by Jools Louise
Losing Inhibitions: Sexy in the Sun
A pleasantly plump, over worked and over-stressed mid-thirties manager, Jess needs something other than a sex toy and tub of ice cream to ease her state of mind.
Stressed by bullying new management, Jess finds comfort with Jackson, a sexy neighbor and friend of several years, who reveals himself to like men and women, and invites Jess on an all-expenses paid trip to a tropical island. There Jess meets Jackson’s “crew”, seven sexy studs who have no inhibitions but who all find sanctuary on the island from their tragic pasts. Max, Marcus, Dean, Louis, Raphael, Michael, and Caleb are more than happy to help Jess lose her own inhibitions, and she finds herself falling not only for Jackson, but each of the crew as well.
Jess is invited to help set up and manage a Foundation whose aim is to heal people suffering mental trauma as a result of violence.
The choice to stay with her studs is easy.
Note: This book is written in one point of view.
Note: This book is written in first-person point of view.
Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre
Length: 36,571 words
LOSING INHIBITIONS: SEXY IN THE SUN
Jools Louise
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Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: LoveXtreme
LOSING INHIBITIONS: SEXY IN THE SUN
Copyright © 2014 by Jools Louise
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63258-022-1
First E-book Publication: July 2014
Cover design by Harris Channing
All art and logo copyright © 2014 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
Dear Readers,
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Regarding E-book Piracy
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This is Jools Louise’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Louise’s right to earn a living from her work.
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DEDICATION
Dedicated to the less-than-perfect people out there and for all those who believe variety is the spice of life. It’s good to walk on the wilder side—although for most it’s just in our dreams and fantasies! Enjoy.
Special dedication to mum, who is as excited as I am that I actually wrote a book, and without whom I would still be dreaming about what kind of book I should write!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The next installment is on its way, which will further explore the dynamic of Jess and more of her men. I hope you enjoyed Jess’s story so far. JL
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
About the Author
LOSING INHIBITIONS: SEXY IN THE SUN
JOOLS LOUISE
Copyright © 2014
Chapter 1:
Pleasantly Plump
Let me firstly get the introductions out of the way before we get to the good stuff. Mid-thirties, manager of a food retail outlet in the northwest of England, and single. Yes, definitely single. My job takes up a lot of time, and long hours certainly eat into my leisure hours. Not that I am particularly bothered about having any leisure hours. Whilst I am driven to succeed at work, once chilled out at home, particularly after a fifteen hour day, the driving ambition to do anything but curl up with a litre of Häagen-Dazs strawberry cheesecake ice cream and a raunchy romance novel so I can fantasise whilst playing with my faithful friend, a Jessica Rabbit dildo, well…let’s say ambitions go out of the window. My name is Jess.
I would say I’m about average height, at five foot five inches tall, with a nicely developed 38D bosom, longish brownish hair, and am reasonably attractive. Not stunningly gorgeous, just…pleasant. My eyes are a sort of bluish-grey, with little gold flecks which can sometimes sparkle if I’m in a good mood, or turn to ice when I’m not. I have a good complexion, meaning I’m zit-free except for when my hormones at a certain time of the month play havoc with my skin, and then I get tiny eruptions on my face, which can be quite annoying.
I’ve been told I have a “scary” face when I’m angry, which, the way work is going right now, happens quite a lot. The rest of the time, when not stressed, I would say I’m a “people” person. I like helping people, I like managing people, and I like talking to people. I am quite quiet in some respects, although “reserved” might be a more apt description, since it often takes a little while for me to loosen up. I can be quite serious, but I’ve been told I have a quirky, sometimes sarcastic sense of humour by a certain male friend of mine who is of the gay persuasion.
I’ve been successfully managing my store for about five years, with rarely any bother. I was promoted through the ranks, having started as a Saturday girl during school terms, then getting a full-time job leaving school, where I completed a business management degree part time. That gave me the confidence to apply for any supervisory positions on offer, and now, I manage the place.
I have a good team, who can be left to get on with their jobs more or less. An occasional light kick up the jacksy is sometimes needed, especially when a delivery is due and the three college-aged kids decid
e now might be a good time to play footie in the loading bay—their football is now a pancake!
