Riding the Wave [MF][BWAM][Interracial]

Originally posted on Literotica in two parts.

​

**DAVIDA**

“Come on, baby. It’ll be fun,” I whine, growing frustrated at having to beg my husband for sex yet again.

I lie alone in my hotel room, in my decadently plush queen bed. I push the crisp white sheets aside to cool my burning body. The ice cold air conditioning drifts across my hardening nipples. I imagine Maurice with the phone to his ear and his thick, brown fingers wrapped around his long cock. My hand drifts across my round belly, past my curls and down to my weeping channel.

“It’s been a long day. All I can think about is sleeping,” Maurice says from the other line. Guessing by his annoyed tone, his hand is nowhere near his cock.

“We can make it a quickie,” I say huskily, the phone lodged between my ear and shoulder. With my free hands, I part my swollen lips and rub my throbbing clit. Watching all those muscled surfers at the beach has left me in need of release.

Maurice yawns. “Tomorrow, I promise. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

I huff. “Fine. Goodnight.” I end the call before I hear the usual, half-hearted apology. I resist the urge to throw my thousand-dollar smartphone across the room.

I’d hoped a few days apart – and some steamy phone sex – might help to kick start our fledgling sex life. Eight years of marriage has managed to suck the sex out of our relationship.

I even agreed to open the marriage at my husband’s request. I have yet to take advantage of the arrangement, though I’ve received more than one offer from a close male friend. Maurice, on the other hand, has had no qualms about engaging in a handful of trysts in the past year alone. His only issue seems to be garnering the energy to have sex with his own wife.

I switch off the bedside lamp, drowning the room in darkness. I shut my eyes, imagining one surfer in particular from earlier that evening. His tanned skin lighter than the dark complexion of my husband, his lean body much slimmer; his shoulder length black hair slicked back from the hard lines of his face; his body drenched with the salt water of the ocean.

I dip a finger into my tight hole for lubrication, rubbing my stiff clitoris. I pinch a nipple beneath my black silk nightie, wishing it were the wet tongue of my husband. Penetrating my vagina with two and then three fingers, I stretch myself to capacity. I cry out in disappointment as my orgasm sneaks up on me, as unsatisfying and anti-climactic as my married life.

​

**DAVIDA**

The blue waves crash against the jagged rocks, spraying my face with cool water. I delight in the refreshing sensation of the seawater evaporating from my face under the warm sun. The beach is one of my favorite places to be.

Born and raised in California, I finished med school in the UC system and moved to New Mexico on a whim, completing my residency at a small hospital in Santa Fe. I met Maurice at a casino during a girls’ trip, our first encounter ending in an illicit hot tub session. We were married a year later.

The beginning of our marriage had been much like our first night together, full of blinding lust and passion. In the last few years, however, something has shifted. Maurice is distant and I drown myself in work. This business trip to California has been a welcome respite from awkward dinner conversations and silent movie nights with the man who shares my home.

During my three days in Santa Barbara for the Annual Western Dermatology Conference, I’ve been spending evenings at the beach when I should be networking with colleagues. The serene ocean view and harmonic rhythm of the waves always pumps the life back into me after a long day of lectures on anti-aging procedures and acne management. I want to burn this view into my memories and take it back home to the arid desert climate of Santa Fe.

In the distance I notice a wave forming, one of the biggest waves I’ve seen in my life. It’s going to be at least fifteen feet high when it crests. The lone surfer I’ve noticed every evening, paddles toward the waves, his deeply tanned arms cutting into the water at a breakneck speed. I’m entranced by the sculpted muscles in his back, sparkling in the light of dusk.

Reaching the wave, he pushes himself into a standing position. He’s at least six feet tall, lean without an ounce of fat on his muscular form. Bright blue board shorts cling to his well-formed thighs and buttocks. I lick the salt from my lips.

