A Piece Of Paradise 1

Author's Note: Positive feedback from readers for my last submission in this category tempted me to try my hand at another one. This story however has a different feel. It is edgier - more erotic journey than romantic interlude. Enjoy.

*****

I rested my neck on the edge of the bathtub and stretched my limbs, luxuriating in the warmth of the foamy water. I surveyed the unfamiliar opulence of my surroundings and sighed with satisfaction. I had learnt on my arrival at the resort hotel in Maui where I was to stay that my confirmed reservation had been deleted by a mysterious glitch in their system and that no rooms were available. Either my panic stricken face or more probably the fact that I am a claims agent for a major marine insurance company persuaded the management to get rid of the problem by upgrading me to a beach side cottage.

I wasn't unhappy with the solution. The cottage was huge, lavishly appointed and barely meters from the sand and surf. Today, I had spent an hour walking barefoot on the beach, the golden sand spilling over my toes. I had then lingered in the patio, savoring the most magnificent sunset I had ever seen, before gliding gratefully into my marble bathtub. I had no plans to move any time soon, at least not until it was time for the massage that I had ordered for myself in a moment of self-indulgence.

My back arched and my nipples broke the surface, slick and wrinkled. I gently twisted a nipple between my thumb and forefinger and felt my pussy lurch in sympathetic response as my body began to inch up its familiar curve of arousal. I am proud of the fact that, despite being in my 40s, I have the body of a woman several years younger. The passage of the years has not dimmed my desires. If anything, they have grown in intensity; my needs now more urgent, more demanding.

But my body was not always so sensitive or so erotically charged nor was I always so accommodating of its needs. I had married early, at the age of 20, and had two children in quick succession. During our courtship and the early years of our marriage, my husband couldn't keep his hands off me. He would take me in the most unexpected of places, at the most unexpected of times. He would come up behind me while I was at the kitchen sink rinsing off the dishes, rip my clothes off, toss me on the kitchen table which he would empty with a careless sweep of his hand, tear my thighs apart and bury his already hard cock into my yearning cunt. Or he would surprise me in the shower, bend me over and fuck me without preamble. I enjoyed his hunger, the fact that he could not resist my body; that I turned him on so much that he could not bear to wait to have me.

After a few years, however, the passion petered out. The sex became mechanical, a Saturday night ritual that seemed driven more by duty than by desire. Gradually, even that pretence at passion fizzled out. He seemed perfectly comfortable spending the evenings in an emotional cocoon that seemed impenetrable, reading or fiddling with the TV remote. The trouble was, while I loved him to distraction, I wanted passion in my life ... and heart stopping, toe curling, pussy clenching sex.

I wasn't getting it and it was driving me crazy. I was torn apart – by the desperate, ungovernable urges in my body and the beating that my self esteem had taken because the only man in my life did not appear to find me attractive enough to want me. In hindsight, the fact that he is more than two decades older than me probably had something to do with his loss of interest, but I was not in the frame of mind to be logical or rational. I honestly don't know if I would have found a way out of my agony if Andrew hadn't happened to me.

*****

That day, my husband had already left for work. The children were at school. I had just stepped out of the shower. Since there was no one in the house, I had not troubled to pull on a gown or wrap a towel around myself. I sat down naked, in front of the bedroom mirror, a few beads of water still dribbling down my back, and began to run a brush through my shoulder length hair.

It was then that I saw him or at any rate, his reflection in the mirror. The next door house belonged to a widow, Mrs. Stevens, who lived with her young son, Andrew, who had just finished High School. My bedroom window overlooked his and both were now open. I saw him standing in the shadows of his bedroom, half hidden by the curtain, the bare flesh of his naked torso glistening in the sunlight that slanted into his window. His right arm was jerking rhythmically and from where I was sitting, the meaning of that movement was unmistakable. He was masturbating to the vision of my naked body, oblivious to the fact that I had seen him.

However, for me, what was more shocking than the discovery that my neighbor's 18 year old son was playing with his cock as his eyes drank in my nakedness was my reaction to it. To my surprise, I found that I was not shocked or embarrassed. I was shamelessly aroused – aroused by his arousal, by the idea that he found me desirable and attractive and that in his young, lust befogged mind he was probably fantasizing about fucking me, about burying his hard, throbbing cock in my sopping wet pussy.

