“Dear Mr Watson, you have booked one of our deluxe holiday cottages for the week from Saturday 7th July, and we write to you to apprise you of the changes that will have come into effect. As you are aware, we have had a planning application in progress for some time, with a view to changing the use to a more specific type of clientele; viz. Naturism. I am delighted to tell you that this change of use application has now been approved with immediate effect. The cottage complex ‘Les Duettes’ will therefore be entirely given over to naturism when you arrive.
We realise that this may not suit all of our guests, and, therefore, are willing to either honour the original booking, or refund the total amount in full, at our clients’ preference. Please indicate, by return, your preferred option.
I read the email three times, tutted over the spelling and grammar mistakes, and referred to my original booking. There, in clause 7, it did, indeed, clearly state that there was a change of use planning application being processed by the Bailiwick of Guernsey. Who reads to clause 7 in T&Cs? I was annoyed, and replied in that vein. The response was conciliatory, friendly and polite. I replied that I would sleep on it and let them know tomorrow. Since I had booked the flight (non-refundable), and the hire car, and stood little chance of alternatives at this late stage (it being Thursday), I already knew what I would do. But I was not going to be a pushover.
I undressed and looked in the mirror. Naturally I thought I looked great, but then I tried to think what others would think. I know naturism isn’t meant to be a fashion show, but then I wasn’t a naturist. I was a normal man with, yes, with a reasonable body.
I needed a holiday, the divorce had started civilised and then descended into name calling, lies and insults – on both sides by the end; but the judge was kind enough to agree that my ex-wife started it when she alleged I had had an affair (not true – or at least not with the woman she named), had hit her (never, ever true, I pushed her away once when she punched me on the nose and broke it!), and that she deserved 75% of our assets. She got 30% and was lucky to get that, I thought. I nearly contested, but I just wanted it all over with. I needed a break.
Why Guernsey? My parents had honeymooned there, I was given to understand I was conceived there; they had always said how lovely it was. I promised I’d take them, but then they both died within weeks of each other of some long latin-named disease acquired in their poor employment conditions at Jacques&Co. I had paid off the mortgage with the compensation – which was why ‘she’ didn’t deserve more that 30% of our assets. So I decided to see what they liked so much in an island where they all spoke English, named everything in French, and were happy to house money-launderers and bankers – the two faces of the same business in our benighted western world.
I emailed the next day, accepting the new conditions. And the day after that, I flew in and picked up my uprated hire car (courtesy of me being a very good customer to Hertz through business – I’d hired cars from Hertz in 24 different countries at the last count, did Guernsey count as 25?). I drove down lanes designed for 0.5 car widths, where people just swung on to the empty pavement to pass each other and continued at the break-neck legal top speed of 35mph. I was already falling in love with a place that clearly protected its independence with care and stubbornness, they had their own rules, own currency, and own government; owed allegiance to the Queen, were protected by the British, but were not even allied to Jersey (which was also independent).
At Les Duettes, I swung in and stopped at the large gate arch; typed in the code at the key safe, obtained the key and pressed the ‘open’ button on the keys. After a moment’s delay, the gates swung open and I drove in, turned immediately left to avoid the screen that blocked the view in when the solid gate was open; rounded it and parked up at the car park. There was a silence – not absolute, the silence of peace. Birds twittered, a car passed outside the wall, but inside the walls I felt released. The enclosed space had been the farmyard of the old Norman farm until 1939 or 45 (histories differed), when a German (or British) stray bomb had scored a direct hit on the farm house, which was never rebuilt.
The cowsheds and stables had been remodelled, the advert said; looked more a demolish and rebuild job to me, but who cares? There were six cottages in a row. More were planned now the permission had finally been given. I could see why this place suited the idea. The wall surrounded the site to twelve feet, totally private, nothing to scare the horses. The farm house side had been rebuilt with a farmhouse frontage facing out, a tennis court and small swimming pool where the actual building had been. More chalets were planned. Guernsey had debated the idea of nudism long and long. There were one or two beaches where topless was tolerated, but this was the first explicit plan. Five years of plans submitted, refused pending modifications, resubmitted, re-refused. Finally, the proprietors had used influence to get past the planning committee to the debating chamber. The potential financial benefits were explained, and the loss of the plan to their larger neighbour (to Jersey), if refusal was confirmed again, was quantified. The plan was approved, and the current customers were suddenly told their idyllic holiday week was now an idyllic nude holiday week.
