The wind was in the east, scurrying down the narrow streets of Old Havana, swirling colorful tourists like autumn leaves from the Plaza down the alley. The small bar captured an eddy of humanity. He sipped his drink, letting the taste of the rum slide over his tongue, the tartness of the mint puckering his cheeks. Girls in bright dresses fluttered like tropical fish in the tide, chattering like finches. Three girls caught his eye and he lifted his head. Tourists, one in a wide red skirt, white cotton blouse and large dark sunglasses, gesticulating towards the square. The second shook her head, plucking at a pleated tube dress over pointed breasts, her face hidden in a deep straw hat. The third girl had seen him lift his head and her eyes whipped over him like a hawk seeing movement in a thicket, like a snapper seeing a fisherman on the rocks.
Dark eyes flashed under a tight straw hat, blonde locks tangled around a mouth where laughter lay shallow like a bubbling brook. Her indrawn breath tightened the blue striped top over an ample chest, showing off the strap of her bra in the deep cleavage. She turned into the bar, calling over her shoulder to her friends, and he caressed her figure with his eyes, taking in the lean, muscular flanks, the sweet peaked belly above her supple hips. Tight striped pants encased, outlined supple legs that twined as she sat down, gestured to her friends, laughed at their protests.
The girls pointedly ignored him and chattered about the functional décor, laughed at a message on a telephone, prodded each other about some acquaintance. He caught a few words that confirmed what he had thought: only French girls would have such total confidence in their sexuality.
His phone camera caught the moment when their drinks arrived in the trademark mason jars, and he watched as she stood up to take a picture of the drinks, throwing remarks to her friends. As she bent to frame the photo her cleavage showed the weight of her breasts, and she shifted her weight, opening her legs in a delicious revelation of the width of her hips, and his phone clicked again.
He looked at his photo as she sat down, and he watched the girls chatter over her photo and whom it should be sent to.
He finished his food, called the waiter for the bill, and scribbled a note: “Thank you. Please feel free to copy this if you wish.”
The waiter passed the phone and the note to the girls, and for a moment they were still, then the others looked at him. Laughter erupted again, and he smiled as she tapped at his phone, then passed it back to the waiter.
He finished his drink, bowed to the girls, and walked down to the harbor. A half hour later his phone pinged. The message was one word: “Why?”
The originator showed a name: Marie. He replied: “Homage to beauty needs no justification.”
Sunshine glittered over the rooftops the next afternoon as he handed his paperwork in to the port captain’s office. His phone pinged: A message. From Marie. A photo: A mason jar with a mojito. The one she had taken the previous day. He replied: “In 30 minutes.”
He waited ten minutes before she breezed in, looking as if she owned the place. She wore a white linen suit, cut as the striped outfit had been, but if anything more daring, showing skimpy underwear as she moved.
He rose and bowed, asking: “The same as yesterday?”
She nodded and he gestured to the waiter. She smiled at him, a little unsure about what to say, so he said it for her: “Even more beautiful than I remembered. Thank you for the suggestion, mademoiselle.”
She laughed delightedly, and asked: “You know that I am French?”
He smiled back. “I could not fail to draw that conclusion. I have lovely memories of Paris, but your accent suggests the north. Normandy, perhaps?”
She pouted. “Dunkirk, if you must know.”
For half an hour they spoke of France, of this and that, of the weather and the world. Then he stood up. “May I interest you in a view of the old harbor? A history lesson, perhaps?”
She nodded. “History is important. I used to have a history teacher. So serious, and so charming.”
The battlements of the old fort were almost deserted at this hour, and afforded some shelter from the east wind. He pointed out the careenage, the old forts, the ruins left over from the pirate attack of 1775. She nodded and leant back against him, safe in the angle of the old walls. His right hand went to her hip, drawing the lushness of her body against him. She followed, granting him permission, and his hand flowed to the softness of her belly, feeling the tightness of her muscles, caressing her as her right hand reached back to Van Escort catch the back of his head, drawing his face into her neck. A soft sigh escaped her as he nibbled her ear, then he kissed her neck.
