The sight of Candy lying on a sunlounger by the pool was driving me crazy. It always amazes me that there is not more sexual activity on beaches and poolsides, because everybody’s out there almost naked. You wouldn’t sit in a room with a woman in just your underpants and she in just a bra and knickers – or if you did, you would be expecting to get lucky very soon. And yet in sunbathing mode we are expected to behave “like adults”, which, in that case, means not getting excited, or even not apparently noticing the state of undress in which you and a woman are luxuriating.

Candy was five feet six inches of beautiful American woman. From her wild, spiky blonde hair down to the white edges of her feet she was  the feminine, carnal element of the American Dream; not only could you aspire to and attain the highest professional success in the land of opportunity, you could also enjoy a woman as gorgeous, as pretty and as sexy as any in the world.

It’s all relative, anyway, and very much a matter of personal taste. If we take Candy piece by piece, there’s that hair: artificially blonde but effective and in a lively, striking style that nature alone did not create.

Her eyes: blue-green and clear, an advertisement for a pure, clean lifestyle in which she kept herself fit and didn’t overindulge in anything. Her cheeks were what is known as sunkissed: more than pink but not blazing red, like a natural cosmetic giving definition to skin that would naturally be pale and virginal. Her lips were almost Woody Woodpecker in shape, that upturned style that was one of God’s little bonus gifts. Her nose was a bit on the pointed side but within the bounds of acceptability for even the most stringent of measures.

It was a rather hard face, in fact. When she wasn’t animated she could look fierce, unsympathetic, but when she came alive that transformed into the sparkle of a living, breathing, laughing, teasing woman.

Candy’s shoulders – not one of the world’s great obsessions, I know, but they’re important to me – were sexy as only a woman’s shoulders can be. In a sleeveless dress or shirt they called to me like mermaids on the rock of her body. Like her cheeks, they were burnished in the way that smooth curves on wooden furniture become after frequent careful polishing.

Candy’s breasts were on the reasonable side of large. She was a bountiful woman, richly endowed with natural gifts. Her stomach was lean and firm and her navel neat and quite deep. Through her bronzed skin grew microscopic blonde hairs that most people wouldn’t even notice, but when you study something like I had studied her, you see everything. Skin has hair and women have hair all over their body; imperceptible perhaps, but there, like the down on a peach.

Below her navel... of course now I was in dreamland. She had a nice neat bottom, well-muscled thighs and calves and pretty, regular toes -  with black nail polish that spoke to me like the confiding of a secret agent. “Let me tell you something about this woman,” they said. “Not as innocent as she likes you to think.”

I had been watching her for days, chatting idly as she lay, mainly on her front, with that bottom basking beneath the bikini briefs.

We had met at church and I had been struck by how unchurchy she looked. Even soberly dressed she looked different from the other women.

I had struck up a conversation and we got along well. With mutual interests including reading and swimming, it was natural that she should invite me to use the pool at her condo, where she was staying with her friend Jean, a dour, masculine woman with a rather fearsome look but a sweet, helpful nature.

Candy was down here in the sun while her husband stayed back home up north, earning money, and not a lounger by nature. He would be coming down soon for an extended holiday, at the end of which he would take his sunkissed peach back home. That time was now three weeks away, so if I was going to do something, I reasoned, it would have to be now.

She must have been aware that I spent less time reading than ogling her, but I was scrupulously polite and had learned over the years that women don’t object to being looked at as long as nobody else knows they know it’s happening. You can watch a total stranger and she won’t look back at you but you know she knows, and when she gets up to leave, if you’re lucky, she will accidentally-on-purpose show you her knickers.

I made a point of including Jean as much as possible, although observing her uncompromising bulk in a one-piece bathing suit was not the same at all.

At this point one Wednesday afternoon she had gone into town to do the weekly shopping in the cool of the supermarket. I looked at Candy’s bottom for the thousandth time and imagined how white it must be in comparison with the sunned succulence of her thighs and back. Her natural oils and juices must be steaming in there, like a turkey in the oven on a low light. I could imagine the aroma – real woman combined with the smell of roasting poultry, and every nerve in my body wanted to pull the fabric down and devour her.

You have to start somewhere, and it’s sometimes with some words. A thought crossed my mind about how speakers of a foreign language were given a certain leeway because they weren’t expected to know the right vocabulary. Like Tom Conti playing a Greek waiter or something in Shirley Valentine, telling Shirley, “I won’t try to make fock with you”. You couldn’t use that word, even to deny your intentions, with a nice, respectable, English-speaking woman.

I had discussed with Candy her accent, which to my British ears had a southern twang, even though she was from Maryland, and she seemed to enjoy my clumsy attempts at sounding like her.

“Say, pretty lady,” I began.

