Passing Strange Ch 01 Lust Goddess

AUTHOR'S NOTE: "Passing Strange" is a series of erotic stories devoted to graphic sex — and a few thoughts on sex & myth, sex & magic, and sex & the supernatural.

The first of these tales, "The Lust Goddess..." has Club Med Martinique, a global gathering point for the hopelessly single, as it's setting. Rob can't believe his luck. In the first day, he has sex with two beautiful women and one mysterious Lust Goddess.

Wendy, is a tight little college student. Gina, a tall and willowy single mom. The Lust Goddess is a creature of magic, whose invisible power amplifies sensation and turns everyone under her spell into eager voyeurs and exhibitionists.

The Goddess inhabits a hidden palm grove, a realm of shadowy darkness and light. A place where Yin and Yang merge in perfect harmony.

After their first taste of magic, Rob, Gina and Wendy want more. But tonight the Lust Goddess is working on behalf of far darker and more ancient powers. The Greek God Pan is staging a triumphant and orgiastic return to earth.

Have Rob, Wendy, and Gina been picked merely for Pan's gratification?

Or is some deeper, timeless evil at work?

###

For my thirtieth birthday, I give myself a week at Club Med.

Work is going great. Youngest partner in the firm, and all that. Personal life? Not so much. Samantha left with my best friend a while ago.

The airport lounge is filled with college students sprawled across two, sometimes three, chairs. 'Good work, Einstein! You picked Spring Break Week. Well, think of all the lovely eye candy at the nude beach. Now, if only one of these hot girls has the seat next to me.'

But it's a seven-year-old kid in a Yankees cap who vaults over my legs and into the seat. Moments later, a pretty girl in skinny jeans, braless breasts, and a magnificently flat stomach, curls into the seat across the aisle. 'So near. Yet so far. Anyway, I'd spend four hours intently memorizing her life story, and she won't even remember my name.' Been there already.

Turning to the little Yankee fan, I ask if he's ever seen Arron Judge hit a home run. That starts an animated conversation that goes nonstop until the stewardess puts Mac and Cheese on his seat-back table. Occasionally, I make eye contact with Johnny's Mom, who never stops smiling at me.

"How'd you do that?" she asks quietly, leaning over Johnny, who has fallen asleep with half a slice of carrot cake still on his plate. "He's so angry at me for taking him away from his friends, I haven't heard more than five words all week."

Her name is Gina. A single mom. Somewhere in her late thirties. Violet eyes the color of summer Lilacs and the kind of sexy-but-vulnerable smile that makes you want to do anything to help her out. "Just talk baseball with him," I tell her. "Johnny knows more about the Yankees than some sportswriters."

Her crestfallen look says my idea isn't exactly music to her ears. Before I can consider the implications for my vacation, I blurt, "It's not that hard. I can teach you."

"Oh, god yes. That would be amazing," she says reaching over Bobby and slipping her soft, warm fingers into my hand. "How long will it take?" Her voice is an expressive contralto, as sexy as a slippery, wet thong. From the tip of a tongue that peeks between cherry-red lips to the to an inner glow that you just can't get from makeup, Gina exudes a quiet promise of good things yet to come.

"A couple hours a day. Plus homework, of course. You'll need to start reading the sports pages in the 'Post' and 'Daily News,' along with the 'Bleacher Report' and 'Baseball Reference,'" I tell her, gazing at her faded cut-off jeans and wondering, and I mean literally, what it would be like to get into Gina's pants.

Would her panties be moist and warm? Is she shaved, or does it match the pale gold color of her hair? Will she whimper as my fingers explore deep inside her?

"I can handle that," she says, her smile dripping in innuendo. Or is it just me? Anyway, can't help myself. I imagine Gina throwing a blanket over my lap and unzipping me on the spot. From the knowing glint in her eye, I can swear Gina is thinking it too. "How can I possibly repay you?" she asks in a tone so sublimely sexy that my cock twitches in response.

"I'm sure we can work something out," I tell her, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm sure we will," she replies, gently massaging my hand with her warm fingertips. "So let's get started," she smiles. "Who the hell is Aaron Judge?"

Gina is a clean slate. A baseball virgin. She thinks Babe Ruth is a candy bar, Mickey Mantle was an old steakhouse on Central Park South, and Joe DiMaggio is someone from a Paul Simon lyric.

But she's quick. By the time we touch down in Martinique, she knows the dimensions of a baseball diamond and has memorized all nine positions, plus the designated batter, as well as the skill sets that, say, separate a first baseman from a shortstop.

