Good Gin

It’s the hundred and third Tiki Bar between here and Jackson and it annoys me as much as all its brethren, although it provides me a living of sorts. It’s a shack, of course, with all the trimmings, including a broken down old-timer called Travis who I’m terrified I’ll become. He sits at the far end of the bar with his old field cap squashed down on his leathery skull and holds his beer in swollen arthritic hands covered in old rope burns and seamed with engine grease and old blue tattoos. He stares straight ahead with cloudy blue eyes and stirs only to leer at the swimsuited girls who come in from time to time all sticky with sun oil and gritty with sand.
I can’t blame him, particularly. For all its inaccuracies and cultural bum notes the bar is as sexual a place as such places get. Mostly the people are young, barely dressed and a little bit drunk, and few people aren’t pretty when bathed by the sun and sea-salted and free. Even if its only for their one week away from their humdrum lives. So yes, I’m well supplied with eye-candy, and, occasionally, I’ve been known to get my hands in that jar, too. Lately, though, I’ve begun to feel old. I’m half a yard slower, and my shorts don’t sit loose in the way that they did and I’m beginning to feel Travis breathing down my neck.
That morning, I was serving my first crop of sexy drunkards, three bikini girls, all slippery with suncream they’d applied to each other with arch self awareness, and their consort, a tall jock with a cruel young mouth and thick tousled black hair and a thick purple scar that swirled up from his shorts like an angry snake. They were hungover as hell and still smelt of that heady cocktail of last-nights Margarita mix, woodsmoke, sex and fresh reefer.
I’d just slung them their second round of long-necks when she came in.
She was a good twenty years older than I with silver threaded through her thick blonde hair and she came through the door as if this was La Belle Aurore and she was a Duchess. You know how some people light up a room? Well this woman made the whole place and everyone in it look about a hundred bucks cheaper, which thinking about is shining a light of sorts. The others felt it, too. The drunkards clustered together like frightened little birds and straightened their backs and hid their beers. Even Travis woke up, squared shoulders and jaw and you could for an instant see the marine he’d once been.
She was English, of course, and politely asked if we might have some gin. She was tall and quite slender, without being thin, and her kimono wrap sat sweetly on her figure, and there was a faint hint of perspiration in the fine creases of her long neck. A small scar on the left of her chin gave her mouth a wry tilt, as if she was on the edge of laughter. The light in her eyes suggested this too. If I said I could feel every inch of her in the knot of my shorts would you know what I meant?

“We do, ma’am,” I said in my best polished voice, “but I couldn’t possibly recommend it. It’s basically white spirit. We’re more of a Margarita place.”

“Oh, Margaritas!”

She had one of those clear, British voices that charm dogs and horses and cause even cats to behave with grudging respect.

“I’d forgotten about those! May I have one, please. And a cold beer.”

I served her and chatted. Eve. From the Cotswolds, three children, second husband, here for a week before heading up to Savannah. I figured she’d look great there, in a linen dress and a broad straw hat, among liveoaks and moss and white fancy houses. We all watched her leave in tones of varying respect, all equally hushed. Her feet were long in their thongs and her ankles tall and narrow, her calves exquisite and the muscles in her thighs and the fine spread of hip behind the silk made little butterflies play in the husk of my gut.

About three days later I was at some bonfire-cum-barbecue beach party at the fancy house of some fancy yank. There sort of with one of the margarita girls whose name I’m ashamed I forget. I was standing on the edge of the melee, propped up against the wood siding of the absurd Cape Cod transplant and was nursing the dregs of some lousy sour cocktail when a warm dry hand took mine, and placed a tall cold glass in it. Eve.
“It’s a good gin.” She said.
She stood on the edge of the firelight in a skirt and a halter top and the flames and the shadows played over the length and the breadth of her, like the hands of a thousand eager lovers. I had not been mislead as to her figure, which was lush and delightful, fullsome and fine. The ice glittered and chinked in her glass as she took a long sip, and her eyes held mine.
We chatted a while and drew gradually closer together until we were both leaning on the siding and laughing and she’d started reciting the filthiest limericks she could think off and she’d kicked off her shoes and just stood in the sand in her bare feet. We ran out of booze and she drew me inside, fingers lightly gripping the back if my wrist. I let her go first and, when my hand touched the small of her back she flicked me a smile and something went flip behind my belly button.
The kitchen was bedlam, but she moved through it with feline grace, using her poise like an icebreaker, finding the gin and the ice and two full glasses in record time. We didn’t go back outside because she wanted to sit and eventually found a quiet spot on an upstairs landing, a window seat that faced away from the sea and the bonfire, over dunes that were moonlit and stands of tupelo and Monterrey pines.

She was at the party alone. Her husband had headed north for some business meeting, a share in a golf club or something else that my thuggish brain couldn’t process. Certainly not when sat in a window seat knee to naked knee with such a woman. Other things. We discussed surfing, and dogs, gin distilleries, whisky and whiskey. Jaws. The movie and the book. The sexiness of the book, how the chief’s wife prepared for her affair with the Dreyfuss character. How she’d got a tattoo and would I like to see it?

