by Nicole Dere
‘No!’ I gasp. My hand shoots out involuntarily, grabs at her wrist, and I blush, embarrassed at my agitation and my arousal. ‘No – it’s – my boyfriend – Mr Monk – he’s just come back. He’ll be coming soon!’
Not too soon, though. And not just once. It’s all a dream, except that it’s better than any dream, even my steamiest sex fantasies. I plan to be already in bed when Simon enters, maybe even feigning sleep, draped half out of the sheet, in my dark see-through nightie with its black lace, suitably disarranged. But once in bed, I can’t control my rioting mind or my raging body, so I end up pacing about the suite, trying not to stare at my misty nakedness through the transparent material, shivering in the efficient cool of the air conditioning. Still, at least it makes my nipples stand out. Two points in my favour? I try to stop comparing myself, always unfavourably, with Wanda. Better looks, better tits, better bum, better legs, better ... oh, stop! She’s gone! And maybe not coming back. It’s me he’s coming up to, soon (please!). Me he’s going to sleep with, and wake with, and fuck, before and after! Something he hasn’t done since she came on the scene. Not once. And now she’s gone, and I’m still here. And he’ll be with me soon.
The endless waiting ends, not much before midnight, but he comes in, full of apology, and desire for me. I vow I’ll be restrained, be cool, and selfless. I go to him, we kiss again, slowly, and I shiver at my nakedness under the thin silk, rubbing against his clothed form. He starts to alter that with feverish eagerness, flinging his clothes aside, scattering them all around the floor of the spacious bedroom. I try to assist, even try to drop on my knees at his feet, to reach for his prick with loving hands and devoted mouth, but he pulls me almost roughly upright. ‘No! Not now! Crissie, it’s you I want. I want to be with you, in you. I want to love you. Fuck you.’
He gathers me up, carries me to the bed and flings me on it. He claws off his undershorts and flings them away. He doesn’t even remove my nightgown, just drags it up off my thighs and my belly, and thrusts himself between my spreading limbs. His hot face savages my breasts through their flimsy cover. I feel his teeth biting, his tongue lapping, then his prick stabs at me, and he’s inside, and I am slickly ready to receive him. Even so I gasp, bite hard at my lip to prevent a cry of pain at the hardness of his penis driving deep within, filling me, demanding. Taking me, and I surrender, sobbing with gratitude and love.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ Is it me screaming, or is it both of us? It’s furious, there is a penetrating pain, stabbing right through me, and I want more. More pain, more fury; I want this impalement. We clash against each other with savage urgency. I thrust up against his furious humping, our bellies slapping loudly, our pubic bones hammering together. The sweat gleams, making our writhing bodies shine, the drops mingling, sliding slickly across our frenzied flesh.
‘Oh God, yes, Simon!’ And I know I’m sobbing and crying this aloud. ‘I want you, on and on, always! I’m yours!’
And I don’t even think that wicked thought that he is mine, as I feel him come, deep and flooding, and I howl and drive myself deeper on the rod of his manhood, and reach that ultimate gain and loss, riding his hardness, timeless until we collapse and sigh and wilt together.
Chapter Thirteen
I STAND AT THE rail of our balcony, watching the first blood red magnificence of the dawn heralded across the dark of the sky, and the shimmering silver of the lapping ocean. I am naked, and my skin is still goosebumped from the chill efficiency of the AC in the room behind me. The air out here is actually warmer, and I revel in the feel of it flowing over my aching, tender body. There is still an all but invisible net of fine mesh between me and the outside world, spread tight across the wooden frames of the shutters which extend to the hanging eaves of the grass roof. The mesh is necessary. Even in this tropic paradise, there are humming, buzzing, stinging, biting insects, to prove that this heaven is still firmly on Earth. But here, for those who can afford it, the insects are kept away from my highly desirable and freely exposed flesh. I lean on the rail, savour my freedom, and my happiness. Eve in the Garden. And my Adam lies sleeping behind me, through those long curtains that hang across the window which I have just passed through.
