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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 escort bostancı 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.”
“Sarah, you are my new favourite masseuse.” I thank her for the whiskey.
She laughs and asks, “Do you like, have any injuries or pain, anything you would like me to focus on?”
“No dear but I’m sure you’ll find plenty of tension knots.”
“In that case, I’ll get you to roll over for me and I’ll start with your front.”
I roll dutifully and the throw opens of its own accord spilling my breasts into the sunlight. Did she gasp? I can’t see her face. She is standing at my head. I don’t mind in any case. The sunlight explores this new part of me and its previously far too familiar fingers probe at my nipples and breasts like naughty teasing puddles of warmth. Her hands cup my face warmly and gently smooth along my jaw. I’m reminded of the way George kisses me sometimes, gently holding my jaw while hungrily mashing my lips and probing my mouth.
Her firm warm fingers mimic the sun’s caress and smooth along my forehead and into my hair. I should probably find a hairdresser you know. The little silver streaks have started re-appearing and the ümraniye escort ends… The bloody ends are my curse.
“You have lovely long hair Connie, have you been growing it for long?”
I’m a little surprised. Massages have been a silent thing in the past except for instructions and requests.
“I grew it long in college. It really needs a trim and colour.”
“Nonsense, these little silver sparkles are pretty.”
“George says so too but I’m not ready for them yet.”
“George is Mr Winter?”
“Will he be joining you?”
“He was called to Tokyo at the last minute. So, I’m here alone.”
“Oh.” Her fingers caress my scalp in slow languorous circles, “Well there’s like, plenty to do on the island.”
“I’m enjoying the solitude for now.”
“That’s my favourite thing on days off. Finding a quite spot of sand away from everyone and working on my tan.”
“You have really pretty skin. I’d kill for olive skin. I burn so easily.”
My eyes are closed in pleasure so I can’t see her expression but this compliment seems to have silenced her for now. Her hands trace back along my cheeks to my shoulders and run firmly pressing fingers along my collarbone from neck to shoulder tip. The pleasure is a tangible fluid which flows with her touch. If George were doing this he would have been distracted by now. His mouth would be where a faint breeze licks my sun blessed nipples. He’d tongue them and tease and nip and they’d harden just as they do now.
Somehow her hands are oiled now. Like a magician pulling flowers and scarves from her sleeves she has applied oil to my skin without me knowing that her touch has ever left me. The pleasure flows down my arm as she rubs and slides slick along my forearm then massages each finger on my hand. ‘Honey slick hole’ my mind says. I open my eyes to see Sarah’s brown eyes smiling back into mine. She returns my left arm to the table beside me and trailing her left hand across my collarbone she walks to the other side of the table. I’m so grateful she left her hand upon me. If it had left my skin the loss would have been profound.
My right arm gets the same attention. ‘Honey slick’ is all I can think as her fingers slide delight along my flesh. ‘Honey slick hole,’ as sun licks my belly and breasts. ‘Honey slick hole,’ as she returns my arm to the table and trails her hand back to my collarbone, settling warmly at the base of my neck. Where will the torturous, teasing pleasure be applied next? I wonder only briefly as her hand traces a line of warmth between my breasts slowly down to my navel. George would tug now at my bikini bottom and minister greedily to my ‘turgid tunnel’. I giggle and the lovely girl thinks she’s tickled me.
“Sorry Connie.” She traces her touch to my hip with a little firmer pressure then down my leg to my foot where she massages oiled strength into the aches of each foot that I hadn’t known hid there. I groan with the pleasure of it and blush.
The sweet girl giggles and moves to my calves sliding her hands fluidly over them, spreading fingers to knead the muscles. “You have lovely legs Connie, you keep very fit.”
“Thanks Sarah. I play a little tennis but I’m not a young girl anymore.”
“I have to like work so hard to stay in shape. I seem to spend half my life at the gym.”
“It pays off for you darling. You have a cracking body.”
She is quiet again which suits me because I want to drink in the joy of her skilled hands where they play along my greedy flesh. I open my eyes briefly to find her blushing as she looks further up my legs to my bikini. Her hands travel over my knees and symmetrically mirror each other as she uses her thumbs on the inside of my thighs and her strong fingers work my quadriceps. Firmly, she pushes in a circular kneading motion from knee to upper thigh and each time she arrives at the pinnacle of this movement her thumbs brush the fabric of my bikini and a jolt of fiery desire lunges through my core.
I almost cry out when her fingers trail up my sides and over my tummy to gently smooth oily palms from navel to below my breasts. As they rise and fall on my needy skin, my breath follows. George would be tugging on my nipples now in a toothy twisting tease. Rolling each nipple in turn back and forth along his teeth gently, knowing my boiling lust rising with each moment. He would hold one rudely and mush it with his hand while licking, biting, sucking then swap. Sometimes I’ve come just from his mouth on my breasts but she stops both warm hands just short of the girls then sighs.
