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From: Hidieon <hidieon@yahoo.com>
Subject: New Story:  "Arrival"  M/F Rom
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The story is attached in txt format.  I can send it through in the
body of the text if you wish, but it is larger than Yahoo will accept.

Please let me know.  This is my first attempt to post a story on ASS.

Cheers, Hidieon.





Disclaimer:

This story is entirely a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to any
persons living or dead is coincidental and extremely unlikely.

This story contains romance, some graphic sex and a few thoughts.  If
any of these are illegal where you are or you are under 18 or 21, do
not read this.  If this sort of thing offends you, you did not get
here by accident, go away.

Positive responses or criticism to Hidieon@yahoo.com



Arrival.


"Well" said Bart, "here we are!"

Cathy looked at him, her green eyes inscrutable for the moment, but he
was taking in the view outside.  She heard so much in that short,
deliberately banal utterance.  She heard the relief and the disbelief,
the edge of bitterness, and the fear that this all might still be just
a fragile dream.  She heard the hard-edged irony, the
self-deprecation, and read in his thin hard body the struggle to
detach himself from the dead anchors of the past, to seek a living
future.

He was aware of her gaze; she knew it.  She felt her heart turn over
the way it so often did, the impulse to stroke his hair, his back, his
eyelids and lashes...  She responded in kind, equally banal, equally
layered in meaning.

"It was a long trip."

He turned and looked at her then; his huge blue eyes grey in the
fast-fading twilight, and then again looked out to the sea.  His eyes
half-hidden by his absurdly long eyelashes, he answered.

"Yes - it was" he said heavily "five years long - longer!"

"We made it.  We're here!"  Cathy said, trying to lift his mood.  She
succeeded; she saw the fierce joy drop into his veins like fire.  A
smile cracked his face, and he raised his arms.  He was merely
stretching, easing the kinks out of his long thin body after the long
journey, but she found herself licking her lips, her hands itching to
touch him.  His back was an erogenous zone, and that made her smile in
anticipation.  She felt her body rise with his mood, as though she
were to sway or leap with some new dance to music yet unwritten.

"It's getting dark fast," he commented, looking out at the sea, the
waves crashing over the reef far out, merely lapping where they were.

"It's the tropics," she said unnecessarily "short twilights, hardly
any seasons."

"Not exactly a cradle of civilization, then!" Bart laughed.  "More a
cradle of idleness..."

"That's what we're here for." She smiled at his back - and she
couldn't help herself.  She went up to him, pressed herself against
him.  She pressed her belly to his back - feeling the old familiar
tingle, the hunger building in her, knowing how he loved to feel her
breasts, her nipples denting his shoulder blades.

She wanted him then, immediately, but this moment was to be savored.
The road had been too long, and there was too much ahead, for this
planned and stolen moment of respite to be rushed.  Tonight, with the
windows open and the sound of the sea as their friend, isolation all
that they needed as lock for the door, then would be the time.

He felt the hunger in her body, and it transferred instantly to his
groin.  Heart and pump and hardening, and he sighed again - so
difficult to believe that they had made it here, at last.  He sighed
again, and felt that he owned the world, that he had won all the
lotteries.  Her, with him.  A thousand times he had wondered at her
love for him, a thousand times and more he knew how deeply and
vulnerably he loved her.  It was such a continuing miracle that his
love was returned.  His cock pressing against his cutoff jeans, he
longed to be free.  He had a sudden absurd vision of himself, cock
out, marking his territory like some dog, but in the hallucinatory
flicker, he didn't know if he marked the boundaries in gold or
cream...  but it would be her hand, her soft pale skin upon him,
pointing the way.

"It's so good to be alone" she whispered, her breath warm in his ear.
She felt all the interchange running between them, the history, the
present, the promise of the future, and perhaps that was the sweetest
triumph.  There was no-one else here to try to draw them out of their
world, their intense fascination with each-other, the extraordinary
reality of the other's presence.

"But darling, I'm with you!" he quipped, and she nipped his ear at
that precise pressure between pain and pleasure.

"If there's anybody else here but me, you're toast!" she said.  Then
she pulled away from him.  She had a moment's pang about the friends
that they had lost along the way, those who had tried to keep them
apart.  But they were not here - they might be part of the future, but
they were not part of this now; this arrival at their island within an
island.

Their bags stood forgotten in the corner, she wanted to nest, to make
this place familiar.  The bathroom had to come first.  The heavy
smaller bag clinked as she dragged it in; she put the lotions in their
half-familiar places.  Coconut oil was going to be so good here, so
appropriate.  Plain olive oil went to the kitchen.  That special
aromatic oil beside the bed - she smiled at it in anticipation - it
would be a nice surprise!  Three bottles of that special mixture of
15+, insect repellant and moisturizer.

