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I felt bereft when I lost Sal. We both knew it would happen one day of course — I’d been nursing her through MS for several years — but somehow you never expect the dread day to actually come. Our friends rallied round wonderfully, and the girls at the bookshop we own were great covering while I got myself together. But it felt as though half of me had gone; we’d been together since I was 19 and she was 31, but now after 19 years it was over, just like that.
I simply drifted through a dreadful couple of lost weeks, with hardly a conscious thought in my head, forgetting to eat for days at a time (Sal was the kitchen whiz, she joked that I could burn water), going through my days on autopilot. Finally I gave myself a shake and a good talking-to, telling myself Sal would be disgusted at my maudlin self-pity. I decided I needed a break from normal life, to do something totally different. I seriously considered selling up and moving to Ireland, or even abroad, but our flat in Purley and the shop were really all I had left of my darling.
It was Sal’s sister-in-law, Debs, who suggested a vacation (she’s American). In the old days Sal used to love going to Ibiza, Corfu and so on, sunning herself while I explored monasteries, castles and the like. But since her diagnosis we hadn’t really done much holidaying. We’d often talked about visiting the Caribbean, and on a whim, passing a travel agents, I went in and asked what was available. First thing they said was that Jaak Karlson Cruise Lines still had a few vacancies on an upcoming cruise around several islands, and I snapped it up there and then.
My flight out to Barbados, where the cruise started, was only two weeks away so it was all a bit hectic, getting inoculations I should have had a month or more before the voyage, buying some new outfits, checking my swimsuit still fitted, reading up on the destination islands…I felt I had to grovel to our duty manager at the shop, Bella, taking another three weeks off At such short notice, but she was great about it. On the evening before my flight I had dinner with Debs and Sal’s brother Tom, and I felt a bit melancholy, guilty that Sal and I had never done this together. Tom told me, “Rubbish, Sal would love that you’re doing this Mel.” He’s always had a wicked sense of humour, and added with a grin, “It’s exactly what you need, you’ll probably pull some dusky maiden at every port you visit.” I smiled weakly; right then, sex with anyone by Sal was the last thing on my mind.
I’m Melanie Stuart, and as you may have gathered Sal was my lesbian partner. I’d only been with one woman before her, a fumbled one-night stand, and I wasn’t really sure of my sexuality that night when she chatted me up in the pub, but by the next morning she’d convinced me, and we barely spent a day apart after that. I’m five-feet-five, 36C (but generally slim), with shoulder-length hair slightly closer to blonde than red, and people say I’ve got elfin looks: thin blonde brows, almond-shaped cornflower blue eyes, a button nose, a small mouth with thin lips and a tapered cleft chin. People who don’t know me well think I’m quite reserved, but that’s only because Sal was such an extrovert. She was five inches taller than me, with wide shoulders and much bigger boobs, and she was the life and soul of any party — if I needed to locate her I just listened for her burst of hyena laughter. I’m not much of a drinker and I lost count of the times I half-carried, half-dragged her home at night.
My flight was a Jaak Karlson charter, and in the departure lounge, I have to admit, I wondered whether I’d accidentally entered a geriatric ward. I reckoned I was the youngest there by at least 20 years, and some of them looked twice my age. I had a window seat (just as well with the number of loo visit by those next to me), and my first Transatlantic flight seemed interminable, but finally we touched down in Bridgetown and were transferred to the ship, the MS Strathclyde. I found my cabin easily enough — small, a porthole that opened, two single beds, a tiny dressing table and a shower that seemed to offer only two temperatures, freezing of scalding.
I soon found that one advantage of Jaak Karlson ships is that they are quite small, only about 900 passengers compared to the 2 or 3,000 on the floating cities that often towered over us when we docked. The first couple of days involved some interesting island tours, although I missed Sal dreadfully, wanting to tell her things and point sights out to her. The next day we were at sea all day, which was pretty dull. A popular exercise aboard is walking laps of the deck, but as it was a bit squally that day I decided to use a fitness room treadmill instead. There were only two other people there: a 60-ish man who seemed to be trying to running himself to a coronary as he pounded a treadmill; and a girl on a weights machine who immediately caught my eye.
