by Jane New
A Tracy Jones Adventure 8:
Every Game You Play
By
Jane New
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Every Game You Play
Copyright© 2017 Jane New
Cover Artist: Melody Pond
Editor: Amber Bliss
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Cobblestone Press
www.cobblestone-press.com
Tracy lay on the massage table, naked, and waited.
No one else shared her pavilion, and even if there had been others, it wouldn’t have worried her. She enjoyed the absence of clothes, and this climate was meant for nudity.
Every night she lay on the vast bed beneath a billowing mosquito net, on cotton sheets so fine they might as well have been satin. It was far too hot to wear anything to sleep in, even if she had been the sort of person who did. When she swam in her private pool, she saw no need to cover herself, and instead enjoyed the silken touch of the clear water flowing over every part of her body.
On the rare occasions she ventured beyond the walls of her personal compound, she usually wore little more than a colorful sarong, tied modestly over her ample breasts. The modesty was false, of course, as every step she took showed all of one leg, and anyone who cared to watch caught a glimpse of more private parts.
Not that there were many places to go. There was a beach, completely protected from crocodiles and sharks. The water was clear and warm and turquoise blue. A few days ago, she had dug a tiny bikini out of the pocket of her suitcase, and immersed herself in water as warm as her bath. As she lay back, letting the salt water support her, she wondered what was happening back home in London. Nothing she need worry about, she supposed.
The plane ticket had arrived almost two weeks ago. She assumed Phillip had sent it, and had barely been able to suppress her excitement as she gathered up the few of her belongings that were suitable for a tropical paradise, her passport, the ticket, and directions on how to get to the island resort, before heading to Heathrow.
On one level, she was still miffed with him. Phillip had left her behind when he’d gone out to Thailand all those months ago to have the surgery he hoped would restore the use of his legs, damaged in a car crash many years before. While he was gone she’d had plenty of fun with their friend Nicholas, it was true. Phillip understood her like few men did. He encouraged and supported her adventures with other men.
She’d believed she and Phillip had something special, something involving mutual trust, perhaps. Something that would have had her holding his hand while he recovered. And other parts as well.
He had his reasons, no doubt, and she resolved to enjoy herself while she could.
She and Phillip had an active and interesting sex life in London, despite both his lack of mobility and his being her boss. He understood the power of her libido as no one ever had. He appreciated her spirit of adventure and often demanded details of her many experiences. They re-enacted them, as far as possible, over and over again.
Now, here she was, on an island in the Gulf of Thailand, being pampered from dawn until long past dusk if she so desired, and Phillip was nowhere to be seen.
The situation should be perfect, she reasoned. No ties and an endless expense account. All the massages, delicious food, and beauty treatments she could possibly want. The staff were polite, and the service was excellent, but with the exception of the reception staff, they spoke little English.
There was no one to talk to.
No one to fuck.
There were men here, of course. The masseur who visited every afternoon was as male as you could get in any culture. When he rubbed scented oil into her skin he skirted dangerously close to her most intimate places. The back of one hand would brush a nipple, perhaps by chance. She savored the heat of his fingers as they dug into her upper thighs, but he never touched her labia, or came close enough to her cunt to feel how wet she was.
Tracy was in agony.
Her toys were all in the drawer of her bedside table in London. If her luggage was searched she didn’t want customs officials pawing something that had recently been inside her, possibly even making suggestive comments about how often she used them and where.
The masseur had left, but she lay on the massage table, eyes closed, taking her time to recover from yet another half hour of sensual torment.
A giggle and a sigh filtered through the bamboo screen at the far end of the room.
What the…?
Opening her eyes, she slipped silently from the table. Her feet were silent on the parquet flooring.
The bamboo screen provided little concealment. The quiet, shy housemaid who changed Tracy’s bed linen and towels sat on a low cupboard in the alcove where the cleaning materials were kept. The buttons down the front of her simple, white uniform were undone, exposing the girl’s high breasts and dark, tightly peaked nipples.
The masseur cupped the maid’s breast with one hand and held her hip with the other. As Tracy watched, he spread the girl’s legs wide and said something to her in their own language.
The girl giggled again. Her eyes drifted closed, and her head fell back as the flush of arousal tinged the skin of her neck and face a delicate shade of pink.
The masseur undid the cord that held up his loose linen trousers. He wore nothing beneath them. His buttocks tensed and flexed as he buried his cock deep in the girl’s cunt. Her small, delicate hands clutched the man’s biceps while her heels dug into his buttocks.
Tracy couldn’t look away, even though it was torment. She wanted a man, any man, as long as he would fuck her long and hard. She wanted what this girl accepted so easily. She wanted a cock inside her, the scent of his sex, the taste of him, the feel of his tensed muscles beneath her hands.