She saw his eyes on her, the acceptance as she followed her
compulsion.  He loved her skin, and her compulsion had the side-effect
of skin wonderfully, touchably, strokably soft...  Later, he would be
helping her to put it on, and she would put it on him, stroking her
breasts over his back...

'If you can't change you habits, harness them!' her counselor had
said, and so she had.  She found herself washing her hands, but it
didn't matter.  The water had an odd texture, half of forest, half of
sea - and that didn't matter either.  Outside, he was placing other
things around, hats, towels, sandals, the flowing skirts that he had
grinned he might wear also; the short skirts she liked, skimpy clothes
for tropical nights.

"It's very dark now," Bart said, as a bird started to cry outside.  It
was very loud and very close - a curlew.  They looked for it, but it
was a small grey blob in the darkness, but a cry so loud and mournful
that it half made them want to laugh.  "Move over, Donna Summer!" she
cried at it, and at the next cry, joined in and did a fair imitation
of bird and singer both.  The bird responded, as did others, more
distant.  The noise grew deafening; they retreated to the verandah,
looking out at the sea.

"There'll be a moon," Cathy said, looking at the new glister on the
waves, the pallid glow in the sky.

"A full moon - I checked."  Bart was gazing out again, content.  In
the background, the curlews conducted their voice duel, although the
nearest bird was moving away.

"We'll have to watch out for werewolves."  It was a good joke, she
thought, and remembered that she had already checked the locks, and
there weren't any.  They were here, alone on the little island within
the island and its lagoon; she stayed where she was by what felt like
main force.

"I sometimes turn into a werewolf when you full-moon me!" he said
gently, and moved his tongue across his lips lasciviously.  She
laughed and put a finger to his lips, and felt herself squirm inside.

... when the moon is full

... will you give your throat

... to the wolf with the red roses

... does the wolf

... hunger for me

... does the wolf

... desire me

... does the wolf

... love me

... when the moon is full

... will you give your heart

... to the wolf with the red roses

... yes

It was some silly thing out of an old vinyl Meatloaf album - she could
never remember all of it, just the punch-line 'I'll bet you say that
to all the boys!'  But she had always felt like the vulnerable throat,
always felt the burning hunger of the wolf - her wolf.  She looked at
his profile again - he was disappearing in the rapid dusk.

 "It's so dark so early!" she said, and slapped at a mosquito.  

"We're reverse jet-lagged - we're two hours ahead."  He glanced at
her.  "Time to change for dinner?  Lotion up?"

Relieved, she went inside, and he reached for the nearest combination
lotion.  She turned and looked at him, and switched on a sidelight.
Her green eyes locked onto his smoldering grey ones; she began to
strip, slowly.  Of course she could just have removed her clothes -
but this wasn't the moment.  She felt excited, erotic, happy to be
there, happy to be with him, pleased to see herself reflected in the
love and lust that burned in his eyes.

With a practiced motion, he squirted a large dab of lotion into the
palm of his hand, and then looked down, dismayed.  He was still fully
dressed, and now had oily hands.

She crooked a finger at him, and moved into the doorway of the
bathroom cubicle.  The harsh light from the recess threw her dancer's
body into profile, and she played herself as a symphony in black and
white.  Her clothes landed awry in a basket set there for laundry; she
resisted tidying them away, catching his eyes, seeing them glitter in
the warm half-light.  She turned, as she slipped her lace bra from her
shoulders, knowing how much he loved her breasts in profile, how often
he had explored them with the oddly sensitive backs of his hands.  Her
short skirt puddled on the floor a moment later; and she stepped out
of his view to remove her panties.  She peered through the doorway,
her panties waving in a circle from a finger, and he followed her in.

"I" she breathed "need oil."  She didn't - she needed to be touched!
She knew her nipples were begging, erect.  Her treacherous pussy was
swollen and slippery, awaiting what he might do to her.  Oil?  If he
touched her there, he would make a dewy discovery...

"Turn around" he said, and she did, a dancer's whirl, looking over her
shoulder at him.  She never knew where he would touch her, but for the
moment, she prayed it wouldn't be her belly.  She would melt; she
would just have to have him, right now!  That would be - well,
perfect, but she knew that both of them wanted it to be even more
perfect.  How had they agreed that they wouldn't have sex until after
dinner?  She didn't know - but she felt honor bound by the unspoken
contract.

He ran his hands over the swelling of her hips and over her belly.  

Cathy fairly moaned.  "Oh, God, no!" she whispered, sagging against
him.  "Don't get me too excited..."  His erection was brushing her
buttocks through his tight cutoffs; she pressed back against him,
feeling able to do anything she wanted.  She was also feeling unable
to resist.

His hands stroked upwards, cupping her breasts in the way she loved.  

"One of these days I'm going to get me a job as your bra," he said,
and his fingers slipped towards the tips of her breasts and squeezed
the nipples.  She gasped again, feeling the sensation spread,
hot-wired to her groin, and she found her hips rotating.

