I've blamed it on the sunshine.
George and I have had this vacation planned for more than six months. We particularly love this little tropical island. We have done since we honeymooned here twelve years ago. A lot has changed in our lives since then, but this small pearl of beauty in the pacific remains a sanctuary to us. The buildings have changed a little; a lick of paint here and there, some tasteful adjustments to décor and design but for the most part it's a wonderful anachronistic journey back to a time of simple desires and hopeful outlooks.
So, I was royally miffed when he was called to Tokyo at the last minute. His overseas investors seemingly unmoved by our ritual yearly retreat. I could have stayed home I guess but I was determined not to let his loss be mine as well and I would have greatly resented forfeiting the booking fee. In any case, I have five days and four nights of sunlight, relaxation and quiet. I also have three trashy romance novels to read and the bottle of Tullamore Dew I had brought as an anniversary gift for George.
Hence, my present position on the deck of the floating chalet reading trash and sipping whiskey, letting the tongues of sunbeams lap hungrily at my outstretched legs. I first noticed them creeping sleazily up my foot planting tiny golden kisses on my far too white skin. Then the naughty nibbles turned to great slurps along my calf before finding courage to venture just a little further higher. Coquettishly shy and ever the decent banker's wife, I gathered the hem of my cotton dress and granted them full access to lascivious legs where tongues of fire and fingers of shadow dance teasingly closer to my oh my...
Perhaps the whiskey was partly to blame but I believe it was the sun which first suggested removing the flimsy dress. So, I did and offended gulls and fish alike with the stark snowy skin-scape. I could tell the fish at least were offended as they seemed to immediately huddle together in a small congress of disgust beneath the glass floor of the deck where they perhaps wondered if I was applying enough sunscreen to prevent my skin immediately being blistered from its first sighting of sunshine in months. The gulls possibly just flew off to avoid the glare.
It could also have been the naughty chapter of the book which I had finally reached. Oh my god, just fuck already you idiots... In fiction, as in life the characters dance around in infuriating circles knowing full well where their path is leading but seemingly bent upon sabotaging or at very least delaying their own satiation. The yellow bikini which I should throw away and replace with one a little more suitable for my now more womanly shape has accompanied me on every island escape since that first one and my interest in the characters present escapades is doing little for its preservation.
Sweat mixes with my slight arousal and darkens the crotch of my suit but what matter? I am alone in this small tropical world of whiskey and sunlight and denied lusts. The eleven island chalets make a clock face around the island and paths from each lead through the jungle of trees and ferns to a central mall of entertainment and specialty stores. My arousal is not likely to be noticed by my nearest neighbour unless they cross the three or four hundred metres of pristine white sand lapped by green blue water to inspect the little tell-tale spot.
Once upon an island trip, not so many years ago, George and I made love in the shallows. We were naked as the day we were born. I was not fussed particularly on repeating that. Water robbed me of lubrication and the sand just goes everywhere. But that's not my point, my point is that this particular vantage point, from which I enjoy my whiskey, a trashy novel and the sun's delicate caress is private. Private enough for me to place my drink down and snake my fingers beneath the band of elastic and brush them through my pubic hair while I read of "Sarah's low moans escape her ruby lips to vibrate gently on the soft skin of his neck as Gregorio's throbbing shaft nuzzles against her honey slicked hole."
George's 'throbbing shaft' is still quite the instrument of pleasure. Granted these days he's better once than he ever was more often. Refractory times mock most men as they age in a mean disparity to the ease with which women learn to accept pleasure. Well, this has been my experience at least. In the early days, I experienced orgasms but mostly through manual stimulation accompanying the sexual act. As I have relaxed into my womanhood, a more multi-orgasmic creature shed its carapace of shame and bloomed as George's capacity to induce those multiple orgasms with repeated efforts waned. Some cupid kills with arrows...
Where was I now? Oh, "With a gentle thrust he spears within her, spreading her turgid tunnel..." Give me a fucking break. What sort of fool would describe their loved one's vagina as 'turgid' or a 'tunnel', certainly not someone who wanted to ever get a second look at it. It seems a perfect point to leave this literary disgrace, so I fold the corner of that page and drop it to the floor.
What would George call it? "Fanny... Muff... Bits... Kitty..." He's not a creative man but he is most effective in the attention he gives it when he could be naming it but chooses instead to minister to it. What would George be doing in Grergorio's place? Oh yes indeed, George would have Sarah lying on her back, legs spread like a starfish, lapping at her 'turgid tunnel'. I giggle at the words but gasp as my fingers puppet themselves to mimic my imagined husband's attention. One dips into my own 'honey slicked hole' and spreads sticky 'oh dear me' on the hardened lump of, oh my what would they call that I wonder as I make tiny electric circles on my clit. A love button? A miniature muff missile? A smurf's nose?
Oh yes, now George would have Sarah spread hard on her back and his tongue would trace tiny circles, figure eights even on her labia and clit. He'd nibble and suck and lick and my fingers try to keep pace in my bikini. He'd probe her with his rough fingers as he spoke his lust upon her body and she'd tip, tip, tip... Oh god yes, just like me into the sweetest little death.
The sunlight holds me through the afterglow. Warm arms smooth along me adoringly, reassuring me of their love as I breathe my way back down from the cloudless blue sky. A car horn sounds miles away. A car horn? On the island? A buggy. My massage appointment. Oh shit. I reek. I positively reek. The little dress follows me inside the chalet, swinging over my shoulders and smoothing itself along my sun kissed flanks.
In the bathroom, I wash my hands and use a warm washcloth to mop my 'turgid tunnel'. Grinning at the terminology, I have a shallow but easy sense of humour, I open the door to my forgotten appointment.
"Hi Mrs Winter. I'm Sarah. I'm the masseuse. I just need to set a few things up. Where's your fancy?"
Sarah? How serendipitous. She's a pint sized olive-skinned beauty who I immediately want to resent for her youth and features. Female jealousy makes no sense but it courses through me as I follow her strong legs up to her pert round butt and narrow waist, to her gravity defying perfect 'd' cup breasts.
"My fancy dear?"
"Like, where should I set up?"
She has a lovely laughing lilt and an easy smile which shows long white teeth and a ruby red tongue behind her pouty lips. I decide this is how the Sarah in my trashy novel is going to look from now on too and wonder briefly, amusing the shallow humour I spoke of, if she too has a turgid tunnel.
"How about on the deck dear? It's lovely out there in the sun right now."
"Perfect Mrs Winter." She hands me a white throw and looks me up and down almost scientifically, "Go pop this on please. You can like, leave the bikini on or off. Whatever you like."
I hadn't expected that. Neither the medical appraisal of her eyes or the invitation to remove all my clothing. For now, I can't decide whether to take off my suit or not so leave the bottoms on and toss the top in the corner with my little white dress. The throw is lighter than it looks and hugs my sun warmed skin deliciously.
"Are you ready Mrs Winter?"
"It's Constance. My friends call me Connie. Mrs Winter is my mother in law."
"I'm sorry Connie, I'm very used to having the mother-in-laws for clients, not the hot daughters." She is standing on the deck beside a massage table and pats it in invitation.
Hot daughters? I'm thirty-eight. She could be my daughter. Is she hitting on me or just a charmer? I climb awkwardly to the table and lie on my tummy with my face in a cut out hole.
"Hmm..." She says beside me then swings a little tray under my face, places my whiskey on the tray then takes a straw from a paper wrapping and pops it in the glass. "Perfect."
