A Week in the Caribbean

"Probably still get you drunk," Chuck concluded.

"I had worked that out for myself, but thanks for your insight."

Once again, we were the only two sitting at the outdoor bar, the rain drumming down on the canopies. The pool had a cover over it to keep the rainwater out and all in all, this part of the resort looked thoroughly miserable, especially in the dark. Sopping wet sun loungers and dripping palm trees really didn't conjure the image of tropical luxury.

"So, the party?" Chuck asked.

"I will come. If that's okay with you."

"Sure, that's okay with me. Sounds awesome."

"What time?"

"I guess around three."

"I'll meet you here."

"Awesome."

We both watched the rain. I had dressed, somewhat optimistically, in a white t-shirt and pale yellow shorts over my deep purple tie-side bikini, in case we did any swimming again. My wet bra and knickers had been awkward to explain this morning.

"Got any more good stories?" I asked, somewhat wearily.

"Nah, I'm not in a storytelling mood," Chuck said. "This rain isn't the right time for them."

Another minute of silence.

"So, you go home on Sunday, huh?"

I sighed. "Yeah, back to the call centre on Monday." It was hard to believe it was only three days away.

"I'll give you a call, maybe. Ask to speak to the Team Manager."

I managed a half-laugh. "All our calls are recorded for training and monitoring purposes, remember."

"Oh, yeah, sure."

Another lapse into silence. Thinking about going back to work and how different the world would feel in a few short days kicked me into gear, though. I wasn't going to waste my last night in our private little world here at the bar.

"Come on, let's play a game. Drinking game. Get properly trolleyed, then recover tomorrow in the pool at the party," I demanded, tapping my finger on the bar.

"Woah, lady, hold your horses there. I'm supposed to cut guests off before they get, what did you call it, 'properly trolleyed'? Great expression, by the way, love it," Chuck said, perking up considerably. He pulled two shot glasses out from under the bar and put them in front of us, filling them with vodka.

"No, not vodka, something disgusting," I told him.

He got two more glasses. "I know just the thing. It's rum infused with mango."

"Perfect."

He filled the new glasses with it, and I picked up the shot glass with vodka in. "No sense wasting this. Might as well get things going."

"God save the King," Chuck said, in his dreadful English accent, as we touched the glasses together then saw them off.

"What are the rules for this game?" he asked.

"Let's see... Okay, let's play 'shit or hit'."

"That sounds disgusting. Tell me more."

"So, you take turns to ask questions. You can either ask a regular question, where the other person answers, and then you judge whether their answer was shit or hit. If it's shit, they drink. If it's hit, you drink. Or, you can ask a would-you-rather question, like, say, would you rather be in a rock band or be a professional footballer? Then the other person answers, and if you agree, it's a hit and no-one drinks, if you disagree, it's shit and you both drink."

"Simple enough. What kind of football?"

"Huh?"

"Do you mean American football, or English football?"

"Oh, English football."

"Then I'd rather be in a rock band. Soccer is a girls' sport."

"I'd love to hear you say that in a crowded pub back home."

We both laughed.

"I love it. A crowded pub, not a packed bar. You English are so cute."

"That's a bit patronising."

"Same as those roundabout things you have over there. A cute little circle for cars to drive around, with flowers in the middle. Not a big dirty intersection."

"We're getting off topic."

"Well, you need to tell me, is being in a rock band shit or hit?"

I smiled. "It's hit. I've always hated sport."

"We both drink, right?"

"No, it's the other way around. We agree, so neither of us drinks."

But the drinks were right there in front of us. We both drank.

"That really is disgusting," I said, wrinkling my nose as the aftertaste hit me.

"That's why nobody ever asks for it," Chuck said. "But the resort has a discount agreement with whoever makes it, so we have to have it. There's crates of bottles sitting in the storehouse."

"I dare you to take some to the party tomorrow and drink nothing else," I giggled.

"Oh, we're doing dares, now?"

"No, no, still playing shit or hit."

"Alright, I'll drink the disgusting rum and mango so long as you do one dare in return."

"Okay, that's fair. What is it?"

"I'm gonna sit on it for a while. I'll let you know when I've decided."

With that hanging over me, Chuck refilled the shot glasses.

"My turn. Would you rather live here, or in England?"

"You mean, here at the resort?"

"Yeah. Live in your room, but you don't have to pay for anything, or live in England like normal."

It was a good question. "Free stuff is always nice, but I'd get bored here. I choose England."

"Shit," Chuck declared. "You drink."

