An Unliely Romance

ONE

Leggy swimsuit model Kissma Ryan (real name Ella Simpson) left JFK Airport for a week's utter relaxation on a little known island in the South Pacific called Annaland.

The tiny blip in the ocean was named after Anna, wife of the Dutch explorer who discovered it in 1769 and proclaimed territorial jurisdiction under the sovereignty of Anna's original homeland, the Kingdom of Great Britain as it was called in those days.

Because the island has not yielded iron, gold, oil or other riches and the seabed is bereft of minerals and the surrounding waters sparsely populated by fish, the island lay neglected until 1969 when an American tycoon established a luxury lodge there. He eventually died in splendid isolation and the lodge lay abandoned until a South American drug lord turned it into a luxury tourist retreat to allow him to launder money.

Kissma left the aircraft at Pago Pago in American Samoa and next morning was off in a twin-engine floatplane fitted with long range tanks.

The other passengers were four married couples, one couple actually with the spouse to whom they were married, and a single man. At the end of a long flight the floatplane rolled dripping from the water to crunch to a stop on coral-strewn sands.

Philip Rushton, a weather-beaten sheep farmer from the South Island of New Zealand pushed ahead of Kissma and ignoring the steps jumped on to the sand. Kissma muttered 'You rude man' to herself and was glad she'd kept her rebuke to herself because he was standing on the sand holding his arms open and saying, "Jump – the steps are treacherous and you must not skin those beautiful legs of yours."

She didn't believe him for a minute, but he was rather handsome in a rugged way and appeared to be alone. Perhaps something would come of it if she complied, so she jumped.

The man caught her easily, she felt the power of him and obviously he felt something as well.

"God, you're soft, light and smell simply divine; I could eat you."

Well, perhaps he didn't quite mean it this way but Kissma had been eaten out by some of New York's most famous photographers and art directors – all males as it happens – so the idea rather appealed. Perhaps he could do that and then they could have real lunch? She was open to an offer, but no offer was forthcoming.

He raised his golfer's hat, said "Good-day to you Miss," and then walked away, picking up his soft carry-bag from the heap of luggage just unloaded from the cargo bay.

Kissma was peeved – he could at least had gathered her five bags for her and arranged portage. She did that herself and to her dismay found the volunteer porters would carry only one bag each – "Union rules" one very dark-skinned woman said, showing two rows of enormous and very white teeth, one at the front top being only a jagged stump.

Carrying the lightest bag herself, Kissma followed the four porters to her exclusive beach front hut. 'No adjoining guests within 300 feet guaranteed' the brochure had said. Well there was another hut within 10 feet of hers and heavens know on this tiny island where she was going to demand compensation for breach of guarantee. The solution was to drink more martinis and forget it.

She couldn't believe what she was asked to pay each porter – "Fifty cents American money for each porter," Mrs Big Teeth said.

"And tip?" asked Kissma, eager to raise the island's economy by say twenty bucks to be split by the four porters.

"No tipping allowed, this is British territory."

Kissma was saddened, thinking trust the Brits to stuff up free enterprise so far away from London. She looked across to the deck of the adjoining hut and saw a familiar cap; a nice fuzzy feeling ran through her. Kissma thought he'd be better company than those other couples who appeared to be coming here just to screw, judging by the conversations she'd heard when waiting to board the aircraft.

"Hi – you again?" came the greeting of someone coming up from the beach.

She turned and waved, smiled brightly and her mouth fell open. He was jogging towards her carrying a small netting bag of something, but he was naked. His face and most of his arms and the mid section of his legs were very suntanned; making her conclude that he lives in open necked shirts and shorts. His thingy was swinging from side to side.

"Come over in an hour – by then the shellfish will have soaked long enough in coconut cream to eat. We'll down some beers with them then see what you want to do. Dinner is not until after sex."

Well, well. This unorthodox outdoors man is not shy about putting it on a girl, but not very romantic either, thought Kissma. Such abruptness and lack of finesse is deserving only of a very short screw, if that was what he had in mind; of course she could rethink that.

An hour and forty minutes later – she had no intention of appearing too keen – she went over to his hut, dressed only an a pair of very high cut apricot shorts and wishing her breasts were much larger to wet his appetite.

There was no door to knock on so she said, "Hi."

