Sex on the Beach

Foreword

Hi, it's me again, Charley, ready to (hopefully) conclude the tale of my fortnight in Lanzarote. I say "hopefully" because I initially intended to tell all over thirty minutes in the airport departure lounge . . . and here I am, several months later and only just into the second week.

There again, after a quiet first couple of days, I did have an awful lot of girl-on-girl sex.

No make that an awful, awful lot.

For anyone who missed the three earlier stories I'll briefly recap.

Officially called Charlotte I am always known as Charley and proudly identify myself as a 31-year-old lesbian. Sadly, I cannot claim my gold star. Yes, back in my ignorant youth, I experimented with guys and did enjoy intercourse. I had close female friends too, however, and eventually experimented with quite a few of them.

What a revelation! Once I'd tested the water I wanted more and more. Guys haven't had a look-in for over a decade now. Never say "never" but I've little inclination to try one again. Girls will do for me up until I'm old and grey.

Well, with one notable exception, girls will do for me.

I am, by the way, a vet; a junior partner at a practice in my home town of Keighley. My years away at uni passed in a whirl of (mostly female) thrashing naked bodies and limbs. Yes, I was into casual sex in a big way. I carried on doing casual back in West Yorkshire too.

But for some crazy reason I hooked up with The Bitch I Refuse to Name.

What an utter cow!

Two whole years of her exclusively, her and no others at all! Two whole fucking years!!

Then she got head-hunted and accepted a high salary job in America. I was invited to tag along as an afterthought, advised that I wouldn't have to work and could play the part of "homemaker".

Homemaker my ass! I had no intention of being a kept woman and besides, I loved my work and had made friendships with the practice's regular clients, both animal and human. The Bitch made it clear she was going with or without me. Strong words were exchanged and off she went, never to be seen again.

Or so I sincerely hope!

Here's where I admit that the break-up upset me more than I realized. I thought I was routinely going through my daily working duties but my senior partner, Dianne, pulled me aside and asked what was wrong.

Now Dianne is older than me but seriously sexy. If only she wasn't married with kids . . .

But that's me all over. If it wasn't for bad luck I wouldn't have any at all.

Anyhow, I told Dianne about the split and, for once pulling rank, she ordered me to take a fortnight off abroad. Being obedient at heart I got on the Internet, looking for cancelations, determined to run back to my wicked, casual ways, wishing Dianne was coming with me . . . and not just on an aeroplane.

Yes, yes, yes; if dreams were horses, eh?

After arriving on the island on "Brit Thursday" I spent the first couple of days swimming, sunbathing and chatting up barmaids and waitresses. There were lots of nice barmaids and by day three I began to get responses. And that was just as well because by then I'd masturbated most of two nights away.

It was nice to find someone to tend kitty-kitty for me. My fingers and wrists were starting to suffer from repetitive strain.

There again, five hours a session might have been overdoing it a bit.

Anyway that is all your getting for now. I will be referring back to individual girl-on-girl encounters as we go. If you want nitty-gritty details the first three yarns are still there on this very site, waiting to be read.

Look out for "Holidays in the Sun", "More Holidays in the Sun" and "Best Ever Holiday in the Sun".

And yes, my dad was a big Sex Pistols fan in his (much) younger days.

Meanwhile we are re-joining the action on Saturday evening. At the time I'd just had my first ever all-girl threesome with Carla and Lottie from Birmingham. That had accounted for Friday night. Then they took turns to have me individually, accounting for most of Saturday morning and afternoon, with Carla going first.

Yes, Carla first but only to be followed by a lonesome Lottie, who went at me like a whirling dervish. No, make that like a crazed rock star on coke . . . or maybe like a totally crazed person, full stop. My word, that strap-on of hers! Eleven inches, I kid you not!!

And, regardless of my only-too-willing submission, they were both still keen for encores.

Yet my social diary was full. In fact it was bursting at the seams. No rest for the wicked, eh?

Maybe I shouldn't have been so wicked. Or maybe I wasn't being wicked enough.

Go figure.

Making hasty apologies, out of Lottie's clinging arms, I made haste to my own quarters, expecting an important visitor shortly after eight . . .

Chapter One

I made it to room 417 with ten minutes to spare, briefly considered a change of clothes and dismissed the idea out of hand. Clothes would be coming off in no time at all, wouldn't they?