"What are you trying to do to me?" she whispered, and turned and began
to undo his shirt buttons.

He laughed a little, and she looked up and saw hot triumph and
vulnerable worship mixed in his eyes, now blue in the harsh bathroom
light.  "I've already done it!" he whispered, and as she peeled his
shirt off, added "what are you trying to do to me?"

She was business-like at his belt.  "I'm trying," she said "to get you
as excited and frustrated as I am!"  His cutoffs hit the floor with a
clang of buckle, and he stepped out of them.  More stripping of him on
her part and his cock sprang free.  She smiled at the familiar organ,
her little big friend, and bent and bestowed a quick kiss on it,
escaping his hands as he sought to keep her there.  "You and me," she
said to the bobbing erection "got a date!"

He reached for another bottle of lotion as she automatically tidied
the day's clothes away.  She pushed him into the shower, and turned
the water on cold and fierce - or it should have been.  But a weak
lukewarm trickle emerged, strengthening only slightly when an
automatic compressor cut in with a distant, intrusive mechanical
noise.  He laughed, jubilant, and washed away the salt of the day.  He
tried to pull her in there with him.  She slipped free, quivering,
wanting everything, denying it for now, and savoring the expectation.

He managed to get her the next grasp, and caught her off balance.  She
staggered in beside him in the tepid stream, and then he was running
his hands over her body, making slippery trails and erotic patterns in
the mixture of oil and water on her skin.  For a mad moment she kissed
him, open-mouthed, holding nothing back.  All her hunger flowed
through and to him, and all her resolve was gone.  She dropped her
hand to his prick, and felt him jump.  She knew how much her hands,
worked, petted (oh, pun!) and pampered in turns, turned him on!  She
lifted him slightly, trailing fingers down to the base of his cock on
the underside, feeling him quiver.  He broke free then, just.  She had
turned the tables, and glanced down at her belly, seeing a little
fleck of white there for a moment before the shower whisked it away.

'I just did a Monica Lewinsky' she thought 'but I wasn't wearing a
blue dress!'  She laughed at the thought and her state.  She was
gloriously nude and feeling free, glowing with renewed energy in the
shower.

He came back, decently trousered and bare-chested.  She looked at him,
laughing easily, seeing the bulge with her name on it in his trousers.
He held up a towel, and she turned off the water and stepped out,
walking towards him and threatening to wet him with her slick body.
He caught her midway with the towel, wrapping it around her and
rubbing her to him, drying her back while she wrapped her arms around
his chest.

They were sparing with the rest of the three in one lotion - he
discovered accidentally that the taste was awful.  She added a whiff
of her Jasmine perfume, and smiled at him.  He said he loved the smell
of Jasmine; perhaps he did - or had.  But now she was secure in the
knowledge that he could not smell either plant or perfume without
thinking of her.  Once he had loved the scent, perhaps.  But for the
rest of his life, that scent would cue him back to her, and perhaps,
to this very moment.

She donned apparel appropriate for the evening.  Black bikini
under/outerwear; a black and orange silk top that showed through; a
long flowing translucent wisp of a skirt that was tied at her waist
and bared one lovely pale leg, and sandals.  He was semi-formal in
black trousers, black leather walkers, and a short-sleeved white shirt
and short black tie.

Each thought the other looked gorgeous; it showed in their eyes, and
they embraced, and walked outside.

The moon had risen; they walked out to see it.  They started to walk,
and then realized that the island was so small they would
circumnavigate it in moments.  So they went half way around, finishing
up at the punt, with its electric motor.  Tomorrow, they would explore
more of their little exclusive island, and perhaps on the following
day, more of the island.  She had felt a slight shock of recognition,
looking at the ethnically mixed faces of the locals...

They boarded the punt, which skittered on the surface like all light,
flat-bottomed boats.  At the other end, they neared more of the
expensive, discreet complex.  It really had been well done.  A lot of
effort had gone into making the resort a series of visually isolated
havens.  But none, of course, was as isolated as their little island
within an island.

It was quiet in the off-season; only a few of the cottages showed
lights.  They took a quiet and roundabout journey across the lagoon,
seeing whatever they could on the way.  Fish jumped in the water, and
they wondered what predators lurked in the depths.  Barracuda,
perhaps?  There was a shark net.

The bar/dining area was quiet.  There was a band, a bunch of
Rastafarians playing Harry Belafonte, which was incongruous.

Waiters bustled with an uphill air, as though they'd been told to
hurry but didn't quite know how to hurry, or why.  This was an island
in the sun, a place meant to be lazy.  Why hurry?  It would just make
people nervous.

A few wrinkly elderly couples occupied tables quietly, some in larger
groups and chatting.  For the most part they seemed to have a slightly
bewildered air, like 'we got here forty-five years too late to have
fun.'  One couple was being feted for fifty years of marriage, and
were flushed on complimentary champagne.

