This is a sequel to "Show Time."  It is a new, more elaborate, and 
somewhat more daring adventure, with a beach setting and a larger 
cast.  




  

                  SHOW TIME II: SPRING BREAK

                             by

                         C.Lakewood



    It had been some months since my wife and I had put on that 
show in the Santa Monica hotel room window (beautifully caught on 
video by my protégé, Jeff, unbeknownst to Betty).  Both Betty and 
I have long been privately kinky, but she's become an even greater 
exhibitionist since her introduction to public humiliation that 
memorable night.  All her former reluctance has disappeared, and 
she has been bugging me to set up another "adventure."  Since she 
is a high school teacher, however, and ultra-conscious of her 
reputation, it would have to take place out of town...and, 
preferably, out of state.    

    Betty is in her late 30s, but looks a few years younger.  She 
has short, prematurely greying, light brown hair.  She's 5'4" and 
127 pounds (now), with a high forehead, thin expressive lips, a 
roman nose, and a nicely toned figure.  Her plump tits with their 
large, dark areolae, still sag very little, considering her age.  
With my encouragement, she's turned into a hot, compulsive 
masochist and frequent masturbator (masturbatrix?), as well as a 
wannabe show-off.  

    I'd been thinking hard about the next setup and wanted to do 
something a bit different.  I either discarded or postponed several 
possibilities and finally decided on taking her to Florida for 
Spring Break....  

    (Of course, Jeff and his camcorder would be there, too, but she 
needn't know that.  In fact, she'd freak if she found out.  Jeff is 
now 20, a sophomore in college, but, two years ago, he was in my 
wife's class -- was teacher's pet, as a matter of fact.  A fairly 
good-looking, well-built, but somewhat geeky kid, he was always 
staying after class for extra help -- even though he was an "A" 
student.  He still comes over to the house during the summers to 
help with the yard work -- and to ogle Betty while she works in 
the garden, wearing only a sweat-soaked t-shirt and thin cotton 
shorts.  She always made sure that it was plausibly innocent -- but 
he always left with a raging hard-on.  And I always spanked her 
soundly afterward -- but it didn't seem to discourage her any.  I 
collared Jeff after one of these occasions, took him out for 
coffee, and had a long, frank conversation with him, by the end 
of which we had worked out the essentials of the Santa Monica 
adventure that I described in "Show Time.")  
 
    I broke the news to Betty on New Year's Day, so she would have 
more than ample opportunity for several visits to a tanning salon.  
I also warned her that I would be buying her a new bikini, the 
exact cut of which was as yet unknown, so she'd better be ready for 
anything by getting her pubic hair removed entirely.  She blushed, 
but agreed.  She even joined a gym and began faithfully working out 
three evenings a week.  
 
    In mid-February, I had to make a brief trip to Southern 
California and took the opportunity to visit several beach-wear 
shops, looking for just the right bikini.  I found it in a little 
place run by a young Latino.  The suit was from Australia, made by 
an outfit called "Wicked Weasel."  It was white, just three thin 
lycra triangles and some strings.  One triangle seemed little 
bigger than an eyepatch (maybe 4" long and no more than 3" at its 
widest); it and three strings constituted the bikini bottom.  The 
other two triangles, held together by more strings, formed the bra. 
It appeared to be very well-made and was much, much smaller than 
the most daring suit Betty had heretofore worn.  It was unlined and 
pretty sheer.  The clerk told me it was called a "micro."  (He had 
a couple of even smaller models on order, but I judged this one 
perfect for my plans.)  
 
    He also pointed out that it was sheer when dry, but virtually 
transparent when wet.  Then he grinned and asked who it was for.  
I told him "my wife...a high school teacher, who needed to 
be...well...taught a lesson."  His grin got even bigger at that.  
I showed him a photo of Betty I carry in my wallet: a beach shot 
of her in a nice, but fairly conservative bikini.  But I promised 
to send him a photo of her wearing the "micro."  The suit cost was 
$61.42, including tax -- and well worth it. 
 
    I refused to show the suit to Betty until the actual moment of 
truth.  She stewed and fretted, but that was part of the game.  Her 
tan, meanwhile, progressed well.  Three months in the gym -- plus 
extra aerobics at home, endless laps in the school pool, and a 
modest diet -- had really gotten her into great shape.  And her 
hairless crotch looked (and felt) wonderful.  

		******************************

    We left for Florida at the beginning of the 4th week in March.  
On our first day, we took it easy, just scouting some locations 
and resting up.

