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Hi, it’s me again, Charlotte, but I’d prefer you to think of me as Charley.
Charlotte’s so girly and faintly old-fashioned, isn’t it? Call me that and anyone would think I was one of the Bronte sisters.
Yes, ancient yet still ever-popular around the globe, never mind just around my home town. I wish that I had copyright to their works. Fans come from just everywhere to see The Parsonage, with Japanese and Yanks very much to the fore.
I swear to you, sometimes there are more Japanese folk treading the cobbled streets of Haworth than there are in Tokyo.
That’s a slight exaggeration, obviously (and I doubt Tokyo has many cobbled streets), but that’s how it often seems.
Moving swiftly on . . .
Please accept many sincere apologies for the rather abrupt ending of “Holidays in the Sun”. I honestly did not realize time had run out on me so sneakily. And yes, I did make my homebound flight, but only by the skin of my teeth. As I resume the tale I’m home and sat at my kitchen table, safely locked away from the world, half a bottle of dry white before me and plenty more chilling in the fridge.
Nothing can stop me from finishing properly this time.
Nothing unless the Duchess of Sussex comes knocking at my door. I might well break off to attend to her.
As if Meghan even knows I exist, never mind where I live.
Now then, where was I? Oh yes . . .
To save anyone who didn’t read my earlier instalment the need to backtrack, I’ll quickly summarize.
I flew to Lanzarote for two weeks after a bitter break-up with a bitch I refuse to name. This was under orders from my boss, who wanted me to revert to my usual self, aided and abetted by lots of sun and sangria.
(She didn’t mention the third of the associated S-words, and I don’t mean “Spain” or “sand”.)
Slightly cheesed off to be sent into exile, I didn’t plan to do much sightseeing. Indeed for the first three days I stayed mostly poolside, only leaving the hotel for meals. And then I explored far enough afield to meet Izzy, who seduced me in maybe two seconds flat.
After which we thoroughly and very satisfactorily screwed for fifty hours or more.
Well, in all honesty, she thoroughly screwed me for most of that very satisfactory spell of lifetime.
And that’s about it. As I pick up the plot it’s early evening Wednesday. Izzy’s at the airport, ready to fly back to London, and I’m eager to enjoy the last eight days of my holiday.
Eight whole days and three possible partners to help me properly fill them. I had done lots of chatting up, you see. My libido was up for it too. My sex marathon with Izzy had only encouraged those lovely, so easily aroused hormones of mine.
Eight whole days and three possible partners sounded good to me; in fact it sounded very, very good.
Except things had not so subtly changed in my unexpected absence; yes they’d changed beyond all recognition.
Falling back into my earlier routine . . . if a little later in the day than usual . . . leaving the poolside bar with a farewell wave, I went downhill, away from the hotel, heading for my favourite steak house in the whole world.
Well, it had been my favourite for almost a week by then. And that was a promising sign. I didn’t chop and change steak houses nearly as often as I used to chop and change lovers; that used to happen a lot.
Yet up until Izzy I hadn’t chopped and changed lovers in over two years (at least, outside of my rather vivid imagination, I hadn’t.)
That was the no-name bitch’s doing, naturally. Convincing me I only needed one partner in real life.
How crazy was that?
Even more crazily, for some strange reason I’d gone for it hook, line and sinker.
In real life, that is.
But now the one partner rule didn’t apply anymore. Now I was spoiled for choice.
My head was spinning as I went. Maria, who ran the poolside bar, was my Target Numero Uno, and had been ever since I arrived. Previously, although I had repeatedly invited her to go out “for a steak”, she’d never as much as mentioned sex. But half an hour ago she’d opened up in a very big way.
According to Maria, there were three lesbians on the hotel staff, her being the least experienced and with Estela (my Target Numero Tres) being far more hands on. Incredibly, Sabria (absent from my list of targets altogether) was the “alpha female” in those parts, and “the mother of all lesbians”.
What’s more, also according to Maria, Sabria had sent out an all-points “keep off, it’s me first” warning shortly after I’d checked in at her reception desk.
And I’d hardly spared her a chat-up line at all!
Thinking about the receptionist as I trudged downhill I wondered how that could be. Sabria was large, possibly overweight but had the face of an angel. As for her spectacular chest . . . it could easily have graced the prow of the finest, most queenly sailing vessel ever manufactured.
Back in the day, I mean; when sailing ships really were sailing ships.
