Exhibitionist to Swinger: Chapter 09
We flew out to Cap D’Agde on Monday morning. Because most of the French students were due back at school during that week, the airport and resort had a noticeable decrease in the number of children from when we were last at the Mediterranean nudist town. It was the reason we picked the times we did. Poppy had a front door key, and we left a spare with a trusted neighbour. Renée stocked the fridge for her and reminded the young nymphomaniac of Ben’s mandatory presence at his proscribed address between 7pm and 7am every day. This prevented sleepovers, dates and late-night fuck sessions, much to her chagrin.
Renée and I checked into an apartment; we had our own balcony that could see the beach and the sea, and we spent our first evening eating and drinking, enjoying the warmer weather and lapping up the sunshine. We didn’t bother unpacking properly and lounged around nude. When we visited previously, we dedicated little time to the village centre, but the restaurants were humming and thriving with activity, with scantily clad, erotically dressed women mingling amongst the naturists.
Renée perused a pair of lingerie shops; I joked it was weird for the nudist destination to have intimate underwear stores, and my girlfriend shook her head as she bought a couple of items. We’d done our research before we returned; while Cap D’Agde still has a huge naturist following, much of the resort attracts swingers, with sex clubs, porn cinemas, adult shops, and more. As well as the beach.
Three months ago, we booked the holiday for Renée and me to explore our exhibitionism. Since then, we’d both played with others, and I knew my partner wanted to go much further. She’d seen a personal sex blog online of a Cap D’Agde regular swinging couple who recounted their sexual adventures on each visit, with a running total of the amount of loads sprayed onto her, bukkake-style.
Renée had intimated that she wanted to spend at least one day chasing cum showers, and my cock gave her evidence that I found it so appealing and arousing. My girlfriend also lusted after revisiting her experiences from her youth of sex parties and more. Apart from a couple of threesomes with Poppy and Ben, I’d not had anything like those adventures, and was excited and nervous, about jumping headfirst into these arrangements.
This was our “other” holiday; earlier in the year, we’d spent a fortnight in Venice, Rome and then a few days in Northern Italy, as our main trip. Six days in the swinging capital of Europe would be a perfect end to the European summer, and allow us to experiment with our new relationship dynamic on foreign shores. Renée joked that instead of leaving our “brains on the runway,” we would banish our morals and decency for our visit!
We took a walk along the beach after our meal, stopping to watch some action beyond the lifeguard station, which marked the start of the “adult section.” Renée squeezed my hand as a young woman, kneeling on the soft sand, gave blowjobs to half-a-dozen men surrounding her, some of whom were old enough to be her grandfather. Another hedonist, a red-haired girl, snapped a few photographs of the debauchery.
Four guys were spitroasting two women a few metres further along, also surrounded by voyeurs, and there were multiple couples screwing, kissing, cuddling or in some form of intimate embrace.
It was just as we remembered. All body types, all ages, all creeds and all manner of sexual perversions, united by public hedonism. Renée squeezed my hand tighter, her nails digging into my palm as she watched a plump woman in her forties ride a much younger man while her husband, caged in a chastity device, observed and filmed. “That’s us tomorrow,” she murmured, nodding toward a buxom brunette bent over, taking two men simultaneously while a crowd cheered them on. Her skin glistened with sweat and other fluids in the fading light.
But we were tired; we had left our condoms and tissues in the hotel room, and after watching the live porn show until the sun kissed the horizon, we returned to the bar in the town centre.
Tuesday was the first of our five full days at Cap D’Agde and Renée started it with a long run along the sand wearing just a sports bra; I joined her for her initial 4km lap, but running on sand was difficult on the legs and I felt the pain in my muscles. Our beach bag comprised eBook readers, phones, bottles of water, large towels, suncream, sun glasses, tissues and a handful of condoms.
We arrived at the shore after lunch; Renée chose a spot on the sand a hundred metres from the lifeguard station and paddled in the sea for twenty minutes as I read my book. Around us couples and singletons enjoyed the beach, and it could have been any naturist venue. No sin, no explicit sex, just people savouring the rays au naturel.