    The following day, we went down to a beach changing hut, and I 
had her strip naked.  Then I made her stand on tip-toes while I 
thumb-cuffed her to an overhead pipe.  

    She was already quite aroused...her nipples stiff and her cunt 
positively drooling.  But I knew I could improve things. 

    I unwrapped one of my special suppositories and showed it to 
her.  It was pale pink, 2" long and less than 1" in diameter, and 
composed mainly of lubricant with just a hint of irritant.  She 
recognized it and shivered, but also must have been relieved that 
I hadn't chosen any of the three stronger formulations.  I inserted 
it deep into her cunt; it would take a few minutes to melt.

    Then I fingered her dripping cunt and smeared the juice around 
her asshole.  She became frantic now.

    "Pleeeez...oh, please d-don't...don't goo-oose me...please...." 

    (She always tried begging...and it never worked.)

    "Oh, god...p-p-pleeeezz.  You know it-it's s-so s-sensitive...."  

    "What is so sensitive, Betty?"

    "M-my...unh...my a-asshole...oh, my god...m-my poor 
ass-hole...."

    (By now she was blushing and squirming and putting on her 
tormented, waif-like expression, in an attempt to win sympathy 
from her "cruel" husband...who was, after all, just giving her 
what she wants, if only she would admit it.)

    I played with her asshole a bit, and then inserted a 
suppository there, too. 

    She's very ticklish, and being tickled in bondage always 
arouses her to a fever pitch.  So I spent a few leisurely minutes 
fingering her ribs and tits and armpits.  She squirmed and moaned 
(softly, lest passersby hear her). 

    Then I removed the light bulb from its overhead socket and 
screwed in an adapter.  Bringing out the big pink-and-white Oster 
massage wand, I plugged it in, turned it on, and began teasing her 
cunt with it.

    "Oooh, ahhah! Oooo, ga-god...." 

    After a bit, I checked my watch.  It was time to stuff a remote 
controlled egg into her.  Once I'd snugged it right up against her 
G-spot, I resumed playing with the vibro-massager.
 
    "Oh, god...th-tha' damn egg...aaahh...oohh....  
Aammm...ahhh...g-gonna hafta w-w-w-wearrrr ittt...awahl 
d-daay?"

    "Of course you are.  It'll keep you cumming, sweetheart.  
Don't you think your public deserves to watch you cum...and 
cum...and cum?"

    When I switched the vibrator off (momentarily), she tried to 
calm herself. 

    "You're really going to make me cum in front of all those high 
school and college kids...aaaaaa...oooohhh...."

    "Oh, yes, I am indeed.  I want you to put on a good show for 
your audience.  You want that, too, right?  And you do agree that 
they deserve to watch you cum, right?"  

    Inflamed by that idea, she bucked and humped.  And just to 
help things along, I flicked the big vibrator on and off.

    "Ohhh, yesss...yes, I d-do...do w-w-want to cumm f-for 
th-them...please...."

    Then I touched the vibrator to her clit.  And the first part 
of a serial orgasm hit her.  I continued playing with her until 
she was limp, but so sensitive that she'd be cumming from the 
slightest stimulus now.  

    I removed her thumb-cuffs, stuffed her discarded clothes into 
my duffel (along with the cuffs, socket adapter, and vibrator), 
tossed her a paper bag, and took my leave.

    "I'll wait for you outside...but only for 3 minutes.  If we 
get separated, I'll call you on the cell phone that's in the bag, 
along with your new bikini and some other stuff...."

		******************************

    In fact, it took her about 7 minutes to find nerve enough to 
leave the hut, but it didn't matter; I hadn't waited even a few 
seconds.  By the time she self-consciously exited the hut, I was 
comfortably set up less than 100 yards away, wearing a different 
hat and shirt, and watching through my binoculars.  She was 
stunning...and the suit was already transparent from sweat and 
cunt-juice.  She looked around nervously for a moment before I 
called her cell phone.  The chirping of the phone startled her, 
but she recovered and answered timidly.

    "Where are you?" she wailed.

    "Gone.  You were late, so you'll just have to do without me 
for a bit."   

    "Ohmigod....  I'm s-so scared and nervous and embarrassed.  
People will see me...."

    "I want them to see you.  I bet there's a whole bunch of horny 
young guys watching your tits jiggle right now."  She was unable 
to prevent her tits from bouncing up and down as she pranced 
barefoot across the hot sand.     

    "And I want them to be able to imagine your gaping cunt, too, 
drooling juice."

    "Oh, please...I might as well be naked.  Everybody'll be able 
to see right through this damn suit.  And that goddamn egg inside 
me -- it's off, but still...I can FEEL it...'specially when I 
move....  Are you really going to make me cum right out in public, 
where everyone can see me?"

