Rolling in the Deep

As they walked to the house, Trip decided to try an experiment. He moved his hand down her arm to take her hand in his. You could tell a lot about a woman from the way she held your hand. If she went limp, being completely passive, it was a bad sign. It often meant that she was apathetic or empty. If, on the other hand, she resisted or tried to take control herself, it was yet another red flag. That mean she was an alpha female who needed to assert herself and essentially be a "top". Trip couldn't abide either of those extremes, to be honest.

He slid his fingers between Camy's, grasping her hand. He could feel her reacting beside him. Her arm quivered and though she tried to hide it, her breathing became more erratic. Her hand shaped itself to his, and her fingers engaged in a little interplay. Their palms moved against each other, tender as a kiss -- reminding him of the lines from Romeo and Juliet:

"For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,

And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."

Trip dragged his thumbnail across her palm, knowing that this would have an erogenous effect. He was not disappointed when he saw her lips part and felt her breath catch. His erection jumped slightly. He began to think about what he would do when he had her inside his house. This mind fucking was delicious, and he didn't want to scare her off or move too fast.

When they got to the deck, Trip walked over toward the outdoor showers and used a large soft brush and mini hose to clean the sand off of his cuffs and feet. Camy hovered for a moment behind him, her lower lip once again snagged between her perfect teeth.

"Allow me." Trip offered, inviting her to sit on the teak bench. She seemed a little confused, but took a seat as he indicated. This time she did gasp as he knelt down and caught hold of one slim ankle, lifting her foot up. He looked at her for a second before spraying the sand from her foot with the hose. He admired her shapely, expertly groomed feet. They were slender and neither overly large nor small. She wore wine-colored polish on her toes. Trip allowed himself to almost fondle the foot in his hand, his palm cupping the tender arch as his thumb rubbed the inside curve. When he'd finished rinsing one foot, Camy moved to pull it away, but he held it captive, actually pressing her foot to his chest, causing a wet spot. Camy gaped at him, unable to speak.

"One second..." He smiled mischievously as he reached behind her and snapped a towel off of a hook. He rubbed her foot dry with the towel with both hands. Camy was practically shaking. Her panties beneath the tight Capri running pants were a lost cause. She was glad they were black, and hoped he couldn't tell how aroused she was. But her nipples were another story. They were pushing aggressively through the microfiber of her sports bra and there was nothing she could do about that. She briefly considered putting her hoodie back on -- but that would have looked weird and only drawn attention to the situation.

Trip laid the towel on the deck at her feet, finally allowing her to put her foot down on it. Looking back up at her with a wicked smirk, he said: "Now let's have the other one, shall we?" Camy leaned back, her hands gripping the edge of the bench as he took hold of her other ankle and began to repeat the action.

He took his time with this foot. He scraped his short, neatly trimmed fingernails down her ankle, over her heel, and up under her arch as he directed the water over her skin. When he threaded his fingers between her toes, Camy jumped, her leg jerking back reflexively so that he had to grip her foot tightly to hang onto it. He cocked an eyebrow and asked: "Are you ticklish, Camy?"

She gave him a mock scowl, trying unsuccessfully to not smile. "Yeah..." she breathed out in a low voice. "Something like that." Trip stilled, regarding her with frank sexuality. He'd put down the hose and was massaging her foot with the pads of his thumbs. His eyes were becoming heavy-lidded as they roamed over her body, focusing for a few moments on her breasts. He made a soft "mmm" sound deep in his throat. There, she thought, now he's seen them. I'm a goner!

"So..." he growled softly, "It might affect you if I did this..." He lifted her foot and pressed his lips to her arch. A sharp bolt of electricity ran from her foot directly into her pussy. Camy's head fell back, a sharp cry issuing from her. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. Trip kept his eyes on her face. His smile was dangerous as his hand moved caressingly down her calf.

"Or maybe this..." he murmured, as he slipped his tongue between her big toe and her second, and then pulled her big toe into his mouth. His teeth grazed her skin as his tongue flickered against her.

"Oh my god!" Camy couldn't stop her body from shaking. He raised his head and hooked her ankle over his shoulder, turning his face so he could trail kisses up the inside of her leg. So slowly, Camy thought she might scream, he lowered her leg as far as his waist and he crawled toward her, pulling her body to the edge of the bench.

