Monday, 29 September 2014

Post #24: Mykonos Mayhem

"So did I get sea, sun and sex?" you ask.

My friends tell me I only go for guys who are (a) completely unsuitable, or (b) unavailable. They tell me I only ever fall in lust so I don’t have to fall in love.

I disagree. And just to prove that my Beautiful Stranger (who still hasn’t called, or in any way shown that the night at Battersea meant anything to him at all) is now nothing more than a vague memory, I went out of my way to prove my friends wrong.

Picture this:

We're at the hotel near Mykonos, in a suite with a private pool and an unrivalled view of the sea.

The day started out dull, so Sophie and Amelia have gone out shopping. I stay at the hotel, curled up with a book. As the weather improves and the sun comes out, I take my novel outdoors to the private pool deck. It's a lazy autumn afternoon and the hotel seems quiet, asleep.

I remove my bikini top and stretch out on the lounger. The sun heats my skin, heavy and dry and sensual. I lie half asleep, the book forgotten beside me. I don't hear the knock at the door.

"Room service," he calls.

I look up. He is crossing the living room, carrying a silver tray and two cocktail glasses. Even from here I can recognise muddled lime when I see it. I lick my lips, but I'm not sure if it's the iced mojitos or the torso evident beneath his golf shirt that I appreciate most.

"I didn't order room service." I sit up, straddling the lounger, shoulders back, letting him enjoy the view.

He shrugs, dark eyes sliding over my crotch before fixing firmly on my chest. Then finally he looks up, and there's amusement in his eyes. I like a man with a sense of humour.

"Someone ordered two mojitos to be delivered to the room at this time."

It doesn't mattter whose idea this was, Amelia's or Sophie's. I'll thank them both.

I wave around at the empty pool deck. "I'm on my own, and I couldn't possibly drink both. Do you have somewhere else you need to be, or would you like to stay and have a drink?"

His eyes flash again to my bare chest. I arch my back, ensuring he gets a prime view. "I'm at the end of my shift," he says.

I smile, amping up the seduction. He's wearing dark trousers, tight enough that I get my own prime view. Oh yes, this is going to be fun. Did my BFFs have any clue just how large a gift they were arranging to cheer me up?

He offers me a glass from the tray, then sets it down. I pat the lounger between my legs. He grins, radiating confidence. I like that in a man. I'm not keen on hesitant men. Hesitant men make much harder work.

He takes the other glass, and sits exactly where I indicated, straddling the chair inappropriately close. Confirming that we both know the score. We know what we want and we're not going to waste any time taking it.

I sip the mojito, eyeing him over the rim of the glass, trying to guage the body beneath the white golf shirt with its monogrammed logo. "Damn, it's good." I could be talking about the mojito or the body.

"Of course it is. I made it."

So he's the hotel bartender. But he's more than that. There's a lively intellience in those dark eyes. He's young still, perhaps mid twenties. He doesn't strike me as a man content to be a bartender all his life. I'm guessing he's ambitious, but he also likes to have fun. Another thing I like in a man.

He takes a drink from his glass, tipping his head back. He's good looking enough to be a model. A little more rugged perhaps, with a five o'clock shadow already smudging his square jaw.

"Dimitri," he says.

We don't need names. I don't plan for this to go anywhere beyond this weekend. But I oblige. "Lena."

He smiles, and something hot and volcanic shoots through me. We sip our drinks slowly, saying nothing, letting the chemistry sizzle between us. And there is definitely chemistry.

He places his hand on my thigh, resting it lightly there. The touch might be light, but it's effect is not.

When our glasses are empty, and the rum is buzzing deliciously in our veins, he sets both glasses aside and leans towards me. His lips are hard and demanding, and I sigh, parting my mouth for him. He's a glorious kisser. I hope there are a few more things he's glorious at.

He reaches a hand up to my bare breast, feeling its weight in the palm of his hand. His palms are rough, perfect against my sensitive skin. He tweaks a nipple, rolls it between his fingers. I moan. My panties are already wet for him. I want him to touch me everywhere.

And he does. Taking it slow, while we kiss and kiss and kiss. He tastes of mint and lime, and it's sexy as hell. His hands are in my hair. They trail down my spine, circle over my stomach. God, I want his fingers there more than I want air to breathe or champagne to drink.

Then at last his hands are on my inner thighs, stroking upwards. I part my legs, inviting him in. He brushes aside the scrap of fabric that covers me, rubs his thumb across my slit. I feel his smile against my lips. I'm so wet and ready for him.

But he doesn't hurry. He knows exactly what he's doing, knows perfectly how to play a woman's body. His thumb circles and slides, teasing my clit, until I'm arching into his hand, begging for relief.

He slips a thick finger into me and it's almost as much as I can take. But of course that's silly. I plan to take a whole lot more. I'm not some virginal teenager and I plan to get the most out of this experience.

His finger pumps in and out of me, moving faster, as the heel of his hand rubs my clit. I lie back on the lounger and close my eyes so I can enjoy every sensation. With his other hand he carefully holds the fabric of my bikini aside, parting my folds for a better view. When I risk opening my eyes, I see hunger in his expression and it makes me even hotter than I already am.

