More Holidays in the Sun

By that he meant the poor, innocent horse.

As if he was addressing an oh-so willing murderess!!

The incident had been accidental. The girl had been trying to help an animal in pain. "Vicious" did not come into the equation.

But I was smart by then. Instantly assessing "daddy" as a total bastard, I promised to take the deadly, daughter-crippling horse away, making it sound like a one-way trip.

And I told the truth, more or less. He wanted me to slay it; instead I took it up to a sanctuary up above East Morton, not so very far from Sue Smith's stables. It's proper horse county up there, simple as.

Please don't ask the whys and wherefores, but I paid so much a month to keep the horse well fed and safely bedded. In all honesty I did it, simply because it was the proper thing to do.

And wasn't it just! My reward and best-ever memory came perhaps half a year later, when I eventually and ceremoniously reunited the jaw-broken "victim" with her steed.

That was magical.

The look on her restructured face! She came to see me, believing that her best friend in the word had been destroyed, in her grief only wanting to say a final farewell to his ashes.

Maybe thirty minutes later, I physically reintroduced her to a very much alive horse, one who instantly recognized her, whinnying in delight . . .

Let's just say slaying any beast is rarely necessary. I only ever do so as a last resort.

*****

It was actually four after ten when Sabria lightly knocked on my door. That was no big surprise, by the way. Although I'd promised to leave the door open, the flipping thing locked automatically.

Science interfering with romance! What an infernal combination!!

Anyway I'd had time to prepare for her arrival, if only just. Pouring half the bottle into two decent-sized glasses I opened up stark naked. I'd left the bedside lamp on too, of course. I wanted to see all of her in the finest detail, almost as much as I wanted her to see all of me.

Well, a girl should start as she means to go on, shouldn't she?

Sabria's reaction was . . . well, it was so gratifying. Eyeing me like the best-ever art critic she elegantly came into the room and took the proffered glass.

'Thanks for the wine,' she said as she passed by, all grace and sleek motion.

That was, co-incidentally, the first time I had seen her standing up. Previously she'd always been on a swivel chair behind the barrier of a reception desk. My impression of size and bulk had been based on sketchy first appearances.

How can I describe her? Black hair, swarthy complexion and at least six feet tall (I love tall women by the way, always have). She was strongly-framed rather than in any sense overweight . . .

Or so I realized when, without the slightest encouragement from me, she removed her cravat.

Yes, I'm well aware that removing a cravat is hardly a signal of intent, but you had to see the way she did it. Think the "Dance of the Seven Veils", updated and in Technicolor; you won't be far wrong.

And I hate myself for writing that. A woman obliged to demean herself in public is as evil a sin as I can conceive. If Herod was still around I'd cut his throat myself.

Yes, but only after first cutting off his balls, very, very slowly.

Or am I getting my historical references badly confused!

Should I really be cutting of Oscar Wilde's testicles?

Assuming he had any to start with.

Sorry; that was unworthy.

Let's hasten back to the plot.

Physically awed by my visitor, astounded by her presence, I wanted to throw myself on the bed and be taken.

Yes, taken again and again and again.

As if the mother of all lesbians was playing those games. If anything she looked becalmed, standing there sipping vino, watching me intently.

It was as though she'd lost her nerve. Well, not altogether, obviously. She was here, after all, was she not? Losing her nerve wasn't an issue. No, it was as if she was waiting for something, something from me.

And oh my god, I'd been basing my plans on input from Maria, a self-confessed innocent. What if her version was way out of line? What if Sabria's natural confidence had fooled the poolside beauty?

'Strip for me,' I commanded as it became increasingly evident I needed to take the lead.

Sabria obediently threw aside that so-sexy cravat and unfastened half a dozen buttons of her blouse.

Like wow! Her chest was as good as under my nose and I couldn't honestly think of a better chest. I'm sure lots of internet pin-up "models" have similar attributes, but I doubt many are quite so large.

Or quite so natural, round, solid, firm and . . . and . . .

Forgive me at this point; I'm a sex-crazed lezzie. Sometimes I think I'm as bad as a sex-crazed man.

Sometimes I think I'm even worse than a sex-crazed man.

But there I was, face to face with a very large, significantly masculine woman.

No two ways about it, I was massively turned on

Confusingly, I was also more confused than ever. No way was Sabria a dominant type. Yes, she had the body to be macho, but it didn't fit with the way she clearly was.