“Yes, honey?”

“You sure are a darned good looking woman, pardon my French.”

“Why thank you kind sir,” she said. “What’s brought this on?”

“Just lyin’ here a’thinkin’,” I said, on the verge of chickening out. Candy turned away and fiddled with her hair. My courage returned.

“I was thinkin’," I continued.

“Uh huh?” She was still facing away from me, deliberately now.

“I sure would be grateful,” I said, “if you would allow me to lick yaw ayass.”

“Shondell, what has gotten into you?” she asked, playing for time, but slipping so swiftly into character, calling me by the hick alias we used in fun, that I wanted to congratulate her.

“Do you have a different understandin’ of that word where you come from?” she drawled.

“No ma’am,” I said nervously, feeling like I was over a hill and safe behind a bush, but still half expecting to be thrown out of her world for this indiscretion.

She looked intently down at her book.

“You want to lick my ayass?

“Yes ma’am,” I said breathlessly. “Among other things.”

“Well maybe we’d better start with some of the other things,” she said, putting her book on the ground. “We ain’t never even kissed.” She was now looking directly at me and the surging blood in my cock told me what my conscious brain had to send somewhere for ratification. I moved my lounger close to hers and we kissed awkwardly, on the wrong side. I ran my hand down her left flank and somehow didn’t have the guts to touch her bikini.

“Tain’t gon’ be no good out here,” she continued, hiding inside her character. “Best go indoors.” I followed her into the apartment and enjoyed the cool of the bedroom. We lay on the bed, facing one another.

“Well yaw a dark horse, Shondell,” she said. The ratification committee in my mind came to a rapid decision and I lay on top of her and kissed her the right way. My hand ventured onto her bikinied bottom and lay there.

“Well?” she said.  “You all talk and no action?”

I slipped my hand inside that curious little garment and felt her buttocks.

“Better,” she said.

My fingers tiptoed into her crack and she wriggled.

“The other things,” she reminded me. I turned her onto her back and pulled her briefs down, exposing her perfectly smooth, waxed pubic area.

“I was thinkin’,” she said, sitting up, “that you might want to suck on my nipples. That’s kind of traditional and I’m a traditional kind of girl.” She removed the top and lay down again. I latched onto her left breast and sucked the nipple strongly.

“Nice,” she said in her normal voice. “You can do it a bit harder.” I obliged and she said, “Yeah.” After a minute on there I moved to the right breast and repeated the process. She was breathing more heavily now.

I slid down her body and my tongue got to work in her slippery, impatient crotch. She was fragrant with fresh perspiration and well as her abundant natural lubricant. I licked her slit and lapped at the surrounding area until it was one big glistening playground and my face was filmed with it too.

“Should I have had a shower?” she asked with an uncharacteristic trace of nervousness. “I had one just before you arrived, so I figured…”

“You’re perfect,” I assured her. “You may turn over with confidence.” She seemed to have been waiting for that, and turned immediately. I had been wanting to lick her ass from the first moment I saw her. I don’t know, it’s just one of my things. And her body seemed designed to highlight that area, particularly lying there sunbathing.

Her arse was beautiful. You don’t go there for the taste and aroma, but they can be fabulous and she certainly was that day. I licked her and ran my nose around, into her anus and all around her buttocks.

“You like that, don’t you?” she said appreciatively.

“I love it,” I replied.

“Well tell me, Shondell,” she said, back in character. “What is it you like doin’?”

“I just love licking yaw asshole,” I said. “Maybellene, I think I’m in love with yaw ass.”

“Maybellene,” she said in her real voice. I had never given my southern belle a name before. She had always been “pretty lady” or “darlin’”.

“You like it?” I asked.

“I love it,” she said happily. “Makes me feel like part of me is truly yours. And I don’t just mean a physical part of me.”

“My Maybellene,” I said. “Prettiest damn girl in the whole US of A.”

“You may fuck me now, Shondell,” she said, lifting herself higher onto her knees. I got behind her and my cock slammed into her like a bobsleigh starting its run on the ice, only this ice run was hot and steamy and succulent.

I fucked Candy gently and then harder and harder and she made happy, sexed-up noises. She reached behind and held my balls briefly, then I pumped my spunk into her and she shuddered and collapsed onto her forearms and laughed sleepily. I couldn’t really tell if it was laughing or crying, in fact, but when I got down there to check, she was smiling. My cock was laying a trail of our slippery fluids down the back of her thighs and onto the sheet.

“Shondell,” he said, gripping my subsiding member. “Y’all come back and see me real soon, y’hear?”

“Tomorrow?” I said hopefully.

“We may have to go find somewhere secluded on the beach,” she said, “but I’m sure we’ll think of something.”