Message-ID: <16517eli$9810150712@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Hidieon Subject: New story "Arrival" - MF, Rom 1/2 Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19981011062305.5411.rocketmail@send104.yahoomail.com> Non-standard disclaimer. The following is a romantic story which contains graphic sex, romance and some thoughts on Life. If any of these are illegal where you are or at your current age, go away. If this sort of material offends you, you did not get here by accident, go away. Any resemblance between the events persons depicted and any persons living or dead is unintentional and also quite unlikely. Any (non-spam) comments may be addressed to Hidieon@yahoo.com Arrival. “Well” said Bart, “here we are!” Cathy looked at him, her green eyes inscrutable for the moment, but he was taking in the view outside. She heard so much in that short, deliberately banal utterance. She heard the relief and the disbelief, the edge of bitterness, and the fear that this all might still be just a fragile dream. She heard the hard-edged irony, the self-deprecation, and read in his thin hard body the struggle to detach himself from the dead anchors of the past, to seek a living future. He was aware of her gaze; she knew it. She felt her heart turn over the way it so often did, the impulse to stroke his hair, his back, his eyelids and lashes… She responded in kind, equally banal, equally layered in meaning. “It was a long trip.” He turned and looked at her then, his huge blue eyes grey in the fast-fading twilight, and then again looked out to the sea. His eyes half-hidden by his absurdly long eyelashes, he answered. “Yes – it was” he said heavily “five years long – longer!” “We made it. We’re here!” Cathy said, trying to lift his mood. She succeeded, she saw the fierce joy drop into his veins like fire. A smile cracked his face, and he raised his arms. He was merely stretching, easing the kinks out of his long thin body after the long journey, but she found herself licking her lips, her hands itching to touch him. His back was an erogenous zone, and that made her smile in anticipation. She felt her body rise with his mood, as though she were to sway or leap with some new dance to music yet unwritten. “It’s getting dark fast,” he commented, looking out at the sea, the waves crashing over the reef far out, merely lapping where they were. “It’s the tropics,” she said unnecessarily “short twilights, hardly any seasons.” “Not exactly a cradle of civilization, then!” Bart laughed. “More a cradle of idleness…” “That’s what we’re here for.” She smiled at his back – and she couldn’t help herself. She went up to him, pressed herself against him. She pressed her belly to his back – feeling the old familiar tingle, the hunger building in her, knowing how he loved to feel her breasts, her nipples denting his shoulder blades. She wanted him then, immediately, but this moment was to be savored. The road had been too long, and there was too much ahead, for this planned and stolen moment of respite to be rushed. Tonight, with the windows open and the sound of the sea as their friend, isolation all that they needed as lock for the door, then would be the time. He felt the hunger in her body, and it transferred instantly to his groin. Heart and pump and hardening, and he sighed again – so difficult to believe that they had made it here, at last. He sighed again, and felt that he owned the world, that he had won all the lotteries. Her, with him. A thousand times he had wondered at her love for him, a thousand times and more he knew how deeply and vulnerably he loved her. It was such a continuing miracle that his love was returned. His cock pressing against his cutoff jeans, he longed to be free. He had a sudden absurd vision of himself, cock out, marking his territory like some dog, but in the hallucinatory flicker, he didn’t know if he marked the boundaries in gold or cream… but it would be her hand, her soft pale skin upon him, pointing the way. “It’s so good to be alone” she whispered, her breath warm in his ear. She felt all the interchange running between them, the history, the present, the promise of the future, and perhaps that was the sweetest triumph. There was no-one else here to try to draw them out of their world, their intense fascination with each-other, the extraordinary reality of the other’s presence. “But darling, I’m with you!” he quipped, and she nipped his ear at that precise pressure between pain and pleasure. “If there’s anybody else here but me, you’re toast!” she said. Then she pulled away from him. She had a moment’s pang about the friends that they had lost along the way, those who had tried to keep them apart. But they were not here – they might be part of the future, but they were not part of this now; this arrival at their island within an island. Their bags stood forgotten in the corner, she wanted to nest, to make this place familiar. The bathroom had to come first. The heavy smaller bag clinked as she dragged