This is a true story. My second wife and I got married in 1988, and we had not been married long when a girlfriend from her netball days turned up on our doorstep. Her name was Rachel, and she had just returned from her big OE in London. Having nowhere to stay, we put her up for a couple of weeks while she searched for a flat.
Rachel was just your average-looking girl next door type, but she wasn't plain and had a spectacular set of tits. They were large and firm. At twenty-one, she was a year younger than my wife. She was a brunette with olive skin and was about 5'4" tall. She had a lovely figure with ample curves and, did I mention, beautiful tits. I had trouble keeping my eyes on her face every time I was in the room with her. My wife noticed, of course, and gave me shit about it.
Rachel was a good Catholic girl and came across as very conservative. But I sensed an underlying conflict. Several times, I was certain she was coming on to me. One day, as I went to open the door for her as she left to go shopping, I moved to give her a peck on the cheek, and she quickly kissed me full on the lips. And other seemingly innocent moments gave me the sense she would not turn me down if I made a pass. I did not, as being so newly married, I was several years away from even thinking about playing around.
She had passed through Jamaica on her way home and spent a week at some beachside resort. She couldn't stop talking about the place. One night, my wife mentioned to me that Rachel had told her about a pretty raunchy sex experience while in Jamaica. But she said Rachel would not elaborate much about it to her.
I was not surprised she would not open up to my wife - as my wife could also appear conservative to those who did not know her well. However, I felt she may open up to me, and I was dying to get the details. So, a couple of days later, when my wife was not around, I brought up what my wife had revealed and pushed her to give me some details. She opened up and, surprisingly, was very explicit in her descriptions of what had gone down, saying that she had been dying to tell someone about it.
Her story surprised me, as she didn't come across as someone who would have done any of the things she described. She told me she had arrived in Kingston on a Friday and was due to fly out for NZ the following Saturday week. I'll tell her story in the first person, just as she narrated the story to me.
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On landing in Kingston and walking across the tarmac, I was awakened to a host of unfamiliar sensations as I took in the Jamaican men working around the aircraft. Once through customs, I was met by the resort's courtesy driver, who carried my bag out to the van. He was a hunk, his muscular frame only covered in brief shorts and a torn T-shirt. He swaggered along in front of me and had me thinking obscene thoughts.
I went to bed that night and masturbated myself to sleep, something I seldom did, as I had huge issues with masturbating. The next day, when I arose, I sat in my room and pondered what I would do if a Jamaican guy were to chat me up. I figured that as you only live once, I might never return to Jamaica again. So I spent the day looking around the shops and checking out every guy within fifty feet of me. But I had little luck getting any of the numerous hunks to pay me the slightest attention.
That night, I asked one of the male resort staff where all the action was. He gave me directions to a nightclub a short taxi ride away and told me it would be humming as it was Saturday night. I only had casual clothes with me. Still, I picked the sexiest attire I had and spent some time on my makeup before going out front and catching a taxi.
The night was a disaster. The crowd was mostly American tourists, and most of the women were prettier than me. I was only asked up for a couple of dances, and that was by older, boring American guys.
The next day, I decided to spend the day on the beach and work on my tan. A few Jamaican guys were around, but I soon found they were all staff. Sometime in the afternoon, a handsome waiter approached me and asked if I wanted a drink. I tried flirting with him but was not getting much of a response, so I ordered a rum cocktail and watched him walk away, wondering if I was just too ugly. When he returned, I tried to get him to stay and talk for a bit, as the beach was not that busy. But in a roundabout way, he explained that staff were forbidden to mingle with the guests, and he wandered off again.
Later in the afternoon, he returned and asked if I wanted another drink. I told him, "Why not?" And when he returned with it, I asked him, point blank, how one got to meet the locals. I didn't tell him I was fucking horny, But that fact overrode my normal reserved nature.
He glanced around and quietly told me to walk over to the next bay, as that was a public beach, and many local guys hung out there. I was embarrassed as he winked at me and pointed to his left at the road that curved around the point. I realised I must have seemed like a desperate woman of low virtue to him.
Anyway, the next day, with my beach bag over my shoulder, I took off in the direction the waiter had pointed. It took a good half hour to get to the beach, and I was pretty hot when I arrived. I laid out my towel down the far end of the beach, well past most of the beachgoers. Dropping my sundress and bag on my towel, I headed straight into the sea. I had purchased a sexy red bikini at the resort shop the night before. It proved to be a poor choice as my boobs were almost bouncing out of the cups as I jogged down to the water's edge.
Back on my towel, I spread myself out to catch the sun and, looking over my sunglasses, checked to see if there were any eligible guys around. Disappointingly, it was mostly local couples and families near me. And the couple of men who looked to be single weren't paying attention to me.
Around midday, I wandered to a beachside bar/cafe and bought food and a drink. Some guys were hanging around, and I picked out the best-looking of them and gave him a sexy smile. He offered to carry my food back to my towel, which I happily accepted.
But after some idle chatter, he moved back to the bar. I was starting to feel deflated about my prospects. However, sometime later, another of the the guys from the bar came down and sat beside me.
He introduced himself as Arley, and as he chatted away, I ran my eyes over his body, trying not to be too obvious. He was probably a little over six feet, muscular and had a nice smile. I guessed he worked out, although I had to admit that all the guys here looked like they worked out. And he was a bit tough-looking, not the sort of guy I would take home to meet my mother, but I wasn't about to complain.
Still, I found myself quite attracted to him and felt myself getting a bit squishy between my legs. Our conversation slowly became more interesting, with Arley dropping some not-to-subtle sexual innuendos on me. Then, out of the blue, he asked what I wanted, and while I was thinking how I could indicate I might be available, he rattled off, "Marijuana, Coke, cheap local brewed rum, anything you want, I can get."
I stuttered out that I didn't want any of those. And he immediately asked if I smoked pot. I replied that I had tried it a couple of times in London, but it had not done much for me.
