Over the Hills and Faraway, Book 5. Paying the Piper
Chapter 24: Curds and whey hey hey

Copyright© 2015 by Jack Green

Drama Sex Story: Chapter 24: Curds and whey hey hey - Dewey Desmond knew the transition from military to civilian life would be a challenge, but was unprepared for the shocks, surprises ... and some successes ... encountered as he made his way through the turbulent first ten years of the new Millennium, his path strewn with tragedies, triumphs, disasters and delights ... the latter female of course. Follow him to the conclusion of Over the Hills and Faraway; the journey of a life.

Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/ft   Mult   Consensual   Drunk/Drugged   Heterosexual   Cheating   Revenge   Rough   Group Sex   Black Female   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Tit-Fucking   Analingus   Violence  

If you ever get an opportunity to visit the Seychelles then seize it with both hands. They are a veritable paradise on earth — rather in ocean — the Indian Ocean to be precise. The islands, 115 of them, are a riot of beaches of pristine white sand, swaying palms, blue lagoons, smiling friendly natives, and a local cuisine which is a fusion of French, Indian, Chinese and African.

Gemma and I stayed at the Lotto Hotel complex on Praslin Island, the second largest island of the group, in a suite overlooking the Indian Ocean, which was extremely luxurious and extremely expensive, but worth every penny, or Seychellois rupee.

I had asked Gemma to accompany me to the Seychelles for Christmas shortly after she had invited me to join her 'cheat' on Harry Ledbetter. Her evident pleasure, and acceptance, of my invitation went some way to assuage the piss poor performance achieved during the 'cheating' process. It wasn't the worst shag I'd ever had but not too far off. I suppose I was expecting too much from a woman who seemed to be inexperienced, nervous, tentative, and bloody useless between the sheets, although I did enjoy sucking her nipples, which poked up like erasers from firm if petite breasts. Harry Ledbetter was a veritable connoisseur of cunt, and I wondered what he had seen in Gemma to keep shagging her on a regular basis.

In Gemma's defence I concede the 'betrayal' by Harry Ledbetter would have come as a shock, and a blow to a self-esteem which appeared pretty low to start with. I suppose a smidgen of blame for the less than stellar consummation could be laid at my door. I had been shagging the same woman for five years, and it takes a little time to get used to a new sex partner.

It could be compared to a golfer playing a round at a new golf course, where he has to suss out the different challenges of the as yet unexplored and untouched terrain. He also has to choose the correct club to use for an untried and unknown hole, and make sure of his swing. My triple bogey with Gemma indicated a failure, either to pick the right club, or correct my swing, for my shot, as I certainly didn't get a hole in one. But never mind, practice makes perfect, and with nearly a fortnight in the Seychelles to improve my game I was sure to be landing my balls squarely on her fairway, and sinking birdies into her holes. You've probably guessed I don't play golf, but can maybe understand the analogy I'm attempting.

We managed another bout of rumpty pumpty, or 'cheating', as Gemma named our shagging episodes, a few days after the first, substandard session. It was marginally better, and I was looking forward to continuous improvement when we jetted off on a 10 p.m. flight from Heathrow to the Seychelles on the 23 December. We had a change of aircraft, and a 4 hour layover, at Abu Dhabi before flying onto Victoria on Mahé Island. We then transferred to a puddle jumper to fly from Victoria to Praslin Island, and it was late afternoon on Christmas Eve before we collapsed in a heap in our hotel suite in Praslin.

We had flown club class and had managed to stretch out during the flights; the poor sods in cattle class must have been dead on their feet by the time they got to their hotels.

Christmas Day, 2008. Lotto Luxury Hotel: Praslin Island.

The day dawned hot and humid, in fact most days in the Seychelles dawn hot and humid, and oh yes, it was also pissing down with rain, warm rain, but wet nevertheless. I gazed tenderly at Gemma sleeping soundly alongside me.

She looked virginal, vulnerable, and about 16 years old, but I knew from her passport she was 28. She wore one of my white silk dress shirts as a night dress; I was bollock naked. I haven't bothered with night attire for almost twenty years. It seems to be a complete waste of time to undress from day clothes to put on nightclothes, then in the morning reverse the process. Gemma opened one eye and smiled up at me.

"Merry Christmas, Mister Desmond. Is Santa Claus ready to deliver my present down my chimney?" She reached up and drew my head down onto her breasts. The shirt was unbuttoned to her waist, and I had my mouth around her nipple before I knew it. I sucked, savouring the taste of her, feeling the erecting flesh against my teeth. My prick awoke from its slumber.

"I believe it time for some more cheating," she breathed in my ear, and took hold of my rapidly swelling prick and guided me into her already moist minge.

Her legs wrapped around my waist and drew me deep into her tunnel of love.

We clicked into a rhythm from the start, and, after some considerable time spent moving in and out, and on, each other, accompanied by gasps, groans, moans, kissing, licking and sucking, Father Christmas came down her flue — several very enjoyable times — until his sacs were well and truly emptied, and the recipient of his gifts was making shrill sounds of pleasure and gratification. At last I had got the cream — and she had received plenty of mine.

I have no idea what caused Gemma to be such a different woman from our first efforts of love making. Now she knew exactly what she wanted, and at times I was hard pressed to meet her demands, which were nothing particularly depraved but certainly far more adventurous than those 'cheating' episodes in Iver had presaged. Maybe she felt more relaxed in a different country, in a different environment, and a world away from cheating boyfriends?

Whatever had caused her transformation delighted and revitalised me, as it did Mr. John Thomas, who had been severely underemployed during the past month.

