tagExhibitionist & VoyeurA Caribbean Isle

A Caribbean Isle

byJackdawBob©

We'd arrived on this wonderful, beautiful, fantasy island at night, unfortunately. The feeling when that wave of heat struck you was wonderful- you knew you had truly arrived, that you had certainly left cold rainy England far far behind.

So the first impressions were it was hot- so hot, and noisy! The insects were playing their strings, it seemed, as if they were all trying to outdo one another to impress you most. Wonderful.

Such a shame it was night, and dark, so aside from the artificial lighting, there really wasn't much to see. Also, you got to walk off the plane- no suspended walkway, no trucks coming to meet you, you got of the plane and walked to where the passport control and customs were.

The steel band was there, of course, well, the solitary steel drummer, still smiling away, but in a slightly more forlorn way than their chief of Tourism would have wanted- but who cares? We were in the Caribbean!

Cold beers, beaches, beauties, rum, turquoise waters, mini mokes (the little jeep type rental cars) ahh- how much better than this could it get?

Well, lots better- I could have my best mate in the world with me. Look left. Check – best mate in the whole wide world. Sweet.

It could be free- look down at hand, see the letter of employment from the research institute- check – free! Well, food, accommodation, flights, some living expenses- plenty for two small time wanna-be alcoholics. Besides we both loved rum – so what better place to work?

Oh, the work. Yeah, well, it was going to be really tough work, but for the few months we were there, I guess we could get over it.

Pretty shitty though, being paid to scuba-dive around the island, on the pretence of researching the pollution effects of the tourism industry on the natural flora and fauna of the sea.

As I said, pretty shitty.

Waiting in line, ambling to the front of the queue – 'Business or pleasure sir?'

Good question. Actually, a pretty tricky one at that.

Outside, find a taxi rank, check our directions, we whizz – mind that pothole – to our palatial home for the first few weeks, until the institute frees up some space.

Oh, ok, so actually it isn't the most salubrious of places- but, hey, we aren't going to be here long, and even when we are meant to be- we'll be out swigging, and singing, and sunning and getting sizzled and pulling some of those fine ladies- fellow tourists or local beauties alike. We are here, so lock up your daughters!

Hmmn, wish I hadn't written that. Seems like someone heard. What a scary evening...

So we got to the pad, dumped stuff, went straight out- without the first clue as to where we were, where the parties were, where the ladies were, or where the parties with the ladies were.

Two intrepid English explorers were not going to let that stop them, nosiree. So we got to the end of the road, looked each way, looked at each other, went left.

Wandered into what, as a young, impressionable *cough*, nineteen year old, seemed like a night of the living dead. There were, well, Old People. And not wearing very much. And very much drunk.

We were fools to even get as far as the bar, but we hadn't had a drink yet in our West Indian adventure, and no amount of old ladies wearing only bikinis was going to stop us getting one.

Well, of course not. They wanted us to go to the bar. They wanted us to buy the first dink (so as not to arouse our suspicion. They had other destinations for our arousal). They wanted us to feel at home, comfortable in our environment.

So Greg (the best friend) and I got our first rum and coke. Mostly seemed to be rum, but coming from England where measures are so tightly controlled that the bottom of a tumbler isn't even fully covered and they call it a shot, who were we to complain!

We sat, we chatted, we remarked on just how very...white we were. Headlights on full beam bright white. We were wearing slacks, so at least our pasty legs weren't showing, but our forearms, our necks and our faces...everyone else was either local dark, mahogany, or a rich, dark teak.

We positively *shone*.

Never mind- we will be as brown as this lot soon enough. We chat, we drink, we get near to finishing, the well built German lady on my left leans over and asks if she can buy us a drink – but of course fräulein, it would be a real pleasure. Two more rums- excellent. We were both (that is Greg and I) hardened drinkers at 19 – we started at 15, and have been working in a pub for the past 6 months. Won best barmen award for the area too. That, however, as they always annoyingly say, is another story.

We got to talking, a little hesitantly, as our German was basic (I knew 'Ich habe eine große schlange und ich liebe dich', but that wasn't the time or the place) and her English was broken.

Her Dutch friend was much more fluent, so she came over to join us. Oh, I'd better do that description thingy that you always find in these stories- they were both Amazonian, statuesque, beautiful ladies, with brilliant white smiles, flashing blue eyes, and even though they must have been mid-forties, not an ounce of sag anywhere to be seen.