As the wave crests, he keeps ahead of it, cutting the board against the wall of water, riding the wave in a kind of ocean dance. Even from this distance, I can feel his focus, bending his knees and adjusting as necessary, his rhythm mesmerizing.

He seems at home in the sea, born from the waves he rides. I envy him. Here’s a guy in his 20s who seems to have found his place in the chaos of this world and I can barely find comfort in my career and marriage. A profitable private practice, stock broker husband and 5,000 square-foot mansion nestled in the mountains hasn’t come close to bringing me the peace I sense this man experiences while riding a wave.

I lean forward, noticing the wave cresting at a quicker speed. Too quick. In an instant, the surfer is swallowed up in a vortex of water. I jump up from my seat on a beached log, waiting for him to resurface, but seeing no sign of him. Knowing it only takes minutes for someone to drown, my years as a beach lifeguard kick in and I respond automatically, shedding shoes and clothes in no time. In only a matching white lace bra and panties, I sprint toward the water, diving straight into a wave.

Not as strong of a swimmer at 36 as I was at 18, my chest burns as I cut quick strokes through the water, reaching the approximate spot where I saw the surfer go under. I gulp in air before dipping under the surface. The salt burns my eyes but I keep them open, searching for any sign of him. Finding nothing, I resurface, swallowing more air before diving again.

Just as I’m about to go up for another breath, I spot a bright blue streak a few feet away. I use the last of the air in my lungs to dive further, grabbing the guy under the arms and back to the surface of the water.

My lungs scream for air. I do my best to keep his head above water while recovering. Making my way to shore, I tug his limp form along.

Please be alive, I silently pray. Finally ashore, I drag him through the cool, wet sand, out of the reach of the waves. I check the rise and fall of his chest. He’s not breathing.

I start compressions, counting as I press against his sinewy chest. I pause to tilt his head back and wrap my warm lips around his cold ones, blowing air into his mouth. I alternate between compressions and breaths until he suddenly spits up water, coughing and wheezing, the color returning to his blue lips.

“Thank goodness,” I whisper, pulling him into a hug.

“Whoa, what happened?” he croaks in a deep baritone that surprises me.

I pull away, finally getting a good look at him. His shoulder-length black hair is plastered to his face. Long lashes accent almond-shaped, chestnut-colored eyes. A strong jawline and broad nose balance out his softer features. He looks to be of Filipino descent, maybe biracial. Either way, he’s stunningly beautiful, unlike any man I’ve ever encountered.

“You okay?” he asks, breaking the trance.

“You almost drowned,” I nearly yell.

His chuckle comes out more as a cough. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“This isn’t a joke, you could’ve died.” The thought of not finding him in time is accompanied by a wave of panic.

“Good thing you were here to save me then.” He smiles and a sudden rush of lust makes me snatch my hands away from his shoulders, as though I’ve been singed.

He looks me up and down. “You’ve lost your clothes.” He focuses on my bra. “Not that I’m complaining.”

I look down to find that my bra is practically see-through, my dark areola and nipples on full display in the drenched fabric.

“Shit.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“My place isn’t far from here, if you want to dry your things off.” He’s polite enough to avert his eyes. I catch a flush of red in his high cheekbones.

I take a smidgen of pleasure in making a guy in his 20s blush. My hotel is only a few blocks from the beach, but I want to spend more time with this man who seems to be as attracted to me as I am to him. Plus, he probably shouldn’t be alone after such a traumatic experience, right?

“You might want to ask my name before inviting me into your home.”

He flashes another one of those panty-wetting smiles, offering his hand. “I’m Dillon. And you?”

“Davida.” I shake his hand in return, noting how my grip almost disappears in his large paw.

“Thank you for saving my life, Davida. I’ll have to figure out a way to repay you.” His touch lingers.

Am I blushing?

​

**DILLON**

As I descend the basement stairs, my eyes hone in on Davida’s backside. She’s bent over, leafing through my abundant record collection. Even in the loose-fitting t-shirt and polka dot board shorts that I’ve loaned her, her feminine figure remains alluring.

