For my thirtieth birthday, I give myself a week at Club Med. Work is going great. Youngest partner in the firm, and all that. Personal life? Not so much. Samantha left with my best friend a while ago.
The airport lounge is filled with respectful college students sprawled across two, sometimes three, chairs. Good work, Einstein! You picked Spring Break Week. Well, think of all the lovely eye candy at the nude beach. Now, if only one of these hot girls has the seat next to me.
But it’s a seven-year-old kid in a Yankees cap who vaults over my legs and into the seat. Moments later, a pretty girl in skinny jeans, braless breasts, and a magnificently flat stomach, curls into the seat across the aisle. So near. Yet so far. Anyway, I'd spend four hours intently memorizing her life story, and she won’t even remember my name. Been there too.
Turning to the little Yankee fan, I ask if he’s ever seen Arron Judge hit a home run. That starts an animated conversation that goes nonstop until the stewardess puts Mac and Cheese on his seat-back table. Occasionally, I make eye contact with Johnny’s Mom, who never stops smiling at me.
“How’d you do that?” she asks quietly, leaning over Johnny, who has fallen asleep with half a slice of carrot cake still on his plate. “He’s so angry at me for taking him away from his friends, I haven’t heard more than five words all week.”
Her name is Gina. A single mom, obviously. Somewhere in her late thirties. Violet eyes the color of summer Lilacs and the kind of sexy-but-vulnerable smile that makes you want to do anything to help her out. “Just talk baseball with him,” I tell her. “Johnny knows more about the Yanks than most sportswriters.”
Her crestfallen look says my idea isn’t exactly music to her ears. Before I can consider the implications for my vacation, I blurt, “It’s not that hard. I can teach you.”
“Oh, god yes. That would be amazing,” she says reaching over Bobby and slipping her soft, warm fingers into my hand. “How long will it take?” Her voice is an expressive contralto that’s as sexy as a slippery, wet thong. From the tip of a tongue that peeks between cherry-red lips to the to an inner glow that you just can’t get from makeup, Gina exudes a quiet promise of good things yet to come.
“A couple hours a day. Plus homework, of course. You’ll need to start reading the sports pages in the Post and Daily News, along with the Bleacher Report and Baseball Reference,” I tell her, gazing at her faded cut-off jeans and wondering, and I mean literally, what it would be like to get into Gina’s pants. Would her panties be moist and warm? Is she shaved, or does it match the pale gold color of her hair? Will she whimper as my fingers explore deep inside her?
“I can handle that,” she says, her smile dripping in innuendo. Or is it just me? Anyway, can’t help myself. I imagine Gina throwing a blanket over my lap and unzipping me on the spot. From the knowing glint in her eye, I can swear Gina is thinking it too. “How can I possibly repay you?” she asks in a tone so sublimely sexy that my cock twitches in response.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” I tell her, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m sure we will,” she replies, gently massaging my hand with her warm fingertips. “So let’s get started,” she smiles. “Who the hell is Aaron Judge?”
Gina is a clean slate. A baseball virgin. She thinks Babe Ruth is a candy bar, Mickey Mantle was an old steakhouse on Central Park South, and Joe DiMaggio is someone from a Paul Simon lyric. But she’s quick. By the time we touch down in Martinique, she knows the dimensions of a baseball diamond and has memorized all nine positions, plus the designated batter, as well as the skill sets that, say, separate a first baseman from a shortstop.
We get separated at Customs, and when a G.O. directs me to a shuttle bus, Gina and Johnny are not there. The G.O.s, by the way, are Club Med’s activity organizers. Camp councilors for adults. Their job? Pretty much whatever it takes to make the campers happy. Mostly, they are young, friendly, attractive, multi-lingual, and come from all over the world. The rest of us are the G.M.s, or gentile members. Talk about double entendres. G.M.s come in all ages, shapes and sizes. Some are very full of themselves. Others insecure. Very few are prudes.
On the shuttle bus, I find myself next to Wendy, a nubile little freshman from Boston University. All of five-feet tall. Maybe. What’s the cliche? She could make a dead man cum. Wendy reminds me why I paid an extra $2,000 for a single bungalow.