He replied, "You're late by forty-five minutes."

She turned to stomp away but he gave a throaty laugh, saying, "Just kidding."

Well, some people!

"Jesus!" he said, gawking at her uncovered breasts. Of course he was covered up, wearing a Hawaiian type beach shirt and longish shorts.

"Er."

"What?"

"I thought you were a nudist so I was trying to meet you halfway."

"Nudist, I'm not...oh, I see. Yes, I do swim without clothing. Swimsuits these days are a real rip off, can cost a man almost as much as a proper suit. The whole industry is run by the Mafia you know, to launder money."

"Some good people work in that industry, I think."

"Nah, only hoods and the women are prostitutes."

"Oh."

"What do you do for a crust?"

"For bread?"

"No, for work – it's a Kiwi expression."

"Kiwi the bird, I do not understand yet I speak English, English is my language."

"You're a Yankee, aren't you?"

Kissma looked a little confused.

"Well, I'm from the North but call myself a New Yorker."

"What North?"

"It's up from the South."

"Look lady, we've lost a cog somewhere. I was asking what do you do for a crust, I mean for work?"

"I'd rather not say until later, if that's all right."

"Sure, but hey, you're not a Yankee prostitute are you?"

"Good heavens no, I model swimwear."

"Same difference isn't it – model means prostitute as all prostitutes say they are models?"

"Look buster, if you call me a prostitute one more time I'll hit you with my handbag."

"You don't have a handbag with you."

"I'm going."

"You can't."

"Are you attempting to hold me hostage?"

"No, you can't go until you've had the shellfish and washed them down with cold beers. It's beautiful, worth coming all the way from Manhattan to sample."

"Very well, please tell me the time as I don't wish to eat too much as I'll spoil my dinner if I do."

"It's almost one and dinner is not until after sex o'clock."

"Oh, I see now. You mean six o'clock?"

"Same thing, my mum's Australian and that's how we say sex o'clock."

"Then how do you say sex, you know the thing between a man and a woman?"

"I know what you mean, but I don't use the word because I can't find anyone to have it with me."

"Have what? Come on, say it."

"I can't, you're a lady."

"Huh, so I'm a lady now after being told forty-four times I'm a prostitute."

"I was only pulling you wick."

"I beg your pardon!"

"Joking – that is another Kiwi expression. I was only teasing you and knew you would bite. I've been to New York and know the difference between the North and the South and know the Mafia doesn't run the swimsuit business because the Jewish people do. Anyway, you'd never make money as a prostitute."

"Why, the occasional men I've been with say I'm very good."

"Yes, but they would be getting it for free, wouldn't they? If they had to pay for it they would want meat on those bones of yours."

"You're an authority on this, are you?"

"Sort of, I'm a sheep farmer – sheep rancher to you - so have a very good eye for what constitutes a good carcass."

"Hmmmmm. I think we should eat. May I wash the coconut cream off my shellfish as it's very fattening, and so are some shellfish for that matter.

"And the beer, that's fattening too?"

"Yes."

"Well, relax. I've already made you a dry Vermouth on the rocks; having seen your sweet body I knew you would be diet conscious."

Kissma's eyes widened.

"My sweet body?"

"Yeah, it's a cracker. I reckon those guys you've been with would have sensed you would be very good; I've already taken a good eyeful at the way you walk and move that ass of yours."

"Really?" So you are asking me for...?"

"Six? No, as one shouldn't have to ask but then no-one is interested in six with me."

"Um, I wouldn't be too sure about that. I've come to this island for relaxation, to swim, to eat heaps of non-fattening food and to – how do you say it? – have some six. Perhaps after sex o'clock you could take me to dinner, be very charming and attentive to me, rub my leg with your foot and we'll see what happens, huh?"

"That sounds beaut, but we better introduce ourselves before rushing into six. My name is Philip Rushton, and I farm roughly sexty-sex thousand Merino sheep on the flanks of the South Alps in Mid-Canterbury."

"You must own thousands of acres?"

"No, just on two thousand acres and I lease 315,000 acres of basically tussock country."

"That's probably larger than Manhattan Island."

"I was told Manhattan Island is 23 sq miles in area. That being so Manhattan Island would fit on to the area I farm twenty-one times."

