Having met in the reserve as usual, they decided, this time, to ride on. They climbed for a while then skirted around and down the hillside, heading north-west towards the least frequented part of the island. It was mid-morning and the forest smelled sweetly of the previous night’s rain. Mostly, they went in single file with Jess leading, but whenever the trail widened enough to permit it, Ira would draw up alongside her. Once he reached out and took her hand and held it for a time as they silently made their way, and then, suddenly self-conscious that his gesture might appear absurdly adolescent, abruptly let it go.
Underneath them, ground-hugging lace-ferns, brush against fetlocks disseminating their spores. Above them, tall tree-ferns tower on slender stems, their canopies, in variegated hues of green and yellow, jostling together like a concourse of parasols and seeming – to eyes screwed up against the spears of light piercing their fronds – like so many spinning rotors. Now and then a giant fern trembles in the breeze spraying them with rainwater accumulated in its canopy overnight, and Jessie, standing in her stirrups, turns her body towards him and calls out, ‘Look,’ and shows him the wet shirt clinging to her breasts and her nipples thrusting through the thin fabric.
An hour’s ride brings them to the base of the slope and the forest’s edge; and now only a meadow, with a few cows grazing, lies between them and the blue arc of the sea. Delicate white seabirds, some, with bunches of tiny fish in their beaks, wheel above them on translucent wings, their cries piercing the bright air. One swoops down and glares at them out of huge black eyes and Jessie remarks how feisty, how literally in your face, the little bird is and how dagger-sharp her long, black beak looks. She’s warning them away from her solitary chick perched un-nested and vulnerable on a branch just above their heads; but after they’ve dismounted, seemingly reassured by their diminished height, she flies off. The cows look up at them curiously as they lead their horses across the meadow to where the land ends.
Below them, perhaps two hundred feet down, the sunlight is glinting on the pellucid waters of a little bay. Between the arms of its headlands a coral shelf, exposed by the waning tide, forms a breakwater to the sea. At its farthermost end a stream, trickling out of the rock-face, carves a meandering course through creamy-white sand. Nearby there’s a stand of palm-trees – like in a cartoon drawing of an oasis. There is not a soul to be seen. A rocky, scree-spattered moraine serves as a track down which they lead the horses, their hooves scrabbling on the shingle, to the beach.
They water the horses and tether them in the palm-trees’ shade; then they unsaddle and rub them down, thinking to swim them later. Excited by the nameless possibilities afforded by a deserted beach they work briskly, keen to get the job done. Finished, they undress, never once taking their eyes off each other. Fully naked at last, they kiss, and Jess cups Ira’s balls in her hand and lingers for a moment before detaching herself and heading for the water. ‘Coming in?’ she asks, and turning, gives Ira a glimpse, in profile, of a soft-tipped breast as she goes.
But Ira is transfixed. He has stayed back for the sheer pleasure of watching her – Jessie! His Eve in Eden! – The way she moves, the graceful way she carries herself. He could sink in that grace – drown in it. It’s always a source of amazement to Ira that she seems unaware of her own beauty. As unselfconsciously comfortable in her nakedness as any animal, Jess appears to be entirely without vanity or affectation. As she walks to the water’s edge he indulges the fantasy that each alternating flash of buttock is teasing him with a separate signal, but in truth, there is no mistaking the composite harmony of that sublime behind, or the full force of its message. Ira snaps out of his reverie; he calls out to her, ‘You go ahead, I’ll be right in.
Jess dives, breasting the water, and the white underside of her buttocks, and, an instant later, the pale soles of her feet, catch the light, and the heavy mass of her floating hair fans out to her shoulders. She strikes out towards the reef turning to face him from the middle of the bay. ‘Come on in,’ she calls, ‘the water’s fine;’ laughing as she says it.
The water is crystal clear. Although it is at least twenty feet beneath him, the bottom seems absurdly near – almost close enough to touch. Across its white expanse are scattered submerged islands of vividly coloured coral, colonies of the reef that spans the bay, in and out of which a myriad of multi-coloured fish are darting. It was as if his boyhood fantasy had been realised, of entering the silent world of his bedside aquarium; and once again his heart swells with gratitude towards this woman who has released in him such a flood of youthful romanticism that, whenever he was with her, he felt himself to be a dweller in an earthly paradise.
Two lengths short of her he stops swimming. He’s noticed the wicked gleam in her eye. He treads water. ‘Don’t you dare Jess – don’t even think of it,’ he warns, happily confident of being ignored; and Jess grins just as her head and shoulders disappear beneath the surface and Ira glimpses, like a pair of floating islands, the twin hemispheres of her arse before it too disappears, and her heels cleave the water, and her fumbling hand finds his dick where it’s swaying like seaweed in the current, and she sucks it into the snug, warm haven of her mouth.
Ira is already sitting on the beach when Jess emerges from the sea. He’d left the water ahead of her – he wanted to watch her coming out as he had watched her going in. Her ripe beauty overwhelms him; he can never get enough of her, his bronzed and brazen lover. The song, The Girl from Ipanema, (Tall and tan and young and lovely…) comes irresistibly to mind as he gazes upon the miraculous construct that is Jessie’s body.
If you thought Ursula Andress looked gorgeous emerging from the sea in Doctor No, then let me tell you that to Ira’s eyes, Jessie looks a thousand times lovelier. He watches her striding towards him. Flecks of water glisten on her bronzed skin and converge into little rivulets between her breasts. The long panel of her abdomen is a smooth, undulating plane; unlike Andress she doesn’t need to suck her belly in; it is authentically flat.
