My thanks go to Techscan and LadyCibelle for their kind assistance with the editing of this story and correcting the usual clangers that keep my critics so happily amused. But I'm sure you'll find something you don't like in the story somewhere.
I know that some people will say that the hero in this story is manipulated by at least one of the other characters in the tale. As a man, I have had many women try to manipulate me on many occasions; my good wife is adept at the art. She has to be; I can be a cantankerous old bugger sometimes.
I will point out to folks who don't like to see others manipulated, that sometimes there is a distinct advantage for the manipulated (I wonder if that's the right word). Let's face it; if you're blatantly conned into doing something and it all goes tits up on everyone, you can just smile and say, "Hey, look, it wasn't my idea; if it's gone tits-up, it's got fuck-all to do with me!" I've had heroes in similar circumstances in the past, where readers have failed to realise that playing dumb can sometimes be the hero's best option at the time.
'Just what the fuck am I doing here and how much longer can it last?' I asked myself.
There I was, on the patio of a massive and very flash villa on the coast of an unbelievably beautiful (and bloody hot) Caribbean island. Not just any old Caribbean island either; this place was a private island. Only people who owned one of the villas — or could afford to hire one for a week or so — their staff and guests were allowed to step foot on the hallowed soil. The sort of place that the likes of me shouldn't even be allowed to dream about, let alone live in for a couple of months.
I was lying back on a sun-bed taking in some afternoon rays, sipping rum - that had been poured over crushed ice - from a long glass. Every so often Sam - a big coloured man, dressed in an immaculate white shirt and slacks, and complete with a neck tie (in that heat?) - would come to adjust the large parasol that protected my face from the sun's glare. Sam would also send the little dark skinned island girl Simone out to refill my glass whenever it was empty, without me asking; Sam knew my preferences — and consuming rate - by then. He'd also remind me about how long I'd been in the sun and send that same little beauty out to apply sun block to my body when required. That was assuming that Sonya didn't beat her to it.
Somewhere below, I could hear the children playing in the swimming pool, I'd been down there earlier with them. As I lay there, occasionally I could pick out Sonya's voice amongst those of the children and their minders. Tutors, Sonya called them, taught the children everything from windsurfing to diving, but to my mind they were more like glorified nannies.
I lifted my head and looked around the sun patio; Christ, just the damn sun deck was larger than any house - including the garden - that I'd every lived in before.
As I looked around I caught sight of Sam standing at his usual station; from where he could watch me and be ready to cater for any request that I had. And at the same time, he could keep an eye on the swimming pool below; Sam was always ready for any request or emergency that could possibly happen down by the pool. I'd noticed that the guy was very protective of the children.
My movement had caught Sam's attention and our eyes met for a second, so I waved my hand to let him know that I didn't require anything.
He gave me a brief smile and nod before saying, "The Lady Sonya is coming up, sir."
"Her name's just Sonya, Sam," I admonished him.
"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry I forgot."
"And please try to remember, Sam, that when we're in private, I'm Frank. I'm not one for all this sir lark."
"Yes, Sir ... Frank, I'm sorry I keep forgetting," he replied.
I had been trying ever since I'd arrived here to get Sam — and all of the rest of the staff - to drop the formality with me when there were no visitors in the house. But it appears old habits die hard. Sam had also pointed out that they might forget when we did have visitors in the house.
"Who gives a shit, Sam. I don't want my kids growing up thinking they are something that they aren't. You guys are looking after us like bloody royalty, but you're just earning a living like most everyone else in the world has to. And all of you are damned good at what you do. That makes you anyone's equal," I'd told them.
"Yes, Sir," Sam had replied. At one time, he tried "Mr Moore" on me, but I wasn't happy with that either.
Sonya appeared at the top of the stairs that led down to the pool. She smiled at Sam as she headed in my direction. Sam, ever the soul of discretion started down the stairs toward the pool. He would move to a position about halfway down, where he could see the pool but not what was happening on the patio, although he could hear Sonya or myself if we called him.
