Flare Up

This story has been posted to Literotica.Com with the full knowledge of the original author, JimBob44. No part or whole of this story may be reprinted in any other format or on any other web site without the express written consent of the original author.

Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.

**..**

"The Avignon Islands?" the pretty ticket agent chirped as she verified Grant Miller's boarding pass on his cell phone against what her computer screen said.

"Yes ma'am," Grant smiled, eyes not rising above the girl's snug Cavalier Airlines uniform blouse.

"I, where are they? I've never heard of them," she said as she grabbed the tape from the printer and wrapped the tape around the handle of Grant's large suitcase.

"French Caribbean," Donna said, pointedly digging her nails into her new husband's bicep.

"Oh!" the girl smiled, affixing the tape to the other two suitcases. "Well, enjoy your flight."

"Why do we need three suitcases? Pope Clemens the fifth Island is clothing optional," Grant said as they walked to the row of plastic chairs to await their flight.

"The beaches are," Donna agreed. "The restaurants are not. The nightclubs are not. And, we're not even married three hours and you're staring at that girl's boobs?"

"Hey, shit," Grant attempted to defend but the PA system crackled, cutting off his words.

A group of loudly chattering and laughing Asians bustled past. Donna pursed her lips as Grant seemed to have eyes for the four or five cute girls among the family.

"Jesus, Donna! They were loud," Grant defended. "No, I wasn't checking any of them out; they were loud, okay? They were just loud, all right?"

An hour later, an uncomfortable hour after arriving at the Clarkston County Municipal Airport, their flight was called. The cute ticket agent again wished them an enjoyable flight and Grant thanked her. Donna just glared at the girl and at her husband.

Following his wife's backside up the stairs to the somewhat small airplane, Grant wondered if his mother might have been right. Jackie Miller had sniffed and opined that there may be a good reason the thirty two year old Donna Meyers was a twice-divorced woman; perhaps Grant would do well to look into that?

"Maybe because you're a super psycho jealous bitch?" Grant thought, even as he admired Donna's nicely rounded backside.

The pilot informed them that this was just the shuttle; they would board the actual plane that would take them to the Avignon Islands Airport at the International terminal in the Atlanta airport. He gave instructions on disembarking, then they would take the shuttle to the International Concourse for their connecting flight.

"Don't worry," he smiled to the nine passengers. "When we land, I'll go over all of this again."

"Pushing her thick waist-length brunette hair back with a huff of irritation, Donna asked the flight attendant how soon they would be serving drinks. The mature woman gave Donna a patronizing smile and said as soon as they were airborne, services would begin.

"See, we're on our honeymoon," Donna smiled, hoping to prompt the woman into serving her a drink immediately while the pilot and control tower where busy with their conversation.

"Uh? Us too," a very young looking girl snapped at Donna, brushing her shoulder length white-blonde hair out of her startling blue eyes.

"Us too," A young man agreed from behind Donna.

"I know you wasn't this big a bitch while we was dating," Grant thought, looking at the pilot and copilot as the two men went over their pre-flight procedures.

The flight attendant gave the obligatory safety procedures spiel and finally served Donna and Grant and the four other couples small bottles of champagne. The woman flying solo smiled and accepted a small can of Coke.

In Atlanta's sprawling airport, it took a while for three of the four honeymooning couples to figure out where the shuttle train was. One couple and the single woman seemed to know where to go; they were seated when the three harried couples finally made their gate.

"Been delayed," the single woman informed them. "Mechanical issues; doesn't that just make you feel safe and secure?"

"I need to tinkle," Donna told Grant.

"Yeah, me too," Grant agreed.

"God; there anywhere to buy a drink?" Donna asked as they searched for the restrooms.

"What you want?" Grant asked, looking at some of the fast-food establishments.

"A screwdriver," Donna said, stepping into the ladies' room.

"In an airport? Yeah, Donna, I really feel like getting you a fifty dollar drink," Grant muttered to himself as he located the mens' room.

His new wife was waiting for him when he stepped out of the restroom. Grant attempted a smile but her attitude was really beginning to wear on him. Before he or she could say anything, a blonde beauty slammed into Grant.

"Grant! OhmyGod! What? What are you doing here?" Nadia Combes enthused, giving him a very passionate kiss on his startled lips.

"I, uh, I, I'm on my honeymoon," Grant stammered.

"Your... No! Way!" the blonde shrieked.

"I uh, yeah, I, Nadia, this, this is my wife, Donna," Grant said.

