Fun in the Sun Read online

  The words returned to scorch her, like midday sun on a newly-watered plant. To make matters worse Gemma, the so-called friend in question, had been far from embarrassed, merely giggling and giving his bum a complicit pinch. He might have been a control freak, but he was still a gob-smackingly good-looking one, with skin the kind of dusky golden colour Kelly wished she could bottle and sell to interior design stores. It was rich and warm and sensual - everything, in fact, that the man himself wasn’t.

  How had things gone so spectacularly wrong? Kelly slumped on the sofa, sipping some instant coffee. They’d met just three months earlier in the London bar where she’d been working; Pascal’s football team had been playing a European fixture and he’d made a rare trip overseas, and was in good spirits because they’d won. After a few drinks and a crazy conversation in franglais, they’d fallen into her bed and she’d fallen headily in-love, or so she’d persuaded herself. They had a connection, she’d insisted, as her family and friends listened to her plans in disbelief. She was only twenty-three, still young enough for adventure, and she had nothing to lose. He was an entrepreneur who ran his own yacht-servicing company and could give her a job. He needed her for her English, she’d announced proudly, and her ability to communicate with yacht owners of all nationalities. It was a brilliant opportunity and the chance to move in higher circles, while enjoying just a bit of fun in the sun.

  Quite what that job would entail, however, Kelly hadn’t bothered to ask, as she’d hastily packed her belongings and caught the lowest-budget flight to Nice she could find. But if it concerned yachts on the French Riviera, it had to be glamorous, non?

  Kelly arrived at the shop owned by Pascal’s father to start her day’s work. He’d just finished packing the chill-box, and carried it out for her to the quayside, where he loaded it onto the little rib: the vessel, she had joked in happier times, that resembled her, with its hard bottom but voluptuously soft sides. He held it steady as she clambered on board. Fastening the money-belt full of change around her stomach, Kelly started the engine.

  She felt like Pascal’s drug mule, brought over to a foreign country under false pretences. Flogging ice-cream to yachts? It might have been better than pulling pints behind some dodgy London bar, and over the weeks she’d worked up a pretty enviable tan, but like the man himself, the job hadn’t been worth giving up her life for.

  An hour later, she’d sold a third of her wares and rejected two propositions from tattooed Russians before reaching her favourite spot: a pretty bay overlooked by some of the most elegant houses on the French Riviera. Fat chance she had of ever getting inside one, of course, but they were still lovely to look at and there was no harm in dreaming. She reckoned she had another hour to go before she’d sold the remaining ice-creams - Pascal would only sulk if she failed to get shot of them all. Spotting a smaller yacht with children playing on the stern, she headed in its direction, with the cry of: ‘Glaces? Ice-cream? Speiseeis?’

  The family obliged, as always, succumbing to the pleas of their children, and once the exchange of choc-ices for cash had taken place, Kelly eased the rib away in search of her next customer.

  ‘Glaces? Ice-cream? Speiseeis?’ Would it help, she wondered, if she could learn the Russian word, too? She was musing over how she might find that out when the engine began to splutter and then died completely. This had never happened before. She tried several times to restart it, but without any luck. Her heart sinking, she reached for her mobile and called Pascal. He was delivering groceries on the other side of the harbour, he told her, not bothering to disguise his irritation, and would get there in a couple of hours. She was to keep trying to start it, he went on, and to get shot of the remaining ice-creams before they all melted.

  That was it, she thought. That was the sum total of his concern. Never mind her discomfort in the heat of the sun, it was all about sales with him. In that instant, Kelly stopped caring. This was her last day working for Pascal, she decided, and never again would she sleep in his bed. The indignation rose inside her like the swell of the sea in which she was now drifting. She was never going back to that flat, that was for sure.

  She checked inside what she considered her getaway bag, where she kept all her money, her passport and a change of clothing. Her intuition had been right from the start - not once had she left her valuables behind. A part of her wouldn’t have been surprised had Pascal tried to keep her passport himself, as a form of insurance (not to mention blackmail), and she’d been determined never to let it out of her sight.

