Just a Little Holiday, She Said

I.

"It's snowing."

"Damn."

There we were, two working girls in a big office building downtown, looking out the window at our future. It looked cold. And grim.

It was only mid-November; way too early for this. The snow brought a cascade of bad memories: icy sidewalks, freezing slush, mountains of dirty black snow along the streets.

"Let's go someplace warm, just for a little while."

"Yeah. Bright sun, soft breezes, cool drinks."

"Someplace quiet, though. Not chaotic like Cancún or Playa del Carmen."

.

So we found a little town on the northern coast here with a nice quiet beach and a few shops along the main street. We're staying in a pretty little house east of town with a lovely widowed woman, her two cats, her dahlias and her honeysuckle.

We started out just lying on the beach, of course, working on our tans. As the warmth seeped into us, we gradually forgot about tight skirts, crowded buses, overpriced coffee, and endless paperwork.

We played in the surf, at first just splashing by the shore, but then gradually we swam farther and farther out. We started walking the beach too, and then we ranged farther afield, climbing into the hills above. In the afternoon from a high spot we'd stand staring out to sea, our long hair whipping out behind us in the sea breeze.

We felt our shoulders relax and the clean air fill our lungs. We felt the stress slowly, slowly drain away, and with all the exercise, we also watched our city fat gradually give way to trim, lean muscle.

Then one day walking the hills above the shore far east of town, we looked down to see a little pocket beach surrounded by rocky bluffs. A long low swell rolled in, foaming gently on the bright sand. We stood staring for many minutes, then my friend took my hand, looked at me, and smiled. We worked our way carefully down the rocks, and then we spread out our towels and lay down in the warm sun and the gentle breeze. I took a huge breath, let it out ever so slowly, and felt the final bit of tension leave me.

In the days to come we continued to ramble the countryside, but we returned more and more often to our special place. It's so quiet there, so remote, that we soon stopped bothering with our bikinis. We'd just strip off our blouses and shorts, lay ourselves down and let the hot sun splash on our naked bodies and drip slowly off onto the sand.

I suppose you could reach this place along the beach, but it's a long walk from town, and the spot isn't obvious until you're right there. It's really only accessible on the water side at low tide -- we've never seen anyone else here, even in the distance.

We lie in the sun naked, we get up and run and chase each other, we climb the rocks, we swim, we oil ourselves and lie down again. Over the weeks and months of sun, of swimming, of running and climbing, we've become the perfect, lean, lithe, golden-bronze goddesses of myth.

Weeks and months? Yes. We came here to forget -- to forget the city, to forget the cold, to forget bad boyfriends. We slowly forgot many other things too, then finally we forgot to go home.

.

We called her Señora, at first, as a sign of respect.

Our landlady is quiet; in the cool of the morning she digs in her garden, then she naps in midday until it's time to cook supper. Supper is late here, at dusk; that's when we return from our travels, all windblown and tired. She smiles as she serves us: lime soup, tortillas, scrambled eggs, re-fried beans, a little salsa. Simple, country food.

As the weeks went on and she saw us relax, she relaxed too and warmed up to us. In the morning with a broad smile, her "Buenos días, pequeñas!" always greets us as we come down to breakfast. After a while, she started packing us a lunch every day too. A simple lunch, like ceviche wrapped in tortillas and fresh fruit from the garden, with a big jug of iced tea.

I think she saw something in us, maybe something we couldn't yet see ourselves. One day I began, "Señora--," but she stopped me with a finger on my lips. "Mamá," she said. "Call me Mamá, little one."

.

We were usually back well before dinner, but one time we overslept on our favorite beach, and it took us a long while to make our way back in the dark. We felt terrible about ruining the supper Mamá was making for us, and feared she might worry. When we finally arrived, we made many apologies, but she just hugged us both and said with a big smile, "I think maybe you have found a special place somewhere and couldn't bear to leave it."

The next morning, she packed us an especially large lunch and said, "The moon is full tonight, and it is very lovely on the water." She kissed us each on the cheek, patted our behinds, and sent us on our way.

After that, we often slept on our beach in the warm caressing breeze, either just naked, or with a beach wrap over our shoulders for warmth. The moon is indeed beautiful on the water at night. And later, when the moon goes down, the sea sparkles with luminescence.

.

