Today is in fact the Official Blue Monday in the Northern Hemisphere - that winter's day where moods hit a statistical low, supposedly. To counteract that, here's an excerpt from my short story Sun Seeking, which is all about a holiday on the beautiful sun-drenched Greek island of Delos which doesn't go quite as anticipated...
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| Love on the SUNNY SIDE, damnit! |
‘Originally. We live all over the place now.’
Shipping millionaires or something, I guessed. Men might be from Mars, but the Rich are from another galaxy altogether. Phoebe tugged down a swathe of netting to block the taverna entrance and the speckled gloom deepened very slightly. I shivered. My damp dress was less comfortable now.
‘Come on,’ Phoebe said, twitching off a tablecloth and laying it on the sand at Xander’s feet. Taking the platter she sat herself down picnic-style and patted the cloth next to her. I slid out from behind the table, feeling a little weird now that there were only three of us left. I felt worse when I’d sat down and she scooted behind me so that I was reclining back against her. With a snort she snatched away the sunhat held casually at my breast. The damp cloth of my blouse still clung to places it was supposed to conceal. I squirmed inwardly. I hadn’t bargained on getting cornered by a strange man; it seemed far more risky than just going off with a girl. But, I thought, a woman would be on my side if it turned nasty – wouldn’t she?
‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ said Phoebe and Xander nodded, his enigmatic near-smile teasing. His fingers rippled up and down the strings of the guitar, weaving cascading tapestries of sound. Phoebe fed me the appetisers from the plate with her fingers, piece by piece. I tasted reluctantly the salty feta, juicy black olives, creamy tzatziki. I wasn’t feeling hungry. There was something creepy about the intimacy here; the way she was flirting with me in front of her brother’s steady gaze.
The trouble was, the more uneasy I felt, the hotter and wetter I grew. She traced my lips in yoghurt and I lapped at her finger. She dripped olive oil on my tongue and I tilted my head back to receive it. Each new transgression forced me to find the courage to accept it, and each act of submission made my pussy burn. I wanted to squirm my bottom on the sand. When she slid one hand up under my blouse to cup my breast I excused it to myself by saying that Xander couldn’t actually see my naked flesh. When she pulled back my head against her shoulder and kissed me, long and wet, her tongue sliding in and out of my mouth, I told myself I shouldn’t be prudish. When she rolled up my top to expose my nipples and took those points in her fingers, pulling and pinching them until they stood up fat as pink olives, then I mumbled in my head that every tourist in Greece went topless and it didn’t mean a thing. And all the time my pussy grew plumper and more slippery until I felt like I was all writhing sex and pleading tits.
She kissed all the strength out of me. She kissed me down to heavy, to passive, to open and empty, needing her forcefulness to fill me. When she withdrew from my mouth my lips were slack and swollen. I made little helpless noises in my throat.
‘Let’s get this off,’ she murmured, easing my blouse over my head.
I whimpered, my eyes pleading, but I didn’t resist. What difference did it make, after all, if my breasts jutted out from beneath the bunched fabric or whether my shoulders were bared too and the blouse discarded in the sand?
‘Shush,’ she ordered, pulling my head back by the hair so that she could lick my tongue. I was grateful; she understood me. My whimpers didn’t mean that I needed her to stop; they meant that I needed her to make me go on.
Once I was resting back in her arms she cupped my breasts from below, squeezing them as if fascinated by their weight and softness.
‘Beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘You have beautiful breasts.’ She looked up at Xander for confirmation and he nodded, one eyebrow raised, cool and distant. But his hands had slowed upon the guitar and the rapid intertwining notes were grown simpler now, as if the music were vying for his attention with something more elemental. ‘I could eat them up,’ Phoebe whispered in my ear. She took up a piece of cut cucumber and rubbed its wet cold flesh across the stiff tips of mine, glazing them shiny as the cucumber turned to pulp. ‘Do you like this?’
I nodded faintly. I couldn’t speak any more.
‘Let’s see.’ She pulled my skirt up slowly, finger over finger. Xander’s eyes, a merciless blue like the cloudless skies above the islands, were fixed upon us, barely blinking. ‘Yes. Let’s have a look.’ She cupped her hand over the mound of my sex and my hips twitched, my bum grinding into the cloth and the sand. ‘Yes. See this? She’s wet already, Xander.’
There was no denying that. The gusset of my tiny panties was soaked, the cotton already translucent from the seawater but more slippery with my juices. My thighs spread wider under her coaxing; he could look straight down between them. She pressed the cloth up against me. Then she slipped her fingers beneath the cotton and ploughed my furrow for real. ‘Beautiful pussy too,’ she breathed. ‘Oh Ness, is that nice?’
I mewed like a kitten. Her fingertip was stirring my clit to flames.
‘Pussy’s so wet. Pussy’s being naughty.’
There was no denying, either, what was happening here: if they really were siblings then this had gone way beyond kinky. It struck me with a kind of terror, which rendered me helpless as a rabbit in headlights. I was sagging against her arm, her right hand hooked up under my breast and tugging at my tit while her left hand delved deeper and deeper into my sex. Her fingers made little wet noises as they spread me wide.
‘Can you hear how wet she is?’
Xander dipped his chin in acknowledgement. His lips were parted. The notes fell slow and distinct from his fingers like drops of rain.
‘Dirty little pussy,’ Phoebe breathed. ‘Showing yourself for my brother.’
I began to come. She wasn’t even trying to bring me off, she was just touching me up, but I couldn’t bear her gloating judgement or the lancing blue of his eyes or the knowledge that she was exposing me and I was doing nothing to cling to my dignity. Electric sparks flashed through my clit.
‘Oh, what a slut. What a filthy little slut.’
And she was right, wasn’t she? thought I as I convulsed, hips and belly jerking, thrusting my tits up, longing for Xander to see them shaking, longing for Phoebe to enslave me further. The blood thundered in my ears.
Even as I came down, the pulse jumping all round my body as it does with that first easy orgasm, distress started to return in the backwash. But I had no time to think what to do next. Phoebe slipped from beneath my limp body and laid me back on the sand, pulling my arms over my head. I could feel the cool firm ripples of sand through the tablecloth. I could see the fishing nets and the vine leaves overhead. I felt her shift her position, pinning my arms to the sand under her shins. I heard the last note of the guitar fall silent. I looked down the length of my body and Phoebe slipped her hands under my head for a moment to support it. I saw the skirt rucked up around my hips and the pathetic wisp of cloth over my pubic mound and my sprawled, open thighs. Beyond them Xander laid his guitar gently aside and stood, and I knew that Phoebe was offering me to him as a gift.
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