Fucing Under the Caribbean Sun

Let me know what you think. I'm not sure about a second chapter for this one.

As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.

* * * * *

Struggling to get comfortable behind the wheel of my Kia my son said, "Grandma sure enjoyed that."

He'd detected the subtext. My mother's gift, generous as it was, was also intended to... What exactly? Embarrass me, humiliate me, manipulate my son?

I said, "Yeah, she did."

An hour ago, at Thanksgiving dinner, while my step-father sliced the ham Mom announced the secret I'd known, and kept, for the better part of two decades: she'd established a trust fund for my son.

* * * * *

My family, my extended family, had money, lots of money, they were Masters of the Universe:, developers, investors, doctors, lawyers, accountants, corporate presidents, vice-presidents, CEO's, CFO's. My straight-laced brothers and I were expected to follow suit. They did; I, the irredeemable wild-child, had no interest. I got pregnant as a teenager; he was the director of the food co-op where I volunteered. We married, but I soon realized while he looked hippie and talked hippie what he yearned for wasn't me, but the family money. The marriage ended quickly and unhappily, neither my son nor I had heard from him in years.

On the positive side he'd been a hell of a fuck; I've had few his equal since.

So, on the occasion of my divorce my mother, with an oft-repeated, "I told you so," set up a trust fund for my son's proper education. The message: I'd never make enough money to do so.

I went to college, remained a wild-child (albeit one who, when it was a man, required a condom), got a degree in folklore, headed for graduate school, (more wild-childing), got a PhD, then a job teaching at a small public rural university in Virginia, where I calmed down the act. Then, after turning my dissertation into several published articles and an award-winning book, I was hired at the University of North Carolina.

In my world it was impressive; it my parents' it was a lark: North Carolina was not the Ivy League, folklore not a real discipline.

In Chapel Hill my reborn wild child was circumspect: William was of an age where I couldn't explain overnight guests by calling it a sleep-over with mommy's friend. There'd been a couple of serious relationships, and when not there were covert means to address my sex-drive: liaisons with visiting graduate students (our own student body was off-limits), former lovers I'd meet at conferences, and the young, oft-married, and hard-bodied assistant football coaches and trainers whose disappointment at my refusal to let their players slide through my classes was offset by my willingness to let them slide their thick cocks between my legs.

* * * * *

Back to Thanksgiving.

After dessert - our long-time family cook had prepared her amazing Baked Alaska - mother ushered William away for a private discussion which my son, as we pulled away from the curb, immediately shared.

"It was basically the same old stuff. Grandma said you should have sent me to boarding school, Phillips Exeter would have been glad to have me, but despite my public high school education she said with my grades, ACT score, community service, and the 'soccer thing,' and her connections she can get me into Harvard or Yale. I could walk onto the soccer team, get a scholarship my sophomore year, and even if I didn't - here she self-congratulated on how well she'd invested - there was more than enough money in the trust to pay for it."

"What did you say?"

"I said I'd think about it, but I'm not going to Harvard. Y'know, Tar Heel born, Tar Heel bred, plus who wants to play soccer in the Ivy League when Carolina recruited me. You had the courage not to let them control you with their money, I can try to do the same."

"Aren't you afraid she'll try to take it away?"

"Yeah, although maybe she can't. She bragged how neatly her lawyers tied it all up, that no one else would ever have access. By the way, that pissed me off, that she thought you'd raid the fund."

The notion that I'd try to steal my son's money pissed me off too. I was not penurious, had never asked the family for money, and while the folklore faculty was far from the highest paid on campus I'd raised my son on my own.

"So I was thinking, as kinda of an FU to everyone, remember when you were dating Alan, getting serious, you two talked about a honeymoon at that Carribean resort, why don't you and I go there over Spring Break, on me."

"Son that's sweet, but you can't afford that."

He handed me an envelope; it contained the fund's financial report.

He could afford it.

* * * * *

I told him "no" several times, but my desire to go and the disappointment in his voice overcame my reluctance. Over the next months, wanting to look my best, I prepared. I'm a jogger/swimmer/hiker, not a weight lifter, but with my son's guidance I hit the gym and worked out at home, losing ten pounds, getting my five foot seven inch body down to my college 127 pounds and my measurements to 36-24-35 (one more inch on the butt than in college - couldn't get that off). I let my brown hair grow out until it hung past my shoulder blades, which would have been frowned on in the business school but was fine in my more bohemian discipline, and took the opportunity to get out in the sun, darkening my already dark skin.

