"What on earth are you up to, Lawrence? Trying to get us killed again?"
I shook my head and passed Biggin and Elvira to my partner, feeling a deep tingling thrill electrify every cell of my body. I was quite getting into the fetish effect. Harry braced himself and I watched his hair begin to stir. If the fetishes were elicitors of truth, I would put them to the test. I chose my question with care.
"Do you love me, Harry Neptune?"
A brisk wind chased around the legs of our deck chairs and my husband's hair began to curl. He looked deep into my searching eyes.
"I love you, Jay Lawrence. Married or not, you're the girl for me."
I pressed my case.
"The only girl, Harry?"
Harry's hair continued to twirl, Medusa fashion about his grinning face.
"Quit while you're ahead, Lawrence."
I slapped my husband then kissed him deeply on the mouth.
"No divorce then, Mr. Neptune."
"Connubial bliss, Miss Lawrence."
We looked at one another and decided it was time for a good stiff drink…
The End
Trouble In Paradise
"Hey, shortie, there are a couple of topless bathers down there. Naked boobies bouncing around in the surf. Fancy heading down for a lech?"
I thought of giving my husband a disapproving look but libidinous curiosity got the better of me. He sat out on the balcony of our hotel room, a pair of pocket sized binoculars glued to his sunglasses and a conical distension in the front of his white linen shorts.
"Lovely brown boobies. Decent sized too. Much better than the usual fried eggs."
I briefly toyed with the notion of forcibly wresting the optical equipment from Harry's face, then thought better of it. Shading my eyes with my hands, I squinted into the bright Tobago sunshine. Our hotel sat on a cliff top, overlooking a small beach fringed with giant palm trees. A Pepto Bismol pink palace, once the haunt of Hollywood starlets in the golden age of glamor, it now appeared to be favored by well-heeled senior citizens. I focused on the frothing waves steadily rolling in from the Atlantic, in which two girls and their male companions were gamely attempting to play catch the beach ball. One of Harry's hands strayed to his crotch.
"Damn that big palm tree. It's in just the wrong place, blocking the view. This will wake the Colonel up. Look, there he is, pretending to do the crossword in the Times. The randy old bugger'll have a heart attack!"
"Serve him right."
My gaze strayed from the arousing but distant spectacle of wet, wobbling tit flesh to an elderly gentleman in a rather loud Hawaiian style shirt. I had taken a prolonged dip the previous afternoon during a refreshing rain shower, wearing a white cotton lace-up top. Somehow, the combined action of copious water and the powerful waves had managed to achieve a rather exciting off the shoulder transparent effect. Thoroughly refreshed, I strode magnificently up the beach a la Ursula Andress in Dr. No, to find a hyperventilating senior citizen lurking behind my sun-bed, libidinous intent oozing from every wrinkle. I do like older men but I draw the line at hearing aids and white knee length socks. Harry sighed.
"This place has gone downhill. It's high season, for God's sake! This hotel should be buzzing. Wait 'til I get my hands on that big Welsh oaf. He must think I've got one foot in the bloody grave."
I looked at our light, airy white room, with its hardwood floor and four poster bed. It wasn't so long since I was bound by my wrists to one of those tall dark bedposts, a mess of warm sticky semen coating my upturned face.
"Darling, I'm sure it's not Cadog's fault. Anyway, I'm perfectly happy, even if it is a bit quiet. We could use a bit of r and r after Trinidad."
My husband grunted in grudging admission. It had been quite a year. A serious financial blow had left us virtually penniless and with the stark, cold knowledge that we would have to actually work for a living. Deciding that we had a better chance of being poor but happy in warmer climes, we headed south, in search of the big break that would be our salvation. Our hopes were high, our resumes elaborate and almost entirely fictitious. Somehow, via a convoluted process too complex to recount, we had ended up in Port of Spain, Trinidad, running Sudsy's, a laundromat cum massage parlor. This salubrious establishment was owned by one Cadog Madoc, a skinny redheaded Welshman, whose larger than life West Indian wife overshadowed him in almost every way imaginable. I don't recall actually accepting the job. Most likely, Trixie simply reeled us in. Now Harry spent his evenings surrounded by buxom brown beauties liberally coated in coconut oil, while I passed my days loading industrial sized washing machines with soiled laundry, while dressed in skimpy shorts, stiletto mules and a diamante trimmed halter top. I think it was known as the fuzzy end of the lollipop. For some months a revolution had been brewing in my steamy tropical laundrette, with many a putative game plan hatched amongst the towering piles of shirts and socks. But what could I do? Go home to Aunt Harriet in Poughkeepsie? Jump a freight train and join the circus? Harry had warmed to the tropics in more ways than one and had become downright Latin American in his style of husbandry. And that, dear reader, was what really kept me in the suds. What can I say? I became a full card carrying submissive, the willing recipient of a stringent daily spanking and frequent stern lectures about Knowing My Place. Oh, another minor coup would raise its argumentative little head each time I witnessed my dearly beloved beached like a whale with a six pack of Carib lager and his nose stuck in Massage Weekly, only to melt into helpless, happy acceptance the moment he glared at me over the top of his spectacles.
"No argument! Do as you're told or I'll give you something to cry about."
Hmm, it was just as well we weren't twenty-somethings or we'd have six squalling brats in no time. Maybe the sun had gone to my head but I was even going all hormonal. Anyway, next time, we wouldn't put all our eggs in one financial basket. Or at least not a Venezuelan basket. Oops.
"Can I fetch you something, sweetcakes?"
I had taken to inquiring after my Lord and Master's welfare at regular intervals, as the Caribbean seemed to give him quite a thirst. Harry stretched out in his plastic chair, the spyglasses dangling limply from one sunburned hand. The small tent in his shorts had collapsed and he had that post smorgasbord slump look about him. So much for the party animal. I picked up a brightly colored cushion from the bed and sat cross-legged by my husband's feet. I had taken to doing this as a matter of course. There were times when it almost felt strange to occupy a chair. Harry seemed to be asleep and I sat for a while, listening to the brisk breeze swish the huge feathered leaves of the coconut palms and watching the distant action in the surf. I was just about to carefully extricate the binoculars from my partner's limp fingers when a snatch of conversation drifted up from the lawn beneath our balcony. Two men spoke rapidly in Spanish. I'm not a fluent speaker but have spent enough time in Latin locales to get the gist. The word "muerto" stood out-dead. What or who had gone belly-up? Cautiously, I crawled forwards, just close enough to peer through the gap at the base of the canvas "sail" which formed the balcony screen. The voices were indistinct, now carried away by a gust of salty air, but I caught a glimpse of the two hombres. One was quite tall, heavy set, with a swarthy complexion and fleshy lips. He was dressed all in black and resembled a Sicilian Godfather type. The other was smaller, lighter, fairer, expensively dressed in a monogrammed designer shirt and sharply creased pants. A state of the art cell 'phone dangled from a cord about his neck and a tiny ear-piece protruded from one side of his closely cropped head. It was to this gadget the man talked, an endless unintelligible babble of words. Whatever was dead, it certainly wasn't the art of conversation. Hmm, this was interesting. As my immediate superior was temporarily lost to the conscious world, I made an instant executive decision. Quickly, I slipped on my espadrilles and, grabbing a beach towel and my bathing costume, left Moby Dick to dream of whatever perverts dream of. Whatever it was, he was starting to drool.