Sitting up, I slip over the side of the bed. Moonlight shines in through the angled slats of the window shutters, striping the pillow-scattered floorboards and illuminating my path towards the door.
Even as I pull it open, I can feel it’s a degree or two cooler outside than in. Grabbing up my room key, I step out onto the veranda and close the door behind me.
An idyllic vista of white sand beach and glassy, silver-hued sea stretches in front of the villa, framed by tall palm trees. Tiny waves froth at the shoreline, benign and inviting, making my toes wriggle at the prospect of a refreshing dip. I’m tempted, but with the cautionary echoes of the music from Jaws playing in my head, I find myself lured by the appeal of the swimming pool instead.
Half expecting to find the fantastical watery playground full of other overheated, sleepless guests, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover no other signs of life in, on, or around the interconnecting assortment of lagoons, tributaries, mini-islands and bridges.
Ignoring the signs telling me the pool is closed after midnight, I wander over a bridge and onto one of the islands where I come across a semi-secluded grotto constructed of natural rock at the end of a shallow inlet. With no light other than the diffused glow of the moon, I figure it’s a dim enough hideaway to conceal my rebellious presence.
Lowering myself onto a large flat rock overhanging the water’s edge, I dangle my legs into the crystal-clear pool. A sigh of bliss escapes as I trace swirling figures of eight with my feet. Placing the room key beside me, I gather up my hair, using the band kept around my wrist to secure it in a loose knot at the back of my head.
The air hitting the damp skin of my nape makes it prickle and itch as it begins to dry. I dip a hand in the water and raise it to smear the area with soothing moisture, repeating the action until the drips accumulate and run down my neck and shoulders to sneak into the top of my T-shirt. Like a teasing lover’s touch, the rivulets trickle down my back and chest, working their way south via meandering paths that leave me shivering in their wake.
After the next dip, I let my hand hover above my legs, first one and then the other, enjoying the sensation of the droplets splattering onto my skin and drizzling down over the ultra-sensitive zone of my inner thighs. Inside, I feel an echoing ooze, warm and sweet and slow as honey. So much for cooling things down.
By now my shorts are well and truly wet through, and with a flash of recklessness and a careful scan of the area to check I’m still alone, I tug the soggy things down over my thighs, lifting one leg at a time to pull them off. It’s naughty and liberating to feel the warm stone against the bare flesh of my rump and I dare to spread my thighs, letting the night air brush its breath onto the humid cleft of my nether lips.
The sensation is delightful but nowhere near enough. Dipping a hand into the water again, I use the other to bunch my T-shirt up against my stomach before bracing it behind me. Leaning my torso back, I employ the hover technique again, letting water drip from my fingers down through the trimmed triangle of my pubic hair, feeling the skin beneath twitch at the sensation.
Drip, drip, drip; the droplets gather together and snake their way down into the slick ridges and valleys of my folds, searching out tickling paths of least resistance. It’s not long before I’m breathing hard and my arse is squirming against the rock. I need more.
Lowering my hand, I have to bite back a moan at the touch of my water-cooled fingertip brushing against the tender pearl of my clit. Spreading my legs wide, I tilt my pelvis up and trace my middle finger down to the opening of my vagina. Circling around the entrance, I coat it with my own slickness before returning it to stroke over the swollen nub in a satiny glide. Back and forth, round and round, I touch myself as fizzing streamers of delight unfurl from that one spot, shooting tremors out to my nerve endings.
A sound of movement from the pool terrace sends my heart leaping into my throat. Whipping my head around, I’m horrified to find a uniformed security guard patrolling into view. The beam of his torch sweeps within metres of my location, and splayed and vulnerable as my position is, I dare not move. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights, I sit frozen and wait for the inevitable to happen.
I can hardly believe my luck as, with a swing of his torch, the guard veers off in another direction, the bobbing light disappearing down one of the paths winding through the lush gardens. I don’t realise I’ve been holding my breath until it escapes in an explosive rush. In the aftermath of all the adrenaline flooding my bloodstream, my fingertips and toes begin to tingle.
That had been close! Not to mention frustrating. I’m more ramped up and in need of relief than ever. Perhaps the option of the hot, dark bathroom isn’t so bad after all. At least it’s private.
