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single name. Their accents were a potpourri of cultural origin. Sven and Helga were Swedish. There were four Germans, five Italians, two Australians, and three Brits–plus one American and a seriously sexy Portuguese man.
    Sven handed her a plastic cup filled with white wine. It didn’t taste cheap. She took a seat on the chair he offered. She was thankful that she had kept her panties when she felt coarse sand stick to her thighs.
    Bruno stayed clothed, which didn’t surprise her. The fire blazed, and she craned her neck for a view of him through the flames. He was talking to an older woman in her late fifties. Karen could hear tiny snippets of their conversation, the World Bank, and smiled. That’s what she liked about him; at a beach party full of naked tourists, Bruno maintained his composure and diplomacy.
    Helga sat down in the seat next to Karen. “So how long have you two been married?” she asked.
    Karen eyed Bruno. She had been married to Jack fifteen years; she was a showpiece, a prop. There was no intimacy, no trust, there was never a time when she could have a bad hair day. “A little over a year,” she said, remembering the day she had met Bruno at their kids’ school. “And you and Sven?” she asked.
    “We’ve been together for twenty years, but we are not married.”
    Karen smiled thinking about the kind of commitment that stayed together without paper. The bonfire roared and sent embers drifting into the warm dark air. A wine bottle was passed around.  Bruno was on his third. She raised her fifth cup to him and winked.
    Something shifted then. A quiet hush spread across the group. Two German women started making out, hard and fierce. Another woman knelt beside them, stroking their backs. Karen blinked and found a fourth set of hands belonging to one of the Italian men caressing their breasts.
    She eyed Bruno. He raised his eyebrows but returned his gaze to the foursome sprawled out in a mass of hands and nakedness on the sand.
    “We are starting early tonight,” she heard Sven say.
    Moaning and gasping enveloped the darkness, the areas beyond the fire’s reach. Karen turned her head away from the show and found Helga smiling at her. Slowly, as if watching for Karen’s approval, Helga leaned in. Karen had never kissed a girl before. The touch of small soft lips upon hers made her body zing.
    She met Bruno’s eyes, and in that moment, the friendly invitation was understood: Sven had invited them to an orgy on the beach.
    Karen kissed Helga back, sliding her tongue into her waiting mouth. She felt a small hand caress her breasts and pinch her hardened nipples.
    The flames of the bonfire licked the sky as a hand slipped over her panties. Karen softly hissed at its touch, and found Sven’s hand stretching the elastic to gain access to her crotch. Karen sunk low into the chair and spread her leg. Helga reached up and kissed Sven deeply on the mouth, while Karen caressed her pert tans breasts. The way Helga’s flesh felt in her hands was maddening. She wanted more.
    Helga planted her mouth around Karen’s nipple, flicking, and sucking, and biting it, and sending her into a new realm of passion. Sven massaged her slit before his hungry fingers found her most sensitive spot and smacked it, sharp and fast. She had seen movies of women reaching orgasm in this manner. She felt her own pleasure build, but something was holding her back.
    Bruno. Where was he? Sven’s body blocked her view of him. She wanted to see him, wanted to know if he was traveling the same road as she, exploring and awakening.
    Karen moved Sven with her leg. He laughed. “Ah, you want him to watch you? Good, girl,” he cooed.
    The woman Bruno had been talking politics with was on her knees. She massaged his crotch over his pants. Karen felt Bruno’s eyes on her as fingers plunged deep inside of her, and lips lapped at her nipples. As she felt herself loosening her hold, her mind returned to Bruno. She she searched him out and