Alice Takes a Cruise Ch. 02

Story Info
How Alice became a voyeur.
7k words
4.12
22.1k
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Part 2 of the 3 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 06/24/2003
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BobbiR
BobbiR
258 Followers

It was difficult to believe that only a week ago I had been sitting in the drab lounge of my mother’s drab house in a drab grey suburb of London wondering if there was ever going to be any excitement in my life. I was already thirtyone years old, single and so little experienced in the ways of the world I hadn’t even had a boyfriend since leaving college ten years before. It had been round about then my mother had fallen seriously ill and I had had to sacrifice my own life to look after hers. My father had left home when I was two and I had no siblings. I was working, of course, but my social life stopped dead.

Within a few weeks I was as housebound as her.

I didn’t begrudge her my time – I loved my mother, naturally – but as the years dragged by and she slowly deteriorated, I became all too conscious of how my life was slipping away from me. Friends fell in love, fell out of love, fell in love more suitably, got married, had children, moved away, stopped phoning. What little time I had outside work I spent catering to the constant demands of my mother then falling into exhausted sleeps in front of the TV. I realised that to all intents and purposes I had become a nun.

Then, quite suddenly, a month ago my mother died. I say suddenly, because by then I had become resigned to the fact that though she had been almost continually at death’s door for ten years, she would always be there, barely alive, but just enough to stop me being so.

It took me some time to adjust to my new circumstances. I spent the next few days busying myself with all the bureaucracy a death seems to generate. Then there was the funeral. Then I was alone.

To tell the truth I was at a bit of a loss. My mother – like so many of her generation – had been frugal, and what with being housebound for the last few years of her life, had managed to save quite a bit of money, which I, as her only child, inherited. It wasn’t enough to make me wealthy, but it was enough to enable me to stop working. So I handed in my notice. Not so much because I wanted to – work had been, after all, virtually my only contact with other people for the last ten years – but simply because I could.

I spent the next week in bed. Or so it seemed. I suppose I must have got up to go shopping, eat, wash, and so on; I wasn’t about to become a recluse. But it must have been the accumulated exhaustion of the last ten years; I just needed a rest.

Until one morning – an unusually blue sky for England, an even more unusually bright sun filtering through my bedroom curtains – I awoke and found that I was no longer tired. I lay feeling the unaccustomed warmth on my face and smiled the first smile I had allowed myself for what seemed like my entire life. It was a strange feeling and for a moment I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.

Then it came to me. I was actually looking forward to the day.

I showered, wrapped myself in a kimono and had breakfast on mother’s small patio. The morning sun on my skin felt exhilarating, the ordinary food tasted delicious. Absurdly I felt like throwing off the kimono, running out into the garden and rolling naked on the lawn. What would the neighbours say? I imagined the horror on the faces of the middle-aged couple who lived next door, he who I had only ever seen washing his car in the drive every Sunday morning and she who had knocked on my mother’s door only once during the last ten years “to see how you’re coping, dear”. Perhaps their sixteen-year old son would have taken it in his stride, a rather skinny, awkward but athletic looking boy who was already taller than his father but who was so shy he had never said a word to me, not even when we had almost collided with each other outside our front gates.

I imagined him peeping out at me from behind the curtains of his bedroom window, fascinated by the sight of his first, live, naked woman. And not an unattractive woman, either, I flattered myself. All right, I wasn’t a page three model – which was probably his immature ideal of feminine beauty – but everything was in proportion. I had good sized breasts – not too large, not too small – a trim waist, smooth rounded hips, slim legs I was never ashamed to show off in a knee-length skirt. Perhaps most importantly, the hard physical exercise of looking after mother – all that running up and down stairs, lifting her in and out of bed – had kept me completely free of cellulite.

For a thirtyone-year old, I told myself, I didn’t look bad. And all topped off by a head of dramatic henna’d hair, the one feminine indulgence I had allowed myself during the last ten years.

I smiled to myself. What was I doing, thinking like this? Imagining a sixteen-year old boy admiring my body. No man had ever seen my body, not even Peter, my last boyfriend at university, not completely naked anyway. I recalled our amateurish fumblings in the dark with embarrassment and shut them out of my mind. Today wasn’t a day for looking back, for regret. Today was a day for looking forward, for enjoying sunshine, for relishing my new-found freedom. I almost giggled to myself. For thinking about athletic sixteen-year old boys.

