Amanda's Awakening

It was the trip to Mexico with my sister and her family that changed my life—my sex life I mean. Oh yes, there was more afterwards, lots more. It's not like I was struck by a bolt of lightening that instantaneously changed me from a somewhat prudish (well okay, maybe a good deal more than somewhat prudish) 28-year-old into a mature (not as in the "old" sense, but as in the "grown up" sense) woman who appreciated sex as an important and desirable part of her life, as opposed to something everyone expected you to like but you were never sure why. But the trip to Mexico with my sister Jolene's oversexed husband, Larry, started me down a road that radically changed my life, or at least my sex life, all for the better, at least as I see it today.

Before I describe what happened, you need a little background on me and on my sister and her husband.

First the basics: I'm Amanda, Amanda Tolefson. When this story starts I was a 28-year-old assistant credit manager for a mid-western distribution firm. Been working there ever since I got out of Northwestern at 22 with a business degree. Not a very exciting job, but it pays well, and the company treats its people well.

I have pale blue eyes and kind of dishwater blonde hair that's very thick and hangs down to my shoulders. Running and workouts at a gym near my home are a regular part of my life, so I'm still pretty close to my college weight. I'm reasonably tall, long in the legs, and, I always thought, a little flat chested, but a fair number of men have expressed a different opinion of my breasts, especially now that I'm willing to show them off a bit more than I did before Mexico. Yes, that's how I think of my life—before Mexico and after Mexico.

Aside from the sex part, which we'll get to later, that's pretty much me. Oh, and my taste in clothes has always run to conservative (my sister would say frumpy), or at least it did before Mexico. Dresses and skirts were long and not particularly tight, same with blouses and sweaters, underwear was best described as serviceable, certainly not racy, and makeup, if worn at all, was light, barely there. A lot of that has changed a bit since Mexico, but more about that later.

My older sister Jolene is different from me in more ways than I can count. She has dark brown hair and these sparkling blue eyes that drive men wild. And if her eyes aren't driving them wild, her body is. She is short and, well, I would describe her as voluptuous, with big breasts, a tiny little waist, and nice round hips that set atop shapely legs. Jolene is beautiful, and she knows it—has known it ever since she was twelve or thirteen, and she dresses to flaunt it. She doesn't dress slutty, mind you, but no man ever passes her by without a second look. A few have been known to step off curbs or walk into lampposts they didn't see because they were looking back over their shoulder at Jolene as she walked away.

As for college, well that was never for her. She started working as an exotic dancer as soon as she was old enough to be legal. The job was a perfect fit. When you've got a great body and you love to flaunt it, what could be better? Unlike a lot of girls in that business, she was smart about it. She saved the money (and the money was good), stayed away from the drugs, and didn't date anyone she met through work (customers or co-workers).

That's not to say she was celibate during her years as a stripper. Far from it! She seemed to be able to find a never-ending supply of men of all ages (and a few women) who were happy to fuck her brains out. Jolene recruited most of her sex partners from our church, which always amazed me. Unfortunately, discretion never was one of Jolene's skills (unlike cock sucking). It got so bad that our parents eventually moved to another church where they wouldn't be known as "that girl's parents." They still aren't on speaking terms with Jolene.

When she was twenty-five she took her savings and bought a small flower business that she still runs today. I know, I know—going from stripper to selling floral arrangements sounds crazy, but it has worked for Jolene. She likes working with the flowers and her looks don't hurt at all on the sales side of the business. She can talk any man who walks in the door into buying a bigger arrangement than he planned on, and the hours are much better than working the strip joints. She loves it.

Jolene's husband, Larry, is a piece of work. To start with, he is big—tall (about 6-4) and rangy. He doesn't look like he is as heavy as he is, but there is a lot of muscle packed onto that lean frame. He played tight end at Northwestern. Now he sells corrugated boxes, and his sales skills are legendary. He is good looking and charming. Some would say charismatic. People just can't say no to him. In college people used to say he could charm a nun out of her habit, and would. I could see that in him as soon as I met him.