They were eye to eye, Trip on his knees, Camy seated. He took hold of her other leg, and hooked it, likewise, around his waist. She obediently complied as he reached behind his back to encourage her to cross her ankles behind him. Their faces were mere inches from each other as he brought his arms around her, his hands pressing her lower back to bring their lower bodies into tight contact. She could feel his erection pushing against her wetness through all those clothes.

"Put your arms around my neck, Camy." He quietly commanded. Her eyes scanned his as she silently moved her hands up his biceps, over his shoulders, and wrapped them around his neck, the fingers of her right hand threading through his hair.

Their eyes were locked. They only needed to move their heads slightly to be kissing. For some reason, they both wanted to draw it out and torture themselves a bit longer. Trip drew in a slow, deep breath, enjoying the way it pressed his body more tightly to hers. She found herself whispering his name, like a fervent prayer.

Suddenly, Barnaby began to bark loudly, clearly in alarm. They were both startled and tore away from each other, as Trip, cursing violently under his breath, stood to see what had set the dog off. The Lab was barking loudly, running side to side in front of the French Doors, as if reacting to someone in the house. As Trip walked over toward the doors he froze, straightening and running a hand through his hair.

He glanced over at Camy, a rueful smile on his face as he tilted his head in a sort of apology. The doors opened and an elegant older couple walked out onto the deck.

The woman was slight, her gray hair styled in a smart chignon. She wore enormous, stylish black sunglasses and was dressed in white trousers and a black sweater set. The man was lean and tall, about Trip's height, and was obviously his father. The resemblance was unmistakable. He had a full head of closely cropped white hair and wore crisp khakis and a dark sport coat. Trip spread his arms wide; his smile was genuine as he said:

"Mom, Dad! I had no idea you were coming! Why didn't you call?" His mother took hold of his face and gave him a loud, smacking kiss, patting his cheek with one hand.

"Oh we just landed in Hyannis, dear. We're off to Bar Harbor tomorrow to go sailing with the Browns, but we wanted to surprise you. Molly said you were on your own and we thought it would be wonderful to see you." Trip and his father smiled at one another before hugging completely unselfconsciously. Trip's father even placed a quick kiss on his forehead before shoving his hands back in his pants pockets. His mother had at this point spied Camy, who'd risen from the bench and was shrugging into her hoodie.

"Oh! Hello there! I'm so sorry, darling, I didn't think you had company and here we are barging in." She walked straight over to Camy with her fine-boned, papery hand outstretched. Her face was completely open and warm even though her sharp eyes took in every detail of Camy's running clothes and pink face. "I'm Margaret Miller, dearie, but everyone calls me Meg and so should you."

Camy couldn't help liking this woman already. She closed the distance between them, taking her proffered hand and shaking it with equal warmth. Shaking her head, she said: "No, no -- I'm not a guest, I'm a neighbor and a -- tenant, I guess. I'm renting your lovely cottage on the cliff. I'm Camy Serafian. Very nice to meet you, Meg."

Meg turned back, motioning to her husband, saying "And this is Trip's father, JT. So you're one of the ladies from Manhattan who rented Nana's cottage. How lovely. You are a pretty thing, aren't you!"

Without giving Camy a window to reply, she turned back to Trip and exclaimed: "Coffee, sonny boy! Coffee, please. Your mummy is dying here."

Trip was making eye contact with Camy, laughing resignedly. "We were just about to make some for ourselves. C'mon Meg -- let's go brew something up."

He waited, his arm outstretched to Camy in invitation, as Meg and JT walked back into the house. As she drew near, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, his voice very sexy:

"Sorry about this. It's not what I expected, or hoped, would happen now."

Camy laughed, smiling up at him, her cheeks still rosy. "It's okay, really. Your parents seem great. I don't want to intrude, should I leave you guys alone to catch up?"

He caught her arm and shook his head adamantly. "Don't you dare run off, my Selkie. This is but a brief interruption. At least now you'll actually get coffee." They both laughed at that.

As they were about to go through the French doors, Camy paused, looking back at Trip. "Why did you call me 'Silky'?" She asked.