But when Renée returned, she reapplied the suncream, and lay on her towel, reading her erotic novel in the bright sunshine. She lay face down; her splayed legs exhibiting everything, and left a few condoms beside her to advertise that she’d come for sin.
As the afternoon wore on, the beach became busier and the activity increased. A couple a few metres away went from kissing to fucking, with an audience, and the middle-aged pair to our left, openly masturbated and touched each other.
A man approached our spot and greeted us in French. Renée glanced upwards and smiled at him. He was five or ten years older than her, silvery-haired, golden-tanned and with a cheeky expression, and while Renée’s language skills were good, she could only respond to some of what he said.
After a brief conversation, he lowered himself to her level and gestured at her towel. At the condoms. At her naked body. Then he shrugged and smiled. Renée hesitated and then glanced at me; not for permission, but for acknowledgement, before nodding when I smirked. It was what we had come to France for.
His fingers traced Renée’s bare shoulder blades as she lay face down. “Tu es très belle,” he murmured, moving lower; slow, possessive, deliberate strokes that followed the curve of her spine, her waist, the swell of her hips. Renée shivered beneath his touch, muttering when he finally reached her thighs. “Ton mari est chanceux,” he added, glancing at me, grinning.
My heart pounded as I watched an unknown man grope my partner. Renée’s legs parted and hips lifted when his fingers slipped between her legs; an explicit invitation to the stranger. He teased her, testing her slickness while she remained face down on the towel, and slid a finger into her without asking. Renée gasped, her hips jerking against the beach as his thumb found her clit.
The Frenchman chuckled as my partner groaned. Other beachgoers gathered around us, watching the sight as he prepared to make me more of a modern cuckold. Renée lifted her hips higher, arching her back for him and exposing herself shamelessly; he reached for a condom, unwrapping it and rolling it down his prick with practised ease as my lover knelt on the soft sand, ready to be fucked “doggy style.”
The first thrust made Renée gasp, her palms sliding into the beach as he gripped her hips, slamming into her with the confidence of a man who knew what he was doing. Experienced, with a silver crucifix around his neck, he hammered aggressively into my partner. Their thighs slapped, an erotic soundtrack over the murmuring crowd and the crash of the waves. Renée’s body rocked with each slam into her pussy; her breasts swayed rhythmically.
She glanced over her shoulder at me, her lips parted, eyes wide; sinful, hedonistic debauchery. Exhilarating. As every man and woman on the beach knew she was a rampant slut, fucking strangers in public. But as all the women surrounding her had the same loose morals, Renée had found her tribe.
Renée’s moans escalated, louder and louder, swearing loudly in English. The Frenchman hammered harder, his fingers gripping her hips tighter, as his thrusts became more urgent and desperate. Sensing he was close, Renée pressed herself lower into the sand as he spilled inside the condom with a groan.
As he withdrew, my girlfriend remained kneeling, panting, her thighs trembling, her arousal obvious. But before she could move, another man knelt behind her; a typical blonde-haired, fit surfer dude, with broad shoulders and a tanned torso, glistening with sweat. He’d stroked his cock as he watched the public display and Renée simply passed him a condom.
He barely hesitated as he rolled the sheath onto his shaft, pulling her hips back against him and sliding into her with a single smooth stroke. She gasped, her fingers digging into the sand as he set a relentless pace from the start. He had a bigger cock and fucked her harder than I normally did, and certainly with more aggression than the first Frenchman.
The crowd swelled further; lone men shamelessly stroked themselves, women whispering or muttering to their partners as the voyeurs enjoyed the show. Like animals at the zoo, they fucked for the amusement of gawking spectators. My girlfriend arched her back, panting and groaning loudly as the second guy hammered into her, and spilt, not lasting too long.
But Renée didn’t care. She rode the mental high of her exhibitionism, her body swimming with arousal and adrenaline.
And I was rock hard. This was one of the sexiest things I had ever seen. She leaned forward to take an older man’s prick between her lips. He muttered in French too, and Renée gripped the base of his cock, wanking him as her mouth sucked the tip, drawing an orgasm from him, and aiming his spewing cock onto her naked breasts.