That couple was interesting, if only for the warmth they spread around
the room.  She was little and pale and round-faced.  She might have
been pretty once, but it was hard to imagine.  But her eyes, behind
thick glasses, glittered with both intelligence and a certain
never-quite-lost country-girl shyness.  He was large and bald as a
coot, and had a distinguished air about him.  Two waiters and,
unaccountably, a pretty waitress, vied for his attention.  But his
mild and penetrating blue eyes were fixed upon his wife, and his
large, gnarled old hand clasped her pudgy one in a proprietorial way
that had the gray-haired lady simpering.

Then they both heard the lush lazy voice "Never mind his cock, I'll
settle for his hair and his eyelashes!"  Inevitably they both turned,
to look at the owner of the outrageous booming voice.  A couple,
lesbians or drag queens, sat in a conspicuous corner, near the band.
Lesbians, it soon became evident, although both girls were tall.  That
particular kind of slenderness only comes from being feminine, and
neither had the giveaway Adam's apple.

They were the most exotic couple in the room by far; and Bart and
Cathy had the satisfaction of being the best looking hetero couple
there.  The two lesbians, obviously well into a second bottle, were
eyeing them both openly and speculatively, but with such an outré
quality that it was impossible to take offence.

Bart and Cathy sat down, and were served.  They passed up the
complimentary glass of champagne.  They felt vegetarian, and ordered a
red salad and drank a superb vintage Australian St Henri claret, a
wine perhaps better than anything out of France and one third the
price.

The heavy red wine tasted like all the promises of all the
wine-bottles in the world; like bottled Adelaide sunshine and
meditative memories of dark, cool cellars.  It was odd to have a red
chilled - but this was the tropics, and as the wine warmed to perfect
temperature it was superb.

Cathy found the smooth red slipping to her belly like fire, making her
glow all over in a way that champagne never could.  The warmth in her
belly reminded her of the unfinished business between Bart and
herself, and her nipples hardened into sharp relief under the bra.

She might as well have stood and announced "I'm just so incredibly
horny!" to the two lesbians, who were eyeing them still.  The two
girls reeked of money - someone else's money, certainly, but still
money.  They were like two cats; one could have been a model, she had
a certain fragile beauty underneath deliberately garish make-up.  The
other, who had the more spectacular figure but had a definitely horsy
face, was the more exuberant.  And it was her voice that boomed across
the room...  "Now there was a nice thought!"

A moment later, a waiter appeared at their elbow with a second bottle,
showing the label.  The first was not empty.

"The ladies compliments, Sir, Ma'am, and may they offer you a drink?"

Bart's eyes glittered, a little angry.  Privacy was what they were
here for...

"No" he said "not tonight."

The voice boomed across the room.  "Won't you join us?"  English upper
class, used to calling down the Quorn.

"We'd better do the social pretty," he said, and she knew what he
meant.

"No" he called back, and then they both rose and went over.

"Thank you for your kind invitation," said Bart formally "but this is
our first night, and we wish to savor it alone.  Another night,
perhaps?"

"Oh, that's such a pity" gushed the younger, prettier one - Alice, was
it?  "You look like the only fun people here!"

"So very intense you both are," commented the other, Ruth, with the
booming horsewoman's voice.

"Are you on honeymoon?" the gushy Alice asked.

"Something like that," smiled Cathy.

"Perhaps you'll relax after a really good fuck," said Ruth, managing
to have the entire room hear it.  "But I doubt it.  You look like you
live on your nerves.  Well, run along, it is refreshing just to watch
you.  Tomorrow night, absolutely, you must join us!"

They were dismissed, and firmly committed for tomorrow night.  Why
not?  Those two hedonistic eccentrics had accepted them in a wonderful
way, and it felt good.

Dessert was served, tropical fruit grown locally, and ice-cream flown
in - what a thought!

Bart grew annoyed at the band, and its bland music.

He went over during a break and slapped down a large denomination
bill.  "Play something" he said.  "Play something that you have
written yourselves.  Play something that I've never heard before.  And
please don't play any more Belafonte!"

The band looked at each-other as though they'd just been woken up.
There was a brief exchange in patios, and then they started.

Instantly there was a commotion from the kitchen and a large man came
out, sweating.  The singer waved the bill and pointed to Cathy and
Bart, and the manager went away, shaking his head.

The music was different, louder, plaintive, incomprehensible, longing
for justice and love.  The singer may have been singing in English,
but they didn't know - his accent had changed, and become a curious
mixture of strident and intimate.

Their feet were dancing to the beat; Cathy found it irresistible.
"Come on, let's dance!" she said, and bounded up.  She was already
swaying to the music, caught in the primal beat, in the magic of the
moment.

She tugged at him, he refused, and she swayed out to the dance floor
alone, laughing at him, beckoning him to come to her.