I ask the usual stupid questions. How do you like Boston? What are you studying? Favorite band? After that last one, she stops me in my tracks with a question of her own.“Will you take me to dinner tonight?” she asks, inflating my ego, before she brings it crashing down. “Those guys won’t stop hitting on me,” she says glancing at a bunch of jocks in Hofstra Football sweatshirts. “If they think I’m with my Daddy, they’ll leave me alone.”
Technically, I really couldn’t be her Daddy. But there’s something about the needy way the word “Daddy” rolls off her tongue that says this about a whole lot more than fending off horn toads. Anyway, how cool would it be to walk the gauntlet of Tiki torches, Djembe drummers and blissed out G.O.s with a hot eighteen-year-old on my arm?
“No problem,” I say magnanimously.
“That’s so sweet,” she replies, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek. A moment later my phone chirps. Contact info received. AirDrop is such a wonderful thing.
When the bus arrives, we’re greeted by smiling G.O.s offering white wine and cocktails. Several of the hot female G.O.s, including the acrobatics instructor and the head of the sailing program, give me long appraising looks, followed by friendly smiles. I know it’s their job to flirt. But I attribute it to my good looks. Or maybe just my seasoned age. I see a couple dozen families, and perhaps two hundred college students, but not many single guys in my age bracket.
Two hours later, I knock on Wendy’s door. “It’s open,” someone calls. At first, all I see is a girl wearing gym shorts, a BU T-shirt, and a computer headset. Then Wendy steps out of the bathroom. She is topless, and nearly bottomless. Only a tiny yellow thong covers her obviously shaved pubes.
‘Laurie, meet Jason,” Wendy says. I grin at Laurie, who looks up from her computer long enough to give me a cool nod.
“Laura’s boyfriend is back in Boston, the two of them are spending the weekend jerking off online,” Wendy says in a matter-of-fact tone.
Laurie blushes, but doesn’t deny it.
Meanwhile, Wendy’s cone-shaped breasts with their hard, pink nipples have my undivided attention. It’s all I can do to keep my tongue where it belongs. She holds up a hibiscus-print pareo. Originally from French Tahiti, the pareo is a rectangular piece of fabric that can be worn as a skirt, or like a full-length sarong. It looks as good on buff guys as it does on hot girls. The ease with which it can be put on and removed, makes it the closest thing Club Med has to an official uniform. Although, it does take a little practice the first couple of times you wear it.
“Want help with that?” I ask.
“Oh, would you?” Wendy grins sheepishly. “I’ve never worn one of these before.”
I wrap the pareo around her and tie it off with a square knot over her right shoulder. Wendy’s nips poke through the thin cotton. This time I really can’t help myself. I reach up with both hands and roll her pouty little nipples gently between my thumbs and forefingers. I’m prepared for the worst, like a knee to the groin. But Wendy’s eyes flutter closed, she sucks in a deep breath and moans softly.
My fingers spread out, cupping her entire breasts while I pinch those hard little nips. The moan grows deeper and more satisfied. “Oh, Daddy, yes!” she whispers in my ear.
“Don’t get her started,” Laurie says sharply. “I’m the one who needs some privacy to rub one out with my sweetie, remember?”
Gradually, Wendy’s eyes open, and they are aglow with lust. “OK, babe, we’re outta here,” she tells Laurie. “Save a little good lovin’ for me.”
“For you, always,” Laurie promises as I open the door for Wendy.
“Is Laurie your roommate at BU, too?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Wendy answers with a naughty grin. “Roommates with benefits.”
The night is warm and sultry and Wendy holds my arm and snuggles against my shoulder. The procession into the dining room moves between two torch-lit lines of G.O.s. All of them toned and tan. Most of the women wear pareos with little, if anything, under them.
We find some of Wendy’s BU buddies at a large table, and are working on our third pitcher of house wine when Johnny and Gina appear. With her trim figure, fresh makeup and gold hair in a long French braid, Gina is stunning. I introduce them to Wendy and her friends and we make room at the table. Johnny launches into a conversation about the Yanks latest pre-season trade. I could be wrong, but every time I glance over at Wendy and Gina, I could swear they’re flirting. Meanwhile, young Johnny rattles on about baseball, completely unaware of what a hottie he has for a mommy.