One morning we arrived home very early; just a glimmer in the east. Mamá was already up, preparing breakfast. She saw us through the kitchen window and came down to meet us on the path, the breeze ruffling the huge kaftan she always wears.

She took us both in an enormous hug. "Mis pequeñas encantadores! My lovely little ones, it's so nice to have you here for breakfast!" She paused, smiled, and kissed us each on the cheek.

"But little ones, maybe you should wear some clothes as you walk home."

.

Today, we're at our perfect little beach; I'm on my towel by the rocks, warming myself in the late-morning sun. Naked, of course -- this is our little spot. We gave up all pretense weeks, no months, ago.

I'm watching my friend climb the rocks to my left, barefoot and bare-assed. She's up at the top, and I see her stand and shake out her golden hair and let it float in the wind. Her hair is very long, down past her waist when it's not blowing beside her -- we gave up haircuts even before we gave up clothes. She's looking off to the west, toward town.

Suddenly she turns and starts scrambling down the rocks. This takes her a while; it's high, and the rocks are sharp.

She trots quickly over to me. A little out of breath, she says, "There are boys coming. The tide's low today; I think they may find their way around the point."

They're pretty adventurous to come out this far; they just might find us after all.

"Best we put something on, I guess." We dig out our bikinis, tie them on, and lie back on our towels by the rocks. We slit our eyes against the sun and await our visitors.

They are four boys, or maybe young men actually, barefoot in cutoff jeans, tossing a football between them. Their hair is wild with the wind; they are lanky and lean, but they're a little too sunburned to be locals -- time for Spring Break already? They see us and come over and squat down. We pass a few pleasantries, then after an awkward silence, one suggests touch football.

We divide ourselves into two teams, I with two boys; my friend with the others. We huddle, we run, we throw, we catch. We fall sometimes, but the sand is soft.

In all the exertion, I find myself again and again hitching up my bikini bottoms and re-adjusting my top. But when I look over, I see my friend has stopped bothering; her top is a bit askew and her bottoms are just a little band below her hips. I follow along, and soon mine are like hers.

We play on, getting all sweaty and breathless.

Then my friend runs out for a long pass, lunges for the ball, and we all watch amazed as she just bounces right out of her bikini top. But after the play, instead of putting herself back together, she just strips off her top and drops it to the sand. The boys watch her intently; I watch the boys. She just carries on. A little while later, I tire of my crooked top and drop it too.

We play on -- we huddle, run, throw, catch, trip, fall laughing and rise again. The boys gorge their eyes on our perfect golden breasts, swaying in the sun.

Suddenly my friend trips and falls; her bottoms end up tangled around her knees. But she just jumps up, kicks them off, and runs on, her breasts bouncing, her long, golden hair flying behind her. A vision. A goddess.

The play goes on; everyone breathes hard; we proclaim our successes and curse our failures. We run, catch, tag, trip, fall, and rise.

I feel my friend behind me, untying my wavy auburn hair, tossing it in her hands it until it flows over my shoulders and down my back to the curve below. It lifts and flickers in the breeze; it shimmers in the sun.

She slides her hands down to my hips. She leans very close and whispers, "We two are golden goddesses; let them all now worship us." She pulls gently at the strings of my bottoms; they come free and fall to the sand. Surprised just a little, I feel the breeze cool the sweat between my legs.

But the play continues. We chase the ball, we chase each other. We are two golden gazelles, taking great flying leaps, with taut sinews and flowing manes.

I stop with my hands on my knees to catch my breath, and a boy (or a man, perhaps?) stops beside me. As I rise refreshed, with a thrill I feel his fingertips trace from my neck down my backbone to that hollow above the curve (yes, a man might do that). He pauses, then without looking at me, his fingers ever so lightly follow my bare buttock, downward. I stand frozen.

As he strokes up again from below, I feel myself slowly rise to my toes; my back arches a little. My golden breasts rise and my nipples stiffen. My eyes drift closed and my head tilts back to the sun; I shake my head and my hair falls free and tosses in the breeze. I breathe a great, shuddering breath. I'm not a gazelle; I am a great bronze tigress -- see my mane shine in the sun.

But the play calls again and I run to join it. We huddle, and I revel in the lean, hungry looks of my boys, now that there's nothing at all between me and the breeze. I stand with my feet just apart, my womanhood clearly visible. I raise my hands to my neck to toss my hair behind, my breasts lift and sway, and the boys, the men, stand entranced, stunned; their mouths hang half-open. One nervously wets his lips. I look straight at him and give him a little half-smile.