It remained to be seen if our successful congress had been a one off; a Christmas present from the Gods on Mount Olympus, who gave with one hand and took away with both, always ready to dash us mere mortal's aspirations to the ground.

After resting from my Christmas deliveries we showered — separately — and dressed to go down for dinner. The hotel restaurant was crowded, but I managed to persuade the maître d' to find Gemma and me a secluded alcove table for two. The service was slow – everything moves at a slower pace in Praslin – which was no big deal as we were brought a pitcher of some local cocktail, and sat drinking and chatting.

"I'm starving," Gemma announced after we had drunk a couple of glasses of cocktail. I looked around for a waiter.

"Not that sort of starving," she said, and disappeared under the table.

She unzipped me and had her lips around my shaft in a trice, and then gave me a blow job, which if not actually the best I had ever received was certainly a close runner up. I had to bite my lip to stop myself from shouting out in pleasure as her educated mouth and lips sucked, kissed, and licked, the length of my prick.

I came, explosively, and she swallowed my discharge, eagerly, efficiently, and effectively. I was pleasantly surprised to have anything left in my bollocks after our earlier extensive 'cheating'.

Gemma resurfaced, smiling and wiping her lips with a handkerchief.

"Lovely jubbly," she said, sounding uncannily like Maggie, the barmaid from the Crown in Plaistow. "OK, I've had the hors d'oeuvres, and I'm now ready for the main course, with possibly a spitting Spotted Dick for pudding."

The rest of our holiday was spent 'cheating', not quite 24/7 as we did take brief spells to recuperate and sight see, although the later usually ended in al fresco 'cheating' sessions. On one such occasion we were caught in a heavy shower of warm, caressing rain, which did not interfere with the frantic knee trembler fuck we were conducting. Gemma was skewered by my cock against one of the huge trees in the rain forest national park, as I hammered like an amorous woodpecker into her clutching cunt, her skirt bunched around her waist and her knickers hanging from a convenient branch.

She came, and as she did exhaled into my mouth "I love you", and I swear at that moment she was Ffion Probert, who had said the exact same words as I was fucking her up against a tree in Celle in 1992.

I was so stunned I stopped in mid thrust. "What?"

"I said I love bonking in the rain, don't you?" Gemma said, and kissed me.

Once, after a hectic session during a shared shower, Gemma and I collapsed on the floor of the shower room, completely exhausted and covered in each other's fluids, allowing the shower to flush away the soapsuds, semen and female love juice from off our fuck fatigued bodies, and for an instant Gemma became Emma the MILF from Aldershot.

Gemma demanded anal sex one evening, more specifically rough anal sex.

She was slightly drunk and quite insistent, so what could a bloke do but indulge her? After all, buggers can't be choosers, can they?

I arse fucked her with savage ferocity; brutally yanking her head back by her hair, twisting and pinching her nipples while biting her shoulders, and as she bucked and shrieked and came she transmogrified into Hannah, the runaway, and Ecstasy and Speed tablet addict.

During one of the many sixty niners we enjoyed Gemma became Annalise, the German bar girl who had been my first lover.

When I introduced Gem to the road to the Climax Inn, and when we eventually burst through the inn door, allowing her to orgasm, she became Francine from Belfast, even swearing in an Ulster accent.

In fact, when I come to consider it, practically every time I fucked Gemma Sloper in the Seychelles I had a flashback to a woman I had previously shagged.

To those already mentioned – Ffion Probert, Emma the Milf, Annalise the German bar girl, Francine from Belfast and Hannah the runaway – can be added Miriam, my wife of nearly twenty years; Philippa Goddard, who I had lived with for three years in Aldershot; Rita, Francine's cousin from Belfast; Greta, the whore from the Copper Kettle in Celle. Angela from the Lemon Tree in Chigwell, Kylie, the sweet little black whore in Mombasa, Karen the Catterick nympho, Maggie from the Crown public house in Plaistow, Debbie the beautician in Salisbury. Many of the clients I escorted in Reading.

Mandy, and her mother Cindy, from the Ambassador Club in Aldershot; Ying Tong and Leila from Afghanistan; the Japanese girls, and other female tourists, in York; Dilys the dogger, and the Scottish woman who introduced me to the 125 club; Stephanie Bowyer, who was my lover before I married Suzannah Weston, and Rebecca, the social worker in West Drayton.

As I never followed through with Shona Lewis from the post room at MilSys she never appeared in my hallucinations, although the SR 10 respirator wearing Captain Kay Mills did.

It was a roll call of the females who, each in their differing ways, made me who I am today, so now you know the women to blame.

All were Gemma, or Gemma was all of them. Sometimes I would pause in the act of fornicating and stare in bewilderment at the female form entwined with me, before Gemma reappeared in place of the vision, or the memory, of the woman.

"Is there anything wrong, Des?" she would ask, concern showing on her face as to why I had stopped in mid-bonk. I would shake my head, and then continue with whatever depravity I had been engaged in, or which of Gemma's holes I had been filling, before those moments of hallucination.

You will have noted two names missing from the roll call; Susannah Weston and Dawn on Still Waters. I have no explanation for those omissions.

December 31st 2008. Praslin Island.

On Old Year's Night Gemma and I spent the evening in a spirited, lively and thoroughly enjoyable bonking/cheating session. No, it was more than that. This time we made love. We had a rapport between us, and although we indulged in some earthy and debauched activity there was also a hint of emotional bonding along with the passion, and on the stroke of midnight we cleaved and came together, our separate orgasms building to a nerve jangling, mind shattering, shared climax which lasted for minutes.

 
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