it in; she put the lotions in their half-familiar places. Coconut oil was going to be so good here, so appropriate. Plain olive oil went to the kitchen. That special aromatic oil beside the bed – she smiled at it in anticipation – it would be a nice surprise! Three bottles of that special mixture of 15+, insect repellant and moisturizer. She saw his eyes on her, the acceptance as she followed her compulsion. He loved her skin, and her compulsion had the side-effect of skin wonderfully, touchably, strokably soft… Later, he would be helping her to put it on, and she would put it on him, stroking her breasts over his back… ‘If you can’t change you habits, harness them!’ her counselor had said, and so she had. She found herself washing her hands, but it didn’t matter. The water had an odd texture, half of forest, half of sea – and that didn’t matter either. Outside, he was placing other things around, hats, towels, sandals, the flowing skirts that he had grinned he might wear also; the short skirts she liked, skimpy clothes for tropical nights. “It’s very dark now,” Bart said, as a bird started to cry outside. It was very loud and very close – a curlew. They looked for it, but it was a small grey blob in the darkness, but a cry so loud and mournful that it half made them want to laugh. “Move over, Donna Summer!” she cried at it, and at the next cry, joined in and did a fair imitation of bird and singer both. The bird responded, as did others, more distant. The noise grew deafening; they retreated to the verandah, looking out at the sea. “There’ll be a moon,” Cathy said, looking at the new glister on the waves, the pallid glow in the sky. “A full moon – I checked.” Bart was gazing out again, content. In the background, the curlews conducted their voice duel, although the nearest bird was moving away. “We’ll have to watch out for werewolves.” It was a good joke, she thought, and remembered that she had already checked the locks, and there weren’t any. They were here, alone on the little island within the island and its lagoon; she stayed where she was by what felt like main force. “I sometimes turn into a werewolf when you full-moon me!” he said gently, and moved his tongue across his lips lasciviously. She laughed and put a finger to his lips, and felt herself squirm inside. … when the moon is full … will you give your throat … to the wolf with the red roses … does the wolf … hunger for me … does the wolf … desire me … does the wolf … love me … when the moon is full … will you give your heart … to the wolf with the red roses … yes It was some silly thing out of an old vinyl Meatloaf album – she could never remember all of it, just the punch-line ‘I’ll bet you say that to all the boys!’ But she had always felt like the vulnerable throat, always felt the burning hunger of the wolf – her wolf. She looked at his profile again – he was disappearing in the rapid dusk. “It’s so dark so early!” she said, and slapped at a mosquito. “We’re reverse jet-lagged – we’re two hours ahead.” He glanced at her. “Time to change for dinner? Lotion up?” Relieved, she went inside, and he reached for the nearest combination lotion. She turned and looked at him, and switched on a sidelight. Her green eyes locked onto his smoldering grey ones, she began to strip, slowly. Of course she could just have removed her clothes – but this wasn’t the moment. She felt excited, erotic, happy to be there, happy to be with him, pleased to see herself reflected in the love and lust that burned in his eyes. With a practiced motion, he squirted a large dab of lotion into the palm of his hand, and then looked down, dismayed. He was still fully dressed, and now had oily hands. She crooked a finger at him, and moved into the doorway of the bathroom cubicle. The harsh light from the recess threw her dancer’s body into profile, and she played herself as a symphony in black and white. Her clothes landed awry in a basket set there for laundry; she resisted tidying them away, catching his eyes, seeing them glitter in the warm half-light. She turned, as she slipped her lace bra from her shoulders, knowing how much he loved her breasts in profile, how often he had explored them with the oddly sensitive backs of his hands. Her short skirt puddled on the floor a moment later; and she stepped out of his view to remove her panties. She peered through the doorway, her panties waving in a circle from a finger, and he followed her in. “I” she breathed “need oil.” She didn’t – she needed to be touched! She knew her nipples were begging, erect. Her treacherous pussy was swollen and slippery, awaiting what he might do to her. Oil? If he touched her there, he would make a dewy discovery… “Turn around” he said, and she did, a dancer’s whirl, looking over her shoulder at him. She never knew where he would touch her, but for the moment, she prayed it wouldn’t be her belly. She would melt, she would just have to have him, right now! That would be – well, perfect, but she knew that both of them wanted it to be