The Angels' Share

by Maya Hess

  The ground rose and fell invisibly beneath my walking boots. I balanced as best I could, occasionally lurching forward to grab at a sharp rock for support. Thankfully, there was no light at all on the tiny half-moon beach coming from where I remembered the cottage was located. All I could see was the frilly edge of the now much calmer sea as it dragged up over the natural defence of the rocks jutting out into the water. The moon, half obscured by cloud, provided an annoying dimness by which I picked my way closer to the cottage. I could hear my heart pounding – or was it the rhythm of the waves? – as I placed my hand on the low stone wall that marked the front boundary of the tiny property. If that was still standing after all these years, then surely the house was too. I traced the line of the wall around to where I recalled the opening that led to the low front door, but stumbled and fell, catching my knee on a rock.

  ‘Ouch!’ I tried to stand up but, with my pack weighing me down, I couldn’t get my balance. I unhitched the straps and wriggled free, nursing my aching knee. ‘I don’t care if there’s anyone in there,’ I spat in a terse whisper. I clicked my torch back on and muzzled it with my gloved hand, allowing just enough light to pick my way to the front of the cottage. I stepped to the side of the door and furtively angled my face so that just my eyes were peeping over the window sill. There was nothing to be seen except blackness and the sugar-frosting of years of salt and cobwebs. I did the same with the other front window and then tentatively walked to the side of the cottage to peer into the tiny bedroom. There were no back windows or rear garden. The cottage was built jutting out from the cliff with its behind sunk firmly into the gritty slate and a well-eroded thatch perched on bowed rafters as if the whole structure was wearing a yellowed toupee with a raggedy fringe.

  ‘I think you’re empty, aren’t you?’ I reached up and brushed my hand fondly through the low straw roof. I was talking to a house. If anyone was inside, then I had my excuses planned. I was a lost walker searching for a non-existent bed and breakfast, a foreign tourist with an out-of-date guidebook. Applying a heavy accent, I would barely speak a word of English.

  I reached for the latch on the door and pressed down. It wouldn’t budge. I pulled off my glove and ran my hand over the weathered wood, searching for a padlock or bolt or any reason why it wouldn’t open. When I was a child it was never locked, my father insisting that the local fishermen use the place freely. It was an island tradition. The Manx rarely bothered with security, partly from their desire for warm hospitality and partly because of a low crime rate. I tried the latch again, harder this time, and felt a little movement. Taking a deep breath, I lunged at the door with my shoulder and boot and on the third attempt it gave, causing me to crash inside with the stealth of an elephant.

  I stood perfectly still, waiting to see if I had disturbed anyone. Nothing. Sighing and finally realising that the cottage was mine, at least for the night, I fetched my pack and balanced my torch on the small table in the centre of the room, allowing me to find the candles. I smiled, both with a big grin and internally. I had done it. I had got to the Creg-ny-Varn estate and secured my initial domain. It was the first victory in my personal battle to grasp what was rightfully mine.

  With three candles lit and positioned strategically so that each area of the small room was illuminated, however dimly, I dropped into a dusty armchair – I remembered the faded floral coverings so well – and took a moment to survey the abandoned remains of the cottage. The internal walls were still whitewashed although smeared with grime and a trim of lacy cobwebs. The flagstone floor was covered with several threadbare rugs and the only furniture remaining (I’m sure there was more when I played there as a child) was a bleached pine table with a couple of ladder-back chairs pushed underneath and two armchairs surrounding a low table. Everything was arranged around the heart of the cottage, the black cast-iron cooking range, which looked as if it hadn’t been lit for years. Balls of soot and twigs and straw from birds’ nests littered the fire basket and I wondered whether trying it out would set the whole place ablaze.

  To one side of the fireplace was a tall cupboard. I vaguely recall my father secreting various objects in there when we came to the cottage for his beloved weekend fishing trips. I opened the creaking door and was faced with an array of belongings that I would take time to sift through over the next few days. It amazed me that all this stuff had remained undisturbed for so many years. I felt a single tear prickle my eye but quickly swiped it away. I hadn’t come to the island to cry over what was lost.