Then, as I double-checked the time on my mobile, my stomach rumbled.

Oh bother. I'd had a snack earlier but my stomach had become accustomed to very large Argentinian steaks, and I hadn't had one for a day or two; that glaring omission needed rectifying, and soon.

'Come on,' I said when I opened the door to Estela's soft rap, 'I'm going to wine and dine you.'

Estela was bearing a chilled bottle of white wine. She ran the hotel's general bar. I normally passed the day at the poolside bar, leering over the lovely Maria and every evening at the hotel's indoor bar, leering over Estela.

Leastways I did when I wasn't busy fucking and being fucked. Just lately I hadn't seen very much of her.

That was a pity because she was a sight worth seeing. In an earlier story I said she was a Hispanic beauty and favourably compared her to Penélope Cruz. Trust me; if anything I undersold her amazing good looks.

'I don't want wining and dining,' she objected. 'I want to jump into bed with you.'

My tummy rumbled again, louder than ever. Hearing it, Estela giggled.

'Okay, okay,' she said. 'I couldn't possibly put up with that din all night. Let's go somewhere close and dine you rather than me.'

Delighted she showed no concern about being seen out with a tourist. I put the bottle of wine safely in the sink (full of cold water, naturally) and, shutting the door to 417 behind us, offered her my arm.

Matey-matey or what!

'I know just the place,' I assured her.

*****

With the benefit of hindsight the Argentinian steak house could have been a big mistake. I was due to have sex with one of the waitresses on Sunday. Reservations did cloud my fuddled brain when I saw the large wooden cut-out of a steer swaying in an almost non-existent breeze. But by then it was way too late. Estela had already expressed appreciation of my choice, saying it was the best eating house in the Canaries, if not all of Spain.

Gulp. With my heart in my mouth I took her inside, passing under an enormous pair of bull horns over the door; horns big enough to eviscerate if not break a victim in half.

Trust my luck! Camila materialized in front of us instantly.

'Charley,' she said in greeting, 'and Estela from up the hill. Table for two, is it?'

As it happened we got my usual table out on the terrace; one big enough for four people or more. And it had the usual RESERVADOS sign on it.

'I'll get wine while you study the menu.' Camila laughed. 'Well, while Estela studies the menu. You'll be going for the same as ever. Is it Pinot noir?'

I glanced at Estela, wondering if she was exclusively blanco, but thankfully she smiled and nodded.

'Pinot noir it is,' I said to Camila. 'And make it a litre to start with.'

I watched her sashay back into the restaurant. She was undeniably hot and I was eagerly anticipating Sunday. She had me on edge, however. Her easy acceptance of me out with another woman was, to say the least, unsettling.

Come to that she kept on being unsettling throughout our meals, and yes, I did go for the same as per always: the unparalleled Big One.

That's right; Estela chose a lady-like steak while I went for one that was far larger than the ginormous plate it came on. And the pace of life at that establishment was not pressing. If you'd finished eating but still wanted more vino all you had to do was ask. Consequently we were well into our second litre by the time I went back inside to use the Banos de Damas.

Not that I really needed to. I can drink five or six pints of ale before needing to pee (being a Keighley lass and all that). Three glasses of red, albeit quite large ones, didn't really affect me. No, I wanted to "accidentally" bump into Camila, well away from Estela's inquisitive ears.

Guess what; I bumped into her in the corridor outside the washroom, well away from anyone's ears, be they inquisitive or not.

'I know you're here on holiday,' she said in that perfect English of hers. 'And I know you like girls of all shapes and sizes. Not that I'm saying tonight's girl isn't startlingly attractive; I've fancied her for ages. I just didn't know if she played the same sort of games as you and me.'

'I won't go into great detail,' I replied. 'But I'll give you a short summary tomorrow, when we meet up for breakfast, before we head off for that deserted beach.'

'We're still on, then?'

'Too bloody true we're on,' said I, unconsciously mimicking my Australian uncle. 'I'll die if you stand me up.'

'I'll be there,' she said, patting my hand, 'there and ready for some nuddy sunbathing.'

At that I shook my head. Like most people on the island . . . those involved with tourism, anyway . . . Camila's command of English was excellent. Yet here she was, using Australian terms as if she used them all the time.

Nuddy, for God's sake! Try as I might I couldn't imagine Puerto Del Carmen getting too many visitors from under The Southern Cross. So where on earth had she produced that one from?