Wrong! I give a little squeal of pretend fright and genuine delight as I feel his hand on my bottom, and then both of them on my hips as I half turn to greet him, and his grip tightens to prevent me from doing so. ‘Jambo, bwana !’ I murmur, twisting my head round to return the light nibbling kisses he is bestowing on my neck and shoulder. Our lips make brief contact, our noses rub together, his buried in the wild tangle of my blonde hair, and I shiver as he nuzzles behind my ear.
‘No. Keep still, sweetheart. Look at the ocean. Watch the sunrise.’
I obey. My heart starts to thump as I feel his hands slowly move from my hips, to slide round, play over my belly, and the little nest of my pubic hair. His fingers begin to toy delicately with the slightly crusty tissue on the outer folds of my labia. My vulva is sore, and I suppress a tiny wince of discomfort at this lightest of touches. But then he slowly peels them apart, revealing the inner dark then paling surface of the vaginal tunnel, and at once I am lubriciously slick again, and it’s not only my heart that’s beating now, but the muscles of my cunt, responding to these feathery caresses with fierce want, despite my soreness.
I lean back against his chest and shoulder, my voice a breathy whisper. ‘Someone might be watching. The staff – someone passing on their way to work.’
‘Lucky them!’
His teeth nip my ear lobe, and I whimper. I thrust my belly out, my thighs part, begging him not to cease his play. ‘Oh God! Simon, my love! Don’t stop!’
The fingers move up and down the long fold of my sex, and part the outer lips even further. A finger moves slowly over the slippery surface, to the upper fold, in slow circular movement, and I feel the sudden flow of juice, and the throb of my clitoris, screamingly urgent now as he rotates his finger about it. I shudder, my muscles lock, and my buttocks clench, form deep hollows. I feel his prick rearing, its hardening column pressing between my bottom cheeks, which grip at it in rapturous welcome. I feel his helm, its tip smearing my skin with its nectar, as the long column expands, hardens again, potent now against the crease of my bottom, nestling against my coccyx. I reach blindly behind me, my fingers waggle searching out his erection. I brush against it and he moves, avoiding my effort to hold him.
‘No, no, Crissie! This is all for you. Just for you. Let me love you.’
I sigh, lean back against him, making as much contact as I can, from head to heels. I’m ready to die right now with total joy, for how can it get any better? But his fingers are working, two now are inside my sheath, moving, firmer, deeper, and it hurts in spite of his slow gentleness, and I don’t care. It’s bliss. I’m going to come. I can feel it, the orgasm starting that deep, deep spiral, way down, and as I begin to shake and spasm, and whimper softly, at last he withdraws his fingers and turns me, lifting me, hoists my bum on the thin iron railing. It cuts into my little nates sharply, but I don’t give a damn. My legs are already parting, gaping, my knees bending, my feet turned out, my toes curling up, and his arms are under my thighs. His cock slides in, easily, deeply, I hang on it, my heels dig into the back of his hard thighs, then his clenched bottom and I hang like a monkey up a palm tree. The world – my world – is in that magnificent rigid prick, on which I am skewered. It is the centre of being and I thrust, trying to split myself in two, ready to die at this orgasmic moment.
I really do feel as if I have passed out. I return to consciousness, aware that the scream ringing in my ears is my own howl of fulfilment, as the shattering spasms of the climax roar through me. He’s still plunged deep inside me, the swordlike hardness gone, dying, the meld of our juices flowing over our still combined flesh, and I whimper again, just briefly afraid that I have been torn in two, that blood is flowing. But of course it isn’t, it’s just the potent flood of his come, and I love it all: the distinctive aroma, the
warmth and then the cold of it, the crusted drying of it on our interlocked bodies. Beam me up! It can’t get any better.
But it did, and it does. I’m sitting now gazing out at the velvet darkness through the windows, beyond which I can hear the swishing murmur of the sea, and the almost-echo of the warm breeze through the palm leaves – and still the creepy-crawlies, and the huge, fluttering furry moths, which would send me hysterical if one came anywhere near me, can’t get at us. As befits this more public setting of the long gallery of the hotel bar, inside the terrace which has been vacated with the setting of the sun, I am dressed, and made up and coiffeured quite elegantly, I may say in all humility, in a white, lacy, off-the-shoulder evening dress, with short, bouffant skirt: one of a number of wonderful gifts my lover has brought me. It enhances my modest tan, and in keeping with my newfound sense of wellbeing and confidence, I have left off the dark stockings I normally include in my evening wear.