  The rib started to rock and she was aware of a boat approaching the bay behind her. She was stuck in the middle of its path, and shrugged apologetically.

  ‘I’ve broken down,’ she shouted. ‘En panne!’

  The boat slowed down alongside her. ‘What’s that?’ shouted its skipper, a bronzed, beach-blonde hunk who spoke with an Australian accent and got away with wearing the skimpiest trunks she’d ever seen.

  ‘I’ve broken down,’ she repeated.

  ‘You can’t break down there, mate, you’re blocking the way!’

  ‘So sorry I couldn’t have chosen a better spot.’

  She thought she saw the flicker of a smile on his face, and returned it. He disappeared for a minute and returned with a length of line.

  ‘Fasten this, mate, and I’ll tow you to a better spot.’

  She did as he instructed, and he towed her out of the way until their vessels were settled next to each other. There, he dropped anchor and switched off his engine.

  ‘So what have you got in that chill-box then?’ he asked. ‘A couple of beers for my trouble?’

  ‘I hate to disappoint. Choc-ices and raspberry ripples are more my speed.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re going to bake in this sun. Come on board. And pass your ice-creams over, I’m parched.’

  Kelly handed him the chill-box and then, clutching her getaway bag, climbed off the rib and onto his yacht, glad of the shade it provided.

  ‘The name’s Greg,’ he said, stretching out his hand as Kelly introduced herself. ‘Let’s help ourselves to a couple of those ice-creams.’

  Kelly flinched - Pascal would only deduct the lost revenue from her earnings - but reminded herself that she really didn’t care anymore.

  Greg spotted the flinch. ‘I’m working for rich Russians,’ he assured her. ‘They can buy all the ice-creams you’ve got, no worries.’

  They opened the box and helped themselves, and a minute later Kelly was relaxing on Greg’s deck enjoying an exotic fruit-covered vanilla ice, regretting having called Pascal.

  ‘It’s not as if he’ll hurry,’ she explained to Greg. ‘He’ll finish all his deliveries first. They’re far more important than I am.’ As she laughed bitterly, a large dollop of exotic fruit and vanilla detached itself from its stick and slid down her T-shirt. ‘Oh, great!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s all I need.’

  ‘You know you can take your top off, I wouldn’t complain,’ Greg deadpanned.

  ‘You’re just the most understanding man I’ve ever met,’ she told him back, pulling off her T-shirt to reveal a pink bikini top. She liked Greg, Kelly decided. He was good-looking, funny and chilled, and these qualities made him as refreshing as the ocean itself compared to the man whose bed she’d left that morning.

  ‘I think I’ll go in,’ she told him. ‘I spend every day out here but I never get to swim.’

  She pulled off her shorts and dived into the water. As she hit its gleaming surface, she remembered that this was the bikini top that always rode up, exposing her breasts. Before she could even begin to rearrange it, Greg had leapt in after her, and the water, as she knew only too well, was crystal clear.

  ‘Well isn’t that just the best sight I’ve seen all day?’ he told her with a grin as wide as Sydney Harbour Bridge as she tried to cover herself up. Then she stopped. Women went topless on the
Riviera all the time, she told herself. What did it matter? Besides, the water felt luscious around her nipples; it was like a thousand kisses against her skin.

  She yanked the bikini top off and threw it up on deck. Her breasts were small - too small, according to Pascal - but perfectly formed, with neat, round nipples. She’d lost weight during her time in France, too, no doubt as a result of Pascal’s insistence on only moderate drinking. If he could see her now, she thought, floating on her back with her breasts exposed to the world, he’d have a complete fit, and the thought of his anger made her want to rebel even more.

  Now that she’d finally seen the light, this day felt like the most liberating of her life.

  Back on board, Greg poured her a glass of wine and they relaxed on deck, exchanging life stories. He’d been based in France for two years now, working on yachts, but was on his way to Sardinia, where he’d pick up his Russian boss’s infinitely more impressive super-yacht, and sail it around the Greek islands.

  ‘I wish I could escape,’ she admitted, telling him about her unhappy relationship and the getaway bag. ‘Going back to England means admitting defeat, though, and I don’t think I could stand the weather after this.’

