The turtle was no more than twenty feet away. My wife of eighteen days had seen it first, and had surfaced to wave at me and point to down and to her right. Whatever she was pointing it, she looked excited, so it had to be worth a look. I took a deep breath through my snorkel tube and ducked my head below the surface, scanning the clear blue water for what had attracted her attention. Then I saw it. It was right there, below me and to my left, using its flippers to glide smoothly through the water.
Laura led the way, following the turtle six, then ten feet, below the surface of the Thai waters, her black flippers making it easy to keep up, her long, jet black hair flowing behind her. She used her arms only to change direction, or to slow herself, as the turtle turned one way and then another. She looked amazing, as she always did, her body sleek, slender and tanned mahogany from two weeks of honeymoon basking under the Thai sun.
Her bikini did little to detract from the sheer beauty of her body. It was designed to expose as much bare flesh as possible. The top was no more than two triangles of fabric, concealing her areoles but barely containing her generous breasts. A string tie around her neck secured the tops of the triangles. An inch wide, elasticated band that crossed her back below her shoulder blades, kept the outer corners tight to her breasts.
The bottom of her bikini was just another triangle, narrower, inverted, to conceal her cunt, another inch wide elasticated band holding it in place, level with her pelvis and with the upper curve of her delicious butt, with a string, hidden between her buttock cheeks, pulling tight the narrow apex of the triangle, between her legs.
On the beach, at the pool, or in the sea, Laura was not exposing anything that Thai expectations said should be kept covered. Their culture is much more modest than our own. Few Thai women wear bikinis, and torsos, upper arms and legs are kept covered, but Thai expectations for tourists had been compromised long before. My wife's bikini bared more than most, but was tolerated without complaint. Watching my wife swim just ahead of me, tracking the turtle, I thought she looked amazing.
Right then the turtle was at least taking my mind off the things that I had learned the night before. Being so close to it, so at one with nature, was just incredible. This would have been the perfect ending to our honeymoon, had we not held that after dinner conversation.
We followed the turtle for as long as we each could hold our breath. Any longer would have required full scuba diving gear, and we were no scuba divers. This was Laura's first time snorkelling, although she could swim well, and I had done it only a handful of times before. Still, for the best part of a minute, my thoughts about Laura had been pushed to one side by the excitement of the underwater chase.
In fairness, the fault was mine. Laura and I should have talked more before we married. I should have asked her more. Asking the questions during our honeymoon had risked exactly the kind of revelations that she had shared. The kind that do not go away, that play in your head, again and again, words made into images by your own imagination, that only a turtle swimming in the bay of one of the Similan Islands could dispel, and only for those short minutes.
We swam in the bay for maybe thirty minutes more before the klaxon went, summoning us back on board. There were no more sightings of the turtle, but the fish we saw more than made up for it. All colours, shapes and sizes, too various to describe them all, some large solitary fish, some in small groups, some shoals of what seeming like hundreds, in corals, blues, purples, browns and brilliant yellows, gliding, turning, diving, darting, all with effortless flicks of their tails.
Laura reached the boat's ladder just ahead of me. She climbed up, sea water running down her back and legs, dripping onto me. Her mahogany butt gleamed with water droplets lit bright by the mid-day sun, beautifully bare below the strip of fabric that cross her lower back, tanned, and delightfully curved, the skin taut and smooth.
Our first holiday together, before we married, had been in France, and Laura had introduced me to sunbathing and swimming naked, and to the aesthetic satisfaction of all over tans. Here, Thai norms meant that nude sunbathing, whether at our hotel pool or on the beach, was impossible. Reluctantly, Laura had bought new swimwear for our honeymoon, the black bikini that she was wearing now, and a second, identical, white bikini, to ensure that her inevitable tan lines would at least coincide, whichever one she wore.
We both tan easily, Laura even more easily than I do. By this stage of our honeymoon, I was a decent shade of golden brown, apart from beneath my swimming shorts. My wife had turned mahogany, at least most of her. Given that honeymoons are supposed to be about making love as much as possible, it was a neat discovery for me at least, that while all over tans can look amazing, there is something especially erotic about those private areas of the body that honeymooners most enjoy, remaining white.
Laura's tan lines, seen only in our hotel room, were incredible. Her breasts had two milk white triangles with her wide pink-brown areoles at their centres. Lower down there was what seemed like a white arrowhead, pointing the way between her legs to the exquisite ripeness of her cunt. Fucking her from behind, there were two perfect bands of white, one below her shoulder blades, the other curving just above her buttocks, animal stripes that would remain until finally her tan faded, or until the summer, when we sunbathed naked once again.
