The Beach Voyeur Finally Touched Us

For years, we kept running into the same man on that secluded beach, hidden behind long dunes and an awkward path that hardly anyone wanted to take. At first he was just another voyeur, one of those men who pretend to be wandering aimlessly while looking for somewhere to stick their eyes. Over time he stopped being a stranger, and without our ever exchanging more than a few words, he became part of a routine my wife and I looked forward to every summer.

There had never been any deception between us. It all began as a fantasy spoken in low voices in bed, when she confessed that she was turned on by knowing she was being watched, while it made me hard to see her open herself for another man without ceasing to be mine. That was how we carried on the game each season, sending him a brief message when we knew we would be going to our spot, making it clear that he could watch, come a little closer each time, and tighten that invisible thread connecting the three of us.

That summer seemed different. Weeks passed and we never crossed paths once. We thought that, after so many years of conspiratorial silences and furtive wanks between towels, the game had ended. My wife pretended not to care, but whenever we got our things ready to go to the beach, she always asked me whether I thought he would show up.

That day we went with more than enough pent-up desire. We arrived early at our spot, put up the side awning to screen us from the shoreline, and stretched out on the hot sand with the confidence of people who knew the terrain well. We had fucked at home before leaving, slowly, just to warm up, and in the car we touched each other the whole way. We were both on the edge, but we had decided to hold out.

My wife wore a light dress over her bikini, though it took her barely a few minutes to remove it. She was left with the top undone and her panties pulled to one side, as she always did when she really started teasing me. I watched her spread her legs beneath the shade and could already feel my cock hard and tight against my swimsuit, while she smiled as if she knew exactly how much she was going to make me suffer.

“Today I feel like playing for real,” she said, running two fingers down her cleavage and then lowering her hand to stroke herself over the damp fabric.

“Then you’d better hold out,” I replied.

“If he shows up, I’m not going to behave.”

We kissed for a long time, tongues entwined, with that mixture of familiarity and hunger that only comes from a couple who have spent years sharing fantasies. I pulled her panties aside and slid my hand between her thighs. She was already wet, very wet, her pussy hot and soft beneath my fingers. She opened her legs wider and let out a short moan when I slowly rubbed her clitoris.

We spent hours like that, between caresses and pauses, pretending to be normal whenever someone crossed the sand in the distance. When the beach began to empty and the light changed, I thought he wasn’t coming. We were almost packing up when I saw him appear in the distance, walking along the shore with the restrained gait of someone who didn’t want to seem eager. As soon as he recognized us, he stopped looking out at the sea and came straight up toward the dunes.

I felt an immediate flip in my stomach. My wife saw him too and bit her lower lip. There was no need to say much. We repositioned the umbrella, raised the side of the awning a little higher, and left the area half-enclosed, enough to hide us from far away while keeping us visible up close.

“Should I let him come closer?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

She didn’t answer in words. She lay face down, opened her knees on the towel, and barely lifted her hips, thrusting her round ass into the air. Then she slipped her hand beneath herself and began slowly touching her pussy, parting her lips and smearing herself with her own wetness.

I gestured to the man. The usual signal. This time, however, he wasn’t coming merely to watch from two meters away.

He approached slowly, respectfully, almost holding his breath. He was a grown man, weathered by the sun, discreet even with his cock showing beneath his wet swimsuit. He knelt where I indicated, behind my wife, already inside our little refuge of cloth and sand. From there he could see her whole body: her ass opened by the position, her back arched, her hand buried between her thighs.

I sat facing her and pulled out my cock. She took hold of it without stopping the backward motion of her ass, kissed the tip, and began sucking me hungrily. It wasn’t a soft or decorative blowjob. She took it into her mouth as far as she could, swallowing saliva, pulling it out to lick my shaft, then sinking it all the way back in. Every time her lips brushed me, I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t come too soon.

