By Prerafaelite © copyright March 2004. All rights reserved.
Sandra pressed her cheek to the open glass door and watched the cormorants surf the waves for sand whiting. Home soon, that’s what he said. Alicante, Madrid, Zurich and more. He could be in Dubai now soaking up the atmosphere of the souks. Her gaze stretched out over the Indian Ocean towards Madagascar and mentally turned right. Only four hours in time difference but a ten-hour flight and another hemisphere.
Late last night he called. It was yesterday for him but the early hours of today for her, the telephone had become a time machine like the Tardis of Doctor Who. His sultry voice spoke to her from the past in the heat of a desert evening, words to remember. She unconsciously felt the warmth between her thighs and the ache that was developing unanswered.
The deck was set out ready, just as he had asked. The table - silver set, an ice bucket cooling the sparkling wine, a centerpiece of frangipani blooms floating in rose water. Shucked oysters nestled on a bed of rock salt with bright ripe lemons slit in quarters oozing juice and bottles of green and red Tabasco, wide necked glasses bottomed with crushed strawberry and topped by a Swan Valley pink cuvee. A deliciously runny Brie waited with a sharp blue Castello, marinated Feta and slices of mango with chocolate dipping sauce.
The sea breeze caught her sarong and wrapped it about her legs, sliding the silk across her bare thighs like a kiss. Just like him. Just like during the night in her dreams. Remembering, she pulled the waist-tie and sighed as the fabric whispered to the floor.
“Take off your dress for me honey, stand out there on the deck in your panties, facing the setting sun under Capricorn. Let those glorious breasts feel the heat so I can think of home.”
Her hand shook slightly as she touched a sun-kissed nipple and felt it grow hard between her fingers.
“Try the oysters while they are cool honey, and taste the sea… for me. Make me think of home, of your welcoming moistness. Make me think of kissing you intimately, just the way you like.”
Dampness grew between her thighs as she swayed gently from side to side, rocking, eyes closed, imagining, remembering, anticipating. Gentle sounds of Andrea Bocelli’s voice played softly in the background as one after the other the oysters gave up their flavour.
“Drink the wine honey, feel the bubbles burst on your tongue. Taste the fruit bringing out the flavour as the pink liquid cools your throat. Rub the ice from the bucket across those lovely breasts warmed by the sun, make your nipples hard for me, make me think of suckling them, make me long for home. Soon now honey, soon.”
Her hand found the moist curls at the apex of her thighs where her heat burned strongest. Slowly her fingers found the softly swollen folds and parted them, slick with the wanting.
She drew the juices up from their source, lubricating, swirling, smelling of arousal and imminent release. A wine flute pressed against her lips and the pink liquid spilled from the corners of her mouth. Bubbles spread down her neck and across her tingling breasts to drip from engorged nipples. Crushed strawberries left a sweet trail the colour of her cunt.
“Taste the sharpness of the Castello, the creaminess of the brie, think of me. Taste yourself and tell me you taste of olive, of grapefruit and musk.”
Fingers danced quickly over her desire. His sweet breath against her nape took her somewhat by surprise as she leant against the cool glass and felt the delicious explosions ripple through her. He took her spent hand in his and kissed the dampness.
“I needed to taste, I got the earlier flight honey…”