He stayed where he was, head shaking, his face cracked with a smile.
He wanted to dance with her, certainly, but he did not have the skill
in his thin strong body to match her.  And for this magic moment, he
knew that she was going to dance for him.  That there were other
people there was completely irrelevant - barely noticeable.

She was aroused - she had been aroused with the promise of the place,
its beauty, the beauty of their being here, ever since they'd arrived.
She smiled at him, ignoring the band, ignoring everyone but him.  She
raised her hands and flowed at the hips like a belly dancer, her
slenderness flowing like a willow in a breeze.

He made a show of disinterested observation; placing his clasped hands
beneath his chin in a judicious considering manner.  It became part of
the dance, of the play.  That everyone in the room was watching her,
watching them, they hardly knew.  He was caught by the music as well,
little sensual twitches that he did not even know he made.

The two lesbians openly licked their lips, a cameo in perfect timing
and clockwise rotation.  They were fascinated by the pale dark-haired
girl, with the way her tresses fell down her back and swayed in
counterpoint to her body.  The two girls clasped their outer hands,
kissing sometimes; their inner hands were becoming intimate beneath
the table.

The song, like all songs in the ephemeral art of music, drew to its
close, but the band did not let her rest.  The polyglot members were
watching the girl as though she were some sensual extension of their
own dreaming, and they started another song, unique, slow, sensual.

She could not bear to dance this alone; she wanted him, and slipped
across the floor towards him, beckoning again.

He rose, and moved towards her.  Anyone who glanced might have seen
the long bulge in his trousers, but he pulled her to him, and there
was nothing for others to see, only for her to feel.

But the music changed again, and grew insistent that their movements
become wilder, freer, and she broke away from him, clasping his hand,
and whirling about him.  She was a dark moth to his fair candle; dark
moon to his fair earth.  His chest tightened with emotion as he looked
at her, forever caught in the sheer wonder that she could love him;
but her love, her desire swam about them both like a cloak of privacy.

The music changed again to the earlier pattern; it was the chorus that
was upbeat and the main melody slow.  The singer began to sing, but it
was in pure local patois, rendered liquid by the song.

They knew the song spoke of love, of separation, of yearning, of
completion, of the grief and joy and wonder of love, the despair and
joy of life's journey.  Later, perhaps, he would ask for a translation
of the words.  For now, the music went from patios to their
uncomprehending ears and straight to their souls, where emotion was
all that was needed, where words were a superfluous distraction.

The chorus came, and she broke away from him again, their eyes burning
into each-others as they swayed and turned.  The palpable tension that
filled the rest of the room did not touch them, they were the eye;
others could be wind-blown by their storm.

Her hunger built, she yearned to kiss him, to throw herself upon him
and strip him naked.  She wanted to straddle him upon the hard floor,
to feel the boards press into her knees and his back as she rode his
hardness in liquid pleasure.  The message came through her eyes, and
through the song that they swam through and that half played them.
She saw his eyes darken, saw the tension building there, she pressed
herself against him and felt the familiar prodding of his erection
against her sensitive belly.

Behind them, the lesbian couple teetered to their feet, staggering
under wine and ridiculously tall platform soles.  They began to dance
as well on the open floor, to intrude into their private world.  They
moved to each-other in hunger.  They had watched, and their innate
warmth for each-other, the true core of lust and affection that burned
beneath affectation had been deeply stirred.  Determined to be
outrageous, they had risen to the occasion, their lovely slender
bodies intertwining, and causing some of the elderly men to smile and
make remarks, and some of their wives to kick them beneath the table.
The two girls kissed, and the music finished.

Cathy and Bart stood pressed against each-other.  She felt him hard
against her belly; it felt like he was already deep inside her.  He
was so absolutely raging hard, and he knew that any plans he might
have had for the rest of the evening had narrowed to just the one.  He
would take her back to the cabin and make love to her until she cried
out his name, make love to her until he could no longer bear it and
spilled again and again...

The two girls brushed past them; they had sensed somehow that the show
was over, and their own hunger was roused.  They teetered out, hands
fluttering each over the other; they were going back to their cabin to
make love and they didn't care who knew it.

And so it was with them, although curiously less so.  The audience was
applauding; it seemed both expectable and irrelevant, like a wave
washing against the shore.  They were leaving too, they walked away,
smiling automatically at those who applauded them, not connecting.

She hungered.  Her belly was filled with just the right amount of food
and wine and she hungered.  She was slick and swollen and ready for
him, and there would be the long minutes of the walk back to the pier,
the quiet trip across the lagoon, before she could have him.  It
seemed like an eternity - she wanted to break all bonds and drag him
down here, on the path, on the beach, in the soft leaves of the forest
floor.

That would be perfect - but she wanted it to be more perfect.  That
would be quick, and when it came - soon now!  She wanted it to be
long.