  She stretched herself out under the sun. She hadn’t had so much as a day off in over two months. Just lying there, chatting and sipping wine, felt like the ultimate luxury. Her hair, which she’d earlier tied in a ponytail, now hung loose and she swept it back to dry. The sun on her skin and the glass of wine made her dreamy, and she could feel the start of a tingling between her legs, an invitation for more, a desire she hadn’t felt for weeks. She had a fair idea that Greg felt the same way, as his budgie-smugglers, as he insisted on calling them, were looking strained and tight, and through the lenses of her sunglasses, she could make out an extremely impressive hard-on.

  She lay there, imagining what she’d like to do with it. Take it in her mouth, she thought with a smile, and maybe eat it with ice-cream. The tingling between her legs increased. What was he doing, just sitting there? Couldn’t he at least kiss her? Couldn’t he make the first move? She turned to look at him, as he sat there on deck, drinking beer from a can.

  ‘You know what I’d like to do right now?’ she asked him with the kind of reckless spirit that had got her into this trouble in the first place. If you learnt so much from your mistakes, she reasoned, why not make a few more? ‘I’d like to eat ice-cream off your cock.’

  Greg spluttered out his beer. ‘You’re a direct one, aren’t you?’ He pulled her up by the hand. ‘Looks like we’re on the same wavelength. I’ve been thinking about your nipples coated in chocolate for the last ten minutes. We’d better get ourselves below deck, though. This is a family beach, after all.’

  Down in the cabin, they kissed with a sudden intensity, as if the weeks of frustration were exploding out of her, and Kelly slid down his body, her lips and tongue gliding over every tanned muscle until she reached his trunks. She pulled them down, smiling at the contrast between the white of the skin beneath them and the golden tan she’d just been kissing, and gasped when his cock sprang out. It was so big she wasn’t sure she could fit it inside her mouth.

  ‘Wow. This monster deserves a Magnum’ she announced, reaching inside the chill-box. ‘The one with white chocolate, to match your bum.’ She unwrapped the ice-cream and threw the wrapper on the floor, relieved that, unlike Pascal, Greg didn’t rush to put it in a bin. She took a bite and let it melt in her mouth before kissing Greg’s cock and smothering it in the melting mixture.

  ‘Jesus, that’s cold! Good, though,’ he whispered, stroking her hair.

  She took another mouthful of ice-cream and let it melt for a few more seconds, before taking him in her mouth, deeper this time, and swirling the ice-cream around his smooth glans as he groaned with pleasure. Then she pulled him out and gently massaged back his foreskin, dripping the white chocolate and ice-cream around the rim and licking it off. A huge splosh landed on the floor, but, she was happy to note, Greg didn’t care. She carried on, taking bites of ice-cream and licking it off his huge cock, dripping it on his veins and catching those drips with her extended tongue.

  She’d never felt so turned on in her life. Sex was supposed to be joyous and fun and spontaneous, wasn’t it? The ever-uptight Pascal would be fretting by now about the floor getting stained or the loss of his precious revenue. Greg’s cock was a fine specimen, and she loved how it felt smooth and silky in her mouth.

  ‘Hold on, two can play at this game,’ he whispered, taking a Cornetto out of the chill-box and gently guiding her away from his cock. Pushing her down on a bunk, he bit into the soft vanilla topping and let it melt in his mouth, before turning his attention to her nipples, and letting it melt and drip and trickle all over her breasts. She squealed as the cold teased her, but as the ice-cream melted, and rivulets of chocolate sauce began drizzling down her breasts, he licked it off, nibbling and sucking her nipples. Then he looked at her face, and, taking another mouthful, kissed her, releasing some of the cream inside her mouth. She kissed him back, tasting his tongue and the sweet vanilla and chocolate, and relished the delicious tingling that was increasing between her legs.