  Then I noticed a pair of binoculars.

  ‘Heavens above,’ I said out loud. I brushed off the dusty case and pulled out the glasses. ‘I adored staring out to sea with these.’ Pointlessly, in the dark, I aimed the binoculars out of the window. Aside from a runway of mottled moonlight dancing atop the breakers, there was nothing visible. I couldn’t wait until morning to gaze at passing ships. But just as I was turning away from the window, just as I was about to pack the binoculars away and unfurl my sleeping bag, I caught sight of a pinprick of light passing in front of my eyes. I swung the lenses back towards the cliff top, where I was sure I had seen a flash of amber light sweep past my view. Sure enough, once I had focused and adjusted my eyes to this close-up way of viewing the world, I had in my field of vision the most surprising, delightful scene anyone could ever hope to stumble across.

  Reluctantly, I pulled the binoculars away from my eyes, simply to catch my breath and take stock of what I had seen. It appeared that I had aimed the binoculars at the cottage high up on the cliff top where the taxi had dropped me earlier. I hadn’t realised that it would be visible from the beach but the angle of the beach cottage and the curve of the coastline afforded an excellent opportunity for getting advance intelligence on my nearest neighbours, who could possibly be a future threat to my mission. At this point in time though, the only threat the cottage inhabitants posed was to remind me that it had been simply ages since I had indulged in sex. Even the quick flash of their two bodies had created a knot of desire in my knickers that I knew wouldn’t budge until something was done about it. I glanced around the empty cottage.

  ‘You’re looking hot tonight,’ I joked to myself in the dusty, cracked mirror that hung lopsidedly above the fireplace. Then, ‘Fancy a tumble?’ I swallowed hard before tentatively bringing the binoculars back to my eyes. My vision adjusted more easily this time, allowing an immediate close-up of a creamy pair of full breasts with angry turned-up nipples being alternately chewed upon by, judging by his body size and shape, the man who had called out from the cottage doorway earlier.

  ‘This is a bonus’, I crowed. I had resigned myself to virtual celibacy while I claimed my father’s estate. I wasn’t sure whether to rejoice, because now I would have more to add to my fantasy-filled journal, or to become insanely jealous that, yet again, I was missing out on heated passion and the joy of being with someone special.

  Erratic glimpses of the couple finally caused my exhaustion and tension to wane as I relaxed into the unexpected role of voyeur. I shifted a dusty armchair to the window and settled down to watch the unsuspecting pair. It was a moment I couldn’t sacrifice to unpacking my bag and fetching firewood. To give a clearer view, I removed my hat and rubbed it over the grimy window, polishing the couple’s performance. I could see that the man was still dressed. The woman was naked from the waist up. It appeared that they had only just begun their antics.

  ‘Do they know I’m watching?’ I pondered out loud. ‘Did they suppose that someone was on their way to this cottage and they hoped they might get spotted?’ The thought that they were putting on a private show gave me a tingle in my nipples. I pushed one hand inside my many layers of clothing and located my breast, albeit through my sweatshirt. ‘Lucky pair,’ I whimpered as I realised just how in need of comfort I was. There I was, alone in a freezing, derelict cottage that could be washed away by a freak wave at any moment, with no warming fire, no bottle of red wine to share with a lover, no clean sheets to slip bet
ween when the flirting and innuendos had reached a critical level. I was tired, hungry, cold, dirty, scared and the loneliest I think I’d ever been.

  ‘I’ll feel better in the morning,’ I mumbled as I reached inside my pack for the emergency bottle of Spanish brandy. Briefly, I was reminded of home – my simple cortijo in the beautiful mountains, the ever-present sun, my friends, the tranquil existence of life in remote Spain. But I didn’t regret my mission, especially now as my first night’s company was assured, although it was passion by proxy.

