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Good day, as my favourite Aussie uncle might say. It’s me again, that pesky Charley . . . the one who keeps promising to tell all in a few thousand words but then drags everything out forever.
Not that there’s anything wrong in dragging out sex. Ask me, the longer sex is dragged out the better.
Three hours without pause for breath sounds good, doesn’t it?
Maybe even five hours . . .
Cards on the table, I’m really called Charlotte. But I only ever got called that as a little girl, when I had been naughty (quite often then, chuckle, chuckle). Nowadays I am still a strip of a lass at thirty-one, a single babe but sexually active, mostly with girls.
Cancel that. I used to fuck guys but haven’t indulged for over ten years. I also used to be promiscuous with the ladies up until a couple of years ago, when I met a bitch I’m adamantly going to refuse to give a name.
Bitch, bitch, bitch!
Thinking back the circumstances are unbelievable. Hungrily man-free, I’d been in the habit of trawling Keighley’s lezzie bars (laugh if you must, but there are a few, if you know where to look) and shagging whoever was currently out to play.
Yes, lots of strings-free fun on that scene . . . lots and lots.
But then I met The Bitch and somehow . . . don’t ask for an explanation; I don’t have one . . . we were in a relationship and living together. Two fucking years! Or, if you want me to be more precise, seven hundred and forty-four days!
Then, after nothing but sweetness and light, she landed a plum job in New York and expected me to go there with her, like a kept woman, “making home” if I “wanted”. Acting as if she was important and I didn’t matter one whit.
No, acting like my own work didn’t matter at all.
I am, co-incidentally, a vet. And I love my work. Indeed I love my work far more than I’d ever loved the evil bitch I’d been screwing for just over two years . . . Far, far more. Harsh words were exchanged.
Yes, to the extent that breaking up was the only possible eventuality.
And although I hate to admit it, I took the break badly. So badly that the senior partner at our practice (Dianne, who is seriously sexy but sadly only too straight), sent me off on leave. I kid you not: it was as if I was at Malory Towers, being sent away into some sort of banishment.
Not that my old school, Greenhead, had very much in common with Malory Towers. I doubt that even Enid Blyton would have made the comparison, her vastly admirable imagination or nay.
Sorry, I’m rambling . . . but with the best possible motive. I don’t want anyone who missed “Holidays in the Sun” or “More Holidays in the Sun” to need to backtrack. As I indicated a little earlier, my intention was originally to tell all in one short block, written in a hurry at Arrecife Airport.
Meaning a bog-standard, two-week Lanzarote away-from-it-all . . . summarized in half an hour.
That failed! Time told on me. After a couple of sex-free days (self-abuse very much excluded) I fell in with a nice, avaricious London lady and we bonked like it was going out of fashion. Yes, we were at it for fifty hours or more. Writing even sketchily about that was never going to be a thirty minute task.
So ended my first effort: a “short block” covering less than a week!
Then, in a rather futile attempt to catch up, having failed to cram a fortnight into one tale, my second effort covered two other lovers and maybe another thirty hours.
And here we are, Friday morning, the start of Week Two. I hope that I’m writing this as a fresh story in its own right. No need to backtrack or catch up. Just seven more days of sun, sangria and sex . . .
Sounds good, no?
Course it does, even if I stumble and draw it out too long, yet again, even if I don’t ever down as much as one glass of that lovely red stuff. After all, sex and sand are enough, aren’t they? Who can possibly have too much of that?
Bring it on!
Maria was much more fun in the morning than Sabria. Supposedly virgin or not, she shared a shower with me in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
And, talking about tails . . . wasn’t she well put together!
Virgin my ass! Even though she insists to this day, I’ll never believe I was Maria’s very first girl.
No way José!
If she wasn’t fibbing she must have been unnaturally talented, maybe even a child protégé.
Not that she was unacceptably young, I hasten to add. She was mid-twenties and sexy as heck.
But had she really been saving it all for me?
As I said once before, if it wasn’t for bad luck I’d never have any at all. Yet suddenly I was being eaten by the queen of all gorgeous goddesses . . .
No, I was being eaten by the “virgin” queen of all gorgeous goddesses . . .
Go figure. Turning up an ace happens at cards every so often. Hitting the jackpot does happen every now and then, but not for me. Not ever.
Well, apart from that first time with Maria, not ever.
Washing each other was enormous fun. So too was drying each other with raspy hotel canlı bahis şirketleri towels, her on me, me on her . . . slowly, slowly wins the race.
