The Girl Who Loved…

I find him staring at a fan on the ceiling, providing him scant comfort in this stultifying heat. His body tenses, his tightly knotted neurons congealed with ecstasy at the prospect of me, fully aroused. He lies on his dishevelled bed watching me wade out of the sea. My hair is dripping wet, my body slim, tanned, and fit.

He arranges himself, his head sunk in soft pillows, spreading his legs apart until his toes grip the sides of the bed, frantically twiddling with his knob.

I recline on my beach mat, hair splayed over the towel. He examines me. I blow lightly thru my nose, raising my brows for his drone camera, shutting my eyes, my lips plump with pout.

He grows hard, caressing his scrotal sac, giving his testes a woman’s squeeze, running his hand up, then down, his rigid, turgid shaft, speaking to my image in whispers, as if I were his lover,

‘Give me a smile, girl. Open your mouth. Lick your lips for me.’

I smile for him. I open my mouth, languidly rolling the glow-red tip of my tongue along the curl of my lower lip. Unfurling my langue to its full length, lazily tickling the tip of my turned-up nose!

I sit up, stare him in the face, and reach behind my back to untie my skimpy bikini top. Having divested myself, I move my hand to the bright scarlet weal under my full left breast, rubbing my flesh wound gently with the tip of my finger. Teasing him, unashamedly. Driving him mad!

He strains his neck to get a better view, drops his scrotal sac. Grabbing the console by his waist, he zooms in on my full breasts, my ripe strawberry nipples, the wound I suffered mud-wrestling naked in the pouring rain.

The drone is a brilliant idea.

I even feel brilliant.

A view to a thrill.

His thrill.

My kill!

I consider how he wants me to wear my hair, deciding to wear it up for him in the sexy French style. Still time for me to have fun with him, though, before he falls victim to my naked charms!

He’s young, fit, muscular, tanned. His curly hair is purest blonde. He has shiny blue eyes, a freckled nose, pale skin, high cheekbones. I think he can stay the course a few more seconds before he comes. I survey the tectonic plates of muscle shifting on his bare chest. By now he’s blood-blushing, gasping, panting, at the sight of my heaving breasts.

I prop myself up on one elbow, drawing my beach bag to me. My surprise lies inside! I position the bag by the towel, rest my head, take out my sacred pouch: golden yellow embroidered with edelweiss. In no doubt, he’ll track me down, kill me once he’s gratified himself at my body’s expense.  I examine the revolver, its unnecessary, ineffectual silencer, perched beside his naked body, rehearsing my final words to him when he comes, across me, thigh deep in seawater, dodging the razor-sharp rocks, their nasty, flesh-slashing sea urchins,

‘You can put your gun away! Come in and give me a hug. The water’s lovely and warm.’

‘Thank you, baby, but I have to kill you.’

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

I shield my eyes from the glary sun with my slim hand, gazing at a fixed dot hovering over the sea in the distance. My sexual magnificence renders my adversary clumsy, cack-handed, in the control of his drone, attempting to home in on me, closing in to get a better look, as the aroused man nears his climax. I pin my hair up in a rough bun, leaving damp wisps of hair kissing my gilded neck. Imagining the dramatic effect, I’m having on him. The power a sensuous woman like me can exert over a sad young man.

He closes his eyes, dreaming of my breasts, my belly pressed against his firm torso as I hold him to me, my arms around his waist, resting my head on his shoulder, encouraging him to get closer to me, kissing him on the lips.

His curtains blow in from a light sea breeze. The balcony doors swing open. I lie back, turn my head to face the beach bag, draw out my console. My drone saunters thru his open doors, gliding silently across the hotel bedroom, traversing the bed until it hovers just above the man’s face.

I quickly untie my bikini bottoms, stripping them off, exposing my sexy bitter chocolate mole, ‘Open your eyes, darling! Get me all naked showing myself to you on your private little screen.’

He twists his head to the right, opens his eyes, and ogles my hairy groin, my sun-kissed mole. I arch my body upwards. He grunts for me, my demented boar. I come over all giggly,

‘I’ve an even nicer surprise for you. Look at me!’

He looks up – at my drone!

‘Wonder what happens if I put my finger here?’ I ask, priming my lethal weapon, ‘If I put my finger there, I’ll kill you!’

Too late, he scrambles his left hand for the gun, ‘What? No! No!’

‘Bye-bye!’

My drone ejaculates molecular nitric acid, squirting at him, etching his skin with searing heat, burning out his eyes. Its cannon fires twice blowing out his face, wiping the dirty smirk off his smutty lips.

Deliriously happy, back in the fray, I slip on my floppy tee shirt, knee-length shorts, grab my towel and beach bag, and find a place in the shade of a pine tree. Now I can relax, catch up on some much-needed beauty sleep. I hear a sound, a distant plop: his drone – falling into the sea!

I relish the thought of my freshly grilled fish lunch, the welcome glass of chilled prosekka. My local men, dancing with me, kisses on my cheeks, strong fishermen’s arms around my waist. Bedtime with the boys! My sexy siesta! I recline on the towel, undress, press a red button on my console, and my drone explodes, setting the bedroom on fire, cremating the dead man on his squalid dishevelled bed.

