Her husband dropped her off at the airport and helped her get inside with her bags. She asked him if he wanted any souvenirs from Hawaii.

He laughed and said, “Bring me back a Hawaiian girl!” before giving her a final hug and kiss goodbye, and returning to the car. He made such jokes often, whenever her work sent her to far off destinations. An Italian girl, he’d asked for. A French girl. A Japanese girl. How serious was he, when he made those jokes? Were they really a joke, or merely a way to gauge her interest with some plausible deniability? If she came back with a Hawaiian girl to add to their household, would he be delighted? Would he dote on her every day? Share their meals with her? Pamper her? She suspected he would. He was popular with girls. They liked him, and he liked them back.

The flight to Oahu was relaxing and blissful. Beautiful skies over a boundless, azure ocean. Even though she was headed the opposite way they had, she imagined what that ocean must have looked like to the first Polynesians to discover Hawaii, to land there and make it a home. She would have been terrified to see nothing but ocean for weeks at a time, but perhaps for them, it had been a comfort. What bravery they had! What knowledge of the ocean! She continued to read of the islands’ history as the plane gracefully carried her to a tropical paradise, her mind filled with images of ancient Hawaiian ali’i and kahunas.

The work conference went as work conferences usually do. The good seminars were eye-opening, the bad ones had her fighting to keep them open as she struggled against boredom-induced sleep. The food made up for even the worst of them, though, especially the kalua pork, the smoked, succulent flesh tinged with the aroma of banana leaves and the flavor of alaea salt. And at the end of each day, she had enough time to walk around and shop a little and explore the island. She saw amazing dances and music at the Polynesian Cultural Center as lithe dancers moved with flames and feathers. She ate seafood and fresh fruits and poi and cabbage and myriad dishes that tasted delicious but she never even learnt the names of. She tried out Dole whip and poke for the first time, and loved both. She picked up a large box of cookies for her and her husband, and grabbed him a small, wooden carving of Ku for his collection of gods back home.

But most of all, she relaxed on the beach at Waimea Bay, exposing her flesh to the sun, letting the ocean breeze kiss her skin and mingle in her hair while she watched the waves crash into the shoreline, ridden by well-muscled and well-tanned surfers, water dripping off their perfect bodies as they walked past her, their eyes caressing her subtly, her choice of swimsuit clearly appreciated.

It didn’t take long for one of the surfers to approach her. His beautiful color and intimidating height and breadth of shoulders evidence of the Polynesian blood in his veins, his body artfully decorated with elaborate, traditional tattoos that highlighted his bulging muscles that danced beneath his skin as he ran into the waves while she watched. His wet trunks did little to hide the outline of an impressively thick and heavy cock beneath, an outline that grew visibly while he stood and talked to her, his eyes constantly glancing down to her chest and legs. She only encouraged him, arching her back and stretching her limbs for his benefit. When he invited her to a luau, she accepted, already knowing what was to come later, already promising herself she’d submit to him whatever he desired.

Before the food had even arrived at the table, his hand found its way to her thigh. By the time the kulolo had arrived, his fingers were caressing her lips through her soaked panties, and her hand was stroking his hard, thick cock through his shorts, his heartbeat throbbing in her grip, an eager drumroll in anticipation of the main event.