"Selkie. Long story. I'll tell you all about it later." He promised, dropping a chaste little kiss on her temple. He watched her walk into the house, sighing to himself in frustration. His parents did say they were flying out tomorrow. Trip wasn't sure he could wait that long.

Saturday, 9:00 AM

Camy turned on the shower, letting the water temperature warm up as she stripped off her running clothes. She was replaying the last few hours in her mind.

She'd spent a little over two hours having coffee and toast with Trip and his parents. She found herself liking him more and more. Originally just taken with his overall "presence" and good looks, she learned more about him by observing the way he behaved with his parents and how they spoke of him, than she would have if she'd spent days getting to know him one to one. Her cheeks flamed at this thought, because it reminded her of what had been going on before his parents' unexpected arrival.

She stood in front of the mirror, which was becoming coated with steam, and looked critically at herself. Pulling the ponytail band from her hair, she let it fall down around her shoulders. Camy knew that she grappled with her self-esteem, and she knew why. Her ex and her mom had been extraordinarily tough on her: critical of her looks, seemingly never quite satisfied with her. She remembered a particularly painful conversation with Bill when he suggested she get breast implants. She hovered between a B and C cup, which Camy thought was ample -- but Bill wanted her to be larger. He also bought her a gift certificate for Botox injections on her 39th birthday. Camy pretended to be pleased, but later cried in the bathroom because she knew it meant he felt she was looking old.

But Camy felt different now, somehow. The way Trip looked at her -- but more importantly, the way she felt when she looked at herself -- she didn't feel old or inadequate. She felt beautiful. Sexy, even. Her authenticity was something she liked and wanted to hang onto. Running her hands down her body, Camy felt her own sensuality becoming unleashed. All those years of disciplined exercise meant that her breasts were firm and tight. Her waist was long and narrow, tummy flat, and her hips curved down to her lean, muscular thighs and slim calves. Turning to the side, she looked at the shape of her ass -- it wasn't too bad, she thought. It curved in the right places and didn't sag. All that running, over all that time. Maybe, Camy thought, she was finally getting somewhere.

She stepped into the shower and soon began to think about Trip, and those moments on the deck before they were interrupted. They hadn't even kissed yet, but she'd felt how aroused he was. The carnal look in his eyes, and the deep commanding power of his voice. She'd have done anything he wanted. That thought didn't frighten her, it caused a delicious thrill that ran all the way down her spine and culminated in her womb.

Camy moaned when she remembered what his mouth had felt like on her sensitive feet. Her fingers slipped down her soap-slicked body to flutter at the hood surrounding her clit. The moment she touched herself, she felt a tiny shockwave of excitement course through her. Closing her eyes, she used both hands on herself. Her left hand held her nether lips open, while her right flicked over her clit. She imagined that it was Trip's tongue, doing to her pussy what he'd done to her toes. Camy moaned aloud as a tiny flood of additional wetness surged inside her. Her natural lubrication mixed with the water and soap, making it easy for her fingers to fly over her hard little knob with greater intensity. Leaning back against the shower wall, Camy inserted the index and middle finger of her left hand inside as she rapidly stroked her clit with the middle finger of her right hand. As she fucked herself with her own fingers, she began to pretend that it was Trip's cock moving inside her. Her pleasure crested and the climax overtook her. She cried out, her knees going weak, as her insides seemed to explode in a series of violent waves. She actually felt dizzy, and needed to brace herself against the tiles to remain steady.

Camy laughed, delightedly, as she slowly came down from this heady feeling. She finished bathing, singing another one of her favorite tunes:

"You're my thrill. You do something to me.

You send chills right through me

when I look at you 'cause you're my thrill..."

Saturday, 5:55 PM

The skies had darkened ominously and the normally calm waters of the Sound roiled with swells and white caps. Waves crashed against the rocks again and again, throwing spray high up into the air. The wind velocity had increased, blowing fiercely across the water. When a particularly strong gust reached the cottage, it made an almost eerie howling sound. Camy had gone out some minutes earlier and brought in all the cushions from the deck, along with smaller items that might be blown around in a stronger wind. She'd stacked them neatly out of the way in the laundry room.