Strangely, I had never picked up a single lezzie poker oyna vibe from her. There again, it was far easier to chat to a barmaid, wasn’t it? Once settled in a guest has few reasons to chat with a receptionist. Not at length in any case. Receptionists answered questions and gave out local information, usually to a stranger at the front of the latest queue. Time tended to be pressing on them.
I smiled to myself. Before Izzy I had spent maybe seven hours a day at Maria’s bar, almost constantly on a stool right next to her. And later, when the poolside watering hole had closed, I had spent maybe five hours at Estela’s swish indoor hotel bar, again perched right next to her.
Of course I knew my favourite barmaids better. It stood to reason, didn’t it?
I was still worried about missing those vibes, though. Was I losing it in my old age?
Reminding myself I was thirty-one, a mere slip of a girl, I reached the promenade and saw the sign for the steak house ahead of me: a big wooden cut-out of a bull, maybe two hundred yards away.
My stomach rumbled in anticipation. Hastily, I locked Sabria away in the pending bit of my memory. At least I did after deciding to do something about her sooner rather than later.
Maria had suggested that Sabria may well pay me a late-night visit. I’d decided to come up with some cunning plan to ensure that she did.
Yes, and sooner rather than later . . .
Then I was through saloon-style swing doors and inside the restaurant.
I was also suddenly face-to-face with Camila, my Target Numero Dos.
Camila is, co-incidentally, Argentinian, as were the rest of that fine establishment’s employees. Again according to Maria, she’d been up to the hotel yesterday, worried about where I’d disappeared to.
Okay, interesting in all sorts of ways, but still a big oops!
On first sight I’d taken Camila to be Maria’s twin. There were many similarities, all of them good.
But at that moment she painted an amusing picture. From warmly welcoming a newcomer her bright, dazzling smile faded to a humourless rictus when she saw who I actually was.
‘This way,’ she snapped, turning on her heel and leading me along the familiar route to the best table out on the terrace. Maybe because I was running late the terrace was quite full, as was the rest of the restaurant, but that best cover for four still had a RESERVADOS sign on it.
As I took a solitary seat Camila stomped off, giving me an eyeful of her sumptuous body as she went.
What an eyeful! She resembled Maria that way as well as in general good-looks: a pert yet plump ass over perfectly shaped, black leggings-clad legs. There was a small oval gap between her upper thighs that spoke of superb treasures above.
Just like there was between Maria’s (usually faded shorts-exposed) upper thighs . . .
If the comparison had arisen in a Miss World contest, I’d have had to declare it a draw.
Not that they’d have ever accepted me as a judge. I’d have been rampaging uncontrollably through all the dressing rooms then locked away forever for sexual assault.
Seventy years in the slammer may not have been too high a price to pay, though, so much top totty at such an invitingly close distance.
Well, maybe the price was high-ish . . .
And what am I like!
A minute later Maria was back, her front-on view more than matching her rear. Trust me, I mean it.
Somehow she slammed down a glass of red without smashing the stem or spilling any vino.
‘You’re back,’ she snarled, keeping it down out of consideration of other customers. Then, as good as matching Maria: ‘Who are these “old friends” of yours?’ she demanded.
‘She was more of a new friend,’ I replied as calmly as I could.
The waitress blinked at that. Her scowl faded almost as swiftly as her smile had. She was silent for at least a whole minute.
‘So it was a she? Camila finally asked in whisper.
Up until then I had not let on how much I wanted to bed that particular beauty. I had laughed and airily flirted with her, but I had never crossed the invisible line. Now was the moment of truth.
‘Of course she was,’ said I, once more striving to be calm.
‘You like girls?’
‘Yes,’ I very freely admitted. ‘I’ve been off guys for years. And I’m here on holiday, aren’t I? Given the chance of a few days of fun it wasn’t likely I’d turn her or anyone else down.’
‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘No, I am not; I’d never lie about my preferences. And I will be honest about why I am here. It’s a get-away-from-it break. I’m fresh from a disastrous relationship. Right now I will go for as many one-night stands as I can get. If any more chances come along, that is.’
‘Do you mean with girls?’
‘Too bloody true I do.’
Excuse the Aussie in me; I have an uncle in Melbourne. I’ve only ever met him twice in person but he has forever influenced my bad language.
No, don’t excuse him; he’s perhaps the funniest person on earth. Give him any audience at all and he is in his element. Paul Hogan can eat his heart canlı poker oyna out.
(Including “That’s not a knife” and the likes . . .)
‘One-night stands, Sabria said, indicating a menu, producing her reassuringly old-fashioned notepad and pencil. ‘I think you had more than one night with whoever your new “old friend” was.’