They kept coming; the men pushed forward, eager for a blowjob or more. Three more guys screwed her until we’d exhausted the condoms we brought to the beach, and over a dozen came over her face or her body. I took several photographs on my phone. A chubby middle-aged woman knelt beside my partner; they couldn’t speak a word of English, but they didn’t need to. The foreigner deep-throated the first cock in front of her, and the pair of gamahuchers devoured dick after dick.
It felt as if the surrounding crowd never subsided. As if there were never-ending numbers of guys eager to paint her face and her body with their seed. Cum dried in the heat, and after an hour, Renée knelt over to me, took my aching, rock-hard prick in her mouth, gave me a few licks and then smirked. “Later. It’ll be worth it,” she promised, returning to the sea to rinse her skin of the evidence of her debauchery.
She returned, glowing, radiant, and grinning, and I wrapped my arms around her as she lay down. “You OK?”
“Better than OK,” she replied. “But I think we should bring more condoms next time we come.” She paused. “Are you OK?”
“Weirdly, yes. But I need to reclaim you.”
“You will,” she promised. “You could take a wander on the beach. I’d like to see you with another woman.” Three months ago, I would have been horrified, but our rules were different now. Around us, I saw at least four acts of public sex, and when I stood up and looked up and down the coast, there were many more. “Pick a girl,” Renée teased.
“Why don’t you pick one for me?”
My partner giggled at the suggestion; she packed our items into our beach bag and took my hand, padding over the sand eastwards, stopping before we reached the gay and lesbian section, and turning round to head towards the main complex, past the way we came.
Renée remembered them; I didn’t. They were sitting on the sand on towels, watching the beach. She was thin, with a scar along her thigh, no pubic hair and jet-black locks in a long ponytail. He was overweight, covered in tattoos across his hairy body, and with a receding hairline. “I blew him. She watched.” Before I could ask, she spoke in French to the couple, making them look at her from behind their sunglasses.
They smiled and chatted animatedly, laughing as my girlfriend talked fluently. Her fingers trailed down my chest as the woman knelt on the sand, taking my erection between her lips.
And she was good. Excellent even. Her lips swirled over my glans and her mouth slid down my shaft, while her hands cupped my balls and explored my perineum. I knew I wouldn’t last long; the entire afternoon had been a mental edging session, and this woman was about to bring me to a mind-shatteringly wonderful orgasm.
Her partner stroked his cock, and Renée knelt beside him, fellating him once more. But the Gallic stranger sensed how close I was and slowed her pace, her fingers teasing my thighs as she deep-throated me expertly.
The Frenchwoman glanced up at me, her lips stretched obscenely around my shaft, with a slutty, sultry look in her eyes. I groaned, jerking my hips as I teetered on the point of no return. But she wouldn’t allow me to come, teasing me three times by bringing me to the edge of my peak and then backing off.
Finally, she let me, taking my shaft deep into her mouth and sucking me relentlessly until my body surged. I took my cock from her lips, frantically jerking it as the orgasm crashed over me, aiming my spurting dick at her bosom. Her partner growled approval, gripping Renée’s hair as he watched me paint his wife with my cum.
And with a grunt, he came, swearing in French as he decorated my girlfriend’s chin and throat with several spurts of semen.
She giggled at our hosts, chatted for a bit, and we left. Less than eighty metres further down the beach, she spoke to another couple, and ended up taking more loads of cum on her body. “I feel like such a slut,” she said as we entered the village.
“You look and smell like it too!”
“I need a shower,” she admitted. But before she did that, I had to reclaim her, and I screwed her from behind on the balcony as she looked over the venue.
We cleaned up, showering together, washing away the remnants of strangers’ seed, and dressed for dinner, walking back to the centre. Renée wore a skimpy, see-through dress with no underwear, deliberately selecting her outfit to ensure anonymous men and women would grope and fondle her as we walked through the crowds. Her skin glowed, her confidence boosted by the afternoon’s debauchery, and we had a lovely meal at a restaurant and then a few coffees in a cafe, chatting to an older French couple who spoke excellent English.
