Buck Moon Party on the Beach

by Alice May Ball

  And then I imagine her doing one of the Caribbean dances. The wine, the butterfly. Damn, thinking about her ass shaking some of those dancehall moves, twerks, and swings. I imagine her lips quivering as my tongue flicks around her folds, teases her clit. Stabbing at the entrance.

  And I remember the taste of her breath.

  And that’s it.

  I don’t even move. I just squeeze. My cock pulses. Pumping.

  I shout out, groan her name, name, long and hard, squeezing as I let go.

  Exhausted, I swing in the hammock, breathing hard, half dozing. Imagining her, soft and wet, cradled in my arms. Nuzzling, safe and contented.

  I have to find out who she is. Where she’s staying. I have to have her.

  Meanwhile, I have plans to make.

  Chapter Three

  In the middle of the night, I’m startled awake in my unfamiliar bed, in the suite at the aptly named Bahamas Grand Hotel. Through the slatted window shade, the moon hangs fat and low in the dark blue velvet sky.

  The dream I was having floods back over me. I want to try and capture it so I fish my notebook and pencil and curl up in a chair by the window. I don’t want to put a light on and break the spell as I start to write.

  It was so vivid.

  Too vivid.

  I saw myself like a character in a story. A thriller, where the heroine is in the most danger.

  Waves and surf crash around her. She runs in the darkness and her wet clothes stick to her, heavy, dragging. Slowing her as she moves. Barefoot, she splashes between the rocks, desperate, looking over her shoulder. Her hair clings to her face.

  As she runs, suddenly, in front of her is a silhouette. With the moonlight behind him, a huge, hard brooding mass of a man blocks her path.

  He catches her by the wrist. Then takes her by the hair on top of her head. She freezes. His laugh makes her shudder inside, like a small bird, trapped in a dark cathedral.

  He pulls her to him. Laughs again. Through the darkness his eyes burn her. Sensation seizes her like a thick, anxious breath.

  Her heart hammers. She shakes. Her body is dragged down, trapped in the clinging weight of her wet clothes. She’s crushed, squeezed against the hard heat of his body.

  A massive thrust rubs against her stomach. Her breasts swell, threatening to bust out of her shirt. He tears it open, exposing her, and she spills out.

  She can’t help it that she wants him, but she knows if she lets him know it, he’ll consume her. He’ll take her, with his mouth, and with his hands. His breath and his voice will melt her from the inside out. She’ll burst, gushing, and he’ll pierce her, spear her open on his massive cock.

  She will be lost, she’ll be nothing, nothing but his. A plaything for him to throw around and use however he wants.

  Her hands wave, but against her will, she clasps him, grips hold of him. She groans as her hand finds the hard globe of his ass. With her other hand, she reaches up, winds her fingers into his hair. Tugs. Pulls his head, bends him toward her face.

  He reaches out. Grabs her. From deep down insider her, she opens up to let out a long sigh.

  My fingers spin on my mound and buzz around my hood. I’m so sensitive there. Like my clit is bigger. When I stretch my petals wide and think of his hands, the hard, hot weight of his body, the pulse in his thick cock, I’m bent double and moaning. My other hand grips and pulls my nipple. A finger slides in. Two. I’m soaked. Gushing. Imploding.

  Then I remember the eyes. The face.

  I jump.

  Oh god. NO!

  Not him.

  The pencil clatters on the tiled floor. I hear the lead crack. My feet patter as I run to the little fridge for a beer. I take it out on the balcony and roll the cold can over my face, my neck, the tops of my breasts in the hot night air.

  I rip the can open and drain it in two long glugs.

  I’m soaked. Exhausted. I flake on the lounger.

  Not him. God, no. Please.

  After breakfast in the big, bright dining room, I run back and pull on my old faithful bikini. With faded and ripped denim shorts and a little denim jacket over the top, I head out. The mirror in the elevator says I’d look ok if I had a halfway decent pair of shades. And a slimming mirror, maybe.

  The hotel has a private beach, but it looks too manicured. Too perfect.

  I head straight for the rougher sea at Blood Moon Bay. On the way, Kayleigh calls with the address of Jean-Jaques, the jeweler she wants me to see on King George Road, the name of a PR person she wants me to talk to in my hotel, and the surf shops she wants me to visit.