Wendy invites Gina and Johnny to join us for the variety show. It’s a chance to see another side of the G.O.s, who have put together a comic circus with jugglers, trapeze artists, fire-eaters and even a sword swallower. It ends in a standing ovation. Gina clearly wants to continue on to the night club with us, but she hasn’t arranged for anyone to watch Johnny, so we part ways outside the stage. I promise to find her at breakfast to continue the baseball-speak tutorial.
There’s a Reggae band, a good one, on the rambling veranda overlooking the beach. By midnight it is crowded and rowdy. The drinking age is sixteen, and the bartenders are generous.
To my surprise, Wendy never strays off, despite all the young hunks giving her the eye. Is she gay? Somehow that doesn’t compute. Not exclusively, anyway. Not with the yearning I sense pouring off of her. A needfulness that’s not at all about the soft caring and compassion of another girl. When we’re exhausted from dancing, we find a wicker loveseat. Maybe it’s all the Pina Coladas, but within minutes we’re making out. Innocently at first, but when I repeat my earlier nipple and breast manipulation, Wendy moans with enough volume to get the attention of some other couples sitting nearby.
“Let’s find someplace more private,” she whispers, and we wander hand-in-hand down the beach and into a stand of tall coconut palms. Under the canopy of palm leaves, I hear a distant whimpering. Like a child crying. Or a woman having sex. Wendy hears it too, and seems eager to discover the source. The deeper into the coconut grove we walk, the louder it becomes. Soon there’s no doubt that it’s from a girl who is very much enjoying herself. From her own labored breathing and the way Wendy clutches my arm, I can tell we’re both getting very aroused by this accidental act of voyeurism.
Well, perhaps not entirely accidental.
We find them in a little clearing near the center of the grove. She is visible only in silhouette, although clearly naked and riding her guy cowgirl style. Her breasts bounce and her long hair sways back and forth as she arches her back and grinds her hips. Her breath catches in her throat in a series of whimpers that are close to merging into one long, satisfied moan.
“Let’s watch,” Wendy whispers with a nervous giggle as she pulls me behind a palm trunk. I wrap her in my arms, and we lean out far enough to see without being easily seen. There’s just enough moonlight in the grove that as our eyes adjust, I can make out a few more details. Full, pale breasts with an obvious bikini tan line. Flat stomach, narrow waist, and curvaceous hips and ass. She looks to be in her mid-twenties, although it’s hard to tell with her eyes closed and face contorted in beautiful agony.
I feel a momentary flash of guilt for invading her privacy. But it’s nothing compared to the bulge expanding between my legs. My arms are already wrapped around Wendy, making it easy to squeeze her naked breasts through the thin cotton of her pareo. She nestles her head into my shoulder and tries to stifle her own moans.
As the girl in the clearing grinds her boyfriend with increasing urgency, I press my cock against Wendy’s tight ass. She responds by thrusting herself into me, and soon we are doing some serious grinding of our own. I slide my right hand across her stomach and down her abs. But when I slip my fingers into her thong, I’m in for a surprise. There’s already a hand there, one that is intently rubbing Wendy’s clit.
She looks over her shoulder at me at the same time she grinds her ass against my cock. “Let’s do ourselves,” she whispers. “Tell me when you’re close.”
This isn’t exactly what I had in mind. But what the hell. Wendy helps me out by unsnapping and quietly unzipping my shorts. I push them down my legs, along with my briefs. She holds my cock briefly, as if taking its measure, and gives me a smile that suggests this is just her idea of an hors d’oeuvre. Then Wendy withdraws her fingers, and I replace them with my own.
The couple in the clearing are nearing climax. The girl leans over her boyfriend and they look into each other’s eyes as her moans turn to a loud wail. He replies with a long grunt as their hips freeze in place and she lowers her head onto his chest. For a long time, she caresses his face and murmurs in his ear.
With the show over, I focus on Wendy, who slowly opens her pareo for me, revealing her glorious breasts and busy right-hand thrust deep inside her yellow thong. I can’t restrain myself, and before I even realize what I doing, I reach between Wendy’s legs and twist her swollen pussy lips between my fingers.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “Oh, Daddy. Fuck, yeah!”
“Daddy?” the girl’s voice asks in heavily French-accented English.
“Not her real Daddy,” I say defensively. The couple in the clearing are now sitting straight-backed with crossed legs and watching Wendy and I intently.