Her large breasts fill out the t-shirt that engulfs her narrow waist, the board shorts stretched across her ample ass. I enjoy the contrast of the red shorts against the deep brown of her flawless skin. From what I noticed on the beach, she works out on a regular basis.

“Sam Cooke? Marvin Gaye?” She looks back at me. “How old are you?”

I hand her a beer bottle and opener. “How old do you think I am?”

She cracks open her beer and takes a sip. Tilting her head to the side, she gives me a good once-over. Her eyes drop to my bare abs, lingering there. I rarely wear a shirt at home and purposely decided not to make an exception for my present company. The more attractive she finds me, the better.

“My eyes are up here,” I tease, used to the ogling. Hundreds of crunches a day, in various positions, has given me an 8-pack that’s hard to achieve for most guys.

She makes a face at me, a cross between a sneer and a grin. Having found out she’s a family doctor, I like discovering her playful side. “You certainly act like you’re in your 20s.”

“Ouch.” I smile at the barb.

“But your taste in music suggests you’re more mature than you look.”

“Thanks?” I say, sinking into the plush secondhand sofa. My body aches in various places, but Davida’s grin transforms the pain into a distant memory. She looks to be in her early 30s, her hair forming a tangled halo around her head that makes her look younger. Paired with her large eyes and pouty lips, she has an air of innocence that calms the oncoming butterflies.

She picks out a record. One of my favorites. “May I?”

“Do you know how to work it?”

She admonishes me with her eyes. “I’ve owned a record player probably since before you were born.”

She may have me there. “My bad. Most people I’ve met have never even listened to a vinyl record.”

“That’s because you’re a child.”

That stings a bit. “Hey, age is just a number.”

“Mmm,” she hums absently, removing the record from its sleeve. Her slender fingers are feminine and elegant, sparking thoughts of those hands running up my thighs, exploring higher. Pouting her luscious lips, she blows on the record. It’s an unnecessary gesture, as I take meticulous care of my record collection. After my top-of-the-line surfboards, my collection is the second most valuable thing I own.

Marvin Gaye’s seasoned voice fills the room. She does a little dance over to the couch, swaying her wide hips, and it seems like my first time hearing this album. Davida settles in next to me, leaving only about six inches between us. I grip my beer bottle, hoping the chill glass cools my rising body temperature. She isn’t the first woman I’ve invited back to my place, so why do I feel so nervous?

We sit without speaking, nursing our beers, the music filling the void of silence. I’ve never been at a loss for words around women. My swimmer’s physique ensures my popularity with a myriad of ages and I’ve had plenty of practice in the art of seduction.

But being this close to Davida, the gorgeous woman who selflessly saved my life, sweat is forming on the top of my lip and I haven’t even touched her. Maybe it’s because she’s older and a doctor that I feel intimidated. I need to tap into this raging attraction to summon the courage to make a move on her. If she leaves without me even trying, I’ll regret it.

“So, you never answered my question. How old do you think I am?”

She spies me from the side of her eye, leaning comfortably into the couch. “Hmm. 26?” The tone of her voice sounds uncertain and yet…hopeful? Is she guessing older on purpose?

“23.” I like correcting her, even for something as trivial as my age. I feel more in control and less like a virginal high schooler.

She fiddles with the naked ring finger on her left hand. She pauses, audibly gasping. “My wedding ring!”

I hide my frown. My general luck in life being what it is, of course she would turn out to be married. Not that her current situation will set me off course. Single women aren’t the only ones who express interest in me and I’ve never been a stickler for details. Mutual attraction and consent are my only requirements for sex.

“Where was the last place you had it?” I ask, throwing a cursory glance around my apartment.

She closes her eyes in deep thought and I find it adorable. She groans. “The beach. Before I swam out to find you.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll go look for it tomorrow. It may have come off while you were forcing kisses on me.”

“That was CPR, not kissing.”

