It Was Paradise

It was paradise. Sun, and clean, white, empty sand beaches for miles and miles. The tourists would arrive once a week, by boat, from the capital, some 40 minutes away across the estuary. There was a rough track through the jungle, and people and stores could come that way if the sea was too rough, but it needed a good four-wheel drive to negotiate the mud and streams. But even paradise needs workers, and I was one of them. I'd set the holiday village up and now managed the place. I wasn't the owner, of course, I didn't have that kind of money, but I'd worked in the tourist industry, hotels, restaurants and so on, and had the qualifications that were needed, though I was young for the job.

There wasn't much time for sex, though I had an occasional lover back in the capital, on the rare times I had to go back there to sort out some problem, or could get off for a short break. But frankly, I was just too busy, and I was still enjoying the challenge of running a four star hotel in a village of wooden huts in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of the ocean. I lived in a T-shirt and shorts, and my clients lived in a lot less. I was surrounded all day, every day, by almost naked flesh, in all colours, shapes and sizes. Some monstrous mountains of flesh, a good many lovely creatures, male and female.

Manjula arrived on the Friday evening boat. I'd seen the name of an Indian couple on the guest list, but I saw her and my heart gave an unexpected leap. She was very young, slim, shy. She made me think of the wild buck that we sometimes saw in the jungle. Big dark eyes, looking out at the world from under dark lashes with a touch of fear. She was wearing a sari, rich in reds, blues and golds, and I thought, some races are lucky – they have such simple and wonderful national dress, so practical, and yet so attractive. Her husband was the usual businessman, perhaps ten years older than her, oily in his charm, arrogant and demanding, self-important too, with his portable phone never far from his ear – was I already unconsciously feeling a little jealous? On the Monday already he was leaving – urgent business called him away, but would I take special care looking after his lovely new wife? I promised to do my best, like the good professional that I was.

As manager, I had my own table in the restaurant, open to the sea breezes, under a palm-tree canopy, and I would invite the guests to join me, give them something of the history of that part of the world, talk about the animals, do my best to be the charming host. So I invited her to join me regularly. Manju, her friends called her – and I was already a friend. Fresh out from India, an arranged marriage, her family knew his back home. I'd seen her on the beach of course, wearing an old-fashioned one-piece swimsuit that my grandmother might have worn. But it still managed to look sexy on her. Over our second meal together, I touched her hand briefly, as she talked about the loneliness of leaving her home and family for a new continent and starting life together with someone she didn't know. I offered her something more modern to wear – I had quite a collection of things that tourists might have forgotten and need. I showed her into my office, and opened up the cupboard, and closed the blinds. I had things to decide with the cook. I'd left her there for ten minutes, before coming back, knocking warningly on the door before coming back in. She was wearing a bright red bikini that showed off her darker skin. I kept my hands to myself, but they were itching. I didn't usually get so hot for my guests; in fact this was a first.

She confessed that she got bored just swimming and lazing by the sea. And her shyness meant that she didn't easily get to make friends with the other guests. I suggested a little riding – we had a handful of pretty tame and tired horses, so guests could ride along the sand. There wasn't much choice – just left or right along the beach! And then back again. But it made a change for her.

Then on Tuesday afternoon her horse came back to the village without her, saddle empty. I'd seen her leaving half an hour earlier; my head "boy" had fitted her out. So I knew which way to go, and I was into the jeep with a first aid kit in seconds. Past the first headland, and then the second, down the tracks of the horse in the sand. In the distance I saw a black spot on the sand. It was her. She wasn't moving. In seconds I was beside her, my training taking over from my panic. Checking her pulse, starting mouth-to-mouth. Then she was twisting and groaning under me, stunned, but coming round. Nothing seemed to be broken, but she was quite shaken and shocked. I helped her up the sand, away from the crashing waves and into the shade of palm, and I leant her against one of the massive logs that lined the coast for miles – timber from the rafts of logs floated down the river to the port, for loading, but some always got away. The kit in the jeep included a water bottle, and a small bottle of brandy. I suspected that both might be of use. Then with great care, I helped her into the jeep from the ride back. She wasn't an experienced rider, she told me. There's been a big wave, and the horse had taken fright. It had all happened so fast.

Back at the village, I helped her into her hut and got her to bed. I didn't try to help her off with her jeans or her shirt, and I left her, promising to be back shortly to check that all was well. As I left her, I felt the stress wash over me, the adrenalin high, the fear – and I recalled the feel of her lips under mine as I'd breathed into her, the feel of her under my hands as I'd started to check her over for breaks and bruises.