Meanwhile, I pushed two fingers into her pussy. They slipped in without resistance, sliding through her wetness. She moaned around my cock and moved her hips, seeking more. Behind her, our voyeur was already masturbating without trying to hide it, his cock half-erect at first, growing harder by the second, just a few centimeters from her ass.

He looked at me, asking permission without speaking. I nodded.

The first time he put his hands on my wife, it was almost clumsy, as if he were afraid of breaking the spell. He placed them on her large buttocks, squeezed them carefully, then with growing hunger, really kneading them. She didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she spread her legs even farther and continued sucking me like a madwoman, pressing her face against my pelvis while I opened her pussy with my fingers.

He lowered one hand to her anus and circled it with the tip of a finger. My wife jerked and let out a deep moan against my cock. She knew it was him, I thought. Of course she knew. And she was loving it.

I kept sliding my fingers in and out of her, wetting them with her own arousal, rubbing her clitoris with my thumb. He fondled her ass, spread it apart, stroked the tight rim of her anus, and masturbated faster and faster with his other hand. The sight was so brutal that I could barely decide where to look: at my wife’s ass trembling beneath the other man’s hands, at her mouth swallowing my cock, or at the stranger’s cock bouncing level with my face.

At one point it simply happened. Without thinking, I reached out with my free hand and grabbed his cock. Hard as stone. Hot. Thicker than I had expected. He froze for a second, surprised, and when he saw it wasn’t a joke or a test, he exhaled and let me do it.

I began masturbating him at the same rhythm with which I fingered my wife. One hand on her pussy, the other on his cock. She was sucking me. He was touching her ass. The three of us were panting inside that ridiculous little corner of the beach, half-hidden, with the sound of the sea behind us and sand sticking to our knees.

“Fuck…” he murmured for the first time, his voice broken.

My wife released my cock just long enough to breathe and said, looking up at me from below:

“Don’t stop. I want to feel everything.”

I pushed in a third finger and she arched her back with a long moan. He spread her buttocks wider and brushed her anus again. I kept jerking him hard, feeling his entire base tighten before he came. And then I couldn’t hold out any longer. My wife sank my cock back into her mouth all the way to the base and I came down her throat, hot and thick, while I kept one hand inside her pussy and the other squeezing the voyeur’s cock.

She swallowed almost all of it, pulling away at the end only to let a string of saliva and cum fall onto her chin. She was breathing hard, her eyes half-closed and her cheeks flushed. Our guest still hadn’t come, trembling with arousal while I continued holding him.

We stayed like that for a few seconds, barely recovering. Then she turned over on the towel and lay on her back. She pulled her hat over her face, not to hide from us, but to surrender completely. She opened her legs and left her pussy fully exposed, shiny, swollen, still pulsing from my fingers.

He knelt between her thighs as if he had been waiting half a lifetime for that image. His cock, stiff and wet, bounced against his belly as he looked at her. I positioned myself to one side, opened her wider with my hands, and began caressing her slowly, parting her lips, playing with her clitoris, slipping in one finger and then two again.

“Eat me,” she said, her voice hoarse.

She didn’t have to repeat herself. I lowered my head and buried my tongue in her pussy. She was dripping wet, with that hot, salty taste that drove me crazy. I licked her from bottom to top, pausing at her clitoris, sucking it hard while she gripped my hair and writhed on the towel. From there I could see the other man out of the corner of my eye, jerking off without taking his gaze from her pussy and my mouth working between her legs.

My wife grabbed my cock and began masturbating me while I devoured her. She alternated it with short, wet, dirty blowjobs, pulling my cock from her mouth only to moan again whenever I drove my tongue deeper into her. He was so close that several times his cock brushed my shoulder and cheek. He didn’t move away. Neither did I.

“Look at how she opens herself for you,” I said, lifting my head for a moment.

He let out a groan and stroked himself harder.

“I’ve been dreaming of this for years.”

“Then look closely,” she replied, shifting her hat aside to see him. “And don’t just stand there.”