‘I had two nights. And she’ll be boarding her plane in the next ten minutes. She’s out of the equation.’
‘You would say that.’
‘Yes I would. But it also happens to be true.’
Several emotions flickered across Camila’s brow, doubt rapidly chasing uncertainty through to hope.
‘So I’d only get one night if I . . . if I . . .’
‘Do you like girls?’ I whispered even softer than her, my excitement levels through the roof, that inner devil of mine clapping and cartwheeling.
Camila nodded assent, her eyes depthless but a hint of a smile on her lips, hope still very evident.
Modesty prevents me from telling how my inner devil responded to that. Let’s just say she was nearly as excited as I was.
‘I’ll guarantee you two nights,’ I said in a surprisingly steady voice. ‘Name them and they’re yours.’
Other customers were looking at us by then. Camila pointed at my menu again.
‘Please order your meal.’
‘Name them,’ I insisted.
‘Order something,’ she hissed. ‘Order a fried egg sandwich at least.’
‘I’ll have a medium Big One,’ I said (meaning a steak bigger than the plate), ‘a bowl of chips and any side-salad you like. Now name them.’
‘Nights are a problem,’ she mumbled softly. ‘But we could do something on Sunday. I’m free all day on Sunday, right up until six o’clock.’
Take it from me; I confirmed Sunday in a flash and quickly fine-tuned provisional arrangements. Meet at nine in the morning, nearby, in my favourite breakfast bar, followed a leisurely walk to Izzy’s private beach.
At first Camila blanched at that but, when I stressed that it was remote and trespasser-free, she soon relented.
Leastways she did when, lying through my teeth, I assured her it was ideal for naked sunbathing with absolutely no chance of being interrupted.
As if I hadn’t trespassed there uninvited; as if I hadn’t been almost immediately interrupted . . .
But my interruption had happened in the nicest possible way.
And Izzy wouldn’t be there to interrupt again . . . she’d be safely back home in Notting Hill.
Between you and me, I hankered after having sex on the sand, no distance at all from a moving, living sea of pure blue, under a blazing sun. I’d had plenty of sex with Izzy, but not out there on the sand.
Doing that was a box remaining to be ticked.
Ticking Camila’s box . . .
Well, bring it on!
Feeling optimistic about the days ahead I made my leisurely way back uphill. And, when I went inside the hotel, I changed my behaviour completely. Instead of cheerfully waving to the so-sexy receptionist (and missing all her signals), delighted to see no customer queue at all, I rounded in on her.
‘I’ve been ignoring you,’ I began, ‘please accept a million apologies.’
Sabria didn’t even blink. Fixing me with her most professional smile she said, ‘No problem.’
‘But it is a problem,’ I persisted. ‘I’ve been told you’ve taken offence at me being so stand off-ish.’
‘Charley,’ she said, sotto voce, ‘I’ve been talking to Maria while you’ve been stuffing yourself with the finest Argentinian produce. I know exactly what she’s told you.’
An elevator dropped in my tummy. I’d wanted to be in charge of this conversation. There again, I was skirmishing with “the” alpha female, yet another “mother of all lesbians”.
Seemed to be a lot of them about!
Not that I was complaining.
‘I fancy Maria,’ I said, astonishing myself by my transparency. ‘But she told me that I have to have sex with you first. So here I am.’
Now Sabria did blink.
‘I respect local conventions,’ I went on in the finest harlot tradition. ‘If I have to sleep with you to get to Maria, then so it is. And, as I quite fancy sleeping with you anyway, it’s no problem whatsoever. I’d do you both at once, if that was the condition.’
‘Fuck me,’ said Sabria, her English perfect as ever, if lacking a little of her usual diplomacy.
‘Yes,’ I said somewhat smugly, ‘that is a real possibility.’
For once Sabria’s immaculate appearance was ruffled.
‘You could join me in the bar,’ I said temptingly, ‘when your shift is finished. When is that, anyway?’
‘No I couldn’t,’ she practically stammered. ‘Everyone would see us.’
‘Okay then, we could go somewhere else. Somewhere down the road.’
‘But everyone knows me just everywhere.’
I didn’t know how true that assertion was but seized on the opportunity it gave me.
‘I have terrible news,’ I said. ‘I’m going to insist on you joining me somewhere, whenever your shift finally finishes. When is that, by the way?’
‘I finish at ten.’
‘So do you want to have sex here in that little office behind your desk, internet casino or are you more reserved?’
Fortunately Sabria had a sense of humour. Or perhaps she didn’t realise I was deadly serious.