Instead of getting up and closing my window, I found myself shifting in front of the mirror to turn my naked body partly towards him. From his bedroom window, he could now see the soft, firm swell of my right breast as it rose and fell in rhythm with the strokes of my hairbrush. I watched him in the mirror as his hand continued to rise and fall, his eyes now glued to my naked frame, until finally his body went rigid, the stroking ceased and I imagined his young straining cock spouting its load of cum on the curtain and the window sill. By then, my nipples were hard and quivering and my thighs were awash with the juices that had leaked from my aching pussy.

As I strummed my clit wildly in the bathroom to the memory of Andrew's fist wrapped around his hungry, throbbing cock as he stroked it to a cum, I knew with complete certainty that something in my life had changed forever. The force of my orgasm caught me unawares. My knees buckled and I doubled over on the bathroom floor as waves of pleasure radiated from my clit to every part of my body, suffusing it with a sudden warmth.

It became a morning ritual. I would sit naked in front of my mirror, my window open, brushing my hair slowly, languorously as he feasted his eyes on my naked torso – on the lines of my back, my heaving breasts, my soft pink nipples. After I saw his young body tremble in the mirror in the throes of his release, I would dart into the bathroom and claw myself to one explosive orgasm after another.

This went on until one morning as I struck my usual pose, one naked arm dragging the brush through my hair, I knew with that certainty of decisions that have long been made without our knowing it, that I had to up the stakes. That day, when his orgasm hit him, I did not sit still as I was wont to do, watching his face contort in the exquisite agony of his release. In a single blur of movement, I swung around to face the window. I caught his eye and held it as his cock jerked in his hand and his body trembled with the aftershocks of his release.

He knew he was trapped. I had caught him when he was at his most helpless, his body too languid and heavy to react swiftly. Myriad emotions chased each other across his face – shock, guilt, confusion and then unmistakably, hot panting desire. I pulled the curtain closed, leaving him in an agony of suspense.

The next morning, I walked across to their house and knocked on the door. Mrs. Stevens was happy to see me. She always welcomed the company. We were sitting on the couch, chatting amiably about one thing and another when I asked her casually, "Do you think you could spare Andrew for a couple of hours in the morning tomorrow? I need a few things fixed around the house."

"Sure," she replied.

She was fixing me coffee in the kitchen when Andrew walked into the house. There was fear in his eyes when he saw me - fear and an indefinable something else which was struggling to find its way through. He was about to say something when I stopped him.

"I just asked your mom if you could come around in the morning tomorrow to help me with a couple of things. I hope you don't mind."

I winked as I finished and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"No, I don't mind at all," he said, as Mrs. Stevens walked in with the coffee.

He seemed uneasy as his mother and I resumed our conversation - uncertain as to what he wanted. Did he want me to leave, so he could sort out his raging emotions? Or did he want me to stay so he could run his eyes over me with a hunger that he could barely conceal? I enjoyed his discomfiture.

When I opened the door to him the next morning, I was dressed casually – in a jeans and t-shirt. I smiled warmly and stepped aside to let him in. To anyone who might have been looking, it would seem nothing more than a neighborly visit. But after the door closed behind him, I grabbed his wrist without a word and dragged him towards the stairway and the upstairs bedroom. I sat him down on the edge of my bed, then stepped back and began to strip off my t-shirt.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice shaking.

I stopped, with the hem of my t-shirt pulled half way up my torso. He was nervous. Good. It was also obvious from the way that his eyes drank in my bare flesh that he desperately wanted me to go on and never stop.

"I am going to show you what you have been so desperate to see," I said, in a matter of fact tone and then added, in as stern a voice as I could muster, "But ... there are rules. You can look, but you can't touch. I want you to promise to behave yourself."

He nodded, swallowing hard. He didn't seem to be able to trust himself to speak.

I was not wearing a bra and as I lifted off my t-shirt, my breasts swung into view. I heard him gasp. I placed my hands under my breasts and lifted, offering them to his hungry eyes as I moved closer to him. I am petite and when I closed the distance between us, my breasts were at the level of his face. I gently rolled my breasts in my palms, making them shake and wobble, their pink tips dancing in front of his eyes.

