He watched her sitting on the towel, struggling to rub the sunblock on her back, then approached her. "Forgive me for I am so forward, but may I help you with that?" When she hesitated, he said, "I won't do anything you are not wanting of me. This sun can be hard on the skin of the tourist."
"How do you know I'm a tourist?" she asked, deciding on a leap of faith and handing him the bottle as he knelt beside her. This was the man she'd been watching plunge in and out of the soft waves, tan and robust, about 40, like her. Except she, admittedly, was not robust. She felt wan in spirit as well as skin, recently divorced from a distant husband, on her own for the first time in 16 years.
"Ah, but you are pale, yes?" asked the man, gently rubbing the lotion across her shoulders. "I am Marcel."
"Lara." His touch felt good. The hot sun had apparently readied her senses, and it had been a long time since she'd been touched more than in cursory hugs from family.
He slid her bikini straps down, left them there as he continued rubbing down her back and sides. "How long are you here? You are not free yet?" He motioned to a group of women not far away, laying in the sun bare-chested.
"A month or two. What do you mean, free?" Lara thought at first he was referring to her divorce.
"Women here go free of suits," he said. "Especially women as beautiful as you." Though she'd kept fit, she was taken aback by the comment. But Marcel had continued, talking about the local customs, about blending into the land, the sun, the sea. "Communing," as he put it. He had finished with the lotion on her back and she thought of asking him to put some on her legs, though she'd already lotioned there. Just then he grasped her hand and pulled. "Come with me to swim!" he enthused, and she did. They swam and dunked and splashed, and Marcel slapped her behind a few times in an impromptu game of tag. He was virile, excited and spirited. Lara found herself giggling and easily joining in his enthusiasm. She felt a weight lift.
When some of Marcel's friends showed up, he introduced her as "my luscious Lara" and they all swam into the deeper water, talking and laughing. When they returned to shallow water she allowed herself a long game of "pollo," riding Marcel's shoulders and trying to dislodge a young man from another's shoulders. She enjoyed her thighs clamped around Marcel's head and chest and sides, his arms gripping her legs-when he wasn't pushing at his opponent.
They finally said their goodbyes to his friends as Lara claimed she had to go eat. Marcel squeezed her ass as she came out of the warm sea.
"Why are you doing that?" she asked, pleased but not sure if she should be offended.
"Because your ass is so delicious, like the rest of your body. And you like it, no?"
"I suppose so," Lara said, smiling, pulling on her beach shirt, a thin flowery style that hung mid-thigh. She gathered her towel and lotion.
"There are many ways I can touch you and you would like," Marcel said matter-of-factly. Lara felt a heat deep down. "Shall we eat?" he asked.
She hadn't expected him to go with her. "I have to shower and change."
"Nonsense. This is a beach community and it is daylight. Indeed, you have less sand and more clothing than most." He flicked at her shirt, in doing so nudging her nipple, which immediately stood out, electrified.
"Okay," she assented.
Marcel put his arm around her waist and guided her past the towel drop at the cabanas. "Leave the lotion as well; it will be here tomorrow, no?" He took her to an outdoor hide-away not far from the beach. As they ate, it became increasingly crowded around the tiny tables and they had to sit more and more closely together. Lara thrilled at the heat of Marcel's arm and his thigh pressing against her amid the din of strangers, many speaking different languages.
"Eat this," Marcel ordered her a few times, putting some delicious morsel or another to her lips. After the second or third time, he didn't even use a fork, only his fingers, so that Lara was tasting them along with the delicious food. Soon, he left his fingers to linger on her lips, tracing them. Lara felt the urge to bite them, to suck them, shocking herself. How long had it been since she'd had any urge? How long since she had felt anything? But wasn't this the point of her trip, to shed her old closed-off, unattended self? She gave in and licked his fingers the next time he presented them. He kept them in her mouth, easing them in and out. He moaned and the sound made Lara moan. Then he quickly replaced his fingers with his own mouth on hers, and soon they were passionately kissing.
"I will carry you away," he whispered, holding his hand out to help her stand, then stooping to pick her up by the legs so that she was above the crowd, her hands on his shoulders, his face beside her belly. He carried her through the throng like this, telling the host on the way out to put the bill on his tab. Once out of the bustle, he set Lara down. They kissed more, pressing their bodies close, mashing themselves together. Lara's nipples were hard, poking through her thin garments.