I’m no bare chested god; but I’m okay looking. I have all my hair and teeth, and, at forty, I still look good; I’m aware that, in a year or two, if I don’t exercise, the natural structure of my body will start to go south; but at the moment I can still get away with looking good by not eating too much and sleeping properly. I just thought ‘what the hell’. I may have nothing to be inordinately proud of, but I’ve nothing to be ashamed of either; why not test drive a naturist holiday?
When I drove in, there was one other car in the car park. I didn’t see anybody. I looked at the keys, which were labelled ‘Alderney Cottage’. Each cottage was named after an island in the group: Sark, Alderney, Jersey, Guernsey, Herm and Lihou; in that order, from the far end of the block to the nearest ones. Walking down the line, I could see that they were different sizes; mine and Sark were single bedroom, three in the middle were two or three bedrooms, and the first, Lihou, was a single again. I opened the front door and walked in, there was a ‘welcome’ notice beside the insurance certificate. The welcome listed all the ‘do’s, don’ts, and other rules and regulations. It seemed that the permission had been granted somewhat oddly.
Unlike most nudist beaches that I had heard of (I had no experience of naturist colonies), nudity was not optional; it was compulsory. Only footware was allowed. The planning permission had been granted on the proviso that all residents would be entirely nude during their stay. I wondered how they would police that. Special Nude Inspectors perhaps? Police raids checking girls weren’t wearing panties? Only Saturdays (arrival and departure) were excepted; and, in the exceptional case of services having to be called in, then an exception could be made so as not to embarrass the visiting workers. It seemed that even with the permission, interest groups had engineered to ensure that this would reduce competition to the existing self-catering apartments. I shrugged and removed all my clothing, looked in the mirror and decided that I passed.
So I was standing, naked, in the kitchen (room beside the front door) when the two from Sark came out. It was a sight that I knew would stay with me for ever. Two delightfully formed twenty year olds, walking past my kitchen front window, perfectly rounded bottoms shimmering slightly as they walked. Both were wearing trainers, though I barely noticed before looking at their upper bodies. Two pairs of fully formed, firm, breasts rose and fell as they walked towards me. They both looked in, smiled and then giggled like a pair of young schoolgirls. They ran forward and then turned away from the houses, scampering along the path across the lawn, turning left at the hedge to head towards the tennis court. Their softly rippling buttocks and naked backs brought me back to life and I shut my gaping mouth. And coming back to this world had the other expected effect, my dormant and flaccid penis, stood to attention, albeit briefly. Thinking about the girls would have kept it hard, but unpacking allowed it time to flop back down, so that, when I went out, I did not disgrace myself.
Another family had arrived whilst I was unpacking. As I walked along the path, a woman, that it would be polite to call statuesque, emerged. She was as tall as me – about six foot – but very large with it. Her naked breasts hung from her chest like two enormous sacks of ‘swag’. Whilst I had no doubt that they would be fun to play with, they were no match for the smaller, firmer copies on the girls I had seen. She was very large at the base as well. She was followed out by three young children, and then a husband, shorter and less stout than his wife. A brief conversation ensued in which I discovered that the original booking had taken up the offer of a refund. The Smethwicks were genuine, enthusiastic naturists, and were delighted to be able to get a late booking for the cottage. Their three young children were shy, but not because they were naked; they were simply young children shy of strangers. Mrs Smethwick told me they were all going to find the swimming pool so I walked along with them, turning right along the hedge. The pool was small, set in to the ground and covered with a large greenhouse roof. I heard later that this was one of the early requirements for change. The original roof had, indeed, been a greenhouse, with 3mm thick glass. This would have been far too dangerous above people swimming. The small changing shack was now obsolete, and was to be converted to a sauna.
