travel plans

[naughtynevaehsc2]

Hi there,
I will be heading to the Bahama's June 12-16 then Hollywood Florida until the 22nd if anyone is interested in a meet and greet or content share

[Christo]

Oh, goodness, I would've loved to meet up with you on the beach in the Bahamas. The mind reels at the possibilities of being naughty with Neveah at a Caribbean resort, the crystalline blue water, the brilliant sun warming every inch of your smooth skin...

I had a three-hour webinar I had to dial in on but didn't have to pay attention to, and to keep from falling asleep I wrote the first big chunk of this. This is insanely long, maybe I'll publish it on the Amazon erotica site...

An exclusive resort, clothing optional, the kind frequented by the moneyed, the sexy, the adventuresome. You arrive early and three bellmen immediately rush over to carry your bags to your room. You're traveling alone, your husband left at home after he enjoyed a long weekend with his friends. This is all about you time, indulging yourself in every way you wish. You decide to spend the morning hours pampering yourself at the spa. An hour-long massage, a mani-pedi, and then a luxurious breakfast, complete with mimosas. As you enjoy your meal you notice several men staring at you with hungry eyes. They can wait. For now, you want to enjoy your omelet. For now.

You return to your suite and decide to spend the early afternoon worshipping the sun. It’s your first day so you select a pale blue bikini, one that shows off your creamy skin, skin that will bronze into a glistening, honeyed tone after a day or two.

You put on a white straw hat with a broad brim and a white, gossamer-thin beach cover that does nothing to hide your lush curves from prying eyes. You leave your room and stride across the pool deck to your reserved spot on the beach. More ravenous men and women ogle you, but you ignore them. Again, for now. It’s only your first day. Plenty of time to make new friends.

You drop your beach bag down next to your chaise lounge and slip your beach cover over your head. You should have an hour of peace and quiet before men start wandering over to introduce themselves. You survey the area around you and, yes, there are quite a few handsome and fit men to choose from. Maybe a twentysomething stud first, to really get the week started off the right way. A tireless young buck eager to fuck a more experienced woman and demonstrate his prowess. Yes, that would be a good way to start off the week. And of course you’d have someone take photos and videos for your next SC update. Your husband would love it.

You settle back on your lounge and hear a blender whirring off to your right. You look over at the pool bar and sigh. “I should’ve gotten a drink before I set up,” you say to yourself.
A long shadow falls over the sand in front of you. You turn and see a tall man in a crisp white polo and dark red swim trunks looming over you. He’s standing at attention, hands folded behind his back, and he says. “Good afternoon, madam. May I get you something to drink?”

You ease your sunglasses down your nose to take a look at him. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with muscular calves. You like that. You like the respectful expression in his startling blue eyes. You like everything about him. Especially the fact that he’s asking what you want to drink. “Yes, please,” you purr. “Captain and Diet Coke.”

“Of course.” The man gives a quick nod and strode off with a purpose. You lie back and watch him glide across the sand. “The staff here is so helpful,” you murmur to yourself, wondering what other kinds of service he might provide.

You close your eyes, listening to the soft crash of waves, the quiet conversations around you. Things will start to get a little more crazy later on, once more people arrive and everyone gets a little tipsy.. During your last visit it was common to see couples—or larger groups—playing with each other on the beach. But early on Sunday it’s almost like any other resort. So you decide to keep your bikini top on. For now.

Five minutes later you hear the soft scrunch of sand underfoot, and there’s your tall, handsome man, a frosty glass in his hand. “One Captain and Diet Coke,” he says, kneeling down to present it to you. It’s an oddly familiar thing to do, and as you take the glass you say, “Will this be charged to my room?”

“No.”

“Do I have to sign for it?”

“Not necessary.”

There’s a long moment where you look at him, and he looks at you. “You don’t work here, do you?”

“No.”

“You just wanted to buy me a drink?”