  I sipped from the flask and was instantly warmed from the inside. I would curl up by a roaring blaze later and write up my diary with the comfort of the brandy. Things were already looking up. I had Steph’s sexy tale to add to my journal and now this. I removed my weatherproof coat and three other layers of clothing until I was sitting in my silk camisole and unbuttoned jeans. I tried not to shiver.

  ‘On with the show,’ I said with a giggle. I focused the binoculars and was immediately filled with disappointment. The pair were nowhere to be seen. ‘Perhaps they thought I’d lost interest in them or maybe they’ve gone to finish things in another room.’ I slowly scanned each window of the cottage and, aside from the warm glow and open curtains, there was nothing to be seen. I wondered if signalling would encourage them to continue. Risky, I knew, revealing that someone was inside the usually deserted beach cottage, but I was so keen for something more than just my own fingers that I even considered running up to their front door and begging them to continue.

  I blew out all the candles and held the torch up at my window. Flicking the switch on and off, slowly at first then gaining speed, I hoped to catch their attention. Living on the coast, I assumed the couple would take notice of flashing beacons, even if they did appear to come from land. I stared at the cottage while signalling frantically with the torch.

  ‘Yes!’ I cried out as the man reappeared. ‘Don’t disappoint me now,’ I implored. An expanse of naked flesh filled my view. They had undressed. The detail of the man’s almost still body was stunning. It was as if he was standing three feet in front of me, showing off his athletic physique before he lunged at me. Only in this case there would be no lunging. Not at me, anyway.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I whispered, taking another rationed sip of brandy without lowering the binoculars. The man’s head, with his sheet of back muscle facing the window, appeared to be dipping and bobbing although not in any particular rhythm. I ran my tongue over my finger and traced a circle around my left nipple. ‘Your tongue is like velvet,’ I said to him, imagining me lying beneath his naked body and his mouth toying with my breasts. ‘Take it all in your mouth.’ I cupped the small mound of my neat breast in my palm and squeezed it lovingly, as my man in the window would surely do if he could see me now. How I wished for a reciprocal viewing!

  Suddenly, the woman came into view. The pair were standing sideways to the window and indulging in the most passionate, consuming kiss I had ever seen. I pressed my finger to my lips, imagining a mouth bearing down upon mine, lapping the taste of brandy from my tongue. So soft was the effect, so vivid the response of the woman’s body rippling in the window, that I imagined it was her mouth searching mine – all for the benefit of her lover, of course. I grinned at my wicked fantasy. It would go in my diary along with a lifetime of erotic encounters, fantasies and beautiful people. What anyone did with them when I was dead and buried, well, that was another of my erotic imaginings.

  The man’s mouth dragged down his lover’s neck to her bosom. He heaved her weighty breasts together, lavishing each chocolate disc with his tongue and coating it with a skim of saliva that I could actually see glistening in the lamplight. My own nipples burned for attention. I consoled myself that, other than organising the cottage and buying supplies, my first mission would be to find an expendable, anonymous man for a few hours of no-strings passion. I wouldn’t even tell him my name. In reality, I knew this was unlikely however much I desired such a scenario, but the thought went nicely with the visual feast on the cliff top.

  The binoculars were becoming too heavy to hold with one hand so I had to make do with sporadic bursts of touching myself. My show couple had moved on. The man was gripping the woman’s girth while he pulled and pushed her pelvis. I saw by the delight on her face that her clitoris was bumping on and off his tongue, giving her tantalising shots of hot, moist pleasure. I could feel it myself as I allowed my finger to creep beneath my jeans and inside my knickers. His tongue, my stiff little bud. He could do that for as long as he liked in his warm, cosy cottage with his voluptuous wife watching in jealous annoyance. How I longed to be in there with them. But, considering my situation, it was about as likely as the impostor in my family home giving up the Creg-ny-Varn estate willingly.