A sage had once remarked that a kiss on the jugular vein went straight to the brain. She relaxed against him, reaching for his other hand, drawing it up, under her top, under the skimpy bra to find the heavy elasticity of her breast. He found her erect nipple as her lips found his, and she rocked back against his growing erection.
His right hand eased down over the tautness of her belly, finding the slight roughness where she had shaved, teased the neatly trimmed patch, discovered the beginning of her mount.
He whispered into her ear: “May I pleasure you?”
Her slight moan as he found her clitoris was answer enough. She rocked again against him, rubbing against him, holding his mouth to her neck, trapping his hand on her breast. His fingers traced the softness of her vulva, stroking the tiny erection, circling her opening. Her breathing was becoming ragged, and she released his hand on her breast to open the button on her pants. He stopped her hand searching his buckle, and instead guided it behind him to grip his hip, drawing him tighter against her.
She had begun to ride his hand now, rhythmically rocking, seeking the caresses of his fingers, trying to drive them deeper against her. For long moments he teased her, avoiding her sensitivity, then plunging into the warm, slick opening that offered itself to him.
She arched her back, gasping to the skies: “Mon Dieu, that’s good. Just so. Oh my… and again!’
He sought to hold her on the peak where her body bucked against his hand, but she squeaked, laughed shakily, and whispered: “Enough, now. Enough.”
For long minutes he held her tight, her body still moving softly, her vulva rubbing against his finger, then she half-turned and embraced him. Her lips were soft and warm. “I leave tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Air France leaves in the afternoon. And I also leave tomorrow. But we have the night.”
She held back. “How so? You are also flying out? Perhaps…”
He shook his head. “I wish. No, I am sailing. The wind is going to turn, see those clouds like tulips? They are the signal. When the trade wind return I can sail to the east, to carry out my research.”
At her insistence he pointed out his small sailboat in the harbor, and explained the research he was conducting for a book on pirates. She skipped along the harbor wall, then pirouetted. “So cute, your little boat. May I see her?”
He smiled at the sight of her slender form, dancing in the wind. “Of course. May I invite you to dinner on board? I see Ramon is back with what looks like a good catch.”
She inspected Ramon’s offerings. “That one, but we need oil and lemon.”
He looked at her intent face. “Olive oil I have, but lemon? Ramon, where would we find that?”
The grizzled fisherman was obviously captivated by the pretty face, and remarked: “Captain, your catch is as good as mine was today. I will send a boy with some lemons. But first I clean and fillet the fish. Wahoo is good for ardor. It is well known.”
Marie was intrigued by the boat, charmed at the clever arrangement of the galley, the tightness of the storage spaces. For a moment she rummaged among his spices, then sent him to get a fire going in the small barbecue in the cockpit.
Ramon’s messenger with three lemons got an eyeful when she emerged from the cabin, dressed only in a large canvas apron, her ample breasts swelling at the sides, and overflowing as she reached down to receive the fruit. He chuckled. “That boy is probably not going to sleep tonight.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Neither are you, mon capitaine. I couldn’t risk getting oil on my clothes, could I?”
He watched as she massaged the oil and lemon juice into the fillets, admiring the play of her shoulder muscles, the movement of her breasts under the apron. She grinned at him when he moved behind her to admire the swell of her hips, the abundance of her buttocks, then she handed the fish to him. “The rest is man’s work. And you are going to damage your trousers with that erection.”
While he busied himself with the tongs, searing the two fillets, she reached around him from behind and ran her hands down the planes of his chest, tested the tightness of his belly, and slid a hand into his waistband. The other released the buckle, and she eased his trousers down. The back of her hand grazed his throbbing cock, and she giggled as it jumped. “Careful now, you don’t want to get hot oil on him!”
He Van Escort Bayan frowned at her in mock anger. “This is subversion, I am sure! Why don’t you get us wine from the icebox? The glasses are in the top shelf.
