I slid my hand down to the skimpy bikini top over her large breasts. My fingertips grazed the material over the wide aureole and the large, extended nipple. She gasped and the nipple hardened even more. Her hot thighs started to move rhythmically over my lap, clenching and unclenching around Old Lucifer.
She twisted around so that her chin rested on my shoulder. The red hair tickled as it cascaded down one of my arms. She pressed both her bikinied breasts against my chest hard. I could feel the nipples digging into my flesh. Then she eased up the pressure and maneuvered her breasts until her nipples—sti1l technically covered—were pressed against my naked ones. She scrunched her nipples into mine.
When the redhead leaned back, her cobalt eyes were dancing a bit drunkenly as they looked into mine. The kiss this time was softer, more tender, deeper, and not quite so wild. Lucifer stopped prancing quite so much and flexed a solid, rocklike muscle.
The kiss over, I slid my mouth down to her long neck. I kissed the little pulse beating at the base of it. Then my lips descended farther down until they rested at the top of the deep cleavage separating her bikinied breasts.
As my tongue dipped into the cleavage, she gasped. She murmured something in Spanish that I didn’t quite catch. She reached behind her and pulled the flimsy ribbon holding the top of her bikini in place. It fell away from one of her breasts, just sort of hanging off the tip of the other one. Then she dug her nails into my cheek, forcing my mouth to the exposed nipple.
The nipple was hard as it popped between my lips. Long and hot, it prodded my tongue with a variety of sensual sensations. The flesh of the breast itself was soft as marshmallow by comparison. As she became more excited, the redhead kept trying to cram more and more of it into my mouth, but there was no way—much as I might have liked to—that I could encompass it all.
All this oral activity was causing Lucifer to strain against the confines of my bathing trunks more and more violently. I saw no reason not to release him. But when I did, the redhead jumped up abruptly and backed away from me.
“What’s the matter?”
“Not here,” she panted.
She had a point. As I observed before, the loveseat, while fine as a deicer, wasn’t designed for comfortable lovemaking. But then such things are comparative, and I couldn’t have guessed what she had in store for me. When she led me from the room, I assumed we were headed for another room -- one with a bed in it.
With the liberated woman of today, one should never make assumptions. Where she led me was outdoors. It was night now, and the tropical moon was full. Its rays caught the swaying of the palm trees in the evening breeze.
I sighed to myself. She was a romantic. We were, it seems, going to make it under the stars. I looked forward to sifting sand from the seams of my sitter.
But it was to be worse than that. Romance! Bah! Give me a mattress every time! When it comes to the great outdoors, I’m the Scrooge of lovemaking. Pastoral! Humbug!
I spied a spot that looked a little more grassy and a little less sandy than most of the general terrain. I made a grab for the redhead, intending to tumble her there. But she slipped free of me and scampered away.
“Where are you going?” I hustled after her.
“You’ll see.” She kept moving, just out of reach. The moon rays lent a golden sheen to the blood-red tips of her nipples. The lower part of her bikini, still precariously in place, was a yellow-green blur in the moonlight.
I had to hike up my own trunks to keep pace with her. Lucifer, although having abated from my exertions, was still poking them out of shape as I jogged after the girl. He revived somewhat as she halted, her large, naked round breasts swelling in the starlight as she panted.
She’d stopped at a clearing a little down the beach from her house. One side of the clearing was bounded by the wall surrounding the property. One side merged into the beach and ran down to where the waves lapped at the shore. The other two sides were made up of low sand dunes with tufts of grass and weeds growing spottily over them. There was a tall, straight palm tree stretching skyward in the center of the clearing.
It was only natural that I figured that one of the dunes would be our bed while the palm leaves high above would serve as its canopy. Only natural, but wrong again! The locale the redhead had in mind was a little more bizarre than that.
When she had her breath back, she headed straight for the palm tree. While I watched open-mouthed, she started to shinny up the trunk. She climbed like a native boy, using her knees to grip the smooth tree trunk and keep her from sliding back down.
She was about eight feet off the ground when she paused and looked clown at me. I was still standing at the base of the tree, staring up at her. “What are you waiting for?” she wanted to know.
“Climbing a palm tree wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” I told her frankly.
“I know exactly what you had in mind,” she assured me. “Come on.”
What the hell? I started climbing. She waited until the top of my head bumped the cushion of her bobbing behind, and then she resumed her upward journey. I followed, staring up at the bikinied derriere undulating in the moonlight. Besides its attraction, I figured I’d probably be better oil if I didn’t look down.
About halfway to the top, she paused again, this time to rest. My head slammed into that sponge-rubber bottom rather hard. “Ouch!” She reached down and rubbed the point of impact. “Watch where you’re going!”
“Blow your horn when you’re going to make a short stop,” I advised her.
“Vulgar!” She wiggled her hovering bottom at me sassily.
“Listen.” I decided to raise the question that was on my mind. “What happens when we reach the top?”
“We make love.”
“On top of a palm tree?”
“That’s right.”
“But we’re liable to fall out,” I protested.
“Of course. That’s what makes it fun.”
“People could break their necks falling from that height.”
“It’s the risk that makes it so exciting.” She started climbing again.
Hell! It was as far down to the ground now as it was up to the top! I climbed after her.
About six feet from the top, she stopped for another breather. I took the opportunity to resume the conversation. “What’s wrong with just plain sex?” I asked. “Why isn't just that exciting enough?”
“A person has to have variety,” she told me.
“I know fifty-three verifiable positions,” I told her, “and not one of them requires a palm tree.”
“Ahh! They’re all just variations of the man on top or the woman on top,” she snorted.
“That makes fifty-five. . . . And also there’s manual, oral, anal, S-M, dildoes, and all sorts of other things. And you don’t have to climb a palm tree for them either.”
“Biologically men and women are limited,” she told me. “I’m just facing that. You have to look for variety in other ways.”
“Variety in partners,” I suggested.
“Men aren’t that different, one from the other,” she informed me.
I felt put down. Why not? I was put down. “Maybe I’ll surprise you,” I suggested.
“I doubt it.” She started climbing again.
“If you feel that way, why make it with me at all?” I huffed as I scrambled up the tree after her.
“I didn’t say I thought you’d disappoint me. I just said I didn’t think you’d surprise me.”
Well, I supposed that was something. When a guy’s conceit is that he’s the Man from O.R.G.Y., there are bound to be times when he’s taken down a peg or two. Still, I was determined to give this experience everything that O.R.G.Y. had taught me.
The one thing it hadn’t taught me was how to do that while trying to maintain my balance in the down-bending fronds atop a palm tree! The redhead, on the other hand, was as agile and supple as a monkey. Unhurriedly drawing off that last vestige of bikini she acted as if she had both cheeks of her luscious bottom planted firmly on terra firma, instead of maybe seventy-five feet off the ground.