  “And, great news. There’s a DJ who knows my billionaire. Actually knows him, Amber. An old school friend.”

  As soon as I get to the beach I tell her, “Got to go,” and I hang up on her.

  I run down the beach, drop my towel and jump, splashing into the cool, clear sea. I haven’t swum in months. There’s just enough current to in the water for me to feel the energy and I’m lost in how good it feels.

  Immersed, swimming, turning in the water, at some point everything begins to wash off me. I swim out, far enough to leave my comfort zone behind before I turn back. Finally, I start to feel free. I splash around for a long time. I’ve no idea how long and I don’t care.

  Long enough to get totally worn out and out of breath.

  When I get to the shore, I feel powerful. Rising out of the sea, water tumbles off my shoulders, rolls down my breasts and spills off my thighs. I’m feeling good, with a taste of the freedom on the back of my throat. The feeling that a beach and the sea should give you.

  Looking around, I see him and even that doesn’t spoil my mood.

  His kilt ripples as I’m stretching up, pulling my hands back through my hair. His eyes widen, fixed on me and I feel powerful. Like I’m glowing. He’s stopped, mid-stride, looking out at me.

  The sun warms my breasts and my stomach. In this moment, I’m even proud of who I am. Of my body. My womanly curves.

  Oh, yes, Scottish vagabond. Feast your sorry eyes.

  I stretch out. The clasp of my bikini top snaps. My left tit splays out, wobbling.

  His eyes pop and he smacks his lips.

  I burn inside and plunge back into the water so fast my eyes sting and I gag. I wriggle, panicking as I try to get the bikini top back into order, but I can’t do it.

  Prickling all over with frustration, I emerge with my arms up. Elbows together. Furious and humiliated. I wish there were a way I could get off the beach without having to walk past everyone. Past him.

  He can see I’m embarrassed. He could have the decency to get out of the way. But no. Not him. He stands there and waits. His chuckle makes me sore inside I have to run around him.

  “You’re beautiful, you shouldn’t worry.” The smirk is still on his face. The gleam in his eyes cuts me as I hurry.

  “Still,” he calls after me, “You do need a new bikini.”

  I remember the bar has a surf shop.

  Tropical techno thumps a low, lazy beat in the shop. Two gorgeous girls laze in the back, in no hurry to move when I enter. One looks up with a friendly smile. “Ah, you’re Amber, right?”

  “What?”

  Her friend lets out a bright chuckle. “No stress, hon. It’s a small island. Poppy and me, we heard about a certain very hot Scotsman, getting even hotter when a pretty girl told him off.”

  “Me and Sunrise, we know all that goes on.”

  “And you, Amber. You are what’s going on this morning. He’s pretty hot for you, right?”

  I laugh as I tell her, “I really don’t think so. But I couldn’t care less, anyway.” She looks impressed. As if he would be some kind of a catch. I shrug.

  Poppy stands, moving to the beat with her feet apart, her knees bent, and her hips roll and sway. “No worry, hon. It’s all good.”

  Her slow, twerking shake is even getting me hot, and she gives me a look as she beckons to Sunrise. Sunrise stands, grinning as she waves her hips.

&nbs
p; “This is how you wine on a boy.” She shuffles back to press her ass against Sunrise, “Sunrise you be the boy, okay?”

  “I’ll be a rich Jamaican gangster.” She moves closer in behind Poppy.

  Poppy giggles as she says, “Or you can be a big Scottish beach bum, right?”

  “A bad boy Highlander, you mean?”

  “A bad boy in a swaying kilt.”

  Sunrise looks in my eye as she pushes her hips against Poppy’s ass, stepping her thigh to rub into the crack while Poppy shakes her cheeks, making them ripple like waves on the beach.

  “In the dances here, if you wine on a boy,” she presses back, “he’s likely to grind back. You going to be my grinding Highlander, Sunrise?”

  “You want to feel me dirk?”

  Poppy tells me, “You know the dirk is a Scotsman’s dagger?” and she throws her head back, laughing. Still thrashing her ass at Sunrise, she says, “You going to show me your dirk? Show me how long it is?”

