I met Renée a little later in life through a friend; she was in her mid-thirties and I was a couple of years older, and both of us had recently separated from long-term relationships.
Committed to everything she did, Renée was driven and aggressive. She’d risen through the ranks at a multinational and now managed a division of over 300 employees. Her marathon times were sub-three hours; she read a book a week, and she owned her seven-bedroom detached property on a leafy street in a fashionable part of London outright with two vehicles on the drive. She reached and exceeded every goal she set for herself.
But it was the reason behind her split; her schedule of achievement didn’t allow enough time for her fiancé, and he found a younger lady who did. The breakup devastated her, and she entered an eighteen-month spiral of dating apps, first dates, one-night stands, and loneliness, as well as reconnecting with many friends she’d lost along the way of her climb up the corporate ladder.
About the same time as Renée kicked her fiancé out of her home, my wife came out as gay, choosing to run off to Brighton with her new lesbian lover and our two kids. Unexpected and broken, I stayed on good terms with my ex-wife’s “blended family” but missed my children and my former spouse.
Also, entering the dating scene once more was daunting. It’d changed a lot since that evening when my ex and I ventured to the cinema on the High Street to see The Dark Knight. I lacked confidence, and there were emotional wounds that hadn’t healed. After my sixth “first date” ended with my companion leaving the restaurant before the main course, I deleted the apps from my phone.
But a chance meeting before Christmas, a couple of years after the pandemic changed everything. The partner of a university friend of mine hosted her fortieth birthday party at an upmarket venue. The birthday girl greeted me warmly as I walked into the hotel reception room, and then presented me to several guests who had arrived.
Renée, with her shoulder-length blonde hair, flat stomach, toned legs and sizeable bust, was one, and she said little as the hostess introduced me; she wore a scandalously short pale blue dress that showcased her figure, accentuated her bosom, and matched her eyes – and nails – but who barely paused her conversation with another guest.
But we met as we queued at the bar. “There’s never enough staff on,” she sighed, holding her empty champagne flute.
“Maybe you should buy a bottle, and then you don’t need to keep coming back,” I suggested.
She chuckled, swaying a little in her heels. “I couldn’t drink an entire bottle by myself. And Tia doesn’t do alcohol.” She paused for a moment. “I’d share one, though.”
I didn’t recognise her flirting at first; her lips curled into a smile as I processed the unspoken offer. “Oh, um …” I wasn’t certain if she wanted to share a bottle with me, or just another person.
She gestured to the wine glass in my hand. “You drink champagne, right?”
I nodded; my eyes slid to her cleavage and a gold necklace hanging between her bosom, and then to the barman asking to take our order. “Bottle of the Bollinger Rose,” she said, ordering for both of us. I offered to pay half, but she scoffed dismissively and carried the tray back to her table.
Tia departed when we sat down, and we spent two hours together talking and sharing a second bottle of wine. She returned to my flat, and we screwed on the rug in the lounge, and then in my messy bedroom. If it had been a one-night stand, Renée would have been the first tonic to my confidence problem.
But a date was followed by another, and then another. She was firm that her career and her personal goals were incredibly important to her, and I was clear that regular trips to Brighton to see my kids were equally vital to me. So, we had a low-pressure relationship, where our time together was precious but worked around her intensive employment, her outrageous friends and her ambition.
It suited us both, and she was more of a best friend, confidante and lover than girlfriend. She had a voracious sexual appetite, and some “dates” were little more than a drink at her local pub, sex at her house, and then parting at the end of the evening. She admitted she had dabbled with swinging and public group sex with previous partners, and she loved to tease, flirt and exhibit herself. I didn’t know how I should feel about that revelation, as I had only ever had monogamous relationships, even if my ex-wife wasn’t so committed to honouring those vows.
But after a year of dating, she suggested I move in with her. The lease on my flat was nearing expiry, and that meant we would see more of each other. So I did.
Her first marathon after I was her cohabiting partner was in Bristol, and we stayed in a hotel. We had a flirtatious, alcohol-free meal, and I dared her to go commando. Throughout the dinner she fidgeted in her skirt, aware of her partial nudity beneath her thin cotton.
Our relationship was already very physical, but she pressed against me in the lift and we nearly tore our clothes from our bodies as the bedroom door closed. The sex was incredible, energetic, and passionate.
I attended a couple of work trips with her, as well as every marathon she entered, sometimes booking entries into her races and finishing hours behind her. Our “dares” got bigger with each hotel stay. Skimpier clothes when we went out for a meal. No bra. Remote control vibrating panties. Butt plug. When I suggested something, she felt challenged, and her inner competitiveness came to the fore.
