Foreword
Good day, as my favourite Aussie uncle might say. It's me again, that pesky Charley . . . the one who keeps promising to tell all in a few thousand words but then drags everything out forever.
Not that there's anything wrong in dragging out sex. Ask me, the longer sex is dragged out the better.
Three hours without pause for breath sounds good, doesn't it?
Maybe even five hours . . .
Cards on the table, I'm really called Charlotte. But I only ever got called that as a little girl, when I had been naughty (quite often then, chuckle, chuckle). Nowadays I am still a strip of a lass at thirty-one, a single babe but sexually active, mostly with girls.
Cancel that. I used to fuck guys but haven't indulged for over ten years. I also used to be promiscuous with the ladies up until a couple of years ago, when I met a bitch I'm adamantly going to refuse to give a name.
Bitch, bitch, bitch!
Thinking back the circumstances are unbelievable. Hungrily man-free, I'd been in the habit of trawling Keighley's lezzie bars (laugh if you must, but there are a few, if you know where to look) and shagging whoever was currently out to play.
Yes, lots of strings-free fun on that scene . . . lots and lots.
But then I met The Bitch and somehow . . . don't ask for an explanation; I don't have one . . . we were in a relationship and living together. Two fucking years! Or, if you want me to be more precise, seven hundred and forty-four days!
Then, after nothing but sweetness and light, she landed a plum job in New York and expected me to go there with her, like a kept woman, "making home" if I "wanted". Acting as if she was important and I didn't matter one whit.
No, acting like my own work didn't matter at all.
I am, co-incidentally, a vet. And I love my work. Indeed I love my work far more than I'd ever loved the evil bitch I'd been screwing for just over two years . . . Far, far more. Harsh words were exchanged.
Yes, to the extent that breaking up was the only possible eventuality.
And although I hate to admit it, I took the break badly. So badly that the senior partner at our practice (Dianne, who is seriously sexy but sadly only too straight), sent me off on leave. I kid you not: it was as if I was at Malory Towers, being sent away into some sort of banishment.
Not that my old school, Greenhead, had very much in common with Malory Towers. I doubt that even Enid Blyton would have made the comparison, her vastly admirable imagination or nay.
Sorry, I'm rambling . . . but with the best possible motive. I don't want anyone who missed "Holidays in the Sun" or "More Holidays in the Sun" to need to backtrack. As I indicated a little earlier, my intention was originally to tell all in one short block, written in a hurry at Arrecife Airport.
Meaning a bog-standard, two-week Lanzarote away-from-it-all . . . summarized in half an hour.
That failed! Time told on me. After a couple of sex-free days (self-abuse very much excluded) I fell in with a nice, avaricious London lady and we bonked like it was going out of fashion. Yes, we were at it for fifty hours or more. Writing even sketchily about that was never going to be a thirty minute task.
So ended my first effort: a "short block" covering less than a week!
Then, in a rather futile attempt to catch up, having failed to cram a fortnight into one tale, my second effort covered two other lovers and maybe another thirty hours.
And here we are, Friday morning, the start of Week Two. I hope that I'm writing this as a fresh story in its own right. No need to backtrack or catch up. Just seven more days of sun, sangria and sex . . .
Sounds good, no?
Course it does, even if I stumble and draw it out too long, yet again, even if I don't ever down as much as one glass of that lovely red stuff. After all, sex and sand are enough, aren't they? Who can possibly have too much of that?
Bring it on!
Chapter One
Maria was much more fun in the morning than Sabria. Supposedly virgin or not, she shared a shower with me in two shakes of a lamb's tail.
And, talking about tails . . . wasn't she well put together!
Virgin my ass! Even though she insists to this day, I'll never believe I was Maria's very first girl.
No way José!
If she wasn't fibbing she must have been unnaturally talented, maybe even a child protégé.
Not that she was unacceptably young, I hasten to add. She was mid-twenties and sexy as heck.
Obviously!
But had she really been saving it all for me?
As I said once before, if it wasn't for bad luck I'd never have any at all. Yet suddenly I was being eaten by the queen of all gorgeous goddesses . . .
No, I was being eaten by the "virgin" queen of all gorgeous goddesses . . .
Go figure. Turning up an ace happens at cards every so often. Hitting the jackpot does happen every now and then, but not for me. Not ever.
Well, apart from that first time with Maria, not ever.
*****
Washing each other was enormous fun. So too was drying each other with raspy hotel towels, her on me, me on her . . . slowly, slowly wins the race.
Maria targeted sensitive areas in a calculating sort of a way, sometimes avoiding sensual parts of me, sometimes going in there like the SAS, smoke bombs and flash-bangs to the fore.
Yes, yes, yes!
'You and Sabria,' I said out of nowhere, laughing at my stupidity. 'What are you going to be like?'
It was, in all honesty, a fair question. Sabria was renowned as the hotel's "alpha female". But in bed she was a kitten. Maria, renowned as the hotel's (supposed) virgin, was assumed to be passive.
No, she was assumed to be bi-curious but not likely to indulge anytime soon.
Yeah, as if!
And there was a trade-off that night. I forget the precise details but, following our one-to-one, Sabria was due to "entertain" her supposedly "curious" workmate.
No, make that her surprisingly aggressive workmate . . .
And what was role play anyway? Maria had been gratifyingly butch with me. I like it both ways, so I'd had no problem with that.
What would Maria do tonight? Would she submit to her preconceptions?
Would Sabria act a part like the virago she (deliberately . . . maybe playfully) resembled?
Truth be told, I don't care for role play. Far as I'm concerned sex is sex. Girls should just do whatever they want to do. So long as all participants enjoy themselves . . . Well, where can there be a problem?
All that said and done, I still wondered about Maria and Sabria.
They were black and white, chalk and cheese.
Well, not in skin tone, but . . .
'We'll be cool,' Maria said squeezing my hand.
Steadily if slowly coming back to the real world, I took in my surroundings. We were just outside of my favourite breakfast bar, and stringy Spanish bacon was already sizzling in the pan.
'Last night was brilliant,' I blurted. 'Tell Sabria you have two more nights each. Arrange them between you. Tell me who, where and when tomorrow; I'll be available for all four. I guarantee that.'
*****
After our big cholesterol feast, never once querying the need for pints of cerveza with breakfast, Maria accompanied me back up the hill to the hotel, hand-in-hand; openly advertising we were lovers, giving not one fig for others' opinions.
Never mind Sabria,' she said as we turned into the grounds, side-tracking the main building, heading directly poolside. 'You are a fun girl to be with.'
'So pick two more nights,' I repeated. 'I like fun just as much as you do.'
Here's a confession. I'd intended to help my glamorous friend open up her bar. But I only got badly in the way. Thirty seconds and it was obvious she was better off without any input from me.
