip to Southern California
and took the opportunity to visit several beach-wear shops, looking
for just the right bikini. I found it in a little place run by a
young Latino. The suit was from Australia, made by an outfit called
"Wicked Weasel." It was white, just 3 thin lycra triangles and some
strings. One triangle seemed little bigger than an eyepatch (maybe 4"
long and no more than 3" at its widest); it and 3 strings constituted
the bikini bottom. The other 2 triangles, held together by more
strings, formed the bra. It appeared to be very well-made and was
much, much smaller than the most daring suit Betty had heretofore
worn. It was unlined and pretty sheer. The clerk told me it was
called a "micro." (He had a couple of even smaller models on order,
but I judged this one perfect for my plans.)
He also pointed out that it was sheer when dry, but virtually
transparent when wet. Then he grinned and asked who it was for. I
told him my wife...a high school teacher, who needed to be..."taught
a lesson." His grin got even bigger at that. I showed him a photo
of Betty I carry in my wallet: a beach shot of her in a nice, but
fairly conservative bikini. But I promised to send him a photo of her
wearing the "micro." The suit cost was $61.42, including tax -- and
well worth it.
I refused to show the suit to Betty until the actual moment of
truth. She stewed and fretted, but that was part of the game. Her
tan, meanwhile, progressed well. Three months in the gym -- plus
extra aerobics at home, endless laps in the school pool, and a modest
diet -- had really gotten her into great shape. And her hairless
crotch looked (and felt) wonderful.
*********************************
We left for Florida at the beginning of the 4th week in March.
On our first day, we took it easy, just scouting some locations and
resting up.
The following day, we went down to a beach changing hut, and I
had her strip naked. Then I made her stand on tip-toes while I
thumb-cuffed her to an overhead pipe.
She was already quite aroused...her nipples stiff and her cunt
positively drooling. But I knew I could improve things.
I unwrapped one of my special suppositories and showed it to her.
It was pale pink, 2" long and less than 1" in diameter, and composed
mainly of lubricant with just a hint of irritant. She recognized it
and shivered, but also must have been relieved that I hadn't chosen
any of the 3 stronger formulations. I inserted it deep into her
cunt; it would take a few minutes to melt.
Then I fingered her dripping cunt and smeared the juice around
her asshole. She became frantic now.
"Pleeeez...oh, please d-don't...don't goo-oose me...please...."
(She always tried begging...and it never worked.)
"Oh, god...p-p-pleeeezz. You know it-it's s-so s-sensitive...."
"What is so sensitive, Betty?"
"M-my...unh...my a-asshole...oh, my god...m-my poor ass-hole...."
(By now she was blushing and squirming and putting on her
tormented, waif-like expression, in an attempt to win sympathy from
her "cruel" husband...who is, after all, just giving her what she
wants, if only she would admit it.)
I played with her asshole a bit, and then inserted a suppository
there, too.
She's very ticklish, and being tickled in bondage always arouses
her to a fever pitch. So I spent a few leisurely minutes fingering
her ribs and tits and armpits. She squirmed and moaned (softly, lest
passersby hear her).
Then I removed the light bulb from its overhead socket and
screwed in an adapter. Bringing out the big pink-and-white Oster
massage wand, I plugged it in, turned it on, and began teasing her
cunt with it.
"Oooh, ahhah! Oooo, ga-god...."
After a bit, I checked my watch. It was time to stuff a remote
controlled egg into her. Once I'd snugged it right up against her
G-spot, I resumed playing with the vibro-massager.
"Oh, god...th-tha' damn egg...aaahh...oohh.... Aammm...ahhh...
g-gonna hafta w-w-w-wearrrr ittt...awahl d-daay?"
"Of course you are. It'll keep you cumming, sweetheart. Don't
you think your public deserves to watch you cum...and cum...and cum?"
When I switched the vibrator off (momentarily), she tried to calm
herself.
"You're really going to make me cum in front of all those high
school and college kids...aaaaaa...oooohhh...."
"Oh, yes, I am indeed. I want you to put on a good show for your
audience. You want that, too, right? And you do agree that they
deserve to watch you cum, right?"
Inflamed by that idea, she bucked and humped. And just to help
things along, I flicked the big vibrator on and off.
"Ohhh, yesss...yes, I d-do...do w-w-want to cumm f-for th-them...
please...."
Then I touched the vibrator to her clit. And the first part of a
serial orgasm hit her. I continued playing with her until she was
limp, but so sensitive that she'd be cumming from the slightest
stimulus now.
I removed her thumb-cuffs, stuffed her discarded clothes into my
duffel (along with the cuffs, socket adapter, and vibrator), tossed
her the paper bag, and took my leave.