"So nice to meet you," Donna said through gritted teeth.

Nadia ignored the brunette as she clung to Grant, chattering about a flight to Heathrow, how wild was it that they would meet up in Atlanta's airport of all places? As tactfully as he could, Grant disentangled himself from Nadia. With a promise to catch up, talk about old times, Nadia wheeled her carryon suitcase behind her as she scurried for her own gate.

Fortunately for Grant, the gate announced that pre-boarding would begin. The clerk intoned that all persons with disabilities, people with children... Grant rifled through his pockets and found his cell phone. He attempted to take Donna's hand but she snatched her hand from his. He brought up their boarding passes on the phone and made sure he had his small carryon bag slung over his shoulder.

Seated and waiting for take-off, Donna ignored Grant's attempts at conversation. The very young looking couple that were also on their honeymoon were seated to their left and the petite blonde asked Grant which of the islands they would be staying at.

"We're at the Orleans Hotel on St. Peter Faber Island," the husband said from the window seat. "Hi' I'm Jonathon Vokine; yes, THE Vokine. "

"And I'm Synneva," Synneva Vokine said when it was apparent that Jonathon would not be introducing her.

"My blushing bride," Jonathon smirked.

"Sin, Synneva? I, I don't believe I've ever heard that name before," Grant smiled just as another passenger waddled her way past them.

"Scandinavian; means Gift of the Sun," Synneva smiled.

"With that blonde hair... It suits you," Grant said, then winced as Donna dug her nails into his arm again. "Jesus! What? What, Donna, what?"

"You are being far too friendly; she is on her honeymoon," Donna hissed. "Jesus! First that ticket girl, then your old girlfriend and now..."

"I did nothing with that ticket girl," Grant defended. "And as for Nadia? God, Donna, like I had any way of knowing..."

The flight attendant began the safety drill so Grant ceased with his protests. Donna sat and seethed as the woman rambled on and on about oxygen masks dropping from the ceiling, the seat cushion could be used as a floatation device, yada, yada, yada.

The moment the drink cart came by, Donna ordrred herself a vodka tonic. An elbow into Grant's side caused him to likewise order a vodka tonic. Jonathon ordered himself a Rum Swizzle and Synneva timidly asked if she might have an Amaretto and Seven-Up?

"I'm only eighteen," she confided to Grant as the flight attendant passed their row.

"Well, good news; the drinking age in the Avignon Islands is eighteen," Grant smiled, then laughed when Synneva's brilliant blue eyes lighted.

Thankfully, after her fourth vodka and tonic, Donna fell asleep. Standing, Grant dug his brand new digital camera from their carry-on bag and set about learning the controls and levers and buttons of the device. Synneva bounced excitedly in her seat before standing and rooting around in her own carry-on bag.

"I got the same kind!" she whispered, mindful of Grant's sleeping wife.

Heads together across the aisle, Synneva and Grant went over the functions of their cameras. Whispering, Synneva admitted, her cell phone had an excellent camera, but she just could not seem to ever get decent pictures on the thing.

"I know exactly what you mean," Grant chuckled. "Why I ran over to Vokine's and bought this thing."

"My family owns Vokine's," Jonathon reminded Grant.

"Smart, smart; I see we're both fully charged and ready to go," Grant said to Synneva while ignoring Jonathon.

It seemed that the young man interjected his family name into every conversation. Grant did wonder how such a sweet, intelligent young woman as Synneva had wound up marrying the brash, arrogant young man.

"Of course..." Grant thought, looking at his own wife.

Four and a half hours after leaving the Atlanta airport, Grant roused Donna. Sluggishly, she buckled her seat belt again. The jet began to descend and Donna looked out of her window with interest.

After leaving their airplane, Grant wished the Vokine husband and wife a happy honeymoon as he herded Donna toward the baggage area. He located their three suitcases and a black man in a crisp white shirt and khaki trousers stepped up smartly. Grant told the man they were to board the boat that would take them to Pope Clemens the Fifth Island.

"Ah yes! Clemens!" the man smiled, speaking heavily accented English. "Right this way, sir!"

Grant tipped the man a twenty dollar bill; without his guidance, they would have never found the dock. With a flourish, the man set their three suitcases onto the luggage rack of the large cruiser.

"Bye!" Synneva called out from another dock twenty yards away.

"See you," Grant smiled and almost toppled as an irate Donna jerked him toward the boat.