Watching my wife board the boat, as she ascended the ladder rung by rung ahead of me, I enjoyed the delicious view ahead of me, only to have it marred by the thought of what she had disclosed to me at our hotel the night before, and I wondered just how many other men had fucked the cunt that was barely covered, only inches from my eyes.
We sat, wet and dripping, on the wooden bench seat, along with twenty or so other tourists, and perhaps six Thai day trippers, all of them dripping water like ourselves. In deference to the personal closeness inevitable on the high speed boat ride, none of the women was wearing anything other than a one piece swimsuit.
The middle aged couple on the other side of my wife were Thai, the guy and his wife both wearing teeshirts over their swimwear. The number of tourists the boat was carrying meant that we were all squeezed tight together, and the guy's leg was pressed against Laura's. His arm was against hers.
I wondered how he felt about her near nakedness. Her narrow cut bikini bottom left her hips bare, and dipped agonisingly close to her cunt lips. The triangles that contained her breasts cupped rather than contained the ample flesh, her nipple stubs pushing out against the fabric. I could sense his discomfort being in such close proximity to such exquisitely exposed female flesh, with his wife right beside him.
What the Thai father did not know, was that my wife's areoles were barely covered by the black fabric of her bikini. Hers are no button nipples, or coin sized areoles. My palm barely covers them. They are like cups of swollen flesh, their surface taut, pink-brown, and almost translucent, fine lines of blue veins visible beneath her skin. They stand proud of her already ample breasts, with eraser nipples that mould the fabric of whatever top she wears, taunting the voyeur, daring them to stare.
In France, I had lost count of the men who turned their heads as they walked past us, staring in awe at Laura's incredible areolas. At our hotel here, she had attracted almost as much attention, if not from baring her breasts then from their shape and size on someone as slight as she is. Hardly five two, with the build of middle distance runner, but the breasts of a Playboy centrefold, she exudes a fuck-me-now sexuality that brings most guys to attention. Whichever Gods created human life, they achieved close to perfection when they shaped the mould in which Laura's body was formed and brought to life. I was, or so I thought, the luckiest guy on earth to win her as my wife.
The engines of the boat roared into life, and it started scudding around the island where we had been moored, one of the main snorkelling areas, heading now to a further island where we would stay. The choice was tent or cabins, and we had reserved a cabin, our tour outlet telling us the tents would be hot and clammy all night long, with only mats to sleep on, and sleeping bags to sleep inside. The huts would not be honeymoon suite luxury, but they had beds and sheets and overhead fans to ease the night time heat.
The island itself was geared for tourist boats, half a dozen boats much like our own, already moored as we arrived. The boat reversed into the shallows, and we all clambered out, knee deep in the water, wading to the sandy beach, our bags carried off for us by the two man crew, held above their heads to keep them dry.
As over-nighters, we were guided to a meeting point beneath a tall palm tree. A handful of back packs were already leaning against the ringed tree trunk and the guys put ours beside them. One of them explained that we should eat lunch first, and then we would be shown to our cabin, and pointed us after all the day-trippers, to the communal eating area just beyond.
We joined the queue for what turned out to be a self-service buffet of however much or little Thai food you chose to pile onto a plate, set out under a massive timber beam roof, no walls, shelter from the sun, with a welcome, light breeze wafting its way between the tables.
Again, Laura was the least dressed of anyone, and she got the looks that her minimal swimsuit and her exquisitely proportioned figure inevitably draw. The Thai men stared openly, some of them even walking past where we were sitting to get a closer view. I might have done the same. Instead, I had married her, and she was mine, not just to look at, but to fuck.
After lunch we were provided with the key to our wood cabin, one of half a dozen, four meters square, raised from the sandy ground on stilts. We put our things inside, and closed the padlock that was the only security provided to us, turning the tumblers to random numbers so as to hide the code.
We went back to the beach and watched the hoards of day trippers clamber back onto their boats,. Each boat in turn set of for the next stage of their trip, bows rising from the water as they gained speed. We would be on one of those the next day, after our overnight stay, with more snorkelling in the afternoon before heading back to the mainland in time to reach our hotel, shower and dress, and take our taxi to the airport for our flights back home.
For the afternoon, and in the morning, we had the beach, our towels and our snorkels. We planned to spend the remainder of the afternoon sunbathing, perhaps swimming around the rocky edges of the bay where there might be more of the multi-coloured fish, but otherwise enjoying the sun, sand and sea the last twenty four hours of our honeymoon, before resuming normal life in London.
Once the final boat had left, we realised just how few of us remained on the beach. On the curved beach of at least a hundred yards, there just six other people, two couples, both in their twenties or early thirties, like ourselves, and two Thai guys who when they walked past us a little later, seemed to be in their early twenties.