Maria targeted sensitive areas in a calculating sort of a way, sometimes avoiding sensual parts of me, sometimes going in there like the SAS, smoke bombs and flash-bangs to the fore.
Yes, yes, yes!
‘You and Sabria,’ I said out of nowhere, laughing at my stupidity. ‘What are you going to be like?’
It was, in all honesty, a fair question. Sabria was renowned as the hotel’s “alpha female”. But in bed she was a kitten. Maria, renowned as the hotel’s (supposed) virgin, was assumed to be passive.
No, she was assumed to be bi-curious but not likely to indulge anytime soon.
Yeah, as if!
And there was a trade-off that night. I forget the precise details but, following our one-to-one, Sabria was due to “entertain” her supposedly “curious” workmate.
No, make that her surprisingly aggressive workmate . . .
And what was role play anyway? Maria had been gratifyingly butch with me. I like it both ways, so I’d had no problem with that.
What would Maria do tonight? Would she submit to her preconceptions?
Would Sabria act a part like the virago she (deliberately . . . maybe playfully) resembled?
Truth be told, I don’t care for role play. Far as I’m concerned sex is sex. Girls should just do whatever they want to do. So long as all participants enjoy themselves . . . Well, where can there be a problem?
All that said and done, I still wondered about Maria and Sabria.
They were black and white, chalk and cheese.
Well, not in skin tone, but . . .
‘We’ll be cool,’ Maria said squeezing my hand.
Steadily if slowly coming back to the real world, I took in my surroundings. We were just outside of my favourite breakfast bar, and stringy Spanish bacon was already sizzling in the pan.
‘Last night was brilliant,’ I blurted. ‘Tell Sabria you have two more nights each. Arrange them between you. Tell me who, where and when tomorrow; I’ll be available for all four. I guarantee that.’
After our big cholesterol feast, never once querying the need for pints of cerveza with breakfast, Maria accompanied me back up the hill to the hotel, hand-in-hand; openly advertising we were lovers, giving not one fig for others’ opinions.
Never mind Sabria,’ she said as we turned into the grounds, side-tracking the main building, heading directly poolside. ‘You are a fun girl to be with.’
‘So pick two more nights,’ I repeated. ‘I like fun just as much as you do.’
Here’s a confession. I’d intended to help my glamorous friend open up her bar. But I only got badly in the way. Thirty seconds and it was obvious she was better off without any input from me.
Not too sorely put out, I took a barstool and watched the expert complete her job.
Physical activity fascinates me, by the way. I could sit and watch it all day, especially when the active person is so utterly stacked.
Then, as everything fell into place and I was at long last able to order my first cerveza . . . okay, okay, technically it was my third . . . a familiar voice chipped in.
‘Not one beer,’ the West Midlands accent said, ‘two beers. . . No, make it three.’
Oh my, I’d forgotten all about Carla.
As if anyone could really forget her!
Turning on my stool I took her in again and was by no means disappointed. Carla was about five feet ten, probably mixed-race and certainly drop-dead-gorgeous. Supermodels would have killed to look a little like her. Even Naomi would have looked twice.
Or maybe she’d have looked thrice!
Because she was bar-side, the immaculate vision was wearing a two-piece bikini that left very little to the imagination. Constructed of string, it exposed most of her boobs and all of her nipples.
(They were sticking out through gaps in the network of string, for God’s sake, as good as erect.)
And, as for the next-to-invisible strand of next-to-nothing encamped in her slit . . .
Nice, nice, nice!
‘I guess this is today’s entertainment,’ Maria muttered as she reached for three glasses.
‘Horses for courses,’ I replied, not really sure what I meant, still focusing on Carla’s nips and slit.
Eff me but yes, yes, yes!
Please don’t take me as a Holly Golightly wannabe. Maria was out with Sabria that night, remember? And I was a holidaymaker with no strings attached.
Strings! What am I like!! God help me, my mouth runs off on its own!!
Also please accept apologies to anyone called “Holly Golightly”. I honestly don’t know where that one came from, but I think it’s a hell of a name. In the unlikely event of me being able to name myself, I’d go for it every time.
Or maybe I’d choose Charley Golightly.
Enough of that; back to the plot . . .
I didn’t particularly want to leave Maria but she was egging me on with her eyes. It seemed she could picture more about the afternoon ahead than I could.
And she was fixed up with Sabria, after all. I was canlı kaçak iddaa the abandoned girl, not her.
