The Woman In The Straw Hat

I didn't intend to buy a boat. I had gone down to the coast to look at a cottage that was for sale. After working pretty much seven days a week for almost ten years, I had sold my business and I was getting ready for the next chapter of my life. I was going to try my hand at writing a novel. And I figured that it would be easier if I had somewhere quiet to work, somewhere away from the distractions of London.

On the estate agent's website, the cottage looked perfect. It promised a recently-redecorated interior and 180-degree views of a picturesque fishing harbour. What it didn't mention was that the interior redecoration was dreadful beyond belief. No wonder there were so few interior shots on the website. It also failed to mention that there was a busy A road running immediately in front of the cottage, meaning that the harbour views could only be glimpsed through breaks in the traffic.

'Well, you could get the place redecorated,' the estate agent said. 'It's only paint and paper and a few tiles. With a good team, that could be done in a week.'

'And how would I go about getting that road rerouted?' I asked.

The agent laughed. Nervously.

Oh, well, at least it was a nice fine day, I told myself. I wandered down to the harbour and sauntered along the quay, looking for a café or a pub - somewhere that I could get a cup of coffee and maybe a sandwich. And that's when I spotted the good ship

Aquila

.

Back in my university days, I had done a lot of sailing. There were very few professionals around back in those days. If you were half-handy - and you could manage a week or so away from whoever or whatever paid your bills - there were always more crewing positions than there were available crew candidates. Cowes Week, the Fastnet, the Cherbourg ... yes, I'd sailed them all. I'd also been lucky enough to get over to Antigua a couple of times. I even scored a berth on the Sydney-Hobart one year. But, once the business really got up and running, I had to put all that on hold.

Aquila

looked as though she may have been built as a racing yacht, probably back in the '60s, and had then been converted to a cruising boat when her racing days were over. I thought that she was probably about 38 or 40 feet LOA. She wasn't the beamiest boat that I'd ever seen, but boats were generally narrower back in the 60s. She had a high-aspect-ratio rig with a roller luff spar and what looked like power-assisted winches. Oh ... and she had a For Sale sign.

I found myself a café that served surprisingly good coffee and perhaps the most delicious cheese scones I had ever encountered. And then, restored, I wandered back along the quay. As I've already said, I didn't go looking for a boat, but there was something about

Aquila

. I punched the broker's number on the For Sale sign into my phone and saved it for later.

Back in London, there were still a couple of loose ends to tidy up. 'Another week or so and it should all be done and dusted,' Gerry, my accountant, said. But it turned out that Gerry was being overly cautious. The deal was done and dusted just three days later. 'So, what now?' he said.

'I'm thinking that I might buy a boat,' I replied.

'Really?'

'Of course, the boat that I'm thinking of may have already sold,' I said. 'But I think that I'll give them a call anyway. You never know.'

As it turned out, the boat hadn't been sold, and, a couple of days later, I went back to have a proper look at it.

My guess that it had started out as a racing boat turned out to be correct. 'Sparkman and Stephens,' the broker said. 'Good pedigree. And the subsequent refit was carried out at the Arnold & Hammond yard and supervised by Trevor Arnold himself. Again, pretty top drawer.'

We took it for a test sail and, maybe it wasn't perfect, but it was pretty damned good.

'Where can I keep it?' I asked the broker.

'Does that mean that you want to buy it?' he said.

It turned out that the broker also had a 42-foot marina berth on his books. It wasn't cheap; but, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't that expensive either. I made an offer - subject to survey. The broker made a couple of phone calls. And, a couple of weeks later, I had a new home - for the summer, anyway.

I spent a few days getting to know

Aquila

; brushing up on my seamanship; and getting the hell of the hi-tech navigation and coms equipment (which was practically unrecognisable compared with what we had had 20 years earlier). And then it was time to take on stores for my shakedown cruise.

My plan was to sail out of Plymouth, down around the corner, across the Bristol Channel, and then up the western Welsh coast to Anglesey. I planned to spend about three hours each morning writing. After that, I would sail at a leisurely pace until I came to a suitable overnight anchorage. And the following day I would do it all over again.

A week into my cruise, I had covered a bit over 250 nautical miles and I had produced almost 11,000 words. Things were going well. But then, a couple of days after that, the writing hit a brick wall. Maybe writing every day was not such a great idea after all. I decided to allow myself a day off.

