One of the wonderful things about being in bed together naked is that if you do decide to fool around, everything you need is right there where you need it. I reached out and ran my hand along the smooth lowlands of her flank, up over the dune of her hip, and down the cool, moonlit littoral of her thigh. She scooted closer and tangled her fingers in the kelp bed of my chest.
It was a sweet, shy, getting-to-know-you fuck. The graceful cove where Claire's neck met her shoulder still tasted salty and warm. Her pretty nipples, which had bobbed along beside me so innocently just half an hour ago, now blushed like anemones as my tongue surveyed them more closely. My sea slug stretched himself out again to better receive Claire's affectionate caresses. He eeled his way along her coastline, happily exploring every little tide pool and estuary. And hidden within the fjord on the chaste southern promontory that he had already spied several times earlier that day, he was amazed, as he always is, to discover a secret cozy cave that had been there waiting all this time, all moist, and snug, and welcoming.
He scratched his itch along the cave's smooth walls, first on one side, then on the other. A tingle told him that a sneeze was on its way. It approached as voluptuously and ineluctably as a tidal wave, lifting him up to the point where there was no turning back, and finally bursting forth in a tremendous, juicy, body wrenching spasm that reverberated all up and down the continental plate. It was followed by an aftershock, then another, then another.
I floated for a while alone on the open ocean. The repeated squeezes of Claire's insistent thighs wrung out every last drop of eel jism. We rolled onto our sides. My eel slowly retracted his way back home, finally losing his purchase on her sweet cave altogether. Claire gave me a little smile. I pulled up the sheet, and only then did we drift off to sleep.
In the morning light Claire's face was serene and lovely. Her cheeks had not yet lost all their baby fat. Her lips were full, her skin unblemished. Her wild pre-raphaelite hair diffused the scene behind her like a spotlit chestnut halo. I don't think I've ever met a Calandrian who was not at least reasonably attractive. It's not just the handsomeness of the race or the luck of the draw. From an early age, grooming, fitness, and poise form an essential core of the Calandrian education. Like all her schoolmates, Claire knew that appearance must be tended like a garden, and that with proper attention, any patch of land can be made into a splendid enough place for one to spend a summer afternoon, or, indeed, to stake one's claim alongside. In Claire's case the soil was fertile and the gardener plenty able. But the wellspring of her beauty, it seemed to me, the sap that infused every petal and twig, was the unqualified awareness that I could only imagine she must have felt, ever since she was a little girl sitting on her mother's lap, that she was pretty, desirable, and worthy of love.
The alarm went off. Claire's eyes eased open. Took in their unfamiliar surroundings. Eased shut again. A few seconds later they ventured a second reconnaissance. This time they noticed the strange fellow on the adjoining pillow. Memory banks spun up, cobwebs were cleared. Her eyelids fluttered up for a third time, and this time they remained open in a weak but steady gaze. "Good morning, team," she mewed.
I gathered her closer. The increasing chatter of her eyelashes, now played out against my chest, told me she was gearing up for the day's events.
Traditionally, the Calandrian fuck consists of two full courses: the primo---the more substantial meat and potatoes portion of the meal, and the secondo---the lighter but equally delicious fruit compote, brandy and chocolates, or, as the case may be, continental breakfast. The two courses are separated by an intermezzo of cuddling, sleeping, or going about the impinging activities of the day. But no matter how satisfying the primo, the act of love does not feel complete, and the lovers feel themselves to be still somehow intimately entwined, until the consummation of the secondo.
I glided my hand along the uninterrupted silkiness that stretched seamlessly from her shoulders all the way down beyond her bottom. I could just reach the tops of her thighs, where they turned in between her legs. Her eyelashes modulated their tempo, then paused altogether. She nibbled thoughtfully on one of my nipples. She slowly stroked the other one. Then she knelt up as if to begin her morning devotions. The sheet slipped off her back, revealing our nakedness. Tenderly she coaxed my obelisk into erection, rubbed its head along her vulva, and then lowered herself down upon it, impaling herself on its rigidity, bearing down until she had enveloped its entire length in her votive embrace. She worked her way back up again, slowly anointing every inch with her chrism, then down again, up and down, rubbing herself luxuriously against its ribbed totems.