    "Oh, yes, baby.  They can not only see the clear outlines of 
your nipples and cunt, they can practically see your clit throb 
and your drooling cunt juices wet the crotch of your bikini."  (I 
was almost as aroused as her, and she was practically feverish 
already.)  

    She moaned, her breathing became ragged, her hips twitched, 
and the egg caressed her G-spot.  She was sweating heavily, and 
not just from the heat and humidity, either.  I knew she was 
monumentally excited at the prospect of being exhibited nearly 
naked to strangers (most of them horny young adults) on a public 
beach.

    I had deliberately picked a small, out-of-the-way, rather 
sparsely populated beach that ran more to college kids and 
20-somethings than to families.  Betty's thong bikini was 
extreme, but hardly shocking to this bunch.  She did stand out, 
though, and she would be closely observed -- ogled, in fact.  

    "Do you see four teenagers sprawled on big yellow-and-white 
striped towels?  They're maybe 25 yards from you."

    "Y-yes...."

    "I want to speak to the cute Asian girl in the green bikini; 
take the phone over to her and ask her to talk with me.  Hand over 
your sack when she asks for it.  And be sure to be very, very 
respectful to her and her friends.  Until we meet up again, 
consider them your superiors.  Understand?"

    "Yes...sir."

		******************************

    I did not really have to speak to the girl, Sasha, who was one 
of Jeff's college friends -- Jeff had set up this little tableau, 
and each of the kids had been well-briefed, but we needed to make 
Betty think it was spontaneous and that she was truly out on a limb 
without a safety net.  Jeff and his camcorder were, at that moment, 
ensconced on the roof of a nearby hut.  Sasha also had a tiny 
micro-cassette recorder among her things.  It didn't always function 
perfectly, but, between it and lip-reading, I'm pretty certain all 
the dialogue below is accurate.

    Our bogus conversation lasted about 5 minutes, after which 
Sasha regarded Betty cooly.  "So your name's 'Betty,' eh?  Somewhat 
old fashioned.  Are you an 'old fashioned girl,' Betty?"

    "I g-guess so..., ma'am."

    "My name's 'Sasha,' but you can call me 'ma'am' if you want 
to.  And the guy on the phone tells me you're 'a high school 
teacher who needs to be taught a good lesson.'  What d'you teach?"

    "English, ma'am...."

    (This was interesting.  Perhaps, to Betty, calling Sasha 
'ma'am' seemed more servile and submissive than calling her 
'miss.')

    "Well, today I think you'll have to teach us some sex ed.  
Okay?" Sasha sneered.

    "Whatever you say, ma'am."

    "Is your cunt wet?"  

    Betty nodded.

    "Okay.  Right now, on a scale of 1-10, how close to cumming 
are you?"

    "A-about...a s-seven, ma'am."

    "Good enough, to begin with.  Whenever I say 'Number' to you, 
you will give me a status report.  And you're not allowed to cum 
without my permission."

    Sasha stretched, languidly, and then tossed Betty a large 
plastic bottle.  "I need more sunblock."  I could see Betty's skin 
darken even more; I knew she was blushing furiously.  And she was 
breathing so rapidly and shallowly that I was half afraid she'd 
hyperventilate.  She squirted out a liberal dollop of lotion into 
her hands and began applying it to Sasha's tawny skin.  Face, neck, 
shoulders....  "Rub it well in, girl, and give me a good massage at 
the same time."  Sasha's tone was supremely condescending. 

    "Yes, ma'am," Betty murmured.  Arms, upper chest, back, taut 
belly....  Betty was really trembling now, and her nipples were 
clearly even stiffer, apparently about as big as the tips of my 
index fingers.   

    Sasha lay flat and spread her legs.  Betty leaned forward, and 
her nostrils flared.  She could smell the girl's arousal.  She 
licked her lips.

    "Number," Sasha said.

    "Eight."

    (Apparently Betty found it exciting to play dutiful body 
servant to a girl almost 20 years younger.  She had never given 
any indication that she was at all bi, so this was interesting.)

    "Better be careful," Sasha warned.

    Betty went back to work, massaging the girl's crotch (under 
the edges of the bikini), soft inner thighs, sleek outer thighs, 
shapely calves....

    "Kiss each of my toes, lovingly, before you grease 'em up."

    "Oh, ma'am...."

    Betty did manage to control herself -- I don't know how -- and 
squatted back on her heels when she'd finished.