She slid to the floor as the muted sounds of the couple’s enjoyment filtered around her.
I can’t stand this.
She had to get out of earshot, at least. She staggered to the huge bed and clambered onto it. She lay, pillows clamped over her ears, and stared up at the knotted mosquito net.
I need a toy, a bottle—anything, as long as it’s shaped like a dick.
A small, oiled, wooden statuette stood on the side table next to the bed. His head was unnaturally elongated. His shoulders were narrow. His tiny, erect penis jutted from his gleaming black belly.
Dare I?
Why not? No one would know.
The couple behind the screen seemed to have abandoned all efforts at discretion. The girl’s small, soft cries quickened as she approached her orgasm, and the man grunted with satisfaction in time with the slap of skin against skin and the slick sounds of a cock pumping into a wet cunt.
Tracy grasped the wooden statuette and slid it deep into herself. Her cunt expanded to take it all in. His little wooden penis hit her clit every time she pushed.
Her orgasm built quickly, based on days of perpetual, unrequited semi-arousal. As the girl behind the screen gave a stifled cry of delight, Tracy came too, her juices gushing over the ornament and onto the stark, white sheets.
She held the object inside herself for a while longer, enjoying the feeling of fullness, of completeness.
Not as good as the real thing, but not too bad either.
The couple left, and Tracy let the ornament slide from her. Close to sleep, she gazed around the room. She wondered why she hadn’t ta
ken the time to notice it in detail. Until now it was just a furnished room, albeit a beautiful one in an exotic location.
It was far more than that.
The oiled teak headboard of the bed was carved in an intricate pattern. She’d thought it was plants and animals, or perhaps some sort of battle scene. Now she noticed creepers writhing in intimate embrace around naked women. Men, huge phalluses projecting before them, leaned suggestively against their horses.
That wasn’t all.
Round, plump lamp bases somehow suggested breasts and nipples. A tall, straight vase overflowed with strands of pink orchids, and resembled a huge cock spurting forth dozens of little labia, each with its own clit. The figures around an ornate fruit bowl were, on closer inspection, engaged in an orgy.
The pillars at each corner of her bed weren’t decorated with vines, as she’d thought, but with veins—the veins of four long, slim cocks, each topped with its own smooth, dome shaped head.
Everywhere she looked the room spoke of sex. She was surrounded by it, but there was none to be had. It was like dying of thirst in the middle of the ocean.
Tracy groaned.
Perhaps the statuette she’d just used so effectively hadn’t been there by accident either.
The sounds from behind the bamboo screen had stopped. She guessed the house maid and the masseur had left. She needed to get out of this room for the sake of her sanity. She threw open the louvered teak doors of her walk-in wardrobe and surveyed her few items of clothing, neatly folded on the shelves.
Perhaps she could go shopping. Or to one of the bars.
Instead of her usual sarong, she pulled a pair of white shorts over lacy white underwear and followed it with a lemon colored tee shirt. She had no need for shoes.
She smiled to herself in the mirror. The scoop neckline revealed the rounded tops of her breasts and a glimpse of the lace of her bra.
Can’t keep a good woman down!
She liked what she saw—a woman in her forties, of average height, and with more than her fair share of curves. Her pale, English skin had tanned a light gold. A quick brush through her thick, dark curls, a touch of red lipstick, and she was ready to face the world outside her villa.
Tracy unlatched the tall gate and followed a graveled path between sand dunes. Palm trees provided shade from the late afternoon sun. Gravel gave way to the white sand of the beach until at last she reached the water.
She stood for a while, letting her bare feet sink into wet sand as little waves broke over her calves. The beach was in shadow, but far out to sea small islands, tinted gold by the late afternoon sun, dotted the horizon. She wondered if there were people on them, like this one, or if they were empty.
She walked along the beach towards the largest building on the island. It housed the resort’s reception area, restaurants, bars, and a few small shops. She’d seen them all before, but she needed a destination, no matter how familiar.
At this time of day, there were few people on the beach. Family groups would be getting their children settled for the night. Couples would be preparing to go out for dinner. A uniformed attendant was collected rubbish with a pointed stick and deposited it in a large bag. A couple—Tracy was sure they had to be on their honeymoon—nodded and smiled at her as they passed. Each had an arm around the other, and they walked in perfect unison.
A fisherman, broad brimmed hat shading his face, trousers rolled up to his strong, tanned thighs, stood in the water about fifty yards away. Tracy stopped walking and watched him. He swung the rod over his shoulder, then cast the line way out into the bay before slowly winding it in and repeating the action all over again.
She’d heard the phrase poetry in motion somewhere. This man was it. He was perfectly balanced in the shallow water, the wavelets lapping around his legs. The muscles of his arms and shoulders moved in exquisite harmony, muscles flexing beneath the fine cotton of his shirt. He was far too tall to be one of the local people.
