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A stand-alone story following from others in the series.
Please enjoy yourself!
Slipping from the bed before sunrise without waking them, I left the bedroom, went down to the kitchen and made myself a mug of tea. I took it out onto the veranda facing east, settled into lotus on a mat, listened to the surf and awaited the arrival of a new day.
So much had happened. Although it was still too dark to see, I could feel the rings on my finger. A new life, a new way to love, a new tomorrow.
A gradual redness on the dark horizon spoke the arriving day.
We had returned back to our island the day before yesterday. One of the corporations bidding on some of his designs had actually offered him the use of their corporate jet, which took us directly, with but two refuelling stops, all the way from Stockholm to Tahiti, whence we could hop a puddle-jumper to our island.
It had been much, much better than an airline, but we were all still exhausted when we arrived. Yesterday was essentially spent in recovery.
A sliver of fire lifted into sight and I could gradually begin to see my wedding gift to him.
A basso snore came from somewhere above and behind me. The men were still recuperating. Ladies do not of course snore, but there had been considerable ‘resonation’ in the higher octaves since our return…
I sipped my tea as the sun turned yellow with its rising and ran one finger over the intricate designs on my skin. I kept thinking I should feel something, a lump maybe. A line. Something.
My mother had been puzzled at my insistence on long sleeves and a high neckline when we went shopping in Paris for my wedding dress. Knowing our customary state of undress here on the island, she knew that the word ‘modesty’ wasn’t in my lexicon. Eventually I let her in on my secret, the result of much texting and many emails between my lady friends and I, all sworn to total secrecy.
My favourite aunt had made the final arrangements in Stockholm and, the morning after we landed there, had informed my groom-to-be that – old custom – she was taking me out of his hands and that he wouldn’t see me until the wedding. Meanwhile, for the next two days, he could either visit his business partners on the continent or just chill with Mark, his best man. No questions, thank you.
I’d myself never heard of such a custom, but we were counting on his believing her. We needed the two days.
The sun was eased above the horizon and light began to flood into the villa.
There is a substantial Arab community in Sweden and my aunt had tapped into their skills. My aunt had not told either of us where she was taking me; it turned out to be another suite on a different floor of the hotel. We were met there by an aged and stout Arab lady with shrewd eyes and two younger ones – daughters, nieces or apprentices. They were there to exercise their art, using me as their canvas.
Decorating a bride for her wedding is virtually universal. Decorating a bride for her wedding is a specialty of India and the Middle East and the team was among the best in the city.
I entered the suite wearing a full-length mink, my man’s wedding gift to me. I would leave it two days later wearing under it my wedding gift to him, in henna.
The suite was soon filled with the chatter of the three artists, my friend Kaarin, my aunt and myself. Designs had been already been arranged.
Nudity is not an Arab custom, but there were none but women present and you can’t paint a canvas in its wrappings. While Kaarin and my aunt remained dressed, I was soon ushered into a shower for a thorough scrub, dried off and then escorted to a portable massage table.
Henna is applied as lines of paste squeezed out from a small cone, like icing decorating a cake. It needs to stay in place until it dries before being carefully removed. The longer it stays in place, the darker and more longer-lasting the dye effect. Putting it on takes hours and waiting for it to fully dry takes as long.
It is, in other words, a lengthy process. The traditional rôle of friends and family is to keep the bride amused so that she won’t fidget and smear the drying designs. Cooking for her is traditional but the hotel had 24/7 room service and that would do. In deference to our artists, it was going to be a fruit juice, tea and coffee time.
The rising sun began to warm my face. I could feel it on my nipples. Barring snores, the rest of the house was still silent.
Traditional designs focus on a bride’s hands and feet. I had wanted more than that; I wanted to dazzle him completely on our wedding night and, although long sleeves, a long skirt and gloves could cover much, we’d decided to go minimalist on my feet and hands, getting more detailed and complex on my body. I had asked for a sun symbol on one palm and a heart on the other, with vines, flowers and leaves elsewhere.
The old woman did layout and the critical parts. The younger women traded off between filling in the details and preparing the paste and filling the little casino siteleri paper cones used to dispense it.
The paste tickled a little as it dried. My nipples reacted to it and poked to attention. The old woman looked me in the eyes and smiled; I clearly wasn’t her first bride.
