Bahamian Adventure

Throughout our marriage, I had never taken a solo vacation. Brad and I are happily married and until now we’ve shared all our adventures. But to tell you the truth, we recently found ourselves stuck in a rut. Everything I did or said seemed to irritate him. We were snapping at each other with very little provocation, and our sex life was in the doldrums.

I knew Brad had pressures and I wasn’t really angry at him, but I needed to be by myself. Too much togetherness might be part of the problem, I told myself. So I called my travel agent, told her what my budget was, and asked for some suggestions. The agent suggested Pirate’s Cove at the newly renovated Holiday Inn on Paradise Island in the Bahamas. It was only three hours away by plane, reasonably priced, and there was a large casino at the nearby Paradise Island Inn Hotel and Casino—just down the road with connecting jitney, so I wouldn’t even have to bother renting a car. She said the beach was clean and beautiful and the ocean warm and inviting. I booked immediately, and that night told Brad what I’d done.

To my surprise he thought it was a great idea for us to have that week apart. He even drove me to the airport, and then handed me some extra “gambling money.” I was immediately taken by how attractive the Bahamian people are. Many of the men were tall and extremely well built, their muscles rippling with a sort of relaxed sensuality under their bright shirts and tight chino pants or shorts. On check-in I was handed a popular drink called “Bahama Mama,” and the strong rum relaxed me immediately. I went to my room, pulled back the drapes—and was dazzled by a straight-on view of an enormous pool, complete with waterfall. Beyond that was a pristine beach with sparkling white sand, turquoise waters, and little thatched huts with beach chairs under which people sat sipping cool drinks. Calypso music wafted through the air, particularly a sensuous song called “Hot! Hot! Hot!” which was definitely not referring to the weather. The combination of lapping waves, slight breeze, the drinks and the music was getting me, for one, Hot! Hot! Hot!

Without bothering to unpack (what a delicious sense of freedom! Brad would have had a fit—he was a stickler for instantaneous unpacking), I jumped into my bathing suit, grabbed my sunblock and raced back to the elevator. The water was wonderful! As gentle waves rolled over me, every care disappeared. I felt young, excited. For the first time in a long time I had no responsibilities, didn’t have to answer to another person, with nothing ahead of me but what I call “champagne choices”—what to drink, what to eat, how to enjoy myself. This was sheer heaven—and I still had all that time ahead.

I was sitting on a lounge chair with another fabulous drink—this one a powerful “Yellow Bird,” with two kinds of rum, fruit juice and Lord knows what else, when I felt someone staring at me. I looked back, and it was as if an electric current had passed through me. He was tall, a warm brown, with a lithe muscular body that no amount of time in a gym could possibly produce—all outdoorsy and totally masculine. Much as I love my husband, he had let himself go—all those sedentary hours in front of ledger sheets. The dark stranger was smiling broadly at me, his deep brown eyes seeking mine as his strong hand ran a paint brush over some extraordinary shells he was vanishing.

A wave of unfamiliar lust broke over me like the waves at my feet. I was a giddy teenager with a crush on the football hero—and we hadn’t even exchanged a word. I stood up and walked over to him. “Hi,” I said. “Are you selling those shells? They’re beautiful.”

“Conch,” he said. His hands kept moving over the shells, and he had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, as if I amused him. I felt foolish. I was about to walk away—anything to break that powerful connection. Then he said, “No, I don’t sell these conch shells. I take people out on my boat, and they dive for them. Or if they don’t dive, I dive and they get to keep them. So...would you like me to take you out?”

“I don’t dive, scuba or snorkel. In fact I get nervous if the water’s too deep,” I admitted. “Wait a minute,” he said. It was as if he could read my mind. “Tell you what. I’m taking some people out tomorrow morning. You come with us—as my guest. No charge, but don’t tell them that. I want you to see what it’s like. You have nothing to fear. And I promise you will enjoy it in the water. I am the best teacher on the island. You won’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” “I don’t know,” I said. He told me to come to the same spot the next morning. Then he turned back to his shells.

That night I ordered room service (another luxury Brad and I would have fought about—not for the money, but because he thinks when you go for vacations you should spend a minimum of time in your room) and activated the movie channel. But I hardly ate or watched the film; my mind was in turmoil. Brad and I had no secrets. Could I do this? Would I get AIDS and die from this one indiscretion? Who was this man anyway, and could he be trusted?