I close my eyes and fall into a deep, dreamy sleep.

Fresh from the sleep, I sit on my beach mat taking in the beautiful vista, stretching as far as the pale blue horizon. Other than a few wispy strands of cirrus, cotton wool fluff, the sky’s clear, the sun riding high, its hot rays searing my all-over tan a deeper hue of golden brown.

I feel really hungry. My man will be filleting gilt-edged bream for me, grilling it on the open fire, gently tossing my salad. He will come for me: when the fish is blackened, its eyes turned white. We’ll walk the lonely forest trail, past deserted fisherman’s dwellings, holding hands as we stagger up the steep rocky incline, winding our way down the red-sand path to the thatched beach hut, its loungers and parasols.

He’ll adjust my lounger for me so that I can bask in the sunshine. He’ll feed me fish, forking mouthfuls of flesh into me. He will ply me with copious dregs of prosekka. Then I’ll stretch out on the divan, relishing the sensation of his rough hands balming my naked body with his oil, massaging me to the point of arousal, retire to our mattress in the dingy hut, take my sexual siesta with him between my thighs.

Ah, I’ll miss him.

Oh, well! Back to work next week!

The sea is an inviting warm bath of turquoise slewing into ultramarine where the deep water swells around me, cooling my hot skin. I select a shelf of barnacle-crusted mustard rocks, licked by lapping spume, two hundred metres from the shoreline. Just enough time for me to take a dip before my escort arrives!

I’m nude. The thought of swimming nude thrills me. I feel safe on my tiny beach. He’s quite used to seeing me padding round the beach hut naked. He seldom wears a stitch, except when he takes the mountain path to my private cove. I tiptoe over the hot sand, wade into the warm shallows, plunging headfirst into the water. Crawling out to sea. Forcing my head underwater. Reaching out with my strong arms. I briefly turn my face to the sky, gulp in air, and power off again. Until I reach the rocks. The water is deep and cold. At a stretch, my feet can just touch the bottom. My foot catches on something. I feel the spine tear into my sole, impaling me, feel it snap.

The pain sets in as salt water enters my fleshy, pulpy wound. A throbbing pain that only eases when I bleed: the needle is embedded in my foot. The water’s clear. My blood blooms, rapidly-diluting scarlet ink round my doggy-paddling legs. I strike out for the shore.

He waits for me in the shallows, in his sexy thong, ‘Are you ready for your fish, Jessica?’

I fall into his arms, ‘Not quite, I think I might’ve trodden on an urchin.’

He cradles me in his strong arms, carrying my limp body out of the sea, to the safety of the beach. He lies me on the beach mat, kneels beside my head, brushing the streaks of wet teak hair off my shiny face, admiring me: the most beautiful, dangerous, woman in the world, his killer girl.

He smudges my lips, my plump pout, forcing me to smile, crab-scuttling in the sand, he reaches my full left breast. A light laying of his palms on my breasts confirms my heart is still beating. He flicks the corky teats on my caramel nipples, bringing blush to my cheeks, a cheeky smile to my lips. I come to,

‘What happened to me?’

He runs the stubby tip of his index finger along my six-inch weal, my eternal wound,

‘You fainted. It was sea urchin!’

He runs his coarse fingers over my belly, pausing to probe my navel, removing grains of sand, caressing my hairline as far as my coir of damp, matted, quiff. I feel a twinge: my injured foot. Blood trickles out of my wound, drying in a crust on the hot sand.

He’s tent-pegged inside his thong, I see!

‘Think you should remove the spine from my foot, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

He kneels between my thighs, can’t stop fantasizing over my sexual magnificence. Just him, a poor beach hut squatter from a deserted mountain village, and me, the most sensational woman in the world, spread-eagled naked beneath him. He nods deferentially, edging the flat of his hand down my slender thigh in the direction of my calf. I feel his mouth swallow my foot, feel him suck out the offending spine.

I giggle, ‘Like sucking my foot, don’t you?’

He rolls his pupils at me, sucking me, ‘Mmmn.’

‘You can suck my toes if you like.’

He extracts the spine with his bare teeth. I yelp. He washes my foot with schnapps, wraps me in a strip of bandage.

‘Suck my toes!’ He sucks my big toe, then works his way through the slender ones, licking, nibbling, the nails on my pinkies. I gasp as he grips my ankle and feathers the smooth inside of my thigh. He caresses my divine cleft, leaves me writhing uncontrollably on the mat.

I feel my flush of warmth, arousing me. My breasts heave, the flesh stiffens on my nipples. I throw my head back, snarling for him, baring my teeth, my languid langue, imploring him to release me. I arch my body upwards, writhing in blissful orgasm for him. His body is covered in thick hair. He’s gone to fat. He sports a pot belly. But he’s all man, soft, cuddly, and very well-endowed! I reach for him, his bitch on heat, I crave his pelvic thrust, I want to clench him.

‘Fuck me, really hard,’ I murmur hungrily, sliding his rigid, turgid, erect cock, deep inside me.

‘How does that feel?’ he gasps, as we fuck, ‘Comfortable?’

‘Comfortable?! Heavenly, darling! Heavenly!’