‘Having sex in that office is not an option. The girl who takes over from me would notice. So would the night manager.’
‘What about having sex in room 417? Say around ten past ten?’
‘Well . . . ‘
‘Bugger thinking about it; just be there. I will be. And I’ll be armed with vino. Can you think of a reason why not?’
‘I’m not so sure where room 417 is.’
‘Don’t give me that. You’ve got a key that opens every door in the hotel. Of course you know where to find room 417. Shall we say five past ten, or will it be ten past?’
‘Five past,’ Sabria said, surprisingly meekly.
‘Is that a promise?’
Suddenly the receptionist’s smile was back, whiter, more sparkling than ever. ‘Trust me,’ she purred, ‘I’ll be there bang on time.’
Because it was barely nine o’clock I went into the swish indoor hotel bar and was disappointed to see no sign of Estela. The young guy who served me cerveza said they’d swapped shifts. Apparently she needed to wash her hair or something.
Bloody men! Most of them spend far longer than I ever do “beautifying” themselves. Yet still they think it’s funny to make snide comments.
And he was eying my cleavage as he pretended to speak to my face.
Well, it was nice to be appreciated, even by a bastard, but did he have to be so obvious about it?
Casting around the bar I decided to stay where I was. Most of the tables were already occupied and I wasn’t prepared to retreat from a sexist pervert.
(Okay, so “sexist pervert” is unfair. Ten years or so ago I used to ogle guys like the biggest pervert in town. But then I grew up. Nowadays I only ogle girls . . . pretty much like that barman ogled me, I hate to admit.)
Where was I?
Oh yes, I was in the main hotel bar, less than an hour away from receiving a very welcome visitor.
Pablo (as in Picasso, I kid you not!) did his best to chat me up as I downed the three beers he sold to me. And, when a fresh-looking, Cockney-speaking guy approached and asked if I would like a drink I instinctively jerked my thumb at the barman.
‘Pablo’s the love of my life,’ I fibbed. ‘He is also the kick-boxing champion of all Spain. I would eff off if I was you . . . And if I valued my teeth.’
Pablo obligingly snarled like panther. The uninvited intruder left post haste and, when I ordered a final drink, I told the barman to get one himself as well, at my expense, of course.
‘I don’t do guys,’ I said as I accepted my change, keeping finger-palm contact maybe longer than was strictly necessary. ‘But you’re a good one. Just stop staring at my tits.’
At that Pablo said: ‘Stick ’em in my face and I’m gonna stare. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?’
‘As if I’m going to argue with the kick-boxing champion of all Spain,’ I countered.
To his eternal credit, Pablo guffawed almost as loudly as I did.
We parted as friends.
And yes, in an alternative universe, I just might have.
No, screw that, I would have.
Or, in different circumstances, so I think . . .
It was ten before ten when I exited the bar, my timing as immaculate as ever. Seeing Sabria still there behind her desk I waved and held up my fingers . . . all ten of them followed by just five. She’d got a German couple in attendance, perhaps asking directions to the Graf von Zeppelin.
No word of a lie; that was a very big bar in those parts; exceptionally Germanic but still fun, fun, fun.
Okay, okay, so I hadn’t been there myself, but ten thousand souvenir T-shirts couldn’t all be wrong.
Sabria waved back at me and I took that to be a submission . . . to absolutely everything.
Not that I expected such an alpha female to give me carte blanche. Far as I was concerned I was due to get screwed to heaven and back.
Yes, yes, yes, bring it on!
Getting to 417 wasn’t an issue. But re-examining my bottle of vino was. The bugger had a cork in it.
Shit and fuck. Bottles from Asda or Morrisons rarely presented such a problem.
Why didn’t the rest of the world go for handy screw-tops!
Panicking, I scratched about in the one set of drawers in my room. And miracle of miracles, I found a corkscrew. Okay, in reality it was more like a boy scout’s penknife. You know what I mean: it had a lot of blades including one for getting stones out of a horse’s foot.
(Speaking as a vet, boy scout or not, never try to get a stone out of a horse’s foot. Subjected to pain a horse will react by kicking like a mule, except harder. An exceptionally beautiful girl I know got her jaw fractured in those circumstances, and without guilt on either side. There was certainly no evil intent on behalf of the horse.)
Getting a cork out of a bottle was different, though. I managed that easily enough. And I managed the next part of my plan deftly too.
Going off on a tangent, that exceptionally beautiful girl had been blessed with an exceptional arsehole of a dad. While she was laid up in hospital he called me in, wanting me to put the “vicious twat” down.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00353 515 73 20