Cut down to brass tacks, she was fetching feminine.

And, semi-naked as she was, she very evidently wanted me to take the lead.

So I very gratefully did.

'Off,' I instructed, indicating Sabria's mostly unfastened blouse.

She obeyed like a good one, discarding and dispatching as if she did it on stage every night.

Oh my, like wow again. Without a single ounce of fat on her, deliberately slowly removing her crisp white blouse, exposing sleek, deeply tanned flesh . . .

Sabria was glorious.

Wherever had I been coming from with those vague, inaccurate references to "overweight"? She even had the outline of a six-pack down there . . . . Okay, maybe it wasn't your full-blown version, but it was closer than close.

And when her knee-length skirt came off . . .

Her legs belonged on an athlete. I mean that without any hint of sexism and, I truly hope, in the nicest possible way. Everything about her was strong, fit and outdoors.

Strong, fit and . . .

Well, surprisingly needy. Forget Maria's next to useless input, Sabria was right there in my room and she wanted to be fucked.

Yes oh yes, wasn't I the girl to oblige!

Chapter Four

I began with Sabria's breasts, because who in their right mind wouldn't have?

Sabria stood there in the hotel room, compliant, while I lavished attention as ravenously hungrily as I had ever lavished attention on anyone.

Confessed boob fan as I am, I'd never been more entertained. I could easily have gone on like that all night.

But eventually, finally, a pair of strong hands pushed me lower.

'I'm not completely naked,' Sabria said softly. 'You need to remedy that.'

She was still wearing a rather flimsy pair of black panties. Using years of expertise, I had them off her in no time at all, resisting the temptation to smell their fragrance before tossing them away.

And what I sight I beheld! Her strip was shaved in a similar-shaped triangle to the one I currently had, except larger, thicker and not dyed blue. Hers was naturally black and pointed the way straight to you-know-where.

Well, I guess by now you appreciate I'm a connoisseur. I've been eating fanny for over a decade and I can confidently say hers was the finest by far.

What do I mean by finest?

Trust me: I have had a ridiculous number of girlfriends and love every last wrinkle and fold. But Sabria had wrinkles and folds like nothing on earth.

Yum, yum, yum!

More to the point, she didn't just look great, she was delightfully delicious.

I must have eaten her for hours, her still standing, me on my knees, like a worshipful devotee.

Who knows how many times she came?

Maybe almost as many times as me!

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she gripped my short-ish, two-tone hair, hauling me up without permitting a second go at her tits.

(Rats, I desperately needed another go. And Sabria knew it; I was positive.)

'Lovely, lovely, lovely,' she murmured before kissing me passionately.

Double fuck! I'd just kissed every last square inch of her kitty-kitty before even remotely thinking about kissing her mouth.

Far as I was concerned, her mouth had been a kiss-free zone.

How rude was I; how devoid of all social conventions?

*****

Ages later, Sabria terminated our (sadly delayed) long-lasting embrace by physically sweeping me off my feet and carrying me to the bed. Wasn't she strong! Those muscles certainly weren't only there for show.

And how excited was I!

This is it, I thought gleefully, I'm about to ravished.

Bring it on!

As it transpired I was about to be surprised again. Sabria deposited me on the reasonable-sized bed in a very gentle way, leaving me in a sitting position with my feet on the cool marble floor.

'It's time,' she whispered.

Too bloody true it is, I mentally agreed (just like my Aussie uncle). Get ravishing, girl!

Instead the gorgeous receptionist got onto the mattress, positioning herself with her shoulders against the bed-head, leaving plenty of room between and below her widely splayed legs.

'Take me,' she said softly. 'I'm yours. Do what you will.'

What!

Perhaps dumbly I'd started to believe Sabria was a serial shifter; that her preferences swapped and changed.

Or maybe I'd just been too hopeful about her sudden show of strength.

Do what you will?

I had vaguely planned to say something similar myself. But please don't assume I was disappointed in any selfish sort of a way. Oh no, the new surge of excitement eclipsed anything I'd felt earlier that day . . . or in any recent year I could name, come to that.

Call it sheer adrenalin if you like. Whatever it was, it ensured I wasn't remotely likely to decline.

In fact I dived on her without one second's hesitation.