With every touch, I grew more excited. Once the paste was picked off, the pattern would last for several weeks.
By the end of two days, a vine twisted and curled from each wrist, up my arm, down my side, bum and my leg and ended at the foot. Flowers and leaves embellished the design. A large round flower centred the pattern on my back. Vines twisted around each breast, curling around my nipples. A lotus flower grew from my groin, linked again with vines. My lover’s initials formed a monogram on one of its petals.
Some designs can be exceptionally complex. I had asked for simple, bold patterns and the trio had certainly delivered. The dark paste looked spectacular and the final design when it came off was everything I had wanted.
Behind me in the villa, I heard the first sounds of movement. I slipped back inside and lit up the kettle. First order of the day, coffee for six.
Max appeared, yawning, followed by Kaarin. I handed them each a coffee and we went out onto the lawn to share the morning.
Soon enough, Fleur showed up, having found the coffee on her own. The bubbly young woman moved from person to person with hugs and smiles and kisses.
Especially kisses. Fleur had learned a lot about the fine art of smooching in her short life. Mind you, she’d had some pretty good teachers. Each of the other women present took their time about it, growing closer, savouring the experience.
When she got to me, I pulled her down on top of me. “Good morning, Sparky!” I said, lifted my head to bring my lips onto hers.
Her hand crept down to caress one of my boobs.
After a few seconds, there was a round of laughing applause from the others. There were few inhibitions in the group – or jealousy, for that matter.
Max and Fleur were new friends, spotted on a passing yacht. Fleur was an extraordinary redhead, 22 and scary intelligent, with a lush figure. Max was rather older, a slender, striking brunette with a winning personality and a talent for lechery which amazed even me. The two had been my bridesmaids. Kaarin was an old school chum, tall and pale blond. She was almost illegally pretty and had been my matron of honour.
Between the four of us, our clothing this morning consisted of two pairs of sandals, two wedding rings and a waist chain. Clothing was not a big thing at the villa.
Max started running her forefinger along the henna patterns.
“It still seems like I should be able to feel the lines,” she said.
I could still feel my man’s fingers making the same stroking motions when he unzipped my wedding gown. His eyes had bugged out at the bold pattern. “So that’s where you have been!”
“I wanted you to have something extra-special to remember,” I said, smiling.
His eyes flicked up to meet mine and his hand caressed my cheek. “I already did,” he said softly.
He tentatively reached out with a finger and touched one line, then traced down along it. “Did it hurt?”
“No, silly, it’s just henna.”
More firmly, more boldly, his hands swept along the lines of the pattern. “It’s beautiful!” he breathed.
I’d never had to encourage my man to make love, but this time, there was no stopping him. The patterns had precisely the effect I’d been aiming for – something memorable, unusual, arousing.
His hands ran over my hips, bottom and breasts, slowly, tantalizingly. Lying me down on the bed, he proceeded to trace each line with the tip of his tongue, working his way methodically towards my boobs and pussy. Under his tongue, lines of colour turned into lines of fire, lighting the rest of my life.
“Funny,” he said, pausing. “I thought there would be a taste.”
I smiled to myself, thrilled by the excitement my gift was producing and more than a little turned on by his attentions. I managed to find his rigid manhood with one hand and massaged its head between thumb and forefinger.
He worked my nipples with lips, teeth and tongue until they were standing up like two thumbs. I felt his hand lifting under my hip and, in response, rolled over onto my front. Knowing him and knowing how excited he was, I pulled a couple of pillows from the head of the bed and pulled them under my stomach, raising my bum in the air.
His hands ran over my back, bum and thighs, fingers tracing out the pattern.
“So beautiful,” he repeated. “Thank you. I love it.”
The mattress shifted and I suddenly felt stiff beard hair on the backs of my thighs as his head lowered to my pussy. His tongue licked me end to end, pausing over my clit each stroke. I grasped the pillows and tried not to fall off the planet. His tongue started to lick broad, hard strokes and I came, shivering and crying, my heart pounding.
He lifted himself up. I felt his slot oyna chest, then stomach slide over my cheeks; his cock probed at my pussy for a second before sliding in. He began stroking back and forth, slowly, his fingers still tracing over henna lines on my back, shoulders and arms.