"You can flirt with her some other time," Donna spat, stepping onto the large craft.

"Jesus fucking Christ Donna! Jesus! What the fuck is wrong with you?" Grant screamed, his nerves at the breaking point.

With his French tinged accent, the skipper of the craft asked if they were ready. Grant nodded his head and the man smiled, teeth gleaming white in his coal black face.

Both Jonathon and Synneva waved as Grant and Donna's craft passed theirs. Grant smiled and returned the wave; Donna pointedly ignored them.

Dusk was fast approaching when they tied up to the dock on Pope Clemens the Fifth Island. The skipper admitted that this was the last run of the day; he would not travel the island group at night.

"Yes, yes, I know the islands like the back of my hand," he smiled. "But there is always someone? Hmm, someone who does not know the islands?"

Grant gave the skipper a twenty dollar tip and could tell that the man was used to far more generous tips from wealthy Americans. So Grant pulled a second twenty and a ten from his wallet. With a shrug, the skipper assisted Grant in setting the luggage onto the dock.

"The magnifique Hotel is due west," he said, pointing toward a white building a few hundred yards away.

"Damn," Grant said, realizing he would have to lug three heavy suitcases across a sandy beach by himself; Donna would be of little assistance.

Donna did carry the smallest suitcase and complained bitterly about this task from dock to hotel. The lobby was open to the beach; a man stood behind a highly polished counter, smiling at the new arrivals.

"Yes, yes, you are Mr. and Mrs. Miller," he said, white teeth gleaming.

"There a bar?" Donna demanded.

"Donna, please. Let's just get checked in. Then we can look for a bar," Grant sighed.

Maurice Martin said nothing; this was not the first unhappy honeymooning couple he'd seen. The manager waited silently as Grant got himself sorted out. Then he put his professional smile on his face when Grant turned to face him.

"Sir, we have you and your lovely bride in the first room right here," Maurice smiled, sliding the key cards across the desk. "If there is anything you and your lovely wife may need..."

"Bar?" Donna again demanded.

"Yes Madame," Maurice smiled, despite his irritation. "Through those doors just to the left of your room."

"Thank you, mm, Monsieur Martin," Grant said, showing off his two years of High School French.

"It is my pleasure to be of service to you and the mademoiselle," Maurice said in slightly accented French.

Maurice almost laughed; it was obvious from Grant's face that the young man was trying to decipher, translate what Maurice had said. Lowering his voice; there was no need to embarrass a guest, Maurice repeated his words in English.

"Thank you," Grant said.

"Merci," Maurice smiled and Grant shot him a wide smile.

A bell hop appeared and helped Grant with the luggage. The room was spacious and had doors that led directly to the beach. Roughly twenty yards from the atrium doors was the Carribean Sea. Grant looked at the last rays of the setting sun as it painted the gentle surf. Grant hurried to dig his camera out and took several shots of the beautiful scenery through the glass doors.

"Pretty nice, huh?" the bell hop said, his Mississippi accent loud and clear.

"You are not from here," Grant said, digging a twenty dollar bill from his wallet.

"No suh!" the young man smiled, displaying a gold tooth. "Burstyn, Mississippi."

"And how did you wind up here?" Grant smiled.

My boyfriend won a trip to St. Pete Island and after a week out there? I just couldn't stomach the idea of going back home to them ignorant redneck racist mother fuckers in Burstyn," the young man admitted. "Bad enough being black. But oh Lordy Jesus Christ, a homey sexyull?"

"St. Pete?" Grant smiled at the young man's unabashed ease.

"St. Peter Faber; the gay island," The young man said.

Grant remembered that Synneva and her husband, Jonathon were going to St. Peter Faber for their honeymoon. He smirked, thinking of the shock the two were most likely experiencing. While there certainly were homosexuals in Myndee, Arkansas, it was not readily apparent or very widely accepted.

"Yeah, ain't no end to prejudice, is there?" Grant agreed as they left the room.

Opening the door leading into the lounge, Grant thought it ironic; this lounge had the same odors of Hunter's Cabin, Sugar Plum's and The Jim Sports bar in Myndee, Arkansas. He wondered if it might be all the alcohol, stale sweat, cologne and perfume mingling together that created that distinct pall.

Grant found his wife at a table, hemmed in by two shirtless black men with very long dreadlocks. Apparently the lounge had very loose laws governing nudity; Donna's blouse and bra were not in sight. Using his new digital camera, Grant snapped off three shots of Donna and her two companions.