    Sasha smiled thinly.  "Now do my friends: Jason, Ricky, 
Frannie."

    (Jason was a large, blonde jock, with an impressive bulge in 
the front of his orange trunks.  Ricky was a skinny black kid 
wearing a scarlet Speedo.  And Frannie was a slightly chubby, 
moderately attractive girl, in a purple mailot.  Betty dealt with 
each of them efficiently and then rested.)  

    "Number," Sasha said.

    "Seven."

    Sasha chuckled softly.  "I'm thirsty; I imagine we all are.  
There's a refreshment stand up that way."  She gestured languidly.  
"Go find out what they've got and the prices."

    "Yes, ma'am."

    Betty trudged almost 50 yards up the beach, attracting more 
admirers all along the way, checked the signs at the refreshment 
stand, and headed back to Sasha.  That one, meanwhile, was fiddling 
with the remote control.  When Betty was about 15 feet away, she 
suddenly stiffened and let out a half-stifled yelp.

    "Number," Sasha said, coolly.

    "Aaaah!  T-ten!  Tennn!"    

    "Well, come on, then."  Sasha was beckoning.

    Betty managed to stagger forward a few steps...and then 
relaxed when Sasha took her thumb off the remote.  

    "Did I say you could cum?" Sasha demanded.

    "No, ma'am."

    "But you went ahead and did it anyway?"

    "Yes, but...."

    "No excuses.  We'll settle this later.  Right now, I'm still 
thirsty.  What have you to report?"

    "Um....  The drinks are all pretty generic -- lemonade, root 
beer, raspberry tea, and something called "Kookie-Kola" -- one 
size, one price: $1.99."

    "Okay," Sasha said.  "Tea for me and a lemonade for you."  She 
handed over $4.00.  "They can keep the change."         

    So Betty made the trek again, and, after drinking the lemonade, 
she was sent off for a root beer for Jason and another lemonade for 
her, then a tea for Frannie and another lemonade, then a tea for 
Ricky...and yet another lemonade.  On her next-to-last trip, Sasha 
triggered the egg again, briefly, but Betty was ready for it and 
kept on coming despite the fluttering of her G-spot.  (That is, 
"coming" but not "cumming," as it were; she managed to stifle an 
orgasm this time.)

		******************************   

    After Betty finished her third lemonade, Sasha told her to set 
the last one aside temporarily, because it was time she settled up 
for that unauthorized orgasm.  Betty had to stand, facing the 
beach, with her feet well apart and her hands on her head, fingers 
interlaced, while Sasha played with various combinations on the 
remote control.  Betty now had permission to cum as much as she 
wanted, but was under orders to announce it whenever she hit a new 
"Number."  

    She began as a "five" and quickly accelerated up the scale to 
"ten."  Sasha proceeded to play her like a piccolo, leaping from 
one high note to the next.  I was so entranced that I forgot to 
time the exhibition, and I even lost track of the number of orgasms 
she underwent (7? 8? more? -- a hell of a lot of them, anyway).  
Betty alternated between rigid and drooping, between knock-kneed 
and bow-legged, between mute agony and babbling euphoria.  And 
still not a hint of resistance -- no hesitation, no pleading.  Legs 
trembling, hips grinding, mouth drooling, Betty seemed completely 
rapt by what might be called "submission narcosis."

    Inevitably, people began to coalesce into a ring, with Betty 
at the center.  They were mostly male, of course, though there 
were a fair number of females (half were wide-eyed and half blasé). 
The gawkers, whether male or female, were loud and high-spirited, 
and many were drunk or stoned.  I worried some about things getting 
out of hand, but I had picked the right beach and the right time -- 
there just weren't enough people there to form the critical mass of 
a riot.  I relaxed and went back to watching my wife cumming, again 
and again, to entertain the throng of young people.     

    For the last part of the of the show, Sasha had Betty standing 
on her toes and reporting her "Number" continuously.  For a while, 
it amused Sasha to try to keep Betty stuck on "nine."  She had 
Jason and Ricky fetching buckets of chilly sea water, and she 
alternated short pulses of the vibrator (which revved Betty up) 
with thorough drenchings (which brought her down).

    (I certainly hoped that Jeff, boy cinematographer, was getting 
everything.  This was a lot more complex than the setup in Santa 
Monica had been.  And he had mentioned the possibility of getting a 
film student buddy to operate a second camera.  But I wouldn't know 
until I got home and watched a copy of the edited tape.)  

     At last, Sasha put away the remote.  "Take 5," she said.  
Betty sank to the ground with a groan.

    "You've still got one more lemonade," Sasha reminded her, as 
the spectators began to wander off.