  Then, as if the couple were playing entirely for my benefit, the woman came up to the window to show me her aroused body. She pressed her nipples onto the glass then leaned forward so her breasts squashed into what looked like an almost edible marshmallow. With her face tipped sideways, she took the outer lips of her lightly shaved sex and pulled upwards so that the shell-pink folds were completely visible. Everything about this woman reminded me of consumable treats. Served on a plate, she would have made the most delicious dessert and I envied her lover having the chance to taste all her flavours. But I made do with what I had and dipped my own finger into the flow of white juice around the edge of my pussy. As if sucking on a lollipop, I pretended that he had allowed me a sample of his wife’s sweetness. And it was true. She tasted of warm honey and gooey, pink candy.

  Something else was happening to her, apart from the thrill of exposing herself to the night. Gradually, the pulsing became more noticeable and her face and breasts began to slide up the glass panes before quickly dropping down again. There was no doubt that her lover was shunting her from behind, unable to wait for any more foreplay. Part of me was disappointed. I didn’t want him to come yet, snap the curtains closed and curl up in bed with a cup of tea. I wanted to watch them drive each other to a place where they could think of nothing but orgasm; where their bodies were catapulted into oblivion at the last possible moment, where nothing else in the world mattered, not even the delight of discovering they had been watched, as their minds crumpled beneath waves of pleasure that not even the sea beneath them could mimic.

  I needn’t have worried. My untouchable man had swung his woman around and had her on her knees with his cock forced down her throat and an expression on his face that told me she was kneading his head with the skill of a well-trained lover. He leaned against the wall as she worked on him and I was thankful for her short hair, which allowed me an uninterrupted view of the veined erection delving a disconcertingly long way down her throat.

  ‘Do you give lessons?’ I wondered, in awe of her skill. ‘I sure would love to learn from you.’ I inserted a finger inside myself and hooked out an ample amount of moisture, smearing it around my lips and clitoris in readiness for the finger-frenzy I would soon be embarking on. Just these initial touches mailed signals of a long overdue yearning for a body-cramping climax to tired and distant parts. My fingers glided between my smooth lips, encouraging them to swell and pout.

  My athletic couple were wrangling against gravity. Having prepped myself and teased my body to an on-hold status with occasional flicks of my clitoris and a moistened stirring of my nipples, I watched eagerly as they ravished each other in a sweaty, hungry display of abandoned lust. The woman had her man’s bursting balls pressing on her chin as she licked the space behind his sac. Then suddenly she was manoeuvred upright and her legs were hoisted around his waist as he prepared to enter her again. They staggered a little and she tossed her head back, laughing at their struggle, but soon he was in and she rode him like a jungle animal, clutching him around his waist. He had his hands under her buttocks for support. I panned up to their faces where their mouths were gaping and their tongues pressed together. The woman’s fingers dug into her lover’s shoulders and her legs g
ripped him tightly, forcing their genitals together. It took almost all my concentration to keep the binoculars steady while I fumbled in my knickers.

  As the pair bucked in the backlit window of the cottage, I squirmed and moaned and brought myself to near maximum arousal without crashing over the edge. I’d see when they came and I wanted to do it with them. Timing things correctly while holding the binoculars steady and keeping my clitoris on fire was not an easy feat. I sharpened the focus as the pair slowed for a moment and the man wetted his finger. I watched him, magnified so it appeared that I was in the room with them, as he inserted a finger in the woman’s exposed bottom. Her body tensed as she took the first joint, then another, and then she whispered something to him. He grinned and slipped a second finger inside her, right up to the knuckles. I imagined the cramped feeling this must have provided around his deeply seated cock. I had often desired such a sensation myself, perhaps with two men frantic for my body, each vying for space. In reality, I would never dare suggest such an act.

  I saw that they were set for the finale. Their masks of concentration, the woman’s determined stare as she pulled her sex up and down the shaft of her man, not only for his pleasure but to ignite her own climax, indicated that just seconds of the display remained. If only I could have yelled out to them to continue; that I hadn’t seen nearly enough of their lovemaking, that it had been over a week since Marco had visited my cortijo in the middle of the night as the cicadas sang out and my white mosquito net billowed in the breeze. So long since his leather-coloured erection had sought me out.