"I'll wait for you outside...but only for 3 minutes. If we get
separated, I'll call you on the cell phone that's in the bag, along
with your new bikini and some other stuff...."
**********************************
In fact, it took her about 7 minutes to find nerve enough to
leave the hut, but it didn't matter: I hadn't waited even a few
seconds. By the time she self-consciously exited the hut, I was
comfortably set up less than 100 yards away, wearing a different hat
and shirt, and watching through my binoculars. She was stunning...
and the suit was already transparent from sweat and cunt-juice. She
looked around nervously for a moment before I called her cell phone.
The chirping of the phone startled her, but she recovered and
answered timidly.
"Where are you?" she wailed.
"Gone. You were late, so you'll just have to do without me for a
bit."
"Ohmigod.... I'm s-so scared and nervous and embarrassed.
People will see me...."
"I want them to see you. I bet there's a whole bunch of horny
young guys watching your tits jiggle right now." She was unable to
prevent her tits from bouncing up and down as she pranced barefoot
across the hot sand.
"And I want them to be able to imagine your gaping cunt, too,
drooling juice."
"Oh, please...I might as well be naked. Everybody'll be able to
see right through this damn suit. And that goddamn egg inside me --
it's off, but still...I can FEEL it...'specially when I move.... Are
you really going to make me cum right out in public, where everyone
can see me?"
"Oh, yes, baby. They can not only see the clear outlines of your
nipples and cunt, they can practically see your clit throb and your
drooling cunt juices wet the crotch of your bikini." (I was almost
as aroused as her, and she was practically feverish already.)
She moaned, her breathing became ragged, her hips twitched, and
the egg caressed her G-spot. She was sweating heavily, and not just
from the heat and humidity, either. I knew she was monumentally
excited at the prospect of being exhibited nearly naked to strangers
(most of them horny young adults) on a public beach.
I had deliberately picked a small, out-of-the-way, rather
sparsely populated beach that ran more to college kids and
20-somethings than to families. Betty's thong bikini was extreme,
but hardly shocking to this bunch. She did stand out, though, and
she would be closely observed -- ogled, in fact.
"Do you see four teenagers sprawled on big yellow-and-white
striped towels? They're maybe 25 yards from you."
"Y-yes...."
"I want to speak to the cute Asian girl in the green bikini; take
the phone over to her and ask her to talk with me. Hand over your
sack when she asks for it. And be sure to be very, very respectful
to her and her friends. Until we meet up again, consider them your
superiors. Understand?"
"Yes...sir."
*********************************
I did not really have to speak to the girl, Sasha, who was one of
Jeff's college friends -- Jeff had set up this little tableau, and
each of the kids had been well-briefed, but we needed to make Betty
think it was spontaneous and that she was truly out on a limb without
a safety net. Jeff and his camcorder were, at that moment, ensconced
on the roof of a nearby hut. Sasha also had a tiny microcassette
recorder among her things. It didn't always function perfectly, but
between it and lip-reading, I'm pretty certain all the dialogue below
is accurate.
Our bogus conversation lasted about 5 minutes, after which Sasha
regarded Betty cooly. "So your name's 'Betty,' eh? Somewhat old
fashioned. Are you an 'old fashioned girl,' Betty?"
"I g-guess so..., ma'am."
"My name's 'Sasha,' but you can call me 'ma'am' if you want to.
And the guy on the phone tells me you're 'a high school teacher who
needs to be taught a good lesson.' What d'you teach?"
"English, ma'am...."
(This was interesting. Perhaps, to Betty, calling Sasha 'ma'am'
seemed more servile and submissive than calling her 'miss.')
"Well, today I think you'll have to teach us some sex ed. Okay?"
Sasha sneered.
"Whatever you say, ma'am."
"Is your cunt wet?"
Betty nodded.
"Okay. Right now, on a scale of 1-10, how close to cumming are
you?"
"A-about...a s-seven, ma'am."
"Good enough, to begin with. Whenever I say 'Number' to you,
you will give me a status report. And you're not allowed to cum
without my permission."
Sasha stretched, languidly, and then tossed Betty a large plastic
bottle. "I need more sunblock." I could see Betty's skin darken
even more; I knew she was blushing furiously. And she was breathing
so rapidly and shallowly that I was half afraid she'd hyperventilate.
She squirted out a liberal dollop of lotion into her hands and began
applying it to Sasha's tawny skin. Face, neck, shoulders.... "Rub
it well in, girl, and give me a good massage at the same time."
Sasha's tone was supremely condescending.