‘You have one too, Mare,’ Carla said casually. ‘It’s on me.’
Mare! What the fuck?
‘We’ve known each other a while,’ Carla confided. I come here a lot.’ Then, laughing, she added, ‘but only in the mating season.’
That took a second to sink in. Well, it did for me. Maria just rolled her eyes, clearly having heard it ten million times before.
By then the sexy bar tender had poured three pints. Carla took two of them and used her equally sexy snub of a nose to point out the third.
‘That’s yours,’ she said, ‘and we’ve saved you a sunbed. Come join us, why don’t you?’
‘The drinks are on me,’ Maria added out of nowhere. ‘Never expect it again and begone, before I can change my mind.’
I couldn’t help but notice the look those two exchanged. It was, to say the least, simmering. And Carla was grinning impishly.
‘You have,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve finally gone and done it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Maria replied primly.
‘Yes you do.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Here, I’ll prove it once and for all,’ Carla persisted. ‘Smile if you and Charley fucked last night.’
The resultant beam almost split off the top of Maria’s head.
Cover blown or what!
I accompanied Carla from the bar to the far end of the pool, well away from Maria’s inquisitive eyes.
And I nearly died at the sight of Lottie. Not being bar-side she was topless, wearing only as “bottoms” a piece of twine that made Carla’s bit of next-to-nothing seem shy and retiring.
Not that I wasted much time looking down there. Oh no, Lottie had the best tits in the universe. All my attention was centred up above . . . wasn’t it just!
As an enlargement (although perhaps that’s a double-entendre!), Lottie was flat out on a sun lounger. Two other nearby loungers were reserved by the time-honoured tourist custom of draping them with multi-coloured beach towels.
Yes, one of them for Carla, the other quite clearly for me.
Sudden doubt flashed through me. I’d received a definite approach only yesterday, resisted out of just nowhere . . . else out of loyalty to Maria . . . but here I was now, prepared to step up to the plate.
Yes, out of absolutely nowhere, eagerly stepping up like a whatsit to the slaughter.
But stuff the doubt; goodness me, wasn’t I excited!
Yes, I was salivating and self-lubricating like heck.
Wasn’t I just!
‘Look what I have brought,’ Carla said in greeting, setting down two large beers on a conveniently low table. ‘And look who I’ve brought along, as well.’
Lottie regarded me for one second before bouncing upright, her incredible chest bobbing and swaying in simply superb co-ordination.
Did I just say I nearly died? Cancel that. When she bounced up so fetchingly I went to Heaven, I didn’t even dream of passing “Go”.
How alluring was she?
How utterly, utterly alluring!
By some miracle I didn’t dive in there, hungrily, mouth first.
Dive in directly, do not pass “Go” . . .
And, obviously, thanks to a card out of “Community Chest”, not mere “Chance” . . .
What a chest! If only it was a community one!!
‘Charley fucked Maria last night,’ Carla said as soon as the three of us were seated on our loungers, beers in hand. ‘Is that a big achievement or what? I’ve been after her for over three years. Charley did it in three minutes.’
‘It lasted a lot longer than three minutes,’ my mouth said before I could clap a hand over it.
‘So it’s true,’ said Lottie in the voice of conviction.
She fixed me with a steady stare and I could not tell a lie.
‘Maria’s very sweet,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t tell tales. But yes, we are good friends.’
For some reason those two found that admission hilarious.
‘Shush, shush,’ I entreated, glancing anxiously bar-wards, ‘for God’s sake . . .’
That only made them laugh all the louder.
I’m going to skimp over our first two or three hours together, “getting to know each other”. In honesty I can’t remember much of our conversation. All I recall is I wasn’t allowed to buy a round and that it was mild, almost innocuous.
Yes, for maybe five sets of beers we chatted as if nothing was at stake, in spite of us all being topless by then, increasingly erect nipples to the fore.
But here’s something, at least. Chatting girly-style, Carla said she was a “personal trainer”. Apparently she had her own successful business and could make Olympic champions out of couch potatoes.
Lottie . . . by no means a couch potato . . . had been one of her clients.
That revelation gave me pause for thought. Disregarding the client/professional aspect . . . meaning if it was legal to shag a customer under such circumstances . . . I wondered if there was a reason Lottie had succumbed.
No, I wondered why Lottie had succumbed, and how.
Then I kicked myself.
The sex element was only too apparent, obviously. Two super-sexy babes, canlı kaçak bahis thrown together by a flight of fancy . . . unable to resist that oh-so fatal attraction . . .