“I see.” I grin. Davida punches my arm lightly.

“Right.” She downs the rest of her beer, a tiny bit escaping her lips and dribbling down her chin.

Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” clicks on, giving me the extra courage I need. I swipe the drop of beer from her chin with my thumb. Her eyes go wide. I start to pull away when she grabs my hand, stilling my movement. She locks eyes with me as she wraps her lips around my thumb, slowly taking it into her moist mouth.

I bite my bottom lip as my arousal skyrockets, a hard-on swelling in my shorts. There’s no hiding my excitement as her wet tongue circles my thumb. She releases my appendage with a pop, making my mouth water.

“Um, wow,” was all I can get out.

“Beer should never go to waste,” she says, placing her empty bottle on the ground. She holds my gaze and licks her lips.

Is this really happening? I want nothing more than to feel those lips on the parts of my body in most need of attention.

Empowered by the sensual vocals of Marvin Gaye, I caress her cheek, my hand slowly moving down to her neck. I lean in, gently guiding her to me.

“We can’t,” she breathes, just as I’m an inch from tasting the lips that have enraptured me. “I’m married.” She seems to say it more to herself than to me.

I focus on how she leans into my touch as I move my wet thumb across her lips. “It doesn’t bother me,” I whisper, bypassing her mouth for the crook of her neck. I trail kisses down the side of her neck, sucking on that sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder.

Davida moans. “Our marriage is open, though. In case you’re wondering.”

“I’m not.” I tug on her t-shirt to reveal a smooth shoulder, wondering if her skin will melt in my mouth.

I pepper kisses along her shoulder, adding a few licks for good measure. “Damn, you smell good.”

“It’s your body wash.” Her voice hums with pleasure. She showered when we first arrived at my apartment.

“It smells ten times better on you.”

Her slender hand makes contact with my bare chest and the gesture is all the encouragement I need. Cradling her face in both hands, I kiss her. Her mouth is as welcoming as I’d imagined, beckoning my tongue to explore her lips and warm mouth. As I deepen the kiss, blood rushes to the head of my dick, begging for her touch.

Reading my mind, she slides her hand down my chest and past my abs, coming to rest on my crotch. She squeezes my stiff cock. I growl for the first time in my life.

She chuckles against my mouth. “I hope that’s all for me.”

​

**DAVIDA**

I feel like a college sophomore again, feeling up a cute guy on a secondhand sofa in the basement. With Dillon I feel bold, like he’d take pleasure in me letting go, unlike Maurice who always wants to be in control.

I alternate between rubbing down his sculpted abs and fondling the growing bulge in his shorts. He’s thick, much thicker than my husband. My pussy drips just from kissing him. Good thing the shorts I’m wearing are made for swimming.

Dillon reaches behind me, lifting me up as though I weigh nothing, maneuvering me to straddle his lap.

“I’m clean,” he says between attacks on my lips. He slides his hand beneath my t-shirt, cupping my heavy breast. I throw my head back in unbridled gratification as he tweaks my pebbled nipple. He shoves my shirt up, his hot mouth locking on my sensitive nipple. This boy is a pro.

“Agghh,” I cry out. He sucks hard enough on my nipple for me to feel it in my clit. Grinding along the length of his cock, the rough stitching of the shorts enhances my excitement. Dillon rips open the velcro front of my shorts and cups my sopping wet pussy with his large hand.

“Shit, you’re wet,” he groans, rubbing two fingers against my slick folds. The sensation that had been building slowly suddenly blazes with his touch.

“Fuck,” I breathe out as he stretches my nipple with his teeth. “Don’t stop. I’m gonna come.”

He slides two fingers into my eager channel and I buck my hips, riding his long fingers like a cowgirl. “Say my name,” he growls.

“Dillon,” I whimper as I explode all over his hand. “Shit yes.” I ride out my orgasm, finally resting my damp forehead against his shoulder. He lifts my chin to kiss me with plenty of tongue and I familiarize myself with the taste of him, a unique blend of sweet and bitter from the beer.