It’s not all I have left off. I am not wearing knickers. Not even the gossamer thong with the butterfly clip which I had laid out when finally, in the evening glow of the dying day, we rose in seeming exhaustion from our steaming pit, and then from the fragrance of a bubble-filled sunken bath, to don our glad-rags for dinner. So! Apart from my heeled evening sandals and cute little dress, I am naked as I have been all this unbelievable, unforgettable day, as we move arm in arm into the grand dining hall and are ushered to our usual table by a window.
I look good, I know, but as I sink back into the chair the waiter solicitously holds for me, I am conscious of every aching muscle, and that includes the vast majority, from the fair curls of my head to my painted toes. Even that diaphanous wisp of a thong would have made me wince, if I had fitted it over my tender puss.
But my suffering has not been in vain. And I have not suffered alone. My glossy lips twitch in a private little smile as I remember, less than an hour ago, the sweet little wimpish whimper emitted by my beloved in that foamy bath, when I bent forward and laid my hand on his cute (dare I say “little”?) cock, and nestled it into my palm while I bent and very gently pursed my lips in a light kiss on its soapy folds. And, in spite of his professed exhaustion, those folds swiftly disappeared, as his prick thickened and throbbed, and lengthened like an unfolding telescope, to its erect magnificence. I moved, those pains and aches forgotten as I swivelled around to crouch on my knees between his, slackly parted against the porcelain sides of the brimming tub, and with my head immersed up to my ears in the crackling suds, I began to lick. First the helm, pink and fully exposed now, until I could taste over the perfumed soap the exotic flavour of the first gleams of emission. Suddenly throbbingly eager, I stretched my jaws wide and enveloped his glans, my cheeks puffing and my throat working as I drew him in, striving mightily not to gag and sucking valiantly, until I felt the vital swell and beat and I heard him gasp then groan, and I felt the convulsive grip of his hands on my hair.
Ecstatic and proud, I felt the great convulsion of the muscle as he ejaculated. I gulped, swallowed the first gush of nectar until I did choke, then pulled my mouth free and tugged his beating penis forward. He yelped as I pressed his spouting prick like a dagger between my wet breasts, and I shuddered, my thighs squeezing in my own crisis, feeling his fecund organ pumping the hot come over my proffered flesh.
Maybe he is seeking revenge for my bathtub assault, but all at once, just as we are starting on the dessert, I feel his hand caressing my bare leg, beneath the white damask of the tablecloth, which hangs curtain-like almost to the floor. Thankfully (and hopefully, in my case) it hides our lower limbs completely. His hand slides over my smooth skin, taking its time, enjoying its leisurely trip. He reads my invisible flesh like Braille, slowly, slowly, up to the knee, following the sharp angle, on to my lower thigh, then upper, his fingers enjoying the satin cool feel of flesh, the fuller curve of it as they make their way onward and upward. The flesh is warmer now, and ever more sensitive. He traces the crease of thigh and belly, the warm cave where my thighs rest on the material of the chair.
The waiter comes to take away our dishes. I stiffen, anticipating Simon’s swift withdrawal, but it doesn’t happen. I suppress my instinct to pull away. Instead, to my surprise, I part my legs a little wider, all hidden under the cloth of course, and Simon’s fingers trace the wiry little curls of my pubes, while I nod wordlessly at the waiter’s polite enquiry as to the quality of the sweet.
‘Excellent!’ Simon declares. ‘Very juicy! It has a certain tangy quality to it. Delicious!’ His fingers move, onto the tender crack of my vulva, stroke lightly, and I bite my lip, dig my bottom into the soft upholstery of the seat in order not to squirm. A little moan escapes my lips, which I hope the waiter takes for acquiescence.
