It was early afternoon, the sun beating down with that intense summer heat that makes your skin tingle even while you’re sitting in the shade. My wife and I were on a small nude beach on Rab Island, hidden among the pine trees.
We were lying under the thick shade of a tall pine tree. The scent of pine resin was strong, mixing with the salty tang of the sea. Beneath us, the ground was covered in coarse pebbles, and somewhere behind us the cicadas kept up their endless song.
The beach itself was tiny — maybe twenty people at most. The crowd was mixed: couples, singles, old naturists who probably knew each other for decades, and a few younger men and women who looked like they were still testing the waters of this lifestyle. Ages ranged from about eighteen to well into the eighties.
She was lying beside me, relaxed, sunbathing without her bikini top. My wife is 27, with a soft, curvy body — big hips, strong legs, a narrow waist, and 85B breasts that fit her frame perfectly. Long, straight brown hair spilled over her shoulders. On her fingers and toes, a neat French manicure and pedicure caught the light. Her skin was smooth and evenly tanned. Down below, she’s completely shaved, soft and bare, her small inner lips hidden between her outer ones.
The day was calm. I’d gone for a swim earlier, but now I was lost in my book. When I read, the world fades away. She said she wanted to swim again, so she headed to the water.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. I looked up and realized I couldn’t see her — not on the shore, not in the sea. This was a small beach; she couldn’t have gone far.
I stood up and began looking for her. I scanned the rocks, the little patch of woods behind the beach, even the far end near the waterline. No sign of her. My search lasted maybe five minutes, though it felt longer. I returned to my towel, sat down, and let my eyes drift toward the public restrooms — just two entrances in a small concrete building, one marked for women, one for men.
And then I saw her.
She was walking out of the men’s restroom. No surprise on her face, no rush in her step. She simply walked down the short path to the water and waded in, as if nothing had happened.
My gaze shifted immediately back to the door. A second later — maybe two — a young man stepped out. White, bald, muscular, no older than twenty. Naked, with a towel slung casually over his shoulder. He walked back to his spot like it was the most normal thing in the world.
That’s when I felt it. That strange, almost guilty cocktail of jealousy and arousal in the pit of my stomach. My heart picked up speed. In my shorts, I felt myself getting hard — fast, uncomfortably so. Within seconds I was rock-solid, a full 7 inches, and my mind was flooding with images I didn’t want but couldn’t stop.
When she came back to the towel, she seemed perfectly calm. She sat down, shook her hair loose, and said she’d cooled off.
I asked,
“Why were you in the men’s restroom?”
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Without missing a beat, she replied,
“No toilet paper in the women’s.”
I knew that was a lie. And I knew I was going to check.
On the way back to the car, neither of us said much. The silence felt heavy. In my head, I kept replaying the image of her stepping out of that men’s restroom, and him following just seconds later.
When we reached the parking lot, I asked her again. Same answer. I didn’t argue; I just said, “Okay.”
While she waited in the car, I walked back to the restrooms. I opened the women’s door. Inside, there was plenty of toilet paper. Rolls of it.
The drive back was quiet. The road wound through the hills, the late-afternoon sun casting long golden light across the landscape. My right hand rested on the gearshift, my left on her thigh. It wasn’t a comforting touch — it was possessive, almost testing her. Inside, I was a mess: part of me furious, part of me throbbing with the idea of her being used by another man.
When we got home, she spent a long time in the shower. I sat on the couch, listening to the water running, and feeling the pulse between my legs grow stronger.
She finally emerged, smelling fresh and clean. I walked up to her and, without many words, began touching her.
She tasted as she usually does. No trace of anything else.
I still don’t know if she lied to me. I don’t know if she touched him, kissed him, took him in her mouth, or more. I only know that the thought of her possibly doing it — and not telling me — makes me harder than I’d like to admit.
Last year I found a condom in our bathroom. She told me it was her sister’s. I believed her then. Today, I’m not so sure.