The next morning there I was, container of coffee in hand, waiting for my mystery. The motor boat was immaculate and sturdy, and he handled it with easy grace. We rode the waves fast and hard, and after about 20 minutes he stopped in front of a small deserted island. Then he handed everyone flippers and snorkels. The others knew what they were doing, and quickly slipped overboard to begin their adventure. I was fearful, and said, “I’ll just stay here and enjoy the view,” but he would have none of it. He made me wear a life jacket and the flippers, then gave me a float that attached in front of me. Next he helped me over the side carefully, and eased into the water beside me.

After he demonstrated how to use the snorkel gear, I dipped my face in the water and looked down. Amazing! There was another world down there—glorious fish of every brilliant color and shape, colorful living coral, starfish, plants. I lost track of time, lost self-consciousness, and began to enjoy the activity, kicking easily to move around in the warm tropical waters.

Suddenly Kendall swam over and held me gently from behind. Through my bathing suit I could feel the hard knot of his manhood pressing into the small of my back. And what a lump that was. It felt like a large, coiled eel! I wanted desperately to reach my hand under and feel it, even pull it out in the water and take it into my instantly aching body. But I knew the others could see everything that was happening through their goggles if they looked over, so I just pretended nothing unusual was happening. Kendall rode me around in the water, showing me a giant brain coral and identifying the various fish. Then one of the others called to him. As he swam away I felt my back, sure there was a permanent man-sized depression in my back from his awesome tool.

When we got back, I thanked Kendall profusely. But he held my hand and asked if I’d go out with him again in an hour. I rushed to the room and carefully showered, fixed my face and hair, then changed into a dry bathing suit. I had made up my mind—I was going to do it. Life was too short to miss this golden opportunity. This was something I was going to do for myself for once, and damn the consequences. As he steered the boat away from the hotel, Kendall handed me a cold drink and without preliminaries said, “I have been tested for AIDS, and I always wear a condom.” It was abrupt, and perhaps presumptuous, but I appreciated his directness. I told him I had been tested too, so we got that out of the way. Then he asked: “What did you think when you first saw me?” I told him I thought he was a beautiful young hunk. He laughed, and said he wasn’t so young—he was 30 years old already. As soon as we were out of sight of land, he asked me to put my leg up and “show me.” “Getting kinky already?” I teased. But I did as he asked, pulling my bathing suit aside and even wantonly spreading my pussy lips to show him the moist love canal he would hopefully soon be navigating with that huge eel of his. After he stared at me for a few moments, he reached down with one hand, moved aside his tight shorts and glossy bathing suit, and whipped out the biggest, hardest penis I had ever seen!

I walked the short distance to Kendall and kissed him full on the lips. They were salty and surprisingly gentle, but his tongue quickly became a demanding presence, plunging into my throat and then lapping at my eyes, my throat, even my now rigid nipples, as he pulled down my bathing suit to expose my eager flesh.

I knelt in front of him and took his enormous tool in my mouth. It was clean, slightly salty and totally delicious. He began to moan and thrust into my mouth piston-like until I simply couldn’t take another fraction of the thick length of him. At any rate, my cunt was so hungry to feel that thing inside I could hardly stand it. I shamelessly begged him to “Put it in, NOW!” and he laid me down on the floor of the boat, right in the middle of this incredibly beautiful lagoon or whatever it was, and plunged right in. WOW did that feel great! I moved my hips up to meet his thrusts, totally shameless in my excitement, and he pumped in and out like a piston, his handsome face contorted. I held on to his impossibly strong arms, feeling the contained power of his entire body, and I wanted what we were doing together to last forever. I begged him, ”Don’t stop, don’t ever stop!” loud enough to startle any passing seagulls above and any stray dolphins below.

But, alas, he did stop. With a loud grunt, he expelled a copious load of semen into my snatch, and I lay there panting, wanting more. But then, Brad always said I was a greedy pig when it came to sex. (Of course, Brad thinks any woman is a greedy pig after about five minutes, because whenever he shoots his load, honey, it better be over for the night, and if he asks, you had better tell him it was great or he’ll get all bent out of shape.)

We rode back in companionable silence. He didn’t ask me any questions like did I have a good time. But in truth, looking back, I did have a good time. True, I wanted more, and we were never able to connect again—I was too busy taking side trips and losing Brad’s cash at the casino, and my Island lover had lots of tourists who wanted to go out on his boat. But he did give me a gorgeous conch shell before I left, and told me he thought I was “special.”