Even among its private jungle of bougainvillea and berenices and half a hundred other succulents, all shaded by the spiny mass of acacia woodland beyond, much of the vila was unbearable in the heat of the day. And so, rather than baking on the terrace and envying the humpbacks that breached and bellowed in the crystal sea two hundred feet below, Nina and I had retreated to the kitchen, and the only cool room in the house.
The boys were away up on the mountain, climbing it in the heat of the day, like the disgustingly fit bastards they were. Nina and I had responded with a emphatic ‘Fuck that’ and were well into our second or third gins. Nicely buzzed anyway.Réunion was a bit of a joke really. We hadn’t seen each other for nearly two years and it was a – just about – convenient spot on our respective arcs, mine down the Mozambique Channel, and theirs on up to Goa to sample that Hippy Jerusalem. Nina and the boys. A decidedly non-conformist triad. Did they or didn’t they? Who knew but them (and one imagines, the odd scandalised hotel worker). It didn’t matter, of course, and three gins in, another question had begun to impinge. A question I had just forced, which now teetered on the edge of a barber’s razor.
Nina had just topped up our gins, the long cut glass highballs running with moisture and making dark rings on the rattan table. She was standing very close, the hem of her yellow tea dress brushing my arm, it’s flights of tiny red birds flocking up along the curve of her hip and her ribs, swooping under and over her bosom in wide circles. I could smell the cotton, her sunscreen. Her shampoo.
‘I missed you’, I said and without thought reached around the back of her left leg and stroked the inside, just above her knee.
And here we trembled, still as cats. Our eyes, wide in the dim underwater light, slowly finding each others gaze. While shock vied with terror and unspoken longing to close up my throat and dry up my mouth.
Nina met my gaze. Eyes dark under barley-sugar hair. She grabbed the back of my chair and glared.
She shook her head. And brought her right leg in. Squeezed. Holding my gaze, she rocked slightly from side to side, as one leg pulled, the other pushed and then parted.
‘God’ I said.
‘Shut. Up.’ She said. And pinned by her gaze I let my hand drift higher. She took a long drink of gin as my fingers found the silk hollow inside her hip, and I bit my lip as I felt the first borders of lace and the heartbeat-heat that warmed them.
Nina squeezed again, and manouvered my hand – a push here, a shift of pelvis there – until with a satisfied grunt she had me just so. A narrow saddle of finger and thumb, on which she might ride.
The hot damp of her filled my hand as she ever so slowly circled her hips. In sing-song arcs she dragged and rubbed her knickers on my finger and thumb, slowly bunching the cloth to one side or the other until I felt first hair, and then skin and then the hot split of her on my finger, while under the ball of my thumb was the nub of her arse.
I squeezed and the self-possessed Nina was suddenly gone. While I pierced her and stroked her and strummed at her crux, she mashed her face into mine and we kissed and bit and groaned into each other and she put her hand in my lap and found me and struggled with my shorts until she simply gave up and bunched up one leg and pulled me out of them. The cool kitchen air did not caress me for long.
We wriggled the chair away from the table and she straddled me fast and her tiny fist gathered me in, a brief hot kiss at the head and she sank herself, squeezing all the way down in one shuddering thrust.
Nina rocked and ground herself into me an threw her head back and growled. She was a tiny woman, but here she dwarfed me, commanded me, rode me. She was fast and hard and soft and wet, she’d hover and tease on the top of me, and slide all the way down to the base, then with calves and thighs straining she’d slide up and down, slow, slow, quick, quick slow until she, after a long patch of circling, where her eyes grew vague and her movements clumsy she sank and ground herself hard down and spoke:
‘So close, don’t you dare-‘
So I did.
Probably just as annoyed as she was, I wasted no apology but spread her on the table and scattered the glasses and reached into the freezer for the ice and the gin.
Locally made, the bottles were shoulderless things, like burgundy bottles or those for champagne. It frosted immediately on coming out of the fridge, but the ice melted completely when it met her cunt. It slid in and stretched her and she made strange agricultural noises as I moved it about. She squealed when I held it tight in with the weight of my thigh and hanging over her, poured the ice on her tits.
‘Fucker’ she snarled and half sat up, scrabbling at dress buttons and:
‘Get this fucking dress off’
The soaking wet fabric was taught and intractable and some buttons were lost and some cloth was torn, but soon it was gone and she was naked, apart from wrecked, frilly lace and the gin bottle jutting out of her slit. I pushed her back down and bit-kissed her and told her be still, and with fingers, tongue, teeth and gin bottle began to make rough, callous love to her lovely pink cunt.