Wednesday was a cooler day, and we paid to enter the “hammam” and “naturist pool.” The prices were expensive, and we found the men in the sauna area very aggressive and pushy; it wasn’t the vibe we wanted, and we left mid-afternoon. The nearby foam party was much more what we desired, and after putting our valuables in a waterproof box, we bought a “mattress” and Renée danced in the soapy white froth as I watched and waited.
It was a raunchy, but not a very sexual visit, and although there were plenty of couples doing action, it felt a little cliquey. So, we cut our losses and went to a local restaurant. A white couple and three black men were at the table adjacent; they were similar ages to us, and they spoke in French and English. Renée couldn’t resist talking to them, introducing herself.
We bought another round of drinks and dragged the tables together. The conversation quickly turned sexual. The black guys were visiting from Paris, and they’d met the English couple on a swinging app. I didn’t understand the discussion in French that Renée and Gemma had with the Parisiens, but the men were clearly funny, charismatic and charming.
They were well-built, muscular and tall, with the two hotwives both athletic. Gemma was a regular runner too, and the sexual tension was palpable. A late-20s Mancunian with long, straight brunette hair and deep pink-red lips, she was a French teacher at an all-boys school. Her pert bosom had large round areola, and there were some old surgery scars on her lithe body, but dressed in her mesh bra and skimpy G-string, her intentions were obvious and explicit.
But Gareth, Gemma’s husband, spoke and understood less French than I did, and while our partners conversed, chatted, and flirted fluently, we talked between ourselves. He was taller than me and his wife, but his shirt – buttoned to the top button – and his demeanour suggested formality. He had come for a business meeting, not a gangbang.
We had little to say outside of the obvious; his leisure pursuits were not my hobbies, and we had no shared interests. Except sex. The couple, married for four years and together for seven, were on their fifth trip to Cap D’Agde. Although they were swingers, the vast majority of their play was in a cuckoldry arrangement, with his bride always playing while he watched and was frequently denied.
They had three “bulls” at home and only attended their local sex clubs together on a monthly basis. His wife had enjoyed multiple affairs, including four of his neighbours and his brother, and she had already serviced several men that day. I found the casualness of his partner’s infidelities both jarring and arousing; while we were walking down that road, I would not surrender Renée in such an extreme manner.
Yet, he spoke with a smile as he recalled it. The trio of Frenchmen used every excuse to touch my girlfriend or Gemma, with fingers tracing bare skin possessively. Renée dispatched us to the bar to buy a “round of drinks for everyone” as her hands teased a bicep and then the abs underneath his T-shirt.
When we returned with a full tray, both women were naked; Gemma exposed her pert breasts, nipples hardening in the warm evening air, as she squeezed between two of the black Parisiens, giggling and flirting. There was no subtlety as hands wandered and touched, with fresh drinks on the tables.
The beer and wine didn’t last. “We’ve been invited to a private party,” she told me as the five pushed their chairs back and stood up. I hesitated, unsure of what she meant by “we.” Just Renée and Gemma? All of us? Gareth had been through this before, so I just copied him, while the tallest Parisien slapped Gemma’s bare buttocks.
We followed a few steps behind, carrying our lovers’ bags. Everyone in the cafe could see that our partners, sandwiched between three younger black Frenchmen, were leaving with them and not us.
The private party was in the same apartment complex as our own. Music pumped from a speaker on the dining table, as a couple of men lounged naked on the sofa with an older, chubby tattooed woman. The three-bedroom suite had a double bed on a mezzanine floor, overlooking the kitchen and living room; I saw the red bedsheets as I looked through the bars of the banister rails.
Renée didn’t hesitate, climbing the stairs and grinning at me from the top as Gemma followed after her, her pert ass bouncing with each step. Gareth didn’t react; he poured us both glasses of rose wine from the bottles on the dining table, and gestured towards the spare sofa, in front of the glass patio looking across the site, and directly at the mezzanine floor. The tallest Parisien spoke to the men opposite in French. They pointed at Gareth and me, laughing as he stripped off, his thick prick already erect.