“I want to fuck you.” He lays me on my back, settling between my legs. He rips open the front of his board shorts and starts to pull them down when I stop him.

“Leave them on.” I drink him in, entranced by his beautifully bronzed skin. The lines of his tight abs guide my eyes to the “V” that funnels down to the twitching dick he’s freed from his shorts. He’s got to be at least three fingers’ worth of thickness, maybe more. My pussy contracts with the need to be filled by him.

“Fine,” he says. “But I want you naked.”

I laugh as he yanks off my shorts, flinging them across the room. I pull the t-shirt over my head, fully exposed to his ravenous gaze. He explores my body, from my abundant breasts to my thick thighs. My clit throbs under his gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers as though in awe.

I guide him to sit properly on the couch and kneel between his legs. He throws back his head as I stick out my tongue and lick the head of his cock.

“You want me to suck your big dick?”

“Oh fuck, yes.” He looks down at me, his eyes widening as I lick the length of his cock, enjoying the masculine taste and smell of him.

I let a trail of saliva drip from my mouth onto his dick and he groans. I grab his cock with both hands, and twist in opposite directions, using the saliva as lubricant. I take as much of his cock into my mouth as I can, twisting as I prod the head of his cock with my tongue.

He rocks his hips and I meet his thrusts, removing one hand to take him in deeper. I suck and slurp, taking breaths in between. He stretches my mouth almost to the point of pain, but the fact that his dick is almost to thick to fit in my mouth makes me wetter.

He suddenly lifts me up by the arms and lays me back down on the couch. “The first time I come, it won’t be in your mouth. We can leave that for later.”

I spread my legs wider under his scrutiny, one leg hanging over the front of the couch. His gaze floats to my dripping center. “I’m on birth control.” I cup my breasts. He only nods as he watches me pinch my nipples.

“Touch yourself.” The words escape in barely a whisper.

I do as I’m told, suddenly feeling like the younger one in this situation, turned on by his authoritative tone. I use one hand to spread my swollen lips apart and expose the pink center of my vagina, using the fingers of my other hand to massage my sensitive clit. I grow wetter under his examination. He strokes his thick cock and my pussy gushes in a sudden orgasm.

Dillon covers my body with his own, his kisses frantic, making it hard for me to catch my breath. He pulls away, allowing me to come up for air. He stares into me eyes, his gaze determined. “You’re mine,” he says dipping the head of his cock into my soaking wet channel.

I slam my eyes shut, pushing my head back into the couch cushion. He eases forward and I breath through the pressure of him stretching my pussy beyond its usual boundaries.

“You feel so good,” I moan.

He bottoms out in his eagerness, his hairless balls pressing against my ass cheeks. “You’re so tight.” He sucks on my bottom lip like he wants to consume me. I’m silly putty in his capable hands. He begins to move, his strokes slow and precise. He rotates his hips, sending a jolt through my entire body.

“Just like that.” I want more of that ridiculously satisfying sensation. He obeys my command, increasing his pace as he positions his hips to hit just the right spot in quick succession. “Baby, yes. Harder.”

He pounds into me, a sheen of sweat clinging to his face and chest. I squeeze his hard ass cheeks, guiding him deeper into my core. “Come all over my dick, Davida.” His thrusts quicken. “I wanna fill your pussy with my cum.”

My name on his lips sends me straight over the edge. I shout my release, hoping there’s no one upstairs, my pussy mercilessly clenching around the dick that’s filling me to the brim.

“I’m coming!” Dillon gives one last, hard thrust before shooting a massive load into me. He rocks his hips as spurts of cum coat my vagina.

“Damn,” he whispers, collapsing on top of me. “I think I love you.”

I chuckle, finding it odd that I believe him. Sex has never been this urgent or explosive with anyone, as though more than lust has driven me on. I push thoughts of my husband to the back of my mind, focusing on the cum oozing out of my vagina, even with Dillon still inside of me.

