Holiday Voyeur

I can barely think about her without my balls filling up. I see her brown eyes, soft hair, crooked teeth, beautiful crooked face, like something crafted by Modigliani. I see her thin shoulders, narrow back and strong arms. I see her slightly hunched, always busy. Deep. Dark. Brown.

I feel the softness of her hair, deep pink lips, cracked, fine eyebrows, strong nose, great earrings. I don’t see the darkness beneath her eyes, I see her wet tongue darting from between her white teeth.

I hear the sing-song cadence of her husky voice and the regular crescendos that inevitably erupt in joy and laughter. I hear her tuneless singing of old Italian love songs and incorrectly recalled western hits. At the first hint of a Latin rhythm she raises her arms, clicks her fingers, swings her hips.

She spends her days in bikinis so small they might fit a child, but she’s a mature woman and her pubic hair climbs over the top of her tiny briefs. As she leans forward, I catch glimpses of her nipples when her top gapes.

I thought she was oblivious until one lunchtime, in the sunshine on the deck, having tugged her bikini bottoms up countless times in a fruitless effort to cover her pubic hair she asks, “Is it too much for you? After all, you are a man." I assured her it was fine but if my balls could speak, they would have told a different tale.

I feel my hands on her hips, my arm around her shoulders, around her waist, her hand on my thigh.

I gaze at the rings on her fingers and remember the glimpse I caught of her pussy when she changed her bikini bottoms behind my back in the lounge. I’d already snatched a peek at her glorious little titties as she was getting ready for bed—we were sharing a room, something she had engineered—and I felt satisfied that now, cumulatively, I’d seen her naked.

I inhaled her when she pecked my cheek, ran my fingers into her wild hair, touching the scalp upon a skull that contained a mind like mine, but faster, smarter, more capable, brilliant.

She didn’t care for her knees, but I watched her exercise on the beach. Determined, ambitious, constantly striving, always critical of herself that she didn’t do more.

I loved her bikini that day. Pink with tiny shorts, but her yoga let me love the breasts I saw spilling from her top as she bent forward, and the cunt I glimpsed up the leg of her shorts as she spread her legs wide. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. What had I done to deserve so much pleasure?

I walked towards her, on her back on a large flat rock on the beach. Her top had taken one step left to expose her little white boobs to the sun. She was reading, but she doesn’t read, she studies. Reading just isn’t enough. It’s a missed opportunity. So, she has a pen and passages are marked. But that’s not enough. Her legs are cycling in the air, I know she’s working her thighs.

I hate to disturb her, to add one more thing, but I do. She hurriedly covers her nipples and I’m slightly disappointed. The entire beach has had the pleasure, why not me?

I love her arse, the two white lines across the top of her thighs that the sun hadn’t reached. I would have liked to see her sunbathe naked. I know she would have enjoyed that. And I would have loved standing with her in the sea as the water stroked her thighs, her groin, her mound, her lips and her little rosebud. Blood pooling there, engorging her clitoris, filling her chest with fever. And I’d kiss her, hold her tight, let her grip my hard cock until she shuddered in my arms.

And now, again, I am at fever pitch for her, but I know, like the Sakura, the moment has blossomed, the wilting has begun and all that remains are memories of sand, sea, the babble of a tongue I barely understood, a bunch of photographs, a vague sense of having touched Nirvana, the work of letting go, moving on, expressing gratitude, and this.