All three of them had impressive bodies; I could see why Gemma and Renée were so enchanted by them, and I felt a pang of inadequacy as they undressed and padded to the upper level. Tall and athletic, with bulging pectoral, thigh and bicep muscles and well-defined abs. They would not have looked out of place as underwear models. The tallest had a pair of thick silver chains around his neck and a simple tattoo at the top of his arm. But all of them had thicker, bigger and longer cocks than me; their confident expressions, behaviour and appearances showed their dominant masculinity
Upstairs, the two women were already naked, lying on the red sheets, kissing and sliding hands over each other. One by one, the men climbed the stairs, surrounding the bed. English mouths salivated for and enjoyed meaty black dick. Gareth sighed, sitting beside me as Renée and Gemma fellated their lovers, holding his wineglass in his lap as our eyes watched the show through the bars in the railings.
To our left, the older woman opposite groaned, her head rolling against the sofa as the man beside her penetrated her with two fingers. She muttered something in another language before repeating it in French, and Gareth smirked as he translated, “She’s German. And she wants them to piss on her. He’s refusing.”
I laughed, glancing at our women as Gemma giggled, kneeling on the bed as she sucked the tallest Parisien’s cock while Renée lay on her back, her legs spread wide for another of the two men. The scene was obscene and primal; it was something from a hardcore pornographic film, rather than real life. But here we were as cuckolds, dressed and sipping wine, while our partners indulged in raw, unfiltered lust.
Gemma cried, arching her back as the man to her rear gripped her hips and slid into her roughly, making her gasp. Renée’s lips wrapped around another cock, her fingers teasing the base as she gobbled him while a third guy rubbered up, knelt behind her, and pressed his thick shaft against her entrance.
The debauched slap of skin-on-skin filled the apartment. Moans and groans from the upper level, whispered French words, gasps and cries, matched similar noises from the sofa opposite. One of the biracial men from the settee joined the orgy upstairs, while Gareth topped up his glass of wine.
Renée alternated between sucking cock and getting fucked. The tallest Parisien slammed Gemma doggy style while she screamed obscenities in English, for her husband, and French, for her new lovers. My girlfriend lay on her back, legs spread as another man drove into her, his balls slapping against her butt as he pounded into her.
Then two more men turned up – both black – and joined the orgy, replacing one guy from the cafe. And then a couple more. They blindfolded the middle-aged German woman, fastened her hands behind her back, and had her kneel at the bottom of the winding steps to the top floor, writing “derameur” on her body in pen.
I knew Renée was loving every second of her depravity. She sneaked a few glances in between men and smiled as our eyes met. Meanwhile, Gemma’s orgasms were loud and profane-laden. Each climax echoed around the apartment, and the bulls who used her were very good at bringing her to deafening screeches, cries and yells.
The men spread her legs wide as three guys filled every hole she had – one in her mouth, another in her pussy, and one lay on the bed in her ass. Spit dripped from her chin as the man fucking her face pulled out, stroking himself roughly before painting her chest and neck with thick ropes of cum.
Gareth chuckled beside me, swirling his wine as Gemma yelled another orgasm into a fresh prick, her body trembling between the thrusts of her lovers. “Tenth time today,” he murmured, nodding toward the writhing mass of limbs on the mezzanine. The scent of sea, sweat and sex hung in the air. I could barely see Renée through the crowd of bodies, but I saw the next man, with the thickest, darkest, longest cock so far, don a condom and press it against her cunt.
I tuned into her cries and moans as he filled her, imagining her wide eyes as she took the length of his dick, hitting parts of her I couldn’t. Gareth refilled both of our glasses. “They’ll be at it for hours,” he said, as if discussing the weather. His calmness was almost surreal compared to the frenzied orgy above.
“How many are coming?”
“Loads,” he replied airily. “We met them two years ago, and they are a group of friends who host private parties. They’ll have put it on the swinging app and groups that they have a couple of sluts and listed their room number. Their contacts will see and visit. Gemma likes to play with black guys.”
He described so dispassionately. Renée’s moans pitched higher, desperate, and I gulped my fresh glass of wine. Gareth nodded towards my drink. “First time watching her take lots of men?”
I swallowed. The answer was yes and no. She’d had a few on the beach, but this was completely different. Cap d’Agde had not blurred but shattered every expectation I’d had. Renée cried out before I could reply, her body convulsing with ecstasy as the man inside her growled, hips slamming into my partner until he came.