I forced down the rum and he refilled the glass instantly.

"Okay, here's a question. Out of the two girlfriends you have, who would you pick if you had to marry one of them right now?"

"Nice question," Chuck said, looking pained. "Probably Marsha, not Lila."

"Why Marsha?"

"She's hotter than Lila, I think."

I rolled my eyes. "Wow. Unbelievable."

He shrugged. "I told you, I only see them for fun. Neither of them is a marrying type."

"Still, that's a shit answer."

He smiled at me over the glass and then drained it.

"How'd you lose your v-card?" he asked, sounding casual as he filled the glass again.

"Getting straight to the personal questions, I see."

"It's your game, not mine."

"He was a guy called Darren Macfarlane, he was going out with this girl I didn't like who was called Tara something-or-other, I've forgotten now. They were both in the year above me at school. We were at a party, probably someone's eighteenth, I was already eighteen and Darren was flirting with me a little, I have no idea what Tara was doing, most likely talking to someone else. We kissed when nobody was looking and then locked ourselves in the downstairs toilet, I thought he'd probably just finger me and I'd wank him off but he really wanted to fuck me and he had a condom, so, we did it. It was truly terrible."

Chuck smiled. "Now that's a good story. I thought you would've been the high school sweetheart type."

"No, not me. I never had a boyfriend longer than a few weeks until I met Simon."

"I'll give you a hit for that." Chuck picked up his drink, sniffed it, made a face and then downed it, making me laugh.

"Same question to you," I said, feeling my heart race slightly as I asked.

Chuck nodded. "I shoulda seen that coming. Mine is much more boring: her name was Julia, she was Puerto Rican, I was nineteen and she was twenty-three. I met her at college one night, we went back to her room, I never spoke to her again afterwards."

"You were that bad?" I teased. "Wow."

"Maybe," Chuck said, shrugging. "One day when I'm forty I'll probably call her up out of the blue and ask."

"That's a depressing prospect for her. I'll give you a pity hit."

"I don't need your pity, lady," Chuck said, but I was already drinking.

"Your turn," I gasped, the overwhelming mango tang going up my nose.

"Sex on a bed or sex in the shower?"

"Bed. So much more comfortable," I answered immediately.

Chuck thought about this. "Yeah, you're right. More possibilities on a bed."

We both drank before I remembered we shouldn't, and I could already feel the alcohol in my system.

"Do you prefer boobs or bum?"

Chuck snorted. "Bum? You mean ass, right?"

"Ass, then." The word sounded weird when I said it, like I was putting on an American voice.

"I'm definitely a boobs man. But I'm not saying no to ass either."

"Hit," I said, drinking again and regretting suggesting such a disgusting drink. But Chuck was already refilling.

"Same question to you," he said.

"What, boobs or arse?"

"Arse," he repeated, in that awful accent. "That ain't cute at all."

"Shut the fuck up. I already answered this, I said hit when you said boobs."

"Oh, yeah, good point. Okay, do-over. Would you have sex if you knew someone was watching?"

"Hmm." I thought about this. "Depends who."

"No, no, that's cheating. Answer the question."

"Then, no, not if I didn't know who it was. It might be some kind of pervert."

Chuck laughed. "Shit."

"Oh come on, that's not a shit answer."

"I told you, it's your game. You made the rules."

I took a final drink of rum and then stopped him from pouring more. "Go back to vodka, I'm gonna throw up if we keep drinking this."

"I have to drink it all day tomorrow," Chuck pointed out, but he put the rum bottle away. "And anyway, I thought of a dare for you."

"Oh?"

Chuck looked out at the pool again. "I dare you to go and stand in the rain for ten seconds."

"Wow, what a childish dare," I giggled. "Are you going to dare me to lick an icy lamppost too?"

He laughed again. "A lamppost? You mean a street light?"

"Let's agree to disagree." I slid off the bar stool and stood up, slightly hazily, looking out at the rain. It was the Caribbean after all; it wasn't freezing cold British rain that would leave me shivering. I dashed out a few yards into the full flow of the rain, turned to face Chuck, and watched as he counted up to ten on his fingers. Then I dashed back under the cover of the bar canopy, already wringing water out of my hair.

"Happy?" I asked, standing on the spot and shaking my head and my arms to get the raindrops off.

He grinned, and I followed his gaze down to my chest. The rain had turned my t-shirt see-through and the purple fabric of my bikini top was very visible in the bar lighting.

"Amazing, you're so clever," I said, unimpressed.