People noticed. I could feel the eyes on me; flirtatious students, friends, and colleagues grew more flirtatious. My own libido was also on overdrive. Unfortunately no visiting grad student floated my boat and visits from my football coach, who was on the road recruiting, were irregular. Finally I put together a paper to deliver at a conference organized by a friend from graduate school. She had marvelous lips and tongue.

* * * * *

On March 1 the trust vested and William turned $10,000.00 in stocks into cash.

On March 2, debit card in hand, he headed for his computer to buy airplane tickets, rent a car (under my name), and contact the resort. Later, at dinner, he was distracted. I asked if anything was wrong. He said no.

Three days later he said, "Mom, we gotta talk."

"What is it son?"

"It's not my fault."

Employing my wide-eyed quizzical look, perfected from years of hearing my students say the same thing, I stared at him.

William recognized it, laughed, and ice broken said, "After New Years I called the resort. They said I'd need to give them a credit or debit card, which I didn't have, to reserve a room. Worried about Spring Break I asked if there'd be any trouble getting a room the week of March 9; they said no, they don't cater to students and never sell out in March. So the day after the trust vested I called to make a reservation and it turns out a family from Brazil booked all available rooms for a reunion. Hoping for a cancellation I checked the site every day for an opening, then just to be sure called. On the third day a suite opened up. Desperate, I booked it.

"I'm not hearing a problem."

"It's the honeymoon suite. The groom ran off with the bride's mother, so the wedding was cancelled."

"What?"

"The groom and the..."

I said, "Not that, we're in the honeymoon suite?" then calming down added, "I guess it's okay, weird but okay. Is there only one bed?"

"Yeah, but there's more. A strict policy is posted on the web-site, it's limited to honeymooners. Mom, it's the only way we'll get in."

"You lied, you told them we're on our honeymoon?"

"Well it's more like the lady I was talking to assumed we were and I didn't correct her."

I stared at him.

"Okay, they're pretty much the same thing."

"Son there must be other resorts on the island."

"There are a few, not nearly as nice, and they'll be aflow with drunken spring breakers. Mom, this is the one you wanted to go to."

"So what are you proposing?"

He pulled an envelope from his pocket, turned it over, shook it. Out fell my ex-husband's wedding and my engagement and wedding rings.

* * * * *

Figuring an older more mature voice could find an exception to the honeymoon suite rule - certainly if there were no honeymooners they wouldn't let it go empty - I called the resort posing as half an unmarried couple wanting it during the off season, but they were adamant. They said the room was good luck; couples who stayed there never divorced. They would not jinx its gris-gris.

* * * * *

That night I was more practical.

"Son we'll never get away with it."

"C'mon Mom, as good as you look, everybody will think you'd interest a younger guy."

"The flattery's a nice try, but we aren't a couple, don't act like a couple, don't dress like a couple."

"We can fake it."

"Really? You'd have to transform yourself into a smitten young man who adored his bride, hung on her every word, pampered her, took care of her, wore whatever she wanted, did whatever she said, no back talk, no lip..."

That sounded pretty good.

"... you'd think about her all the time, anticipate what she might want and do it. Pull her chair out, open her car door, massage her neck and shoulders, call her 'sweetie' and 'my love' like you meant it."

This sounded real good.

William nodded his head in apparent agreement and I decided to push it. I love to dance and suspecting my son, and his graceful athletic body, would be naturals on the dance floor I said, "You'd have to take me out dancing at night, which means we'd need to practice, hit a few clubs before we left. We wouldn't want to look like it was our first time."

Accepting my dare he said, "No problem."

"And we'd need a new wardrobe, fun sexy stuff for our honeymoon."

Pretending to give the matter serious consideration he sucked his lower lip into his mouth, lowered his gaze then, after several seconds, said, "Sold."

* * * * *

In order to convince others he was my husband I'd have to be able to imagine him as my husband, as a man. We discarded the labels "mother" and "son" and with an occasional slip I called him William and he called me Rocky (my nickname, my mother had christened me the more ladylike Rachel) and used affectionate nicknames. Sweetie and gorgeous were among our favorites.