He adds another finger, and I'm writhing now, milking his hand for all its worth, and I'm close, so close. I come, arching my back and crying out. I don't care who can hear me. I don't care who knows that a man who is to all intents and purposes a complete stranger, just brought me to orgasm.

But of course, he's not done. His erection strains against his trousers. Awkwardly, perhaps even a little painfully, he stands and strips off his shirt and his shoes, then his trousers and pants. God, he's beautiful. Tanned, strong and firm. He has tan lines, the skin of his butt a few shades paler than his strong, muscled legs. But his erection isn't pale. It's dark and throbbing, arching all the way up to his stomach.

I may just have come, but already I want that sweet cock inside me. He bends down and shimmies my bikini bottoms down over my hips. I lift my bottom so he can pull them down, sliding them down my legs and over my ankles. I don't see where he tosses them.

I part my legs wide for him, and he licks his lips. I know exactly how he feels. My temperature has spiked, my blood pounds in my ears, and my breathing is heavy.

He's come prepared. He rips open the condom packet and sheathes himself, stroking up and down his length. I want to do that too, I want to feel that erection throbbing in my hand, about to come. But not now, not yet.

He grasps my hips and pulls me down on the lounger, positioning me. I watch, breathless, as the tip of his cock caresses my entrance. Then he plunges, buring himself hilt deep. I moan and move against him, and we begin the ultimate dance.

The sun is baking down on us. His body grows slick with sweat. He's no slacker, that's for sure. He knows how to move and he's strong and supple. He pounds into me, no longer taking it slow or easy, and my second orgasm is already building, building.

I come before him, my internal muscles gripping him, rippling around that magnificent erection which fills me so completely. He grunts, rocking harder into me, his eyes unfocussed, and then he comes, with a final push and a shout.

He collapses on me, and I shift aside a little on the lounger to make room for him. He opens his eyes and looks at me, smiling. Yes, it was good. Better than good. It was mind blowing. We don't need words to tell each other that.

When he has recovered a little, he sits up, reaching for his shirt.

"What's the hurry?" I ask. "The afternoon isn't over yet."

"We're going to get sunburnt."

"Then let's go inside."

We leave our clothes strewn across the deck and I lead him inside to the bedroom. Already his cock is stirring, coming back to life, and now I take the chance to feel it for myself. His cock is big, filling my hand. I rub it between my breasts and cup his balls, and he moans, lying back on the bed, at my mercy. I stroke and play, and then I suck until he comes, squirting his hot seed over my breasts.

We swim together, naked in the private infinity pool, and then we have to search the hotel room for another condom so we can make love again. We lie on the bed, and I ride him this time, and it feels so wonderful, the friction so perfect that I never want it to end. But of course, everything has to end. He releases inside me before I come, but he's not an inconsiderate lover. He sucks me to completion, his tongue deep inside me.

I am sated, sleepy. I curl up on my side, the cool breeze blowing in through the open doors onto my flushed and heated skin. I already have stubble burn on my chin and my cheeks.

When I wake he is gone. The sun is setting, and I hear the muted voices of my friends in the living room. I slip on the hotel robe and go through to the living room to join them.

"Feeling better?" Amelia asks, eyes bright with mischief.

"Much," I answer. I've now had a very different Beautiful Stranger in my life, and this one's memory will bring no regrets.

Okay, so maybe I proved my friends right. This had absolutely nothing to do with love, and everything to do with lust. And he may not have been suitable, but he sure was fun.

Sunday, 21 September 2014

Post #23: Sea, sun and sex

I've had twelve dry weeks (unless you count a little firelit groping, but since my own 'Beautiful Stranger' hasn't called in two weeks, I'm not counting it) which definitely calls for a little end of season indulgence: a girls' weekend away at the Petasos Beach Resort on Mykonos.

The sea and sun are pretty much guaranteed. The sex? I'll let you know...

While I'm gone, feast your eyes on this:

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Post #22: Busy, busy, busy

It's London Fashion Week (or at least, Fashion Few Days), press night for The Play That Goes Wrong tonight, and The Script tomorrow night, so blogging takes a back seat this week. And since Amelia and I need to be at Somerset House for Marios Schwab's show in a couple of hours (and I'll be the first to admit I need more than ten minutes to get ready) I'll leave you with this profound thought:

Sunday, 7 September 2014

Post #21: The Fire Garden

So my very own Beautiful Stranger, with whom I danced a mesmerising tango at the Festival of Love a few weeks ago, called out of the blue and invited me to Battersea Power Station. Not the most romantic of date nights, right? Wrong! It was a damned near perfect date.

Because it was the venue of the Fire Garden by Carabosse.

In the words of Totally Thames:
"Fire alchemy at its very best: the smell of wax, the hiss of steam, and the heat and glow of thousands of points of fire acknowledging and celebrating this iconic site's gritty, smoke belching industrial past."

My Beautiful Stranger is damned near perfect too.  He's charming without being a douche, clever and funny. He's well educated (St Andrews) but not so posh that he thinks he's god's gift. He looks after himself too - works out, dresses well, and those abs...!

The only thing that stopped this from being The Perfect Date was that he had an early flight out for business this morning and there was no sleepover. God, I definitely want to wake up beside those abs one lazy Sunday morning!