HELEN
Helen Sinclair sat at the small, wrought-iron rococo table on the quaint little café’s outdoor patio. The café sat perched above the harbour of Orleans, the capital of Saint Monique, an island in the French West Indies. From behind her fashionable sunglasses, her shapely legs primly crossed, she surveyed the vista below — colonial buildings, yachts, and sailboats moored at their marina docks, and the rich green foliage that cradled the harbour’s turquoise Caribbean waters.
Protected from the island sun by a sliver of shade and her chic, wide-brimmed hat, a soft late morning breeze gently flitted the hem of Helen’s cap sleeve minidress. She sipped her café au lait, beads of condensation beading her water glass, and glanced at the vacant seat across from her, her ear attuned for the sound of any cars or motorcycles approaching from the steeply inclined road out front of the café. Her cool exterior masked the nervous butterflies swirling in her tummy. She glanced behind her, checking to make sure her ‘date’ hadn’t arrived yet, before quickly inspecting her lipstick, makeup, and shoulder-length blonde hair in her pocket mirror.
At forty-eight, there would be streaks of grey in Helen’s immaculately coiffed blonde hair without the aid of a bottle. But with her brown eyes, full lips, fine symmetrical features, and elegant, statuesque figure, she remained, by any measure, a beautiful woman. In her career as a senior economist with Her Majesty’s Exchequer in London, she always arrived at her office looking well-dressed in expensive women’s business attire, consistently carrying herself with tasteful elegance, femininity, and a chic fashion sense. That said, and despite the unmistakable legacy of a posh, private boarding school background, there was always an understated but palpable sexiness about Helen. Exuding a heady blend of intellect and womanliness, her blouses were always just one additional button undone, the line of decolletage just a little bit deeper, the slit of her skirts just an inch or two higher, than what might be considered properly conservative, and men took notice.
Married for more than two decades, with two adult children, she remained an object of fantasy for more than a few of her male (and female) colleagues. One look at Helen was enough to convince admirers that beneath those expensive skirts, blouses, dresses, and tailored suits lay the finest in Perla lingerie and Gio silk stockings, and they weren’t wrong. Even into her late forties, her figure, boosted by a full, DD-cup bust, remained eye-catching. Indeed, despite her age, her child-bearing years in her rearview mirror, she maintained a slim, hourglass silhouette.
Sipping her coffee that lovely morning at the cafe, she mused about the events, both recent and more distant, that had brought her to the French West Indies. Having left the civil service at forty-five, and hoping to slow down, she had ‘put out her shingle’ as a consultant, only to find herself busier than ever as an advisor to governments and private equity managers across Europe and beyond. When an offer came to advise a private equity consortium in Orleans, she was intrigued – a twelve-week contract, interesting work, lavish accommodation, and manageable demands on her time. She and her recently estranged husband, James, a London barrister, both agreed that it would be an opportunity for her to get away, recharge, and reflect, whilst still maintaining her ‘brand’ and professional visibility.
Six months prior, Helen had been crushed by the discovery of her husband’s infidelity, James having admitted to an affair with his pretty young legal assistant, a relationship that had been going on for almost a year. The sexual nature of her husband’s betrayal was especially painful for Helen. Beneath the polished, corporate reserve was a tactile and loving woman. Her sex drive, always rather ravenous, had only intensified with age. Indeed, sex had always been like oxygen to Helen; denied, the mature English rose wilted on the vine. Suffering in silence for years through a largely sexless marriage to an emotionally distant husband — her husband all too frequently rebuffing her sexual advances in the bedroom — the revelation that he had been in a sexual relationship with another woman was doubly wounding. Living separately for the last six months, and despite James’s recent attempt at reconciliation, the future of their marriage remained very much in doubt.
Dropped off at Heathrow by her son the day before, she had embarked on her journey, connecting in Miami, before finally reaching her destination at Orleans. Provided with her own private handler at the airport, she was delivered to her temporary island home – a gorgeous, gated villa overlooking a private, white sand beach.
St. Monique’s reputation as the Caribbean playground of the rich was not undeserved. With its high-end hotels and resorts, Michelin-rated restaurants, designer boutiques, pristine beaches, and Cannes-like vibe, it attracted a cohort of tourists and investors with means. Those yachts moored in the harbour of Orleans often featured helipads, and the tony area where Helen’s villa was located boasted lavish properties and breathtaking views.
There were other facets to the island’s reputation, some decidedly more lascivious. Orleans’ nightclub district was known as much for its exclusive sex clubs, some invitation-only, as it was for its fashionable discos. Since the eighties, it had also been known as L’île de l’amour, a place where the well-to-do came to find sun, sand, romance, and sex.
A short walk down the narrow road from her villa was a charming little village of high-end shops, restaurants, cafes, and even a spa. With Helen opting to work mostly from the office space in her villa, Jean Paul, the consortium representative she’d dealt with directly from London, had given her two options – a car of her own for the duration of her stay, or a driver on call to escort her whenever and wherever she needed to go. Jean Paul highlighted the advantages of the latter, and Helen, preferring to avoid navigating the sometimes-chaotic island traffic, and its confusing network of roads, graciously agreed.
The following morning, she’d heard a knock on her door. Barefoot, still in just her short silk robe and panties, Helen shimmied over to the foyer and opened the door. Finding herself face to face with possibly the most attractive young black man she’d ever laid eyes on, she felt her throat tighten. It was as if the particles in the air had suddenly become immobile.
Her internal response was visceral, immediate.
Wow.