Our effort to be physically more affectionate was helped by the dancing. Good to his word, that night, twice more that week, we drove to a near-by city and, holding hands walked onto a dance floor and boogied. We learned how the other moved, learned to move with each other, and as we grew more comfortable we'd get lost in the music, move together like beaus, end each dance with a hug and kiss, return to our table, our fingertips touching atop it, our feet below it.

Whenever together we'd hold hands, slip an arm around each other, stand in the other's personal space.

If in the same room but not physically close we'd glance at each other, hold the other's gaze.

The rules for conversation: pay attention (not half but full, hang on every word), smile and nod while you listen.

At restaurants we ordinarily didn't patronize we'd hold hands, he'd pull out my chair. Sitting we'd mirror each other's actions, use pet nicknames and animated gestures, look into each other's eyes, listen, laugh at the smallest joke. He'd pay the bill, I'd kiss him in thanks.

I enjoyed it; it had been awhile since I'd seriously dated. I liked the attention, liked the envious glances of women wondering about my good-looking young man, liked the occasional glances of young men wondering how my son had scored this fine older woman.

My good mood was reflected in my everyday demeanor. Friends and colleagues said there was a certain glow to me.

I also had a whale of time dressing myself, and my son, for our honeymoon.

Thinking we just might pull this off I looked forward to trying. In bed, at night, I'd imagine the luxurious resort nestled in a lush tropical paradise, me displaying my hard body on the beach in a tiny bikini, handsome William bringing me a drink, and slip a finger inside by swollen cunt.

* * * * *

Pulling up to the resort in the convertible we'd rented I was happy to see William fiddling with his wedding ring. He'd wanted to put it on several days ago to get used to it but I insisted he wait until this morning. One woman's observation: newly married men, adjusting to the sensation of it on their finger, play with their wedding rings.

My son came around the car, opened my door, offered me his arm. I stood, he kissed my cheek and whispered, "Happy honeymoon darling, you look beautiful," in my ear. I brushed his hair into place, kissed him, and holding hands we entered the lobby.

The clerk, who let her gaze linger on my son a beat too long, checked William's ID, said, "Mr. and Mrs. Barnes it's so good to see you," turned to a co-worker, said, "Let the boss know," and said to us, "Ms. Pamba, the resort's manager, insists on greeting honeymooners personally."

Saying, "That's kind of her," I wrapped a hand on William's arm, stroked his skin with a finger tip. While still not entirely comfortable touching him this way - there was an undeniable sexual component to it - it was what any woman would do after the clerk's covetous glance. It helped that my son's fit physique was a delight to touch.

Responding to my touch William's hand, his fingers sweet and sensitive, drifted to my lower back, his thumb stroked my spine. The clerk's eyes flitted to the side and following her gaze I saw a striking brunette, a few years older than me, approaching.

"Our happy elopers, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes welcome."

She kissed my cheek, did the same to William, and said, "My name is Mimi, I'm the manager. They alert me when the honeymooners arrive so I can greet them personally.

"Please, it's William and Rocky."

There was a hint of confusion in her eyes.

"I'm Rocky, it's a nickname, my legal name is Rachel."

She handed me her card, kissed my cheek, and said, "This is my private line, if you need anything text or call. I'd love to show you around. But first there's a bottle of champagne in your room, on the house. Have a wonderful time."

My son turned to me and with just the right look in his eyes said, "We'll be sure to do that."

* * * * *

After tipping the bellboy we walked along the living room's wall-length floor to ceiling window overlooking the beach. I slipped my hand into William's and said, "It's beautiful, thank you. And, by the way, you didn't tell me we eloped."

He said, "Oh yeah that. I was worried that someone might wonder why we booked so late so I kinda said we were eloping, let them fill in the details. Y'know a couple so madly in love, so hot for each other, they decided they couldn't wait. You ready to test the water?"

I said, "Love to, but if we're eloping - and if there are any more secrets to our romance you should let me know - the first thing we'd do is screw like bunnies. Mimi knew that, that's why she let us go so quickly."

The place was lovely. Tastefully decorated, the living room opened on a balcony overlooking the ocean, the oversized bath included a Jacuzzi, and the spacious bedroom a wide firm bed. The closet was big enough for my entire wardrobe.

William said, "You should have brought more stuff."