The children delightedly jumped in, followed by Julia Smethwick, who bunched up and landed in the pool, creating a tsunami, to the cheers and gurgles of the children. I smiled at Peter Smethwick, who slipped in quietly, and walked back along the hedge to my real interest in this exploration, the tennis court. Julia had done me a favour, the image of her huge bottom as she bent and ran towards the pool was an image that would guarantee to keep any erection at bay.
There was a plastic bench with a lift up seat which contained tennis racquets and balls; the two girls were gaily bashing tennis balls at each other and usually missing them. I walked down between the fence and the hedge, smiled and made as if to continue my exploration of the area. “Hello! Come and join us if you like.” shouted one, who introduced herself as Elizabeth, “Call me Lizzy.” She giggled as she looked at me and I confirmed that she had trimmed but not shaved her brunette pubic hair. Her blonde hair was not platinum, more browny-blonde. I was sure it was natural too. I accepted the invitation to join them.
Sarah moved across the court to her friend’s end, and I found a racquet. I play tennis regularly; so, although their combined ages added up to mine, I was probably as fit as they were, and more skilful. The balls were mostly damp and didn’t bounce too well, so I sent them higher than usual to give them a chance. The three of us batted balls back and forth now, Although their returns were often wide, or wild, or high, or bounced more than once, I could back hand, or fore hand and return them on target to one or other girl to allow us to continue rallies. Such activity is tiring, or can be. They started to fade. “Shall we have a game?” Asked Sarah. She was unshaven too. I thought most girls were hairless below the forehead these days, but these were both well equipped with a triangle of curly brown hair (Sarah was definitely brown hair all over, less manicured than Lizzy).
“Let’s have a rest, first.” suggested Lizzy. So, we walked back to my cottage and I put the kettle on for some tea. We talked.
“How long have you two been naturists then?” I asked
“Ohhhhh, about fifteen minutes now.” laughed Lizzy, “Maybe longer. Since we came out of our cottage starkers. It’s a good job it’s warm.”
I agreed with that. “So ... why come?”
“I did complain when the deal changed.” explained Lizzy “But then they pointed out clause 7. I hadn’t read it, of course.”
“Me neither.” I agreed.
“Well, the thing is, my Dad...”
“He’d have gone mental at her not reading the terms and conditions before signing. He reads everything. He hasn’t got a credit card because of some of the clauses in the deals.” Sarah interrupted.
“They don’t say we have to go naked too?” I laughed, so did they.
“No” Lizzy continued “But I simply couldn’t stand a two hour lecture on why one should always read the details.”
“Nudity is better than your Dad’s lecture?” I asked, incredulously.
“Definitely!” they said together and then “Jinx!!” and laughed at each other “You should hear his sermons, they are very well thought out, detailed, well-argued, and very boring.” Lizzy completed.
“He’s a vicar?”
“No, a layman in our local Baptist. We are both from the same church.” I looked at Sarah, appraising what sort of church was happy for their young girls to go naked on holiday.
“When I realised what this place had switched to, I couldn’t cancel. If I did,” explained Sarah “I’d have to tell mum and dad why, and they’d be horrified at the idea that we might have gone, even though we’d cancelled. So it was easier not to cancel and not tell them. Have to avoid any pictures of us playing tennis though.”
“Oh, you weren’t that bad.” I laughed, knowing exactly what she meant. We all laughed again, had our tea and returned; to find that the family Smethwick had come out of the pool and were messing around on the tennis court. That was fine. Mrs Smethwick was far too hippo-like to run around the court, Peter admitted he was hopeless at coordination games (ie. all of them); I ended up playing gentle tennis with three children whilst the two girls sat and chatted like they weren’t all naked with Smethwick pere and mere. The Smethwick’s lack of any embarrassment was relaxing and set all three of us nudity virgins more at ease.
After half an hour, we all drifted away. I agreed to an early evening match with Elizabeth and Sarah, and watched as their shapely white bottoms went back to their house. If their house was like mine, they had a double bed. Did they sleep naked in the same bed? Were they lesbians? I guessed that they might be. I phoned a couple of people, read book for a while, and then prepared for the match.