She also gathered together in the kitchen a collection of candles in holders and a box of wooden matches, in case the power went out. She shivered involuntarily at the thought. Camy wasn't easily frightened, but being all alone, in a blackout, in this large empty house on a cliff during a hurricane was rattling her nerves just a bit.

After her shower that morning, she'd put on a simple summer dress that was one of her favorites. It was sleeveless, with a sweetheart neckline that plunged low, revealing some rather flattering cleavage. The dress nipped in at the waist and then flared into a swingy A-line skirt that reached just above her knees. The print was of large, pale cabbage roses in shades of pink, rose and red. It was a very romantic dress and Camy always felt very pretty in it. She'd put on rather sexy underwear: a baby pink lace demi-bra paired with matching boy shorts. Camy told herself that she just felt like looking pretty - it wasn't because she expected Trip to stop by. Why would he? She asked herself. His parents were visiting and he'd want to stay there to spend time with them, after all. She rolled her eyes at her own reflection as she dabbed a little soft red gloss on her full lips. Pretty though the dress may be, as the temperature dropped and the storm neared, it was not the warmest choice.

She went to the fireplace, and got it ready for a fire. She stacked kindling, paper and logs into place on the grate so that it would be ready to light if and when needed. The howling wind was starting to jangle her nerves. Music! That is what she needed. Camy found the cabinet that contained all the stereo and CD equipment, and turned it on. The FM station was already pre-set to a classical radio station. The room was filled with the sounds of Schubert's Arabesque in C Major. Camy already started to feel better. She picked up her book and curled up in a comfortable spot on the overstuffed, slipcovered sofa in the great room. She pulled a lovely knit throw over her bare legs and began to read.

She'd lost herself in a chapter of her book, when she was startled back to reality by flash of lightening followed a moment later by a loud, house-rattling clap of thunder. Rain began to fall in a massive sheet, pelting the windows and the surfaces outside. Camy looked at the mantle clock -- it had just passed 6:30. Debussy's Clair de Lune was playing on the stereo. Outside, it had become as dark as night, even though sunset would not come for another two hours. Camy marked her page, putting the book down, and walked over to the windows, drawing the small afghan around her like a wrap.

The storm was starting in earnest now. The ocean roared outside and the high winds ripped around the cottage nonstop. Another blinding flash caused Camy to jump back from the windows. She started to count the "Mississippi's" like she did as a child, but had barely gotten to "two Mississippi" when the thunder shook the house. She walked back toward the sofa and turned on the lamps on the console table behind it. The soft glow of the lamps helped a little to dispel her nervousness.

Deciding she needed a glass of wine, Camy walked toward the kitchen, only to freeze, a chill running down her back. The jarring alarm of the Emergency Broadcast System had cut off Debussy and blared across the room. The radio station was sounding the rather terrifying alarm reserved for messages about imminent emergencies. Camy clutched the blanket more closely around herself as she listened to the broadcast message. Hurricane force winds, thundershowers, heavy rains and potential flooding. Oh dear.

Saturday, 6:44 PM

Trip was throwing candles, flashlights, matches and batteries and a battery-operated radio into a duffle bag. His mother was seated at the kitchen table, watching him with the ghost of a smile on her face, her hands cradling a glass of Scotch.

Trip caught the amused expression on her face and paused what he was doing. "What?" He demanded, running a hand through his wild hair for what must have been the twentieth time.

"Nothing, dear. Just wondering if you have enough supplies there. Are you sure you don't need any C-rations, bandages, blankets, flare guns?" She smirked at him as she finished. His father barked in laughter from the living room.

"Ha ha -- make fun if you must, but she's our tenant and is all alone up there. I'm just going over to make sure she's okay and that the cottage is buttoned down for the storm. It's common courtesy, Mother, I would think you'd appreciate that." He turned away to hide the flush that had crept into his cheeks. That was not lost on Meg.

"It's funny how whenever you're feeling defensive, my name becomes 'Mother'." Seeing Trip turn and prepare to protest, she held up a hand to stop him. "Relax, relax. Listen, my baby boy -- I think it shows absolutely lovely manners to make sure your summer renter is okay. I just think you should stop pretending that you don't view her as something significantly more than 'our tenant'. We saw how you looked at her this morning."