I slid my hand around his waist and said, "You'll just have to buy your bride a few things while we're here, something fun and sexy. After all, you'd want to spoil me on our honeymoon. Now since we can't appear in public anytime soon I'm thinking that Jacuzzi looked mighty cosy. Care to join me husband of mine?"

William said, "You're really enjoying this," and went to change, re-appearing in the tight little swim suit I'd picked out for him, then continued filling the Jacuzzi while I, in the bedroom, tried on several of the bikinis I'd purchased for this trip, checked myself in the mirror, settling on a modest floral design. I'd save the daring ones for the beach.

Upon my return, voice enthusiastic, William said, "Whoa Mom, lookin' good!"

Fishing for a compliment I turned in a 360 degree circle and said, "You really like?"

"Very much, you're gorgeous. I have the hottest woman here."

With a, "Thank you," I slipped into the water. He handed me a glass of champagne, and our mantra of the last few days - always touch each other - took hold. He moved my foot into his lap, rubbed it with his thumbs. We chatted, grew quiet, relaxed. He moved to the other foot and I leaned back, enjoying his hands, the warm coursing water, lost track of time.

My phone pinged.

"What is it?"

I picked it up, slid over next to him, leaned into him, and his hand moving to my neck, kneading its muscles, said, "A text from Mimi. The masseuses had a cancellation this afternoon, the guests are out fishing and hooked a marlin. You interested?"

"Sure, sounds great, let her know."

I put the phone down.

"I will, but not yet. You gotta figure we're still consummating. A studly young man like you and a fit older lady like myself can go for hours. Your hand also feels good on my neck."

Forty-five minutes later I texted back, happy to find Mimi had reserved the spot. We changed into shorts and tee-shirts, buried our swim suits in the cloth bag I'd packed - newlyweds would not wear swimsuits in the Jacuzzi - put the champagne and glasses by the bed, then I peeled back the comforter and blanket and, squirming and bouncing, flopped onto the bed.

William said, "What are you doing?"

"We wouldn't want a nosy maid wondering why the newlyweds bed wasn't a rumpled mess."

William laughed, pounced on the bed. We wrestled playfully for a minute or two, then stood up, pulled the comforter into place, and I said, "Now that looks like we had a good screw."

All this thinking about sex was getting to me. I was horny.

* * * * *

Coming around her elegant desk Mimi welcomed us to her office, directed us to a small beige love seat. She poured us each a cup of tea, then returned the pot to its place, I noting the delightful jiggle to an ample butt that perfectly fit her comely hourglass figure. Feeling self-conscious about checking out my hostess I looked to my son and, happy to see his eyes were better behaved than mine, glanced out her window. Her office overlooked the pool and ocean beyond; if I worked here I'd get nothing done.

As Mimi sat in a chair facing us William, snapping me back to reality, reached for my hand. I leaned my body into his and, after some engaging small talk Mimi said, "I'll have Sanchez escort you to the spa," brushed back her thick black hair, picked up the phone, and said, "My darling, they're ready." A moment later a good looking young man entered. Mimi stood, pecked his lips with a quick affectionate kiss, and said, "Rocky, William, this is my son Sanchez, he works here as an intern. He'll show you the way."

The resemblance was striking: short with dark eyes and skin, high foreheads, round faces.

* * * * *

The masseuses, slender small-breasted blondes who could pass for Swedish although their accents revealed they were from the American South, wore white cotton pants and tank tops and, I suspected as I watched the fabric drag across their skin, not much else. They handed us towels and directed us to the adjoining dressing rooms.

My son opened my door, I entered, and was reaching to close it behind me when one of the masseuses, in a sweet Southern drawl, said, "Its good to see old-fashioned chivalry."

Damn, I almost screwed up. We were married, we'd dress, or undress, together.

My son followed me inside.

* * * * *

"Act like we do this all the time."

"Can I stare?"

"No."

"Any man married to you would stare."

"Any man I married would be too classy to stare, especially with two strangers on the other side of the door."

* * * * * *

I'd never experienced a massage its equal. My masseuse - I'd not expected such powerful arms and fingers on that lithe body - working carefully and patiently, understood my body better than I. The rhythmic music was gentle and hypnotic, the candle light indirect and comforting, the smell, an aromatherapy, intoxicating, and the oil, warm and silky on my skin, seductive and sensual. My body devoid of stress, my mood elevated, I was a sponge absorbing sensations.