Just Swell...

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After Annabel I needed to get my breath back.  Although, to be honest, I arrived home every evening hoping that there’d be a letter on the mat inviting me back to her ideal home.  But every night I was disappointed.  With more experience it became apparent that such encounters were fuelled by the illicit excitement of ‘sex with a stranger’.  Once you’d met for the first time you were never a stranger again.  One of life’s truisms…..you can only ever meet someone for the first time once.  After that it’s never the unknown again.

I worked hard and loved my job.  Several months went by and it was summer.  I deserved a holiday.  Something never affordable before.  Some friends booked a villa holiday on one of the most beautiful Greek Islands.  It was a villa for 15 people with live-in staff who did the catering.  I signed up.  An opportunity to meet new people, though no chance to select your fellow guests.  Upon arrival my mind decided quickly.  Nice people but nothing special.  No likely potential for a holiday romance or even a passion-induced one night stand.  It looked as if beery nights with the boys on the villa’s spacious roof terrace were beckoning….or nights out in one of the island’s spectacular bougainvillea-laden nightclubs under twinkling, starry skies.  Or so it seemed.

Our villa was beautifully appointed on a hill surrounded by other white-washed Aegean villas overlooking a fishing village and one of the most beautiful natural harbours it was possible to imagine.  Even more spectacular was the acropolis that dominated the landscape and  overlooked us, protecting us from the threat of a Lycian invasion like any self-respecting ancient citadel should.  Paradise found and not a cloud in the sky for two weeks.  The perfect environment to leave reality behind and act on the most primitive of instincts.  Nothing wrong with post-rationalisation…….

I spotted my holiday pursuit within an hour of arriving.  Our villa hostesses had arranged a welcoming drinks party on the roof terrace so we could meet our fellow guests.  Rather than being fascinated by conversation I was transfixed by the bay below.  The sparkling, translucent blue sea was broken up by intermittent sails of various colours skimming disruptively across the tranquillity.  Within two seconds I was passionate about windsurfing.  Other physical pursuits would have to wait.

I immediately headed to the beach and introduced myself to the bronzed, hairy-chested, medallion-wearing Greek Adonis who masterminded the windsurfing fraternity.  Within minutes I was learning.  However, rather like skiing, you spend your first week falling off, regularly losing your dignity and thinking that it’s impossible.  It was only that constantly falling into the Aegean Sea in the cloying heat was so welcome and it was the perfect way to convert my skin to a colour reminiscent of mahogany that fortified me with the patience to carry on against, what for many days, seemed an unequal struggle. 

There was another reason why continuing and being determined to succeed became important, in fact a matter of pride.  The other, less active members of our party used to sunbathe on the terrace and watched every inch of my progress in the bay below.  To begin with it was mirth and much teasing.  It became a matter of honour that this must be mastered.  I knew I was being observed and, in particular, that a couple of the girls were impressed by my determination.  Oh to be one of those guys who whizzed majestically across the bay at a velocity tuned by the fresh sea breeze, looking omnipotent, totally disdainful of the incompetent still floundering in the shallows.

Well, by week two I was.  I suddenly got the hang of it and went from incompetence to being an unassailable master of the waves.  My audience was clearly impressed and I received considerable plaudits for my accomplishment and much jealous admiration from my male comrades.  It felt good and I knew it looked good.  I had become aware that one woman in particular was more than impressed.  Angela was not one of life’s bon viveurs and you would possibly have passed her in the street without looking back.  She was the friend of a girl whose company I really enjoyed.  Helen had become a good friend.  We used to sit together for lunch, went out for evening meals together and found many things in common.  Purely friendship, nothing else came to mind.  Most times Angela came with us.  I sensed that her sideways looks were more than casual.

It was a few days before the end of the holiday that the villa held its much-hyped pedalo race across the bay.  This event had assumed very competitive proportions amongst the male members of the community.  Pride was again at stake.  However, there was a complication, the night before the race there was a draw and each male competitor had to be paired with a female co-driver.  Fate decided that my partner was to be Angela.  

On the start line I knew my fate.  Angela, while clearly delighted at our pairing told me emphatically that she wasn’t competitive and was looking forward to a nice, sedate tour of the bay and watching me do all of the work.  There was something loaded about the comment.  There was also something about her bikini, the briefest I’d seen her wearing by far.  I hadn’t noticed her spectacular breasts before, mainly because I’d never previously been interested.  But suddenly I was.  Very interested.

Pedalos are small and unstable.  The two passengers have to sit close to each other and employ teamwork to maintain balance.  I pedalled and she provided the perfect ballast by prominently aligning her breasts with the gravitational necessities required to maintain stability……

When it was obvious we weren’t going to win she casually suggested that we should pedal further out to sea.  After separating ourselves from the main fleet she then suggested that she’d like to go round the corner to the next bay.  I didn’t immediately associate this need for isolation with anything unusual.  But once we were safely out of sight of anyone in the bay she asked if I would mind if she removed her top.  I didn’t.  Stupid question.  I tried not to ogle but her breasts were magnificent.  They self-supported themselves as if they were buoyant.  It was suddenly obvious that she had a plan.  I suddenly felt very aroused and knew that she had positioned us out of sight for a reason.  Her next words left no doubt.  ‘Would you like to fuck me?’ she asked trying to sound as if it wasn’t a rhetorical question.  It wasn’t.  My erection provided evidence that her intentions were more than understood……

At this moment, just like a magician digging deep into a top hat to find a rabbit, she plucked a condom from a secret hiding place in her bikini bottoms and breathlessly uttered  ‘We don’t need clothes’.  Within seconds we were both naked and my excitement was glaringly obvious.  She applied the raincoat with unexpected dexterity during a hungry French kiss.  However animalistic the passion this was a very delicate operation.  Anyone foolhardy enough to try to fuck in a pedalo (while bobbing up and down on a Mediterranean swell, not to mention a man-made equivalent) will know that it requires precision, accuracy and teamwork.  We positioned ourselves on the flat surface immediately behind the two front seats, right in the middle of the unstable craft.  It was essential that my thrusting would be at the very epicentre of the vessel…..anything else and there would be a very disruptive capsize.  The insertion into a very wet and receptive hole had to be centrally bored with unerring consistency.  Military precision.  No room for error…..literally. 

The motion of the sea swell and the irrational nature of the bobbing craft made coupling extremely hazardous.  Although it made the act momentous.  The harder I thrust the more Angela’s body rebounded towards me.  The deeper I went the faster my cock retracted.  I minimised the likelihood of her bouncing breasts causing a catastrophic destabilisation by grasping them tightly, one in each eager hand.  The choreography resulted in the most frenzied routine that brought about a tumultuous mutual climax.  A ten from all the judges.  Angela’s climax was extraordinary.  Brought on by months of abstinence and the unrelenting motion of the sea swell, her relief and glee cascaded emphatically.  I spewed the lava of a convulsive volcano deep into her receptive loins with unfettered commitment.  This was no time for mutiny……

She held my hand all the way back to shore as if to reassure me of her devotion.  I also thought it was because she didn’t want to be separated from our animalistic passion.  Her memory of this frenzied liaison precious beyond belief.  I felt I’d assuaged a voracious and yet unspoken need held deep inside her.  We never spoke again of our sea-going heroics.  Our tide of lust remained a furtive secret that needed no further flotation.                                     

 

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