  “You want I should put it in you? You want to feel me long dirk slide into you?”

  They both are laughing.

  “That’s pretty hot,” I tell them, “You have to show me how to do it.”

  “We can teach you,” Sunrise says, then Poppy sings, “but we’d have to charge.”

  I laugh, singing back, “Damn right,” and we’re all together, with better than yours. Poppy says, “You can butterfly,” her knee drifts out and her hips roll, then she shows the move with both knees. Her pelvis twerks her ass as her knees flap. My eyes water and my mouth is open.

  The little bell over the door tinkles.

  I look round and it’s him, the Scottish dick himself.

  The sardonic grin sweeps across his face. “Fancy running into you here.”

  “Fancy.”

  “You got your dirk ready?” Sunrise pouts at him, teasing. The look on her face says that she knows him. She’s playing, but from the gleam in her eye, I bet she’s ready to take her tease all the way. I feel a stab of jealousy.

  Poppy slides behind him and does the ‘grind’ step Sunrise had been doing. She sings, “My milkshake,” and she giggles as she shakes her tits at his back.

  He fixes me with his eye. For an instant, I’m like a deer in the headlamps, watching the lights of a big beast bear down on me. Unable to move or even swallow. I’m determined not to let him see the effect he’s having on me and I wave a finger at him, slow and cool.

  “Don’t look at me and get any ideas about milkshakes.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Poppy and Sunrise straighten up and their eyes widen. Sunrise says, “You two really do know each other.”

  “The dick with the dirk might like you to think so,” I tell them, and their eyebrows lift. Jock, of course still has his cocky, sardonic grin in place.

  His annoying trace of a grin hasn’t slipped. “Well, since you’re here, you could try on a bikini for me.”

  “Or,” I offer, “You could kiss my ass.”

  Slowly, he lifts an eyebrow. “That could work, too.”

  Sunrise looks him up and down. “You looking to buy bikinis, Jock?”

  Poppy says, “We don’t have them in your size, Jock.”

  Looking straight at his crotch, Sunrise tells him, “I don’t think we could fit you into any of the bikinis we carry here.”

  I feel a rise of anger in my chest and I’m annoyed with myself for feeling it. I don’t want anything to do with the arrogant prick, so I can’t see why I would be jealous of Sunrise playing with him. Like she senses it, Poppy looks at me as she stands close to him. “If you want to try, though, I wonder if we should get Amber to take you in the fitting room.”

  Sunshine giggles, “You want to take him, Amber? Take him around the back?”

  My chest and my cheeks are prickling hot. Poppy asks, “See if you can make him fit, Amber?”

  They’re only fooling around, but I’m hot and blushing. I know it’s going to make them laugh more. And it does. Poppy points and I want to run.

  Chapter Four

  I took the launch at daybreak to meet with Dashiell.

  Steering the powerboat to cut a wide, sweeping arc across the bay and around the point at sunrise, the view of the Pole Island shore is a rare tropical beauty. The launch from the Lady Don’t Ask thrums with the power of the two Mercury 450r engines, and the vibration under my seat makes me think of that fierce and feisty lassie. A rare beauty on the tropical island.

  The girl has no idea how powerful her charm is, that’s for certain. Maybe it’s what makes her attraction so powerful. What would I do with her in a boat, out at sea, in the hot evening sunset, if I had her alone? I should do nothing. I’m too old for her, she’s way too young for me and besides, she deserves better than a gnarly old loner like me.

  What would I do though, if I took a grip of the lass’s hair, a hold of those rolling, mouth-watering hips? I’d bury my head between her lovely soft tits and I’d never want to come up for air. I’d impale her on my cock until I was up her so deep and so hard I’d make her shout and shake and scream so hard we’d start a set of triplets.

  But she’s such a terror. We would be at each other like knives, night and day. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about her. There’s part of me that won’t stop thinking about her, though. It’s a big part, and it’s only getting bigger. The soft, cool breeze of sea air up under my kilt is only making it heavier and thicker.

  No time to think about it now. There’s business I need to be conducting, and it’s important, too. But she’s all I can think about. She’s like an addiction. The moment my thoughts aren’t fixed on something else, they’re away and straying around images of her wet lips or the heat between her thighs.

