Publicly Display Yourself for Me Read Free

shedding it
anyway.”
    “Wait till we get on the beach.”
    The other twin comes loping up. “Are we
going to wait for Alice?”
    “Nah,” Brad replies. “Let her find us.”
    How will she find us in this throng? I
wonder. Not that the twins are going to care at the speed they are
walking. I have to practically run in my heels just to keep up with
them.
    The beach is super-crowded. The fine white
sand is pockmarked with beach umbrellas of all patterns and sizes.
People in swimwear sun themselves on deck chairs, doing whatever it
is people do on beaches. They read their Kindles, or scan their
iPads, or smear SPF-15 upon each other’s backs. A few heads bob in
the glistening waters. No children around, thank goodness. Max did
say the kids are at school, mostly in Switzerland or Boston.
    More than a few females do a double take as
the twins and Max come into view. I don’t blame them. I would too.
In fact, I’m positively glowing with the fact that I have three
absolutely drop dead gorgeous men flanking me, as if I’m a
supermodel or someone far worthier than what I deem myself. Envious
eyes are riveted on me – wondering if a) I’m someone famous, or b)
if I’m not, how the hell did I manage to snare this entourage?
    Well, everyone will find out soon
enough.
    The twins and Max choose a spot somewhere in
the middle of the beach. There are three empty deck chairs which
have just been vacated, evidenced by the empty glasses on the
adjoining side table. Sand scours the seats. The twins lay down
their backpacks as Max begins to strip off his T-shirt and
shorts.
    I observe Max. I will never get tired of
watching him take his clothes off. Every female around us is
watching Max too, as well as the twins as they begin to peel off
those Hawaiian shirts from their toned bodies.
    As the siblings drop their baggy shorts,
gasps burst from red lips all around us. Max is wearing a scarlet
G-string. The twins are clad in corresponding blue ones. The
G-strings feature a common pearl-shaped front to unsuccessfully
cover their bulging genitals, allowing pubic hair to peek above and
around the material in suggestive patches. Save for a thin band
around their hips, their firm and luscious buttocks are completely
exposed because the strings that form the connecting points are
nicely and snugly buried within their cracks.
    The outlines of their penises and balls
contained within their fronts are very, very obvious. A trickle of
fluid runs out of my pussy just to look at them.
    Max grins at me. “Take it off, doll. Show
them what you’ve got.”
    I’m only glad for the fact that Alice isn’t
around to see me. Aware that all eyes are now riveted upon me, I
self-consciously shrug away the terrycloth robe.
    More gasps of shock puncture the brittle
atmosphere, already choked with the rising heat from the hot
sands.
    I am in a bikini. That much I can say. But
it is what the naughty retailers call a one-string micro-bikini. In
essence, its broadest part is the diameter of a single yellow
string. Spaghetti straps run down my shoulders to connect to
strings that crisscross in front of my chest. My nipples are fully
exposed and be-ringed by a rectangular network around my
areolas.
    The lower part of my swimsuit is made out of
two strings. The string that runs from its moorings to ‘cover’ my
crotch has a zipper worked into it. It successfully covers my clit,
but not much else. My pussy lips are almost completely revealed. As
are my butt cheeks.
    I’m flushing a nice shade of crimson as
beachgoers clamber from their deck chairs and other perches to get
a better look at me. These include the hungry gazes of men and
teenage boys.
    “You’re beautiful,” Max says admiringly.
“Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
    The twins murmur their agreement.
    The crowd forms a circle around us – men and
women alike. Catcalls and whistles are tossed in my direction.
    “Hey, babe, why don’t you come over here and
let me feel those