Right now, though, my stress levels are going through the roof. That started when our new area manager made her latest grand entrance in-store, roaring up in a poncy red Audi, which screamed look at me, I have a poncy red Audi. Her power suit matched the vibrant paint job of the car and the killer stilettos on her feet, and she carried the biggest laptop case you’ve ever seen. I’ve yet to see her remove the laptop from the bag, however, so I’m pretty sure she keeps her makeup inside the bag, or Polyfilla since she’s in her fifties, and has no wrinkles, plus her battery pack. I’m fairly sure she isn’t human, and could even be a robot, hence the battery pack and extra large case. What probably irritated me the most was she was one of those perfectly thin women, whose clothes fit to perfection, skin flawless, makeup flawless, nails unchipped, and no stains anywhere on her clothes, because I checked. I am certainly not flawless. I am not slim, I never bother with nail polish since it always chips, and my clothes usually end up with some kind of mysterious lump of crud or smeared with my last meal or dribbles of coffee. My best friend, Jackson, the gay friend, said it was only a mystery how I managed to miss my mouth, since my mouth was always open on account of I never stopped talking while he was around! Ha! Who needs those kinds of friends, eh?
My last area manager was male, a little older than me, and happily married with four kids and a really lovely wife. A really nice guy, he understood that we are all humans. He was someone who you could have a laugh with, whilst still able to let you know when you weren’t performing. He had recently left the company, rather abruptly, for a more senior position with a company near Liverpool. Rumour was that he hadn’t gotten on with the new CEO of our firm, and had been pushed out. Apparently, the new CEO is less human and more cyborg. I had only met the guy once at the last awards “do,” and whilst he seemed to be rather standoffish, I thought less cyborg and more “Gordon Gekko,” like the character in the movie Wall Street. His eyes were like a shark’s, eyeing up his next victim. He had never victimised or picked on me. In fact he was quite pleasant, although when he shook my hands I had the involuntary urge to smother the hand that touched him with sanitizer. Despite his compliments, there was something slimy about his touch on me.
On our first meeting, Karen—that’s the bitch alien area sales manager or ASM’s name—pretty much ripped my store apart, insulted my style of management, and then made several rather unprofessional remarks about my personal appearance, or rather my “pleasantly plump” appearance and my wrinkled blouse. I had just finished a night shift, and she arrived unannounced just as I was handing over to my duty manager. But then went on and on and on about how important professionalism and appearance were. This didn’t seem to matter to her, since she had just ripped me to shreds in full view of my staff.
I can’t argue that losing a few pounds around my butt and waist and thigh area would be nice, but to be honest I am completely lazy about exercise. And I like to eat. I don’t completely go mad, as I like fruit and yogurt and muesli and the like, but I really like ice cream and chocolate and have just developed a passion for American-style pancakes drizzled with maple syrup and loaded with whipped cream. And as my metabolism slows, all those carbs make a beeline for my hips and thighs and butt, giving me a “pleasantly plump” appearance. Since I have a fairly active job, I remain at “pleasantly plump” rather than “dangerously obese,” since I’m sure if I spent all my time as a couch potato, I would find myself in the latter category.
I often use food as a crutch, a consolation prize to make me feel better, which never works, as when the pounds pile on, I feel worse. I have developed a really good coping mechanism, though. It’s called tunnel vision, where you only look at the positive aspects of yourself, ignoring the rest. The thing is, I’m not obsessed by myself, and I think there are far more important things in life to dwell on than spending ninety percent of the time in front of the mirror. I care about my staff. I care about my friends. I don’t really care about the current faddy fashion trends or diet trends, since I like food and I like wearing comfortable clothes which don’t cut off your circulation or have you walking with your feet practically at a vertical angle, wearing killer heels.
Apparently being “pleasantly plump” is offensive to our new ASM, and about two hours into this latest visit, my self-esteem was at an all-time low. I contemplated the term “justifiable homicide” as a defence after I fantasised that I had ripped the bitch’s vocal cords out through her eyeballs. She made several catty comments about “waistlines” with pointed looks at mine as she preened and told me how she “just couldn’t put on any weight.” Other remarks as we toured the store centred on calorie-counting. Visiting the refrigeration section, in front of displays of cream cakes and pies had her interjecting how she was “sooo careful to avoid eating these kinds of foods, since she didn’t want to look like a beached whale,” with another pointed glance at me. The comments and snide looks continued throughout, each one cutting like one of those small but painful cuts you get from paper. After she left, her strident voice being heard by any staff members who were in the break room, I was left in a state of shock, as though I had been physically assaulted. I trembled, my hands shook, and my brain just couldn’t seem to focus properly. I remembered a few years ago overhearing a boyfriend of mine making some nasty comments to his friends about me, right after we had made love together for several hours, and the feeling was the same now, like I’d been stabbed right through to my core, ripping out the confidence I had slowly built up over the years and leaving it in a bloody mess on the floor.