"Sir, do not do that," a tall, muscular man ordered, placing his hand on the camera.

"Sorry; that is my wife," Grant explained to the man.

"Oh! Pardon," the man said, stepping back slightly. "But still, sir..."

"Hi Honey; having fun?" Grant said, his sarcasm evident.

"Hey!" Donna shrilled, obviously quite intoxicated. "Hey, this is Pierre and um, um..."

"It doesn't matter what their names are," Grant said, fighting against the urge to punch Pierre in his smirking face. "Gentlemen, you are in my seat; leave."

"That's rude," Donna pouted. "Hey! Hey! Go, go get us a couple drinks; what y'all want?"

"You have had more than enough, Donna," Grant said.

"Pierre, Jacques," the bouncer said, voice low and even.

At the man's quiet, unobtrusive command, the two well-muscled men stood and left. Donna pouted and rose to follow her two newfound friends. Grant firmly put his hand on her shoulder, holding her in place.

The lounge had side doors that led into the hotel's restaurant. Grant persuaded Donna to come with him into the restaurant. At the door, an attractive black woman quietly asked Donna to please put her blouse on before leading them to a table.

Grant thoroughly enjoyed the very spicy seafood dish. Donna drank most of the bottle of white wine and ate very little of her own meal. Grant completed her meal as well; the breakfast buffet and the small meal on the airplane had been digested long ago.

Pouring his wife into their bed, Grant walked along the beach, taking some moonlight photographs of the beach, the waves, the hotel. He even managed a shot of two topless women as they kissed. Both women squealed then ran away, laughing happily, hand in hand.

In the morning, Donna looked all of her thirty two years plus all of Grant's twenty seven years. She complained bitterly about her horrendous headache and downed four vodka screwdrivers with three Tylenol tablets. Grant enjoyed the light, flaky croissants and three eggs over medium. The coffee was dark, thick, and sweet. Donna drank two cups of the rich brew but still did not look human.

"Where's the clothing optional beach?" Donna asked the young man at the counter.

In answer, the young man gave a wave with his hand. Looking toward the beach, Grant and Donna saw a few sunbathers, all nude. A beautiful dark skinned woman came out of the surf, nude body glistening wet, wide smile on her pretty face.

"Let's go!" Donna enthused.

"Okay," Grant smiled. "Come on, let's go to the room and get the sunscreen on and..."

Stepping into the suite, Grant went first to the bathroom. Reminding himself that he was not alone, he turned the very noisy fan on. Then, dropping his clothing onto the floor, he located the bottle of sunscreen and stepped out of the bathroom.

"Okay, Donna, let's... Donna? Donna?" Grant said, then looked around.

He saw her clothes crumpled up on the floor next to the side door leading out to the beach. Looking through the glass, he thought he could see his wife standing out in the suf. He also saw two dark figures with her.

"Jesus, Donna," Grant said, taking the time to apply the sunscreen as best as he could to his pale white body.

"Ears, ears, don't forget the ears," he admonished himself.

Sure enough, drawing near, he saw that Donna was once again with Pierre and Jacques. He snapped off a few photograps of the three of them cavorting in the waves.

"Donna, you're going to burn," he cautioned her as he waded out close to where they stood.

"Oh, we'll make sure she doesn't burn," one of the men smiled widely.

Donna squealed with surprise then laughter as Pierre but his two hands onto her breasts. The waves crashed into Pierre as he stood behind Donna, cupping her breasts. Grant took several photographs of the large black man with his hands on Donna's breasts.

"Hey, you don't do that," Jacques snarled, advancing toward Grant. "No pictures, eh?"

Grant let Jacque reach out for the camera. Then he grabbed Jacques' hand and bent the man's hand back. Jacques lost the menacing snarl and gasped out in pain, Grant kept the pressure up until Jacques went down on his knees. This submerged his head mostly underneath the surf.

Pierre looked worried as his friend's head surfaced at the low point of the wave, then was covered again by the next wave. He released Donna and tried to hurry toward where Jacques and Grant were positioned.

"Let him go! He, he will drown!" Pierre begged.

"Aw. Will he?" Grant smirked.

"Grant, honey, please," Donna asked, trying to adopt a little girl voice.

"You need to stay the fuck away from these two parasites," Grant demanded, releaseing Jacques' hand.

Jacques stood up, gasping and groaning. He and Pierre slunk away, Jacques holding his injured hand and Pierre shooting ugly looks in Grant's direction.