CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
(February 2004)
Heather and Ingrid arrived in Perth, Western Australia, almost twenty months after they'd started their world tour. Up to that point they hadn't done too badly with their travelling budget, walking incredible distances, using the cheapest forms of transport if they absolutely had to . . . and only ever flying as a last resort. But Down Under had always been expected to be an exception.
The plan was to travel west to east around the coast, making a mighty inroad along the way to visit a few must-see places like Coober Pedy, Ayers Rock and Alice Springs. That way they would take in all the mainland state capitals and Canberra before reaching Cairns, where the big decision needed to be made.
To do the north coast or not to do the north coast: that was going to be the question.
And they intended to debate it at leisure, over lots of ice-cold beers.
Walking those sorts of distances wasn't an option, not even for them. After they'd done all the usual tourist things in "the world's second most remote city" (seeing Australia II in the Maritime Museum; watching black swans stop traffic by crossing busy highways; sunbathing in Kings Park), they made a bid to get themselves wheels.
Getting mobile should have been easy but, typically, Ingrid insisted on "doing it right". Consequently they spent three days scouring the city's used vehicle outlets before buying a blue campervan with guaranteed buyback. Next morning, overloaded with provisions, they set off south. Stopping a day in Albany ("the last port of call for ANZAC troops en route for WW1 Europe"), they then headed towards Esperance, clearing the reputedly dangerous beaches, eventually finding an expanse of brilliant white sand that looked as if it had been waiting for them since time began.
By then they were as tanned as they were ever going to be. Ingrid's hair had bleached with the sun and her skin had gone a dark golden brown. Heather reckoned that, whenever they finally reached Rio, her friend wasn't just going to look like your typical Brazilian beach babe: she was going to look like an utterly outstanding Brazilian beach babe, top class Copacabana. As for herself, she wasn't complaining. Her naturally dark skin had gone the deepest mahogany and that, together with her long, jet-black hair and flashing green eyes, made her look like some sort of Amazonian princess. During their exploration of Perth she'd caught sight of her reflection in a shop window in Murray Street. Wow, she'd sincerely thought, who the hell is that? Then she'd realized she was gazing lustfully at herself.
So the tans were working just fine. At first sight they were both perfect. Their only regret, shared and discussed at length, was that theirs were not truly every-last-inch tans. While there had been zillions of opportunities taken to keep their boobs matching, their thongs and G-strings had left them with tell-tale white bits below.
This beach was where the white bits were going to meet their Waterloo. The theory was that two full weeks and lashings of sun cream would get them through the pinky-red sunburn stage, leaving them plenty of chances to finish the job off later, especially on their foray into the Great Australian Bugger All.
'Naked and windswept on the roof of the campervan,' Inga had said. 'I can hardly wait.'
'It's a bit rickety up there,' Heather replied. 'I'll try not to drive over too many bumps.'
They parked their camper in a rough turning area at the end of an even rougher track and, mindful of tales of freak waves back closer to Albany, pitched their tent at the base of a low cliff, where it was protected by rocks on all sides.
Then they went for it.
For the first day or so they sunbathed naked and nervous. After that, sure they weren't going to get disturbed, they relaxed. And relaxed and relaxed and relaxed. By the afternoon of the third day they started to make out under the blazing sun, taking turns to have each other on the hot dry white sand or the cold flat wet stuff closer to the tideline. Best of all, they would make out in the Southern Ocean itself (or was it the Indian Ocean? Nobody seemed able to agree), splashing and laughing and not minding the taste of salty water. Heather honestly believed that would be the coolest, most fun sex she ever had; completely alone with a truly loyal friend in beautiful blue water, waves breaking around them, spuming and foaming.
*****
The days soon merged into one. After their fifth, a Saturday, they stopped keeping count. In fact they only knew it was Saturday because in had been pencilled in as "Inspection Day". Not that they really needed to inspect each other; not when they'd been practicing nudists ever since they arrived. Still, it had been pencilled in so the inspection had to take place.
'You are so lucky,' Ingrid exclaimed, her nose perhaps an inch away from Heather's fanny. 'You're naturally tanned to start with. Now you're getting darker by the second.'
At that moment Heather wasn't interested in her skin tone. She could feel her friend's breath on her sex, pitter-pattering over it. The result was quite predictable. 'While you're down there . . .' she began.
'Not yet.' Ingrid kissed her just once then moved away, taking her turn to lie on her back on one of the more even stretches of dry sand. 'You have to inspect me first.'
Okay, thought Heather, if the mountain won't come to Muhammad . . .
She knelt between Inga's widely spread legs and, after the briefest of glances at her "white bits", ran the tip of her tongue down her clitoral hood. Hearing a sigh but no objection, she did it again.
'Trust you,' said Ingrid. Then, when the invading tongue started to circle her actual clit, 'Oh Hev, that's so, so good.'
Heather hoped it was better than just "good". She'd been focusing her attentions on Ingrid and no-one else for a long time now; from that night on the road to Guadalajara, to be precise. Her friend's tastes and preferences had become as familiar to her as her own.
'So, so good,' Inga purred. 'I'm getting close already.'
The grin came automatically but wasn't enough to impede Heather's circling. She never let her sense of humour stop her when there was work to be done. And Ingrid needed doing there and then. Good grief, didn't she just! During their travels she had grown exponentially orgasmic. And she'd been hot enough when they were no more than jill-friends. Nowadays the girl really could cum for England.
There again, she had had a highly-skilled, highly-experienced teacher . . .
Using three fingers, still circling cheerfully away, Heather penetrated Ingrid, settling straight in to the rhythm she liked most. Cue another automatic grin. Ingrid didn't know it, but she'd stolen that rhythm from Rose Royce's "Car Wash".
'My God, Hev, I'm cumming!'
That wasn't a particularly newsworthy announcement. Heather knew the signs. She also knew there would be many more cums to follow. And best of all, she knew she would soon start cumming as well. Yes, incredibly, she had found the ability to cum unaided. Simply making love to Ingrid was enough to bring herself off. In what now seemed like another lifetime, Heather had shagged with a whole host of other partners. And not one of those others had had such an effect on her.
She frowned but kept up with the beat. Perhaps love was the clue? Mary Rose aside, she hadn't felt a whole lot of love for anyone else: she'd felt attraction, lust and sometimes friendship, but not real love.
Love was a tricky emotion, though. Love was a powerful thing. It was capable of making a free, often self-indulgent girl forsake all temptation . . .
Ingrid climaxed a second time, even more vigorously. 'I'm going to erupt,' she gasped. 'Oh my God, Heather, what are you doing to me? This is going to be huge!'
Heather reckoned Inga was about a minute away from her hat-trick. And that was newsworthy. A cum of huge proportions just had to be shared, didn't it?
Ingrid's legs were doing strange things, trying to lift her ass off the sand. When Heather's one-handed grip on her hip held her down they switched tactics, trying to wrap themselves around her neck instead. Then her hands joined in, plunging deeply into Heather's hair.
'Fucking hell, Hev, here I go!! Here I go!!'
It was easy-peasy to go with her. Heather had been building and building and could have cum first. In the spirit of companionship she held off, waiting for Inga's genuinely huge eruption before joining in all the fun . . . and joining in massively, if the truth be told.
Keeping her wits about her, sensing no relaxation in the girl's death grip, she inched her mouth away from Ingrid's still quivering fanny.
'Let me go,' she said.
'I can't. Everything's tensed up.'