"That sounds bigger than Texas."

"I really don't think so, not within a bull's roar."

"Oh, my name is Kissma Ryan and I really am a swimsuit model who is not a prostitute."

"Hi, Kissma. What a lovely name. It's made up, isn't it?"

"Yes, want to know my real name?"

"No, but look, after we finish here you go and have a kip; I'll come and escort you to the restaurant about sex-thirty if that suits you."

"That's fine; I have my travel alarm with me."

"You won't need it; they blow a shell horn at five-thirty. Dress informally."

"You sound if you've been here before?"

"Yes, I come every other year; because I live DownUnder, it's snowing down south there at this time of year."

"So you put your sheep in barns, and come over here?"

"Put sexty-sex thousand sheep into barns – are you kidding? They survive even the harshest winters – Merinos are a very hardy breed and we produce some of the finest wool in the world."

"Well, it's too hot for wool here, isn't it? I'll wait with pleasure to dine in the company of a gentleman."

"You'll not be dining with me then?"

Kissma looked at him with a hint of exasperation: "I'm enjoying some of your sense of humor, but struggle with your idiom and confusing way of expressing English. However, perhaps there won't always be the need to talk."

TWO

Kissma had freed her jet black hair from the French roll, her lipstick was bright red and she wore a little black lace dress, very short, and black sandals that cost more than a man's suit made in Italy from New Zealand Merino wool.

Blue-eyed Philip stood at the entrance to her hut, dressed in a mottle blue Hawaiian shirt, long white trousers and grass sandals made on the island.

"I'm sorry, wrong hut – I though this is where Kissma Ryan, supermodel was living?"

"Stop it, you fool. You make me nervous."

"You look sensational, Kissma. I've never seen such fabulous legs, and we on this island thank you tonight for display them in ninety percent of their glory."

"Do you think my dress is too short?" "No, but the local cops would issue you a ticket for indecent exposure but fortunately there are no cops."

They made a quiet entry, but conversations in the restaurant died, as people turned and stared.

"Keep relaxed, Philip – you'll get used to it."

Within the hour most of the men had danced with Kissma; their partners looking longingly at Philip, waiting to be partnered, but he was content to watch his Kissma.

"Come dance with me, Philip."

"I really can't dance, Kissma."

"It's your first chance to get against my body," which got Philip leading her to the dance floor.

"You poor man, you were telling the truth, weren't you," said Kissma, as they returned to the table early – she with sore feet from being stomped on, sore knees from knee-on-knee collisions and her sense of rhythm completely lost for the moment.

"Fortunately for the other guests they stayed off the dance floor," she giggled.

"But I managed to find out that your crotch snuggles against my crotch very nicely," leered Philip.

"Oh Philip, you sometimes say the sweetest things to me," said Kissma, unbuckling a sandal and rubbing that foot up Philip's leg to get something started.

As soon as they got beyond the cast of the lights around the restaurant, they stopped and kissed deeply. Kissma raised her arms as Philip took off her dress, leaving her wearing only sandals and a black thong. After stuffing most of her dress into his pocket her lifted her into his arms and walked all the way to their grass hut with its palm thatched pointed roof; he alternated between sucking her breasts and finding her tongue.

"You're very strong," she breathed, feeling sexy saying that. She tried not to lose that feeling when Philip replied: "This requires no more effort that carrying a sick eye down a slope too steep to risk riding a horse."

She was dripping on to Philip before they reached her hut and had managed to unzip him to hoist out his very ready penis.

"Is this all for me?" she giggled. "I hope I can take it all."

That, of course, was a lie, but some men preen themselves at such sweet talk while there were other men like Philip, gentlemen to the core with sex/six on their mind over-powering their usual ability to recognize a joke: "I'll be gentle with you."

She hoped that didn't mean being too gentle.

Philip was carrying Kissma to the bed when she asked to be put down.

She lit the lamp and asked him to sit beside her.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, but I'm a professional model, a blemish-free skin is related to my size of fee; it's my job to keep myself problem-free. So please let me to file your fingernails and toenails and I'll be asking you to wear a condom.

"But I don't have any."

"No problem, I'll take care of that."

"If you don't mind me saying so, this makes things a little artificial. Will we be having real six?"

Very big green eyes, exquisitely made up, focused on him.