Okay, okay. I know I promised you some background on our sex lives. Fair enough. After all this is a sex story.

Jolene was what you might call an early adopter. I won't go into all the juicy details, but once she figured out just how attractive her increasingly voluptuous figure made her to the opposite sex (and even to other girls in some cases), she took full advantage of it, so that even before she went to work as a stripper she knew a lot more about sex than I knew by the time I got out of college. I won't say she was a slut, but she wasn't inclined to say no, and she wasn't reluctant to do the propositioning herself, if she found the man (or woman) attractive.

With Jolene there was never any sense of guilt about sex. She reveled in it. And she has always loved to tell me about it. The first few times she tried telling me about what she was doing, I totally freaked out and ran away from her. Knowing what I know now, I wish I had hung around and listened. I would have learned a lot and would have saved myself a lot of grief that came with my marriage.

Now Larry's sex history I don't know quite so much about, since I didn't grow up with him like I did Jolene. I first knew him in college, and by the time I met him he had the reputation of a guy who could and would talk any woman he met out of her pants and into his bed. That is why I introduced him to Jolene. I was confident that he would badger me until I did something that I considered morally wrong—which as it turned out was eventually true (more to come). I thought he was dangerous, but I knew he was just the kind of guy she liked, and he was ecstatic that I would introduce him to a stripper. How good could life get? He didn't have to say a word to get Jolene out of her clothes. She was actually naked the day I took him down to her club and introduced them. Funny thing though—after they got married, it was Larry who convinced Jolene to give up stripping and buy the flower business.

Larry and Jolene made a perfect pair. First, they both dearly loved sex in any form or fashion they could dream up, but they were both prepared to be reasonably tolerant of dalliances by the other, so long as they remained fully informed. That is, Larry had to disclose all the lurid details of his extramarital seductions to Jolene and vice versa.

Oh and me? Yes I understand you want a bit on my pre- and post-Mexico outlook on sex. Fair enough. First, you should understand that I didn't think I was a sexual prude. I had fooled around in high school and college enough so that I knew what went where and why, but as I now look back on it, while I was not a virgin when I married (three years before Mexico), I really didn't know much of anything about the things that make sexual relations between men and women (or between the same sexes) such a major and frequently nearly obsessive part of many peoples' lives. My experiences on the trip to Mexico were the beginning of a delicious learning process on the subject. Looking back on it, I guess I really was a prude before I went to Mexico, or at least very boring.

My husband was probably even more ignorant than me when we got married, and we did very little to educate each other during the year and a half we remained married. I didn't keep score, but I doubt if I had more than a dozen orgasms with him during the time we were married. It was pathetic.

He did discover a real interest in sex about a year after we married, but unfortunately (for me) it was focused on a gay legal assistant in his law office. It is virtually impossible to put into words the devastating effect of your husband telling you he would rather fuck his male legal assistant than you, and could he please have a divorce, thank you very much.

After my divorce, my sister decided to take me under her wing. I became her project. Before the divorce she had refrained from sharing the lurid details of her sex life with me because of my prudish objections. Now she insisted that I tell her about my sex life (what there was of it) and listen to her detailed descriptions of what she and Larry were doing and what she had done before Larry. What an education that was. But pre-Mexico none of it convinced me to become a slut or otherwise change my limited approach to sex. It simply made me realize that there was another way of looking at sex beyond the rather Puritan outlook I had received from my mother.

There was one thing that changed. Prior to my divorce I had always masturbated occasionally. Not very effectively I admit, and always with a good dose of guilt, but I just couldn't seem to resist getting some relief from my non-sex life every month or two. After hearing Jolene's lurid stories I found myself escalating from monthly to weekly and eventually to daily or maybe even twice a day. And while I didn't go out and buy any sex toys, I got much better at using my fingers. Instead of quickly rubbing one off as I had in the past, I now found myself spending an hour or more bringing myself to the edge of a climax as I fantasized about Jolene's lurid stories. I could spend half an hour just dreaming about what Larry's erect cock must look like while two of my fingers sawed in and out of my dripping cunt (yes, cunt—a word I would never have used pre-Mexico).

