s****l Mischief

Chapter One With Time To Kill She dangled her hand over the side of the chaise and lazily opened her eyes, gazing at the turquoise water lapping along the edge of the pool. She sighed smelling both chlorine and salt air as they filled her lungs. Under the cabana, she lay protected from the torrid glare of the sun, and with any luck at all, a breeze would waft off the ocean and tease her skin with its sensuous caress. The pool was clean and clear, and if she squinted her eyes, she saw patterns of diamonds float before her. Turning her head toward the ocean with its constant, uneven roar, her eyes rested and her mind expanded. But then those were dangerous waters down below the cliffs, where the waves could pull her in, the undertow submerge her, and that inconstant unknown could take her down… down, down below the surface. The pool beside her was everything civil; the ocean at the end of the horizon a great unknown. Perhaps this was a trite metaphor. But it remained an apt description of her life being tugged by two equal forces, and thus, caught between them paralyzed and wearily bored. “Sausony.” The voice pulled her from the dreamy state. While still reluctant to disengage, she looked up with her hand guarding her eyes from the glare, staring at Mim, who’s robust form blocked most of the sun’s cruel rays. “Sorry to disturb you, but cook wants to know what you want for dinner tonight.” “Maybe nothing,” she said with a sigh. “How can anyone eat in this heat?” “But Peter will be wanting something.” “Then perhaps you should ask Peter.” “He’ll want steak.” “Then cook him steak, a fat Porterhouse should take care of his appetite.” “And what about you?” “A salad will be fine.” Mim frowned and shook her head, waiting for Sausony to say more. “No, I’m not going to wither away.” The woman nodded and turned back toward the house, which left Sausony to resume her leisurely nap. Although by then, the spell between the waters, between the ocean and the pool was broken. Instead of staying, she sat up and combed through her long blonde hair, raising waves of cottony fluff. Her pale skin was smooth and flawless, not even a little pink—the result of layers of sunscreen. Her eyes were as clear and cool as the water beside her, but then faraway, determined to focus on matters beyond the present reality she faced with little enthusiasm. She rose from the chaise and drifted like a sultry bird, dragging the yellow and turquoise towel on the ground behind her as she made her way from the patio to the portico, from the portico into the cool house and up the stairs to her room. She wore a one-piece lavender bathing suit, which was cut to elegantly display her abundant chest, the way her torso narrowed to her waist, the way her hips and bottom gently flared. Long willowy legs carried her with gracious poise as she moved. She had always been a sight to inspire awe, half visionary, half sweet confection. But no one knew the real woman under the guise, under the ravishing blonde, under the pale translucent skin. She watched the ocean from the balcony of her room, wondering as she did why she so often chose to swim in the pool rather than brave the murky sand-filled waters of the salty sea. What was it gaining her to lie content beside the pool as her afternoons decayed toward evening? She’d routinely submerged her longing for a different life until she’d begun to believe that longing never existed at all. But today, the longing returned to her, urgent and undeterred. Maybe today it was time for a change. She turned toward the ornate room, decorated with exacting detail by two gay men who owned a design studio in San Francisco, and spent their weekends three houses down in a small seaside cottage. The French County décor was what she chose for her boudoir while she laughingly, safely teased the gayboys with feminine innuendo she rarely used. Was that cliché too, that gay men were perfect companions for women, easy to negotiate without the threat of s*x, but still abundantly s****l? m**********g that month proved easy. But not so easy once her life slipped back into the redundancy of sublime perfection. When m**********g was the best, her mind took flight beyond the handsome gay men to temptations that settled hidden in her psyche until she had occasion to pluck them from the storehouse again. Perhaps reused, re-worked, but never impotent. She stared in wonder, at last deciding, there was really only one thing for her to do. Good thing it was summer and she could travel light with a pair of sandals, a few sundresses, sunscreen and a make-up bag of essentials. She almost tossed her swimsuit in as she changed into a flowered summer dress, but it was wet and the mischief was already working her body with evil thoughts—bathing sans suit. Thus, the wet lavender Lycra lay in a tangled heap on her dressing room floor as she took the back stairs to the garden path. Looking light as a spring breeze on her feet, she almost skipped through the trellised garden. Her dress wrapped her body in a layer of limp silk. Even the pink painted roses twisting up her torso looked slightly wilted today. But limp and wilted were a product of this languid afternoon, which would have been better spent in bed with a man, a lover with bones and blood and flesh to feed on, a heart to beat with hers, a mouth to kiss her lips and neck, and a c**k to taste the waters between her thighs and sink inside. For another day, she concluded as the feeling of hope passed through her. But not today. Try as she might to set aside her joyless melancholy, she understood its purpose, finally. Yes, there was only one thing for her to do. Big tortoise shell sunglasses covered her eyes, while another layer of sunscreen protected her fair complexion—she couldn’t predict how long she’d be in the sun. With her canvas beach bag casually dangling from one arm, she walked toward the highway, which was no more than fifty feet from the end of the driveway. After gazing down the long stretch of pale grey asphalt to the south, she then turned around and walked backwards, sticking out her thumb expecting to hail a ride. She felt a giddy mischievous thrill hitchhiking her way to a new life. Within five minutes, a late model Chevy in a nondescript blue tone slowed to a crawl beside her while its driver