Not that there was anything “fatal” about the here and now. I was with two “femme fatales” maybe, but there was nothing in the least “fatal” about it.
Forgive me, but how erotic was it stripping before them! Lottie was topless already, of course.
Poolside, I mean. I’m not jumping that far ahead.
In other words, soon after we joined Lottie, her girlfriend and I both got topless.
Carla went first. Smiling at me, keeping her eyes fixed on mine, she slowly, extravagantly discarded that meaningless string net of a top of hers.
And those erect nipples waved me in like an old-style air traffic controller.
‘Your turn,’ she said in the sexiest voice I’d ever heard.
I spared a glance at Lottie, noticing she was also showing sincere interest in the nip department.
(Meaning hers were showing almost as much interest as mine . . . enjoyably painfully so in my case at least.)
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Despite the expletives, I couldn’t see a reason not to comply. After all, I was only as aroused as those two were. Ripping off my short, flimsy T-shirt and bra seemed to be the right thing to do.
So too did kicking off my skimpy shorts, leaving me naked apart from my skimpy blue as good as non-existent bottoms.
Confession time yet again: I was noticeably wet down there. Very, very noticeably wet.
We sipped cerveza and made small talk for a couple of hours or more. Lottie was evasive about what she did for a living, making it sound like “boring office work”. But she could afford a personal trainer.
And she out-bought Carla when it came to rounds, as if money was no object.
I did try asking the dusky beauty when her slightly shorter, big-breasted bombshell of a partner went off to the bar. Carla stonewalled me.
‘She has something to do with manufacturing,’ she replied airily, ‘maybe as a solicitor. And no, I don’t mean that sort of a solicitor . . .’
‘I never suggested anything,’ I protested.
‘I suggested a threesome siesta yesterday,’ Carla responded. ‘You turned me down but did hint today might be a goer.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I struggled to keep my cool but answered as sincerely as I could (as sincerely as a girl with massively swollen nips and lips, leaking like a sieve, could hope to do, anyway).
‘Does that mean we’re on for it after this round?’
‘I suppose it does.’
‘Is that for real?’
‘Too true it is.’
Carla smiled, slowly and sexily, and then we were both laughing like loons.
Turned out Carla had owned a timeshare apartment on site for a few years. It was a bungalow sort of an affair, but fetching and very private. Being discreet I didn’t ask how often Lottie had been there with her.
Being a nosy cow I already knew . . . courtesy of Maria . . . that she had been three times before.
In fact she had visited more than any of Carla’s half dozen or more other girlfriends.
Most of the rest got one visit or maybe two. Lottie had got three and now four.
So she had to be doing something right!
Ask me to describe the bungalow and I’d struggle. That first time, anyway. I went there hand-in-hand- in-hand after several pints of cerveza. I also went there much, much wetter than ever, nipples pointing the way ahead like arrows.
As if my two new best mates weren’t equally indicative.
If anything they were as up for it as me.
Okay, so this possibly wasn’t anything new for them, but they acted as if it was.
And it was without a doubt new for me.
Two girls at once!
Oh yes, yes please!
‘I need a pee,’ Lottie announced outside the bedroom door, opening it, ushering us in. ‘Make sure you don’t start without me.’
No sooner than she’d departed Carla, who had regularly used the poolside facilities that morning, as I had regularly done myself, grinned like a very beautiful, very ravenous shark.
‘Sod a pee,’ she said, ‘I need a kiss.’
After zero consideration I decided so did I. I can’t really say if she rounded on me or vice versa, but, in an instant, we were fast embraced, going at it hell for leather.
Forgive me if I’ve said it before, but I massively adore that first true lovers’ kiss. The sensations get to me every time.
You know what I mean: swirling head, breathlessness, weaker than weak knees . . . knees that don’t work properly anymore . . . and rising excitement that makes whirlwinds and tornados seem tame.
Yes, I like those sensations; I like them immensely.
And having them while kissing the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, never mind met, touched . . .
Trust me, I was deliriously happy.
Before long, through my misty, swirling senses, I realized Carla was unfastening my bikini top (yes, away from poolside we were supposed to cover our tops . . . as indeed we had, like good little girls, with nothing to hide as we went off together for sex, sex, sex).
Or does that sound ridiculous, what with Lottie’s showstoppers and all! Even supposedly covered up she distracted all-comers and probably everybody with anything remotely like 20/20 vision.
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