"You're the one that agreed to do it."

I reached to my waist and pulled my wet shirt over my head, using the dryer parts to pat my hair dry, then sliding off my shorts, too. Down to just my bikini, which I figured would dry fastest, I got back onto the bar stool and looked at him. He was fighting a losing battle trying not to look at my cleavage.

"What colour do you call that?" he asked, unexpectedly.

I looked down. "The purple? The website called it 'eggplant'."

"Eggplant, yeah, that makes sense." He nodded. I suspected the question was an excuse for him to stare more.

"Anyway, it's my turn," I said, moving right along. "Here's the ultimate one: blowjob or pussy fuck?"

"Pussy fuck, no question."

I giggled at him. "Do you not like blowjobs?"

"I like them well enough, but it's just no contest. If I'm in bed with a girl and she says, 'Hey, do you want a blowjob or to fuck me?', I'm fucking her every time."

"No, no way. Fucking is just, whatever, I could be on social media or watching TV or something. A blowjob, that's way more intense."

Chuck shrugged. "I'm just telling you what I think."

I shook my head. "Sounds like you just haven't had a really good blowjob."

"I've had some good blowjobs, don't worry about that."

"No, I mean, really good. The kind of blowjob where, when you're finished, you think, 'Holy fucking shit, I've got to marry this girl'."

"Well, I've never thought that, so I guess you're right."

I hadn't realised I felt quite so strongly about sucking guys off until now and I blushed slightly, embarrassed about my weird enthusiasm. I felt like I'd crossed a line, somehow.

"What about you? Have you ever given a guy one of those blowjobs?"

Our eyes met. He'd asked so casually, but his face betrayed something else. Nerves, maybe.

"I think so."

"So you think your skills are pretty good?" He smiled.

"I mean, I've never competed in a blowjob contest or anything, but I'm quietly confident."

"Where do I apply to judge a blowjob contest?"

I giggled again. I was feeling very drunk.

"Is a blowjob contest the kind of thing that happens at topless pool parties?" I asked.

He looked thoughtful. "I guess it's not impossible."

I looked right at him. Rational thought had completely departed with the fifth or sixth or whatever shot of mango rum. "Maybe if that security camera was switched off, I could brush up my skills...?"

He didn't hesitate in pulling off his shirt, putting it on the bar to keep it dry, then dashing off into the rain. I couldn't see the red light of the camera through the darkness from here, but suddenly he was back, his upper body glistening with the rain. I had a moment where I freaked out: oh fuck oh fuck I just offered to suck his dick what am I going to do, oh fuck oh fuck. But then I mastered myself again. I stepped up to him, my hand on his side, pushing him gently up against the bar. Then I kissed his collarbone, suddenly inhaling his scent, more intense because he was wet like this. I moved downwards, not kissing but tracing his skin with my lips, his muscles tense and rigid underneath, my lips wet as they picked up the raindrops. Just as I reached the waistband of his shorts there was suddenly hair interrupting the smoothness, and I took that as my cue to slide my fingers into the waistband and pull downward, dropping to my knees.

Of all the things I expected to think at that moment, I had not expected it to be this: he had such a pretty cock. It was fully hard and, as he was standing, sticking out in front of him at an upward angle. I had never in my life thought of a man's penis as attractive before. But Chuck's really was: it was almost completely straight, curving slightly upwards, and the skin was unblemished and a beautiful colour. The tip was damp with a tiny spot of precum and the hair around the base, down to his big, round, perfectly sexy balls, only served to make it look even more masculine, somehow. Like, this was a real cock, as insane as that sounded. This was the first time in my life that I was looking at a penis and thinking, fuck, I really want this thing inside me. Really, really want it.

I held my hand out and cupped his balls gently and his cock responded by pulsing, twitching upwards. I glanced up at him: Chuck's hands were gripping the wooden bar, steadying himself, looking down at me. I smiled, softly, brushing my hand upwards, from his balls to the base of his shaft, feeling its warmth, its smoothness. I looked back down at it, reminded immediately again just how sexy it looked, and I wrapped my hand around the base. The diamond in my engagement ring caught the light, glittering, the silver bands of both my rings sliding over his cock as I began stroking, gently. He let out a breath, and I put my other hand on his leg, his hard, tight thigh muscle straining under my fingers. I traced the outline of it, in love with every facet of his body.