We plan our plays, we run, we chase, we fall and rise again.

As we play on, I watch our wild, raw, beauty overwhelm the boys. They slowly become quieter; they gradually lose all ability to speak; more and more they can only gesture and stare helplessly. If I look a boy in the eye, he stands mesmerized.

This can't go on forever, of course; my friend and I know this. But for now we're content to tease and taunt them with our perfect, bronzed, goddess bodies, and to bask in their ravenous gaze.

One sees a bulge below a waist, and one does so long to stroke it. A little touch on the shoulder perhaps, or the arm, but not down there. No, not yet. In a little while, perhaps. But see how that bulge grows with a quiet laugh and a light touch on the arm.

Then after a long, long while, my friend stops and walks over to our towels by the rocks. "How about some iced tea?" she says.

The boys follow us over and we seat ourselves in a circle in the sand. Her boys are on either side of her; mine kneel close to me; I feel their heat, but not their touch, not yet.

The boys seem on edge; waiting for something -- permission, invitation? We've finished our tea, caught our breath; now what? I find I'm on edge too, anticipating.

Suddenly, I realize that with a word, just a single word, we could send these boys on their way with no more reward than a story none would believe. But still we pause, silently, breath held. I catch my friend's eye and raise my eyebrow a trifle; she looks back at me intently, but without expression.

Then my lovely, golden friend, sitting with her feet tucked beneath her, turns and looks down at the pants of the boy kneeling beside her. His bulge is unmistakable. He follows her gaze, very still.

That golden lioness tosses her mane and locks eyes with him. She reaches over, and with just a fingertip, touches his knee and then lightly and ever so slowly traces along his inner leg upward. She drags her fingertips up onto his bulge, pauses. He swallows, eyes huge; she holds him helpless in her gaze.

"Oil me," she says quietly. She turns slowly to her other boy: "You too."

Oh, yes. Yes, yes. We are goddesses. Honor us. Serve us. Worship us.

I turn to kneel in front of the boy on my right, with his huge shock of wild red hair. He reaches for the button of his shorts, but I put my hand over his to stop him. "In time, I may release you. Not yet." I take his hand and bring it to my breast. "Pleasure me first." I glance over my shoulder at my other boy with his huge black beard: "Same goes for you."

Blackie moves behind me and touches me lightly with his fingertips, starting at my neck, running down my shoulders to my elbows, then up from my hips along my sides; I shudder as from an electric shock. He runs his finger down my spine to the cleft between my cheeks and lingers there, exploring; I quiver. He plays with my hair as I tilt my head back and my breasts rise and my nipples fill. He teases me with his beard. I turn and kiss him briefly, then more firmly as he slides one hand along the crease of my hip toward the space between my legs to toy with the hair he finds there.

In front of me, I'm stroking Red very gently through his shorts, and it's driving him crazy. He's massaging my breasts, twirling my nipples with his fingertips, which feels marvelous, and he's nibbling my neck, which is making me all warm and tingly inside. But as I continue stroking him, he moans quietly, "Oh God. Please, please don't make me come in my pants."

I pause, and with a finger under his chin, raise his head to look at me. I stare in his eyes, kiss him gently, then stroke him again, very slowly. He whimpers. I stroke again. He moans.

I'm so, so tempted.

I hear a golden lioness purring loudly; I look over and see she's followed my lead and is keeping her boys buttoned up tight until they prove their worth. But they're working hard, and it shows. She's fully oiled now, kneeling with her legs apart, breathing deeply. One boy kneels low in front, licking at the excess oil between her legs. When he tries to put his fingers inside her, she pushes his hand away. "Wrong tool," she says, then, "Patience." She lays a hand on his head, guiding him back down. She leans back against the other boy; he's tossing her breasts gently in his hands, kneading them and rolling her nipples in his fingers. She turns her head to kiss him, moaning softly, her hand reaching back to stroke a bulge in his pants.

But something within me is rising; my vision is hazing; I'm gasping; my time is coming. With one hand, I reach down in front of me and slip the button of my man Red's pants. I slide the zipper down, and tangle my long, cool fingers in the hair I find there. Something down there is warm and firm. I think I've found what I'm looking for; my fingers probe.