I just sat in my office, feeling numb, door closed, staring at my desk and trying not to gag at the overpowering stench of perfume that remained. Apparently the bitch liked to bludgeon your nostrils as well as your eardrums and self-esteem.
I managed to finish the day, ignoring the sympathetic glances from the team, closed the store, then went home to devour a large tub of ice cream, plus a very large bar of Galaxy chocolate, and topped it off defiantly with three pancakes smothered in cream and syrup. I was still feeling shaky several hours later, wondering what would happen if I just didn’t go into work the next day, then realised I had the day off so I could wallow in self-pity.
I heard a light knock on my front door and lurched to my feet to see who was knocking so late, growling in annoyance at having my food fest interrupted.
Jackson, my neighbour, smirked at me through the peephole, and I opened the door to him wearily. His smirk turned to a frown of concern as he took in my dishevelled appearance, the pale complexion, and the utter misery on my face.
“Bad day, luv?” he asked, pushing into the apartment, shutting the door behind him, and then wrapping a pair of heavily muscled arms around me tightly, engulfing me in a hug which tore apart the hold I’d had on my emotions.
A harsh sob broke loose, and I leaned into his large frame, crying hard and ugly into his shirt. We stood like that for several minutes, until my sobs began to lessen and Jackson moved me into the living room, sinking onto a corner of the couch and dragging me into the comfort of his arms. I ended up practically lying on top of him, between his spread legs. His arms curved around me as my head nestled into the crook of his shoulder, his large hands rubbing my back and cuddling me close. Jackson was my best friend, as well as my closest neighbour. We’d known each other for nearly a decade, meeting after his long-term partner Doug had been killed by a drunk driver whilst crossing the street to get a pint of milk from the local convenience store.
Despite knowing each other for some time as friends, latterly I had gotten different vibes from him. Sexual vibes. Once or twice we had gone to the movies and his arm had curled along the back of the seat, caressing my arm and shoulder and the side of my neck in a decidedly non-gay manner. It had definitely sent my senses into a spin but he had then backpedalled as though he had been startled at his temerity. We had joked that he was turning straight, and the mo
ment passed.
Several times we had near misses, but never consummated, leaving me confused but thinking since he’s a bloke, this was par for the usual course. I finally flipped at him about a year ago, after another episode which left me horny and frustrated when he gave me mixed signals again. “Jackson,” I said, “You really need to decide what you are. You blow hot and cold, and it’s irritating the hell out of me. If you’re gay, that’s fine, and you need to back off from the sexy little touches. But if you want to start something, if you’re wanting to mix things up a little you need to make up your mind. You can’t amp a woman up like this and then leave her to go home alone and frustrated. Let me know when you decide.” And people say that women are hard work!
Jackson was a keeper though, a gorgeously handsome self-confident male in his early forties who exuded sexiness. I had fancied him for ages, practically from the day we first met, but had accepted that he and I were simply fated to be best friends. Since his last partner had been male I figured it would be a lesson in futility to try to convert him despite the confusing vibes every so often. I would love to have the confidence to test him so I could have my wicked way with him. I bet he was a scorching kisser. He had a body made for sin, nicely toned muscles, ripped abs, large biceps, and a nice juicy ass which was just nicely rounded and had two cute dimples which just begged to be explored. Big brown eyes which you could lose yourself in, dark-brown hair which was kept slightly shaggy, and he always seemed to be wearing a couple of days’ growth of stubble on his chin, giving him a slightly badass vibe.
I felt a gentle kiss on the top of my head and his fingers stroked my hair away from my face. A tissue was dangled in front of me and I grabbed it, embarrassed at having slobbered all over him, since there’s really nothing attractive about leaving blobs of runny snot and saliva over someone’s shirt, regardless how good a friend they are.