  Next, Greg turned his attention to her pussy, covered by just the smallest of bikini bottoms, and, opening her thighs, he pulled the lycra away to one side, opening up her moist and swollen lips. She gasped at the feeling of being so exposed and studied, and longed for him to lick her until she, too, had melted into the floor. He didn’t disappoint. He held the Cornetto above her pussy, letting it drip, drip, drip between her folds. Each drip of cold vanilla and chocolate sent a shockwave through her; they were like tiny love-bites, teasing her and making her desperate for more. When he was satisfied that enough ice-cream had melted onto her wet lips, Greg then lowered his head and began to lap it all up, in delicate movements, like a cat drinking milk.

  She had to clutch the side of the bunk to cope with the exquisite feelings this produced, as Greg nibbled, dripped and licked her clean. He put a finger inside her and she thought her cries of pleasure would be heard by every yacht and villa in the vicinity, and desperately, desperately wanted to feel his huge cock inside her. When he stopped teasing her, Greg calmly finished the ice-cream off and kissed her mouth again, sharing it. Then he pulled off her bikini bottom and opened her legs wide.

  ‘That is one beautiful sight,’ he told her. ‘And after months at sea, a very welcome one, too.’

  ‘Give me your cock again, I need your cock.’ She sat up and took him in her mouth again, as the image of Pascal arriving to rescue her flashed through her mind. This turned her on even more - what had she been thinking of, sticking around with that jerk? Greg’s cock was little short of monumental, it was the Empire State Building to Pascal’s Eiffel tower, it was the Sydney Opera House to his local municipal hall.

  She groped inside the chill-box and produced the type of strawberry tub that children loved, and, scooping a chunk out with her fingers, smothered it on the head of Greg’s cock, before devouring him greedily, tasting strawberry mixed with traces of pre-come, as she ran her hands over his firm, smooth buttocks. She wanted him inside her, she needed him inside her. It didn’t matter if Pascal showed up, it didn’t matter if he made a scene, it didn’t matter if she ended this day homeless and penniless on the streets; nothing really mattered any more, just the exquisite tension she was feeling, and a hunger that only Greg could satisfy.

  Greg climbed between her legs and shifted in place, before tantalisingly stopping. ‘I don’t want to boast, but I reckon we could do with a bit more lubrication, don’t you?’ He reached in the chill-box and this time produced a golden coloured confection: a mix of Madagascan vanilla, milk chocolate and caramel. This was the most expensive ice-cream in her collection, and as such, felt even naughtier. He traced it along the folds of her pussy, watching it as it melted into creamy golden swirls, taking her with it. For good measure,
he also traced it onto his cock. Now he could slide himself easily inside her, and she sighed as he filled her, and she pushed herself down to meet him. He allowed the ice-cream to drip onto her breasts and stomach, licking it and massaging it with his fingers, which he then dipped into her mouth to suck clean.

  She grabbed his buttocks and pulled him inside her even deeper, filling the whole of her, so that she thought she might split right open and burst with pleasure. Slowly Greg started pounding inside her, rhythmically, carefully, knowing that he had a weapon that could hurt her if he went too fast. Grabbing his bum with one hand, she took the golden ice-cream with the other and traced it up and down his crack. He gasped as the cold hit him, and she massaged him with ice-cream, until the tip of her finger slipped inside his arse. This proved too much for Greg and he started convulsing, coming hard and heavy, crying out and pulsating in ecstasy. Just picturing his enormous cock inside her, dripping with cum and ice-cream, was enough to tip Kelly over and she came violently and suddenly, holding onto him, biting his shoulder to stop herself from screaming, and burrowing her finger higher inside his arse.

  Slicked with sweat and ice-cream and chocolate they slumped together in a twisted, tangled mess of tanned limbs, and he kissed her softly.

  ‘Come to Sardinia with me,’ he whispered, and Kelly tried to think of one good reason why she shouldn’t.

  Below deck was a mess of melting ice-cream and wrappers, of cones and sticks and little tubs, and as she surveyed the mess, it occurred to Kelly that she’d left her coffee mug on the sitting room table that morning, a simple act of forgetfulness which was enough to drive Pascal into a fit of rage.

  There was no going back.

  An hour later, when Pascal finally arrived, Greg untied the line on the broken-down rib and started up his own engine.