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Subject: An Interlude in the Bahamas (Marlene Darcy, f/m, 1/1)
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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. For more information
about this and other Etext titles, ask for the
Obelisk Library Catalog at: <specpress@earthlink.net>


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