My Day of Rest dawned fine. There was hardly any breeze, but what there was was from the west-southwest - perfect for a gentle reach along the coast. I made myself a pot of coffee and some toast, and studied the chart to see where I might drop anchor later that day. There seemed to be at least three or four possibilities; but, in the end, it would probably depend on the breeze. As someone - Jonathan Raban, perhaps - once said: 'The wind is a mad travel agent.'

I began my day's coasting feeling vaguely guilty about neglecting my writing duties. But, by 10:30 or so, I had shed all guilt and I was thoroughly enjoying the sensation of

Aquila

making a steady six or seven knots with sheets eased.

At midday, I was only about three hundred metres off the coast, although the depth sounder was still showing plenty of water beneath the keel. And that's when I noticed a little horseshoe bay that didn't even seem to make it onto the chart. I sailed past the entrance and then came about and sailed past a second time. Yes, I thought, that looks worth a visit. It was only just past midday, but it was my Day of Rest. If I wanted to fritter it away, I could.

As I nudged

Aquila

through the heads, I realised that the bay was even smaller than I had thought. It was probably no more two hundred metres across. I dropped the pick and checked the depth sounder. By my calculation, we were almost at low tide and there was still plenty of water.

From out beyond the heads, I had noticed a house or something tucked behind the trees above the rocks at the back of the beach. But now, anchored in the bay, I could only see the rocks and the trees. It was perfect.

I secured the sails, grabbed a towel and a bottle of water, clambered over the transom and into the inflatable dinghy, and pulled for shore. With my back to the shore, the scene before me was reminiscent of a postcard from some idyllic haven in the South Pacific. I wished that I had brought my camera.

Once on the little sandy beach, I pulled the dinghy well clear of the water and secured the painter to a large, conveniently placed rock - just in case. Then I slipped out of my shorts and went for a swim. It may have been the Irish Sea, but the water was almost Mediterranean warm.

I spent about five minutes in the water, swimming, floating, and just generally larking about. And then I spread my towel out on the sand and lay down, leaving the warmth of the sun to dry my naked body.

At some stage, I must have fallen asleep - because I was no longer on the beach. I was in a secluded courtyard, reclining on some sort of outdoor divan beside a small pool, and a woman, naked save for a stylish straw hat, was applying sunscreen to me, paying particular attention to my erect cock. 'We don't want this bit getting burned,' she said. And then I woke up.

I was once again back on the beach. The sun was still in the sky. And my cock was half hard. Well, probably more than half hard to be honest. I was tempted not to waste it. Once you get past 40, it's always tempting not to waste a good erection. But then something - I don't know what - prompted me to glance to my left. And there she was, standing just a couple of metres away.

She wasn't quite the woman who had been in the dream. But she was naked. Well, she was naked except for her stylish straw hat with its turned-up brim and its once-black-but-now-faded hatband.

'Isn't it a beautiful day?' she said.

'Umm ... yes. It is,' I said. 'Perfect really.' I thought about grabbing my shorts and covering my cock. But then I thought: oh, well ... she's naked. And, anyway, she has now seen everything that there is to see. Pretty much.

'Is that your yacht?' she asked.

'It is,' I said.

She smiled. 'It looks like a scene from a postcard.'

'It does. Funnily enough, I was thinking the same thing myself. When I was coming ashore.'

She smiled again and nodded. 'Would you like some tea? I'm just up the hill here.'

'Tea?'

'Yes. I think there's something particularly nice about tea on a warm day like this. I have lemon squash, if you'd prefer. But I think tea.'

'Well ...'

'Come on,' she said.

I reached out for my shorts.

'Oh, you can just leave them in the dinghy,' she said. 'You won't need them. There's nobody else around. It's just you and me. And, as you can see, I'm not wearing any shorts.' She smiled when she said this.

I got to my feet and placed my shorts and my towel in the dinghy.

'This way,' she said. And she began walking straight towards the biggest pile of rocks.

At first I wondered where we were going. But then I saw that, hidden behind the rocks, there was a pair of grey-painted metallic doors. The woman pressed a button concealed in a grey-painted metallic box, and the doors parted to reveal a lift. 'It's so much easier than going around the long way,' she said.