I lay back in mother’s recliner and closed my eyes against the sun. The patio was a perfect sun-trap, backed by the house and protected from the wind – and prying eyes – by a high wall on one side and a thick hedge on the other. Vainly I tried to think just of the sun warming me, of plans I needed to make for my future, but against my will my mind kept returning to the boy. I imagined him gazing at me from his window, wanting me, but too shy to do anything about it. I imagined him comparing me with the pictures of naked girls in the magazines I knew every teenage boy kept hidden in their bedrooms. Wasn’t my naked body so much more attractive in the flesh than all those photographs?

I imagined him in an agony of frustration. I saw the telltale bulge in his – what? pyjamas? No, too middle-aged. Boxers. Which he touched, unable to stop himself. I saw his hand rubbing gently along the length of his erection, hidden under the front of his shorts. The touch of cotton was exquisite, but eventually his desire was too much and he had to take them off. In a hurry now, he pushed them down his legs and his – yes, I told myself, call it his cock, that crude exciting word – his cock stood tall and thick and naked.

Still gazing longingly at my body lying unaware on the lawn, he put his hand around his cock and started to pump it. Being young, he was inexperienced in the techniques of prolonging his pleasure, and within only a minute or two, his face contorted, he climaxed, his other hand vainly trying to catch his spurting semen to prevent it landing on the curtain or staining the carpet. Then I imagined him collapsing back on the bed, his face a mixture of relief and the guilt I knew most boys felt when they masturbated. Didn’t I feel the same myself when I did it?

Without realising, I had put my hand under my kimono and between my legs. As if coming to, I felt a familiar wetness under my middle fingertip and a blush of embarrassment creep up my face. Instinctively I pulled my hand away, as if I had been caught in some forbidden act. But then my new reality came back to me. I was alone. No one could see me. Mother wouldn’t be calling me. Not now. Not ever. I was free to do what I liked. The sun was shining. It was a new day. It was a new life.

With an inner smile at my own wickedness I returned my hand to the place it wanted to be. I even allowed my kimono to loosen a little, though should anyone have happened to see me, I would still have looked perfectly decent. After years of lonely practice I knew exactly how to please myself, where and for how long to stroke myself before finally succumbing to the demands of my clitoris to be touched. To help me I conjured up another picture of the boy next door. This time I wanted him to discover me – in flagrante, as it were.

This time, his desire for me overcoming his shyness, he actually appeared in mother’s garden – now, for the purposes of my fantasy, completely secluded and impossible to be overlooked. Oblivious to his approach, I dozed in the sun, naked, my legs slightly apart, my breasts and sex exposed, my fingers almost casually at their work. Only when his shadow fell across me did I realise I was no longer alone.

I pretended shock. “Oh!”

But then my verbal imagination failed me. I could dream up no answering dialogue. Plainly he was the strong silent type. Dressed in shorts and t-shirt, his answer was a long thick bulge pointing upwards to his waist.

“What do you want?” I asked, putting a little girlish tremor into my voice.

“You’re beautiful,” he answered in a surprisingly deep voice. (Perhaps I was beginning to feel guilty about having such a young boy in my fantasy.) “I want to watch you do it.”

“Do what?” I teased.

“You know.”

“This?” Watching him to see his reaction, I opened my legs wider and moved my hand up and down between them.

He swallowed. “Yes.”

I smiled. “Only if you do it too.”

Shyly he pulled his shorts down to his ankles. His large red cock sprang upwards, its smooth head shining in the sun, already glistening with a drop or two of semen.

“Stroke it,” I commanded. He immediately began pumping it energetically. “But slowly.” With what looked like a great effort of will, he slowed his hand to a gentle stroking. Fascinated, I watched as the head slowly disappeared beneath his fingers, then reappeared. Did it seem bigger each time, or was that just my fantasy getting out of control?

While my eyes were locked on his throbbing manhood, his own were fixed on my hand, busy between my legs.