even more perfect. How had they agreed that they wouldn’t have sex until after dinner? She didn’t know – but she felt honor bound by the unspoken contract. He ran his hands over the swelling of her hips and over her belly. Cathy fairly moaned. “Oh, God, no!” she whispered, sagging against him. “Don’t get me too excited…” His erection was brushing her buttocks through his tight cutoffs; she pressed back against him, feeling able to do anything she wanted. She was also feeling unable to resist. His hands stroked upwards, cupping her breasts in the way she loved. “One of these days I’m going to get me a job as your bra,” he said, and his fingers slipped towards the tips of her breasts and squeezed the nipples. She gasped again, feeling the sensation spread, hot-wired to her groin, and she found her hips rotating. “What are you trying to do to me?” she whispered, and turned and began to undo his shirt buttons. He laughed a little, and she looked up and saw hot triumph and vulnerable worship mixed in his eyes, now blue in the harsh bathroom light. “I’ve already done it!” he whispered, and as she peeled his shirt off, added “what are you trying to do to me?” She was business-like at his belt. “I’m trying,” she said “to get you as excited and frustrated as I am!” His cutoffs hit the floor with a clang of buckle, and he stepped out of them. More stripping of him on her part and his cock sprang free. She smiled at the familiar organ, her little big friend, and bent and bestowed a quick kiss on it, escaping his hands as he sought to keep her there. “You and me,” she said to the bobbing erection “got a date!” He reached for another bottle of lotion as she automatically tidied the day’s clothes away. She pushed him into the shower, and turned the water on cold and fierce – or it should have been. But a weak lukewarm trickle emerged, strengthening only slightly when an automatic compressor cut in with a distant, intrusive mechanical noise. He laughed, jubilant, and washed away the salt of the day. He tried to pull her in there with him. She slipped free, quivering, wanting everything, denying it for now, and savoring the expectation. He managed to get her the next grasp, and caught her off balance. She staggered in beside him in the tepid stream, and then he was running his hands over her body, making slippery trails and erotic patterns in the mixture of oil and water on her skin. For a mad moment she kissed him, open-mouthed, holding nothing back. All her hunger flowed through and to him, and all her resolve was gone. She dropped her hand to his prick, and felt him jump. She knew how much her hands, worked, petted (oh, pun!) and pampered in turns, turned him on! She lifted him slightly, trailing fingers down to the base of his cock on the underside, feeling him quiver. He broke free then, just. She had turned the tables, and glanced down at her belly, seeing a little fleck of white there for a moment before the shower whisked it away. ‘I just did a Monica Lewinsky’ she thought ‘but I wasn’t wearing a blue dress!’ She laughed at the thought and her state. She was gloriously nude and feeling free, glowing with renewed energy in the shower. He came back, decently trousered and bare-chested. She looked at him, laughing easily, seeing the bulge with her name on it in his trousers. He held up a towel, and she turned off the water and stepped out, walking towards him and threatening to wet him with her slick body. He caught her midway with the towel, wrapping it around her and rubbing her to him, drying her back while she wrapped her arms around his chest. They were sparing with the rest of the three in one lotion – he discovered accidentally that the taste was awful. She added a whiff of her Jasmine perfume, and smiled at him. He said he loved the smell of Jasmine; perhaps he did – or had. But now she was secure in the knowledge that he could not smell either plant or perfume without thinking of her. Once he had loved the scent, perhaps. But for the rest of his life, that scent would cue him back to her, and perhaps, to this very moment. She donned apparel appropriate for the evening. Black bikini under/outerwear; a black and orange silk top that showed through; a long flowing translucent wisp of a skirt that was tied at her waist and bared one lovely pale leg, and sandals. He was semi-formal in black trousers, black leather walkers, and a short-sleeved white shirt and short black tie. Each thought the other looked gorgeous; it showed in their eyes, and they embraced, and walked outside. The moon had risen; they walked out to see it. They started to walk, and then realized that the island was so small they would circumnavigate it in moments. So they went half way around, finishing up at the punt, with its electric motor. Tomorrow, they would explore more of their little exclusive island, and perhaps on the following day, more of the island. She had felt a slight shock of recognition, looking at the ethnically mixed faces of the locals… They boarded the