When the lift doors opened again, we were in a spacious, modern living room, and there was a large terrace beyond. 'I think we should take our tea out on the terrace,' the woman said. 'Make yourself comfortable, and I'll go and get things sorted.'

Make yourself comfortable? That was somewhat easier said than done. There I was in the house of a naked stranger (naked, that is, save for her straw hat), and I too was naked. I walked to the edge of the terrace and admired the spectacular 180-degree view. If the cottage that I had been to see a month or so earlier had had a view like this, I would probably not have bought

Aquila

. Mind you, I would probably not have got much writing done either.

'I've made jasmine tea,' the woman said. 'I hope you like jasmine tea.'

'Thank you.'

'Now ... where would you like to sit?'

Grouped together around a low table, there were two outdoor armchairs and a matching couch. At the other end of the terrace there was a stylish divan. The divan sort of reminded me of the one in my dream. 'Do you have a favourite chair?' I asked.

'Hmm ... not really,' she said. 'On a day like today ... well ... you know. Why don't you sit in this one? I think you will have a good view from this one.'

I sat down in the chair that she had suggested, and she bent over and placed the tray with the glass teapot and two elegant glass beakers on the low table a little in front of me. As she bent, 'the view' was of her toned buttocks and of her fuzzy labia peeping out from between her golden thighs. I felt my cock begin to rise again.

'I don't think jasmine tea needs to draw for long,' she said, smiling and glancing at me over her shoulder. 'If it's all right with you, I'll pour now.'

I just nodded.

'Are you enjoying the view?' she asked.

'Umm ... yes,' I said. 'From this chair, the view is very fine - very fine indeed.'

'I'm pleased that you find it so,' she said. 'I somehow thought that you might.' And she turned to face me, spreading her feet slightly as she did so. Her very grown-up vulva was now directly in my line of sight. I know that I could have looked up at her face - and I probably should have - but I didn't.

To judge from the odd Internet website, it would be easy to get the impression that the height of eroticism is an 18-year-old woman with a bald, slit-like vulva. And for some men, that might be so. But not for me.

My hostess was probably a good 25 or 30 years past her eighteenth birthday. And, while her pubic region had clearly received some tonsorial attention, it was still hairy enough for my taste. Also, even as she stood there, the butterfly wings of her inner labia were clearly visible protruding from her softer, plumper, outer lips. I felt my cock twitch again.

'Give me your hand,' she said.

I reached out and she took my hand in hers. Then she spread her legs slightly and placed my hand between her thighs.

'For many of you men,' she said, 'sexual desire is frequent but easily satisfied. Well ... reasonably easily. For many women, it is more difficult. For some of us, it is an itch. It can be scratched, but it returns. Almost immediately. I think that you know what I need,' she said.

I nodded. 'You have an itch that needs scratching.'

'Thank you,' she said. 'I thought that you would understand. Although, of course, it would be better if there was no actual scratching involved.'

'Understood,' I said. 'But perhaps a little ... well ... rubbing?'

She smiled.

'Perhaps,' I said, 'I might first be permitted to enjoy that wonderful view for a little longer.'

'I see no reason why not,' she said. And she turned her back to me once more and bent forward slightly.

I placed my hands on her waist, and then slowly, very slowly, I allowed them to trace the outline of her womanly hips. 'Yes, this really is a world class view,' I said. And I took one of her toned buttocks in each hand and gently parted them, giving me an even better view of her plump labia. 'Postcards of this view would definitely command a premium,' I said. 'Indeed, they might even warrant their own gallery at The Tate Britain.'

'Do you think so?' she said. 'Do you really think so?'

'I do,' I said. And I placed my hand between her thigh tops and gently drew my fingers back along the groove of her already damp vulva. I did this several times and, with each pass, her fur-fringed valley seemed to get warmer and slicker. And then, with my fingers continuing to exert gentle pressure on her vulva, I placed the ball of my thumb on the entrance to her pinkish, puckered anus. As I gently massaged the spot, I felt it relax and begin to open, almost as a flower opens to the sun.

'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Oh, yes. That feels very nice. You can keep doing that if you want to.'