I paid homage to her as well. As she cantered above me like a ravishing goddess, I stroked her with reverence and awe---her flexing hips, her long, slender sides, her quivering breasts, her floating arms. Her nipples were hard as rubies, and I opened one hand wide to touch them both in their cycle. I slid the other hand between her thighs to venerate the wet, intimate folds of her labia. Another precious jewel was hidden there, and with every rise and fall she secretly pressed it against me. Her eyes were fixed on a horizon far beyond the walls of the room. Her face had become utterly slack, no longer with the peaceful serenity of sleep, but with the stark abandon of ecstasy. I could not take my eyes off her. She rode and rode and shuddered and rode and saw at last the full, glorious, radiant, undiminished object of her quest. She slackened her pace, but she did not stop riding for another good mile at least.
Conchita brought us our breakfast of rolls and cheese and coffee. She was glad that we had enjoyed the restaurant, and she wished us luck on our presentation. When she turned to go, I saw that the apron constituted the entirety of her uniform. Apart from her sandals, it was the only thing she had on.
Claire's hair was still a little damp when we headed out. It was a glorious morning. We passed groups of chattering children on their way to school, grocers and merchants opening up their shops, deliverymen making their morning rounds.
We were welcomed by Dr. Peterson himself, the president of the firm. He introduced us to Grant and Mekela who would be heading up the project from their end. Grant was ruggedly handsome with short blond hair. He wore khaki trousers and a button-down shirt much like my own. Mekela had short nappy hair and wore a colorful vest and skirt that contrasted strikingly with her rich ebony skin. Her vest was bright scarlet and marigold, and it buttoned across her midriff, leaving her breasts fully exposed. They rose from her chest like two gentle volcanic islands with out-turned basalt craters. Her skirt was like a grass skirt, made up of narrow strips of scarlet, pumpkin, marigold, tan, and black that hung freely from her waist and shimmered and parted as she walked.
The conference room looked out over the sparkling bay, The three of them listened attentively to our presentation and asked several thoughtful questions. Dr. Peterson congratulated us heartily on our preparation. The firm was very keen to get into this area, and our proposal was right in line with their vision. He was quite hopeful that we could do business. Grant and Mekela would go over the plans with us in greater detail, and we would all meet back together later in the afternoon.
Grant had several specific questions related to the figures, and Mekela sketched out their ideas about funding. They brought up a few points we had not thought of, and they used a somewhat different pricing schedule, but there did not seem to be any major discrepancies. They also had their own maps, much more detailed than ours, and we studied them closely. The final decisions would of course require an actual survey, but we saw no cause for concern.
We ate lunch on a patio overlooking the bay. Figs, grapes, and a salad of eggplants and olives. Grant had lived all his life in Panga Lea, and he gave us the captain's tour of the bay, pointing out several interesting features about the harbor, the islands, the plantations along the coast, and the small villages just visible on the distant hillsides. Mekela showed us where some of the project installations would be built.
"Call us old-fashioned, but here in Panga Lea it is still the custom to take an afternoon siesta," said Grant when we had finished. "Of course we can go right back to work if you prefer, but I think we are well enough on track that we can afford a little time to recharge our batteries."
Claire and I saw no problem in honoring the local customs.
Claire went with Grant, and I went with Mekela. She led me to a small room with closed shades, a mat, a futon, a table, and a basin. She often went home for siesta, she said, but the firm had a few rooms available as well. We stepped out of our sandals at the door. She took off her vest and unwrapped her skirt. Her smooth, chocolate vagina was topped by a carefully trimmed patch that looked to be of the exact thickness and texture as the hair on her head. It reminded me of a French poodle. I smiled, and she smiled back. Following her lead, I took off my shirt and trousers and hung them on the post next to hers.
"I'm not really acquainted with the siesta," I said. "We don't practice it in Central City."
"It is second nature to me now," she said, walking over to the futon. "It really helps me to concentrate more fully during the second part of the day." She lay down and stretched herself luxuriously. She patted the spot beside her. "Come and lay down. We will take a little nap. We can make love first if you would like."