We get separated at Customs, and when a G.O. directs me to a shuttle bus, Gina and Johnny are not there. The G.O.s, by the way, are Club Med's activity organizers. Camp councilors for adults.

Their job? Pretty much whatever it takes to make the campers happy. Mostly, they are young, friendly, attractive, multi-lingual, and come from all over the world. The rest of us are the G.M.s, or 'gentile members.' Talk about double entendres. G.M.s come in all ages, shapes and sizes. Some are very full of themselves. Others insecure. Very few are prudes.

On the shuttle bus, I find myself next to Wendy, a nubile little freshman from Boston University. All of five-feet tall. Maybe. But everything in perfect proportion, from pert tits to boyish hips to a magnificently shaped ass. Wendy reminds me why I paid an extra $2,000 for a single bungalow.

I ask the usual stupid questions. How do you like Boston? What are you studying? Favorite band? After that last one, she stops me in my tracks with a question of her own."Will you take me to dinner tonight?" she asks, inflating my ego, before she brings it crashing down. "Those guys won't stop hitting on me," she says glancing at a bunch of jocks in Hofstra Football sweatshirts. "If they think I'm with my Daddy, they'll leave me alone."

Technically, I really couldn't be her Daddy. But there's something about the needy way the word "Daddy" rolls off her tongue that says this is about a whole lot more than fending off horn toads. Anyway, how cool would it be to walk the gauntlet of Tiki torches, Djembe drummers and blissed out G.O.s with a hot eighteen-year-old on my arm?

"No problem," I say magnanimously.

"That's so sweet," she replies, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek. A moment later my phone chirps. Contact info received. AirDrop is such a wonderful thing.

When the bus arrives, we're greeted by smiling G.O.s offering white wine and cocktails. Several of the hot female G.O.s, including the acrobatics instructor and the head of the sailing program, give me long appraising looks, followed by friendly smiles. I know it's their job to flirt. But I attribute it to my good looks. Or maybe just my seasoned age. I see a couple dozen families, and perhaps two hundred college students, but not many single guys in my age bracket.

Two hours later, I knock on Wendy's door. "It's open," someone calls. At first, all I see is a girl wearing gym shorts, a BU T-shirt, and a computer headset. Then Wendy steps out of the bathroom. She is topless, and nearly bottomless. Only a tiny yellow thong covers her obviously shaved pubes.

'Laurie, meet Rob," Wendy says. I grin at Laurie, who looks up from her computer long enough to give me a cool nod.

"Laura's boyfriend is back in Boston, the two of them are spending the weekend jerking off online," Wendy says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Laurie blushes, but doesn't deny it.

Meanwhile, Wendy's cone-shaped breasts with their hard, pink nipples have my undivided attention. It's all I can do to keep my tongue where it belongs. She holds up a hibiscus-print pareo.

Originally from French Tahiti, the pareo is a rectangular piece of fabric that can be worn as a skirt, or like a full-length sarong. It looks as good on buff guys as it does on hot girls. The ease with which it can be put on and removed, makes it the closest thing Club Med has to an official uniform. Although, it does take a little practice the first couple of times you wear it.

"Want help with that?" I ask.

"Oh, would you?" Wendy grins sheepishly. "I've never worn one of these before."

I wrap the pareo around her and tie it off with a square knot over her right shoulder. Wendy's nips poke through the thin cotton. This time I really can't help myself. I reach up with both hands and roll her pouty little nipples gently between my thumbs and forefingers. I'm prepared for the worst, like a knee to the groin. But Wendy's eyes flutter closed, she sucks in a deep breath and moans softly.

My fingers spread out, cupping her entire breasts while I pinch those hard little nips. The moan grows deeper and more satisfied. "Oh, Daddy, yes!" she whispers in my ear.

"Don't get her started," Laurie says sharply. "I'm the one who needs some privacy to rub one out with my sweetie, remember?"

Gradually, Wendy's eyes open, and they are aglow with lust. "OK, babe, we're outta here," she tells Laurie. "Save a little good lovin' for me."

"For you, always," Laurie promises as I open the door for Wendy.

"Is Laurie your roommate at BU, too?" I ask.

"Yeah," Wendy answers with a naughty grin. "Roommates with benefits."

The night is warm and sultry and Wendy holds my arm and snuggles against my shoulder. The procession into the dining room moves between two torch-lit lines of G.O.s. All of them toned and tan. Most of the women wear pareos with little, if anything, under them.

