Indian summer. Just warm enough to entice the Bahamian Bombshell to the beach for a quiet afternoon. Armed with an assortment of her tiniest bikinis, a lusty novel by her favorite romance author, and a thermos of her favorite chilled Beaujolais, she settles down behind a small dune to catch some rays, enjoy the water and the gently breeze, and lose herself in a trashy fantasy. Read a few pages…take a sip…stretch…read some more…another sip. This is the life. Off in the distance are voices, laughter, squeals, and the splashing of other beach lovers frolicking on this glorious weekend. They're far enough away not to bother the statuesque stripper. In fact, since she hasn't actually seen anyone else, she may even dare to drop her top briefly for a more even tan. A few voices and more laughter get a little louder, but the platinum blonde ignores them. A few pages and a couple more sips later, her reverie is rudely interrupted when a large beach ball bounces over the dune and onto her thermos, spilling her excellent Beaujolais into the sand and splattering some on her book and her new white microbikini. The book is soaked, the bikini top irredeemably stained. Before she can utter a vile curse, the ball's owner bounds over the dune and stumbles onto the distraught dancer. Kandice! She should have known, out on this stretch of the beach. That other voice must be Petr's. Caribe is furious about her ruined day. "Oops! 'Scuse me. So sorry. I was-Caribe!" the slim blonde gushes. Then, taking in the wine-stained bikini, she does the worst thing possible: she bursts out laughing. "I'm sorry, but I just can't help it. You look so…with that wine dripping off your…and that soaked book…this is too much." Caribe grits her teeth and seethes. Petr comes over the dune. "Oh, hi Caribe. Wow, you look…" And he, too, fails to stifle a hearty laugh. The Bahamian beauty feels the wine dripping from her heaving bosom onto her bare feet, and her ire ratchets up a few more notches. "We seemed to have spilled all your wine," Petr observes, picking up the overturned thermos and handing it to Caribe. Glancing into the bottle, Caribe smiles satanically. "Not quite. I still have enough to share," and splashes the remainder on Kandice's snow white bikini. "Now we're dressed alike, like twins." "You bitch!" the golden blonde shouts, and shoves the platinum blonde onto her tempting tush. Caribe rockets up and bulldozes into Kanice's belly. Both wine-drenched women snarl and curse in a tangle of arms, legs, and fists. Petr intervenes and pulls them apart. "Whoa! Hang on there. If you two want to fight, the beach ring is still set up and just over there. Do you need to change into fresh suits before we all meet at the ring?" With a snort Caribe snatches up her towel and barks, "I don't have a fresh suit. And I strongly doubt that any of your girlfriend's little training bras would fit me." "Fuck you, you fat-titted cow," snaps Kandice and strides off toward the beach ring. Caribe glares at Petr, noticing the huge bulge in his trunks. "You're in this too, buster. I don't like boyfriends interfering in my battles. You're both responsible for what happened." Grinning broadly, Petr replies, "You bet, Caribe. If you want to tangle with both of us, we'll be happy to oblige. Kandi and I will function as a tag team. You only have to beat either one of us…if you can. And either one of us only has to beat you." He flexes his arms muscles, which are impressive. "Fair enough," Caribe snears, loosening her ruined top. "Get your ass over to the ring. Oh, I see your ass is there already."