There’s a wholesome sleekness about Jessie’s body – you’re aware there’s a layer of fat beneath that glowing skin but not an ounce more than good health requires. And there’s something else as well – something you don’t always get to see even on slender women – that shallow depression running down the centre of the body, which, starting at the sternum – just under the lovely pointed arch delineated with subcutaneous subtlety by the rib-cage – bisects the panel of abdomen under it and, at its terminus, appears to make a pendant-like loop around the navel.
Jessie’s wringing out her hair, and seawater flows down the slopes of her breasts and streams off the ends of her nipples, which are still erect and appear dark against the band of paler skin that traverses her chest. Her brown torso is coated with the finest blonde down, and the shadowy hollow, in which her navel nestles, looks to have been scooped out by the thumb of God. Beads of water are caught and glisten amidst the curls of her pubic thatch, which, like a dark arrow, directs his eyes to the little triangular space below it – that tender and affecting absence at the convergence of her thighs. Suddenly, as if on an impulse, she stops in her tracks and announces, ‘I’m going to dry off,’ and, with a quick, apparently disinterested glance at Ira’s swollen member, turns away from him and heads back towards the water.
At the water’s edge, exposed by the retreating tide, there’s a basalt boulder – a remnant of the violent upheaval which, eons past, had formed the island – and Jessie drapes herself over this, arms and legs splayed, like a starfish clinging to a stone. It’s that thing she does that gets him every time – how she’ll display herself shamelessly, with an air of careless innocence which has, underlying it, a brazenly seductive intent. And the boulder could not have better suited her purpose: Jessie’s lovely rear is elevated above her head, her eyes are closed and her face, which is turned towards him, is flushed, as if in anticipation. Ira decides to wait – he sees only advantage in prolonging the situation. He waits for some time till Jessie is looking calm, and dreamy and so utterly relaxed he thinks she could be sleeping.
But she’s not asleep. Hearing the sand shifting as he walks towards her, she opens her eyes, looks boldly up at him, and, reaching back, tugs the cheeks of her buttocks apart. At the same time, she raises her heels up out of the sand, and standing on her toes, elevates, by yet a few more inches, that part of her which she knows is likely to be the focus of Ira’s attention for the next half hour or so. Then he’s kneeling behind her, and she feels his hot breath there, and she closes her eyes again and gives herself over to the moment.
Jessie’s mound has been pressed for so long against the boulder, and its soothing heat has penetrated her so deeply, it’s as if the very molecules of her pubic bone are in synchronous agitation with those of the rock. She has fallen into a stupor almost as if she had already climaxed, and she is still in a relaxed, trance-like state when she feels Ira’s hands spreading her buttocks and the soft wet dab of his tongue against her anus. It is salty after her swim and he sets about desalinating it, stroking it with his tongue until its musky, pheromonic tang reasserts itself. Her breath is rasping against the surface of the stone. Ira knows he needs to get a move on – the tide will be turning soon and the ride home is still ahead of them.
With his thumbs he parts Jessie’s vulva releasing a trickle of seawater which darkens the stone under her and evaporates as quickly as it appears. Her cunt is redolent of the seashore: slippery against his mouth; there’s a hint of acidity, and then a creamy smoothness, the taste and texture of freshly shucked oysters. It is slick to his tongue, but suggestively adhesive as well.
So fused is Jessie’s mound with the boulder that the tip of his tongue, seeking her clitoris, taps against the rock’s surface and perhaps picks up some grit there, because the moment he draws it across its intended target, she gives a great, shuddering cry and her quaking buttocks clench, relax, and clench again; and Jess is as stunned by the suddenness and intensity of her climax, as she had been by the exceptional clitoral sensitivity which preceded it.
Ira is surprised as well – he had not expected her to come so quickly. Now, standing behind her, he aligns his swollen penis with the crevice of her arse, its tip at the base of her spine. Feeling the weight of it resting there, Jessie imagines fancifulylly, that it’s heavy with spunk. She hears him say as if from a distance, ‘It’s my turn now my love – are you ready?’ His voice sounds slurred and gruff.
‘Oh yes, yes, don’t wait, put it in, put it in!’ and she reaches back and parts her buttocks again, offering her tender female parts for him to view, and use and enjoy. And it thrills him to see how wet she is – how dewy and inviting.
Ira pushes his penis down past her tailbone and into the cleft of her arse. Jessie flinches as it notches against the groove of her anus, then relaxes with a sigh as, after grazing her perineum, it enters her vagina. And it feels so good to have him inside her; and to him, as well, to be there – so warm, as if he can feel the boulder’s heat through her vagina’s anterior wall. He presses down on her buttocks the way a masseuse might do, and spreads them apart so that her anus is tugged sideways like a tear; and the sight of the piston-like action of his prick moving in and out of her is immeasurably exciting to him; and he’s shoving it all the way in, right up to the hilt; and his balls are flattening themselves soothingly against the rock’s warm surface again and again. Then suddenly he’s coming, and it’s so quick that before he knows it his ejaculation is at its zenith – that terminal convulsive shudder when nothing feels more urgent than squeezing out those last few drops, and going in deeper than you have ever gone before – so deep, that at that moment, you wish that not just your prick, but your balls – your entire body even – might find its true home inside that of your lover. The fantasy is expended together with the last drop of his seed, and Ira contents himself with the actual pleasure of kissing Jessie’s lovely back and inhaling the fragrance of her sun-burned skin. And as he withdraws, and a spill of semen darkens once more the grey stone beneath her, the thought comes to him that what the sun doesn’t vaporise the sea will accept. He finds the thought strangely satisfying.