We find some of Wendy's BU buddies at a large table. We're working on our third pitcher of house wine when Johnny and Gina appear. With her trim figure, fresh makeup and gold hair in a long French braid, Gina is stunning.

I introduce them to Wendy and her friends and we make room at the table. Johnny launches into a conversation about the Yanks latest pre-season trade. I could be wrong, but every time I glance over at Wendy and Gina, I could swear they're flirting. Meanwhile, young Johnny rattles on about baseball, completely unaware of what a hottie he has for a mommy.

Wendy invites Gina and Johnny to join us for the variety show. It's a chance to see another side of the G.O.s, who have put together a comic circus with jugglers, trapeze artists, fire-eaters and even a sword swallower. It ends in a standing ovation. Gina clearly wants to continue on to the night club with us, but she hasn't arranged for anyone to watch Johnny, so we part ways outside the stage. I promise to find her at breakfast to continue the baseball-speak tutorial.

There's a Reggae band, a good one, on the rambling veranda overlooking the beach. By midnight it is crowded and rowdy.

To my surprise, Wendy never strays off, despite all the young hunks giving her the eye. Is she gay? Somehow that doesn't compute. Not exclusively, anyway. Not with the yearning I sense pouring off of her. A needfulness that's not at all about the soft caring and compassion of another girl.

When we're exhausted from dancing, we find a wicker loveseat. Maybe it's all the Pina Coladas, but within minutes we're making out. Innocently at first, but when I repeat my earlier nipple and breast manipulation, Wendy moans with enough volume to get the attention of some other couples sitting nearby.

"Let's find someplace more private," she whispers, and we wander hand-in-hand down the beach and into a stand of tall coconut palms. Under the canopy of palm leaves, I hear a distant whimpering. Like a child crying. Or a woman having sex. Wendy hears it too, and seems eager to discover the source.

The deeper into the coconut grove we walk, the louder it becomes. Soon there's no doubt that it's from a girl who is very much enjoying herself. From her own labored breathing and the way Wendy clutches my arm, I can tell we're both getting very aroused by this accidental act of voyeurism.

Well, perhaps not entirely accidental.

We find them in a little clearing near the center of the grove. She is visible only in silhouette, although clearly naked and riding her guy cowgirl style. Her breasts bounce and her long hair sways back and forth as she arches her back and grinds her hips. Her breath catches in her throat in a series of whimpers that are close to merging into one long, satisfied moan.

"Let's watch," Wendy whispers with a nervous giggle as she pulls me behind a palm trunk. I wrap her in my arms, and we lean out far enough to see without being easily seen. There's just enough moonlight in the grove that as our eyes adjust, I can make out a few more details. Full, pale breasts with an obvious bikini tan line. Flat stomach, narrow waist, and curvaceous hips and ass. She looks to be in her mid-twenties, although it's hard to tell with her eyes closed and face contorted in beautiful agony.

I feel a momentary flash of guilt for invading her privacy. But it's nothing compared to the bulge expanding between my legs. My arms are already wrapped around Wendy, making it easy to squeeze her naked breasts through the thin cotton of her pareo. She nestles her head into my shoulder and tries to stifle her own moans.

As the girl in the clearing grinds her boyfriend with increasing urgency, I press my cock against Wendy's tight ass. She responds by thrusting herself into me, and soon we are doing some serious grinding. I slide my right hand across her stomach and down her abs. But when I slip my fingers into her thong, I'm in for a surprise. There's already a hand there, one that is intently rubbing Wendy's clit.

She looks over her shoulder at me at the same time she grinds her ass against my cock. "Let's do ourselves," she whispers. "Tell me when you're close."

This isn't exactly what I had in mind. But what the hell. Wendy helps me out by unsnapping and quietly unzipping my shorts. I push them down my legs, along with my briefs. She holds my cock briefly, as if taking its measure, and gives me a smile that suggests this is just her idea of an hors d'oeuvre. Then Wendy withdraws her fingers, and I replace them with my own.

The couple in the clearing are nearing climax. The girl leans over her boyfriend and they look into each other's eyes as her moans turn to a loud wail. He replies with a long grunt as their hips freeze in place and she lowers her head onto his chest. For a long time, she caresses his face and murmurs in his ear.

With the show over, I focus on Wendy, who slowly opens her pareo for me, revealing her glorious breasts and busy right-hand thrust deep inside her yellow thong. I can't restrain myself, and before I even realize what I doing, I reach between Wendy's legs and twist her swollen pussy lips between my fingers.

