 Indigo Silke lives in the wilds of Mississippi, and considers herself a reformed good girl, an activist, a smartass, and an unrequited writer. While she was always a writer and a lover at heart, she has only recently found the liberation to avidly pursue these preoccupations and her other passion, racial reconciliation. She's had two stories and a poem published in Erotica Readers Association, and one inspired by a painting of Kurt Reinhardt was published in his exhibition catalog. Four of her poems are published in Uppity Women Magazine.
Riviera Reverie Carolyn stood near the shoreline, feeling the warm caress of salt breezes on her face. She cocked her head, listening to the murmur of the ocean making ceaseless love to the shore . . . in, out, in, out, in, out. The sand was hot and gritty, much too hot and real underfoot, not the white sands of Florida, but the darker tones of the Riveria. The ocean was blue, but with an aquamarine tinge, the sky a clear blue laced with wisps of cloud only. It looked just like the picture postcard she had gotten from Vincente'. Carolyn paused at her keyboard, fixing the scene in her mind, trying to keep her mind focused so the fantasy would became as clear as reality. Ah, while in France, do as the French do, she thought, looking down at the brightly flowered pareau hanging on her hips and the thin bolero she wore over her bare breasts. The light friction of the gauze rubbing across her nipples was not unpleasant. A semi-transparent scarf swayed between her breasts, ruffled by the light gusts of wind. She'd never dare to wear this outfit on the beach in the U.S. She was more than a little plump, and the top was too daring for a young woman there, much less the older, thicker woman she was. She felt sexy, though, and relaxed in this place of topless bathers. She was over-dressed, if anything. Carolyn continued typing, as she saw herself turn, slowly, shading her eyes to see the man lying on the beach lounge. Even with the huge umbrella shading him, the sun behind the umbrella made his body appear incandescent in it's bright, afternoon rays. She could barely make out a half-consumed drink sweating in a plastic cup, resting on the tiny table attached to the chair, and two empty cups on the sand. As she started toward Vincente', she forced herself not to run, to stroll slowly, slowly, so that she could savor every second of this meeting. She saw him with such clarity that each minuscule hair on his body stood in bias relief and every tiny imperfection on his skin was clearly delineated, endearing as mere perfection could never be. His body was a little plump, provocatively so, with a small smooth mound of belly showing, even lying back as he was. His hair glinted blonde and silver, except on the very top, where there was a balding spot. The goatee and mustache gave him a rakish appearance, even with that angelic expression on his sleeping face. She smiled and gazed at him as she drew near, drinking in the contours of his body, every crease, every little sexy wrinkle of experience on that blissfully sleeping body. The years and life experience that showed on his face and body were more moving, more sensually pleasing, than the blank slate on a younger man could ever be. The wonderful thing about Europeans, she thought, is that they know how to enjoy and be natural . She was looking at his skimpy swimming attire, his body nearly naked by standards back home. She swept her glance around - how strangely deserted this very public beach appeared to be (and what a happy chance that was!). Only the portable bar appeared populated, and it was far beyond the umbrella. The bartender she'd seen leaning his elbows on the bar was now hidden from them by breadth of the beach umbrella. Stepping right next to Vincente', Carolyn stopped for a moment, just looking and breathing, her head feeling light and oxygen-deprived. She swept her eyes over the man she'd been longing to see in the flesh. A fine sheen of sweat glowed on his body, making his skin nearly iridescent in the heat and light. She carefully put one knee on the chaise, trying not to wake him yet, and leaned close until her half-covered breasts brushed his bare chest lightly. She brushed her kips tenderly, softly across his, cupping his cheeks softly in her hands. His eyes opened slowly, confused and bluer than the sky; her heart thundered in her chest, and those blue eyes bulged with shock as he saw the familiar but unfamiliar brown eyes inches from his own. She drew back a little, lips curling in a smile of delight at his reaction. "Caroline, cherie', how . . ." "Shhhh, just enjoy me." She leaned back for him to do his own looking, shrugging her shoulders so that her breasts came free of the little vest. She laughed happily at his expression - it was all she had been living for. "Hu, hu," she giggled, using the expression he had taught her was somewhat equivalent to her "Tsk, tsk." She swung the other leg over the chaise and parted the pareau's overlap to real her naked body to him. "Oh, cherie'," he breathed, then cast his head side to side, looking to see who else was enjoying the same view. He began again, in that gloriously accented English that sent shivers through her body, " ‘ow did . . ." She leaned forward again and stopped his questions with a kiss that was less tender than the first, more probing and passionate. He forgot the beach and let his hands roam over those breasts as though he'd never touched a woman before. As heat shimmered in waves off the hot sand, they sank as into a mirage. They kissed and caressed as obliviously as though in the privacy of some double-locked hotel room. Had anyone walked by (and who knows, perhaps they did) they would have seen two lovers in a passionate embrace, but the embrace was far more passionate even than it appeared at a glance. Between their hot bodies, under the pareau, her hands reached inside his skimpy suit and freed him to her caresses as her tongue did it's own caressing against his lips and tongue. His hands made love to her breasts and then reached past her busy hands to dip into the hot and slippery folds between her parted thighs. They drew back from each other fractionally, and holding her eyes with his deep blue stare, he slowly raised his fingers and inhaled the fragrance before he licked the taste of her pussy from each finger in turn. Their breath contested in an effort to draw faster or harder; both won. Once more, she pulled back, resettling herself on the uncircumsized cock she had stroked into a solid hardness, all still hidden under the drapes of the pareau, and she began to rock, face flushed too deeply for even this heat , as he clung to the ends of her scarf, drawing her mouth back to his. Slow and dreamlike at first, they swayed to love's music, the music that played it's beat in ears and veins, faster then, becoming frantic, before rising in a crescendo that drowned even the ocean's deep throb. She fell forward and lay, eyes closed, nearly asleep. She finally stirred at approaching voices. He appeared to have slipped back into a deeper sleep than before, and carefully, softly, she left a kiss on his lips, and took another long look as she carefully slipped his softened cock back in his suit, still concealed beneath her. She rose with care, tugging the pareau back in place. As she walked into the sun, she adjusted the bolero back over her breasts, suddenly shy of their bareness again. Carolyn wiped sweat from her upper lip and listened to her own heart pound as she sat in front of the keyboard, staring at the words on the screen, breathing as though she had actually done what she had just written. God, how real it had been, she could almost smell the salt air, and a whiff of suntan oil. Vincente' would love this e-mailed story, as soon as he got back from his vacation. She smiled to herself and hit the "Send" button. Suddenly feeling tired, she slipped off the bolero and pareau she'd worn for inspiration, and sat on the side of her bed. She dusted some grit from her feet and lay back to relive the fantasy she'd just written, trying to get back in the mood of it. She'd gotten up early for this, enjoying the idea of writing it in his afternoon, but she still had a little time before she had to get ready for work. Across the ocean, Vincente' woke from a breathtakingly real wet dream. He felt disoriented and looked around guiltily, almost believing he'd really made love right there in front of the family sunning only a hundred feet or so away. He reached for his drink, and took a sip, but the ice had melted, watering it into a disgusting concoction. He looked down and saw that the crotch of his swimwear was soaked - he'd obviously come during that dream. Embarrassed, he rose, turning away from the family near him, and ran out to the ocean to hide the evidence of his faux pas in her welcoming warmth. Relaxed now, he returned, dripping wet and innocent of the evidence of his dream. His breath caught as his eyes were drawn to the brightly colored, translucent scarf fluttering in the Mediterranean breezes as it hung from the chaise arm. Copyright © 2001 Indigo Silke. All rights reserved. |