When I called back a little later, she was sleeping. I came in very quietly, and checked what I could see – I wanted to make sure that there was no concussion. But she seemed to be sleeping peacefully. I left a note, suggesting that she stayed in bed, and promising to bring her supper. I was doing what I had to do, but I was thinking of what I might do and shouldn't. What about a real check for bruises? What about a little massage? I worked hard to free myself for the evening. I could hardly wait. I looked out some massage oil and some sport gel for sore muscles, collected a generous tray from the kitchen, and a small bottle of brandy from the bar, and headed off down the path to her hut. It was almost dark, night seems to fall in seconds in the tropics, and the porch lights of the different huts were on. Her inside light was on as well; I knocked and she said, 'Come in'. She was sitting up in bed in her pyjamas. Pyjamas that my grandfather might have worn, I thought. But she still managed to make them look O so sexy.

She thanked me effusively for all my care and concern. All in a days work, I replied, offering her a brandy, and helping myself to one. I sat on the twin bed, with the tray beside me. The brandy would help us both relax. She'd slept well, was feeling much better, but didn't feel like eating anything. I asked her if I could I check her over for bruises and scratches (the latter could become nastily infected in this climate, I warned her)? She looked at me with her big dark doe eyes. A massage will help you sleep better tonight, I said, and perhaps your bruises won't look so impressive in the morning; I'll go very gently.

She rolled onto her back and I pulled the sheet back. At least the pyjama bottoms were shorts, and I could see a nasty bruise on her left thigh. The colour and texture of her skin fascinated me. They were so different from the mottled, blotchy 'whites' here who so easily turned red and burned, and the black skins of the natives. I slowly worked the gel into each leg in turn, trying to keep the sense of a professional job in mind, trying to forget the electric desire that I was sure that we could both feel. Stopping myself from heading too high up those lovely slim thighs.

Then I straddled her legs and pushed up her top, to work a little on her back. She shifted a little to help me, but the pyjama top was snagged safely below her breasts. There was another nasty bruise over her ribs, and she moaned a little as I rubbed in some gel. I apologised, but she said that it felt good all the same, even if it hurt.

Now what? I was thinking: do I dare? What does she want? Is she feeling anything of what I'm feeling? 'Turn over. Time to do the other side,' I said, my voice a horse whisper. She hesitated a moment, then rolled over under me. The dark eyes looked up at me – what were they saying?? 'I won't do anything that you don't want,' I said, and reached to undo the top button, and then the next, and then the next. Four buttons, then a simple parting of the wrists to lift and open. What treasure. 'God, your beautiful,' I gasped, as I took in her firm brown breasts and the nipples already pleading with me for attention. Her nipples were purple, the colour of ripe figs. She still said nothing, as I leant forward and gently kissed first one and then the other, then more forcefully nibbling at one and fondling the other, then changing. Then a gentle kiss on the lips, and then a firmer kiss, and a first timid meeting of tongues.

After what seemed an age, I sat up, still straddling her, and pulled my T-shirt over my head. I wasn't wearing a bra. I'd thought that far ahead. Our breasts pressed together, our nipples nuzzling each other, as I leant over her again for another long kiss. Her hands slowly came to life, and started to explore my back, then reached down to my shorts and cupped my buttocks. I could feel the heat of her as she parted her legs and thrust up against me, pressing me down into her. Still not a word. I broke the kiss, and climbed quickly off the bed, standing over her, holding her eyes in mine, as I quickly stripped off my shorts and pants. I didn't want to give her the time to change her mind, to dart off into the jungle like the scared doe that she was. Then I leant over her, untied the string at her middle and pulled down her shorts; she arched her back a fraction to help me. I took in the abundant black grove between her parted legs, and I was on her again, this time naked flesh against naked flesh, the whole length of us. She moaned as our mounds ground together, and as my hands lusted after her breasts I marvelled at my courage – I'd never done this with another woman before. And here I was, seducing a virgin. At least I presumed that she was also a beginner at this.

I headed South, my mouth nipping, nibbling, sucking, licking, first an ear, then her neck, then nipples, then taut young belly, then thighs, and the sea-scented cove between them. I parted her labia; her hands were in my hair. 'No,' she gasped, but her hands said 'yes'. My shoulders were under her thighs as I lapped between her arse crack and her cunt. I sucked on her clit as I plunged one, then two then three fingers into her. 'Yes, yes,' she moaned. She was nearly there already, the crashing waves outside drowning her noises to all but me. It was like an electric shock as her heels dug into the bed and her hips jolted up, and her thighs spasmed around me ears, gripping my head like a vice. I must have come at the same time – I'd never realised that giving pleasure could give so much pleasure!

Our breathing calmed down, and I came up to lie beside her. She turned to me and whispered, 'O thank you. That was so good.' I kissed her; I wanted her to taste her own cum on my lips. She reached down to me, but I held her to me and said, 'It's all right, I came too.' Then I confessed, 'I've never done this before, with another woman, I mean.' She giggled, and with her doe-look, she said, 'My cousin and I used to do this back home, but I've never felt like this. With Kiran, it's never like this.'

Three more days of this; I'll be orgasm-drunk, I thought.