Tracy watched, mesmerized.
She’d seen this man before, she realized, but never as close as this. He’d been on the island as long as she had, if not longer. He always dressed in light colored linen trousers, a fine white cotton shirt, broad brimmed canvas hat, and large sunglasses that concealed much of his face.
He wore sunglasses now, despite the fading light. She saw them as he turned towards her, as though noticing her for the first time. He stopped what he was doing, wound in his line, and marched up the dunes and off the beach.
How rude. He didn’t even wave, or smile, or anything.
The only man on the island who could possibly be interesting doesn’t want anything to do with me.
Tracy shrugged to herself. Now she had her wooden statuette to look forward to. The little wooden man was better than nothing. And there was still the bar.
The stranger had taken the last of the sun with him. Night came down quickly in the tropics, and it was close to full dark by the time she reached the main building. The bar she selected had a vaulted timber and thatch ceiling, but few walls. Lush tropical gardens were close enough to reach out and touch.
She sat at a small table near the edge of the room where she could see the entire place. Not that there was a lot to see. A family with children in their late teens. Some older couples, long married, sitting silently. Younger couples and a few groups laughing a little too loudly.
A white-jacketed waiter brought a drink menu. She ordered a fruity cocktail and gave him the number of her pavilion. He bowed slightly, and left.
Then she noticed stranger, still wearing his trademark broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses, sitting at another small table on the opposite side of the room with his back to her.
A familiar tingle fluttered deep in her belly.
I want that man. Lord, how I want him.
She was sure he hadn’t seen her yet. She had time to plan her strategy.
First of all, she had to be sure he wasn’t with someone. Plenty, but not all, women had no objection to their partners going fishing. She hadn’t seen anyone with him previously, but she wanted to be sure he was available before she made a move.
The waiter brought her drink and a small bowl of nibbles. She sipped thoughtfully, watched, and waited. Eventually, she decided he was alone.
What would she do next? Sashay past him on the way to the bathroom? Hope he noticed?
Too subtle for her. She almost laughed, remembering how she’d flashed Nicholas on the Tube, and what he’d done to her after that. Subtle was not her style.
No. He had a spare seat at his table. It had her name on it.
Tracy picked up her drink and meandered across the bar. No need to hurry. She enjoyed the sight of those strong shoulders, and pictured herself, quite soon, slipping his shirt from them.
“Hi,” she said as she seated herself. “I’m Tracy.”
The stranger pushed his chair back so violently it clattered to the floor. Other people turned to see what the fuss was all about. He almost ran from the room, leaving his untouched drink on the table in front of her.
Shock struggled with embarrassment as she stared after him.
Well, I guess that means he doesn’t want to speak to me.
To her surprise, she felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. Rejection was not a familiar emotion. Perhaps he was gay? Although she hadn’t picked it up on her radar, and her radar was usually pretty accurate. Someone she’d rejected? Or had sex with before?
That was it, she knew. Something about him was familiar.
Of all the rotten bloody luck. I’m on the other side of the fucking planet, and the only available, fuckable man is someone I’ve pissed off.
She knocked back her drink, and waved to the waiter.
He brought the chit for her to sign. “Is everything all right, madam?” A look of concern creased his pleasant face.
“Fine,” she answered.
But it wasn’t. She stalked back to her pavilion through beautifully tended tropical gardens with
a full moon reflecting on the waters of the bay. The superb meal she’d ordered earlier would be waiting for her. She would go to bed tonight in the most luxurious environment she had ever occupied, every whim catered for.
This should have been paradise.
Her body ached in every cell—for the touch of a man.
* * * * *
A wooden ornament and massage weren’t bad substitutes for a man, Tracy told herself as the masseur dug his strong fingers into muscles already as relaxed as they were ever going to be.
She’d slept restlessly after the previous evening’s debacle in the bar. Tonight, she resolved to have her massage, a glass of wine or three, and her excellent dinner followed by a movie on the resort’s in-house system. As the masseur worked his small miracle, she drifted into that magic place between sleeping and waking. Complete relaxation.
The masseur stopped. She heard another set of footsteps, and then the masseur say a few words in his own language.
She smiled. She could watch them again. Better than porn any day.
The massage started again, but there was something different about it. A different use of pressure. These hands were larger, stronger. It felt good. Very, very good.
“Wonderful.” She moaned.
The massage continued. This was definitely a different masseur. Far, far better than her usual one. As he worked on her shoulder blades his hands strayed to the outside of her torso, almost, but not quite, to her breasts. His fingertips found the sensitive places beneath her arms.
She raised herself up her elbows to allow him easier access, but kept her eyes closed. She would play along with new masseur’s obvious desire to be anonymous.