"Yes, ma'am," Betty murmured. Arms, upper chest, back, taut
belly.... Betty was really trembling now, and her nipples were
clearly even stiffer, apparently about as big as the tips of my index
fingers.
Sasha lay flat and spread her legs. Betty leaned forward, and
her nostrils flared. She could smell Sasha's arousal. She licked
her lips.
"Number," Sasha said.
"Eight."
(Apparently Betty found it exciting to play dutiful body servant
to a girl almost 20 years younger. She had never given any
indication that she was at all bi, so this was interesting.)
"Better be careful," Sasha warned.
Betty went back to work, massaging the girl's crotch (under the
edges of the bikini), soft inner thighs, sleek outer thighs, shapely
calves....
"Kiss each of my toes, lovingly, before you grease 'em up."
"Oh, ma'am...."
Betty did manage to control herself -- I don't know how -- and
squatted back on her heels when she'd finished.
Sasha smiled thinly. "Now do my friends: Jason, Ricky, Frannie."
(Jason was a large, blonde jock, with an impressive bulge in the
front of his orange trunks. Ricky was a skinny black kid wearing a
scarlet Speedo. And Frannie was a slightly chubby, moderately
attractive girl, in a purple mailot. Betty dealt with each of them
efficiently and then rested.)
"Number," Sasha said.
"Seven."
Sasha chuckled softly. "I'm thirsty; I imagine we all are.
There's a refreshment stand up that way." She gestured languidly.
"Go find out what they've got and the prices."
"Yes, ma'am."
Betty trudged almost 50 yards up the beach, attracting more
admirers all along the way, checked the signs at the refreshment
stand, and headed back to Sasha. That one, meanwhile, was fiddling
with the remote control. When Betty was about 15 feet away, she
suddenly stiffened and let out a half-stifled yelp.
"Number," Sasha said, cooly.
"Aaaah! T-ten! Tennn!"
"Well, come on, then." Sasha was beckoning.
Betty managed to stagger forward a few steps...and then relaxed
when Sasha took her thumb off the remote.
"Did I say you could cum?" Sasha demanded.
"No, ma'am."
"But you went ahead and did it anyway?"
"Yes, but...."
"No excuses. We'll settle this later. Right now, I'm still
thirsty. What have you to report?"
"Um.... The drinks are all pretty generic -- lemonade, root
beer, raspberry tea, and something called "Kookie-Kola" -- one size,
one price: $1.99."
"Okay," Sasha said. "Tea for me and a lemonade for you." She
handed over $4.00. "They can keep the change."
So Betty made the trek again, and, after drinking the lemonade,
she was sent off for a root beer for Jason and another lemonade for
her, then a tea for Frannie and another lemonade, then a tea for
Ricky...and yet another lemonade. On her next-to-last trip, Sasha
triggered the egg again, briefly, but Betty was ready for it and kept
on coming despite the fluttering of her G-spot. (That is, "coming"
but not "cumming," as it were; she managed to stifle an orgasm this
time.)
********************************
After Betty finished her third lemonade, Sasha told her to set
the last one aside temporarily, because it was time she settled up
for that unauthorized orgasm. Betty had to stand, facing the beach,
with her feet well apart and her hands on her head, fingers
interlaced, while Sasha played with various combinations on the
remote control. Betty now had permission to cum as much as she
wanted, but was under orders to announce it whenever she hit a new
"Number."
She began as a "five" and quickly accelerated up the scale to
"ten." Sasha proceeded to play her like a piccolo, leaping from
one high note to the next. I was so entranced that I forgot to time
the exhibition, and I even lost track of the number of orgasms she
underwent (7? 8? more? -- a hell of a lot of them, anyway). Betty
alternated between rigid and drooping, between knock-kneed and
bow-legged, between mute agony and babbling euphoria. And still not
a hint of resistance -- no hesitation, no pleading. Legs trembling,
hips grinding, mouth drooling, Betty seemed completely rapt by what
might be called "submission narcosis."
Inevitably, people began to coalesce into a ring, with Betty at
the center. They were mostly male, of course, though there were a
fair number of females (half were wide-eyed and half blase). The
gawkers, whether male or female, were loud and high-spirited, and
many were drunk or stoned. I worried some about things getting out
of hand, but I had picked the right beach and the right time -- there
just weren't enough people there to form the critical mass of a riot.
I relaxed and went back to watching my wife cumming, again and again,
to entertain the throng of young people.
For the last part of the of the show, Sasha had Betty standing on
her toes and reporting her "Number" continuously. For a while, it
amused Sasha to try to keep Betty stuck on "nine." She had Jason and
Ricky fetching buckets of chilly sea water, and she alternated short
pulses of the vibrator (which revved Betty up) with thorough
drenchings (which brought her down).
