Message-ID: <12246eli$9806171414@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/12246.txt> From: specpress@earthlink.net (Odile Santiago) Subject: An Interlude in the Bahamas (Marlene Darcy, f/m, 1/1) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: specpress@earthlink.net Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <6m79gi$6s8$2@chile.it.earthlink.net> This is an extract from an Obelisk Library Etext title available via Email or on disk. For more information about this and other Etext titles, ask for the Obelisk Library Catalog at: <specpress@earthlink.net> This text is for adults only. from Marlene Darcy: LOVE AND SURRENDER Copyright (c) 1992 Spectrum Press Inc. All Rights Reserved Published by Spectrum Press Inc. ISBN 1-57138-106-6 <specpress@earthlink.net> An Interlude in the Bahamas The concierge at the hotel, the one with the lilting Bahamian accent, had warned her about the sun on the beach. "Very strong, miss. Very very strong." And Madeline had been pleased that he'd called her "miss" and not "madam", pleased that he thought she was still young enough. Now as she lay under an umbrella on the beach, she felt an annoyance that she'd been pleased. Wasn't it silly to be pleased by something like that? At what age did a woman come to be called "madam" and not "miss" by a hotel concierge? When did the turning point occur? She was thirty-two and she supposed that if one did not look at her face too carefully she could be judged as only twenty-seven or twenty- eight. As a girl in college, she'd wanted the years to arrive faster; now she wanted the opposite, even if she recognized how stupid it was. But certainly it might be more stupid for a married woman and not a single woman. She was no longer married; she was now unmarried, divorced, a woman alone as certain people said, certain people she did her best to avoid because she always had the feeling they were people who looked at her with condescension. She did not like to be looked at like that. She did not like being alone, but she did not like condescension. She would have her chance at happiness again, wouldn't she? She wanted to love and be loved, but hopefully without compromising her career or diminishing her ambition. She thought that was ordinary enough these days; it wasn't that unusual for a woman to want something more than just domesticity. She wanted a family and children, but she also wanted something more than that. Oh, you're confused, she thought; she told herself her need to think about it merely underlined her confusion. She was on a beach in the Bahamas, on a place called Cat Island, a new hotel, a private beach, and a staff so numerous and helpful that every moment seemed completely effortless. Well, that was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? She'd wanted an effortless holiday. She lay on a chaise under the large striped umbrella and she told herself it was worth it, too expensive maybe, the resort hotel really more posh than she could afford, but still worth it because what she needed after that horrible tiff with Martin was to get away for a long weekend and do nothing except restore her nerves. She told herself the world would be a much better place if the law would force a man and woman who were divorced never to have any contact with each other. But that was silly too, wasn't it? The argument with Martin had been predictable and she ought to have known it and avoided meeting him at all. Nearly two years after her divorce they were still settling things, but now she would certainly have the attorneys do all the settling and keep herself out of it. No more, she thought; no more horrible fights with Martin. No more anything with Martin; that was a part of her life now in the past. She wore a white bikini, the bottom brief enough to show nearly all of her hips and the top no more than a wide band across her breasts. The sun was indeed hot on the beach, even in the shade of the umbrella, hot enough so she could feel the perspiration collecting between her breasts and dripping down the sides of her rib cage. She thought the bikini a bit daring because it was so skimpy, but maybe suitable for a beach like this one. Now, despite the warning of the concierge, she wondered if she ought to get some more sun after all. She was a brunette and she always tanned easily. But then she wasn't certain she wanted to return to New York with a suntan at this particular time. She rather liked herself pale, not too pale, but pale enough to be interesting. She thought her pale face went well with her slender body. She was long-boned, tall enough to be impressive when she wore high heels, the only bountiful part of her being her breasts, which were extremely lush and long-nippled and apparently always sexually provocative to any man who looked at them. Oh, stop it, she thought. She hated dwelling on her appearance like that. It was true a woman needed a certain degree of vanity, but one also had to avoid being victimized by it. Now she turned her head and she saw for the first time that someone had settled under the umbrella twenty feet to her right. It was a man with a newspaper in his hands, his suntanned body extended on the chaise and his eyes hidden by opaque sunglasses. Before she had a chance to turn her eyes away, he glanced at her, or at least he turned his head in her direction, the sunglasses making it impossible to know if he was actually looking at her or merely looking past her. As she looked at the blue sea again, she felt a sudden annoyance that he'd settled there, chosen that particular chaise when there were a dozen empty chaises scattered all over the beach. But he was twenty feet away, after all. Many of the chaises on the beach were doubled, but the singles were certainly far enough apart to be isolated. She wondered what it was like in the high season when the chaises no doubt crowded each other in a way that made it impossible to be alone. This weekend she wanted to be alone. That man looked attractive, and maybe if she met him at a dinner party in New York he'd prove to be also interesting enough to make the meeting exciting. Stop it, stop it, she thought; this weekend you're alone. And she did want to be alone, didn't she? Then abruptly she saw someone walking toward the water and she realized the man on the chaise had left the chaise for the sea. He was tall and lean, taller than she'd thought, and as he walked toward the surf she looked at him without reservation because he had no way of knowing he was being looked at. She could see nothing but his back, the wide shoulders, the narrow waist and hips and the strong thighs and legs that suggested a man with an interest in athletics of some kind. She always enjoyed looking at men like this one, tall and dark and lithe and muscular enough to look aggressively male. She watched him enter the sea. How old was he? Maybe almost forty, certainly not more than that from what she'd seen of his face. She watched him swimming, watched him until he was only a speck breaking the surface of the blue water, and then she rose from the chaise and she gathered her things and she started the trek across the white sand to the hotel looming behind the beach. She'd been so long without a man, so long without