The fine sheets rubbing across my nipples suddenly felt like silk vibrators. My clit began to glow. My whole body began to glow as his length leisurely slid in and out of my womanhood, exciting me just a little bit more with each stroke. I could hear my own voice crying, as if in the distance; I came again, this one from head to toe.
He increased his pace, working on his own orgasm. I thought of lifting my behind to help, but was too tired. His hands clung to my hips and I could hear his breath, ragged and quick.
He came suddenly, with a groan and slowly bent forward over me, his chest pressed against my back. I could feel his organ still throbbing inside me as we both fell asleep in that position.
“The boys are sleeping late,” Fleur smirked. “Did any of us give them anything to be tired about? Lately, I mean.”
“Since we landed? Not me,” I replied, looking at the others. “Although the Mile-High Club gained some new members on the way back.” There was a round of snickers and grins as all eyes turned to Max.
“Hey!” she grinned. “Much easier on a leather airplane couch with champagne in hand than a standup quickie in a miniature washroom. “But Fleur’s right – is it just jet lag for these men since we got here?”
Kaarin smiled with sweet memories. “Well, jet lag – and celebration. And trip back. Give them a break. We are tired and we outnumber them two to one.” She reached over and, taking my hand, gave me a squeeze.
She had a point. The boys had been busy little rabbits. I made a mental note to start pushing high-protein meals just to keep them alive.
“Well,” Fleur announced, “I want a shower. Anyone want to join me?”
Nobody would turn down that offer. Our shower was outdoors on the second-floor veranda, the size of the average bedroom; multiple Amazon shower-heads fed by solar heaters allowed almost endless warm water. Before long, all four of us were under warm rain, initially each under a separate head. The rising sun lit the bamboo wall behind us, casting four naked shadows – boobs, bums and slender legs. It turned into a kindergarten shadow-puppet show for a few minutes, but it was not long before we moved together in pairs. Hands lathered skin with body wash, rubbing and sliding over waists, faces, legs, buns, backs, boobs. Nothing is as friendly as mutual washing.
Soon enough however, all three of them closed around me; soapy, soft fingers retracing my tattoos. I reached up and put my hands through some fabric straps we had installed years ago. I could just hang and enjoy their touch, without worrying about keeping my balance. The shadow box show was as erotic as anything I have ever seen.
Max was behind me, in theory washing my back. Kaarin, leaning down and kissing me, was supposedly washing my face and Fleur my legs. In reality, boobs, pussy and ass were being languidly stroked and massaged by slim, loving, soapy fingers. So wonderful to have so much love!
At this point, my new husband finally appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The sight before him stopped him in his tracks before he broke into one of his happy smiles.
“Now there’s a sight to wake up to!” he exclaimed.
The girls around me parted to let him in beside me. Mark arrived shortly after. Thereafter it became half dance, half Brownian motion, with people rarely standing still for more than a few seconds. My new husband and me were surrounded by a wall of smiling, naked flesh and stroking, embracing, caressing hands.
My man and I were caressed by four tender hands each. Our bodies were pulled, stroked, held, washed and fondled. It was at one time intensely erotic, but at the same time one of the most loving, gentle, enriching situations I can remember – six people sharing so much trust, so much love, so much kindness. My heart glowed.
Somebody turned off the water. Still held upright by my hands, I closed my eyes and felt a whiskerless head between my thighs, a tongue tracing patterns on my love bud. I spread my legs to give them better access. Two soft mouths latched onto my boobs, tongues stroking and twirling. After a moment, I could sense one, then both begin to bob and rock. I opened my eyes to see Kaarin and Max on my breasts. The two men had entered them from behind, hands on their girls’ hips; my boobs were being extended and flattened as the two women were pounded by the men behind them.
Fleur was working my pussy. Her hands stroked across my ass, up and down my thighs. Her tongue was like an electric prod and I felt myself rising up and down on my toes in pleasure. My boobs clamoured their pleasure and excitement.
Mark’s redoubtable manhood slid back and forth into Kaarin. From time to time, I could feel her attentions on my right boob pause for a few seconds. Mark was not only very well canlı casino siteleri equipped, but he knew how to use what he had.
Max’s eyes were closed tight, her lips on my left nipple, hand fondling my butt. My man pistoned in and out of her – his organ slimmer than Mark’s but moving much more quickly. He had one hand on Max’s shoulder; the other was clutching her hip, squeezing it hard as much for his pleasure as for balance.