No, of course they weren't. Lena (the German lady) was tall for a girl, probably coming up around 5'8" on my 6" (and eye level pretty much on Greg's 5'9"!), with a fairly big boned layout. There were stretch marks and there was cellulite, but neither was disgusting, even to our 19 year old eyes, used to taut, firm teenage girls. Lena had green eyes, a kind of dirty blonde hair, and large, slightly saggy breasts. She wasn't overly pretty- more handsome if that isn't too insulting-but she laughed a lot and seemed nice. As our young brains were wont to do – I had already paired myself off with her, as I knew Greg would prefer Anneke, the dutch lass. Mind you, so did I, but he had earned his right to pick first- a nickname like 'Horse' kind of puts you up the pecking order. Mind you my nickname of 'Hollywood' was none too shabby...even if it did make me all style over substance.

Anneke was pretty pretty- like facially really pretty. Slightly ginger hair in the bar's lighting, but with bright energetic brown eyes, full of life and fun, with a very sexy pouty mouth. It actually had a gap in it, the lips were so pouty they wouldn't meet in the middle- sexy as hell. I have only ever seen that once since, and , ah, that other story thing again.

Anneke was fun, flirty, and slightly fat. She wobbled, she wore a sarong, but she kind of, well, hung over it a bit. Not a lot- she was no jabba the hut, but more than we were used to. Since I had almost given up on my chances with her, I could see that, but I think her face, her personality and her sexual vibe had blinded Greg to this- he had that look, the one he gets when he thinks he might get his end away...

So they buy us another rum, we buy them one, we kind of lose track of time, before we know it we are walking Lena and Anneke down to another bar they know 'just down the way' and we were leaving the old people's bar and heading down a dusty street towards the sea, by the sound of it. We were having a laugh and the fact that we were in the company of two lasses over twice our age, who had interlocked arms, and were slightly worse for the alcohol than we were, had not passed us by. First night, and the prospect of some mature lady action already...

...a 'prospect' that was looking more and more like a 'surety' as Lena's hand brushed against the front of my trousers...

...she unlinks her arm with Anneke, who pairs off with Greg, and links her arm with mine, her left arm to my right, and ever so casually dances her right hand across my zip again...

...she is good – we aren't even breaking conversation (hey- babel fish alcohol – I'm pretty much fluent now in my Germglish), she isn't looking in my eyes, we are just walking while she fondles my growing cock through the cotton trousers and CK boxers...

...we are a bit ahead of Greg and Anneke, so I can't see what they are doing, but there are some sounds that are a little suspicious, especially when you have a mind as filthy as I do. I haven't managed to get my hands on any of Lena though, she keeps batting any advances I make away (sudden flash of absolute, blinding terror- what if she is a he – what if s/he is packing? Think think think...back to the bar, when she got up to go to the toilet, she was wearing a sarong but you got a flash of her bikini clad front bum – any suspicious bulges or lumps???...no, don't think so...would have noticed- so would have...) finally my wandering hand hits home, and I get a quick fumble- nope, all woman, and decidedly moist (I love that word) before my hand is batted away. Again...

There is the bar, up ahead, we can see the lights and hear the soca- sweet sweet Caribbean music, can feel my white man hips already jiving. Turn to say something to Greg – he's only gone and bloody disappeared! Ah, what the hell, that is a worry for another time, Lena doesn't seem at all bothered that Anneke isn't here. We are at the front door. There is a cover charge, but we are told that once inside, drinks are free.

'All drinks?' I enquire, perking up like a puppy spotting its favourite toy... 'All drinks' comes the drawling West Indian reply.

'This is going to cost them more than it costs me' I think, as I buoyantly spring into the room. Which is pretty much deserted. There isn't even a bar that I can see. No wonder drinks are free- there aren't any!

Fortunately Lena has obviously been here before, as she leads me through another door, down a corridor, round a corner, points out where the toilets are (good hostess this one) and then through another door to the outside, down another open corridor and *bang* there it is – a full scale West Indian party- with dancing girls, live band, tourists, locals, aliens and all sorts out there, dancing, drinking, snogging (oops, sorry, didn't see you there). This is what we came here for- Rock and Roll. Well, more Dance Hall and Soca, but hey- you get the picture...