"Oh!" she exclaims. "Oh, Daddy. Fuck, yeah!"

"Daddy?" the girl's voice asks in heavily French-accented English. Her voice is mellifluous and modulated, but in an almost artificial way.

"Not her real Daddy," I say defensively. The couple in the clearing are now sitting straight-backed with crossed legs and watching Wendy and I intently.

"Please, keep going," says the girl. I look at Wendy, who shrugs her shoulders almost imperceptibly, then unties her pareo completely and lets it fall to the sand. 'Fair's fair. We did just watch them, after all.' Feeling a little foolish being naked from just the waist down, I pull my shirt over my head, then look at Wendy, who smiles sweetly as I resume stroking my cock.

I hear my heart pounding and feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck. My body is suddenly on fire, despite the cool night breeze. I feel everyone — Wendy, the French girl, even the guy — watching the way my fingers glide up and down my twitchy cock. While my fist makes only the faintest of dry chaffing sound, Wendy's vigorous fingering produces a symphony of juicy swishes, squishes, and pops. When I hear these in stereo, my eyes open to find the French girl has also buried her fingers between her legs.

Having caught my eye, she gestures for us to come closer. We cross the clearing and stop about three feet away. Again, she waves us closer and closer, until my cock is within inches of her beautiful face. She tosses her long hair back and looks up at me. Her eyelids are heavy with arousal. For the first time, I can see into her dark eyes. Darker than coffee. Darker than night. Empty spheres from which nothing escapes, not even light. Eyes that can pull you in and change your destiny in a heartbeat. I avert my gaze, and try to warn Wendy. But It's too late. Wendy is already captured in their orbit, bound by a force greater than gravity.

Without taking her eyes off Wendy, the French girl parts her lips and her tongue reaches out for me, beckoning, calling. Part of me wants to turn and run and forever forget this moment. But it's too late. The first shot of cum sails across her parted lips and she sucks it neatly into her mouth. The second falls lower, splashing across her tits. The rest goes even lower, covering her forearms and the back of the hands that work feverishly on her pussy.

Moments later, an orgasm takes Wendy. Her toes curl, her back arches and wave after wave of muscle contractions shudder through her tiny frame as she emits an almost cat-like wail in the night. Wendy sinks to her knees in the sand as if in supplication to this strange lust goddess.

Wendy and I clutch each other, trying to call ourselves back to reality. "What just happened?" she asks, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Before I can try to answer Wendy, I feel someone, or something, subtly probing my thoughts. No more obvious than a few drops of warm mist, but foreign. Alien even. When I concentrate, I sense the French girl's dark eyes watching.

"Who are you?" I ask without words.

"You don't know?" she seems amused.

"Not at all," I answer with my thoughts.

"The Lust Goddess of Martinique," she laughs silently. "Younger than you. But older than time. We will see each other again."

Is she putting me on? Something tells me she isn't.

I glance over my shoulder, but she is already gone, although the distinctive fragrance of her sex lingers, along with two sets of footprints heading west, toward the beach. I now see that she was sitting on two fallen palm trunks that are crisscrossed and facing the open clearing, creating a natural amphitheater.

Then I notice something else, partially buried under the sand and trapped by one of the fallen trees.

It takes a few minutes and a little effort to pull it free. But I'm rewarded with an old wool lap blanket. It's seen better days, but as I shake off the sand, even in the dim moonlight I can see a distinctive Greek meander border enclosing an embroidered image of the Greek god Pan. More like an antique than something you'd find in a souvenir shop. Thinking it might be valuable, I fold it carefully before recovering my clothes, and helping Wendy retie her pareo. She trembles with almost orgasmic intensity every time my fingers graze her skin.

"Holy, shit!" Wendy exclaims, as if coming out of a trance. "I came so hard I blacked out. Is that what happened?"

"Pretty much," I say.

"Wasn't there someone else? Someone watching."

"Yes. A French girl and her boyfriend. They took off toward the beach when you passed out. Quite rude of them. These are their tracks," I explain, pointing to the footprints in the sand."

"A beautiful girl. I remember a beautiful girl with dark eyes. So dark..."

"Maybe we can catch up with them," I suggest, taking Wendy's hand and following the tracks through the forest of coconut trees until we emerge onto the beach. The tracks lead across the white strand and down to the water's edge. The French girl, the Lust Goddess as she called herself, and her friend must have followed the tideline one way or the other, but the lapping waves have erased any trace of them.