From an old Paul Hogan movie involving large knives and crocodiles, perchance?

At this point I'm tempted to compare her command of my language with Carla and Lottie's. But I'm not going to embarrass the girls from the West Midlands. Not after their sterling contribution to the second week of my stay.

Where was I?

Oh yes, I was in that corridor and suddenly needed a pee after all.

'I'll be there at nine without fail,' I assured her, 'ready to pig out on cholesterol and cerveza. And ready to pig out on you, too.'

'You say the sweetest things.' Camila patted my hand again and retreated. 'I'll be there without fail as well,' she called back over her sexy shoulder. 'And don't count on doing all the pigging. I'll be holding my own like a good 'un.'

Good 'un now! She was using northern English dialect. Was there no end to the girl's talents?

Grinning, I assured myself I'd find out more about her talents next day. Then, after a hasty pee, I went back to Estela, sure she had talents as well, keen to find out what they were.

Chapter Two

We didn't go for a third litre of red. Instead we went back to room 417 and slowly got naked, kissing a lot as we did so.

Room 417: it sounds like something out of Nineteen Eighty-Four, doesn't it? Thankfully my room was infinitely nicer than the one in the book. And, not run by the "Ministry of Love", my room was definitely not a place to be subjected to worst nightmares or phobias. No, my room was right at the other end of the scale.

Believe you me; that evening it was the best place in the world to be. Nightmares and phobias simply did not come into the equation.

No, room 417 was a chamber of Sapphic delights.

Do you know how much I like kissing? Trust me, I don't merely like kissing, I love it. Sometimes I think it's even better than oral sex. Not that I'm likely to give up oral sex anytime soon, I hasten to add. Oral sex is ace as far as I'm concerned.

And it always will be.

Let's get back to the action.

*****

Earlier I compared Estela with Penélope Cruz. That was a mistake on my behalf: I should have said a very young Penélope Cruz, maybe aged twenty-five and in fishnets. Not that there is anything wrong with her nowadays. Fifteen years older than me or not, I'd never kick her out of bed.

Indeed I'd never let her into my bed. We'd be on top of the duvet, mauling each other until lunchtime next day . . . or maybe until lunchtime the day after. Sod my rumbling stomach; I'd go an extra mile for her without hesitation.

And I was keen to go an extra mile for Estela too.

Maybe I'd go an extra marathon.

If only I hadn't arranged to meet Camila at nine, Sunday morning . . .

Not that I was regretting Camila in any way. I was ravenously anticipating that Argentinian beauty. No, my only regret was that it had somehow got to ten thirty Saturday night. That gave me and Estela just ten hours together. It wouldn't be nearly enough.

Thank the Lord she was in my social diary for Monday and Tuesday nights, even though she would be accompanied on both occasions.

Still kissing her avidly, I did my utmost not to laugh. One all-girl threesome experience and suddenly I was lined up for several more. Forget Carla and Lottie (my girly initiators), I also had Maria and Sabria to contend with, along with Estela working in tag.

Talk about the meaning of life!

If I was to believe her, I'd taken Maria's girl-on-girl virginity only the other night. As I indicated already, Maria ran the poolside bar and hadn't taken an awful lot of persuasion.

Sabria (also known as the Mother of all Lesbians) ran the hotel's reception desk. Seen seated behind her desk she looked a little overweight. Seen naked in a bedroom she seemed spectacular. No flab at all and exceptionally statuesque. She must have put months and months into gym routines to develop muscles like that!

And trust me, everything about her worked. She could do soft, gentle, assertive and vigorous.

Amazingly, courtesy of Maria, I'd been lined up for a series of threes with her, Sabria and Estela.

Good job I'd got practice in with Carla and Lottie, no?

And the Birmingham duo weren't out of the picture yet. I'd agreed afternoon threesomes and morning solos for most of the rest of my final week.

What was I like!

And would I ever get forty winks again!!

*****

Please accept my apologies for leaving Estela unattended to for so long. My social commitments flew through my fuddled mind as we slowly got naked.

Fully booked until Wednesday evening! Maybe I'd have an early night then and catch up a little old-fashioned shuteye.

Or maybe I'd go out on the pull in that big German bar down the road. It would be fun to pick up one or two frauleins and who cared if we didn't speak each other's language. We wouldn't need words for what I had in mind, would we?

