Summer Holiday

by HAL

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/ft, NonConsensual, Rape, Slow, .

Desc: Sex Story: A Summer holiday after school exams. That's all it was. Things change though when they met Chris; he was polite, easy going and generous.

Jennie said she’d noticed him on the plane, or waiting in the queue for the plane. He was priority boarding, of course. We were all dressed in holiday gear, travelling light with just the case for the overhead locker, shorts, teeshirt and a smile. Two weeks away in the summer after the exams; courtesy of parents with more money than sense I suppose. We hadn’t even got our results and we were being rewarded for our hard work. There was Jennie, tall, slim, almost boyish figure (tried everything to increase her bust, but really only a padded bra helped); Maxie, the sexy blonde in the group. She was the one the boys eyes followed. She couldn’t walk to the laundrette without a sachet in her hips. And there was me, Blacky – Samantha Black. I’d been nicknamed Blacky because we had a black labrador when I was little and I’d gone round shouting ‘Blacky’ as nearly my first word. Not really politically correct now, so I kept it as my little act of rebellion. I was pretty, well shaped, nice butt, good bust and regular teeth. I think that’s all some boys needed. And then there were Jo and Harry – Josephine, my sister, and Harriet; both sixteen and also just done exams and plagued Jennie’s and my parents to let them come until the parents gave in and plagued us and we gave in (in return for some extra Euros to spend ‘on ice-cream’; yeah yeah, not drink, of course not).

So; we’re all queuing for the rush to get a seat and ram the bag in the overhead locker and he waltzes up the priority boarding lane apparently with a wheely bag that Jennie went wet for. Brown, monogrammed leather. He was dressed in clothes where the socks probably cost more than the ensemble we were wearing. Jennie noticed the bag, then the clothes, then the hair – immaculate, she said.

The flight was uneventful, aside from a boy across the way noticing that Jo’s – my sister – skirt was too short and the seats had some magical facility to make it ride up. She had to pull it down three times as the skimpy crutch of her skimpy knickers started to show. The boy – fourteen at the oldest – watched and we laughed later that he’d probably wank all week over the view. Jo tried to laugh it off but she was embarrassed. Sixteen isn’t old enough not to care that you’re showing your panties to unknown boys.

We really met him on the beach at Garda. We’d flown into Verona, caught the bus to Garda (car hire being more than prohibitive for us eighteen year olds), walked to the apartment which boasted a view of the lake if you stood on the toilet and looked out of the upper window. Bizarrely the bathroom window was plain glass, so the blind was never opened; so we never saw the lake from our apartment after the first day.

Anyway, we were lying on this narrow stretch of beach, soaking up the rays, vaguely debating whether tomorrow, on the third day, we might make the effort to go and get some culture by visiting Verona or Sirmione or anywhere, and losing the debate with the sun – which was saying ‘just come back here and lie on the beach’. A black boy walked past with a bundle of knock-off handbags and Maxie made the mistake of looking up and saying “that’s nice” about one of them. The boy pounced. Now two of us were on our fronts with our bra straps undone and now we had a leering boy of twenty of so yabbering away in Italo-English and determined to make a sale of ‘genu-whine tesigner bags, guaranteed’. We actually were beginning to think we’d have to buy something to get rid of him. He showed us knock off Prada, knock off Dolce & Gabbana, knock off Tingali (which was lost on me because I’d never heard of them); some of them weren’t bad as bags, but none were types we would carry and they were much cheaper than the real thing and much more than we wanted to pay.

“Sorry I was so long, there was a queue” this handsome man was standing with six ice-creams. I sat up, smiling, and so did Jennie, nearly losing her bra top in the process; which would have at least given the African a good look for the trouble he’d taken. We did our tops back up and took the ice-creams. The salesman looked at the new arrival and realised he’d lost his chance and moved on to plague a middle-aged German couple. “I saw you looked like you needed help. I hope you weren’t just beating him down on price. I’m Chris”

“No, no, thank you” said Jo, taking a lemon ice-cream and slurping at it. At the same time as batting her eyes at him, she was licking the ice-cream in a young, inelegant, girl way. I smiled, she’d get it right in time. She shouldn’t even be trying to give him the eye, we’d been told not to talk to Italian strangers. But then he sounded non-Italian; in fact it was hard to tell where he was from. Harry took the chocolate one and immediately dropped a big splotch onto her right breast.

“Here, quick, it will stain your top” he said and gave her a pristine handkerchief without a thought. He didn’t offer to wipe it off, nor produce some well-used tissue. He was a gentleman. He’d bought six, I realised, he didn’t intend to rescue us and go. And why would he? He had the same red-blood and testosterone mix as the bag salesman; we were used to attention at discos, at pubs, at school fetes even. It’s something every girl learns to live with and cope with or use – as they see fit.