Grabbing hold of my shorts and room key, I push to my feet, standing in the knee-deep shallows of the inlet and giving my wobbly legs a moment to steady before turning to step up onto the ledge.
‘No, don’t go.’ The low appeal sounds from somewhere close by, startling a yelp from my throat and spinning me around so fast I’m on the verge of losing my balance and toppling into the water. Throwing my weight in the opposite direction, I end up planting my arse back on the rock with a loud stinging slap. Clapping both hands over the juncture of my thighs, I use the screwed up bundle of my shorts to hide my nakedness.
‘It’s OK. Don’t panic, I work here.’ The voice sounds again as my wild-eyed search picks out a dark shape detaching itself from the shadows beneath the bridge opposite and gliding through the water out into the moonlight. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
Is the jerk kidding? He nearly killed me! My poor heart is bursting inside my chest. It can’t take much more of this kind of treatment, I’m sure. Shaking with shock and all but hyperventilating, I sit there and stare dumbly at him, wondering what – if anything – he’s seen, yet dreading to even contemplate the answer. I hope the semi-darkness disguises the telltale burn of guilt blossoming across my cheeks.
‘The guard’s gone,’ the pool-lurker observes in what I begin to register as a west coast American accent. With a wary eye, I check him out as he wades closer through the chest-deep water. From the sun-streaked, shaggy tousle of hair brushing the bronzed width of his shoulders, to the carved talisman hanging from the leather thong around his neck, and the swirling wave tattoo banding the biceps of one arm, he certainly has more than a whiff of LA surfer dude about him. Not least the laid-back smile he flashes as he adds: ‘Stay, please … at least until you get to finish what you started.’
Horrified, I gasp, remembering just in time not to throw my hands up to cover my flaming face in shame. A rush of denials, excuses and accusations tumble over each other to be the first off my tongue. ‘You were watching me?’ is all I manage to blurt.
‘I was,’ he admits in an appreciative tone, moving slowly but steadily nearer. ‘Watching …’ His teeth flash white as his smile stretches wider. ‘Wanting …’
I didn’t think I could blush any harder, but I’m wrong. ‘I’m, ah …’ Well, I’m at a total loss for words, actually. Easiest to go with the facts. ‘I … I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then don’t say anything,’ he says with playful simplicity. His open uninhibited approach and relaxed manner are a million miles away from the gauche, nervous wreck of an impression I’m making of myself. ‘And don’t look so ashamed. You looked amazing touching yourself like that. So hot all I can think about is touching you too.’
My overworked heart tries to jump out of my chest again, but this time every thud is amplified by an echoing beat in my groin. I don’t know what my body’s getting so excited about; as attractive as the prospect might seem, it’s not like I’m going to let anything happen with a total stranger, even one I do sort of recognise as a hottie instructor from the watersports shack on the beach. ‘Um, I’d really better be going.’ Easier said than done, I realise, as I’m still clutching my shorts in my hands instead of wearing them.
The stranger continues his gliding advance.
‘You got someone waiting for you somewhere?’
Of course! Sara the Snorer is the perfect excuse to get me out of here. So why do I sabotage myself by saying ‘Ah, no. Not really’?
‘Me neither.’ He grins and, reaching the shallows, surges to his full height.
I gasp at the sudden rush of movement that leaves him standing only shin-deep, water sluicing down the lines of a body that is sculpted, lean … and totally naked. Not an arm’s length from my face, an admirable erection juts, hard and thick and long. My pop-eyed stare is captivated by the elegant up-curve of the shaft and the flared definition of the broad head.
Dripping rivulets of water run down the proud column, heading for the pair of tight, round balls framed by the sopping nest of curls between his thighs. Behind my teeth, my tongue tingles, thirsty to lap up every last drop.
It’s only when I hear a chuckle that I realise I’m gawping shamelessly. My gaze snaps up to see that smile beaming down at me. ‘So you’ll stay and play?’
Hormones raging, brain spinning, I can’t seem to form a single rational thought. What should be a case of clear-cut refusal is instead clouded and confused by lust.
‘Unhf …’ is all I manage to articulate.
The laughing, wet dream of a vision in front of me comes closer and hunkers down to level his face with mine. ‘You British are so cryptic. I’m hoping that translates to yes?’