“Stakes?” asked Sarah, I’d already concluded that she was the more competitive of the two. I’d thought we’d have a friendly knock about, she wanted a prize for the winner.
“What have you in mind?”
“Who cooks dinner.” That seemed a reasonable bet, I nodded and slipped into competition mode. Then I slipped out of it a little. I knew I could win against them. They thought they had a strength in being two against one, but unless you understand each other and work as a team, you’ll lose even easier. I made sure I won that first set 6:4. Not the white wash it could be.
“Another?” asked Sarah, she thought she and Lizzy had only just lost.
I shrugged and nodded. “What are the stakes this time?”
“Double or quits.”
“Okay, you name them.”
It was a risk, but they could just say no. “You win, I’ll cook dinner. I win, you still cook, and I get a kiss from you both.” They nodded. Yes! A kiss would be good fully clothed. But naked? I was nearly salivating at the prospect. I made myself a pledge to not play any more tonight.
7:5 this time. Still leaving the impression that they were pulling up towards me. Actually they never threatened me, not really.
Dinner was chilli con carne. The carne was vege-mince. I never mentioned the second bet, neither did they. I knew not to push it. As I left, though, they both came to the door, and each kissed me long, open mouthed and hard against my skin. No-one objected to my hands on their waist. No-one remonstrated when the hands moved down to grip and pull even tighter into the clinch on their lovely, rounded, buttocks. No-one commented on the clear, solid (and obviously visible and tangible) erection between us, perhaps they were complimented. I wished them both goodnight, and congratulated myself on sticking to the original plan for the holiday. I didn’t expect any more than what I had already got, but the girls were good company, the Smethwicks were nice. It would be a good holiday.
We had agreed to go out somewhere together the next day; the girls had no car and had planned to get buses everywhere – which was perfectly possibly on Guernsey because it has a good local transport policy. I never did work out who owned the car that had been parked when I arrived, just one of those little mysteries. But, since I had a car, it made sense that I could take them out; after all, we seemed to enjoy each other’s company. I got up at 7am, it was a glorious morning, with sun streaming down through one or two white clouds. I made a mug of tea and walked out to see the remainder of the gardens, I hadn’t even seen the hidden garden yet. It was advertised as a perfect place for a barbecue; I didn’t expect too much, but the hedges were interlaced with red and purple flowers – I’m no gardener, but even I recognised fuschias in such abundance. And looking at them was why I didn’t notice the woman looking like the Madonna sitting on a bench in the sunlight. A beam of sun was illuminating her blonde head as she looked down at the bundle in her arms.
I realised that she was breast feeding a baby, and wondered if nudity allowed for this to be public too, or whether I should slide away before she noticed. Too late. She looked up and smiled. “It was such a beautiful morning, I thought I would come out to here to feed baby.” She was one of those people who used ‘baby’ like it was a name. It always irritated me, until now. The image in front of me was far to beautiful to allow it to be spoilt by such things.
“I can leave you in peace, I just came for a walk in the time I would usually use to get dressed.” I explained.
“Yes, it is odd, isn’t it?”
“You aren’t a naturist by choice either?”
“No, not really. We had booked this when baby was born, and then got the letter – email I mean – only a few days ago. Al will be arriving in a couple of days, he couldn’t get away – though perhaps he didn’t try too hard. He wasn’t keen on nakedness. I see you are comfortable?”
“I just decided to give it a go, it hasn’t been bad, so far.”
I noticed, then, having had the chance to look at her as we were talking, that her free breast was leaking. A flow of milk was dribbling out and down her breast and on down her stomach. She saw me looking and I reddened, so did she. Isn’t it odd? A child breast feeding is the normal use for these sexualised objects, but somehow having one leaking without a child attached was not what one should see?
Fiona’s breasts were probably largish (D cup?) normally, anyway, now they were DD. She had waves of blond hair illuminated by sunlight, grey eyes that had a depth to them, and an adult face. What do I mean? Well, it had lost the childish clear skin that the two girls still showed; she was a little more angular than they, like she had little fat covering her bones. With high cheek bones and grey eyes, she reminded me more of Queen Maeve perhaps – a sorrowful sense of loss – rather than the Madonna now.