When Jolene first suggested I join them on their trip to Mexico I declined, fearing that I would be nothing but a third wheel to her and Larry. Her answer to that was that Larry's brother, Art, his wife, Linda, their three kids, and his parents were all going on the trip, so the whole concept of a third wheel was irrelevant. This was to be a real family adventure, complete with in-laws of varying degrees of likeability, screaming kids, and all the other joys and conflicts that come with a large family vacation. My challenge, Jolene suggested, would be to not be so reticent that I became invisible. "Come on along," she said. "We'll put you in charge of wrangling kids."

I reluctantly agreed to go along, and a week later found myself lying on a nearly empty beach in front of a little town on the west coast of Baja. I was wearing my frumpy old one-piece swimsuit, and my sister, lying next to me was, as I expected, wearing a minimalist two-piece. She had grumbled about wearing even that, but apparently the locals frowned upon nudity on the beaches adjacent to the little town we were staying in. If we went a few miles up the coast, no one cared, but here in their town, nudity was not permitted. The problem of course was that the beaches where Jolene could get away with her exhibitionism were wild places with crashing Pacific surf that would grab you and drag you out to sea if you stuck your toe in the water. The beach by the town was in a protected cove.

Art and Linda's kids, aged 6, 8, and 10, had been frolicking in modest surf in the sheltered cove for most of the day. My assignment was to make sure they refreshed their sun block every few hours, didn't swim too far from shore, or get too carried away with their horseplay in the surf. The sun was fierce. I had been thrashing about in the water with the kids for a good part of the day, but now I was stretched out in the shade of a pair of beach umbrellas next to Jolene and Linda. The kids were building and destroying sandcastles under their own beach umbrella. They had had enough sun too.

Jolene and Linda had spent the day alternating between the sun and the shade of the beach umbrellas and reading a couple of trashy bodice rippers they had brought along. Based on their descriptions of the books, I thought they might have been a bit beyond the bodice-ripper category, but no one could tell that from the covers.

About that time the guys showed up. They had been deep-sea fishing. No luck, but they had consumed a good deal of beer, so the day was far from a total loss. Art said he was going to go in and nap and Larry went into the water for a swim. Linda and Jolene said they needed to go in and work on dinner, so they gathered up the kids and most of our gear and headed back to the big house we were renting, leaving me with my things, a single umbrella, and one of Jolene's trashy novels that I found beneath my bag shortly after they left. Jolene's parting comment was, "Don't let Larry drown."

"Yeah right," I said to myself. "How am I supposed to pull that big lug out if he gets in trouble?"

But he didn't get in trouble. He swam back and forth about thirty yards from the water's edge. When I found Jolene's abandoned book I began to idly leaf through it. "Wow," I said to no one in particular (I now had the beach to myself). "This stuff really is lurid." The art of the bodice ripper had apparently changed since I read a couple of them in college. "No wonder they call it mommy porn," I said to myself.

I began reading randomly in the middle of the book and soon found myself hooked. It certainly wasn't great literature, but it was written well enough so that I wanted to keep turning pages. That probably had more to do with the sex than the quality of the writing. It was also making me horny as hell. I had to admit that notwithstanding my prudish disapproval, I was enjoying it in a guilty pleasure sort of way.

About that time Larry came wading out of the surf and sat down on the towel at my feet. I discreetly put the book aside, but I'm sure he saw what I was reading.

"Burn off the beer?" I asked.

He laughed. "Ah, I didn't really have that much. But you're right. Exercise helps. What are you reading there?"

Oops. Busted. "Oh, just a paperback Jolene left behind."

Larry laughed. "Some of her mommy porn, eh?"

I blushed. "Well, I wouldn't go that far." I was silent for a moment and then confessed, "It is pretty racy."

"Yup, they are."

"But it's trash. I mean as far as literature goes."

"Oh for sure," he said, which made me smile. I doubted if Larry could even spell literature, much less know it if he saw it. He had majored in football and sex at Northwestern.