“Hell yes. If course!”

“It’s not easy to show you!”

She fussed with her waistband, looked around. People milling downstairs. She grabbed my hand again.

“Come on!”

We scuttled along the corridor like teenagers, giggling, and I felt myself thicken, uncurl. She found us a bathroom and shut and locked the door, giggling madly. There was a second when we almost kissed then, but I was awkwardly turned trying not to jab her with my hardon and she made it past me into the bathroom itself. We stood a little awkwardly for a moment, and then she turned away.

“It’s on the top of my bum.” She began to undo her skirt. “You might need to help.”

She was right. The skirt, which was close-fitting and covered in a pattern of birds of paradise, had only a short zip which perhaps went as far as her tailbone, so a certain amount of additional tugging was required to ease it over the swell of her hips. Soon, though, her skirt was partly down and her shirt partly up and I was gazing at the narrows of her waist and the spread of her hips. Her skin was like milk with a faint blush of pink and threaded throughout with silvered and glimmering marks like the veins in fine oak. The groove of her spine was flanked with strong lats and she had two dimples at the base of it that would take my thumbs. The lower slopes of her were concealed by sky blue flowers and birds embroidered on tulle. I was dumbstruck by her, and by the knowing glance she gave me from over her shoulder and the deep chuckle as she waggled her bum. I was full of blood and pressure from my tight aching balls to the trembling tip.

“Can you see it yet?”

She enquired, artful eyebrow aloft, and with her thumbs she slowly began to ease down her lace and, as she did so, her skirt slid to the floor.
She stood, bunching her shirt up under her breasts and I placed a trembling hand on each hip and moved to her then and I kissed her kneck and she laughed and pressed the curve of her ass into the tusk in my shorts.

“There’s no tattoo, is there?” I whispered.

She shook her head. Thrust her backside hard into me.

“Are you angry?”

By way of an answer I eased down her knicks, let them drift down her thighs til they pooled round her ankles. My eager hands could not grasp quite all of her ass, though I tried. Her buttocks were soft and resilient and flexed back at my fingers. My thumbs did fit neatly in her dimples and she made dark hungry noises deep in her throat. I sank to my knees and began to kiss and nuzzle at that luminous bum, while she thrashed and swore and drove herself back and muttered and begged.
She smelled extraordinary, no camo of scent like the young girls I’d been fucking, no soap or suncream or lotion or powder. For the first time in my life I could smell a woman who smelt of herself. I buried my face there and with searching tongue I tasted her from the nub of her backside to the soaking pinnacle of her cunt. She was marvellously, gloriously, delightfully wet. Glistening, slippery, fragrant. And fiercely alive. And in command.
She spun herself away from me, and, while discarding her remaining clothes pointed a long, blue-laquered finger at my straining cock.

“Off with all that, come on!”

Needing no second bidding, I obeyed and freed from the constrictions of clothing my cock bobbed with my pulse and glistened with need.
Eve took her knees and a handful of butt and pulled us together. For a few bright moments she took the measure of me, just mouthing lightly, and then with a deep breath rose up on her heels to get just the right angle and took me all in. She flinched only a little as I entered her throat, then with practiced ease she began to swallow, the ripples of muscle pulling me in. She watched me tremble and just as I thought I couldn’t hold on, she stopped me with a well-placed thumb.

“Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare.”

And she stepped away, stood, and turned to the bath, and looking me right in the eye in the wall mirror said:

“Now then. Let’s see”

And she bent, taking her weight on her arms in the far edge of the bath, her magnificent backside tilted towards me. I entered her as slowly as I could, trying to hold back, trying to fight the ripples of muscle and the warm pressure of her buttocks, the wet heat of her and the pull of her eyes in the mirror, the flush in her face and her gasping and grunting. It was the swing of her breasts in that mirror which undid me. The way they hung beneath her, their dark pink tips. And I drove into her hard and she cried out and I burst, and I burst and I burst again. She thrashed on my cock and drove back against me and holding on with one hand she took hold of us both and held me in with the other and with frantic wrist and fingers brought herself over the edge and our legs ran with wet and we panted like dogs.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Image shamelessly nicked from @thetigergin

Tiger Gin

9 thoughts on “Good Gin

  1. May says:

    Such great descriptions – you really do use words well – thou I would have been happy with this in two parts as was quite ready to go away and savour the amazing character you had created and come back a few days later for the sex 😉

  2. Posy Churchgate says:

    I loved it – Like May I’d have been happy to savour, but I like the slow build up and then the escalating urgency once it got to the ‘point of no return’ – Like I often say with your stories Quill, I could SEE it like a film as you told it! Bravo!

  3. eye says:

    I really thought I had commented on this to tell you how much I loved this. It seems I didn’t but please know it captivated me. I so enjoyed it and it made me think about my desire to travel more often ?

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