We went and 'bought' a drink- you just shout at one of the friendly bar staff, who totally ignores whatever you asked for and just gives you whatever is closest- but this being Rum country, was invariably a rum anyway- and headed for the edge of the dance floor. She, unfortunately, had the rhythm and timing of a spanner in a washing machine, which was more than a little off putting, so when she said she was going to the toilet, I, well, I kind of in a not very nice way disappeared. Vanished, departed, ran away.

Before, however, you get all shirty with me, it was for two very good reasons. Reason 1) Greg and Anneke had arrived, and Anneke had said she would go find Lena. Greg then turned to me, flushed and smiling, and asked if I wanted to take off. Reason 2) While she was away a very pretty young Norwegian lass had approached me, and asked if I wanted to come over and meet her friends and have a chat, mentioning, in passing, that her friends and her were part of the Norwegian Under 21 girl's Volleyball team.

I shit you not.

There they all were, in their shimmery, lanky, glorious girlishness. Gorgeous, on a tour, out on the town and thirty of them. Would we like to come over? I was talking to one, on the other side of the bar, before she had finished the invite. Swing low, sweet chariot.

She had a name, but then again, so did the other 20 I met that evening. Can I remember one of them? Erm, Jana, maybe, or Helena, or, ah it doesn't matter. They were all fit bodied, relatively tall (in your face short Greg!) and seemingly only too happy to chat, to flirt, to dance. Also, we were two of perhaps 5 lads they seemed to want to talk to – very, very good odds.

Greg had told me where he had been, too. He had been getting a blow job off Anneke in the bushes, the lucky bastard. Those lips (forever soiled in my eyes now, of course) were most excellent as he put it. He was already onto his second encounter, whilst I still was looking for my first. Hence the 'in your face' comment.

It didn't seem, after about 3 hours of solid spade work, that any of the volleyball girls were actually going to put out, or allow themselves to be separated from their friends for more than a quick trip to the bar and back. Oh, don't get me wrong, the evening still holds some very fine memories. The time that 4 of them all decided they were going to feel me up at once- that was pretty special, hands roaming on and under my clothes, but really all that served to do was to frustrate me even more. It was now nearly morning, the Volleyball girls all left, we were fast becoming the few, instead of the many. The band were back playing their last set, and now the dance floor wasn't so full, and our ladies had all excused themselves, there didn't seem to be much left, at 4 in the morning, to do other than dance.

So we put ourselves on the dance floor, having vigorously warmed up with plenty of rum – oiled is the phrase I'm looking for, and had had ourselves a blast. We both enjoy a bit of silly dancing – the lawnmower, hanging out the washing, big box little box big box house etc, and were just drunk enough to think this was ever so funny when an altogether better experience came around.

The band played the first couple of bars of a song, then stopped. The now predominantly local crowd went wild! They were all jumping around excitedly, and they all seemed to know what was happening- Greg and I just kind of stood there, looking stupid. You would've too – all the blokes were just standing there, standing tall and proud, with smug grins on. The girls were all circling the dance floor, stopping in front of their chosen man, stepping up close, turning around, and bending right over, shoving their butts into the guy's crotch.

Wow.

We were flabbergasted. Then, two local lasses picked us, bent over, leant back, and we were part of this thing! We noticed that all the guys had grabbed onto the hips, so we followed suit, the music started again and everyone started bouncing away..."Whip de donkey, whip de donkey, whip de donkey, whip" with appropriate hip thrusting, butt wobbling, bouncing around, holding on with one hand while the other did a whip action above the girl's arse. Fabulous. I have no idea how long the song lasted, any of the other words, nothing. I was in heaven My lass (as I liked to think of her) was a thin, sprightly type, hadn't seen her face properly yet, but she wound her body just fine for me- I was getting quite excited, and she could tell!

She ground into my erection, really working it, just using her butt and her dancing ability. I was so close to popping! Then, all too soon, the song stopped, she stepped away, turned, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and walked off. I had to hastily re-arrange, my cock was sore after the battering it took, but decidedly happy about it. I looked at Greg, who seemed to have had no more luck than I, but the same dopey, happy smile.