As he departs, to bring our brandy and coffee, I gasp helplessly. My thighs close, squeeze against his wrist. His fingers are prising my sore lips apart, and gently stroking. I feel myself dampening, the hunger flaring to urgency. ‘Simon! Please! If you don’t stop ...’ He grins, a finger inserts itself into my slipperiness, and in spite of all my shame I feel my loins thrust forward involuntarily, to welcome his soft penetration. ‘I’ll soak the seat if you don’t stop!’ I suddenly feel close to tears, and yet ... my pelvis responds, I’m moving as secretly as I can in response to his stimulation. ‘I’ll wet myself!’ I wail, desperately clutching at the tablecloth as the smiling waiter returns with the coffee.
I am wet – very wet – and very close to a climax and almost ready to collapse in total abandon when Simon finally takes pity on me – or is unbearably cruel, my raging blood and sex scarcely knows which – and pulls away his hand from between my legs. I’m shaking, and desperately close to crying now, my mind and my body in turmoil. Why has he done this to me? A public humiliation, a cheapening? I’ve been groped before in public places. I know how men treat tarts. Is that what I still am to him? And for the first time in that long, wonderful day, I remember Wanda, and bitterly wonder if he has groped her like this in public.
He stares at me, hard, and I blush, feeling just as exposed in my mind as my bare beating cunt beneath my dress. He drags me up, with sudden ferocity, so that I don’t have time even to glance at my chair to see whether there’s a telltale patch of wetness, and with a grip tight as a gaoler, rushes me to the door, and across the adjacent reception area. Our room is among the most expensive, on the first floor, up a short wide staircase, but to my consternation he heads for the lifts. Most of the guests are in the dining room or one of the bars. No one is waiting, and the gleaming silver metal doors slide open. Still keeping his hold on me he pulls me in, jabs one of the buttons. The doors close, and we begin to move. He jabs another button, then I give a little scream as he violently lifts my skirt of soft net and exposes the nakedness beneath. ‘What ...?’
‘I want you! I always want you! Keep still!’ He thrusts me against the padded wall, drops to his knees, disappears under the froth of my dress, which hangs over his shoulders, and I cry out as I feel his warm breath, then his hot face burrowing avidly, like a beast, into the yielding softness between my sprawling thighs. His mouth works at my vulva, his teeth pressing hurtfully, gnawing, then his tongue lapping, up the narrow fissure, his nose pressing into me just at the top of the divide, rousing me unbearably, so that I cry harshly with need, utterly transformed by his animalistic abuse.
‘It’s happening!’ My cry echoes in the mercilessly bright, shining little compartment, which has trembled to a halt. Somehow Simon has prevented the doors from opening. My hands are on his shoulders. I can feel my own, bare and slick with perspiration, sticking to the padding of the elevator’s wall. I am astride his buried face, almost riding him, my hands tearing at his shoulders, his neck and hair. ‘Fuck me, Simon! Please!’ I fold over onto him, and still he is buried, madly lapping at my sex.
Then all at once we are on the floor, and he gropes now at himself, pulls his erect penis from his fly, and we couple, the soft layers of silk and net of my dress gathered high about my waist,
crushed between our thrusting bodies. I can see my pale thighs, my bottom, all around me in the reflective metal surfaces of the lower sections of the walls which enclose us. Then he is deeply, fully in me, and we hammer furiously against one another as though this is our last time, the end of our world, jerking, fucking to oblivion, until we come together, the little cell rebounds to our simultaneous cries, and we collapse in dripping exhaustion, while the lift rides up and down, its atmosphere fetid with our excesses.
It finally comes to rest on the upper floor (thankfully), where the crowd is far smaller than those staff and guests clustered about the doors on the ground floor. ‘My partner’s taken ill!’ Simon gasps, as soon as the doors glide open. ‘She suffers from claustrophobia! We thought we were going to be trapped in this damned thing for hours!’ He scoops me up in his arms, my dress gathered up to reveal my legs as far as the upper thighs, and as he carries me clear of the tiny compartment, I wonder dizzily if anyone gazing keenly at my lolling frame might notice that my bum is bare, that I am knickerless. I wonder, too, about the air, which is rife with the pungency of our sweat and passion.
‘You’d better check this thing! We don’t expect faulty equipment in a hotel like this!’ I have a sudden urge to giggle hysterically, and I bury my burning face in Simon’s breast as he carries me like a true hero through the staring crowds back to the blessed privacy of our room.
Chapter Fourteen