“Please, keep going,” says the girl. I look at Wendy, who shrugs her shoulders almost imperceptibly, then unties her pareo completely and lets it fall to the sand. Fair’s fair. We did just watch them, after all. Feeling a little foolish being naked from just the waist down, I pull my shirt over my head, then look at Wendy, who smiles sweetly as I resume stroking my cock.
I hear my heart pounding and feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck. My body is suddenly on fire, despite the cool night breeze. I feel everyone — Wendy, the French girl, even the guy — watching the way my fingers glide up and down my twitchy cock. While my fist makes only the faintest of dry chaffing sound, Wendy’s vigorous fingering produces a symphony of juicy swishes, squishes, and pops. When I hear these in stereo, my eyes open to find the French girl has also buried her fingers between her legs.
Having caught my eye, she gestures for us to come closer. We cross the clearing and stop about three feet away. Again, she waves us closer and closer, until my cock is within inches of her beautiful face. She tosses her long hair back and looks up at me. Her eyelids are heavy with arousal. For the first time, I can see into her dark eyes. Darker than coffee. Darker than night. Empty spheres from which nothing escapes, not even light. Eyes that can pull you in and change your destiny in a heartbeat. I avert my gaze, and try to warn Wendy. But It’s too late. Wendy is already captured in their orbit, bound by a force greater than gravity.
Without taking her eyes off Wendy, the French girl parts her lips and her tongue reaches out for me, beckoning, calling. Part of me wants to turn and run and forever forget this moment. But it’s too late. The first shot of cum sails across her parted lips and she sucks it neatly into her mouth. The second falls lower, splashing across her tits. The rest goes even lower, covering her forearms and the back of the hands that work feverishly on her pussy.
Moments later, an orgasm takes Wendy. Her toes curl, her back arches and wave after wave of muscle contractions shudder through her tiny frame as she emits an almost cat-like wail in the night. Wendy sinks to her knees in the sand as if in supplication to this strange lust goddess.
Wendy and I clutch each other, trying to call ourselves back to reality. “What just happened?” she asks, her eyes wide with disbelief.
I glance over my shoulder, but the French girl is gone, although the distinctive fragrance of her sex lingers, along with two sets of footprints heading west, toward the beach. I now see that they were sitting on two fallen palm trunks that are crisscrossed and facing the open clearing, creating a natural amphitheater.
Then I notice something else, partially buried under the sand and trapped by one of the fallen trees. It takes a few minutes and a little effort to pull it free. But I’m rewarded with an old wool lap blanket. It’s seen better days, but as I shake off the sand, even in the dim moonlight I can see a distinctive Greek meander border enclosing an embroidered image of the Greek god Pan. More like an antique than something you’d find in a souvenir shop. Thinking it might be valuable, I fold it carefully before recovering my clothes, and helping Wendy retie her pareo. She trembles with almost orgasmic intensity every time my fingers graze her skin.
“Holy, shit!” she exclaims, as if coming out of a trance. “I came so hard I blacked out. Is that what happened?”
“Pretty much,” I say.
“Wasn’t there someone else? Someone watching.”
“Yes. A French girl and her boyfriend. They took off toward the beach when you passed out. Quite rude of them. These are their tracks,” I explain, pointing to the footprints in the sand.”
“A beautiful girl. I remember a beautiful girl with dark eyes. So dark...”
“Maybe we can catch up with them,” I suggest, taking Wendy’s hand and following the tracks through the forest of coconut trees until we emerge onto the beach. The tracks lead across the white strand and down to the water’s edge. The French girl and her friend must have followed the tideline one way or the other, but the lapping waves have erased any trace of them.
We find a pair of lounge chairs that have been dragged out of sight in the palms. I spread out the old blanket on one chair and lower Wendy into it while I recline in the other. I’ve barely caught my breath when that wonderful symphony of swishes, squishes and pops reaches my ears. I look over and find Wendy with her legs splayed apart. Her yellow thong lies nearby in the sand, replaced by busy fingers.
“Come on, Daddy. Don’t you feel a horny urge?” she asks.
Actually, I am feeling strangely horny. Not at all what I’d expect twenty-minutes after the most powerful orgasm of my life. But there’s no denying nature, and I release my cock, lean back, and close my eyes. I’m fantasizing about the French girl, replaying the image of her licking my cum off her lips over and over again, when something warm and moist and remarkably tight engulfs my cock. Wendy is astride my hips, riding me cowgirl style.