“Sorry,” she said “I’m very prolific, it turns out. These bad boys produce much more than baby can handle. I should go in.”
“No, no, please don’t. Can I help?” What the heck was I offering to do? I had no idea, it wasn’t as if my skin had a pocket where I kept a handkerchief to mop her up.
“Would you?” she brightened “That would be so wonderful. It can get so messy, and yet I have to lose the milk otherwise it gets really uncomfortable.” I noticed that the little stream had reached her groin, a sparsely planted garden through which a small rivulet of milk was finding a way. What was she suggesting?
“Tell me what to do?”
She told me to kneel on the grass and grasp her breast and kind of squeeze and pull. A spurt of milk hit me in the face. “I’m sooo sorry.” she and I said together, and we laughed. Then I got the hang of it and was squirting milk into my mouth. Warm, sweet and full fat; and she made an appreciative noise as the pressure on her full breast lessened. Baby just kept slurping on the left breast. Slowly I found myself moving forwards to get the aim better (though the occasional missed spray of milk onto my face was causing an erotic reaction that she couldn’t see). My lips touched her hard nipple and she didn’t object. Next I was latched on and sucking. If anybody came now it would look quite perverted, yet was (still) entirely innocent. I sucked and she explained that her husband wouldn’t help in this way (what a fool!). He found the whole notion of female milk disgusting. He had enjoyed sucking her tits, she said, until they did what they were meant to do and produced milk. Now he wouldn’t help, wouldn’t milk her with the pump, or his hands. She alluded to, but did not say, that sex was on hold too. He hadn’t enjoyed watching a baby appear from her vagina. He said it had traumatised him (HE was traumatised? She was the one squeezing a human being out of a hole that was normally only big enough for his willy). He sounded like an klutz of the worst order, I thought, but said nothing as my mouth was full.
Finally, baby fell asleep. I offered to lick her breast, where the milk had dribbled down. She murmured appreciation. Then she said. “I look a mess, I’ll go back and put baby down, and tidy up.” She turned her eyes towards me “You can help if you like.” With the child or with her? I simply nodded, and we walked back down the path to her house – Lihou the one at the far end. I opened the door for her (we all seemed to have stopped thinking of locking our doors), and followed her up the stairs to the bedroom where the cot was set up, and she gently set her baby in. The baby was naked, aside from a nappy, I noticed. “Baby likes it too. I think. I enjoy the feel of baby’s skin on mine.” she explained.
Now, she could have gone to the bathroom and washed. I could have left. But instead I offered to continue to lick off the milk, and she didn’t object. I knelt and held her legs as my tongue travelled lower and lower. At the first touch of my tongue to her slit, she shivered – with delight. I still held her thighs, and with my thumbs I pulled the skin on either side, exposing more of the red, glowing and damp slit. The milk hadn’t gone in there, but my tongue did, and I held her strongly as her legs started to give way. “Can we lie down? Is that okay?” She said. My body is good for a forty year old, my cock is average girth and length, my tongue is very manoeuvrable. I used to play woodwind, perhaps that helped. When others couldn’t roll their tongue, I could roll it and then twist it up and down at the same time. I lay her down and she kept her legs wide, a clear invitation to carry on. My prehensile tongue wound its way in and up and down. “We have to be quiet, don’t wake baby.” she murmured. I didn’t reply, having my tongue extended into her and lapping up another fluid which her husband didn’t find alluring. She was a talker. She told me that her husband had never licked her out. He found that pretty awful too. He had never asked her to suck him off. He was a missionary position man. I wondered (in my head) what she saw in him. In answer to my unspoken question, she told me that he loved her hugely, and she, him. That he worked hard for her and baby, that he was a good provider. I still figured he was an idiot if he’d never put his head between this lovely woman’s legs. She grunted, sighed and held her breath. “Oh, yes, that was lovely. You can stop now. No, stop! I couldn’t take it again without shouting out!”