So we sat and talked to him. Jennie mentioned he had taken the same flight as us and he looked momentarily discomforted. “Ah yes, I had a business in Manchester. Is that where you’re from? Lovely place” he laughed. So did we. Manchester was to Lake Garda as Wall’s ice-cream from Mr Whippy is to the ice-cream we were eating now. We all said we’d be as big as houses before we got home; the ice-cream was too good. We talked and said we’d not seen much yet, emphasising that we were just gearing up to doing some trips. “I’m going to Sirmione tomorrow as it happens. It’s well worth a visit. My boat leaves at 9:10, or is that too early?” He was inviting us to go over with him.

“I thought the ferry was at 10:45?” said Jennie, but he just looked at her and she didn’t argue. He must know when he was going.

“If you feel like it, I’ll see you at the harbour at, say 9?” We left it open, we didn’t say yes, we didn’t say no. But by the evening, as we ate our pasta and tomato sauce, we all seemed to think that yes, perhaps this was the kick we needed to do something. We were ringing home every other day, so tomorrow we’d have something to tell the parents if we went, and they wouldn’t think we could have gone to Margate or Blackpool to lie on the beach for a lot less money.

We got to the harbour at 9:05; he’d said 9. He was nowhere to be seen. Just as we were thinking we’d missed him, or he’d gone to the ferry pier, or ... a boat came in. It was white with white seats and a white sun shade and blue piping. And a waterboard in the back. And he was driving, and we stood like a bunch of gobsmacked teenagers – which was appropriate really.

“Hi, you came. Here” he threw a rope with a loop on it and I dropped it onto a bollard and he pulled it tight and cleated it. “Give me your hand.” He handed each one of us in and pointed out a locker with life jackets if we wanted them. Then he pointed out another locker with a cool box with beer and Coke in it. “I never said I was getting the ferry” he said to Jennie, with a smile “I didn’t want you to think I was trying to pick you up though”

‘If you aren’t, then you’re going to a lot of trouble for a bunch of girls’ I thought

“Now, sit and enjoy the journey. Oh, I hope you brought your costumes? Those bikinis stay on in the water do they? Pity” he laughed. It was a light joke that could be dismissed if we looked offended. We didn’t look offended. He ‘pootled’ down the coast at first, showing us the other towns. Each one looked more attractive than the last. Old castles nestled in pretty towns and church towers peaked over the roofs. Then he turned out towards Sirmione. “Fancy a swim in the deep? It’s just as safe as the shallows. No? Okay, maybe another time. We drifted way far out from the shore for a while, taking in the view, and watched a ferry boat. This was idyllic. He took a Coke and drank from the bottle. I had appraised his clothing from the start. Naturally not in a suit this time, but his shorts were quality. I didn’t know you could get quality shorts, but somehow I could tell the material was good. His shirt was not some showy cotton thing with bright colours and stuff. Just plain light blue, but with a collar, not just a teeshirt. And the top crowned with a straw hat with a dark blue ribbon. The kind that old fogies wear to Lords or the Oval. Only it looked cool on him. We zoomed off again and he explained that we could try water boarding later if we wanted, but we had to – had to! - see the Roman Villa ruins before we relaxed, at the least. He said that to miss that was to miss one of the hidden glories of Italy.

At the end of the spit of land that is Sirmione, he dropped anchor off the shallow rocks. “I can’t go right in because its illegal; and it might smash the propeller”

“How, umm?” said Harry as she looked at the 30 metres to shore. She wasn’t a keen swimmer.

“We swim. You do swim?” he asked her

“Yeeas, but its a long way”

“Tell you what.” He took an inflatable ring out and used a pump attached to a twelve volt socket to blow it up (was there nothing he hadn’t thought of). “There, your carriage awaits. We’ll tow and push you in. You get to carry the clothes bag.” With that he stripped off to his shorts and put his sandals, shirt and hat into a waterproof bag. Now it dawned on us that three of us had not planned ahead. We had our bikinis in our rucksacks – in case of the chance of sunbathing; we had expected a walking tour of the town. So there was some careful changing under clothing, under towels; and yet again, he made studious efforts to look elsewhere as lacy panties appeared below towels and towels slipped showing the occasional boob. Then, in perhaps twenty feet of water, we jumped in from the back of the boat. He explained to my question that the anchor was bigger than needed and – another brilliant innovation – the boat could tell if it was dragging by the GPS changing too much and would send him a text. I had no idea such things existed, I said. “You’re a boater?”