She might only be eighteen, but tonight this little girl is a love-making prodigy. A Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart of sex. Tiny rhythmic contractions draw me deeper with every thrust. Her fingers are everywhere at once, finding erogenous zones I never knew existed. At some point, I stop wondering how and why and surrender myself to Wendy’s remarkable skills. When we finally cum, it is together, and our voices merge into a high-pitched howl like I once heard from a distant pack of California coyotes.
When the rosy Caribbean dawn peeks through the foliage, Wendy is still sleeping naked and curled on top of me, her head nestled into my chest. We’re partially covered by her pareo. My back feels as if I’ve been sleeping on the fiberglass slats, which I have. It takes a good five minutes of naked stretches to get half-way limber.
Wendy never really wakes up as I use that old First-Aid standby, the “human-crutch carry," to get her down the deserted beach, past the infinity pool, and across what seems like a mile of rolling grass lawn to her bungalow. Laurie is sleeping quietly as I tuck Wendy into bed, and back silently out the door, pulling it closed softly behind me.
When I reach my own bungalow, my memories of what happened in the coconut grove are a confused jumble. But I can’t forget a night of sex unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and with the most improbable of partners. An eighteen-year-old girl with serious Daddy issues. And the spooky truth is that that I think I may be falling in love. I look at my watch. Just enough time for two hours sleep and a five-minute shower before meeting Gina for breakfast to continue her MLB survey course.
But, of course, all I can think about is Wendy. Sweet fuckin’ Wendy.
It isn’t until much later that I remember the old blanket. Did I leave it on the lounger? Possibly. But the more I think about it, I’m almost positive that when I looked back at the loungers as we left, there was no old Greek blanket anywhere to be seen.
—-
Gina and Johnny are already in the beach-front restaurant when I arrive sleepy and starved. After two lobster-tail omelettes, three cups of coffee and six fresh croissants with marmalade, I’m a new man. And Gina is speechless.
“What did you do last night to work up an appetite like that?” she asks, sounding more like a mother than a lover.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I reply.
“Try me!” she says in a stern voice that gets Johnny’s attention. He looks from Gina to me and back to his mom, obviously not used to hearing her talk to a stranger in this tone. Seeing Johnny’s confusion, she laughs and tells him, “Don’t worry, honey, I’m not going to send Jason to his room without breakfast. I mean, what’s the point? He’s already eaten enough to last all week.”
Johnny’s look of alarm melts into a relaxed smile. I change the subject by telling him that I saw a batting cage out by the playing fields and can toss him some practice pitches before dinner. Gina’s sexy-but-vulnerable smile returns full bore.
We drop off Johnny at the Mini Camp. He already seems to be warming up to the idea that hanging out at home might not be as great as he thought. Inside the Mimi Camp area, a dozen kids are scaling a jungle-gym version of the Matterhorn. We watch for a moment as Johnny joins the other little mountain climbers and soon blends into a sea of scuffling arms and legs and torsos.
I resist the urge to say, “Great kid!” Or some equally inane cliche. Instead, I launch into today’s lesson, a brief history of the AL Eastern Division. I’m too busy talking to pay attention to where we’re wandering. Gina and I are equally surprised to find ourselves at the nude beach. Although it’s only about 10 AM, the scenery is already getting interesting.
The main attraction is a circle of chairs with two cute, albeit somewhat chubby, nude college girls surrounded by six guys with rippling abs and semi-erections. You go, girls, I think. Way to get a jump on the competition. I figure it will be hours before the young foxes start leaving their dens.
“What’s that,” I ask Gina. “Did I just hear you say ‘yummm’?”
“No,” she tells me, not taking her eyes of the buff guys. “But I might be thinking it.”
“Too bad we don’t have our bathing suits,” I say, rather stupidly.
“Why?” Gina asks with more of a smirk than a smile.
“Think you can learn without clothes?” I ask.
“I don’t know why not,” she replies, a naughty sparkle in her eye.