  If I hadn’t caught that wee little scent of her, maybe I’d be able to concentrate on the day’s meeting. If I hadn’t had the whisper of her warm breath against my stomach while I stood next to the soft heat of her.

  When Banger made an innocent remark about her, I swear I had to hold myself back. I could’ve knocked him right down.

  Dashiell’s villa is a wide and shiny, hi-tech pleasure palace dominating its own sandy cove. White stone and marble, and walls of copper-tinted glass shine, jutting from the soft cliffside forest and peering out into the Caribbean. Infinity pools cascade down three levels. Rolling, hanging gardens wind around the property, heavy with fruit and heady, sensuous floral scents.

  The place is an over-the-top hedonists’ retreat. In short, it’s Dashiell all over. And now I’m thinking, instead of concentrating on how to sweeten the deal for Dashiell, what it would be like to chase that fine and full lassie around these gardens, through the arches of flowers. Run her down to the beach. Splay her out in the crashing waves and hear her moan and wail, while I hammer her senseless on my own throbbing pole.

  Otherwise, what’s the fucking point of an island like this?

  Coming about, turning into Dashiell’s private bay, I see him on his terrace, taking in the sunset with two lovelies. His hair blows in the sea breeze, he looks out, languid through his too-hip shades as another even longer lovely brings a heart-shaped tray with more cocktails and nibbles to the lazy, pleasure-seeking group.

  Any other man, I couldn’t believe it. I’d think he’d arranged for the girls to be there, just to make an impression. Dashiell, though, there’s nothing staged about it. This is just another sunset. Another evening in Paradise.

  Dashiell’s known for keeping half a dozen girls or more at each of his homes around the globe. Fair play to him, though. All the girls seem to be more than happy with the arrangements. They all love each other, and they all adore him.

  Dashiell raises a glass to greet me while I slow the boat. I recognize Camilla, Tatiana, and Elspeth as they wave and smile into the sun, watching me drop the short anchor. Then I dive over the side to swim the last half mile to the beach.

  Redheaded Coral’s eyes sparkle as she saunters down the beach to greet me with a cocktail. Her hips sway in a loose
Caribbean rhythm. A silk sarong with a watercolor print of birds of paradise ripples on her hips as they roll. The glow in her dark eyes makes me think of the lassie in the bar so hard now, I have to wait a moment before I walk out of the sea, or my kilt will be standing straight out in front of me. Then it would flap, wet in the breeze, like the wings of a condor.

  “Dashiell’s waiting for you on the terrace,” her voice is low and dark. She spreads her arms as I walk up the beach to her. I take the hug, but I keep it friendly.

  “A traditional Slippery Pole Plunge,” Coral says, raising an eyebrow as I take the cocktail. It’s a refreshing and spicy mix, like a classic Hemingway Daiquiri but with allspice liqueur. It has a fresh taste, a low kick and a long afterburn.

  The atmosphere in Dashiell’s villa is, as always, like a breathless lull in a twenty-four-hour sex party. Probably how it was in Ibiza in the nineties.

  He’s more than happy for his girls to have whatever fun they want with whoever they want. He loves to share them and, no doubt, to join in when the fancy takes him. Which I’m sure is pretty often.

  I bet he’s got a girl in mind for me for tonight. Maybe two.

  Dashiell always tries to tempt me and he never succeeds. I’m guessing it’s probably why he sent Coral down to greet me.

  She says, “There’s no hurry. We could take a stroll through the gardens if you like,” and with a slow bat of her perfectly mascara’d lashes, “Maybe the steam room? Or perhaps you’d like a lie down. What can I do to make you comfortable?”

  Dashiell turns to greet me with his trademark naughty-boy grin. Water from an infinity pool above runs down the back wall of the sundeck. Vines hang from a frame over the deck and give shade. It’s still pretty hot, though.

  “Did Coral’s charms not reach you, Jock?”

  I just smile. “Good to see you, Dashiell.” I know he’s going to ride me some more. We’re alike in that way. We have to be competing. I ask him, “I’m not interrupting anything here?”