“Open your legs more.” I did as he urged. I watched him lick his lips nervously. Though I was prone and he was standing above me, I knew I was the one in control. I was the one who was turning him on. He was hard because of me, because of my nakedness, because of what I was doing to myself.

On the other hand, I was also nearing my climax. Back in the real world, alone, lying back on the recliner, I had allowed my finger to find my clitoris. Its aching need to be touched had become too much to resist. I was stroking it, rolling it between my fingers, pinching it gently. Opening my eyes I could see that the kimono had fallen open. A naked leg was bent at the knee and propped to one side. My hand was visible, but I made no move to cover it. I was beyond the point of caring.

I could feel flamingos inside me wanting to take off. I closed my eyes and conjured up my sixteen-year old admirer again. From the expression on his face, he was also close to orgasm. The movements of his hand were becoming jerky, uncontrollable.

“Oh Jesus!” he cried, just once, then closed his eyes tight shut – unlike me, who wanted to see everything. A silky white ribbon shot from the end of his cock and landed across my breasts, and another, and another. (At least, that is what I imagined. In truth I had never seen a man ejaculate, so complete had been my decade-long incarceration.) Some dribbled down his hand as he continued to pump himself, but slowly now. I smiled in triumph. Though it had been his hand doing the work, I had been the inspiration.

It was enough to tip me over the edge. Done with him now I made him disappear from the garden and my own body return to the recliner. The kimono was gaping, my other leg bent and propped apart while my fingers brought me to that place where all thought evaporates and only intense pleasure remains. Starting at the soles of my feet a thousand flamingos began to take off, one or two to begin with, then the whole flock, up through my legs, through my pelvis and stomach, over my breasts and out into the sun, soaring, wings beating, until the exquisite pleasure beneath my fingers became too much to bear and I had to stop.

I lay listening to the rapid beating in my breast, the short bursts of breath from my open mouth. Under my fingers my clitoris throbbed. Gently I patted and soothed it, as if calming a fretful child. The flamingos wheeled high in the sky until they eventually disappeared from view. I gradually became aware of my surroundings. The garden, the trees, the patio, the recliner, my open kimono, my unseen neighbours.

I closed the kimono, tied it securely, got up and went inside mother’s house to wash the breakfast things.

For the next few days I set about trying to rebuild a social life, but it proved fruitless. My old friends from college days had found new lives for themselves. Phone calls were answered by strangers, letters returned unopened. I went to old haunts but found them closed, empty or packed with people ten years younger than me.

Eventually I realised I couldn’t hope to restart my old life; I would have to begin a new one.

And in truth the prospect thrilled rather than daunted me. It felt like being on the verge of birth, but with all the advantages of adulthood. I was intelligent, educated, attractive and comfortably off. And though I wasn’t very experienced in the areas of sex, love and romance, at least I was mature enough not to have to go through all that ghastly teenage angst. I would soon find new friends, male and female, but I would take my time. I wasn’t so desperate that I would rush into whatever relationships came my way. To begin with I would – what was the expression? – play the field. It hardly sounded like me – a woman who had barely said hello to another person for ten years – but I was going to have some fun.

So I booked myself a singles holiday in Greece.

From almost the moment I arrived at the airport for check-in I realised I had made a mistake. I found myself surrounded by girls who seemed from the way they behaved to be not much more than half my age and boys already so drunk they could hardly stand. Gritting my teeth through the flight, I went in search of another hotel as soon as we landed, taking the first bus I could see, hardly caring where it was going.

Squeezed for an hour between Australian backpackers and old women in black headscarves, eventually I found myself deposited on the opposite side of the island in a whitewashed fishing village almost entirely devoid of tourists. With relief I took what felt like my first breath since I had left England. Evidently I was not yet ready for ‘fun’. Solitude was what I had become used to. Solitude was obviously what I liked.

The only hotel overlooked the harbour and I took a small plain room at the front with a little balcony on which I could take breakfast in the morning and enjoy a pre-dinner glass of wine in the evening. It was, quite simply, idyllic.