So I took my cue and moved up her body. She lay, legs wide, breasts still leaking slightly, and eyes closed as I found my own way in. She knew this was part of the deal. “Remember to come quietly.” she admonished, taking my mouth onto hers for the first time and letting her tongue slide along my teeth. “I’m not taking precautions, but I’m sure it will be fine.” Now, I was coming up to firing a load into her. I was rising and falling and nearly out of control; she was breast feeding which lowered the risk of conception, I knew; but I’m not so stupid as to get a woman pregnant when her husband hasn’t looked at her (in that way) for several months. That would be difficult for her when I was long gone. As I felt the first tremor, I pulled out, and sprayed her stomach with white threads. She held my head to hers and locked lips, so all that was heard was “Ummph, Urgghh, Yimmm”. When I finished, I rolled onto the side, and my hand naturally landed on the sticky goo on her stomach. Her breasts were both gently throbbing out little drops of milk. I leant over and sucked off the excess on both nipples.
“Thank you.” she said, “And thank you for pulling out. I didn’t think it fair to suggest it. I ummmm” I had wiped a finger of semen along her lips. It was, she told me, the first time she had tasted male spunk. “I quite like it.” My hand dropped to her stomach and then to her groin again. “Oh, I don’t ... I’m not sure I can ... I ... well ... Yes, that’s nice.” as I circled her Mons, gently stroked her out lips and began stretching and rubbing around her clitoris. She took just five minutes to stiffen, gasp and say “Yellppp” out loud. “You’re the first man who has ever made me come more than he has.” she told me. I asked how many men she had had. “Two, including you. And two boys, when I was younger. I suppose I was including them in the statistic. Those events were of the ‘fumble in the alley and leave the knickers in the puddle afterwards’ variety.
Oh! I hadn’t intended to tell you all my secrets about losing my virginity.”
“It’s fine. Honestly? I was probably one of those type of boys too, when I was younger. I’m glad we could both enjoy it. Now, I hate to love you and leave you, but I promised a day out to the girls in Sark.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen them! They are the type who look great in clothes or out. You are enjoying your holiday, aren’t you? So am I.” I noticed she was gently stroking herself. Was she planning on staying in bed for a while? “Perhaps, perhaps. I take my rest when I can. Baby is quite demanding.”
I kissed her and said I’d call in later “No you won’t, not if you get lucky.” she replied. I smiled and told her that wasn’t the plan. But I had admit that she was right.
We went out to the North of the island and explored the fortifications. I had to explain the difference between Napoleonic and WW2. Of course, some of the old forts had been repurposed by the Germans, which could be confusing. We stopped at a cafe and had fish and chips. They insisted on paying for the meal, since I was driving them round. As the tide dropped, we walked out to Lihou.
They explained why two young women would opt to visit an island that still had a foot in the nineteen sixties. “We have rather sheltered upbringing, I suppose. Both our parents insisted we attend the local Uni., so we could stay at home. Last year we went to Margate, which was good. But then there was the riot and Daddy came down and collected us. It was so embarrassing! He seemed to think we might be raped in our beds or something. Not that he said that. I mean we love them dearly, but ... Anyway. Europe would be a bit too much of an adventure, I think – Mummy told me that they would be too worried if we went, even though we were adults. Anyway we opted for Guernsey, they thought that would be safe. Then the rules changed and we thought ‘why not? No-one needs to know’. It’s all rather exciting isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I had to agree, “Made a lot better by the company.” The girls smiled, I continued “I mean, the Smethwicks are really nice people, but if you two were both the size of Mrs Smethwick...”
They both laughed. Lizzy said “Give it time, with all these chips I’m eating.”
We walked the island, (it didn’t take long), bought ice-creams and thought we should play tennis when we got back. Sarah was still convinced they could beat me. “Another dinner? It seems unfair.” I said.
“Let’s up the stakes, then. We win, you stay the night and do what we want. You win...”
“The same?” I wasn’t sure how we’d got this far, this quickly. From what they had said, they might still be virgins. I said this, in a round-a-bout way. “But perhaps, you know, you should look for a more romantic time?”