“No” laughed Jo “She just looks like a boat”

I smiled at my sister and told him I’d been in the school sailing club, but it was only small dinghies. “Oh, still, that’s more sailing that I could do. I’ll give you a go on the way back – a drive I mean” Well of course, what else could he mean? Oh, oh yes. Maybe he wasn’t quite so innocent. Still, he was a gentleman. We swam in to shore and pulled and pushed Harry on her large inflatable ring. It was tempting to tip it in the shallows, but then our clothes might have got wet. Then we landed. Found a good spot before it got too crowded, laid out towels and bottles of Coke to weight the towels to reserve the space, put on some more clothes and went ... for an ice-cream.

Then we walked to the entrance to the villa. He was right, it was amazing. Catallus had retreated (retired?) here. So, thousands of years old. Amazing.

Amazing and hot. Back to the beach, strip off and swim; then put sun cream on. “Would one of you mind putting some on my back?” he said; he didn’t offer to put some on our backs, or our legs. Jo asked him to do her back. She was coming on to him. When she rushed into the water with Harry – who decided it was safe to swim from the shore – I said quietly to Chris:

“My sister is sixteen”

He looked at me “She’s very attractive, but then so are you all. Relax. I’m not into splitting up the group; still, she suits that bikini” And she did! She had just the right skin tone to suit the violet biking she was wearing, and she had realised that herself. Which is why she had brought two, just in case. (In case of what? Her mother had asked, and never really got a sensible answer).

So we swam, and sunbathed and talked. Chris never told us much about himself, he asked us lots of questions, appealing to our vanity I suppose. Boys like to tell you every last thing about their lives – their fave teams, their dreams for a motorbike – and forget that girls like to talk too. So this was fun. We talked about University and exams and subjects and politics and clothes (yes, even clothes!) and he stayed interested in it all. Then we walked in to the town for lunch.

He wasn’t one of these overbearing people who insisted on paying for everything; we found a cheap place which I’m sure he would not normally eat at and had simple things like bruschetta and Coke or coffee. The weather was boiling hot and we all needed long drinks. He admitted that he didn’t often drink water and had neglected to put any in the boat, so we bought some bottles to take back to the beach with us. Then we went to see the castle; it was worth it. Pictures all round, and stairs climbed and views admired and then back to the beach. By the time we reached it we were hot again and this time he went for ice-creams, his treat. Jo went with him to help. I still felt a little nervous about my baby sister going off with him, but he did seem genuine in his desire for company rather than any more.

They came back with six tubs of rapidly melting ice-cream; the flavours were unknown in Britain. Mango, Liquorice, Lemon and Ginger. Oh it was lovely! Except for the liquorice ice-cream, obviously. Chris and Maxie had them. Turned out Maxie loved liquorice flavour ice-cream. I knew she had a flaw, I said. And she put a dob of ice cold ice cream on my stomach.

As we lay on the flat rocks, sunning ourselves, all wearing sunglasses. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I wondered if he’d notice Maxie’s tell-tale crinkle in her bikini between her legs. She told me once that she’d thought of having labiaplasty but, clearly, hadn’t so far. I hate the term camel toe, but that’s what was visible and no mistake.

Jennie was wearing a thick, slightly enhanced bikini top, but her sister wasn’t; there was not mistaking the little peaks in her bikini bra. Jo was wearing her mauve bikini which had a small amount of padding which hid any such nipple display; whilst mine was thin material but I had no hard nipples at the moment. They had sprung up when we’d swum in. The warm water was still a stimulus compared to the air temperature. What was worse, though, was that the white top became just that little bit translucent when wet. I couldn’t see it from my angle, but Jennie whispered that the darker rings were obvious to those who looked – or as she put it “Your tits are showing through”. Like all good friends, we liked embarrassing each other.

The return was easier in some ways because Harry opted to swim out. We towed a ring with the waterproof bag attached to it and, as promised, the boat hadn’t moved at all. All of us, Chris included, agreed that we kept expecting the tide to come in or go out; but of course it’s a lake.

And that was it for a couple of days. He didn’t suggest meeting for dinner, or meeting the next day or anything. He mentioned work. He was actually working, he said. He was negotiating with some businessmen in Verona and had deliberately opted to stay in Garda to give himself an excuse not to have to have dinner with them too.

We saw him sitting under a tree near the harbour a couple of lazy days later. He was reading ‘Goodbye to All That’. “Not a book I would have expected you to be reading” I said “I’d have expected ‘Ten Habits for Successful People’ or something”

“Oh, hi!” he responded looking up “So you think I’m a boring businessman with money on the brain eh?” He was smiling “Days are for work, evenings, like this one, are for me-time. You all off to a PizzaHut?”

“Oh, touche! Yes, and no. We thought we’d go for a pizza, but not PizzaHut. Though I do like their pizzas, so there”

“Can I suggest somewhere? Go along the front and take the Via Caudiore, then first left. Not sure the name of the alley. Then a right. It’s off the main streets, but very nice. And if you ask for an upstairs table you’ll have a great view.”

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Ma/ft / NonConsensual / Rape / Slow /