The soft motor noise of the ceiling fan is the only sound, the blades languidly cutting through the soft, tropical air. The smell of the beach and of hibiscus flowers in bloom is being pushed through the air as the bamboo blades cut their unceasing circular path through the damp, warm air.
Your body is a vision of loveliness there, across the bed. Laid out with your arms above your head, at full stretch across the Egyptian cotton sheets, and such a stark contrast between the sun darkened flesh and the crisp linen sheets. You stretch and groan and grind your hips into the pillow beneath your hips.
I push the play button on the cd player and come the side of the bed. The bottle of lavender massage oil is there, warmed in a bowl of hot water. I dribble a bit of oil across my palm and work it in, then I lay my hands upon the small of your back, just above the white naked flesh of your buttocks. Firmly I push up the rise of your back, the oil diaphanously allowing my hands to glide over your skin. To the back of your neck and then turning around and over, back down the line of your spine, to the top of your ass crack and back up for a return trip. Over and over the route is taken, the gentle flute sounds slowly waft through the air, the timing of the music monotonously slow, at first, yet with a sense of urgency encumbered deep with in it. Revel's Bolero, what a perfect music sensation to rub naked flesh by.
More oil in my hands, your shoulder blades coming under the spell of my warm lubricious fingers, then your neck and the rise below your hair. Your upper arms and the swell of flesh that flows into your ample bosom. And still lower and down, your thighs and then calves. The soles of your feet and the graceful line of your ankles.