the feel of a man's arms around her, long enough so that now as she thought about it she felt a knot of fear in her belly. Oh God, she thought; was it finished for her at thirty-two? How could it be finished for any woman at thirty-two? The idea was ludicrous, wasn't it? * * * She had a room facing the sea, and now she lay naked on one of the two beds with the French window thrown wide open to admit a warm breeze and the sound of the surf. What time was it? She thought it had to be past three. She'd slept a bit, but not more than half an hour. Her body was hot and damp, but she liked it; she felt comfortable, relaxed, lazy. In New York at this time in the afternoon, the tension of her work was always at a maximum. How lovely it was to be away from that! She thought this moment would be perfect if she had someone with her, not just anyone but a true love with whom she could savor the peace, the warm breeze, the sound of the sea. Again she thought of the man on the beach. She'd thought of him before she'd fallen asleep, and now she thought of him again. Why him? His body, of course. She'd seen so little of him, but what she'd seen had remained with her, his long body, the wide shoulders, the muscular thighs. Martin had been a poor lover and a rotten husband, but she'd always found him physically exciting to look at. She wondered about the man on the beach, who he was, what he did, where he came from. She remembered his dark hair and sun-browned body. She wasn't that experienced, was she? She had such little experience with men, not like some women she knew. She'd had two lovers before Martin, one in college and one afterward, the lovemaking inexperienced gropings rather than real sex, and then she'd married Martin and for five years he'd been the only man in her life. She was thirty-two and she'd had three men, but she could hardly say that any of them had given her what she thought a woman should have. The idea that it might be her own fault was painful to her. Was it true? She ran her hands over her breasts, and then she slid one hand down her belly to touch her sex. Was it her? She was never certain, had never been certain with any man, particularly with Martin. With Martin the sex had excited her in the beginning, but gradually the excitement had been worn down by his prosaic nature, his lack of consideration, his unwillingness to be adventurous. She tried to discuss it with him, but he never liked talking about sex. After three years of marriage, it became more or less obvious to them both that no matter how much they might try to accomodate each other, their sexual temperaments were incompatible. Martin liked the sex act to be quick and functional and final, while she, or so she thought, was really too sensuous for that sort of lovemaking. She liked too many things Martin did not like. After they were married three years, she began masturbating regularly to appease the hunger she often felt, and of course before long she became bitter about this dependent need for secret caresses and she blamed Martin for it. Inevitably, sex with Martin became less and less important until finally it seemed the only way out was a complete break. She wanted a man now, but certainly not Martin; she wanted the man on the beach, the tall man unknown to her. The fact that she knew nothing about him made it easier, almost too easy because she was never truly comfortable with giving pleasure to herself. The act always made her feel so inadequate, so incomplete. But now she thought of the man on the beach. She was sorry now she hadn't seen more of him from the front, his chest and belly and thighs. He'd worn black swimming trunks, and she felt a quiver of pleasure as she suddenly imagined him standing naked, facing her, the dark hair at his loins drawing the eyes to his genitals, to a penis long and thick that was now erecting even as she watched it in her fantasy. It was always the force of the organ that aroused her, the sexual urgency so evident in its appearance once it became thick and extended. And this man? She imagined he was physically perfect, his penis deliciously thick, the glans with a perfect shape, bloated, dark, the tip showing a glimmer of wetness. She imagined him taking his organ in his hand and then turning so she could see him in profile. Yes, she wanted him that way. The full scrotum below his hand would bulge outward. She started stroking her sex with her fingers as she imagined him squeezing his penis to make his glans more swollen. She dipped her fingers into the opening of her vagina and she brought some of the fluid out to paint her clitoris. Then she started stroking herself, a slow rubbing along the shaft of her clitoris, stroking herself as she imagined the man on the beach standing there at the foot of the bed naked, aroused, stroking his organ with the same rhythm as her fingers. Abruptly, with a soft moan, she changed her fantasy and she imagined herself approaching him, his eyes watching her as she slid down to the foot of the bed and without any modesty took hold of his penis, fondled it, stroked, squeezed it with her hand, relishing the feel of his hot flesh firm and strong under her fingers, his pulsating masculinity. Marting had never seemed to like it when she fondled him, although he had a nice one, the shaft as smooth as ivory and with a lovely curve to it. But he always seemed so uncomfortable when she handled it, sometimes making her stop, as if touching his penis was unnatural, and she being too ignorant, too young to know what to say or do except do what he wanted. Then she remembered one of the men before Martin, her second lover, George Henry Lewis, the blond aristocrat, that boy from Harvard who liked it so much. Certainly different from Martin, George always pushing her to stroke him until he came. All those drenched handkerchiefs. The sperm shooting up like a geyser if she didn't cover him in time, all over his clothes and her hand, thrilling her because it seemed so earthy, something she'd never done before, at least so openly. It always excited her when she did it to him in daylight. Brazen, she thought. Watching him come like that, watching his moment of glory, the sperm thick and milky white erupting from the tip of his penis. The memories of George now made her shudder with delight. Scalding memories, weren't they? Her fingers continued to vibrate her clitoris now thick and erect and demanding that she finish it. No, I won't, she thought. But then she told herself she ought to. She debated with herself, and then she decided she wouldn't. Not now. Maybe later this evening she would do it while she had a bath. She pulled her hand away and she groaned. It's awful, she thought; it was awful to be so vulnerable. She did not want to be so vulnerable. No, not like this. But she hungered for the pleasure and she touched herself again. She moved her legs wide apart and she rubbed her clitoris with her fingertips. No, it was no good now. She groaned again, this time a groan of annoyance. She turned her head to the side and she closed her eyes... ----------------------------- End Extract This is an extract from an Obelisk Library Etext title available via Email or on disk. 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