Breaking away from my thoughts, I followed his thigh upwards until my hand was on his abdomen, close to but not touching his cock, and I rested it there, applying gentle pressure to brace myself. I looked at his cock, the head so close to me I could barely focus on it. I closed my eyes for a moment and licked, the tip of my tongue meeting the tip of his cock, the immediate taste and sensation of precum hitting me. I licked again, very lightly, against the underside of his cock, my eyes flicking upwards to look at him. His eyes were closed, his face drawn tight, every cell in his body focused on what he was feeling. I tilted my head forward, my wet lips opening, and in a smooth movement I pushed the head of his cock into my mouth.

All of my senses were overloaded with the sheer existence of him. The taste of his cock, the feel of it, hard and rigid in my mouth, depressing my tongue, the delicious sight of his shaft disappearing into me. The sound of his first real moan. I, Natalie, call centre team manager, married mum of two, had his cock in my mouth. And I could tell with each breath he took, each noise of satisfaction, how much he wanted this. How much he'd longed for it. For me.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd sucked a cock. But the technique was still there, and I kept stroking the base of his cock, using my tongue to bathe his cock in licks, sucking, turning my head slightly to get all the angles, wetting it. Then I took a breath, relaxed my jaw, and another inch pushed inside me. Maybe half an inch. But it felt like more, flooding me with sensation. Then I adjusted, sucked, licked, rolled my tongue over it, relaxed and pushed for another inch. It kept working, each time my lips sliding closer and closer to the base, and my nostrils flared with a sudden rush of excitement when I thought, maybe, just maybe, it could all fit. Maybe I had the magical ability to fit his whole cock into my mouth.

Sadly, it wasn't a fairytale, and with the next movement I felt the tip of his cock bump into the back of my throat. I could feel, in another position and with enough work, how I might relax enough to slide him past this barrier. But on my knees like this, I couldn't. So I began the process of pulling back, his cock slipping back between my lips, my suction increasing until he finally slid out with a dirty wet noise that elicited the loudest moan yet from him.

Holding his cock in my hand, I looked at it again. It was wet from my mouth, the tip sticky with precum, pulsing gently. Fuck, it was even more attractive like this than it had been before. Wet, messy, ready to fuck. I pictured him pressing it, just like this, firmly into my wet, waiting pussy. It was meant to be. I could feel the heat rising between my thighs. I needed that so badly. But I had to focus on this task, first.

Wrapping my lips around him again, I leant forward and he slid in, deep, and then I pulled back, and then pushed in, and out. I stroked him still, building up a rhythm, lying my tongue flat on the underside of his cock, rubbing it as it went in and out, keeping my lips tightly around it, sucking. He was panting hard. I looked up and our eyes met, his face a mask of tortured pleasure. Slowly, but surely, my head was moving less, my hand was moving less, and more of the movement was coming from him. I sucked and licked and focused, focused hard. And slowly, but surely, we transitioned to a point where he was fucking my mouth. Thrusting in and out, getting faster, my hand on the base guiding him to make sure he didn't push too deep. Everything was so wet and slick that it felt easy: easy to relax and take it.

"Fuck," he said, the word coming in a rush of breath. I could sense how turned on he was and I smiled, inwardly. I felt so powerful in this moment. But I didn't let my thoughts go far: focus. I relaxed, breathing evenly through my nose, my mouth busy being filled with his cock over and over. And he kept going and going, minutes passing without any slowing down. I loved it. I loved his cock.

"Fuck," he said again. "I'm getting close."

The words sounded like a supreme effort for him. This was my moment, the moment to release my grip on his cock, for him to grab a bar towel or something and blow a big, beautiful load into it, worked up into a frenzy by me. But I wasn't a quitter and that sexy load of cum in his gorgeous balls was only ever going to one place. I kept up my breathing, kept my lips locked around him, and felt each tiny movement, each pulse, each jerk of his cock as he got closer and closer to the edge. I looked up at him and our eyes met again, and I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine for every single second that he gasped, gripped my shoulder, and shot his cum into my throat. My careful breathing meant I could gently swallow twice, the taste of his cum filling me, impossible to ignore, and then he let out a huge sigh of satisfaction.

All the tension in his muscles dissolved. His cock slid gently back and out of my mouth, a final string of white cum clinging to the tip. As a parting shot, as his chest heaved and he caught his breath, I arched my back and wiped his wet cock across my cleavage, the drop of cum pooling there and dripping between my tits. He let out another "Fuck," and I looked up to see him looking down, not at me but at my boobs. I giggled, finally letting go of his cock and standing up, swallowing again but only succeeding in refreshing the strong taste of cum.