For perhaps three or four minutes, I continued to work both her vulva and her anus. And then I decided that it was time to move on. 'Now I think that you should sit in that chair,' I said.

She turned and pouted. 'Oh. You are not going to abandon me so soon, are you?'

I smiled. 'Abandon you? Abandoning you is the last thing on my mind,' I said. 'I'm not sure how we have arrived in this situation, but now that we are here, I intend to explore your delicious cunt with my tongue.'

'My cunt,' she said, savouring the word. 'My wonderful ... warm ... wet ... cunt. Ah, yes. Well, in that case ...' And she lowered herself into the chair and spread her legs.

As I knelt between her spread thighs, I could feel the sun on my back. And it briefly occurred to me that, if this was what a Day of Rest was like, I should take more of them. Many, many more.

Despite having already savoured the posterior view for several minutes, I began by spreading her surprisingly plump outer labia and gazing, appreciatively, upon what lay between them. As I have already mentioned, her inner labia had a delicate butterfly quality about them as they glistened, pinkly, in the sunshine. And, just at the point where the two lips came together, her clitoris peeped out from under its hood like a tiny erect penis.

But enough of the looking, I thought - well, for the moment anyway - and I ran my tongue from her smooth perineum, across the entrance to her vagina, and along between her butterfly labia, until I reached her clitoris - which I circled several times.

'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Oh, yes. Oh, yes.'

I took the woman's acclamation as confirmation that I was doing something right. And I did it again. And again. And again. And then, using my fingers to gently caress her nubby clitoris, I began fucking her hungry vagina with my tongue.

'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Oh fucking yes.'

And so we continued for several minutes. And then ... well ... the whole point of tonguing her cunt had been to relieve her itch. And it seems that we did. Suddenly, squealing and shuddering and laughing, she took my head in both her hands held it tight against her warm, wet cunt.

'Oh, god, yes. Yes, yes, yes.'

'OK?' I said - when she eventually began to relax.

She smiled. 'Better than OK.'

For a couple of minutes, we just stayed where we were: the woman sprawled in the chair; me kneeling between her raised and spread thighs and once again admiring the view of her picture-postcard-perfect pudendum.

Eventually, we both got up and the woman began walking towards the house. 'I shall return,' she said. 'Do not go anywhere.' And I assured her that I would not.

A couple of minutes later, she returned carrying a plastic bottle of something. 'You have been very patient,' she said. 'Now it is your turn. I suggest that you make yourself comfortable.'

I did as I was instructed.

'Just lie back and relax,' she said. 'Shall we begin?'

The plastic bottle contained some sort of lightly-scented oil. She poured some into the palm of her hand, and then she took my growing cock and coated it liberally so that it glistened in the sun. Her hand was warm, even warmer than my cock. After a few strokes, she took some more oil and liberally coated my scrotum.

We had sort of tacitly agreed not to know anything about each other. But, lying there in the sun while she stroked the underside of my cock (which, since it was now almost fully hard and lying on my belly, was temporarily the upper side), I felt the urge to ask just one question. If she wanted to answer it, she would. If she didn't ... well, that was her prerogative too.

'Do you live out here all on your own?' I asked.

'Mmm ... most of the time,' she said. 'Well, most of the time in summer anyway. My husband comes out when he can. But he travels a lot, so, in reality, he only manages to get out here for a few days each month.'

It had not occurred to me that she might have been married.

'He came out the weekend before last. But he ended up spending most of his time on the telephone. He really would have been better off if he had stayed in London.'

'Do you not get lonely?' I asked. 'Being on your own.' (OK, so my one question had become two.)

She smiled. 'I'm a writer. A writer needs a certain amount of peace and quiet. Also, I enjoy my own company. Of course, whether the two are connected ...'

'A writer? I didn't realise.'

'Why would you?' she said.

'What do you write? Would I have read any of your work?'

She smiled again. 'Too many questions,' she said. 'I need to pay attention to your beautiful cock.' And pay attention to my cock she did.

Over the years, I have been fortunate enough to have been on the receiving end of several more-than-competent hand jobs. But the woman in the straw hat topped them all. She just knew exactly what to do, and what to do next. (And what to do after that.) And, after about five minutes of pure pleasure, I was spurting cum like a porn star.

The woman smiled and raised her eyebrows. 'Impressive,' she said.