*****

We must have spent four hours scissoring. That is to say at first I positioned myself on the bed on my back, facing her (if "facing" is the right word), and carefully interlocked our legs. Then not surprised by her passive response in the least, I instigated the action.

I am aware some girls dislike scissoring, claiming it's uncomfortable and what have you. I can see the direction they are coming from but I happen to love the activity. Fortunately, Sabria did as well, even if she stubbornly persisted in that eager-yet-passive role.

No, that's unfair of me. Sabria did contribute, and enthusiastically at that, but she didn't even once try to take the lead. Not that I objected in the slightest. All my preconceptions unceremoniously dumped, keeping our position more or less constant but regularly changing rhythms . . .

Here's a confession: at first I favoured myself. That is to say I deliberately rubbed off without an awful lot of consideration for her side of the equation. I reckoned I was due a climax or two to catch up a bit, if you know what I mean.

(I fibbed earlier: at that point she had climaxed more often than I had; in reality there was catching up to be done.)

But yet another surprise ensued. I managed to orgasm quite quickly, very much as intended. And yes, it was hard and extremely satisfying. Toe-curling good, even.

Yet Sabria came perhaps a minute later . . . and I wasn't supposed to be doing anything for her.

In fact I wasn't doing anything for her. I was selfishly doing it all for me.

And still she came like a thundering express train!

Intrigued, I rubbed myself off again. That time Sabria followed suit not thirty seconds later.

Then she got close and closer and closer.

Those wonderful hours flew by. I continued to at least slightly favour myself, Sabria continued to cum a fraction after I did, every time without fail. But at last I subtly changed, marginally favouring her.

Guess what? She started cumming first and I climaxed a fraction later, time after time.

Then, miracle of miracles, I made the tiniest of adjustments and suddenly we were coming together in perfect harmony. That was time after time as well.

(Cue another brief aside: We came together multiply but it definitely wasn't the "string of firecrackers" sort of thing you read about in glossy chick lit. No, it developed into a very sharing, constantly building experience with both of us intuitively knowing how far along the curve the other was at every second. I would go so far as to claim that we became equally capable of co-ordinating the inevitable.)

Trust me, it was heavenly. Eventually, overtaken by the fatigue of good honest exertion, I disengaged our legs and flopped beside the object of my lust.

'Is that it?' Sabria wondered, her very tone a challenge.

'Feel welcome to do anything you want to me,' I badly paraphrased. 'I need to take five.'

As she considered what came next I smiled at an earlier memory of her. Keen not to be discovered in a guest's room (I supposed), she'd bitten into her wrist to keep from crying out in moments of ultimate passion. It was amazing she still had an intact wrist left.

Come to that, I'd later done likewise. It was incredible my wrist didn't look like something chewed by a large, savage Alsatian . . . maybe by a hungry lion or a woman-eating tiger with sabre-like teeth.

Chapter Five

I don't remember falling asleep that night but I do recall waking next morning. Well, I would wouldn't I? I was mostly on top of Sabria. She had one hand gripping my bare ass the other stroking my back.

Best of all, my face was buried deep in those incredible titties of hers.

Being an incorrigible optimist, I took a swift mouthful.

And I was disappointed to be pulled away again by my hair. Sabria was, by the way, pretty good when she wanted to be forceful. The passive/forceful contrast puzzles me even now. It probably always will.

'I need to be away,' she said to me. 'My next shift starts in just over an hour. I have to go home for my shower, have breakfast and a change of clothes.'

Sleep-dazzled as I was, I came up with several objections, not least because I so desperately wanted another go at those titties.

'You can shower here,' I said. 'You always dress the same, so nobody will notice yesterday's clothes.'

'Huh,' she replied, a tad less than decisively.

'And I'll treat you to breakfast too,' I went on.

'What, here in the hotel . . . In your dreams. I'd be sacked in moments.'

'I don't breakfast here in the hotel,' I countered, 'I'm too much of a Yorkshire primitive. I breakfast all the way down the hill, where they're happy to stuff me with their version of a full-British.

Sabria took a little persuading but finally agreed. Denying me the delights of a shared shower, saying it might "last forever", she covertly took me out of the hotel via a side entrance; one I hadn't suspected existed. And then, in next to no time, we were seated and being attended by my favourite breakfast waiter, Pedro.

Yes, I know I persist in distancing myself from blokes. But some of them are decent enough. And I am perfectly capable of liking a bloke without wanting to sit on his cock.

Honest I am.