“You think we’re virgins? You wish. Don’t worry, when we win, you’ll be suitably romantic.”
“And is this for a set or a match?” Some discussion followed, and it was agreed that the bet was for each set in a three set match. I’m not sure who was more excited, them or me. I gathered that they had been thinking that this would, indeed, be a boring, middle-aged island with boring, middle-aged activities. Now they were in a very exclusive nudist holiday camp, and finding sex willingly on offer, they were interested in trying to turn Guernsey into Magaluf. They mentioned, casual, like, that they were both on the pill. Another secret kept from the parents, apparently; since the pill implied sex, which suggested sex before marriage, which their little girls should never contemplate. I asked about their previous encounters.
“Boys in church are mostly after the same thing as boys out of church. But they are too keen, too frightened to be caught, so too rushed. I met a guy when I was fifteen, he was ancient – at least twenty. He was kind and considerate, and took his time. I suppose now he’d be accused of grooming, but, really, he was just getting me used to the bases. You know, hand under the shirt, hand up the skirt, hand in the knickers, hand, well finger ... it didn’t last, but he was my first.” Lizzy said.
“Goooodddd! You never told me you let Gavin! You said you only let him touch you.” said Sarah.
“Well, I didn’t want to tell anyone, until now. I mean I wasn’t exactly proud of it. I was terrified for a month after in case I was pregnant. But it was nice. I think I was lucky. I’ve had a couple of boy friends since. It’s funny, parents know what they got up to when they were young, but they think that if you haven’t a car then you’re safe. I mean, my Mum and Dad didn’t have a car, and I was still born seven months after they married.”
“Were you?” Sarah came back “I never realised. You remember that visiting pastor we had? The one training to go abroad, to Africa? He said he was terrified of catching something and dying a virgin. I let him ... He wasn’t very good, but he was very grateful.”
“You mean Pastor Smith? He was ancient.”
“No! Oh yes, yuck! No, Pastor Terry, the young one, two years ago.”
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten about him. He...” Lizzy said
“Yes, he caught Ebola and died three months after he arrived. I felt I’d done him a good deed there. Though sometimes I wonder: if I hadn’t made love to him, maybe the whole of history would be different and he wouldn’t have died.”
“Crap!” I rejoindered. “I don’t believe in fate like that. I’d say he went away happy, and probably died thinking of you. You did right.”
“Well, I think you’re right. But, since you don’t believe in anything, your views on fate aren’t worth a lot. Shall we head back to the car?”
She was right, of course. And it was good that she could shoot me down, and good that they could talk openly. I didn’t want them doing anything that they’d regret, anything more that they’d regret, I mean. It sounded like they weren’t entirely convinced that their sexual experiences, so far, amounted to too much.
We walked back across the causeway, visited the shell church and opted to leave the occupation museum and the fort in St Peter Port to another day. Back at the house – Fort Knox, I’d christened it, for the trouble getting in – we went and changed (put on trainers and took off everything else) for tennis. The only risk was that their bouncing boobs would distract me. I’d made the mistake of saying that out loud. As we walked to the court, they deliberately walked with an exaggerated swing to show their perky tits off to good effect.
Another family were unpacking. Two parents and two girls, fourteen and sixteen. It felt odd, them being dressed still as they unpacked, and us being naked. The younger sister looked at me and then at her father, I could tell what she was thinking. The older one looked at Sarah and Elizabeth and their bouncing boobs, and then looked down at herself. I could tell what she was thinking too. “Psst. Stop exaggerating so much, you’re giving her an inferiority complex.” I said. But it was too late, we were walking away and all they could see now was two perfect bottoms and a hairy arse (not so hairy really), and a dangly bit between my legs. Thank goodness it was dangly and not a flag pole!
The mother told us, as we stopped briefly, talking to a woman in jeans, teeshirt and a light anorak whilst we let it all hang out, that the ferry had been off for two days with essential maintenance after the bad weather. That was why they were late. I was glad I’d flown.