And then, with no ceremony or introduction, the next man stepped forward. Just as three more naked black men entered the flat, talking French and changing places on the mezzanine level. After half-an-hour, I left the party to buy more wine and some snacks at the supermarket; I needed a breath of fresh air, and my cock was desperately erect.
But the fucking continued. The orgy never stopped. We watched, chatting and making comments about the imposing men using our partners, whilst also losing count of how many dicks used the pair of English girls on the top floor. The German woman fellated and fluffed multiple guys en route to the younger lovers and the black bulls regularly gave her cummy cocks to clean on the way back down.
I saw Gemma, her body covered in sweat and semen, bouncing atop another cock, her breasts swaying as she rode him, her fingers teasing her own clit. The sounds – moans, groans, cries and slaps – were deafening, and after a couple of hours, the two women stood up and looked out over the living room.
Naked. Spent. Hair plastered to their heads, red marks all over their bodies, and cum and sweat glistening on their skin. Renée had never been more alive or sexier than when she stood on the mezzanine and peered down at me. Ruined, wrecked and exhausted.
Neither of the women spoke; Gemma kissed my girlfriend, for the last time, and they descended the stairs carefully and slowly to their partners. Renée swigged from the wine bottle, emptying it, as she panted. “Thirsty work,” she explained, and her new friend poured them a half-litre of water each from the tap.
Their bodies showed evidence of their orgy. Bruises and red splodges covered their breasts, thighs and hips, and bite marks littered their necks and shoulders. Their lips were swollen, their hair a mess. But they were grinning, exchanging excited words and smiles with their remaining French hosts. Because both of them had thick streaks and globules of cum across their skin, and smelt of exertion and sex.
“We’re done,” Renée announced and suggested to Gemma that she shower at our apartment, just a two-minute stroll.
The walk of shame in Britain is often used for women travelling in the morning to their home while dishevelled and dressed in their clubwear from the evening before. It suggests sexual promiscuity and returning from a one-night stand. What Renée and Gemma did would be a walk of humiliating indignity as they crossed the complex to our apartment. They were proud of their depravity.
I opened a fresh bottle of sparkling white wine and put four glasses on our balcony table. “Well, that was fun,” Renée remarked as she sat down on the metal chair, wincing as the cool steel touched her hot skin. “I had at least eighteen rascals shoot their loads over me or in my mouth. And so many fucked me too. I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”
Gemma laughed, stretching her long legs out on the balcony floor, as Gareth and I took the two empty chairs. “It’s the muscles. Go for a run,” she recommended, giving fitness tips. “Stretch those legs. I had over twenty-five cum on me,” she bragged. “But I lost count after the seventh man used me. I had a couple back there too. And I was airtight.”
Renée giggled, rubbing her aching thighs. “You were so loud,” she remarked. “All those screaming orgasms!”
Gemma grinned, swirling her wine. “Oh, I came buckets. I always do. And the French boys love to fuck English roses!”
“So filthy. So sexy!” Renée muttered.
“I know. I’ll be doing it again tomorrow. And the next day.”
My girlfriend exhaled, stretching her arms above her head, wincing as her muscles protested. “Wow! Same guys?”
“Oh, no! We’ll meet up with them again, but tomorrow I’ll do the beach or the swingers’ club. And then the porn cinema game.”
Renée giggled, kicking her legs against the chair, swinging her feet, as the two women discussed possible adventures. “Do you shower now, or wait until after Gareth’s had his fun?”
Gemma giggled. “Gareth gets very little sex on our holidays. I might let him tomorrow. But we’ve been here for five days and he’s not come once. That’s normal for him. I love to see him frustrated, and I’m surrounded by powerful, dominant men. Why would I want his cock?”
Renée bit her lip. “Fancy a bet?” She asked. “How about if we go to the porn cinema game together, and whoever does best, their partner has fun? The other guy gets denied.”
Both Gareth and I protested at my girlfriend’s suggestion, but Gemma spoke over us. “The porn cinema game is bukkake.”
“Even easier,” Renée suggested. “The girl who takes the most loads wins. You on?”
“I am.”
And with that, they traded phone numbers, and then showered together.
What had my partner signed me up for?