She tasted icy and sweet, earthy, marine. She was pretty and perfect and pink and she bloomed. I bent to her gladly and nibbled and licked and thrust the cold glass in and out.
With the sounding board of her hips under my head I could see her coming from far far away. A slow ripple and turn in the bowl of her pelvis. Little twitches and tugs before her first gasps. Rapid flinches in front of the bottles advance and a squirm in her thighs and her opening hips.
She curved like a conch when she came. Hollowed out above her mons and spread out to each hip bone, hips turned out and thighs turned in. A fierce grip around my hand and the bottle, drumming heels and elbows and claws in my hair.
She gasped and panted and groaned in the pool of melting ice, her legs twitching as the electricity dissipated. Slowly, she raised herself on her elbows, the soaked dress hanging off her like weed. She looked down. Her expression changed from dazed and dislocated to one of keen interest.
Under that gaze I felt myself tighten and throb. I looked down too. The joy of playing with her, the glee at making her come had worked on me. I was full again, glossy and hot.
She touched me with an icy hand and I groaned and leaned in. As she stroked and rubbed me with her thumb, and as her nipples grazed across my torso, she looked up, grinning like a cat. I leaned in, felt myself glide, slippery against her soft belly.
She stepped off the table, moving me back against the counter and, shedding the rags of the dress, knelt. Keeping eye contact she shuffled close until her breasts pressed against my thighs. The heat within her burned off the ice-chill, filling me from toe to navel with little curls of fire. Still smiling up at me, a little curl of wickedness in the hook of her lip, she gathered me in.
Her mouth was hot and alive, tongue and teeth swirling and lightly nibbling. She bobbed and I eased forward. In the glass of the kitchen door I watched the cello shape of her sway as she worked, saw her pretty heels under her bum. Saw her settle. Saw her shift sideways and sink on one heel, saw her part around it.
My hands found her hair and her nape and I pulled her onto me, filling her mouth. We found a slow rythmn, her grinding down on her heel and I in her mouth.
Long sliding moments later, she stood, and took my hand. Led me upstairs, the sinful tick-tock of her hips and thighs, the darkness between, the promise of her, all carrying me away.
She led me to my room. The windows were open and through the fly screen, the view was full of bourbon roses and bougainvillea, the air full of their scent and behind them the tang of the far-off sea.
She stood in my room, utterly naked, tousled and smiling. Just as she had in a thousand and one nights of imagined memory. Of longing.
She looked suddenly nervous. Uncertain.
‘How do I want you?’ She nodded, and bit her lip. I took her shoulder and turned her, fast. She gasped. I slapped her bum and she squeaked.
‘Kneel on the bed. Kneel on the fucking bed.’
She clambered onto it, quick and clumsy and I pushed her knees apart, and her back down, moved her about, rough with need. Her arse came up and I spit her with my thumb, spread her open. I laid my cock head to her lips and, with hands full of her arse I pulled her onto me as I thrust. Long and firm and slow I filled her and she raised her head, letting a long groan flow out of her throat.
I took her hips and dug in my heels and fucked her. Hard. So that her backside rippled and her arms gave and with each thrust I pushed her hard into the bed, and as she cried out, so did she bite at the sheet and holler and moan. As did I.
She could feel me swell and feel my rythmns go off and she pulled away from me
‘I want to see you.’ She said, ‘I want to see you come’
So she lay back and wrapped me with her legs and we ended up in a fierce clinch. I had little left and we did it at a gallop. Slick with sweat on belly and thigh and forehead to forehead and eye to eye..
I felt the wave building below and outside of me, the force of an ocean curling my toes and racing up my legs, focusing deep in the meat of me, infinite pressure roaring and cresting. The crest of the wave hung as I dug in my last thrust, pinning her down. As I held her tight she clamped herself around me and rigid, we came.
I felt it roar out of me, great pulses in time to her heels on my back, and her bitten kisses on the arc of my neck as I twisted and arched.
And then sometime later, it was over and we lay on my bed in the hot afternoon. We’d been snoozing, I think and just woken. She lay in the crook of my arm, nuzzled up to my hip. She was slowly, with one idle finger, moving my half erect cock around on my belly. Lifting it, letting it drop. It was nice.
‘Guess I missed you too.’ She said.