Realizing I’ll never be able to compete with a crowd of college jocks, I drag two beach chairs about ten feet back into the partial privacy of the palm grove. Rather shyly, we turn back-to-back and undress. As we face each other, we break out laughing because we are trying so hard not to look like we’re checking each other out, while what we’re doing is completely checking each other out.
“OK, dammit,” Gina giggles. “I’m just going to close my eyes and stand here while I count to one hundred. Look as hard as you want. Then it’s my turn.”
That’s exactly what we do. Gina is tall and willowy, without an ounce of extra weight anywhere, except the tiniest lower tummy roll when she bends at the waist. Her tits are small and pert, her waist narrow, and her hips and butt almost boyishly thin. Just before she finishes counting to one-hundred, I give a little whistle of appreciation that makes her smile.
While it’s my turn, I don’t keep my eyes entirely closed, and I see Gina paying especially close attention to my pecs, butt, and cock, which thankfully is at a half-mast position. Neither flaccid nor inappropriately erect.
Before we continue with baseball, Gina wants to know what she missed last night. I tell her about the Reggae band, making out with Wendy and wandering back into the palm grove. She insists I share all every detail, and the more she presses me, the more comes back. Especially the scene with the French girl and her boyfriend.
It’s hard to tell if Gina is feeling shocked or just lascivious. But she digs out every embarrassing recollection of the strange encounter out of me. Down to the way Wendy used her fingers to touch herself, and how I felt about cumming between the beautiful French girl’s parted lips (insanely aroused).
Finally, Gina looks me in the eye. “I don’t know if this is some kind of weird joke, Jason. But for a horny mom whose only lover for the past twelve months has been my own fingers, all this talk is making me very, very moist. Let’s find this clearing.”
At Club Med, there’s no need for wallets or cash, and the only thing either of us have in our pockets beside sunscreen lotion are unmarked room key cards. So we fold our clothes and leave them on the loungers, and walk barefoot into palm grove.
We haven’t gone more than twenty feet when, like a beloved Yankee used to say, I experience deja vu all over again. By the way she looks at me, Gina hears it too. Faint moans interspersed with several seconds of silence. Like last night, the deeper we walk into the grove, the louder they become. Finally, we reach the edge of the clearing. Sitting with her back against one of the fallen trees is a naked girl. Thankfully, not the French girl, but a redhead in her early twenties whose face and breasts are awash in freckles. Kneeling between her legs is a second woman who is obviously doing something with her tongue and fingers.
“Oh, my!” Gina exclaims before she can catch herself. In the light of day, there’s nowhere to hide as the redhead’s eyes snap open and focus on us. For a moment, she seems inclined to forget about our presence, and I can see her eyes beginning to drift shut. But at the last second, they snap open again, and she taps her lover on the shoulder and points in our direction. The second woman peers at us and there is a moment of whispered discussion before they both hop over the fallen trunk like a pair of cotton-tailed rabbits, and vanish into the grove.
Gina finally takes her hand off her mouth and bursts out giggling. “I’m sorry, Jason. I honestly thought you made the whole thing up just to get me out here with you.” As we walk closer to the spot the girls vacated, I notice something peeking from under the sand. The old Greek blanket.
“Wow! Just like you described,” Gina says.
“Have a seat,” I offer once I’ve brushed off the sand. Gina gracefully lowers herself onto the blanket, somehow managing to keep her legs demurely pressed together the whole time. Too late for one thing, though. During our sixty-second you-show-me-yours, I already discovered that the neatly trimmed strip above her pussy has the same fine blond hair that tumbles past Gina's shoulders.
Gina leans back against the palm trunk, takes in a deep breath, and then exhales with a long and sensual sigh. She slowly opens her legs, looking up at me from under heavy-lids. Her comment about being ‘very, very moist’ is an absurd understatement.
“Babe,” she begins in a whisper. “You know what those girls were doing? Do you think...”
Gina doesn’t need to say more. I’m already kneeling between her outstretched thighs, my fingertips moving slowly along her creamy white flesh. Like Wendy, every touch of my fingertips seems to ignite a mini orgasm. Each time my fingers caress her, Gina’s thigh muscles contract and shiver and a fresh river of clear liquid gushes down the inside of her leg.