Mark’s eyes were closed, too, his face set in concentration, trying to extend. Kaarin began to cry out, followed by Max. The two were obviously close to cumming. Fleur redoubled her efforts and I came like sudden fire, sagging under the straps. Kaarin came in her turn, almost whinnying in pleasure, but Mark continued his thrusts for another minute before groaning softly and stopping.
My man went stiff and his breath whistled through his nostrils as his orgasm took him. I watched his face – he looked so sweet when he was cumming. Max’s cries cut off suddenly and she sagged herself.
Mark pulled out of Kaarin and the woman slowly stood up and clung to me, followed by Max. Only Fleur was left.
Max, a heavyset and immensely strong man, picked the young woman up by the ankles. It must have been a strain, but the girl hung head down, her ankles spread wide apart and her smooth pussy at his chest level, wet hair dragging on the ground. He smiled at the rest of us in invitation.
Kaarin stepped forward and plunged her face into the redhead’s smooth pussy. Holding her by the hips, her mouth rolled back and forth over the girl’s lower lips, tongue lashing within. Max and I each knelt down and began fondling a firm breast. The girl began moaning and twisting, but Mark, strong arms holding her legs spread apart, might as well have been made of carved oak.
Her breath came harder and faster and her cries became almost continuous.
Suddenly Mark turned the girl away from Kaarin and, grasping her by the waist with both hands, spun her upright and impaled her on his still-rigid organ. Even having had him in me, I was still stunned at the sight of his seemingly-endless length burying itself in Fleur’s sex. The girl slid onto him with a groan, her glistening labia distended by his girth. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his head, leaning in to kiss him as if her life depended on it.
Mark held her ass with his hands and launched into a frenzy of furious stand-up fucking. The flesh of the girl’s buttocks and thighs rippled under the impact of his pounding hips. Her breasts flattened and bounced against his chest. Her head hung back, damp red hair swinging back and forth as she moved. Her eyes were closed and her face flushed. Mark’s pendulous balls swung back and forth under her, bouncing off her thighs. She groaned loudly with every thrust.
The three of us watched in awe as his oversize manhood slid in and out of the small woman. I reached down to my own mound, remembering how it felt to be stretched to the limit by his passionate cock. I looked at Max and Kaarin. Max, who certainly had seen the pair together before, was fingering herself slowly, a light smile on her face. She liked to watch her man in action. Kaarin had her hand covering her open mouth, staring at the impassioned couple with a glazed expression on her face.
My man came up behind me and put his arms around us from behind. I could feel his softening cock against my ass.
“Quite a show,” he murmured. “Does it make a difference?”
“What? His size?” I replied. “Oh yes. Not necessarily better, but certainly different. A girl has to be prepared for it, otherwise it can be really painful.” I reached around and grasped his length. “But as my Aunty Ivi used to say, a good carpenter needs more than a big hammer. I wouldn’t trade you, dear.”
“I agree,” Kaarin said, still mesmerized by the spectacle. “Something so big is scary, but Mark takes care. Is special.”
Fleur shrieked loudly in joy and then slumped against her partner. Mark continued his thrusting into the half-conscious girl, for once focussed solely on his own pleasure, shuddered as he came for a second time. He stood there a long time before gently lowering her to the floor.
The six of us moved out onto the veranda proper and flopped down, some in the warm sun, some in shade. A soft silence descended on the villa, broken only by the sound of surf and the breeze in the palm trees.
I could feel my man’s loving hand on one hip, finger slowly moving along a vine. “Happy?” he asked.
I turned and smiled at him. “So very happy, dear.”
His return smile was the last thing I saw as I drifted off into the sweet sleep of a much-deserved nap.
I awoke gently, easily, a mere drifting from one state to the next, prodded perhaps by the sounds of quiet passion nearby.
When I tried to roll over to investigate, I found my hair caught under somebody and it took me a minute to get untangled. It turned out to be Fleur, which was surprising. The girl was a wonderful friend and lover, but ‘cuddly’ was not a word one could readily apply to the high-voltage lass. Mind you, given what had happened – how long ago? – she probably really needed her sleep. As I stroked her young face, she gave a smile and then rolled over with a soft snore.
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