(I certainly hoped that Jeff, boy cinematographer, was getting
everything. This was a lot more complex than the set up in Santa
Monica had been. And he had mentioned the possibilty of getting a
film student buddy to operate a second camera. But I wouldn't know
until I got home and watched a copy of the edited tape.)
At last, Sasha put away the remote. "Take 5," she said. Betty
sank to the ground with a groan.
"You've still got one more lemonade," Sasha reminded her, as the
spectators began to wander off.
**********************************
I had thoughtfully included, along with the other things in the
sack, a soft, pink rubber ball (about the size and weight of a tennis
ball). And I'd suggested to Sasha over the phone that she play a
game of "fetch" with Betty. Sasha seemed to really like the notion,
and there was a lilt in her voice as she explained the game to Betty.
Sasha held up the ball. "We will now play a really wonderful
game called 'fetch.' I'll toss this ball, and you'll run it down,
pick it up, and get back here just as fast as you can...with the ball
in your mouth. It'll be a good workout for you and a good show for
all the spectators. But you'd better hustle. If I have reason to
think you're operating at less than maximum capacity, you'll regret
it. Okay?"
Betty looked mortified. "Yes, ma'am."
"Number."
"S-s-six."
Sasha paused and looked about. She was quite fit and could heave
a ball like that a good distance. High up on the beach, the sand was
pretty loose, and the ball wouldn't roll well there. But on the flat
areas near the water's edge, it would bounce, skip, and roll along
quite merrily. To begin with, Sasha tossed it casually almost 50
feet. Betty dashed after it like a natural retriever. Sasha was
quite amused at her eagerness to please.
Boobs bouncing, buttocks flexing, legs churning, arms pumping --
Betty did put on quite a show for the many onlookers. She was
attracting a lot of attention, much of it quite noisy.
Sasha's next throw was harder and in the opposite direction this
time, to leeward. It went much farther on the fly and then bounded
down the beach before Betty finally caught up with it. Again, her
barely confined tits bounced wildly, this way and that, as she
sprinted back, holding the ball in her mouth.
She looked more than a bit different than she had in Santa
Monica. Her skin was now a rich, golden tan, her hair lank and faded
to honey blonde, and her body sweaty, trim, and fit. (Fortunately,
under the circumstances, her cardio-vascular and respiratory systems
were in excellent condition.) She was different psychologically,
too. She now seemed to be embracing those submissive desires that
she had in the past sometimes accepted, sometimes denied.
**********************************
Sasha kept Betty busy for the next 20 minutes or so, until she
was at last satisfied that the woman was near the end of her tether.
She was just putting the ball away when a large shadow fell across
her lap. It was a beach cop, and he wasn't happy. I immediately
decided I should put in an appearance before things went too far.
By the time I got there, he had shooed away Sasha and her friends
and was concentrating on Betty -- specifically her appearance,
behavior, and lack of ID. But then I showed up, providentially, with
her wallet and a reasonably plausible story. We were also sober and
deferential, which he must have found a pleasant change during these
spring break invasions. So, he eventually just gave Betty a stern
lecture and a warning to behave herself, advised us to get off the
beach before dark, and sent us on our way.
By the time the cop dismissed us, it was late enough that I
decided just to pack it in, get the car, and head back to the hotel.
Betty, full of lemonade, asked to be allowed to go pee first, but I
refused.
I waited until we'd walked well into the huge parking area and
then made her stop and stand there barefoot on the hot blacktop while
I brought the car around. By the time I got back, she was frisking
about desperately, both from the heat on the soles of her feet and,
even more important, from the pressure in her bladder. As I watched
her do the "potty dance," I debated the matter, finally deciding
she'd never hold on long enough to make it back to the hotel. I
gestured to her to go on back to the restrooms. She scampered off,
but only made it to the edge of the asphalt. She suddenly pulled
down her thong (and palmed the egg), squatted awkwardly, and emptied
her bladder, much to the amusement of passersby.
She finally staggered back to the car, looking rather sheepish,
but much relieved, and I let her in. She sank gratefully into the
seat, unmindful of how her oily, sweaty body and drooling cunt were
going to leave a stain on the seat covers, an indelible reminder of
this adventure.
She allowed herself to relax at last, and her eyelids began to
droop. "I was so glad you came when you did," she said, in a tired
voice. "In another minute or so, I think he would have arrested me,
and then, god knows what would have happened...fingerprints,
pictures, maybe...maybe even a s-strip search...a...c-c-cavity
search...."
"Would that have been so terrible?"
"I-I don't know," she murmured. A moment later, she was asleep,
still smiling. I was already thinking about the next adventure.
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