‘Um.’ God, up close he’s beyond gorgeous: all sparkly eyes, dimples and cheeky confidence. Surely I’ve just dreamt up such perfection? ‘I don’t think …’
‘Good. Thinking gets in the way,’ he says, eyes twinkling attractively into mine. ‘What really matters is that the two of us are here … alone.’ He drops his voice and reaches down to pull one of my hands away from my groin. ‘And we both want the same thing.’
His touch is cool and wet and gentle against my skin as he unfurls my clenched fist and raises it to his mouth. Keeping our gazes locked, he closes his lips around the fingers I’d been touching myself with, tasting me with obvious relish.
‘Oh!’ I gasp at the unexpected feel and intensity of the sensation. ‘Oh, Jesus, what’s that?’ Whatever’s going on inside his mouth it’s like a sizzling current charging from the nerve endings in my fingertips directly to my nipples and clit.
Amused by the strength of my reaction, he pulls my fingers free and raises his brows in question. ‘This?’ He sticks his tongue out to show me the silver barbell pierced through its centre. ‘You never had a lover with a tongue bar?’
I shake my head, struck dumb and numb as my imagination runs riot, chasing down all the exquisite possibilities presented by that magical silver ball.
Looking pleased, he leans in close. ‘Then you’re in for some fun.’ His tongue is a brush of warm velvet as it licks the parted seam of my lips and takes advantage of my gasp to slip into my mouth.
The first thing to hit me is the taste of hot-blooded male, potent and intoxicating as dark rum. Next comes the strange new fascination with that tongue bar as the balls tap gently against my teeth, probe the roof of my mouth and glide over my curious tongue. Then, lagging behind in third place, is my conscience.
A small voice of sanity demands to know what the hell I think I’m playing at with this guy. Push him away, it bleats, as his hands move to rest on my tightly clenched thighs. Tell him to get lost, it insists when those hands caress and coax my legs apart. Slap his impudent face and run, comes the desperate cry as he shifts his body into the v-shaped space, bare skin wet and warm where it brushes against mine. Do it now! Before it’s too late!
But swept away by the sensual onslaught of licks and sucks and swirls, I can barely bring myself to hear the thoughts let alone co-ordinate and carry out the actions. As my pool man’s lips leave mine and his attention starts to move south, I know it’s already too late. All I can think about is the devastating potential of that silver ball and how badly I want to feel it on me.
Taking my hands, he positions them palm-down on the rock to either side of my hips, then slides his own palms up the insides of my thighs, pushing my legs wider as he lowers his face between them. This should be where I pull away, where I baulk at sharing my most intimate secrets with a complete stranger. But caught up in the thrill of the unknown, it’s surprisingly easy to remain still and let his fingers split apart the plump lips of my labia, exposing the tender pink flesh hidden inside.
I watch, transfixed and tremulous, as he pauses mere inches from his destination to look his fill and breathe in the ripe scent of my desire. A low hum of pleasure sounds in his throat, and when his gaze finds mine again he smiles and treats me to a wicked flash of his tongue bar. ‘Breathe,’ he reminds me before burying his open mouth between my thighs.
Oh. My. Fucking. Heavens. Wet heat meets wet heat and delicate flesh yields to the uncompromising pressure of that silver ball. What a thing of torturous beauty the contrast is. The intensity is more than I can bear. Lurching forward, both hands fly to push his head away, but my fingers are prised from his scalp with easy strength, my hands guided back behind me and held locked into place. Trapping my squirming legs between arms and ribcage he takes full advantage, flicking that ball against the nub of my clitoris and making me buck and whimper. I come in less than a minute, shuddering from head to toe.
He doesn’t stop after my first orgasm, but rather tightens his grip and ups the ante, sucking hard and fast on my still-throbbing clit then tapping the ball against it to bring a second barrelling on the heels of the first. Holding me open he makes me ride it out until I’m left mewling and swaying.
When I think my body’s been squeezed of every last drop of pleasure, he releases one of my wrists and pushes two fingers deep in the snug channel of my vagina. I can feel how slippery I am in there, can hear my juices squelching around every delving thrust. With curling strokes he finds my G-spot and at the same time flattens his tongue to rub the ball firmly against my over-sensitised flesh. I only realise that my eyes are closed when I see lights flash against the insides of my lids. From a long way off I hear myself begging him to stop even as I grind myself against his mouth and splinter apart for a third time.