At her words, he leaned over and placed one hand on a breast, squeezing it clumsily at first and hungrily afterward. With the other, he continued masturbating. I kept eating her pussy without pause, sucking her clitoris until she began contracting her thighs around my head. I knew she was about to come by the way she pulled my hair, by the trembling of her stomach, by the way she pushed my face against her sex as if she wanted to suffocate me there.

I couldn’t help myself: I grabbed the other man’s cock again. This time my wife saw me and became even more aroused. I increased his pace with my hand, squeezing hard on every downward stroke, while with the other I continued opening her pussy so I could lick her better.

Then he spoke, with nothing held back.

“Look at the faggot coming while he touches you and holds my cock.”

I suddenly looked up, tense, but my wife answered before I could think.

“Yes,” she said with a filthy gasp. “This little cocksucker gets off on seeing me open for another man. Even more when you make him come with your hand.”

Hearing her say that cut through me like an electric shock. It was language we used in private, part of our most intimate game, and hearing her say it in front of him, with her pussy open and wet, completely undid me. She knew it. She saw it on my face and smiled faintly before moaning again.

I pulled my cock from her mouth and masturbated over her chest. It didn’t take long at all. I came over her tits, leaving hot spurts splattered across her skin and neck. She smeared some of it around with her fingers and continued touching her clitoris while I, still trembling, didn’t let go of the other man’s cock.

My wife was already on the verge. She opened herself with both hands, displaying more of herself, offering herself shamelessly. I lowered myself to her pussy again and drove my tongue into her hard, fast, insistently, while my other hand kept jerking him until he was almost insane with pleasure. The man panted, thrusting his hips into empty air, one hand squeezing my wife’s breast and the other braced against my shoulder so he wouldn’t fall.

“I’m going to come,” he warned hoarsely.

“Wait,” she ordered. “I want to come while you watch me.”

He obeyed. I sucked my wife’s clitoris for barely a second before she gave a muffled cry and arched her whole back. She came hard, with visible spasms, clamping my head between her thighs and smearing my mouth. As soon as I felt her climax, I sped up my hand over the other cock until the end.

He roared almost at the same time. He came in violent jerks, shooting thick spurts onto the sand near my wife’s pubis, with a few drops landing on her thigh and my fingers. She looked at him without closing her legs, still convulsing from her orgasm, and I continued squeezing his cock until I drew out the last pulse.

The three of us remained there, breathing like animals, collapsed inside that improvised trench of towels and wind. The sea sounded the same as always, indifferent. No one said anything for a while. There were only sweaty bodies, cum mixed with sand, and that sweet embarrassment that comes just after making a fantasy that is too old come true.

He was the first to pull away. He did so with the same discretion with which he had entered, cleaning himself as best he could and lowering his head, perhaps out of modesty, perhaps out of respect. I didn’t stop him. Between us, grand speeches had never been necessary.

My wife sat up slowly. Her chest was stained, her pussy shining, her hair tousled with sweat and salt. I kissed her on the mouth without caring about the mingled taste of my cum and hers. She returned the kiss with an almost tender calm, utterly different from the ferocity of a minute earlier.

“Are you all right?” I asked her.

“I’m fucking fantastic,” she replied with a smile. “And you are too.”

I helped her to her feet. The other man was already walking away toward the dunes without looking back, behaving like a strange, silent gentleman who had known exactly where he needed to be. We gathered the essentials and walked hand in hand toward the water.

The waves reached our ankles and then our knees. My wife crouched to rinse her thighs, and I cleaned her chest with both hands while she let out a tired laugh. I embraced her around the waist and we stayed that way for a moment, looking at the horizon, feeling the cold water erase the visible traces of what we had just done.

“After all these years,” she murmured, “he finally stopped being just a voyeur.”

“Do you regret it?”

She turned, kissed me again, and shook her head.

“Send him another message when we come back,” she said. “Next time I want to see him even closer.”