“Not exactly. I was walking past and saw you turn to look at the bar. You seemed disappointed, and I guessed that you wanted a drink, but didn’t want to walk there to order one. And it might take some time for a waiter to come by. I just couldn’t bear to see you disappointed.”

You take a long sip of your drink. Delicious, refreshing, and just a bit too strong. Perfect. “That was very sweet of you. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m Neveah,’ you said, extending a hand. He takes your hand in his and says, “I’m Chris, it’s so nice to meet you.”

You’re going to have sex with this man—you decided that the moment his hand touches yours. You involuntarily part your thighs ever so slightly and arch your back. You take another sip of your drink to give yourself something to do while your mind is furiously conjuring imagines of this handsome, hunkly man mounting you and easing his rock-hard cock inside your pussy.

You start to withdraw your hand but he rotates his wrist so that he’s holding your hand as if he’s about to read your palm. “You’re going to lay in the sun?” You nod, slowly, and he says, “With your beautiful skin it’s important you’re protected. May I help put lotion on you?”

You’ve had two healthy sips of your drink but it’s the idea of this man putting his hands on your body that makes your head spin. You should say, no, thank you, I can take care of that myself. But you can’t make your mouth form those words. Instead you say, “That would be nice. Thank you.”

Chris helps you to your feet and lifts your chaise lounge so it moves out of the umbrella’s shadow and into the warm, warm sun. You wrinkle your toes in the sand as he effortlessly caries the lounge to a perfect, quiet spot. You pull out your oil and hand it to him. He says, “SPF 30, good. You don’t want to get burned.”

“No, I don’t.”

He smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ll be very thorough.”

Before you lie down he reclines the back of the loungue so it’s perfectly flat. You lie down on your stomach and he says, “Shall I undo your bikini top? Just so I miss any spots.”

“Yes, please,” you say, and hope that your “please” didn’t sound too hungry. He deftly unties the strings and lays them off to the side, exposing your back. You pull your long blond hair over your left shoulder so your neck is exposed, and then the first droplets of oil fall on across your shoulders.

He applies a generous amount of oil and spreads it across your back and shoulders with smooth, confident strokes. His touch is soft, firm, and his hands never stray toward your breasts or buttocks. He dapples your skin with more oil and uses his fingertips to massage it into the nape of your neck, your shoulders. The sun feels warm on your skin and you relax as his hands return to your back, touching you, stroking you, massaging you.

You feel more oil drip down the small of your back and his hands spread it over your hips. He kneads the muscles in your lower back and you can’t help yourself. You say, “That feels so good.”
“I’m glad to hear that. May I put oil on your legs?”

“Yes.”

Oil trickles over the backs of your right legs, your right calf. His strong hands glide over the length of your leg, smoothing in the oil. He repeats the process on your left leg and his touch is so relaxing, so rhythmic, that you could almost fall asleep. If you weren’t so aroused.

“Are you ticklish?” he asks.

Your voice almost breaking, you say, “Not especially.”

“I’m going to put oil on your feet. It’s very important that the soles of your feet don’t get burned.”

You say, “All right,” as his oily hands gently seize your right foot. He massages and caresses your foot, his thumbs stroking your instep, his palms polishing the smooth skin of your heel. “Whoever did your pedicure did a magnificent job,” he says. “Your feet are exquisite.”

“Thank you,” you say. You lean up to take another sip of your drink, because your mouth is so dry.

He turns his attention to your left foot and you luxuriate in another five minutes of his delicious massage. It’s long past the point of applying suntan oil, but his hands are so sure, so strong, that you can’t bear to tell him to stop.

But, at last, he stops. And says, “Shall I remove your bikini bottom? I need to apply oil there as well.”

You pause, for just a moment. You’re already almost topless and now he wants to take off your bottoms too. It’s an escalation and you’re trying to think of what to do when he says, “I’m sure you’ll be sunbathing nude this week. It’s probably best to start now.”