Curiosity is a great thing. I couldn’t resist letting them win the first set so I could find out what their concept of ‘anything we want’ was. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be tied to bottomless chair with hot coals under it. What made me think of that I’ll never know.
So they won, and Sarah and Lizzy even offered to up the bet. I’d suggested I’d had enough, they wanted to keep me in the game. “How about anything as a threesome?” The previous offer had been with one at a time, if I won. Still I hesitated, just to see what they’d do. “And we mean ‘anything’. No safety word.” Now that was just stupid. Tempting, but still stupid. I told them that they had to promise never, ever to offer anything with no safety word again. Some people, I told them, weren’t as in control as me.
“But this time, I’ll accept,” I said “To teach you a lesson.” I smiled. The first seeds of doubt appeared on their faces. I beat them both, 6:0 and 6:1.
They looked at me. “You tricked us! You tricked us!”
“Maybe, but you made the rules, and you won the first one. Good job the double beds are big ones, eh?
I need a drink.” I replied. As we left the court. Two girls were walking across the lawn to the swimming pool. Both were naked, but holding their towels carefully to hide their lower bodies. If Julia Smethwick was ‘water melons’, Sarah and Lizzy were ‘large grapefuit’, maybe ‘pineapples’ (Fiona’s were honeydew, for taste and size), these two were large orange and a lemon sized. I could see why they might be self-conscious; particularly when they saw me looking. But what else could I do? A man is genetically programmed to check out a girl’s bust, and these were very visible. I wonder what their mother was like; and why a family would bring their growing daughters to somewhere like this. I didn’t have long to wait to find out. Terry Watkins (Theresa, but insisted in Terry) was walking up. She was slim, carefully shaved (I hadn’t noticed the girls, but was willing to bet the younger was still naturally almost hairless, and the older was not into pubic trimming yet. It was just an impression I had), with C-cup sized breasts that had lost the young solidity but still had their shape. They moved easily up and down as she walked. We stopped to chat again and we heard that the father, Gerald, had insisted on keeping the booking. He apparently actually said it would do the girls good to see their bodies were developing perfectly normally. Since they weren’t convinced naturists, I wondered (so did Lizzy, Sarah, and, I’m pretty sure, Terry) if he was relishing seeing his young daughters naked. I’m sure that seeing their father nude wasn’t on their wish list for the year.
I offered to cook. “Okay, but come to our house.” I cooked a light dinner, with few spices. I didn’t think a curry would help (farts) or a pizza (too much heavy cheese). Then I went next door. It was oddly debilitating not to dress up. Somehow, that whole process of dressing for a date set the mind in the right way of thinking. I had no need to try and dress to impress, get the girl pleasantly malleable; I was on a promise already, naked already. It was all highly odd. Still, the food was good. I was glad I’d let them win. They had to make the first move.
“That was nice, I like a man who can cook.” Lizzy smiled. “Now, leave the washing up. Lets go upstairs. We’ve been thinking and talking about this for a while. By the way, we both showered. Together.”
“Yes,” said Sarah “We thought that might get a response.” Yes, the thought of them in the shower together had the desired effect. I was at half-mast; it wouldn’t take long to get it right up. We went upstairs.; what were they wanting? “You are experienced, more than us. We want to try a few new things, we’ve heard of. Now, you know about rimming? We’ve heard it’s rather nice. Would you start there?” With that, she and Lizzy lay face down together on the bed, reached round and pulled their pretty bottoms open for easier access. So that’s why they mentioned showering. I mentally tossed a coin, Sarah won.
I lay on the bottom of the bed, pulled myself in, and gently licked her ring. “Ohh, yes, that’s really rather nice, Oh, yes. I ... ummmm yes. Please.” I gently pulled at the ring and let my tongue invade her a little more. “Oh, Lizzy, you gotta try this!” And so I transferred to Lizzy. She enjoyed it just as much. Neither had a hand to their front. I looked up and asked why.
“Oh, yes, I suppose. I mean. Well, we’ve been taught this isn’t nice.”
“I thought it was meant to be very nice.” I replied.
“No, I mean ‘nice’. As in polite. You wouldn’t mind?”