"Do you want?" he pulled away to ask. Lara nodded. "Good. I want also. I want you." He leaned in and they swallowed each other's tongues greedily. But Marcel stopped abruptly again. "But Lara you must tell me to stop if you do not want, and I will stop. Immediately. Everything. And leave you to yourself. Agree?"
This alternate scenario sounded rather sad to Lara now, and she did not want this fiery enthrall to end. "I agree," she said. She playfully swatted his bulge, to emphasize and to check if it was for real, for it had seemed almost unrealistically large when pressed against her.
At that, he picked her up again, this time flinging her over his shoulder, as they both laughed. He drummed at her rear end as he carried her to the bungalows. He drummed her so much her ass smarted and the heat of the smacks spread to the heat of her lust, the growing wetness between her legs.
When she told him which bungalow, he set her down at the door. Before they were even inside, he pulled her shirt aside, pulled her bikini top off her breasts and began sucking, licking and tweaking her nipples, murmuring, "So beautiful." He alternated between breasts, kneading one as he sucked the other. Lara heard herself moan, low and animalistic. At that moment she didn't care about anyone passing by. She wanted him.
Marcel stopped and pushed them through the door. He tugged off her shirt and bikini completely. Then his own. His erection pulsed, veiny and alive. He gently lay her on the bed and stood over her, his cock inches from her skin, his eyes gazing at her entire body.
"You want," he stated. He fingered circles aroung her nipples, traced a path down her stomach. At her mound, he circled again, slid a finger through her wet slit. Lara moaned, involuntarily opening her legs. "Wider," he whispered. "Show me how wide you spread yourself to me." Lara complied; she was on fire, aching for him to be inside her, juices flowing freely. Marcel climbed on top of her. Slowly, deliciously, he entered her. They swayed and thrust and grunted. When he moaned, "I'm coming inside you!" she came also, grateful for his jizz filling her.
They continued their tryst for the next two hours, before falling into a weary, satisfied sleep. It was only when a group of drunken revelers awoke her briefly as they passed outside did Lara realize that the door had been wide open, their extensive tanglings on display the entire time.
******************************************
In the morning, Marcel was gone. Lara had a moment of panic, then of resignation, before seeing his card. It had his address and handwritten: "Lara, I will be available at 3pm if you wish to continue this wondrous connection. Yours, Marcel."
Lara showered, ate at a bistro, went to the beach and swam and read her novel, all the while thinking of Marcel. She wondered what he was doing. His card read, as he'd told her, that he was a photographer. Perhaps he had a "gig" today? He'd told her enough, and given to her enough, that she felt safe. And his friends had been nice enough; that was a good sign. Still, what had overcome her? She found herself happily replaying the events of yesterday and last night. She felt excited and relaxed at the same time. She'd been seen and cared for, something long lacking. She decided she'd continue, do something different for once, be someone different. She mumbled to herself, "This is the point, isn't it? To escape my old self, to take care of my lost self?"
Lara arrived at the mid-sized house at 3pm. She pulled the conch shell hanging by a rope to ring the bell. No one came. She pulled again. Nothing. A pit of disappointment began to spread in her stomach. She began to shuffle away.
Marcel shouted from the corner, "Lara! I am here!" She blew out her breath in relief and gratitude as Marcel strode toward her, two blank wooden picture frames beneath his arm, his other arm gesturing toward her. "How wonderful!" he shouted. He wore khakis and a belt, with a short-sleeve silky-looking button-down that accentuated his strong chest and arms. Lara immediately felt her face flush as she noticed this. Even in these clothes, wearing sandals, he was manly.
Marcel kissed her firmly and opened the door. "Let me put these inside. So joyful to see you!" He was like a warm old friend. He set the frames amid others and returned to her, appraising. "This dress accentuates your breasts; what a nice gift to me." He reached out and squeezed her breast, quickly, then released. Lara blushed, stammered. She had chosen the dress for this very reason, she realized. "No matter," Marcel went on. "Did you swim today? Shop? Think of me? I have been waiting to taste you all day," he suddenly finished. He stood before her as the heat spread throughout her body. Slowly he said, "What do you want to taste?" She thought of his fingers in her mouth. "I will get coctails for us, yes?"
As they drank, he showed her his work, portraits and island scenes, some touristy and some more artful. "Now, my Lara, would you like to have fun?"