Eventually, he raises his head and grins. ‘Told you.’
‘God!’ I rasp in a shaky voice. ‘Do you have a licence for that thing?’
‘No, ma’am. Unfortunately, I don’t have a condom either.’ Rising, he shifts to sit on the rock ledge beside me, splashing a good deal of water about. Reclining back on his elbows, he lets his thighs fall open. ‘So I hope you won’t mind returning the favour?’ He nods to his bobbing, dripping erection that looks fit to burst.
He doesn’t need to ask twice. ‘With pleasure,’ I say, reaching to wrap one fist around the base of his shaft, and leaning over to swallow him straight down. Underlying the surface coating of cool, chlorinated water is the more fundamental taste of hot, horny male.
I might not be able to offer the benefits of a tongue bar, but I’ve never had a problem making good use of the oral attributes I was born with. I set about sampling and probing and savouring the intimate briny tastes of my sexy, sun-shiny surfer boy until every long, lean muscle in his body is trembling with tension.
It’s not long before I feel his shaft pulse and swell against my tongue, and with a curse and jerk his hands are on my head, forcing me up. His cock pops free of the suction of my lips just as creamy strings of semen begin spurting from the head, arching through the air before landing across his clenched thighs and contracted abs.
Gasping, he collapses back onto the rock in a boneless sprawl. ‘Goddam, that was good.’
Gasping, I hide my face in my hands as reality comes crashing back, and with it, shame and doubt. ‘I can’t believe I just did that.’
‘Uh-oh.’ I hear him shift beside me, still huffing and puffing. ‘Guess I didn’t do the job quite right, huh?’
Confused, I risk a peek at him from beneath my fingers. ‘What do you mean?’
He peels my hands aw
ay from my hot face. ‘I mean, you shouldn’t be able to think straight enough to be worrying right now.’ Sliding one hand behind my neck, he slips the other under the hem of my T-shirt. ‘That’s an oversight I’m gonna need to fix.’
Using his weight, he bears me down onto my back, pushing my top up as we go. ‘Now, what’s that term you Brits like to use? Oh, yeah, “just lie back and think of England.”’ He smiles and waggles his tongue piercing at me.
But right now I can’t think of anything except the feel of his mouth closing around my nipple.
Supply and Demand
Elizabeth Coldwell
The blinds are drawn; jasmine-scented candles burn on the nightstand, casting a soft glow over the bed. Within easy reach, I have a glass of crisp, chilled Chablis, a bottle of raspberry-flavoured lube and my favourite anthology of bondage-themed short stories, dog-eared from repeated reading, should I need a little extra help in getting turned on – though I can’t see that being necessary tonight. Squeezed onto a more than usually packed commuter train on the way home, I found myself squashed up against a broad expanse of chest belonging to a red-haired student type, sweetly geeky behind black-framed glasses. The enforced body contact – and the rather large bulge in his khaki shorts, the one he was so desperate to pretend didn’t really exist – kept me on a rolling boil all the way home, and now I finally have the opportunity to do something about it.
Closing my eyes, I slip into fantasy land. I’m back on that crowded train, pressed tight against Geek Boy, and I snake a hand down into the tiny gap between our bodies, to loose his cock, long and thickly veined, from the fly of his shorts. The breath catches in his throat as I start to stroke him. Alarm that someone might notice what we’re doing gives way to rising desire, and he jerks his hips as much as the confined space allows, pushing his shaft deeper into the grip of my steadily wanking fingers.
I roll a finger over my clit and feel the tight little bead respond to my touch, sending quivers of sensation through my belly. It’s good, and I could play with myself like this for a while, lost in a delightfully rude daydream and making the slow ascent to my peak. But already I’m desperate for more, aware of an emptiness in my pussy that needs to be filled. My faithful vibrator lies on the bedcover, loaded with fresh batteries and ready to go. Grabbing it, I twist the base and set it humming into life, spreading my legs wide so I can slide those eight fat inches of purple plastic between my juicy lips.
Sex and the Stranger Page 9