He walked beside her, his gait hampered by his condition.  Had he been
walking naked, he would have swung free, fully rampant.  Had he been
bared, she could not have resisted, she would have stopped, worshipped
on her knees.  She would have leaped, impaling herself, refusing to be
unseated until after they were back upon their island within an
island, until after he hand ebbed away within her.

In the middle distance, a woman's voice in an extremity of desire and
passion "Oh, god yes!  There, please, there!"  The two girls were
pleasuring each-other, their cries drifting out through the open
windows in the tropical night.

They glanced at each-other, smiled.  They wished the two outré
creatures well; their muffled sobbing was a counterpoint and
underscore to their own desire, and they had no will to wish them a
night less hedonistic than their own.

She felt every step, felt the deep well of desire in her, and knew
that her panties were soaked.  Each step was hallucinatory, her inner
lips slipping slightly against each-other, the crunch on ground coral
rock a measuring.  Each step was one step closer to that moment when
he would fill her, when he would be where she so desperately wanted
him.

They found the punt, and with exaggerated care they boarded and cast
off.  Another night they would swim and make love in the water, but
not tonight.  She sat facing him, her eyes studying his face in the
reflected light of the resort and the moonlight.  She couldn't see
enough of him, couldn't see well enough to read the expression on his
face.  She only knew that her own face was near to breaking point.
She wanted to beg him to hurry, to get there, but the quiet motor was
already wrung for all that it was worth.  He was taking a direct
route, there was no wind, they would be there.  She shifted uneasily
in her seat, finding that her knees wanted to splay apart.  She pulled
them together again; it took a conscious effort.  She looked at his
groin and saw the bulge tented there.  
He saw her glance, and the
smile that she loved cracked his face.  "Wanton" he said, and she just
grinned back.  
"Wanting" she replied, and then they were nudging up
against their own private pier.
He fumbled with the painter, and
secured it.  She leaned on his arm as they went back to the quiet
cabin, and then they stepped through the door.
Instantly, she was all
over him.  
All of the kisses she had not bestowed on the dance floor
and on the way back fought for priority of place as she kissed him,
rapidly and clumsily, now.  Her hands were busy, and inept in their
eagerness, as she sought to bare his skin, to make him naked.  He was
restraining himself, but she felt the effort that this was costing
him, and she wanted to kick this barrier down so that he was as
uncontrolled as she.  
His hands caressed her back, finding bare skin
beneath her clothes, finding hooks, and making her bare also.
Their
skins were moist and a little sticky in the humid tropical night; that
would not matter.  She was slippery where she needed to be.  She saw
the damp patch on his trousers, the place where his own excitement had
been so intense that pre-cum had leaked and stained his clothes, and
she had to have it, to taste it.  
With the sort of strength that she
associated with him, she tumbled him back and pushed him to the bed,
pushing his jeans down.  His cock sprang free and she whispered "Hi,
Dr Longdongle!" in the old joke between them.  He was long, like the
rest of his long thin body.  She kissed it as she yanked shoes, socks,
and trousers away.  She was bare to the waist, and still clad below in
the rucked short skirt, it didn't matter.  She took him in her mouth,
relishing every throbbing millimeter, every hint of the taste of him.