eyed her from the window. He finally pulled up beside her and stopped, opening the passenger door. “Hi!” she giggled at the young man sitting behind the wheel. Jean clad, white t-shirt, bulging tanned muscles, a cocky grin—what girl on the loose wouldn’t want him as her first ride? “You know what you’re doing lady?” he asked, his voice unmistakably tinged with judgment. “Hitching a ride from you,” she innocently answered, while understanding the implication of his question. He shook his head, bemused, at the same time thinking this might just be his lucky day. “How far?” he said. “Down the coast. How about you?” “All the way to LA.” “Well then, you won’t mind my coming along?” “Hell no. I’ve had far worse for traveling companions. Hop in.” She did, smiling. Settling into the vinyl seat, she leaned back, feeling the hot salty air from the open windows coat her with a layer of pure bliss. *** Sausony twirled her soda straw between her fingers, c****d her head and licked her lips before asking: “You ever eaten grapes from a woman’s p***y?” He stared at her in silent wonder. What planet had she come from? the first thought in his brain. “No,” he answered. “Can’t say I ever have.” “You want to?” “I don’t have a clue,” he answered bewildered. “Want to try?” she asked again. He shrugged, trying to remain composed while feeling his jeans slide sensuously against his c**k. He’d be erect in seconds. “Sure.” She spread her legs for him as she lay across the hotel bed looking like a delectable vamp from a movie—not some X-rated porn, but a mainstream, classy film about lovers on the run. Her p***y had been freshly shaved so it was dewy pink and slightly moist, smelling of the shaving cream she’d borrowed, a hint of sweat and the sweetness of her own female juices. Drinking his second bottle of Heineken, he lounged, still fully clothed, but half reclining so he had a direct view of her s*x. He could see the wet opening, a deeper, richer color than the outer folds, still pink, but at the end of the spectrum before pink turned red. Beside her rested an open bag of grapes, the fat, sweet, yellow green variety, which had probably been harvested in the valley the day before. She put one in her mouth, one in her p***y, and one in his mouth, while bending forward, fingers making contact with his lips. She fell back on her elbow, “Eat,” she ordered. Then she made the rounds again, smiling, while the sugary water from the grapes dripped from her mouth. She giggled again. He marveled as her blue eyes danced with secrets. Staring at her grape-laden p***y might have been enough to give him the biggest boner of his life. But trying not to be uncouth, he gingerly stroked his crotch. Reaching inside and grabbing his swelling organ would have been a whole lot more satisfying, but he acknowledged the thrill in waiting for whatever grande finale this femme fatale had planned. “Eat,” she prompted him again, while nodding toward her crotch. He obeyed. With a smile on his face and a twinkle in his hooded brown eyes, he dove for the grapes between her legs, popping from her p***y, coated with her juices and tasting sour then sweet as he sucked each into his mouth. He began to gobble her, licking the folds of skin, sucking and slurping, until he felt her fall back on the bed and moan. All her lushness swayed erotically as if the cold furnace in her body had suddenly been stoked with fire. With his mouth clamped on her cunt, he looked up seeing her breasts, still barely covered by her dress, undulating. Her n*****s floated before his eyes. He reached and grabbed one, giving it a subtle pinch, to which she murmured more deeply, sputtering, “Oh, yes,” in a tone of distressed pleasure. He could feel the tension in her body rise with every attempt to tease her, until she began to emote, “Gawd, yes, I’m cumming.” Her ass rolled across the bedspread from side to side taking his head with it. As they moved in unison, he dug in deep, with tongue, with teeth, with lips pulling labia and clit. “Yes, do that harder!” She was bending toward him, grabbing for his hair, pushing his face against her snatch. Cumming. He’d never felt the muscles of a woman contact so during oral s*x. But hers were unambiguous, flexing, releasing, squeezing empty air. His c**k inside that slim sheath might have been suffocated from the force—not that this possibility would deter his eventual plans. “Humm, yes,” she hummed delicately as the orgasm began to recede, then she lay back exhausted against the mattress and he finished her off, until the last spasm relented. She shuddered, expelling air. The perfume of her body blanketed the air with the mysterious odor of s*x and femininity. The aroma lingered on his face and in his breath; he never wanted to wash. He pushed his pants off his hips and they fell with a heavy thud against the floor. Then he climbed back on the bed and straddled her hips, rising above her as he pressed his erection at the doorway of her cunt where one errant, uneaten grape slid free. He was inside her with one firm thrust, f*****g, enveloping her in the urgency of the act, cumming within a minute’s worth of hard humping. She hung on tight to his body, surrounding his chest with her arms, kissing his shoulder, clawing his back. To his heightened senses, she felt like a broken vessel that needed repair, an open wound that required mending, an empty shell with a substance waiting on the fringes to fill her. This was not his usual f**k. Most loose women like it nastily hard. Maybe she did too. But thinking she might break under the weight of her desolation, he was careful f*****g her and careful after he came, careful to fall beside her and hold her silently. Why he did this with such unthinking grace was a mystery to him. He’d never met a woman who required such caution. But the fact that she’d conveyed her need without words, in the simplicity of her smile, the impulsiveness of her risky behavior, and the openness of her body, made it imperative he heed the warning. He could love a woman like this one, but he wouldn’t. She was the breeze that blows over the face on a spring morning, the fire that flickers after dark and dies in the wind, the song that echoes in the ear until it’s lost. He would have her, enjoy her and let her go with the next shifting tide that ran her life.