Her running club friend had entered a marathon in Beziers, France, but after damaging her knee in training, transferred the entry to Renée. Budget airlines only served the local airport, and it was the first time my partner had encountered the joys of Ryanair. I challenged my beau to fit all of her clothes and stuff into her cabin bag, and I booked a long weekend at Cap D’Agde, to go with our minimalist approach to travel. We spent Saturday on the nudist beach.
The amount of unabashed nudity enchanted Renée; she loved being able to walk from the hotel, along the sandy shoreline into the sea, back onto the sand, read her book, return for lunch and more, while wearing just her sunglasses, sunhat, beach shoes and a smile.
On Sunday, she ran her race, and we returned to the apartment, showered, and then walked along the coast. I’d heard rumours about a hidden side of Cap D’Agde, but the nudist beach was family-friendly and we expected nothing too explicit or untoward.
The moment we reached the limits of the naturist park, the vibe changed. Suddenly, the nudity was not desexualised and wholesome, but the area was libertine and full of hedonistic swinging. The dunes were a haven for public fucking, threesomes and gang bangs, with German, French, Spanish, Italian and English couples mingling. Communicating through lust, not language. Small groups crowded around parasols, watching the action, as some guys openly masturbated. All sizes, all ages, all skin tones: hundreds of men and women watched, participated in, or just ignored the rampage that surrounded them as they did their own thing.
People walked past blow jobs and hand jobs; public sex was everywhere. Almost routine. It was another world; akin to a beach-based wild orgy, and the sights shocked and surprised her. She said it reminded her of her few experiments with sex parties and swinging. We hurried back to the “normal” stretch of the waterfront, but within a few minutes of sitting on the hot sand, she begged to return to our apartment.
We had barely closed the door to our sanctuary when she sank to her knees and took my cock in her mouth. She needed sex, wantonly riding my prick cowgirl, before presenting her creamy pussy to me to eat her to another orgasm.
“I wanna go back there tomorrow,” she admitted after I fingered her to a further climax, stroking the inside of her cunt, as my thumb rubbed her clit. “They were so amazing.”
We chatted over dinner at the restaurant; the tenacity and confidence of the strangers on the lewd beach was an experience she hadn’t expected, and she wanted to be watched. To have men and women openly lust after her was something she needed to feel. So we did. On our last day at Cap D’Agde, we strode naked from our apartment, along the shoreline and towards the adult area of La Plage Naturiste, colloquially known as Baie des cochons, or Bay of Pigs.
She squeezed my hand as we entered; it was quiet in the morning but soon got busier as more beach-goers and couples picked their way to the hedonistic corner. I’d packed a lunch, several bottles of water, and we’d both brought our eBook readers.
Within an hour, Renée had entered the Mediterranean and frolicked in the waves, returning to tell me that a pair of lovers were fucking in the sea. Her lips touched mine, and her fingers closed around my prick. “They’re watching us,” she murmured; I glanced over my shoulder; a middle-aged couple reclined on towels, openly staring at my girlfriend and myself. The man stroked himself lazily as his partner toyed with her mons.
To our left, two single men walking across the beach stopped and ogled, and a pair of women behind them gawked at the show. “Everyone’s watching,” I whispered, my heart pounding as she straddled my lap, her cunt sliding against my erect cock. Her lips curled into a wide smile. I knew underneath the sunglasses, her eyes would sparkle with arousal as my fingers rolled up her body and over her nipples.
“I know,” she muttered. The middle-aged woman now knelt between her partner’s legs, sucking him off while her gaze remained fixed on us. Renée shuddered, grinding down against me. “Fuck me right here,” she demanded, voice low. “Let them see.”
Renée’s hips rocked as she sank her cunt onto my prick, sliding easily into her wetness; she arched back, gripping my thighs, and gave a soft moan as she shamelessly exposed her athletic body to the growing crowd. I pressed my fingers between her legs, flicking her clit.
She panted. “Oh, God…” she gasped, grinding down harder, her thighs flexing with every roll of her hips. Our audience swelled; we had a couple of dozen voyeurs surrounding us, several toying with their genitals as they watched the spectacle spellbound.
I’d never been a swinger or an exhibitionist. But the thrill of so many people enjoying the sight of my girlfriend screwing me was exhilarating. Aroused by the show and the exhibition.
She enjoyed it too as her orgasm built quickly; Renée cried and squealed, her body shuddered, her slick cunt quivered, and she arched her back further, thrusting her tits forward. “Oh, fuck!” she groaned, gyrating her hips as she rode out her climax, chasing another.