But hey, I'm ignoring a very beautiful woman right there with me in my room. Yet again, let's get back to the action.

Omigod, she was even sexier naked than she was in her revealing bar uniform (meaning a very short black skirt and a tight-fitting, crisp white blouse, both leaving nothing to the imagination).

'You look good enough to eat,' I sighed, staring at her closely shaved kitty-kitty, unable not to focus on the juices leaking from her, streaking the insides of her thighs.

'I thought eating was part of the deal,' she replied pertly. 'So go on; I'll let you commence, just as long as I get my fair turn.'

'Equal opportunities, that's me,' I countered before pushing her onto the bed (correction: onto the then unstained top sheet), widely parting her legs. Well, maybe she widely parted her legs. I really couldn't be too sure at the time and wasn't about to quibble.

And maybe the top sheet was already soaking up the essence of her.

Fuck the small print (as my Aussie uncle would have declared). This was here and now,

Small print could go whistle.

*****

Before I go on I would like to apologize for my regular profanities. I'd blame that remote uncle of mine but that wouldn't be fair. Truth is I went to school in Keighley where profanities were part of everyday lingo. Maybe I'd be different if I'd been sent to the nearby (and prestigious) Bingley Grammar, but I do tend to doubt it. I've had many a night out in Bingley without noticing any cultural differences from my old home town.

I noted differences with Estela though. Didn't I just! I know I say this about every girl I go down on, but the unique taste of her was exquisite. On my knees between her spread legs I happily licked, nuzzled, nibbled, kissed and tongued every last inch of her, inside and out . . . and all over her streaked thighs too, of course.

Heavenly; she tasted heavenly.

Her soft words of encouragement . . . all in that perfect English of hers . . . encouraged me massively. So too did her rhythmic lower body movements and regular climaxes. It seemed she was dancing with me, my mouth steadily leading the way across the dance floor, her kitty-kitty following in a particularly fine example of perfect timing.

Oh my, step by step by step, never once missing my lead.

Eventually, after maybe half an hour of fun, fun, fun, I brought the fingers of my right hand into play, at first stroking her externally in tandem with my still hungry mouth, driving her crazy. Then I penetrated her digitally and she came and came like a string of firecrackers.

Sticking to the honesty theme, making her cum greatly excited me. In the early stages I came almost, nearly as often as she did. But by then, when a simple penetration set her off like that . . .

Well I was with her all the way.

Maybe it was too much; when I was really starting to enjoy myself Estela suddenly grabbed my short-ish, black and blue hair and pulled me off her.

(That is to say my hair was short, black and blue at the time: it changes on a monthly basis; currently I am longer, spiky and a fetching magenta.)

'That's enough pigging at my trough,' she said breathlessly.

'It's not a trough,' I protested, oblivious to the fact it had been Camila who mentioned "pigging", not in the least aware that Estela must have been snooping on me after all, 'it's the most beautiful kitty-kitty in the world. And it is very, very yummy.'

She scowled at that. 'I was going to insist on taking my turn to pig,' she said, 'but I'm always open to a good old sixty-nine. And let's make it a long one at that.'

I grinned back at her. 'Come on girl, what are we waiting for!'

Chapter Three

I must confess my memories of Saturday night are confused. I have total recollection up until we got into an exceptionally cosy, side-on-side sixty-nine. But after that . . .

Well, we sixty-nined in ten other positions as well, alternately topping and tailing. I remember that if a little vaguely.

And I'm sure Estela took her fair turn in having me sitting on the bed, my feet on the floor, legs parted, her on her knees, pigging out on me. And I'm sure I ultimately went off on my own firecracker string.

But after that . . .

Well, put it this way: we didn't sleep at all and regularly rotated between giver and taker. I'm as good as certain we spent a lot of time in various scissor positions, sometimes alternating control, generally going at each other as equals . . . and going at each other more and more vigorously.

Nice, nice, nice!

Good, good, good!

All too soon it was daylight and time to shower together (I just love showering with a new partner that morning after the night before. In fact I love to shower together with any partner, full stop).

And, prior engagement or not, please don't think I threw Estela out on her ear. Oh no, we showered for at least an hour, making out with undiminished passion.

'See you Monday night,' she said as she climbed back into her revealing uniform.

'Aye,' said I, 'you and Sabria. Is that the dream team or what?'