She was mid-20s, clearly not a passenger, and from her no-nonsense short blonde hair, big biceps canlı bahis and six-pack I assumed she was a ship’s engineer or somesuch. I’ve always had a thing about muscular women — Sal used to tease me about it mercilessly — and I could hardly take my eyes off her as she pumped weights with arms and legs, her pink skin glistening with sweat. As she left the room I gave her a warm smile but was rewarded with just a nod and a grunt.
Mid-morning there was a meeting for people making the cruise alone. I was quite happy with my own company but I drifted along for want of anything better to do. I was wearing a flowery summer dress which fell to halfway between thighs and knees. We’d only been there a few minutes when my skin started prickling, my gaydar telling me someone was eyeing me up. I knew one or two of the men were, but they were irrelevant as far as I was concerned. I glanced across the circle of seats and dead opposite me was an elderly woman who I’d nicknamed the Memsahib because on a visit to a tropical garden she’d been showing off her botanical knowledge “from my years in India.” Subtle observation confirmed that her eyes were tracing up and down my body, lingering on my shapely bare legs.
A wicked thought flashed into my mind, and I pressed the soles of my sandals together and casually opened my legs wide, making my dress ride up. Sure enough, she wriggled down a little in her seat and stared fixedly between my thighs at my pink panties. I had trouble keeping a straight face, thinking how Sal would be peeing herself laughing at me winding up this old biddy. She finally realised that I’d noticed, blushed and, flustered, pretended to pay rapt attention to the conversation taking place.
After the meeting I decided to go to the coffee bar. As I was waiting for my cappuccino to be brewed Memsahib glided up beside me. She was a little taller than me, deeply tanned and lightly lined face, slim with shot reddish-brown, presumably dyed, hair. I felt slightly guilty about my meanness as it was, and without looking at me she muttered in an upper-class English accent, “You know my dear, it’s not very nice to advertise your goods if you’re not willing to offer them up for sampling.”
I’m not sure which of us was more surprised by my answer: “Who says I’m not?”
She glanced at me then, one eyebrow raised, lips parted in surprise. Then she said quietly, “Really? Well perhaps I’ll find out in cabin 7040 at 9pm tonight.” Before I had a chance to reply she turned on her heel and walked away with a slight limp.
I was astonished at what I’d done. I’ve always had a bit of flirtation in my nature, Sal was always at her randiest after I’d been fooling around; but I seemed to have just offered to sleep with a woman a good ten years older than my mother (I eventually learned she was 76), and one I didn’t even particularly like. But the truth is that I’d found it rather a turn-on flashing her, and the suddenness and spontaneity of our ‘agreement’ had excited me too. There was also an element that the idea of having sex with a woman so much older than me seemed dead kinky.
Nevertheless, sunning myself by the pool that afternoon I alternated between drowsing and fretting about whether I was actually going to go through with it. I picked my way through dinner, showered, changed into a dress it was easy to slip out of and, in a kind of numb daze, took the lift to the seventh deck just before 9. My heart was pounding harder than the ship’s engine as I tapped lightly on her door, half-hoping she either wasn’t there or was already asleep. But after a few seconds the door swung back and she stood there is just a semi-transparent ankle-length nightgown and purred “Come in Melanie my dear.”
She told me she was Julia (I hadn’t actually told her my name), but I hardly heard her as I gazed around me. Her cabin was more like a luxury hotel suite, huge with a grand double bed, expensive trimmings, a sitting area and a balcony. Her shower room was as big as my entire cabin!
She had set the lights to low and we sat together and wordlessly drank champagne, she smiling like a wolf about to dine on fresh lamb, I wondering whether it was too late to make a break for it. When we finished our drinks she stood and I followed suit. Then, still without a word, she crouched, took the hem of my dress and pulled it up and off me, leaving me in just flip-flops, which I kicked off, and lemon thong panties. Julia emitted a long sigh and, looking me lasciviously up and down, murmured “God, I’m going to enjoy you.”
She allowed her nightdress to fall to the floor. Her boobs were a little wizened and she had a slight belly-hang and a grizzle of grey pubes, above nicely shaped legs. She took my hand and laid me on the bed then joined me, leaning above me to kiss me. I hadn’t noticed she’d taken her dentures out and it felt strange sliding my tongue around the inside of her soft, toothless mouth. She’d been caressing one of my boobs with a hand, my nipple stiffening, bahis siteleri and now her lips closed over the other one. Despite my earlier reservations, my body was heating up nicely and my pussy was damp even before her fingers entered it.