Our audience murmured appreciatively in a variety of mother tongues; the woman sucking her husband paused, her lips shiny with saliva, just to watch Renée lose control. Or for me to make her lose control. It was heady and powerful.
I felt like a porn star. She ground down harder and faster, inching me towards my release. I groaned when I reached the point of no return, and my cock pulsed inside her as she milked me, her muscles clenching rhythmically.
Renée leaned forward, her bosom pressing against my chest, lips brushing my ear. “Look at them,” she whispered, breath hot. I glanced over her shoulder; people were openly touching themselves now, stroking, rubbing, fingers slipping between thighs. A dark-haired woman with heavy breasts had her legs spread wide while her partner knelt between them, his tongue working her clit as she stared straight at us. We’d kick-started the orgy, but my lover rose from my prick, cum streaked down her flesh, gave me a grin and wandered through the crowd to the sea, to wash off the evidence of our sex.
We screwed three more times on the beach that day, each time with an audience. We watched several more couples, threesomes and a gang-bang, while Renée went to the dunes alone to ogle and watch a pair of young English students “cruise for cock.”
“I need to do that again,” my high-flying girlfriend said for the umpteenth time as we queued to get the budget airline home. “I loved seeing and knowing men were wanking to me.”
“So, just start an OnlyFans,” I joked. But that brief trip and experience unlocked something in Renée, and her driven, single-minded, obsessive mentality would never let her accept “let’s take a quick break later in the year” as a response.
We booked a few days in a one-bedroom apartment at Cap D’Agde for the late summer, but that was three months away. So, she set herself a challenge. Every week, she wanted to know that men had stroked themselves to her body, and needed each task to be more daring than the previous undertaking.
Her first couple of dares were tame. Renée bought a risque, but not indecent, bikini for her trip to the company conference. She sent me a handful of pictures from the changing room of the hotel pool in the evening, and I couldn’t believe that she would wear that in public. The triangles of fabric covered her nipples and her mons, but the G-string bottoms revealed all of her buttocks and left much of her bosom exposed.
She told me she was very popular at the “cocktail party” at the “poolside bar” and despite being a senior member of staff, male colleagues fell over themselves to buy her drinks. There was a crowd of a hundred people, mostly men, who watched her play volleyball in the water. She recounted how many erections or semis she saw in the cabana, especially as one of the personal assistants had a similar bikini, and a lecherous sales manager photographed them together.
The next dare was a little racier and riskier. We booked a cottage on Airbnb for a running race, and the neighbouring village had its fete with a free-to-attend open-air concert until 10pm. Families and villagers would turn up with picnic mats or chairs, chatting as they drank alcohol or danced. By 8pm, most of the kids had gone home, and we attended. Renée wore a very short skirt and no underwear, drained half-a-bottle of wine, and pretended to be drunk, asleep on the mat with a hat over her face and her legs parted.
The edge of the miniskirt slid higher up her skin as she twitched her thighs, exposing her freshly shaved pussy to the twilight air and the glances of passing revellers. A few stopped and stared at her exposed slit; others moved closer under the pretence of enjoying the music. But Renée’s bare cunt enchanted them; I saw one guy adjust himself before walking away quickly, and another openly fingered his cock through his trousers as he lingered nearby. My girlfriend’s breathing quickened when she sensed someone watching.
A young man, barely out of his teens, knelt close to the exhibitionist pretending to tie his shoelaces, his gaze locked between her legs. Renée could see him through a gap in her hat, shifted again, exposing everything clearer. If the light had been better, he might have seen the glistening dew between her folds or the desperation in her body, itching to plunge something between her excited slit.
She stayed like that for another thirty minutes, exhibiting herself to dozens of men who openly stared and “adjusted” themselves. Watching her expose herself surprisingly aroused me. And it was not a shock that we both were desperate to fuck the moment we returned to our cottage.
Renée and I attended the World Naked Bike Ride, a celebration of body positivity. She went full-frontal, bodypainted in bright colours, and her nipples stiffened in the breeze as she pedalled bare-assed through the city centre. She leaned forward, her breasts swayed enticingly, and she waved to every passing photographer, eager to appear within the online galleries.
Her fourth dare was the cleverest and least revealing. We both regularly complete a weekly five-kilometre jog in the local park on a Saturday morning. People, running clubs and organisations arrange these events throughout the country, including in three open prisons. To attend one of these at a jail – and each week the authorities invite a couple of dozen members of the public – interested runners have to apply. Attendance is by invitation only, yet Renée has a six-year track record, having finished over 175 of the free-to-attend runs local to her home. She applied, and they accepted us.