I watched the tip of his tongue emerge to lick his suddenly dry lips. He seemed mesmerized by the vision floating before his eyes. His hand lifted of its own accord and reached eagerly for my breasts. I quickly danced out of reach and he groaned as his fingers found empty air.

"You obviously can't be trusted to behave yourself," I said in mock anger, my hands on my hips.

"No, please ... I am sorry," he pleaded, his eyes transfixed by the gentle rise and fall of my breasts. He was now so full of longing that there almost seemed tears in his voice at the thought that this might end.

"Oh, well! We will have to do something about you," I sighed.

"Get up," I commanded.

He obeyed swiftly as we traded places.

"Get naked," I said, my voice firm and unyielding.

He once again obeyed without a word of protest. I leaned back on the bed with my hands behind me, naked from the waist up, watching as his body unfurled. His clothes came off swiftly – his shoes, his socks, his belt, his shirt, his jeans – and were discarded in a growing pile on the floor. He paused for a moment, his fingers in the waistband of his boxers, a growing spot of wetness in the front betraying his excitement. I gestured with my eyes and he slid his last remaining garment down to his ankles and stepped out of them.

"Turn around for me," I said. My voice was now clouded with lust and sounded strange to my own ears.

He obeyed quietly, turning around at my bidding. He was a little self conscious now - at his nakedness. But I also sensed that he wanted to be naked for me, to display himself– his hard muscled thighs, his lean muscular torso, his tight bottom and his thick cock, now hard and throbbing . He anxiously awaited my verdict, his arms by his sides, his cock twitching to betray his need.

"Beautiful," I whispered. I meant it. It had been a long time since I had looked at a naked young body with desire and it felt unbelievably good.

"Get on the bed," I ordered, my throat now tight with longing.

He looked at me uncertainly for a moment and then obeyed. I ran my eyes briefly over his beautiful young body splayed out on the bed, his cock erect and throbbing. I then pulled out two silken scarves from my bedside table, lifted his arms above his head and bound one wrist and then the other to the wrought iron headboard of the bed.

"Just making sure you can't break the rules," I whispered softly into his ear, "No touching, remember?"

I was surprised at how much I was aroused by his helplessness. I had not given too much thought to what I would do with him once I had him. I had been more concerned with how I would get him alone without arousing suspicion. But to my surprise, the script seemed to be writing itself, filling out with frighteningly vivid fantasies that bubbled up from some hidden place in my head.

He was tugging at his bonds, testing them, testing the limits of his freedom. I stood beside the bed and watched him struggle.

"I love those scarves," I said in a flat voice, "Something happens to them and I promise you will have hell to pay."

His struggles ceased and he lay quietly, looking at me with those soft brown eyes, which were now clouded by emotion. There was fear in them, but also anticipation and longing. I decided to really give him something to look at. I unbuttoned my jeans and began slowly to unzip it. His eyes were rooted to the widening V at my crotch now filled with the powder blue of my silk panties. His body was twitching with an eagerness that he could barely contain, his swollen cock bouncing with each jerk of his hips. His eyes were now a silent plea, desperately urging my fingers on as they continued to fiddle with the zipper of my jeans. I finally took pity on him and slid my jeans down my thighs and calves and stepped out of them. As I stood up, I heard a muffled sob escape his throat.

His eyes were riveted to my crotch. I knew what had caught his attention. There was a growing spot of dampness where my juices had soaked through the silk of my panties. I got onto the bed and walked on my hands and knees towards him. His eyes followed, as if mesmerized, the gentle, rhythmic swaying of my breasts as they hung down, ripe and heavy. When my breasts were level with his head, I smothered his sweet, yearning face in the valley between them. I felt him groan against my skin as he reveled in the softness, his hungry lips struggling to gain purchase on the skin of my cleavage.

