I emerged from the water at Waikiki Beach around 7am on a Sunday morning and ran up the almost empty sands towards my towel by the hose down station. The place was nearly deserted because, although it was already nicely warm, the tourists and most locals were probably still in bed.
As I came out of the water, I had to readjust my black bikini bra, as my 38-inch boobs were in danger of falling out of the cups, not that there was anyone much to notice. My boobs, by the way, may be enhanced by minor surgery, but they're very, very impressive.
Picking up my towel I walked over to the shower area and found it occupied by a stunningly-built young woman in a lurid red bikini, the water coursing down her magnificent, athletic frame. She was dark-haired, like me - I'm part-Hawaiian, part French and I've inherited my mom's jet black hair and coffee-coloured skin.
I spotted a little gold ring on the young woman's left ankle. "Hi," I said, as nonchalantly as I could, "is that a slave anklet you're wearing, or simply a fashion accessory?"
The younger woman, who I took to be in her early 20s - I'm 32 - flashed me a stunning smile. "I'm afraid it's a fashion accessory," she laughed. Then, with a throw-away line which almost took my breath away, she added: "That's until I find the right mistress!"
I dropped my towel on a nearby table and tried very hard to put a light humoured reply in my voice as I replied: "Who knows? This might be your lucky day."
The beautifully built youngster picked up a towel and began to dry off, as I allowed the cool stream to play over my big breasts, my firm hips, ample buttocks and toned thighs. I work out a lot, and it shows on my 38-26-36 figure.
As I did so, I couldn't help but notice the younger woman eyeing me with interest. I switched off the tap and plunged into my plan of attack. "You live around here?"
She nodded, tying a sort of sarong around her lovely midriff, but leaving her lush breasts in the bright red bra on display. "Yup," she said, "I've got an apartment over on Kuhio."
I started to towel dry. "I've got a large house up on the hills looking down over Waikiki, it's above an art gallery I run," I informed her. "Care for a spin up there in my Porsche and we can have a cup of coffee?"
The woman smiled like an angel. "Love to," she said, and held out her hand to me. "Hi, my name's Sharon, I'm a bikini model."
I regarded her coolly. "Sharon, with a body like that, of course you are!" Then I introduced myself: "I'm Darla, I wish I had a figure like yours, but at 32 you can't always be so lucky!"
Sharon grinned. "You've got a smashing body - I only hope I've got a body like that when I'm 32, but I've got 12 years to go!"
The 20-year-old bikini model picked up her beach bag and we walked to my convertible for the drive up into the green hills overlooking the tourist mecca that is Waikiki.
"What sort of art does the gallery specialise in?" Sharon asked, as I flicked the Porsche up the twisty roads leading to my place.
"Erotic art," I explained, "mostly female nudes. Nudes with a sort of, how shall I put this?" I paused, then added: "Ladies with attitude."
"Sounds highly charged," said Sharon, as the wind streamed her lovely black hair out, giving it a natural dry.
"We'll have a stroll through the gallery while coffee's percolating," I suggested, then we wheeled into my basement garage where I parked the Porsche and we went into the house.
As I put the coffee on to brew, Sharon said: "This sarong's a bit damp from my bikini bottom, OK if I take it off?"
Stupid question, I thought. "Go ahead," I answered, "I'm taking off my shorts, they're getting wet, too."
When we were both attired only in our bikinis - hers was much briefer than mine, I might add - I led the way downstairs, across my veranda porch, down a little walkway and into my gallery, which faces out onto the street.
I flicked on the lights and said: "Take a look around. Any questions, fire away."
The pert buttocked, firm-breasted model then began to stroll around the gallery. I busied myself with some book work at my desk, and after about five minutes she called out: "Tell me about this one."
It was the picture I'd hoped she would like. It was a colour painting of a tallish, nude Hawaiian woman, well, nude save for high-heeled black leather boots. The painting, set off by a stark white background, was long and narrow and very nearly life size.
The model in the gallery stared intently at the model on the canvas. "She's very pretty," Sharon murmured.
"What do you think of her breasts?" I inquired.
"They're lovely, but they look as if they might not be natural - not that that matters, look at those great nipples," said Sharon.
"What about the whip?" I asked. The model in the picture held a thick-gripped black leather whip in her right hand. The flogger had four or five "tails" which she had drawn together in her left hand.
"It looks menacing," Sharon commented. "And she looks as if she knows how to use it."
"And what about her pussy?" I asked, delighted with her responses.
Sharon looked closely at the model's pussy. She had prominently lush pink piss flaps, which were surrounded by black, crisp pubic hair which had obviously been shaved back, The thatch on her mons gleamed a dull black. You could make out her clitoris below it.