A crisp Chilean chardonnay anticipated the rich flavor of the fish as the sun set, wrapping them in the sounds and smells of the old harbor. The noises of the city seemed remote as she moved into the warmth of his body.
He placed the last of the bones on the plate and sighed. “That was good. Now we need dessert.”
Her eyes danced on his face. “I think I can see what you had in mind. It’s going to be even better than the fish.”
She eased back on the bunk, releasing the straps of the apron. Her refilled glass was in her hand as she looked at him through heavy eyes. He brushed the apron aside, his eyes lingering on the beauty of her chest, the hardness of her large nipples. His lips found one, drew it into his mouth, nipped it with his teeth. She leant back against a cushion, sipping some of the chardonnay, enjoying the sensations as he handled her breasts. His tongue traced a line down her chest, pausing at her belly button, dipping into it and teasing her, then slid downwards. She moaned softly, and twined her fingers through his hair. Her legs lifted, opening her secret well to him, and she held his face well away as she tipped her glass, splashing cold wine into the uplifted chalice. Then she pulled him closer, groaning in anticipation.
He dipped his tongue into her vulva, savoring the sweetness of the vine and the vinegary taste of her body. She sighed against his mouth, thrusting and opening, sucking his tongue into her secret sanctuary. She shuddered, contracting against him, crushing him against her, then sighed and sank back.
“Ah, mon capitaine, you are a brave sailor. You have boarded and captured me. But I will resist, until you bring that cannon to bear. Let me have him.”
She grasped the hard erection, admiring it, softly sliding the skin back to reveal the purple head. “Ah, indeed a pretty sight. A dangerous weapon, I think. But is it loaded? I wonder.”
She felt the heavy balls, fondling them, playing with them. “The magazines seem to be full. Let me see…”
She kissed the head, slid a tongue over the rim, caressing the underside, until a drop of pre-cum emerged.
“Ah, yes, it is loaded. We must make sure…”
She engulfed him in her mouth, her eyes closed in total concentration. One hand went between his legs, caressed his balls, his perineum, circled his anus. She released him and giggled.
“Oh, so sweet, he jumps when I touch you here, at the… how do you say? Butthole?”
Her sparkling blue eyes, her total abandon and trust in him had him spellbound. Then she released him, a little breathless, and pointed outside. “Come, the moon is rising, let us enjoy the coolness. Bring your friend along, and maybe the wine?”
The sight of her derrière as she clambered naked up the narrow ladder made a pretty sight, and he hastened to fetch the bottle and a few cushions. She leant back, lifted a glass to be filled, and toasted the sunset. The moonlight in the tropical evening drew soft tones from the old stonework, painting the city in pale shades and enhancing the paleness of her skin. Soft sounds of water lapping, fishermen conversing along the shore, children playing provided a backdrop as she whispered: “So beautiful. A magnificent day, a wonderful wine, a fantastic city, and… and you, mon capitaine. What more can one ask?”
He was going to answer, but she held a hand. “Ah, yes, I know. Your friend is also in need of some coolness. Wait.”
She filled her mouth with the wine, then engulfed the half-hard penis, laving it with the coolness, sucking the liquid around the head. She was beautiful, her naked body stretched on the bench, her breasts hard and pointed, her legs curled beneath her. He cupped her face, caressed her head, drew his fingers through her springy hair. The lights reflecting off the water glinted in her eyes as she looked up.
“”You are a well-trained one, aren’t you? To hold out so long? But I do want you to warm my pussy too.”
He leant over her, reaching to stroke the long muscles of her back, the wide hips and springy buttocks, then his hand dipped into the valley, touching and playing with her anus, then dipping into the warm wetness of her pussy. He stroked it from front to back and back again, then circled her clitoris.
“Shall we go inside? Or do you want me to make you come here, greeting the moon?”
She laughed. “Give me to the moon then, mon capitaine. Offer my joy and Escort Van pleasure to the moon maiden.”