During the day I explored the nearby beaches, which though small were very pretty, hidden down dusty paths through olive groves. Most were well frequented, though none were busy by European standards, and as I ventured further afield I found one or two that remained completely deserted all day. I suppose I could be accused of being unadventurous – I had, after all, intended to come on this holiday in order to kickstart my social life – but those were the beaches I found myself drawn to. With a novel for company and no sound but the gentle lapping of the tideless Mediterranean and the cicadas to disturb me I was happy. When the heat became too much I would dive into the sea or retreat under the shade of an olive tree. Though it was costing me money I pretended that I was living the simple life. True, I was making no friends – other than the aged moustached owner of my favourite café – but what of that? For the first time in my life I was truly without a care in the world.

It was on the fifth day of my holiday – my illusion, as I subsequently came to think of it – that my peace was shattered.

I was alone on my favourite beach. The intensity of the midday sun had forced me back under the olive trees and I was lying on my front, eyes closed – my book boring me temporarily – half-dozing, but not quite asleep, when I heard voices. Suppressing a quick flash of irritation at having what I had come to regard as my own private beach invaded – I was after all supposed to be looking for new friends – I lifted my head to see who had arrived.

At first all I could see was a large outboard-powered inflatable half in the sea and half on the sand, but then I noticed two men walking a little way down the beach, dressed only in swimming trunks and carrying what appeared to be snorkelling gear. As they walked, they looked around at the beach, presumably assessing its qualities, and judging by their satisfied expressions, coming to positive conclusions. Though their eyes swept past where I was lying, evidently they didn’t see me. I was well inside the grove of trees and had no brightly coloured towel or costume to make me stand out. Furthermore, more by accident than by design, I had positioned myself behind a couple of large rocks, so was almost completely hidden from the beach, except perhaps by someone who was particularly looking for me.

Part of me wanted to stand up and make my presence known. I told myself I wasn’t shy – and truth to tell I was growing a little bored with my own company. But another part of me – the recluse? the voyeur? – decided to stay hidden, to watch them unobserved, to be – well, why not? – entertained for a while.

They donned the snorkelling gear amid a lot of boyish pushing around and elbowing. They looked in their early 20s, though I couldn’t tell for sure at that distance and though I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I could tell by their accents that they were American. They were tanned and lean and had – what would the girls at the airport have called them? – prominent sixpacks. They looked as if they had spent the entire summer in Greece, perhaps even swimming from island to island. They certainly looked physically capable of it.

They dived into the water and disappeared from view, only the tops of their snorkels and the occasional flop of a flipper giving away their positions. They seemed to cover enormous distances effortlessly. I recalled with embarrassment my own painfully awkward breast stroke and was relieved I had after all decided to stay low.

After a few minutes I became bored and dug my book out. But I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew I was woken by the sound of their voices again. Surreptitiously I looked up. They were sitting on the sand, their snorkelling gear discarded. At that moment one of them – dark-haired – stood up and with a quick glance round to make sure they really were alone, slipped his swimming costume off.

I was so surprised I didn’t even have the presence of mind to pretend to be asleep, just in case he did see me. I just stared. He was the first naked man I had ever seen. Though evidently nudity wasn’t a rare experience for him: I could see only the faintest hint of a tan line. His belly and limp penis were almost as brown as the rest of him.

He took a towel and rubbed himself cursorily. At first I assumed that was why he had stripped and that now he would dress – a prospect that disappointed me, I admit it – but he showed no sign of doing so. Instead he said something to his blond friend, evidently a suggestion that he do the same, though as I say I couldn’t hear the words. But equally evidently, his friend demurred, shaking his head and lying back on the sand.

The dark-haired one regarded him with contempt for a moment, then lunged for his friend’s trunks, attempting to pull them off him. Laughing and pretending to be frightened, the blond one leapt up and ran down the beach. The dark one gave chase, making whooping noises like a red indian. By rights he shouldn’t have caught his friend but he was, I now saw, slightly taller and older, and just had the edge on speed. The blond one zigzagged to avoid being caught, but the dark-haired one was soon upon him. He grabbed for the blond’s trunks and brought his friend down. Within a second the trunks were off and in his hand. Triumphantly he whirled them in the air, then let them go. They sailed ten yards into the sea, from where the blond had to rescue them.

BobbiR
BobbiR
258 Followers
12