to even the most casual of observers.
I can see it in his face, as he draws away from me. His lip is faintly curled and there’s a crease between his brows, as though to say: that’s all it takes, to ruin someone like you? And then when he sits back in his lounger and picks up a magazine – as though nothing happened, nothing at all – I hear his final point loud and clear, even though he doesn’t say it out loud.
How disappointing.
* * *
I know he’s up there. I can hear his big feet pounding around on the deck, but I’m not going to go up. Not this time. I don’t know why he keeps staying behind while they go off and explore tourist spots, but in all honesty I don’t care.
He can stew up there, alone. He can conjure up some other person to torment – some girl who’s more his speed. She’s the other half of that magazine cover, and when he puts a hand between her legs she doesn’t soak through her knickers immediately. She doesn’t twist and shiver beneath his barely-there touch, as though she’s just grateful for any human contact.
Instead, she eyes him coldly, indifferently, while lying there like a statue. Later on they’ll make love on the bed behind me, in an elegant, poised sort of way. She’ll point her toes and arrange her hair just so on the pillow, and he’ll never look at her with that weird combination of incredulity and disdain.
Or at least, that’s what I’m still hoping for when he appears in the doorway.
He’s probably got her in tow now. I can practically smell her sunshine scent and hear her glassy voice – to the point where I actually start wondering if I should offer to make her a drink, too. I have all the accoutrements in front of me. The bar between the bed and the kitchenette is well stocked with all kinds of lovely things.
And I know, because I’m currently putting all of them together, for myself. I’m calling the rainbow-coloured concoction before me a ‘Burn That Sex Thing From Your Memory’ daiquiri.
Even though I don’t really know what a daiquiri is. It just sounds good, on the end of my imaginary cocktail. It legitimises fluorescent memory-loss in a glass, topped by a raft of candy-coloured cherries – one of which I devour, casually, as he strolls up behind me.
Yeah, that’s right. He strolls. He’s as casual as I am, apparently, even though I’m nothing of the kind. I’m shivering just as I did before, only without the excuse of an orgasm. And as before, I can’t really seem to function beyond this. I can’t look at him. I just stare straight ahead at the picture on the far wall, of a fisherman who’s unaccountably shouldering a huge shotgun.
Or maybe it’s not a fisherman, at all. It’s just a guy in a vest that looks like a fisherman’s, and really he’s out to bag himself a nice girl in a white sundress.
Of the kind Hunter then lifts.
I can feel him doing it, somewhere behind me. And I say somewhere, because it’s like the whole thing is not attached to me at all. I’m not wearing this sundress. I’m three hundred feet away from myself, drinking a made-up daiquiri.
While a man exposes my almost bare backside, and strokes his big hands over whatever flesh he finds there.
God only knows what he’s going to do next. I can’t imagine, because I’ve got no frame of reference for this. Usually men say things like ‘Would you perhaps want to move over to the bed?’ or similar, and even those sorts of fellows are in short supply, for a girl of my type. This kind of thing … this kind of silent thievery, heavy with assumption …
I don’t know what to do with this.
So I just stand there and take it instead. I let him rub over my ass until he works up to something bolder – both hands under the elastic of my knickers, fondling and fondling me before finally pulling the whole lot down. And then once I’m completely bare under there, he gets hold of me in a tamer sort of place.
Like the hollows of my hips – which only seems tame until he tugs me back. After that, it doesn’t seem tame at all. I’m now somehow bent over the bar with my ass bared, and though I don’t remember doing it my legs are apart.
They’re really, embarrassingly wide apart. I bet he can see everything in between, when he glances down. I bet he can see how wet I am, how swollen my pussy is – though I’ve no idea why that’s the case. He hasn’t touched me anywhere in particular. He hasn’t said anything filthy, to fire me up.
He just breathes hard and manoeuvres me into position, while my heart thunders between my legs and perspiration gets me in its cloying grip. I’m so hot, I think, so boiling boiling hot, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
It’s him who has to put the fire out. He has to do something, even though I’m afraid of what that something might be. If he fucks me, I might die. The dam will definitely crumble and my face will never recover from this kind of burn, and that’s how it will be until the end of time.
Only it isn’t like that at all. When he puts one heavy hand on my shoulder and one heavier hand on my hip, I don’t flinch. I’m crying, but I don’t want to tell him to stop. I want him to use me up like this, to be that guy who thinks he can have whatever he wants – because God knows he can.
Go on, I think, go on, and then I feel him sliding something thick and solid into my unbearably tight little cunt and ohhhh I can hardly believe it. I can’t believe he’s actually going to fuck me; I can’t believe his cock feels this impossibly big – or that I’m slick enough to take him.
But most of all I can’t believe that he moans, as he takes me.
He gets about halfway in and then he just lets it out, low and guttural, thick with frustration. Like he actually wants this, somehow, like he actually needs it, and if he doesn’t get it soon he’s going to go insane. He’s going to shove into me, hard, and fuck me like a savage.
And I don’t know whether I’m unhappy about that or not. It sure doesn’t feel like unhappiness. It feels like I want to spread my legs wider and take him deeper, and when he finally eases all the way in and groans hot and heavy against the nape of my neck, I do it anyway.
I arch back against him, and spread myself for him, and let him get a handful of my breasts – first one, then the other. Though even that’s not enough. I have to fumble with the front of my sundress until the whole thing is open and he can get his hand inside, and once it is it’s like a relief. He can get at all of me, now. He can play with my tight nipples as he eases back and forth in my slick cunt – slow and easy at first, but soon it’s fast. Soon it’s hard and reckless and I’m clutching at the arm he’s got across my belly, as he fucks into me. I’m urging him on, without words.
Dear God, there can’t be any words for this. There are just moans and guttural grunts and the occasional gasp, when he hits my G-spot just right or I clench a little too tightly around his thick cock. And they get louder, too, the longer this goes on. By the time he’s almost got me off the floor and over the bar – pounding me hard with one hand on my hip and the other on my throat – we’re like animals.
I’m so wet it’s running down my thighs; so turned on I might actually come just from the feel of him fucking into me. And then he gets a hand between my legs and slithers a finger over my swollen, slippery clit – and that’s it. I do come. I come shamelessly, unlike the day before. I cry out and let myself shake through it, without an ounce of caring in me.
No – it’s only afterwards that I care. That I realise what I’ve done, what I’ve let myself become. If I was an easy, quick-to-orgasm little slut yesterday, what must I seem like now? I didn’t even care whether he wore a condom or not. He could be creaming into my filthy little whore’s pussy as I realise all of this – and the thought isn’t half as awful as it should be.
In fact, it excites me. I hear him coming, I feel him coming – all jerky and as uncontrolled as I was, a moment before – and I thrill with the idea of him filling me up.
And then