She leant back, his face found its way between her legs, raising them on his shoulders, and he licked her pussy again, then sucked on her clitoris. His one hand played with her breasts, the other found the wet opening, and a little finger probed her anus. She jumped against him, surprised at the unexpected addition.
“Mais quoi… Monsieur, you are a vilain! A naughty man. To surprise a girl with a finger there… But don’t stop now. I am going to….. Ahhhh, there, just keep on…”
He found a nipple, twisted it, tweaking the sensation into the orchestra that was her orgasm, providing the high notes to trigger the crescendo. She cried, held a hand against his head, thrust her pelvis against him, and came, and again, and again.
She sank back against the coaming, spent, catching her breath, and he went into the cabin, then came and tucked a blanket around her. She smiled thankfully and stayed there, breathing deeply, savoring the night, the last echoes of her pleasure, the peace and happiness in her body.
He reached up a class of rum with a slice of lemon in it, and she shook her head. “A man like this, who will believe me? Ah, and he is making a snack. No, monsieur, that is not for you to do. Let me…”
She pushed him out of the galley, bustled about with the blanket folded over her shoulders, and he sat and appreciated the bare bum twinkling under the fringe of the tribal weave. The tartness of the gherkins against the cheese, the texture of the bread revived him, and then she crawled up on the bunk, crawling up along his body, capturing the penis on the way. She pressed her weight on him.
“As I was saying when I was distracted some time ago, you spoke about the guns of a fort and a ship being fired off in a salute, and to show that they are not enemies. But here, mon capitaine, we have a gun that has not been fired yet. Maybe this is a sign of an enemy? Perhaps there is evil being planned? I have to investigate.”
She kissed him, her eyes intent on his, her fist slowly pumping the erection.
He had had enough stimulation, and the movement of his hand signaled his intention to her. She moved up, straddling him, then eased him into her.
“Ah, yes, definitely hostile. I can see… oh, he twitches! I love… Ah, again, and there…”
He grinned at her incoherence, found a way to push a finger against her clitoris, and reached his other hand to hold and caress a hip. Then he could hold no longer against the caresses of her most intimate muscles, and he exploded into her, flooding her. His body spasmed as he thrust into her as deeply as he could and she came with him, moaning softly.
She sat still, still impaled on the softening penis, smiling down at him. “As monsieur has seen, the enemy has been vanquished. France wins again. What a victory!” Then she collapsed on his chest, taking his face between her hands and kissing him.
They spent a long, intimate hour talking of her work as interior designer, her struggle with impersonal modern items that only seek to demonstrate the wealth of the client. “Ma foi, you have not seen the like! An old piece, built and kept with love over three generations, thrown out and replaced with a chrome and glass item that hurts the eye, and will be out of fashion next year. What is one to do? But if the client wants…”
He laughed with her. “Maybe I should engage you to redecorate the boat? I am not sure we can find glass and chrome pieces here to replace everything…
She beat a small fist on his chest. “You are making fun of me! I will haul your keel… how do you say?”
Their playful wrestling deteriorated into a long, slow love making, both of them working to bring the other to the edge of an orgasm, hold them there, and eventually, softly, gently, pushing them over the edge.
She was cleaning up the galley, putting away the last utensils after having made him a real French omelet, to ‘put some strength into you, monsieur, you never know with pirates’ as the claxon of the old Chevvy Impala sounded on the waterfront.
“Ah, my friends, they hurried to find me, perhaps they are worried that they will have to pay my lodging. Do not make long greetings, mon capitaine, then maybe we are to meet again. But you will remain on my memory, be sure. Adieu!”
She blew a kiss, and was gone.
The city disappearing beneath her. Chantal was chattering something about the menu, but far below she saw the small white triangle of a sail in the deep blue of the ocean.
He trimmed the sail, and the little yacht lay over and creamed through the warm Caribbean waters. The sound of a distant jet drew his attention, and he saw the glint of an aeroplane, turning high overhead. He smiled at the memory, and looked in the logbook, where she had written: ‘You have my number. M.’