He protested.  "God, don't be too good!" he said "I won't last, I'll
... you'll make me ..."  He was gasping and pulling at her long dark
hair, pulling her away.  For a wild moment she thought of doing just
that, of milking him dry and asserting her power over him.  But then
she thought of how much she wanted him inside her, and it wasn't a
bearable option.  It had to happen - on this wondrous night she wanted
him to spend inside her, to keep him there with her legs wrapped
around him while his long cock grew soft, and then hard again.
"I
want to taste you too!" he gasped.  He knew her state, knew how soaked
she was.  Her pussy would be like a ripe peach; his fingers would dip
and part and find her gloriously oily, scented with her own unique
female musk.  
She let up on him then, just a little.  Although she
did not completely relinquish her position, her mouth hovering,
kissing, sometimes sucking at his cock, she stripped her lower half.
Then they arranged themselves so that they were on the bed instead of
half off it.
His fingers found her first, parting her delicately, a
single stroke like a broad comb to part her matted hair.  She heard
her shuddering gasp as he touched and exposed the sensitive inner
lips, and whimpered.  Then he pulled her over him, so that she
straddled his face, and his tongue stabbed deep.  
She heard a woman
cry out and realized it was her.  Tears were streaming from her eyes,
tears of unbearable arousal, and he was showing no mercy.  He knew how
to pleasure her, knew all her secret places, and found them all.  His
tongue swirled around her sensitive nub, and she arched back, sitting
heavily on him for one moment.  He lifted her up, parting her, his
rangy strength still a surprise after all this time.  She was totally
exposed; he laved her and stabbed deep with his tongue, again and
again, like a sensitive tendril of cock.  She lowered her head to his
cock again, but he was taking control now, and knew that he could make
her arch and lift her head with what he was doing to her.
It grew too
much; she felt the trip-hammer explosion building and then suddenly
she was there.  She had no time to prepare, or even to draw breath.  A
cry erupted from her, of sensation so pure it was borderline to pain,
and she sensed it echoing across the lagoon, and did not care. 
She
saw that semen had spilled from him during this excitement, she bent
and licked it up, and then she again threw him back as she turned and
mounted him.
He slipped into her easily; she was incredibly excited,
and he was, as always, gentle for that first moment until she grew
used to him.  Then she seized both his hands, and pressed them to his
chest, and rode him frantically, heavily.  She knew she was being
noisy and did not care; he was smiling up at her, in wonder and in
near-worship; she felt devilish.
But he could not bear to be passive
any longer.  He twisted and they rolled, and he lifted her legs high
and then slammed into her with all of his gentle force.  Her head
tossed upon the pillow; she was wild and abandoned and tamed and
caught and as happy as any Eve with her Adam.  
He was more
imaginative and more visceral than he had ever been.  He slowed, and
lifted one leg high, nipped at her Achilles tendon, nibbled gently on
the sole of her foot.  He bent forward, and watched as his long hard
tube probed her again and again, disappearing into her overheated
cleft.  He moved his hand from her thigh to her sensitive belly,
feeling the disturbance deep inside her as his cock plunged and
probed, sensing his own large adamant presence deep inside her small
welcoming softness.  He grasped her hands and held them above her
head, and bent and kissed nipple, breast, armpit, rib.  He lifted her
hand to his lips and kissed the palm, his tongue flickering, his mouth
seeming to taste the soft and surprisingly erotic flesh on the inside
of her wrist.  And again he looked down, seeing himself disappearing
into her, seeing the tumult he caused in her belly with his intrusion.

She looked into his eyes as he looked up, knowing what he saw, and
grasping at what he felt.  As always, she marveled that her slender
body could accommodate so much, that she could take all his length and
only feel pleasure.  But the pleasure had never been as deep as now...

He took her hand, and brought her own hand down to her own belly, to
her cleft, demanding that she feel him as he stroked into her body.
His probing cock was a vague sensation on the soft inner flesh of her
wrist as she complied; he pressed down so that they could both feel
it.  She could feel the slight tension and changing in her belly, the
writhing within a harbinger of the children she would one day carry.
She touched her cleft, and felt him there, felt his hardness so
powerful within her.  She wasn't sure she wanted to touch herself, not
with him there, not with him already inside.  It was as though she
could take a selfish pleasure in the midst of all she already
received, as though her touching of herself could in some way diminish
the sharp fact of his loving.  But he pressed her, his long hands
insistent as she complied.  She felt him, slippery, plowing into her.
She was wide spread and stretched for him, and terribly exposed to her
own fingers.  And when her own fingers touched her most sensitive
spot, she was caught off-guard with another sharp little orgasm that
had been building all night and yet seemed to come from nowhere.

He fell flat, crushing her, and she fought her hands free and raked
her nails gently over his back, and she felt his control slip as he
touched that broad surface, one of his more erogenous zones.  
He
claimed her lips and sucked the breath from her lungs, making her gasp
again as she fought for breath.  He grew tender, and kissed her face,
her lips, her eyelids, the line of her jaw.  He put a finger to her
chin and turned her head, and kissed her ear in the way he knew she
liked it most.  He breathed warm air there, and she moaned.
And all
the while, gently, relentlessly, his hips continued to move, as did
hers, a perfect harmony of movement between them.  She was exulting,
rejoicing in a way somehow even greater than the very first time.  He
was there, she had him, he was inside her, he was hers and she was
his, and nothing and nobody else mattered.  
They wanted it to last
forever, and they made it as long as their vigor and their mutual
desire would permit.  But there was too much pent up between them, too
much love, too much lust, and too much need for release in the other.

She was caught in approaching orgasm when she read his body and knew
that he was past the point of no return.  She gloried in the knowledge
and rose to meet him, hips bucking and her own orgasm rising, faster
and more surely now.  She heard that despairing moan he made when he
knew he could no longer hold back, when all there was to do was to go
with the flow and to make it as good for both of them as possible.

She wrapped her legs around him and for a curious moment, drummed
her heels, and then it was happening for both of them.  She heard his
male roar and her own soprano cry as he splashed inside her.  She
swore she knew it, could feel the hot fluid inundating her womb - what
do doctors know about such things?  She laughed at the thought, and
with the sheer joy of the moment, and stroked the side of his face as
he shuddered.  He subsided slowly, while she felt her nipples harden
to painful intensity in post-orgasmic tautness.  She linked her hands
behind his back and held him close.

