I bloused my shirt a bit to try to cover it up. But as we were shown to our seats, my wife glanced down and noticed my predicament. "Holy shit, are you hard? What do you get off on wearing panties?" Again her taunts only made matters worse, and I felt a little pre-cum begin to leak from the tip of my swollen cockhead. "Shut up, you are making it worse," I plead with her. She grinned from ear to ear, taking pleasure in my newfound sissy role. Throughout the meal, I don't think my cock went limp for even a second. She continued to make comments to me, and even went as far as to drop hints to the waitstaff about me. She would even knock her napkin off the table and ask me to pick it up. Teasing me that people could see my "whale-tale" out of the back of my pants. And joking about panty lines being visible through my linen pants. I could tell she was really getting into this sudden dominant role she had. After dinner she asked if I wanted to head to the bar for a few drinks. I suggested. “Why here? Isn’t that the path?” Laura asked.“Yes. But it’s about ten. After noon the sun will move west and we’ll have a bit of shade so that we don’t melt into ghee like Sambo’s tigers when we get in later.”“Oh! I love that story when I was little. But I was told it was racist.”“That shows how dumb folks are: Sambo and his parents are South Indian. Otherwise why would they eat dosas and ghee? It think it’s racist for Africans to think there aren’t other blacks. Helen Bannerman lived in Tamil Nadu, after all.”“I never thought of that. Thank you.”“How much do you want to take to the beach?”“What I’ve got on and a towel.”“I’ve got some fruit and water.”“Excellent! And a blanket or towel?”“I’ve a large bath towel. Let’s leave the two bags here, behind the front seats.” I picked up the water, the fruit and the rolled-up towel. She had a towel in hand.“Avanti!” she said.There was a fair-sized stretch of grayish sand between the brush and the water. There were a few people in sight south.
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