I marvelled once again — as I always did whenever I saw her — at the beauty of the woman walking towards me. 'This can't last much longer.' Was the thought that crossed my mind.
Sonya was - I'd estimated - about thirty-five years old, and I swear, by looking at that shapely body of hers - clad as it was in one of the smallest bikinis that I'd ever seen in my life; Sonya had several that size — that no one could discern the slightest evidence that she had borne three children some years before.
"How's my lover boy? Recovered from playing with the children yet?" Sonya asked, as she swung one shapely leg over my body and lowered her backside carefully onto exactly the right spot on my groin area. Then she slowly began to rock her hips backwards and forwards, as she had done so many times in the previous few weeks. She knew full well that this would very soon have the effect she desired on me.
"Tired, but not from playing with the children this morning, Sonya. You really wore me out after the party last night!" I replied.
"Ah, diddums!" she giggled back at me. "But, it was a good session last night, wasn't it? Made me feel like a teenager again!"
"You ain't kidding, girl. Last night you worked me over pretty good, and then this morning you started on me as well. Jesus, I wish I'd been around when you were a teenager? Christ, I don't know how Seymour ever had any energy left to shag Jean."
"Neither do I! He certainly never had your stamina, in my bed anyway!" Sonya grinned down at me. "Perhaps he saved all his energy for Jean. She must have been really something in bed."
"I wouldn't say that exactly." I replied, remembering back to how Jean had been when she was in bed with me, especially in the last few years, since the children had been born. "Oh, she liked to 'do it' all right, but I wouldn't say she was ever that mad about sex. One orgasm was always enough for Jean. When she was in bed with me anyway." I added as an afterthought. "Actually Jean was more like some of those blokes you hear about; only with Jean it wasn't wham, bam, thank you, mam! It was wham, bam, thank you, man! Or rather, thank you, Frank. One climax was always enough for Jean; I'd get her off once and then she'd say that's enough for one night, Frank, I'm tired now. Then she'd roll over and go off to sleep."
"Sounds like some of the guys that I knew back at university." Sonya grinned again. "Anyway forgetting about Jean and sex for the minute. I sensed that there was something bothering you at breakfast this morning, Frank. I didn't want to ask in front of the children, but is something wrong?"
For a few seconds I debated whether to broach the subject with Sonya in my mind and came to the decision that we'd have to talk about it sooner or later. Probably the sooner the better!
"Well, to be honest with you, Sonya, no, not really at the moment. But I just can't help wondering when the bubble is going to burst."
Sonya stopped her rocking motion, which had already had the effect she intended even though I'd tried very hard not to get aroused.
"Bubble! What bubble?" she asked with a concerned look on her face.
"This bubble! All of this. Sonya, you are a very desirable woman. You're what, thirty-five?" Sonya nodded to affirm my estimate of her age. "You've got more money stashed away than they've got in the Bank of England and three massive houses. This one, that villa in the South of France and the estate in Surrey, that must be at least a hundred acres..."
"Two hundred and fifty!" Sonya corrected me still smiling.
I ignored her interruption. "Last night, you had some pretty handsome and damned rich looking fellas running around after you like blue-arsed-flies. You know they were all vying for your attention at the same time - well, they were trying to."
"And they didn't get it, did they? You know as well as I do that all they want is to get into my knickers, as you so elegantly like to put it," Sonya interrupted again, but still grinning. She seemed to enjoy my rather "basic English" vocabulary (Sonya's term) and often took the rise out of it in a friendly way.
"I can't say that I can blame them for that either." I smiled back at her. "You're one beautiful and very sexy looking woman, you know. Especially in that damned bikini or that low cut dress you had on last night!"
"So that's your problem; you're jealous. Well, don't be, Frank. They'll never get anything off of me while you're in my life."
"Well, you see, that really is the problem, Sonya. You're a very desirable thirty-five-year-old heiress, and I'm a forty-three-year-old sodding truck driver, for Christ's sake, from the North London suburbs at that. What have I done to deserve being here with you?"
.... There is more of this story ...