They kissed, very tenderly, feeling the perspiration cool and dry on
their heated skins.  They were quiet for a long time - it was more
important to be like this, to let their bodies say it all, than to
intrude with inexact words and ambiguous dialogue.

Eventually, he grew heavy, and she grew uncomfortable.  By assent,
they moved to part, and settled down moments later side by side under
a single sheet.

"That was so beautiful" she sighed, settling in his arms.  It was too
hot but she could not bear to be anywhere else.

"You are beautiful" he whispered against her hair, and she felt how
deeply he meant it.



She was surprised to find that she had been asleep.  She was not
surprised to find that she was deeply aroused, again, or was it still?
He was rock hard and pressing up behind her, his hand was absently
stroking over the sensitive flesh of her belly.  She moved to turn
towards him, and got halfway.

He was asleep, or dreaming, she realized; there was a randomness and a
fluttering to his hands and his body that spoke of slumber and
uncontrolled reverie.  He spoke her name, "Cathy!" in a deep and
sonorous way; he was dreaming of her.  She felt him nudging at her,
his long cock probing at her cleft, which was still tender from the
earlier bruising encounter.  And she felt a deep flame of renewed
hunger for him.

She shifted slightly, and he parted her, and slipped in.  She was
slick with her juices and his - what had she been dreaming?  Replay,
please!  What was he dreaming?  It must be nice, because part of it
was happening, and she wriggled slightly, taking him deeper, as his
hands fluttered over her belly, her breasts.

He began to arch and push deeper into her, very slow movements, the
slow-motion thrashing of a dreaming man.  It was glorious, and he was
so hard again.  And so far inside her!  They didn't often use this
position - both of them loved the missionary position.  But she was
beginning to understand why the popes had banned it a thousand years
ago, because it gave too much pleasure!

"Oh, Cathy!" he said again, loudly and distinctly, his hips moving in
tiny thrusts, slipping in her so very easily.  He was very deep inside
her now, and she found she was making little excited gasping noises at
each of his tiny thrusts.

She must never have come down from that last orgasmic high, to be like
this!  She felt half-drugged by sex and sleep and renewed sexual
arousal and penetration.  She couldn't have measured how awake she was
- but she felt as sensual and cooperative as ever she had in her life!

His hands fluttered on her belly some more - he was still asleep,
truly!  But his hips were growing more active.

Greatly daring, she took his hand lowered across her belly it to her
cleft, to find the tiny nub.  For a moment, it lay there, a sleeping
part of the sleeping man touching a very awake part of a sleepy,
aroused girl, and then the fingers seemed to take on an intelligence
all of their own.

She gasped as he found the place, and a moment later she sensed he was
awake.

"Oh, god, Cathy!" he said in an entirely different voice, his normal
voice with the sharp and vulnerable edge.  "I thought..."

"Don't stop" she gasped, flushing in the darkness at her own need and
desperation to have him and to have herself still held, still
penetrated.  It was frightening to be so abandoned, so helplessly
aroused and so frantic for what was happening to continue.  But
continue it did, for what seemed like forever, even as he muttered
"thought I was dreaming...  thought that this was all just a dream..."
They were both past the initial explosion now, and the second time was
able to take all the time they wanted, even in this unconventional and
exciting position.

He grew really restive, and then, unexpectedly, pulled her on top of
him.  His belly was to her back, his hands plowing cleft and stroking
her belly.  He pressed his hand down on her belly to feel the wonder
of himself inside her, and she gasped again...  The skin of her belly
was sensitive, but now he was giving her something new, something so
completely visceral that she was dually never more aware of his
penetration, and never more confused about where he ended and she
began.  He stroked breasts and ribs, and she was a writhing thing of
passion, her rump dancing on him, making it all happen for both of
them.

When she screamed she fell to one side, and he rolled with her, his
hands relentless and controlling, while his hips grew harsh as he
pounded into her from behind.  She felt and knew that change in him,
when he started to come, and a second orgasm suddenly leapt from the
first, taking her higher and she bit the pillow as she screamed again.

They lay still for a long time afterwards, still joined, as he
softened slowly.  She felt the slow retreat and grieved, even as she
continued in post-orgasmic high, her system awash with endorphins.
'One of these days' she promised herself 'we'll have to learn some of
those oriental techniques where you make love for hours and hours
without coming, just slow continuous joining.'

But what she said was "Wow!  You made love like there was no
tomorrow!"

And as she drifted into sleep, she heard his sleepy voice say, "There
was only one today.  But there will be very many tomorrows..."

She snuggled up to him, although there was no need to share warmth in
the tropical night.  Yes - there will be many tomorrows.  That's what
we did, really - we made love like there were all the tomorrows we
will ever need.  We've arrived, because now it is so clear that we are
on a journey; that's what arrival is, not when you stop but when the
train slows down enough to see that you have been somewhere, are going
somewhere...

Outside, the curlew cried, the mournful sound somehow full of hope.




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