My stomach flutters at the thought of how much cum he’ll fill me with the second time around.

​

**DAVIDA**

My phone vibrates from inside of my purse. Having seen my last patient for the day, I’m on my way out the door and almost don’t bother checking the caller. The number shows up as “Unknown” on my caller ID.

“Hello?” I answer, usually not one to take calls from unidentified numbers.

“Davida.” I immediately recognize the deep baritone of Dillon’s voice.

“How’d you get this number.” It had been only three days since we parted ways.

“I looked you up,” he says cryptically. I have a feeling he found one of my business cards while I was passed out from our third round of sex. “Where are you?” he asks.

“In my office.”

“Are you alone?”

My pussy clenches at the question. “Yes.”

“Me too. My cock is getting hard at the sound of your voice.”

My mouth waters. “Dillon…we shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t have called.” Though my marriage is open, Maurice and I had agreed to never see the same person more than once.

“I’m just being honest. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” He pauses. “I miss you.”

My chest aches at his words. “I miss you too.” I look down at the new gold wedding ring I’d bought to replace the old one.

We’d returned to the beach to search for my wedding ring and came up with nothing. After that, I decided to skip the last day of my conference to spend time with him. We’d taken breaks between lovemaking to talk and get to know each other. We discovered we had a lot more in common than sex and music.

“Lock the door and take off your panties.”

I hear the sound of velcro on the other end and can see his cock in my mind’s eye, jutting from his open shorts.

My heart skips a beat. Walking slowly across my office, I lock the door and close the blinds. My assistant is gone for the day, so there’s no risk of interruption. I notice the twinge of guilt at breaking the agreement I’ve made with Maurice, to break off any contact with sexual partners, but phone sex technically isn’t contact.

I lie down on the small office couch, lifting up my skirt with one hand and then shoving down my panties with the other. I breathe heavily into the phone. “Okay, they’re off.”

“Mmm,” he says. “What color are your panties?”

“Red. Lace.”

He whistles. “Tell me what they smell like.”

My desire hits the roof. I bring the panties to my nose, sniffing in the fragrance of my essence. “It smells sweet, like the pineapple I ate this morning.”

I catch the smack of his lips. “Rub your clit. Imagine my tongue trailing between your folds and licking your stiff little bud.”

“Dillon,” I gasp as I press hard against my clit, imagining his rough tongue doing exactly what he describes. My hips buck.

“How wet are you?” his breath is short, his words coming out in pants.

“Dripping wet, baby.” So wet, I fear I may stain my expensive leather couch.

“Ahh,” he says, as though in shock. “This lube is nowhere near as warm as your tight pussy.”

I can hear the squelching sounds of him jerking off and my nipples grow hard. I lick the small amount of drool pooling at the side of my mouth. I rub my clit faster and harder.

“Let’s come together,” I say, sounding almost desperate.

“I’m close, baby. Fuck, you make me hard.” His breathing grows quicker. “Say my name.”

“Dillon,” I squeak, the heat between my legs building, my fingers slippery with my natural lubricant.

“I’m coming.” His voice is high with ecstasy.

“Shoot your cum all over my tits, Dillon.”

He groans with a mix of pleasure and pain. “My cum is everywhere.”

Images of his cum erupting all over his tan hand wrapped around his bulging cock sends me over the edge and I moan in release, rocking my hips, wishing I really could feel his cum all over my tits. I’m lightheaded. I’ve come hard in a matter of minutes.

“I want to see you,” he whispers, his breathing labored.

“Me too,” I pant. I want to see him more than I should, but know if I do, my marriage would be in real danger.

“Ok. Pick me up at the airport on Saturday. Noon.” Dillon ends the call.

I twist the gold wedding band on my finger. Once more couldn’t hurt, right?

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/cip2p9/riding_the_wave_mfbwaminterracial