After a while, I let him up for air and then slowly dragged one nipple, now hard and puckered, across the length of his lips. His lips parted eagerly, desperate to draw my nipple into his waiting mouth. There was a part of me that yearned for his lips to envelop my sensitive flesh, for his wet tongue to wash my nipples, for the tight oval of his mouth to suckle me softly. But there was another part of me that would not be denied, which wanted to tease him to a fever pitch, to make him thrash about like a stranded fish on my bed in the throes of a desire without limit. I pulled my nipple a few inches away from his yearning lips, leaving him gasping, his body jerking in its silken bonds.

I hefted my tit flesh in my palms, bouncing my breasts gently as if weighing them.

"You want these, don't you?" I asked, almost conversationally.

He nodded. His throat seemed too parched to make a sound.

"Tell me you want them," I persisted.

"Oh, God, please ... I have wanted them for so long," he groaned, his voice thick with desire.

I released my breasts and smiled at him sweetly.

"I have something else that you want even more," I purred as I rose up, planted my knees on either side of his head and lowered my panty covered mound towards his face. He groaned like he was being murdered. I knew that the outline of my engorged lips was clearly visible through the sheer, wet silk of my panties. But just to make sure, I reached down with my index finger and pushed the soaked fabric into my groove. The silk stuck readily to my wet flesh, forming a deep blue valley framed by my swollen lips. I gently placed my palm beneath his head and lifted his face towards my mound.

"Can you smell me?" I asked him.

His nostrils flared at the scent of my arousal and his breath left him in a long yearning sigh which cooled the wet silk, the fabric so sheer that it felt like a second skin. My cunt was gushing now, my juices darkening the silk like ink, seeping past the hem of my panties to soak my thighs and dribbling down the crack of my ass. I gently rubbed the pad of my forefinger over my clit through the silk of my panties, reveling in the feel of the fabric against my sensitive skin. That light fleeting contact on my clit bordering on torment quickly persuaded me that I needed more.

I got up then, slid my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and peeled the silk away from my crotch, the fabric cleaving for a long, lingering moment to the wet flesh of my groove. As I dangled the wet triangle of silk above his face, he licked his lips hungrily. My hand drifted lower and I slowly dragged my sopping wet panties across his chest, his stomach and finally along his swollen length, leaving a wet silvery trail that glistened in the sunlight. His cock flinched at the feathery touch and he whimpered softly.

When I kneeled over his face again, his eyes eagerly drank in the vision of my pussy, finally naked, even the thin barrier of silk now gone. I reached down between my open thighs, gently gripped my swollen lips and peeled them apart, opening myself completely to his hungry gaze. As I felt his eyes upon me, my hot tight hole contracted and then relaxed, oozing a drop of pussy juice. He groaned, driven half mad by the tantalizing vision of my sex, a vision that he could not reach or touch or stroke or taste.

My dripping pussy now open like an exotic flower, I reached upwards with my fingers and delicately drew back the fleshy hood that hung, engorged, at the junction of my nether lips, exposing the hard pink pearl of my clit. As the fingers of my left hand began to pull the slick tube of flesh back and forth teasing my clit like a miniature cock, I slowly sank the forefinger of my right hand into my steaming cunt. As my pussy got accustomed to the intrusion, a second finger joined the first and I gently began to fuck myself.

I had never been so wet, so aroused as at that moment when I finger fucked myself, inches from that young face so full of yearning. I briefly shuddered as I imagined the assault on his senses – the sight of my wet open cunt being ravaged by my fingers, the sharp scent of my juices as they spilled over my knuckles, the wet, slurping sounds of my fingers sluicing in and out of my cunt. The muscles in his neck stood out like cords as his head lifted off the bed and his lips strained towards my pussy, poised just beyond his reach. It was the quiet desperation in his eyes that finally tipped me over and my pussy exploded, soaking in my juices the fingers buried in my depths.

When the tremors of my orgasm subsided, I slowly withdrew my cum soaked fingers from my cunt and brushed them across his lips.

"I want you to taste what you can't have," I whispered.

He moaned softly and drew my fingers into his mouth. When I pulled them out, he began to run his tongue softly across them like a kitten lapping at a bowl of cream. When he had cleaned my fingers of my juices, he continued to lick them as if he were seeking some last elusive drop of pussy juice that had escaped his notice. I gently brushed his hair back from his forehead, now glistening with sweat and whispered softly, "That's enough, baby."