“Connie, Mrs Winter, I know you like, only booked half an hour but I’d like to continue for you. I have the afternoon off and well, if you like I can continue.”
I’ve risen from my lusty depths enough to register her speech but not entirely it’s meaning. “What dear? Time? Oh…” I’m sure my regret echoes in my tone.
“I don’t mind but I need your consent. The resort stops paying me now and if I continue its kartal escort bayan technically an assault.”
“Well that’s the most ridiculous thing…”
“Technically all massage is an assault no matter how good it feels if there is no consent. So, now our time is up I’m just really molesting you.”
“I wish…” I sit to look at her curiously serious face. “Sarah darling, I need the loo…”
I wrap the throw back around myself and hurry to the toilet. I’m sopping wet in the way good girls aren’t. As I piss I wonder why Sarah would offer to continue. Perhaps she’s lonely? Perhaps she will try to have me pay more? Perhaps she wants some dollar-dollar for jiggy-jig? That trip to Bali with George was super fun. There was nothing money couldn’t buy. A picture of his satisfied face, sweaty and wrung out with exhaustion lying atop my breasts as a little Asian girl tried to sucky-suck him back to erect, flashes through my awareness.
I dab at myself with toilet paper and decide my ‘tunnel’ is certainly, ‘turgid’. I am hot and wet and ‘clunjy’ — a word I invent for a feeling like mud sucking at boots. I probably should not have put my fingers in there in the first place but if I’m to converse with this little olive skinned magic fingered lady I need to get off the edge I’m perched upon. Moments later my knees clap together, applauding my orgasm and I slump forward in the little room sucking ragged breaths, trying to recompose myself.
I find her standing on the deck looking far off to sea. Warm sea-breeze flicks her bobbed hair and an arc best described as sensuous follows her slender neck down to the dimples of her back beneath the sarong style ‘uniform’ the island girls wear.
“Penny for your thoughts, a dollar if they’re dirty.” I use George’s favourite quip.
“Ha…” She turns to face me smiling and averts her eyes like in them I could see something she would prefer to remain hidden, “So… Connie, can I continue?”
“Darling, why would you want to?” There I’ve asked… “What’s in it for you? You’ve finished your job. This old girl got a lovely rub down. I haven’t felt that relaxed for quite a while. You are truly quite gifted with your fingers.”
“I don’t want money.” She answers quickly, “I’m not trying to like, squeeze you. There are some that do. I just…”
She sits and looks me squarely in the eyes instead of darting them all about, “I like you.”
“I like you too. God, you do magic with those hands.”
“No… I like, feel comfortable around you. You’re nice. I’m an awkward thing, sorry. I want to keep talking to you. I don’t get to talk much. I just usually rub oil into really fat old creepy people and try to compliment them until I can run away and wash myself. I was enjoying massaging you. I could feel your tension lines and felt like we were moving towards something really nice for you. It’s an intimate thing massage. Well, sometimes. Not with pigs of people but sometimes like, when you click in a way with someone, it becomes a journey. I was on a journey with you. I’d like to finish it.”
One of my eyebrows perches high on my forehead. I’m not sure exactly what it’s doing up there but there it is. As I regard this young lady and her strange admissions I soften to her disclosure. That must have taken courage to step beyond the normal contractual act of massage to this strange place. I feel warmed to her and want to mother her suddenly; wrap her in protective arms and tell her she is safe from the world, that she can be vulnerable with me.
“You’re a sweet kid and as far as I’m concerned, you run those magic fingers all over this old body until you can’t move them, okay?” I meet her eyes and lick my lips, “but first, you let me ply you with alcohol. You’re off duty, right?”
“Duty? Oh yes, off the clock. I can have a drink. I really should like, go; take that cart back and leave you to your book.” She looks down at the trashy bodice ripper and asks, “Is it any good?”
I pour two whiskeys on ice and hand her one. The ice in the bucket is fantastically tactile in its contrasting cool to the warm sun and air. Handing it to her I watch her face as she opens to the marked page and reads about ‘Sarah’s turgid tunnel’. Her pretty lips form a perfect ‘O’ and she folds it closed to look at me. Sipping her whiskey, she asks, “Why didn’t you put the throw or your top back on?”
“Who cares?” I ask pointedly, “you’ve already seen and no-one else is looking.”
“Oh yeah.” She bites her lip. “So like, can I keep going. I’d really like to do your back.”
“You’re a funny thing Sarah. Don’t you have friends to go hang with. A boyfriend to torment with your lovely figure and naughty brown eyes?”
“No. None. I have a girlfriend and she won’t be back for another three months. Visa issues. Until this stupid country changes marriage laws, I can’t bring her here permanently.”
Silence hangs like a dirty fart stained pair of undies on a clothesline full of whites.
“Gay…” She finally says. “But not like predatory. I’m not trying to seduce you, I just like your company. You’re nice and I’m enjoying the intimacy of touching you and talking and god damn it, I’m blurting like a school-girl.” She raises the whiskey to her mouth to silence herself.
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