On Friday, we made the long drive to the town outside the Category D mens’ prison over two hundred miles away; she dressed in her skimpiest running Lycra for the summer run, and we arrived an hour early. Searched and instructed to leave all electronic devices in the car, we lined up on the start line with the wardens and several dozen prisoners, as well as a handful of members of the public.
Her reasoning was that her fellow runners saw little women, and that her very skimpy clothing – high-cut running briefs and a matching sports bra – was akin to pornography to the incarcerated men. She stretched before the race; the hem barely covered the curve of her butt, and she had multiple pairs of eyes watching her.
I watched Renée start near the back, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she picked her way through the pack. She chatted and flirted with the men who hadn’t touched a woman in months, maybe years. Her toned legs and tight ass drew glances.
By the second lap, a group of inmates surrounded her. Their plain T-shirt and shorts contrasted with her pale Lycra as she laughed at their jokes, effortlessly matching their pace. “Don’t often get birds doin’ this run,” one man said, with tattooed snakes twisting over his left forearm.
“Shame,” she replied. A few of the men flagged on the third lap. Renée, who regularly ran her home course in under twenty minutes, was jogging at a much slower pace, and she enticed them to push through their pain. “I just came back from a naturist beach in France,” she teased. “You guys should go when you can. It’s fun. So much freedom and nudity.”
A chuckle of laughter followed; one inmate—tall, broad-shouldered, and with a shaven head—asked her if she’d ever run nude. “Well,” she said. “I did the World Naked Bike Ride last week. And I was starkers on the nudist beach,” she explained and then told of the adults-only section. “Imagine that.”
She knew they would. The way their pace quickened despite their exhaustion and their darkened eyes – hungry and starved – showed the effect she had. And Renée didn’t slow down, forcing them to match her speed if they wanted to keep looking and talking to her.
By the last lap of the five-lap course, she held their undivided attention. The seven men surrounding her were panting, sweat soaking their shirts, but they clung to every word as she described the dunes, the voyeurs, the way she’d ridden me in full view of strangers. One prisoner, younger than the rest, stumbled mid-stride when she casually mentioned the pair of young English women who sought – and found – continental cock.
When the race finished, Renée slowed to a walk, chest rising and falling dramatically under her damp sports bra, hips swaying as she caught her breath. The inmates lingered close, stretching their muscles as she did. The youngest man stepped closer. “Have you ever thought about writing letters?” he asked, voice hopeful and a little nervous. “Might be nice… getting updates on your adventures.”
Several eyes watched her expression as she nodded to the young man. He was in his early twenties, or very late teens, and had a mop of unruly brown hair, with an almost naïve and innocent expression on his face. “Sure kid. What’s your name?”
“Ben,” he quickly replied. “Benjamin Richards.”
She giggled. “I can do that.” She bit her lip. “How about I send you a letter every time you set a personal best?” She nodded towards the warden at the finish line. “The results are freely available on the event site, so I’ll see.”
He gulped. “But … I can’t ever beat the time today.”
Renée gestured at the group of inmates listening in on their conversation. “I think you might have a few training partners if you offer to show any … photos … that are sent,” she suggested, a mischievous grin creeping across her face.
Ben’s eyes widened. “Photos?”
Renée stretched her arms overhead, letting her sports bra rise. “Mmm. Why not? You’d like some pictures, right? Nothing too scandalous. From the beach or the bike ride or something.” She glanced at the wardens, who were busy logging times, then lowered her voice. “I mean, you’re all men of the world, so a little skin wouldn’t be too much, would it? You’ve all seen plenty of naked women.”
The group exchanged glances, shifting their weight. Ben’s hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching as if already imagining holding an erotic photograph and calculating the value of such a commodity. The older inmate with the snake tattoos coughed. “We ain’t seen a woman like you in a long time, miss.”
Renée just shrugged, made eye contact with Ben, and leaned to whisper in his ear. “I mean it. I’m not teasing. And I suppose you’ll have to train a lot harder this week. Tip for you: focus on miles, not speed. A slow 10k to 12k jog every day is better than a fast 5k sprint. And then rest on Friday.” She smiled at them all, waved them goodbye and strolled across to the organisers.
“Amazing event you have here,” she said, complimenting and thanking the wardens before we walked through the security gate and back to our vehicle. Less than a mile down the road, Renée pulled into a layby and we fucked on the backseat of her company car.
