It makes me very, very aware of my greedy little hole. It’s like he’s feeling for the right spot, or maybe suggesting where it might be, through the material of my panties – and he’s right too. That is where my cunt resides, and further up oh further up … yesss. That’s where my clit is.
But he doesn’t linger there for long, either. He alternates back and forth, stroking over my hole and then back over my clit, as though testing which one I like best. I can’t decide, however. The former is so rude, so … humiliating, somehow, while the latter simply sparks pleasure up the length of my spine.
Both sensations are utterly, deliriously delicious. I want to spread my legs wider just to get more of them, but of course I restrain myself. It’s bad enough that I’m letting him rub me like this, without saying a word – as though he’s so handsome and magnificent that he just has a right to my helpless body.
Egging him on is completely out of the question. I can’t even look at him.
Until I do, and then … then I wish I hadn’t.
He doesn’t seem like himself, any more. He’s not a composed cut-out from the cover of a magazine. His eyelids are so heavy it’s almost a burden on me to carry them, and his soft lips have parted in this really suggestive way. Even if he wasn’t currently stroking my swollen pussy, I’d know what’s going on here.
It’s like he wants me to reach up and slide something into that open mouth of his, and if I was better at this – more sure of myself, sexier, an adventuress – I’d know what that something was. I’d take it out and fuck his face, until he begged me to stop.
The way I beg him to stop, after a moment of this. I have to, after all. If he keeps going I’ll come all in an embarrassing rush, just because he’s got a finger on some material and is rubbing me through it.
Too bad, really, that my protests come out wordlessly, soundlessly. I barely make it to a syllable. I just lie on the sun lounger and let him work my stiff clit to a shuddery, buckled-down sort of orgasm, while a thin breath takes the place of all the things I want to say.
Stop, I think. Don’t, I think.
But I can’t get either word out. I’m awash in this brutal kind of pleasure, of the sort that doesn’t take kindly to being restrained. It spills around the edges of my control and pushes through the boundaries I’ve long established, and once a bit of it’s free it goes on and on and on.
It’s like letting a tidal wave flow through an opening the size of a little finger. And once it’s done, the dam wall isn’t in particularly good shape. It’s cracked and battered and crumbling at the seams, in a way that’s obvious to even the most casual of observers.
I can see it in his face, as he draws away from me. His lip is faintly curled and there’s a crease between his brows, as though to say: that’s all it takes, to ruin someone like you? And then when he sits back in his lounger and picks up a magazine – as though nothing happened, nothing at all – I hear his final point loud and clear, even though he doesn’t say it out loud.
How disappointing.
* * *
I know he’s up there. I can hear his big feet pounding around on the deck, but I’m not going to go up. Not this time. I don’t know why he keeps staying behind while they go off and explore tourist spots, but in all honesty I don’t care.
He can stew up there, alone. He can conjure up some other person to torment – some girl who’s more his speed. She’s the other half of that magazine cover, and when he puts a hand between her legs she doesn’t soak through her knickers immediately. She doesn’t twist and shiver beneath his barely-there touch, as though she’s just grateful for any human contact.
Instead, she eyes him coldly, indifferently, while lying there like a statue. Later on they’ll make love on the bed behind me, in an elegant, poised sort of way. She’ll point her toes and arrange her hair just so on the pillow, and he’ll never look at her with that weird combination of incredulity and disdain.
Or at least, that’s what I’m still hoping for when he appears in the doorway.
He’s probably got her in tow now. I can practically smell her sunshine scent and hear her glassy voice – to the point where I actually start wondering if I should offer to make her a drink, too. I have all the accoutrements in front of me. The bar between the bed and the kitchenette is well stocked with all kinds of lovely things.
And I know, because I’m currently putting all of them together, for myself. I’m calling the rainbow-coloured concoction before me a ‘Burn That Sex Thing From Your Memory’ daiquiri.
Even though I don’t really know what a daiquiri is. It just sounds good, on the end of my imaginary cocktail. It legitimises fluorescent memory-loss in a glass, topped by a raft of candy-coloured cherries – one of which I devour, casually, as he strolls up behind me.
Yeah, that’s right. He strolls. He’s as casual as I am, apparently, even though I’m nothing of the kind. I’m shivering just as I did before, only without the excuse of an orgasm. And as before, I can’t really seem to function beyond this. I can’t look at him. I just stare straight ahead at the picture on the far wall, of a fisherman who’s unaccountably shouldering a huge shotgun.
Or maybe it’s not a fisherman, at all. It’s just a guy in a vest that looks like a fisherman’s, and really he’s out to bag himself a nice girl in a white sundress.
Of the kind Hunter then lifts.
I can feel him doing it, somewhere behind me. And I say somewhere, because it’s like the whole thing is not attached to me at all. I’m not wearing this sundress. I’m three hundred feet away from myself, drinking a made-up daiquiri.
While a man exposes my almost bare backside, and strokes his big hands over whatever flesh he finds there.
God only knows what he’s going to do next. I can’t imagine, because I’ve got no frame of reference for this. Usually men say things like ‘Would you perhaps want to move over to the bed?’ or similar, and even those sorts of fellows are in short supply, for a girl of my type. This kind of thing … this kind of silent thievery, heavy with assumption …
I don’t know what to do with this.
So I just stand there and take it instead. I let him rub over my ass until he works up to something bolder – both hands under the elastic of my knickers, fondling and fondling me before finally pulling the whole lot down. And then once I’m completely bare under there, he gets hold of me in a tamer sort of place.
Like the hollows of my hips – which only seems tame until he tugs me back. After that, it doesn’t seem tame at all. I’m now somehow bent over the bar with my ass bared, and though I don’t remember doing it my legs are apart.
They’re really, embarrassingly wide apart. I bet he can see everything in between, when he glances down. I bet he can see how wet I am, how swollen my pussy is – though I’ve no idea why that’s the case. He hasn’t touched me anywhere in particular. He hasn’t said anything filthy, to fire me up.
He just breathes hard and manoeuvres me into position, while my heart thunders between my legs and perspiration gets me in its cloying grip. I’m so hot, I think, so boiling boiling hot, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
It’s