"But a friend of mine in the book business tells me that it's profitable as hell."

I laughed. "I suppose it is."

"Okay. I'm going to get a shower and head in. I need another beer," he said as he stood.

"I'll be along in a few minutes," I said as he walked away. "I have to tidy this stuff up."

"Okay. See you. I'll save a beer for you."

Actually what I wanted to do was to finish the last page of the chapter I had been on when he waded out of the surf. I was so horny I couldn't stand it, and I wanted to see how the orgy I was reading about finished off. Of course it didn't finish. Porn orgies are really difficult to end. There's always someone who can get it up for another round. It just carried on into the next chapter, but I elected to save the next chapter for later.

I decided I better go in, and truth be told, I wanted to give myself a quickie in the beach shower before I went in. I knew it was a public shower, but I was just too horny to care, and really, the beach was empty now. Who would be there?

There were two showers in the little park behind the beach—one marked Hombres and one marked Señoritas. The showers were in side-by-side wooden shacks that shared a common wall. The buildings obviously had been there for years, the planking weathered and warped, with no vestige of paint remaining. I pushed the door to the Señoritas' side open and stepped in, leaving most of my things alongside the door. All I took inside was a knit sack containing my beach wrap and a towel.

The door, which hung badly on its rusted hinges, creaked as it opened and had to be lifted to close sufficiently to fasten the simple hook-and-eye latch that passed for a lock. The floor was aging concrete, stained from the years, and rough under foot. There was a rusted cover on the drain in the center of the floor, something better not to step on I thought. Wooden benches lined the back and side walls, and there were two shower risers along the wall shared with the Hombres' facility. There were a couple of large nails on the back wall to hang towels and garments on, along with a number of holes in the wall where more serviceable hooks had been in the past. The whole thing provided more an illusion of privacy than the real thing, with the warped boards allowing light to flood in through the cracks between them. Anyone who wanted to could look between some of the boards if they got close enough. There was no roof to speak of, merely remnants of one that had been there before a hurricane had torn it up. It had never been repaired, but really, why spend money on a roof for a space that was intended to get wet?

I sat on one of the benches and took a deep breath. I really wanted to masturbate, but I was freaking out about the semi-public nature of the place. I needed the relief, and I feared it would be difficult back at the house—too many people and too much going on at this time of day. So I took a deep breath and pulled the top of my one-piece swimsuit down, exposing my white breasts to the dappled light coming through the remnants of the roof. I put a hand beneath each breast and lifted it as though offering it to a lover.

Just exposing my breasts in this place was deliciously nasty. Yes, I know—people are supposed to change clothes in this place, so what is the big deal about being half naked. But changing clothes wasn't what I was about, was it? Oh sure, I knew I was going to eventually wash the salt out of my hair and my swim suit and put my beach wrap on to go back to the house, but right now I was here to masturbate. So nasty. My pussy was on fire. I had never done anything like this.

Just as I leaned back and began to massage my breasts, I heard a noise from the Hombres' side of the wall. Oh shit, I thought. I'm not alone. I should shower and get out of here.

But I didn't want to. Instead I leaned back and resumed massaging my tits. It felt just too good to stop. I heard the shower start in the adjoining room and that encouraged me. "I'll bet that water is cold," I told myself with a smile. "He won't stay under the shower for long." By now I had pushed the crotch of my swimsuit aside, and I was sliding a finger into my cunt. God I was wet. Jolene's trashy paperback had really gotten me going.

The shower stopped in the other room. I chuckled quietly. I knew he couldn't take that cold water for long. Then I heard a rhythmic sound I couldn't immediately identify. It sounded like someone lathering himself with soap, but it was rhythmic. I smiled. Yes. He's lathered himself up and now he's masturbating. Yes, it must be. Oh how nasty. Whoever he is, he's doing the same thing I am.

"I need to see him. The cracks between the warped boards are perfect," I told myself. I still had a finger in my pussy, but my focus now was on the rhythmic sound of my neighbor jacking off. "Who is it?" I wondered.