punt, which skittered on the surface like all light, flat-bottomed boats. At the other end, they neared more of the expensive, discreet complex. It really had been well done. A lot of effort had gone into making the resort a series of visually isolated havens. But none, of course, was as isolated as their little island within an island. It was quiet in the off-season; only a few of the cottages showed lights. They took a quiet and roundabout journey across the lagoon, seeing whatever they could on the way. Fish jumped in the water, and they wondered what predators lurked in the depths. Barracuda, perhaps? There was a shark net. The bar/dining area was quiet. There was a band, a bunch of Rastafarians playing Harry Belafonte, which was incongruous. Waiters bustled with an uphill air, as though they’d been told to hurry but didn’t quite know how to hurry, or why. This was an island in the sun, a place meant to be lazy. Why hurry? It would just make people nervous. A few wrinkly elderly couples occupied tables quietly, some in larger groups and chatting. For the most part they seemed to have a slightly bewildered air, like ‘we got here forty-five years too late to have fun.’ One couple was being feted for fifty years of marriage, and were flushed on complimentary champagne. That couple was interesting, if only for the warmth they spread around the room. She was little and pale and round-faced. She might have been pretty once, but it was hard to imagine. But her eyes, behind thick glasses, glittered with both intelligence and a certain never-quite-lost country-girl shyness. He was large and bald as a coot, and had a distinguished air about him. Two waiters and, unaccountably, a pretty waitress, vied for his attention. But his mild and penetrating blue eyes were fixed upon his wife, and his large, gnarled old hand clasped her pudgy one in a proprietorial way that had the gray-haired lady simpering. Then they both heard the lush lazy voice “Never mind his cock, I’ll settle for his hair and his eyelashes!” Inevitably they both turned, to look at the owner of the outrageous booming voice. A couple, lesbians or drag queens, sat in a conspicuous corner, near the band. Lesbians, it soon became evident, although both girls were tall. That particular kind of slenderness only comes from being feminine, and neither had the giveaway Adam’s apple. They were the most exotic couple in the room by far; and Bart and Cathy had the satisfaction of being the best looking hetero couple there. The two lesbians, obviously well into a second bottle, were eyeing them both openly and speculatively, but with such an outré quality that it was impossible to take offence. Bart and Cathy sat down, and were served. They passed up the complimentary glass of champagne. They felt vegetarian, and ordered a red salad and drank a superb vintage Australian St Henri claret, a wine perhaps better than anything out of France and one third the price. The heavy red wine tasted like all the promises of all the wine-bottles in the world; like bottled Adelaide sunshine and meditative memories of dark, cool cellars. It was odd to have a red chilled – but this was the tropics, and as the wine warmed to perfect temperature it was superb. Cathy found the smooth red slipping to her belly like fire, making her glow all over in a way that champagne never could. The warmth in her belly reminded her of the unfinished business between Bart and herself, and her nipples hardened into sharp relief under the bra. She might as well have stood and announced “I’m just so incredibly horny!” to the two lesbians, who were eyeing them still. The two girls reeked of money – someone else’s money, certainly, but still money. They were like two cats; one could have been a model, she had a certain fragile beauty underneath deliberately garish make-up. The other, who had the more spectacular figure but had a definitely horsy face, was the more exuberant. And it was her voice which boomed across the room… “now there was a nice thought!” A moment later, a waiter appeared at their elbow with a second bottle, showing the label. The first was not empty. “The ladies compliments, Sir, Ma’am, and may they offer you a drink?” Bart’s eyes glittered, a little angry. Privacy was what they were here for… “No” he said “not tonight.” The voice boomed across the room. “Won’t you join us?” English upper class, used to calling down the Quorn. “We’d better do the social pretty” he said, and she knew what he meant. “No” he called back, and then they both rose and went over. “Thank you for your kind invitation,” said Bart formally “but this is our first night, and we wish to savour it alone. Another night, perhaps?” “Oh, that’s such a pity” gushed the younger, prettier one – Licia, was it? “You look like the only fun people here!” “So very intense you both are,” commented the other, Ruth, with the booming horsewoman’s voice. “Are you on honeymoon?” the gushy Licia asked. end part 1. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----