Show me your weapon, then, sir. I put my hands on his hips and shove his shorts down. He's a smart man, and wears no underwear -- saving much time and avoiding many nasty entanglements.

His weapon bounds out, fully ready for battle. Now that I can see it, I want badly to tease it, but that hand between my legs has my mind spinning; I'm gasping. Two hands are kneading my breasts; another hand has found the little soldier in the slit trench between my legs. The soldier is standing at attention, but a slick, wet finger is twirling around him, making him dizzy.

So, quickly then, before I lose all control, I lean forward, spread my legs, and slide down to sheath that weapon straining up to impale me.

Hot. Huge. Inside of me all at once, straining. Filling me up insanely. We're all even closer now, all three of us, all moving, sliding, slippery with sweat. I'm going to lose this battle, soon.

As I arch my back, I can feel something big and warm sliding between my cheeks. Oh-oh, somebody back there didn't wait for orders. Bad boy; I'll have to deal with you. I reach my hand back and pull his head forward to my shoulder. I kiss him hard, swirling my tongue in his mouth. He gasps, shudders. That'll fix you.

But just now the sparkle off the water is in my eyes, I lose track of my true self, and I slip away. I think I scream, but I'm not sure. Somebody in front of me shouts; that I am sure of. Then I feel something hot explode in the small of my back.

I'm panting; collapsed over my Red in front, my hair everywhere. He's panting; my Blackie behind is panting too. Every little touch is like lightning, like fire. I still can't think, but I'm raking Red's back with my long nails while Blackie caresses me between my legs. We're all little gasps, touches, twitches, and moans.

I lift my head and kiss my man in front; he strokes lightly under my breast and the back of his knuckles drag across my hard nipple. I shiver. My man behind is kissing my neck gently; I reach around behind and touch the end of his tool. It's wet. I swirl the damp around the head; he gives a little moan, so I do it again, and he whimpers. He strokes my little soldier, but it's too soon -- he's still too sensitive -- it's too soon! I give a little cry and lose my way again, softer and longer this time.

We can't stop touching, fondling, gasping, even as I look over at the others. My golden lioness sister is astride one of her men while the other kneels beside, kissing and caressing her. As she rides the first, teasing him with the tresses thrown over her shoulder, she has the other in her oiled hand, bringing him on. She turns and whispers something to him, then leans forward. He throws his leg over and works his huge oiled cock slowly into her from behind. Now she's moaning like she means it, and gasping; they're thrusting; then she snaps her head back and cries out.

.

I stir and wake. I'm lying curled in the warm, soft sand, head on my arm. I rise on one elbow, then sit. I yawn, stretch, and toss my mane like the tigress I am. There's a new boy beside me; one of my friend's -- blond; Nordic features. I think your name will be Sven.

Now that we're all finally done with pants, I can easily just look down and see Sven has something between his legs. As I lock eyes with him, the thing starts to swell slowly. I drag my fingertips along it. He swallows nervously. It grows.

Oh, look, there are two tight little sacs below it! I stroke between them slowly, back to front, then up along the stiff thing to its tip. Sven's mouth falls open a little, and he breathes shallowly. I pause there at the tip, circling. With a tilt of my head, I glance over at the oil bottle behind him, and he gropes for it -- my friend has indeed trained him well.

As for my lioness sister, I hear her purring again and look over. She's leaning back against Red with one leg curled beneath her and the other outstretched. He's laying her hair over one shoulder and down over her breasts to her waist, making a brush of the tips to tease her taut nipples. Kneeling in front of her, Blackie, my Blackie of the magic fingers, strokes the insides of her thighs, and then in between her thighs from way, way, back to the front. She growls. Tongue out, Blackie leans forward between her legs. As he kneels before her I can see something big and dark swinging between his legs.

But ho! There's another boy behind me. Look at that nose! You can be my Frenchman, Jean.

Jean has my hairbrush, and he's sorting out my mane. I turn and rake my tigress claws down through the fine hair on his chest. He gasps. I wet my fingertip and swirl it slowly around the tip of the big stiff thing between his legs. A little bead of moisture oozes from the tip; he gives a plaintive little whine. I pick up the drop with my finger, toss my head back and taste it while Jean shivers. Then, with a final shudder, he shakes his head a little and goes back to brushing my hair, a bit clumsily at first.