I gently roll my tongue along her outer labia, and Gina’s breath catches in her throat. Her musky aroma is like some powerful pheromone, urging my tongue to explore faster and deeper while at the same time directing every drop of available blood to my throbbing cock. “Seek medical attention if you have an erection lasting more than four hours.” So powerful is my erection that I can’t imagine how it could possibly last for anything less than four hours.
After tracing her outer lips, I slip my tongue between them and work my way into her vagina. Gina responds instantly, her back arches, her hips thrust into my jaw, and her muscles go into a series of spasms that contract like a vice around my tongue. I’m sure she’s also vocalizing, but with her thighs clamping the sides of my head in a death grip, my world has gone strangely silent.
As the contractions gradually recede, I seek out her clit and begin massaging it with my tongue. In minutes, another earth-shaking orgasm engulfs Gina, and this time her entire body twists and thrashes like a rag doll tumbling down a staircase.
It takes a long time for Gina to recover, and when she does, I can tell by the lovelight in her eyes, that Jason is the new focus of her affections. “Oh... my... God...” she finally says. “Oh, my, God!”
“You never...” I prompt her.
“My, God, No! Never. Ever. Nothing even close,” she sighs.
“I know,” I tell her.
“Oh, poor, baby!” she exclaims, sitting up and reaching for my pulsing cock. I push her gently away, then swing myself into a 69-position. My cock slides instantly into the warm Nirvana of Gina’s mouth. As I’m lowering my head between her thighs, I glimpse movement at the edge of the clearing. It’s the six young studs and the two chubby girls, and they are all masturbating like caged gorillas. I pause long enough to wave them closer, if they want. What’s fair is fair.
It takes only minutes before Gina is orgasming again, if anything, even more powerfully than before What seems like a fountain of pure girl cum anoints my tongue and lips and cheeks. Then I respond with a fountain of my own, pumping my cum into her mouth until I hear Gina’s muffled moans become a desperate gagging sound. Reluctantly, I withdraw from the ecstatic embrace of her lips and tongue. When I open my eyes, I realize our audience has moved within a few yards. The two girls have collapsed to their knees, hands still between their legs. Most of the guys have thrust their hips forward with white strings of ejaculate still spraying from their cocks.
I help Gina get unsteadily to her feet, turning her away from our audience as she struggles to stand. Then I reach down and grab the edge of the Greek blanket. Once again, it is trapped under the fallen tree, but with several forceful tugs, I manage to rip it free. We wander lost in the palm grove for a few minutes until we eventually emerge onto the beach, not far from our lounge chairs. Gina hangs from my neck with both arms and walks unsteadily as if still in some deep trance. I lower her into her chair, and within minutes we are both sound asleep.
The cool caress of the afternoon trade wind summons me back to consciousness. My watch says 4:15.
On the third try, I succeed in waking Gina. When her eyes open, she looks at me with an adoration that almost breaks my heart because it’s not really me she’s fallen in love with. It’s Pan.
I show Gina my watch, and eventually reality comes flooding back, along with the inconvenient fact that the Mini Camp pickup time was 4 pm.
Pan’s Blanket is where I left it, tossed on top of our clothes. An hour later, I jam it into my room safe and arm the heavy door with a personal four-digit code, even though I’d bet my left nut it will be gone when I return.
At 7 PM, I knock on Wendy’s door. She pulls me inside, wrestles me onto her bed, and has my shorts pulled down past my knees before I can object.
“What about Laurie?” I ask, looking at her roommate, who is grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat.
“You can do her after you fuck me,” Wendy says, which isn’t exactly what I expected to hear. Eventually, I convince Wendy to put on her pareo, she does a credible job of tying it herself, and go to dinner, with a promise that we’ll walk directly to the palm grove after dessert.
Gina joins us at the dining table, without Johnny who is spending the night with a new friend. After too many carafes of wine to count, Gina, Wendy and I saunter past the theater, and the big, beach-front veranda, and follow the sparking beams of a full moon to the edge of the palm grove.
“Are you sure?” I ask them.
Neither girl answers. But they gaze questioningly into each other’s eyes. Then, without a word, they are kissing. With Gina almost six-feet tall, and Wendy barely five, it’s an interesting exercise in contortion. But their lips lock in a deep, soulful tongue kiss that seems to last forever. When they finally come up for air, Gina takes my arm and whispers, “Don’t worry, Jason. You’re going to love this.”
She’s right. I do.
