Return to Sapphos
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Lesbian, Fiction, Oral Sex, Masturbation,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This is the story of two young women - one an international affairs expert with the UN, the other a war correspondent - who meet from time to time to relax, to recuperate, and to share their love for one another. These meetings take place on a remote island, inherited by one of the women. The story begins with the arrival of Yulia, the war correspondent, and her wait for her lover, Sara. (Alternate chapters are written by Yulia and Sara.)
As dawn breaks, I bank gently onto final approach. I line up the nose of my Widgeon with the stand of trees on the low headland. It is all so familiar now, second nature. Full flaps and pull slowly back on the throttles, float down to kiss the still blue waters of the lagoon. The faintest bump, and the keel cuts the surface. I feel the drag as my plane becomes a boat. I bring the throttles back to idle, and let the water absorb my momentum, until i am almost still. Then rudder and boost the port motor to turn in towards the beach. I run towards the patch of hard sand shaded by the outcrop, away from my hut. I check all the systems before shutting down. The Widgeon will be sheltered here, and can rest from her journey.
I shrug off my head-set and harness, sit for a moment, absorbing the peace. After the roar of the engines, no sound but the tick of cooling metal. No vibration. Stillness, and the satisfaction I have at the end of every flight.
A droplet of sweat runs down between my breasts. I stretch my fingers, my toes, to release the tension. I turn in my seat and clamber back out of the cockpit. It has been a smooth flight, and the boxes of supplies have not shifted from where I secured them. I open the door on the port side and jump down onto the sand.
This is my home-coming, so good to be back after a long tour in the middle east. I can still taste the Turkish coffee, the Syrian sand, the Russian explosives. I can hear the cries of mothers, see the tears of children, smell the blood of victims. I can recall the nights in rough bars and smooth arms, brandy and bold talk, the women from the UN and Medecin sans Frontieres. Love in a time of death, if you can call that love.
I walk around the Widgeon, stroking it like I would my horse after a hard ride across country. I love its awkward beauty, its power and purposefulness. There is nothing here that is not designed to do a job. When I am happy that she is secure, it is time to get on with the day.
I unload my supplies, good Italian coffee, a couple of mixed cases of French wines from Papa's cellars, a box of fruit and a box of salad vegetables. Oils, spices, herbs, condiments. Dried pasta, I will use to make a simple meal tonight. A large tin of special Swiss cocoa powder to make Sara's favourite drink. Bottled water. A couple of cylinders of gas for cooking.
Bit by bit, I move my supplies across the beach to my hut. It was good to fly through the night. The sun is not yet too hot for work and I have time to make things ready. I know from our radio communications that Sara is less than a day's sailing away. She is set fair to be here by late afternoon. Just the thought of her makes me tingle.
The hut is in good condition. There is no storm damage this year, and the repairs I made on my last visit have survived. The solar panels I installed last year are providing enough electricity for the icebox, at least. I put a couple of bottles of Puligny-Montrachet in the icebox to chill, and stack the rest in the wine rack. I store the rest of my supplies in the ventilated cupboards, to keep them cool.
Coffee. Yes, now is the time. I fire up the burner and put on the coffee pot. I find a mug and wipe off the dust with my finger. I throw some cushions on the wooden seats on the decking.
A lot of sand has blown on to the decking. As I wait for the coffee to brew, I sweep this clean. The view out across the lagoon is stunning. The beauty of this place never fails to surprise me, and then to lift me out of the horrors of my life.
I pour a mug of coffee, dark, strong. I wait for it to reach a drinking temperature. I think of where I have been, what I have seen. I know I will never share the truth of this with anyone.
I finish my coffee, fell the caffeine do its work deep inside me. It is well into the morning and it is getting warm now.
I slip out of my flying suit and walk down the beach to the water's edge. It is wonderful to feel the sun on my skin, after a season wearing camouflage and dodging from cellar to cellar. I step out of my panties and throw them on the sand. I walk out into the lagoon, the shallow shelf soon deepening, until i can plunge into the cooling waters.
I swim lazily. I float. I feel the water and the warmth cleanse me. Too many years reporting from the east of my country, from the wars in Syria and Iraq, from terrorist attacks in Afghanistan, have left me sullied. I have seen too much death, too much despair. I have grown careless of my own security. So I am here, for now, for a few days recovery.
I turn into a slow crawl and make my way back to shore. On the beach, I collect my panties but they are sandy. I do not put them on. I walk to the hut and find some bikini bottoms in a drawer. I slip them on, pull an old faded tshirt over my head.
I open a bottle of the chilling wine. Not yet really cold enough, but it will do. I pour a glass, an absurdly elegant piece of crystal for my beach hut. I sit on the decking and look out over the lagoon, to the horizon. I use my Zeiss binoculars to scan for Sara's yacht, but I know it is too soon. I sip my wine. I think of Sara, how I have missed her among all the chaos of my life. I sip my wine. Unconsciously, i touch my breasts. My nipples are hard. I sip my wine. I think of Sara. I move my hand slowly, deliberately down across my belly. And into my bikini...