		******************************

    I had thoughtfully included, along with the other things in 
the sack, a soft, pink rubber ball (about the size and weight of 
a tennis ball).  And I'd suggested to Sasha over the phone that 
she play a game of "fetch" with Betty.  Sasha seemed to really 
like the notion, and there was a lilt in her voice as she 
explained the game to Betty.

    Sasha held up the ball.  "We will now play a really wonderful 
game called 'fetch.'  I'll toss this ball, and you'll run it down, 
pick it up, and get back here just as fast as you can...with the 
ball in your mouth.  It'll be a good workout for you and a good 
show for all the spectators.  But you'd better hustle.  If I have 
reason to think you're operating at less than maximum capacity, 
you'll regret it.  Okay?"

    Betty looked mortified.  "Yes, ma'am."

    "Number."

    "S-s-six."

    Sasha paused and looked about.  She was quite fit and could 
heave a ball like that a good distance.  High up on the beach, the 
sand was pretty loose, and the ball wouldn't roll well there.  But 
on the flat areas near the water's edge, it would bounce, skip, and 
roll along quite merrily.  To begin with, Sasha tossed it casually 
almost 50 feet.  Betty dashed after it like a natural retriever.  
Sasha was quite amused at her eagerness to please.  
 
    Boobs bouncing, buttocks flexing, legs churning, arms pumping 
-- Betty did put on quite a show for the many onlookers.  She was 
attracting a lot of attention, much of it quite noisy. 

    Sasha's next throw was harder and in the opposite direction 
this time, to leeward.  It went much farther on the fly and then 
bounded down the beach before Betty finally caught up with it.  
Again, her barely confined tits bounced wildly, this way and that, 
as she sprinted back, holding the ball in her mouth.  

    She looked more than a bit different than she had in Santa 
Monica.  Her skin was now a rich, golden tan, her hair lank 
and faded to honey blonde, and her body sweaty, trim, and fit.  
(Fortunately, under the circumstances, her cardio-vascular and 
respiratory systems were in excellent condition.)  She was 
different psychologically, too.  She now seemed to be embracing 
those submissive desires that she had in the past sometimes 
accepted, sometimes denied.       
 
		******************************  

    Sasha kept Betty busy for the next 20 minutes or so, until she 
was at last satisfied that the woman was near the end of her 
tether.  She was just putting the ball away when a large shadow 
fell across her lap.  It was a beach cop, and he wasn't happy.  I 
immediately decided I should put in an appearance before things 
went too far.

    By the time I got there, he had shooed away Sasha and her 
friends and was concentrating on Betty -- specifically her 
appearance, behavior, and lack of ID.  But then I showed up, 
providentially, with her wallet and a reasonably plausible story.  
We were also sober and deferential, which he must have found a 
pleasant change during these Spring Break invasions.  So, he 
eventually just gave Betty a stern lecture and a warning to 
behave herself, advised us to get off the beach before dark, 
and sent us on our way.
 
    By the time the cop dismissed us, it was late enough that I 
decided just to pack it in, get the car, and head back to the 
hotel.  Betty, full of lemonade, asked to be allowed to go pee 
first, but I refused.

    I waited until we'd walked well into the huge parking area and 
then made her stop and stand there barefoot on the hot blacktop 
while I brought the car around.  By the time I got back, she was 
frisking about desperately, both from the heat on the soles of her 
feet and, even more important, from the pressure in her bladder.  
As I watched her do the "potty dance," I debated the matter, 
finally deciding she'd never hold on long enough to make it back 
to the hotel.  I gestured to her to go on back to the restrooms.  
She scampered off, but only made it to the edge of the asphalt.  
She suddenly pulled down her thong (and palmed the egg), squatted 
awkwardly, and emptied her bladder, much to the amusement of 
passersby.   

    She finally staggered back to the car, looking rather sheepish, 
but much relieved, and I let her in.  She sank gratefully into the 
seat, unmindful of how her oily, sweaty body and drooling cunt were 
going to leave a stain on the seat covers, an indelible reminder of 
this adventure.

    She allowed herself to relax at last, and her eyelids began to 
droop.  "I was so glad you came when you did," she said, in a tired 
voice.  "In another minute or so, I think he would have arrested 
me, and then, god knows what would have happened...fingerprints, 
pictures, maybe...maybe even a s-strip search...a...c-c-cavity 
search...."

    "Would that have been so terrible?" 

    "I-I don't know," she murmured.  A moment later, she was 
asleep, still smiling.  I was already thinking about the next 
adventure.