Blimey, now it was morning! The sun was threatening to come up, the party had wound down, and everyone was heading home. What a first night! Obviously better for some than others (Greg...) but I had no complaints. Heaven only knows what happened to Lena and Anneke. I'm sure they were fine though, they seemed to know everyone, and had no doubt copped off with someone. We never saw them again in our whole trip, so I couldn't ask. I guess I would have got something if I'd stuck around, but faced with 30 Under 21 volleyball girls- what would you have done!?

The taxi home was another adventure, we were ripped off once, thought we were going to get beaten up or worse once, ended up meeting a lovely lady who lived off the land (and who had been at the party, telling us that we shook our hips pretty good for white guys – a compliment I think) and walked the final bit with a wise old sage, who we were very cynical about at first, who proved to be a genuine, charming and enigmatic fella.

We were walking through our little fishing village, heading to our rented pad as everyone else was getting up for work. They all waved, and laughed, and introduced themselves, and we seemed to be infamous before we even got home.

Where we then passed out, me in the living room, him in his bed, for a good 12 hours! We missed 3 people who turned up to check on us (two from the institute, one from the village) we missed our scheduled meeting...we didn't, in short, do very well.

So, full of apologies, and feeling very contrite, we called the institute, made our apologies and then went out to try and do it all over again...we had, as part of our apology, managed to get a two week 'acclimatisation period'. Oh yes my friend, we are well versed in the art of blag, and we had just got ourselves two weeks of paid holiday, with nothing to do at all.

To the beach!

It was about 6pm, so the sun was setting, but we sprinted down there, Frisbee to accompany us. We dove straight into the warm light blue waters, and we were in heaven. We are both water babies, loving surfing, water-skiing, swimming, scuba diving, everything aquatic- so we were loving it. The Frisbee obviously didn't agree, as on the third or fourth throw, it decided to drown itself, get washed out by the tide, and never be seen again. Ho hum. Poor little red Frisbee.

We wandered the beach, being accosted by sellers of all varieties, bracelets, necklaces, drugs, hard and soft, cold beers – everything. We met locals, we met some tourists, we had a blast. Greg is a very gregarious guy, while I am little more reserved, so together we work well. We found out the best hang-outs, the rum shacks to avoid and the ones only to pretend to avoid, the good, the bad, and you've guessed it, the illegal. Not what you were thinking?

We grabbed some fresh fish from a stall, went back and grilled it at ours, with local yams and suchlike. Great, simple food. Awesome. We are both competent cooks, and, being the subversively competitive types, we would see who could cook the nicer meals...first round to Greg then...

We jumped into a local's minivan – kinda like taxi/buses. They drive a certain route, but you can get them to stop wherever you want. We, of course, had no idea, short of the name of our destination – the sandy bank beach bar. Just the name is evocative, isn't it?

What a place. Empty when we arrived, but then, as we were to find out, everything starts late in the West Indies, and that includes a night out. However, as true Brits, we weren't going to listen to their rules- we were going to start our time, and, by way of compromise, finish their time. Seemed like a good idea...

The bar looked a bit small, a bit open air, a bit run down- perfect. The bar staff were so cool and friendly, we hit it off instantly, and we knew we had found our home. We were challenging the guys behind the bar at their versions of pub sports, having a few rums, chilling out and loving it, not really noticing that the bar was steadily filling. We also hadn't noticed, but the bar area carried on around the corner, and was bigger then we thought- it basically filled an 'L' shape around a nightclub – although at that point the nightclub was just an empty warehouse.

Greg was his usual ebullient self, introducing himself to the chicks (I use chicks as they were American, in the main, and that is an American turn of phrase I believe).

I just had to tag along as wing-man, talk to their friends, or, if they made it obvious they preferred me, talked to the original for a while, until they got bored, or we did, or we just naturally moved on, circulating like we were the hosts of some big party!

The problem with this was that we didn't concentrate our efforts very well, and often wandered back around to find some other alpha male had moved in, and who was more willing to do the spade work, and stick with the girl(s) all evening- we made loads of new acquaintances, and became popular and known, but weren't going to win any pulling prizes this way. Still, we figured, long term it might work- they see us again, know us, come over...yeah, ok. We were the proverbial magpies trapped in a jewellers shop- shiny, pretty things everywhere, and we were flying from to another, trying to get them all.

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