His tone is so matter of fact, so clinical, that saying no seems illogical. “Yes, you’re right,” you say, and rise up to wriggle out of your bottoms. But you feel his fingers hook into your suit and he deftly slides them down your legs. He neatly folds them in half and lays them next to your lounge.

And then you feel warm oil dripping all over your ass. This is another escalation, he’s touching you in intimate places no stranger is allowed to just reach out and grab. And this man is a stranger. But as his hands again find your body, you can’t help but feel completely at ease, completely open to reveling in the pleasure of his touch.

He uses his palms to spread the oil over your buttocks and the taut half-moons under your cheeks. His fingertips again find the small of your back, and then he says, “I need to apply oil between your buttocks. May I do so?”

You close your eyes and your lips part. “Yes,” you say, your voice hoarse. You grab your drink and take a long sip as he drizzles oil at the top of your cleft, and you shudder as warm rivulets run down your crevice.

His hands begin kneading your buttocks as his thumbs move up and down between your cheeks. Then he uses his thumbs to gently pull your buttocks apart and uses his fingers to gently stroke the tender, sensitive skin between.

You wait for him to do something aggressive. To stick his thumb in your asshole, or shove his tongue in your pussy. He doesn’t. Instead he massages you, all over. Starting with your buttocks, moving down your legs, and then up again to your back. He spends a few minutes stroking you, rubbing you. It’s heaven.

He breaks your reverie by saying. “I need to put oil on the front of your body now. Could you turn over, please?”

A sharp breath escapes your lips. This is exactly what you wanted him to say, but now that he’s asked you, you feel paralyzed. For a second. And then his fingertips touch your side and he nudges you to turn over, and you do what he wants. You tell yourself it’s what you want too. But you’re not sure who’s in control anymore.

Your bikini top remains on the lounge and he picks it up and places it with your bottoms. “Sit up one moment,” he says, and you obey, your magnificent breasts shimmying slightly as you rise. You notice that his eyes don’t stray to your jiggling boobies, but remain focused on the task at hand. His self-control is remarkable—and maddening.

He raises the back of the lounge a bit so you’re propped up at a 45 degree angle. So you can see what he’s doing to you. He drizzles oil on your legs and again uses his hands to spread the oil over your skin. As he does so, in almost imperceptible increments, he eases your legs apart. Millimeter by millimeter, he parts your thighs until you are almost completely open to him.

You know you should close your legs. You know you shouldn’t let this stranger do what he’s going to you. But you also know that there is no way, NO WAY, you’re going to stop him now. You’re complexly in his thrall and will obey his every command. If he yanks down his swim trunks and impales you with his cock, you’ll let him do it. In front of all these people.

And, yes, people are starting to take notice of what Chris is doing to you. Not many women are topless right now, and none have men running their hands over their nude bodies. And Chris’ hands never stop moving, never stop caressing, never stop making you want to open your legs even wider.

He reaches for the bottle again and drips oil all over your stomach. He flattens his right palm and massages your belly in slow circular strokes. He puts the bottle down and brings his left hand to bear, and now he has both hands moving all over your hips, stomach and outer thighs.

He uses the index finger to trace the outline of the flowers and butterfly inked on your stomach and hip. “Your artwork is wonderful,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“It’s worthy of the beautiful canvas it’s painted on,” he says, as his fingertip moves down past your navel, your pelvis, almost to your quivering pussy. But then he stops and says, “I should oil your arms now. May I?”

“Yes. Please. Thank you.”

More oil, and this time his hands and fingers slide up and down your arms, Your entire body is glistening now, except for one part. And as if reading your mind Chris says, “It’s very important that you put oil on your breasts. May I do that for you?”

You can’t help yourself—you arch your back and spread your legs wide. You’re terribly turned on and don’t care if Chris knows it. Because, of course he knows it. He can see the wanton need on your face. Your taut, aching nipples. He can probably smell your fragrant pussy.

All you can do is nod. He picks up the bottle, you pick up your drink, and he begins.

