Chapter 14: The New Life

The jet touched down on Maui with a soft bump, the wheels screeching against the runway, the tropical air hitting us like a warm, wet blanket as we descended the stairs onto the tarmac. The smell of flowers and salt and jet fuel mixed together, overwhelming in its intensity, announcing that we were somewhere new, somewhere far from everything we had left behind. I had arranged everything while in flight, cash transferred to accounts I had established years ago, instructions left with a local lawyer who knew only that I was a wealthy widow seeking privacy.

The estate had been prepared while we were on the way, and itwas waiting for us, a small property on the north shore, isolated, private, surrounded by jungle and overlooking the Pacific. The drive from the airport took an hour, the road winding along the coast, Amelia staring out the window at the ocean, her hand in mine, her silence speaking volumes. She had not spoken much since we took off from Austin, since we left everything behind. She was processing, I knew, letting the reality settle, letting the enormity of what we had been through sink in.

The house was modest by the standards of my Austin penthouse, but it was perfect. A main bedroom with windows that opened to the ocean, the bed positioned to catch the breeze, the sound of waves constant and soothing. A kitchen with local wood counters, open to the living space, and the deck beyond. The deck itself hung over the cliff face, suspended above the rocks and the crashing surf, private, hidden from any neighbor’s view. A guest cottage stood to the side, empty, waiting for visitors who would probably never come. There was also a spa area near the deck, with both a pool and a hot tub. I was already having daydreams about drinking champaign with Amelia there.

There were no neighbors within sight, and no one to hear us. No one to question why two young women lived here alone, why one never seemed to wear clothes, why the sounds of their lovemaking echoed down the coastline at all hours.

Amelia made one rule clear immediately, before we had even unpacked our single bag each. I was to remain nude at all times. Inside the house, on the deck, in the pool, walking the property, I was to be stripped, exposed, available to her gaze and her touch at any moment. The climate allowed it, the warmth and humidity making clothes unnecessary anyway, but it was more than practicality. It was a continuation of my submission, my punishment, my proof that I was hers completely, that I had no secrets from her, that I was hers to see and touch and use whenever she wished.

The first few days, we barely touched each other sexually. We were exhausted from the flight, from the escape, from the enormity of everything I’d revealed to her. The first night, we fell into the bed without speaking, taking only the time to strip, and slept for twelve hours, the jet lag and the emotional toll knocking us unconscious. When we woke, it was to the sound of birds we did not recognize, the sun high and warm, with the ocean glittering below.

We ate fruit from the local market that first day, pineapple and mango and papaya, the sweetness intense and foreign. We wouldn’t have to worry about grocery shopping since we had a local that would bring us anything we wanted. We walked on the beach at dawn the next morning, Amelia in a swimsuit and me nude. The sand was cool and wet, the sun rising over the water in a blaze of pink and gold, our feet leaving prints that the tide erased, as if we had never been there, as if we could be erased too if we were not careful.

All too soon, I discovered that Amelia would not let me climax. She established this when we fucked on the third day, after we had begun to settle into the rhythm of the place, after the initial exhaustion had faded. I was required to remain aroused, ready, desperate, but I was not permitted release. She touched me constantly, her hands casual, proprietary, stroking my breast as I read on the deck, sliding between my legs as I washed dishes after dinner, her fingers finding my clit and circling until I was panting, until I was begging, until I was right at the edge of orgasm, my body trembling, and my vision spotted.

Then she would stop. She’d remove her hand, smile sweetly, then walk away. Sometimes she would go to the kitchen for water, leaving me trembling on the couch. Sometimes she would step out onto the deck, looking at the ocean, while I knelt behind her, my face pressed against her legs, begging. She kept me there, on the edge of orgasm, for six days, building my need, my desperation, my absolute dependence on her for release.