I can cite ten years of abstinence as proof of that.

'You have beer with breakfast!' Sabria exclaimed as Pedro, when asked to provide "two of the usual", turned up with a couple of brimming glasses. 'My lord, you must be at it all day long.'

'I vary throughout the afternoon,' I replied defensively. 'I'm not a total pisshead.'

'What is a pisshead?'

'Someone who drinks away every waking hour; it's like a quaint English tradition. But I'm controlled; I have coffee and naranja in-between. Ask Maria; she'll confirm that.'

Sabria nodded, solemnly. Reacting on sheer instinct, I took her hand across the table.

'Last night was brilliant,' I said sincerely. 'Let's do it again tonight.'

Baffling me, Sabria laughed, and quite hysterically at that. 'Sorry, you are out with Maria tonight,' she eventually managed, still half way into hysterics.

My inner word processor struggled with that. I'd invited Maria out more than once but she'd stalled me every time.

(What a sexy little tease!)

'I think you might be mistaken,' I said as coolly as possible. 'I keep asking, but . . .'

Sabria cut me off in full flow. 'I told you she visited Reception last night, didn't I? Well, we made a big deal. I got last night; tonight she gets you.'

Gobsmacked or what!

'Oh,' I gasped.

Sabria waited until two plates of mostly fat-fried cholesterol had been ceremoniously plonked onto the table before us then quickly told the tale.

'I've been after Maria for ages,' she said. 'She's been edging closer and closer, but not close enough. Not quite, anyway. Yesterday she guaranteed me everything as long as you got there first. I said okay I could live with that. I'd get you last night, she'd get you tonight.'

'Fuck me,' said I, rudely, even by Melbourne standards, (although quite routinely in my own little bit of West Yorkshire), 'I seem like an object!'

'Maria sees you as more like a goddess,' Sabria countered. 'That's why you are going out with her as soon as she closes at seven tonight. What happens between the two of you after that. . . .'

Attempting for some measure of control, I asked if Sabria might have a free spell on the next night.

She squealed more unrestrainedly than ever.

'Friday's me and Maria,' she eventually explained. 'It's part of our deal. Maybe you don't understand.'

At that moment in time I understood nothing.

Complicating matters, Sabria introduced Estela into the mix.

'I couldn't fix anything with her because she's on two days off,' she enlarged. 'But she still fancies you like crazy. She's very experienced as well, not to mention determined as heck. I struggled to keep her away from you. Maria was much easier.'

'What if I don't fancy her?'

'Do you mean you really don't fancy a babe like Estela?'

'Of course I do,' I admitted after the briefest hesitation, 'I'm just . . . just . . .'

'You're here for two weeks,' Sabria cut in. 'Another week as of now. I want to have sex with you twice more, at least. Maria wants to give you her virginity and Estela wants to fuck you as often as possible. Where on earth is there a problem in that?'

Try as I might, I couldn't come up with a remotely convincing argument.

*****

The two of us strolled back uphill to the hotel, where we parted our ways, Sabria prim and proper, en route for her desk, leaving me to go around the building, en route for the poolside bar.

My head was filled with possibilities at that point, I must admit. Two brand-new lovers in less than one week and a couple more queuing up to join in . . .

How spoiled was I?

And how eager was I to indulge.

If my few days with Izzy had inspired me, the previous night with Sabria had turned me red hot.

Yes, that old two-faced, manipulating, no-name bitch of mine had been thrown away on the wind once and for all. Hopefully she'd land on a desert island, populated with cannibals.

Okay, so I'm not quite as malicious as that. Maybe she'd land on an island populated by loads of sex-crazed guys who'd never before seen a white girl, all of them equipped like Errol Flynn.

The nameless so-and-so would like that.

Not!

Skirting the topless sun-lounger area, virtuously averting my eyes from a dozen beautiful pairs, I went on along my course for the bar. Only to be stopped by an unfamiliar voice.

'Oh,' it declared, 'you're back.

The voice was undoubtedly English with a definite West Midlands accent.

And goodness gracious, the speaker could have shone on any catwalk in the world.

Eff me, but she was way beyond delightful!

Some of my most intimate muscles flexed and swirled as I looked at her.

It was hard to define her skin colour. I'd guess at mixed-race but I struggled with the actual races. And I didn't give a toss about races, anyway. All I was aware of was an urgent need to fuck with her.