She trailed her lips down my body and I lay my feet flat on the bed, thighs wide apart for her. My god, that woman could suck pussy! Within moments she had me writhing and groaning, clutching her hair in my fingers, trying to drag her entire face inside me. My hips raised off the bed and Julia slipped an arm beneath me and worked two fingers deep into my bum. That finished me, and with a howl I experienced a massive, glorious orgasm, Julia greedily licking up my juices. Once I had subsided she gently kissed my tummy then my mouth again — I tasted my salty love juices as she raked it with her tongue.
Julia rose, poured us each another champagne and sat beside me on the bed, gently stroking my hair from my eyes. As we sipped I played with then sucked her boobs; despite their sag she had big sensitive nipples that she loved me gently grazing with my teeth. After a couple of minutes she pulled away from me, swung up her legs and pointed her toes at the ceiling, her snatch toward me. I crept between her sagging thighs, breathed in her aroma then ran my tongue its full length before starting to finger fuck her and chew on her big clit. Her pussy had certainly seen plenty of service over the years, and I introduced a third finger then a fourth, before finally sliding my entire fist inside her and fucking her deep. She gasped “Pillow”; I reached back and handed her one, which she clutched over her face and bellowed as I pumped her, entering almost up to the middle of my forearm.
She seemed to be gasping for breath after we’d finished and we lay for a few moments cuddling, kissing and stroking before I left. As I did, Julia sighed “Thank you Mel, I think I’m sated for this trip, but I haven’t had that much fun for more than 20 years.” I walked down the stairs to my cabin, in a daze again and feeling a teensy bit guilty that I couldn’t remember Sal ever getting me hotter than that old lady had.
Next morning, a little groggy, I skipped breakfast and went to the fitness room again. The blonde was there in a boob tube and bikini briefs, her meaty thighs lifting huge weights on a machine. She smiled and nodded to me this time, which I considered progress, but left before I finished my treadmill jog. On the following morning the same thing happened, and the day after that she was working out with a man who I assumed, a little disappointedly, was her boyfriend.
In the next couple of days we had some lovely island visits. One day I took a catamaran trip to see St Lucia’s Piton mountains, and enjoyed a swim by a beautiful beach. On the way back to the boat I was half-dozing when I felt a towel thrown over my legs. Startled I opened my eyes as Julia huffed down beside me. “To keep our legs warm in the breeze” she said, nodding at the towel. My legs were already quite warm enough, but I quickly found that its actual purpose was to hide her hand as it burrowed up the leg of my swimsuit. It was quite an effort for the rest of the voyage keeping my face neutral as her agile fingers (no arthritis there!) turned my pussy into a steaming swamp.
Julia clearly wasn’t completely sated, and I felt I owed her after that, so I again crept up to her cabin. We had a pretty wild four hours, 69ing and playing with a big vibrator she’d brought with her on the holiday. As I dressed I told her that I was disappointed that the ship’s beauty salon didn’t offer full-body massage. In return she gave me a strange smile and said “I recommend you ask Siri about her extra private services.”
The following morning, another at-sea day, I was surprised Blondie wasn’t in the fitness room. I spent most of the morning trying to track down Siri. I knew she was one of the East Asian bar waitresses the ship employed, and by drifting from place to place, and subtle glancing at name badges, I tracked her down in a lounge fitted out as a nautical pub, with lots of paintings of sailing ships, a ship’s figurehead and so on. She was barely five feet tall, slim with skin the colour of milky coffee, huge dark eyes and slightly pouting lips and looked about 11. I was intrigued that such ana angelic-looking little girl might offer ‘private services,’ but I took a bar stool and started chatting to her. She was actually 29, Sri Lankan, and when she told me her surname I wasn’t surprised it wasn’t on her badge, it probably wouldn’t fit. She had a to-die-for pretty little daughter who was looked after by Siri’s mother, neither of whom she had seen for more than six months. I made my massage gambit and, gazing at me through long eyelashes, she said coyly, “Yes, it’s a pity they don’t offer a…full service aboard.”