"Oh yes, Philip, real six. Do you think you'll be up to it?"

To Kissma's delight Philip had it up very nicely. She murmured, then groaned, then yelled as she gushed.

"Oh Philip," she sighed, her breathing rate slowing. "You are very good."

Philip had been a titman, beginning as an infant. Growing up he came to adore their different shapes and elasticity which related to floppiness. He was besotted with floppiness and could almost blow his wad watching a topless woman running towards him. Now he realized he was a becoming a legman but not totally.

THREE

The next day he had Kissma running down to the water's edge and back to him so many times she was almost exhausted in the heat. She was ready to give up but decided to run one more time on this pointless game that seemed to have him becoming redder and redder in the face. She ran, stumbled which made her tits really waggle and she heard Philip cry 'bingo'. She saw he was ejaculating although his hands were behind his head.

Philip then explained what the experiment was all about.

"You and I have contributed greatly to the advancement of man's understanding of the complexities of six," he said grandly. I came without being touched. That made Kissma very excited and she began cleaning his belly and chest with her tongue and another round of six was underway.

Kissma loved the way he'd become so passionate about her legs.

"I love them; I love how they go all the way up to your ass."

That tended to confuse Kissma because where else would they go? But she didn't question the logic for fear that may put him off the job in hand, er, the job in leg.

Philip would get her standing, legs together, and then he'd begin licking her toes, one by one, and then dribble his tongue to her ankles and roll his tongue round and round one of her ankle bones which, to her perpetual astonishment, a flare of sexual/sixual excitement would begin creeping through her indifference.

Traveling upwards, the tongue would begin to really stimulate her increasing breathing rate when it wetly flickered behind one of her knees with the softness of the wings of a butterfly. By this stage she would have involuntarily widened her legs and the tops of her thighs would be glistening with moisture leaking from somewhere. Her head would be tossed back and she would be repeatedly sighing at an accelerating rate.

And so the tongue would continue its journey.

On the final night before dinner, Kissma danced with joy, giggling at the startled and now wet face of Philip, who was kneeling before her, hands gently encasing the cheeks of her ass and opening and closing the gap between them in time with the pre-dinner music they could dimly hear from the restaurant.

"Eureka! We've contributed greatly to the world's knowledge of sixual understanding; I've coated your face with a high-powered ejaculation without anything being inserted into my pussy or my clit or breasts being touched. I feel so fulfilled as a woman."

"Yeah, and I've got a wet face," said Philip, pretending to grumble.

"Oh, come here darling and let mummy lick you clean."

Philip came within an ace of ejaculating unaided upon listening to that erotic pronouncement.

"Yes, my sweet. But take it slowly. It's only ten minutes to sex."

Philip had continued with his tongue above the knees, drawing figure of eight patterns, and as he reached higher his saliva began mixing with the leaking pussy juice, assisting him to make slurping noises, causing Kissma to squeal. He'd then grip her ass cheeks and she'd start thrusting uncontrollable.

On this particular evening, no doubt highly emotional about leaving in the morning, she felt her body tense and heat, her ears began to ring, red and yellow flashes came before her eyes, her fingers gripped Philip's shoulders harder (finger tips held outwards to astutely protect the long nails) and a low scream began to erupt, originating way down in her belly, she thought. Oh yes, she then began to gush a geyser, all over his face.

Earlier in the week, with all guests now going around for at least part of the day nude, they'd got to know the other couples.

The women especially talked to Philip who had the best physique of all the guests, including women, and the men tended to talk incoherently to Kissma; this was because while some of the other women also shaved, Kissma's vulva attracted the attention of everyone as a small tuff of hair had been retained and was kept trimmed in the shape of a heart. Those hose long, long slender legs assisting incoherency.

Group sex obviously was going on but Kissma and Philip declined all offers, they really didn't attempt to rationalize their decision but the reality is people who are in the A-team don't normally play in the lower grades. They did, however, frolic in the pool with everyone and play tennis and quoits with great enthusiasm but could never win the pairs because Kissma was fanatical about protecting her finger nails and not getting bruised by a tennis ball.

With quoits it became coitus as with Philip bending over her trying to teach her how to time the release of the rope ring, she'd become aroused and they'd have to slope off, abandoning the lesson.