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Korean Cindy Jamaica Pt 2 - The Whole Resort Knows

Their bungalow was tucked along the quieter path near the beach, private enough in theory—but the windows were open to catch the ocean breeze, and the thin walls did nothing to muffle sound. When Devon first pushed into her that evening—slow at first, then deeper, stretching her tiny 4'11" frame around his thick, curving Jamaican cock—Cindy couldn’t stay quiet. She tried. God, she tried. Her small hands flew to her mouth, biting her palm, but the stretch was too much, too perfect, too reminiscent of those GI bar nights when she was Juicy Cindy taking Black soldiers who dwarfed her petite body.

The first real thrust drew a high, involuntary whimper from her throat. The second made her gasp—sharp, needy. By the time he bottomed out, balls pressed against her round ass, she was moaning openly—soft Korean-accented cries of “oh… so big… too big… don’t stop…” that carried on the night air. She stifled some of them against the pillow, but not all. Not the keening wail when he started pounding in earnest, making her small tits bounce, her thick thighs quake. Not the broken “yes… breed me… fill your little Korean slut…” that slipped out when she came the first time, walls fluttering helplessly around him.

Nearby rooms—maybe three or four along the path—heard enough. Not every word, but enough: the rhythmic slap of skin, the wet squelch of her soaked pussy taking him, the unmistakable sound of a tiny woman getting stretched and filled by something massive. A couple in the next bungalow exchanged glances; the Texan blonde two doors down smirked into her rum punch and whispered to her husband, “That’s the little Asian wife. Sounds like she’s getting ruined.” A staff member making late rounds paused, listened, then continued with a knowing grin.

By breakfast the next morning, the resort knew.

Not everyone—not the families at the kids’ pool or the older retirees—but the staff certainly did. The bartenders, the housekeepers, the security guys who worked the night shift. And the guests who’d come for exactly this kind of vacation: the ones who noticed how Cindy walked to the buffet with her head down, cheeks flaming, sundress modest but unable to hide the slight waddle, the way she winced when she sat, thighs pressed tight to keep Devon’s thick load from dripping out right there at the table.

She stayed demure. Painfully so.

Even after Devon had fucked her three more times—once in the cabana, twice more in their bungalow—she still presented as the shy, proper ajumma. Soft-spoken hellos to the waitstaff. Small bows when thanking the concierge. Eyes downcast, cheeks perpetually pink, ponytail neat and low like she was heading to church instead of a resort where everyone knew her pussy was getting wrecked nightly by the biggest Jamaican cocks on staff.

But the embarrassment only made her wetter.

She’d sit across from me at lunch, small hands folded in her lap, whispering frantically while her dark nipples stiffened visibly through her thin blouse. “Tom… the housekeeper smiled at me this morning. She said, ‘Yuh sound happy last night, miss.’ I wanted to die. They heard me moaning… begging… crying out when he stretched me. I thought the pillow would muffle it, but… oh God, I was so loud.”

I reached under the table, squeezed her thick thigh. “They heard because you couldn’t help it, baby. You were taking something huge. Something you’ve craved since Korea.”

Her accent thickened, voice trembling. “I know… but now everyone knows. The bellhop winked at me. The pool guy asked if I needed ‘extra towels for the mess.’ They all know Devon is putting that massive Jamaican cock in me every night—and that I’m… taking it. All of it. The tiny Korean wife who screams like a whore when she gets bred.”

She wasn’t the only one. The resort had its regulars: the statuesque Swedish woman who disappeared with two dive instructors most afternoons, the curvy Latina from Miami who came back from “beach walks” with handprints on her ass and a dazed smile. But none of them looked like Cindy. None were 4'11", 105 pounds of delicate East-Asian curves—pale skin that flushed so easily, small firm tits with perpetually sensitive dark nipples, that narrow waist flaring to thick thighs and a pronounced, jiggling ass. None had that contrast: the demure, church-going Korean ajumma exterior hiding a size-queen addict who still whimpered “please… deeper…” in broken English-Korean when a huge Black cock split her open.

That contrast drove them wild.

Devon never fucked her in full public view—he didn’t need to. The knowledge was enough. He’d find her at the bar, slide a hand up her sundress under the counter while she sipped her drink, fingers pushing his earlier cum back inside her while she bit her lip and tried not to moan. Guests nearby would glance over, smirk, continue their conversations. Staff would linger, refill her glass slowly, eyes flicking to where her thighs trembled.

One afternoon, as she lay on a lounger by the quieter pool—bikini top barely containing her stiff nipples, sarong dr*ped loosely—Devon walked by with Marcus. They didn’t touch her. Just stopped, leaned down, and murmured loud enough for the nearby sunbathers to hear:

“Princess still sore from last night? Yuh took mi so good—screamin’ like yuh never had real dick before. Whole path heard yuh beggin’ fi breedin’.”

Cindy’s face went scarlet. She pulled her sarong tighter, small hands shaking, but her legs parted just a fraction under the fabric—instinctive, needy. “Devon… please… not so loud…”

He grinned, gold tooth flashing. “Why not? Dem already know. Di tiny Korean wife who moans louder dan di rest when she get stretched. Dey know yuh pussy grippin’ mi like it love bein’ ruined.”

Marcus chuckled. “She di smallest one here takin’ di same size as di tall ones. Dat why she special.”

Cindy looked at me across the lounger—eyes glassy with humiliation, tears threatening, but her breathing shallow and quick. “Tom… they’re talking about me like I’m… like I’m just a hole for them.”

I leaned over, kissed her temple. “You’re my wife. And right now, you’re Jamaica’s favorite little secret.”

That night, back in the bungalow—windows open again—Devon fucked her slower, deeper, drawing out every moan. She tried to be quieter. She really did. But when he bottomed out, grinding against her cervix, filling her to the brim, the cries slipped free anyway—high, needy, unmistakable.

Somewhere along the path, someone smiled into the dark.

They all knew.

And Cindy—still shy, still demure, still blushing at every knowing glance—lay there afterward with his cum leaking out of her, thighs trembling, whispering to me in the dark:

“I hate that they heard me… but God, Tom… I want them to hear me again tomorrow.”

She was embarrassed beyond words.

But she was exactly where she belonged.

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