I told her a friend had suggested she might be able to help me and, leaning closer she breathed, “I might. For $25 I could give you a relaxing bahis şirketleri massage, very private you understand, or for £50 I can provide a more exotic experience.” Even more intrigued now, I said that sounded good and we agreed to meet at my cabin that evening. I thought her prices seemed low, but reasoned that in a closed community like a cruise ship it would be easy to price yourself out of business, or attract unwanted attention.
In the afternoon the catering department provided a ‘Great British Bakefest’ — several tables heaving with a chocolate fountain and all manner of cream, fruit and chocolate cakes and tarts, and all free of charge. The young mostly female, entirely white, bakers who’d made them stood at the tables in their working clothes, clearly enjoying the rare opportunity to meet some of the guests for whom they were catering throughout the voyage. I joined the queue and, like most people, had my eyes mainly locked on the delicious cake choices when a voice said “I couldn’t make it to t’gym this morning.”
I looked up into a round pink face I recognised. It took me a moment, but then I realised she was the blonde from the fitness room. Caught off-guard I spluttered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you…”
“With my clothes on,” she finished for me with a grin. That caused a titter or two in the crowd around us. There wasn’t really time to talk but Lucy — the name on her staff badge — mouthed “See you tomorrow.” That put a small spring in my step.
After dinner that evening I showered, pulled on a flowing dress with no underwear, lay a bath towel on my narrow bed and awaited Siri. Bang on time there was a gentle knock on the door and there she stood, in jeans, T-shirt and flip-flops. Out from behind the bar she seemed even smaller. She gave me a smile and asked me to strip and lie face down on the bed, unfazed by its narrowness. I did as she asked then heard her undressing. I couldn’t resist a look — god she looked beautiful. The same brown colour all over her petite body except her bikini lines, where her little nubs of breasts and the skin around her neat runway of black pubes were a shade or two lighter. She turned away briefly; her hair hung almost to the small of her back, and I gazed at her perfect twin moons of buttocks.
Siri knelt astride me, her knees resting against my hips, and ran her hands gently but firmly across my shoulders and upper back, spreading a sweetly-scented oil that warmed my skin. I felt wonderfully relaxed, but realised we hadn’t actually discussed the boundaries of her exotic massage. Experimentally I reached back and stroked my hand along her upper thigh, which provoked a little throaty chuckle from her. She leaned her head further forward and her long hair tickled my back.
After a while she shuffled down, eased my legs apart and knelt between them. She started with my feet, working every toe, then worked her way up each leg. As her fingernails scratched lightly across my inner thighs I got a little shiver, which brought another chuckle from Siri. She worked each of my bum cheeks, then I gasped as she began a series of deep credit card sweeps between them, her fingers just reaching, and entering, the top of my distinctly damp snatch. I might have cum just from that if she’d kept it up, but she leant forward, her lips nuzzling my ear, and in a sing-song whisper said “Time to turn over.”
I did, and as she knelt astride my waist I got the impression she was a little damp down there too. She massaged my shoulders a little and I caressed her thighs and belly, then she worked down to my boobs, kneading them like dough, running a finger in circles around each of my nipples. My chest was heaving as I breathed deeply, with the occasional sigh or whimper. I reached up and began stroking Siri’s own little boobies, my fingers rolling her surprisingly long nipples. She pulled back after a minute or so, and again knelt between my legs. She cupped my pussy, and I gasped as several fingers entered me. As she fucked me, slowly but deeply, she lay forward, taking one of my breasts in her mouth, the other in a hand, teasing my nips with tongue and fingers. I was writhing with pleasure and, of their own volition, my knees rose and I pushed my hands under them, pulling them wide, wanting to give Siri as much room as possible. She seemed to take the hint and a moment later her tongue joined her fingers in my pussy. I think I howled like a dog when I came, and when she raised her face it looked soaked with my fluids.
Siri wasn’t into kissing but we went well over the agreed two hours. Her tiny, tight pussy tasted of tropical fruit; I don’t think she’d ever been rimmed before and her voice was a single long wail as my tongue delved into the little rosette of her perfect arse. She rode my face, pushing back onto me as her juices flowed.
Before she left I asked her if she’d been with many women before. “Not many, usually saggy old men. A beautiful lady like you is a nice change to all the old crones.” Afterwards, as I lay alone in bed gently frigging myself, I reflected that my time with Siri had been a divine experience but not one I would repeat — I’d never paid for sex before and I didn’t intend to do so again.
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