He paints a line of oil across both of your luscious breasts, and then another down the hollow of your arresting cleavage. He puts the bottle down and used his thumb to slowly, slowly, spread the oil in the wide cleft between your breasts. He uses his slick thumb to anoint the skin under each of your breasts, and then each of his talented hands cup a breast and begins slowly, slowly, kneading your stupendous globes.

You lips close around the straw and you drink deep as he gently squeezes and caresses your tits. You nipples tighten of their own accord, as so far he’s avoided touching them. A situation that is at first irritating, and then maddening. You flex and relax your toes in frustration as you wait for this mysterious, thrilling man to move this encounter across yet another boundary.

His breast massage continues for a full minute, and his expression is one of quiet wonder. He refuses to make eye contact with you, even as you sear him with your own gaze. You want his fingers to tweak and tease your nipples, but you’ll never say it first. You’ll make him say it first. Because you know how sexy you are. You know how men lust for you. And you know this man is besotted with you. He may have you trembling with lust and need—but he’s the one on his knees.

You pale areola have darkened slightly and your nipples have risen into aching points. Finally, at last, his expression changes. His insufferable calm breaks, for just a moment—his mouth falls open and he licks his lips. Then the mask returns and he said, “It’s very important that your nipples be protected as well. May I put oil on them?”

Always asking permission. Always waiting for your consent. This time you make him wait, put a kernel of doubt in his head. You sip your drink, which is almost empty now, and say, “Yes. But be gentle. My nipples are very sensitive.”

The barest hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips. “I’ll be very gentle.”

“No,” you say, and his eyes snap back to meet yours. This time your expression is calm, detached. “I said be gentle. Don’t be very gentle. Do you understand?”

His face betrays nothing—except for his eyes, which gleam with his amusement. “I do. Perfectly.”

He drips oil on your nipples and he gently(!) takes them between his fingers and his thumbs and twists and tugs and flicks them. And it is glorious. Glorious. It’s as if there’s a wire connecting your nipples to your clitoris and the friction of his fingers sets your clit to burning.

His skillful hands manipulate your nipples until your placid façade cracks and you start writhing under his touch. You grip the armrests of the lounge and your hips start moving in rhythm with his infernal fingertips and you’re at the precipice of asking him—begging him, really—to pull down his trunks and drive his hard cock inside your panting pussy.

But just before you can speak, he does. He looks at you, eyes slightly downcast, and says, “I’m sorry, I may have taken things too far.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Your nipples have enough oil. I should have stopped.”

“If I wanted you to stop I would have said so. And,” you add an edge to your voice, “you would have obeyed.”

He nods. “I would. But I should have anticipated your wishes.”

You lick your lips. “Look at me,” you command. His eyes instantly lock on yours. You say, “Anticipate them now.”

His eyes leave yours and move slowly, slowly, down the length of your body. To the magical, mysterious place between your legs, which you slowly spread wider and wider. His right hand glides down your body, over your stomach, your pelvis, and down to your smooth-shaven pussy. No more games. Or, rather, an entirely new game is about to begin.

You lever yourself back and drape your legs over the arrests of your chaise lounge. Opening yourself lasciviously to him. As he has since you met him, he takes his time. He uses his fingertips to trace lines along your inner thighs, making you almost angry with desire. There’s a time for play and there’s a time for fucking. It’s time for the latter, and you need it to be now.

You see that people walking along the beach are stopping to watch, knowing smiles on their faces as Chris’s loving touch moves closer and closer to your vagina. You don’t know what’s about to happen—will he go down on you, thrust his cock inside you, or content himself with pleasuring you with his magical hands? You want him to do all three. Before you fly home in a week, you promise yourself that he will do all three.

When he finally touches your most private place, he’s patient. He uses his index and middle fingers to bracket your labia and slowly moves them up and down, up and down, touching your pussy without actually touching it. He does this while looking down between your legs with an expression that you could only describe as worshipful. He is quiet. Grateful. Adoring.

His fingers caress your labia, his forefinger and thumb gently easy the sticky lips apart to expose your full flower. You want him to drive his long fingers inside you but he doesn’t, not yet. Instead he covers your entire vulvas with his right hand and applies gentle pressure as he moves his hand in slow circles. You find the gesture almost unbearably intimate, it’s as though he’s using his hand to protect you, while at the same time his fingers started wriggling and dancing around your opening.

Suddenly he stops and withdraws his hand. He stands, and for a frantic moment you think he’s about to walk away. But no, instead he reaches down and quickly removes his shirt, exposing his hairy, muscular chest. He folds his shirt, places it atop your cast-aside bikini and sinks back to his knees. “I apologize for being presumptuous,” he says. “I want to do something to you now.”

“Yes.”

“I want to use my fingers to massage you. Between your legs.”

“Yes”

“Inside you.”

“Yes.”

“May I do that”

“Yes.”

“Put my fingers inside you.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t phrase his requests as questions. They’re statements of his intent, but he doesn’t proceed without her saying yes. The fact that he asks over and over for her consent is incredibly sexy, far more arousing that if he’d simply mounted as you’d originally hoped and the mercilessly fucked your brains out. You’re so crazed with lust that of course you’ll consent—but he asks anyway. Another gambit in this thrilling game.

His middle finger slides easily between your well-lubed labia and the sweet friction makes you bite your lip. And then, he slowly penetrates you with his finger. Slowly, because that’s how this man works. Slowly. You want it hard and fast but he gives you gentle and slow.

And it’s perfect. Perfect. He buries his thick finger inside you and you push your hips forward to help him dive another millimeter deeper inside your pussy. He puts his left hand on your stomach, pinning your hips to the lounge, and he eases his hand back and then penetrates you again, even deeper this time.

He pauses to look at you. He stares into your eyes as his finger drives inside your wet pussy and he’s barely able to suppress a smile. He eases his finger back, and then slides it home. He does this again. And again. And again. And, again.

You lean back against the cushions and revel in the sensation of this gorgeous man finger-fucking you. But before you can fully focus on the delicious sensation of feeling his finger inside you, he puts his left hand to his mouth and licks his thumb. A thumb he lowers to silkily caress your clitoris.

“Oh,” you say as his slick thumb orbits your white-hot clit. This, this is something else. This is something special. This is pure ecstasy, and you can’t believe this man is able to bring you such overwhelming pleasure with just his hands and fingers.

And then, he introduces another of those fingers to your pussy. Now he has his index and forefinger plunging in and out of you. Your legs go stiff, for a second you think your thighs might cramp, but instead they’re just frozen in place, holding you perfectly still lest you do something to break the spell.

He changes his position, moving over so he’s kneeling closer to your feet. He leans forward and curls his fingers upward and begins stroking the upper wall of your vagina as he spears you. You shudder as he stimulates your G-spot in a way that instantly brings new waves of pleasure crashing through your body. Sometimes G-spot stimulation works for you, sometimes it doesn’t. This time the pleasure is immediate and urgent and almost frightening.

He increases his pace. He extends his left hand and you seize it in your own and thrust his thumb into your mouth, tasting him and your own juices together. He pulls his hand away, his thumb escaping your lips with a moist POP, and he resumes stroking your clitoris. At the same time he drives his fingers deeper and deeper inside you, his fingertips sliding across the upper wall over your vagina with every vigorous thrust.

There are maybe 20 people watching this happen to you but you no longer notice them. Because something is happening, something you can’t quite come to grips with, but it’s there. You feel…you feel like you might have an orgasm. A big one. A HUGE one, and it’s right there, just beyond your grasp, you just need a little help to take you all the way.

You look at Chris and see that he is utterly focused on his task. Fucking you with his fingers and doing dexterous things to your clit. You thighs and abs started fluttering involuntarily as you revel in the pleasure of what this man is doing to you. You start to think, I might not cum. I might not be able to cum. I want to cum. But I don’t know if I can…

He turns and looks at you. He says, “When you and I become lovers tonight, it’s going to be incredible. We are going to be so good together, Nevaeh.”

And that does it.

You lose control of your body, of your pussy, of the mysterious bodily processes that make up orgasm. Almost instantly your reach that terrible point of no return, but once you cross it, you don’t immediately climax. Instead there is an almost unbearable buildup of tension, of overwhelming pressure, and you start thrusting your hips forward in time with his fingers and you let out a guttural, “Oh, God, yes.”

“Yes,” he agrees.

“I think…I think, I think I’m gonna…”

“Yes,” he says again. “I think so too.” He looks at you and says, his voice so soft, “It’s going to happen. Let it happen.” His expression is so sweet, so loving. “Cum,” he says.

And you do. You cum. YOU CUM. You cum around his fingers and your vaginal walls spasm in crazy rhythm as an explosion of pleasure erupts from your pussy and radiates out through your body. And then, a heartbeat later, another eruption, this time of fluid spurting from your pussy and spraying all over Chris’s bare chest, shoulders and, stomach. He doesn’t react at all to his sudden drenching, he remains completely focused on the task at hand. His hand. Your pussy.

You gasp as the most intense pleasure imaginable courses through your body, and you let loose again and shower him with gouts of warm, clear, inexplicable liquid. You shake and writhe and groan and his fingers never stop pumping in and out of your now-soaking pussy and his thumb never stops orbiting your electrified clitoris.

You cum and you cum and you cum and you squirt two more times and your reach down and grab his wrists in your hands and hold on tight as your crest the wave of your orgasm and ride the ecstasy for what feels like an hour. When it’s done, when the pleasure subside and you return to reality, you open your eyes to see Chris smiling back at you. It’s a warm, open, friendly smile. The game is over—for now.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yes, yes,” you gasp. “That’s all I ever say to you, isn’t it? ‘Yes.”

A few people around them clap politely, and then go on their way. “That was amazing,” he says.

“You were amazing.”

He shakes his head. “You looked so beautiful when you came. So beautiful.”

You feel yourself blushing as you imagine what your facial expressions were like when you were spurting all over him. And then he leans down, between your legs, and gives you a soft, chaste kiss. If a kiss on your pussy could eer be called “chaste”.

As if suddenly remembering that he is literally dripping wet with your fluids, he stands and says, “I’m going to take a quick dip. Be right back.”

He walks down to the ocean, wades in, and dives through a crashing wave. You take the moment to sit up, step into your bikini bottoms, and snuggle your breasts back into the cups of your top. As he walks out of the surf, his body glistening, you allow yourself a secret smile. “You got the better of me this round,” you think to yourself, “but I still have two days to turn the tables.”

He walks up and says, “Another drink?”

“Yes. Please. Will you join me?”

He smiles down at you. “Not right now. I think maybe you need a little quiet time by yourself. I feel like I interrupted your peace and quiet.”

“You did. And, thank you.”

He laughs. It’s a nice laugh, one you would like to hear again. Though you’d rather discover what his moans sound like. “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

You put your sunglasses on and feel the sun warm your skin. Yes, right now what you want is peace, and quiet. Time to recover from what this man just did to you. Time to recharge your sexual batteries. Time to devise a plane to have him under your thumb just as he’d held you under his own.

He returns with your drink. You accepted it with thanks and he says, “It was very nice to meet you, Nevaeh.”

“It was very nice to meet you, Chris.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Yes. You will.”

Another one of his sweet smiles, and he walks off down the beach. You lean back in your lounge, take along pull of your drink, and let out a long, utterly satisfied “Ahh…” There could be no better way to start off a sexy, solo weekend.

And tonight…tonight it will be Chris’s turn to suffer under your delicate, diabolical hands.