The tall young man standing before her, with male model looks, appeared to be in his early twenties. He proffered a dazzling smile and introduced himself.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair, I’m Devon, your assigned driver,” said the young man, pointing to the sleek black four-door Mercedes in the driveway. “I hope you’re settling in nicely. I believe you have my mobile number and email address, but I thought I’d stop by to introduce myself and let you know that I am at your beck and call, available whenever you need me, for drives, errands, even tours around the island.
Whenever Helen was upset, stressed, or befuddled, her posh accent became noticeably prominent. Slightly flustered from being so underdressed and a little taken aback by the young man’s intoxicating looks, her accent was at that moment positively Wycombe Abbey-esque. Maintaining her outward reserve, she quickly regained her composure, suddenly, and uncharacteristically for her, inviting the young man in for tea on her deck.
Dressed in form-fitting white trousers, Italian loafers, and a pastel-coloured polo shirt, Devon cut an impressive figure, exuding a quiet self-assuredness — short-cropped hair, strong jawline, dazzling smile, perfect teeth, and beautiful brown eyes. Tall, with broad shoulders and an athletic frame, he looked more like a male model, film star, or Magic Mike dancer than a chauffeur. Despite his obvious youth – almost three decades her junior, she reckoned – his looks and physique were matched by impeccable manners and engaging charm.
Sitting together on the patio, they engaged in a pleasant conversation over tea with lemon. Helen, legs crossed, clutched the front of her robe for modesty’s sake, furtively drawing down the hem of her short robe with manicured fingers, aware of the slightly indecent amount of exposed cleavage and thigh.
“Are you a born and bred islander, Devon?” she asked, noting his English accent.
“No,” he replied, explaining that he was a fellow Londoner, before going on to recount how he found himself living in St. Monique and working for the consortium.
Their conversation lasted close to an hour. When Helen asked Devon his age, and he answered that he was twenty-two, she was surprised to feel a warm flush on her cheeks.
“A year younger than my son,” said Helen. “The same age as my daughter.”
She found the young man utterly charming, not to mention distinctly agreeable to look at, determining then and there that having a gorgeous twenty-something black man at her beck and call was not a disagreeable situation.
Initially slow on the uptake for Devon’s services, over the next few weeks, Helen found herself relying on him more and more frequently. A budding attachment soon blossomed. She enjoyed taking breaks from staring at her office laptop to do a bit of shopping or run errands. Over time, and with the young man’s gentle persuasion, his services expanded to include midday trips exploring the island. More than twice Devon’s age, and technically his client, Helen secretly delighted in being the demanding older woman. But there was something more. Something upspoken. Something to that point she had denied to herself, at least consciously. He was, to her eyes, possibly the sexiest, most attractive male she’d ever met. Though professional lines were never crossed, the veneer of English reserve never breached, palpable sexual electricity crackled between them from the moment they first laid eyes on each other. Drop dead dishy, he oozed charm and quiet confidence.
He was also black.
Deep within the recesses of Helen’s sexual psyche simmered an intense attraction to black men, and the mature blonde invariably found her pulse quicken each time she sent Devon a text requesting his services. As a lovely connection flourished, a subtle but unmistakable tinge of flirtatiousness crept into their exchanges.
On one particularly pleasant excursion, Devon escorted her around several historic sights on the back of his motorcycle. Dressed in a short, pleated skirt and a low-cut blouse, she felt a delightful exhilaration as they bobbed and weaved through the frenetic two-lane traffic. Perched on the back of his motorcycle, Helen wrapped her arms around Devon’s taut midsection and held on tightly, her full bust pressed against his strong back.
Touring through a former island Governor’s Mansion, they walked together as part of a group of tourists accompanied by a guide. When they came upon the Governor’s master bedroom, with its elaborate eighteenth-century four-poster bed, Helen playfully tugged at Devon’s pinky finger.
“Such a lovely big bed,” she said with a mischievous smirk. “Seems such a waste. Shall we try it out?” Devon turned and gave her a surprised but knowing smile.
Immediately regretting her uncharacteristically risqué remark, Helen blushed to her roots.
Later that afternoon, riding along an oceanfront road that overlooked a succession of beaches, big and small, they had stopped for lunch, laughing and getting to know each other over French and Creole-fusion dishes and cool drinks. At one point, Devon pointed to a large billboard sign across the street.
Plage Madeleine, Au Naturel
Plage Naturiste
“That’s the entrance to St. Monique’s nude beach,” he grinned. “You won’t find many locals there,” he added. “The European tourists seem to like it, as do I, but hardly your style.”
“Oh, really?” replied Helen, affecting a mildly affronted tone. “And what makes you think I wouldn’t be game for that sort of thing, young man?”
“A lady. Posh.”
“I’ll have you know that this ‘posh lady’ has sunbathed in the nude in France, Spain, and Greece, numerous times. Shame on you for making assumptions.”
Devon’s sensuous mouth broke into a smile, clearly enjoying Helen’s teasing reprimand and feigning indignation.
“Another site on a future itinerary, then,” he teased.
“You really don’t think I have the nerve, do you, you cheeky young man?” she said, flashing a flirty smile. “Well, don’t be fooled by the Prada sunglasses and Burberry skirt is all I’ll say.”
“Careful,” he replied with a cocky grin.
Helen would often talk about her life and family back in London, though less about her estranged husband and the state of her marriage, and more about her children – her son, Julian, twenty-three, and Amelia, twenty-two. Devon confessed that, save and except for an uncle and his immediate family, he was an ‘orphan’ on the island, everyone else being back in the United Kingdom.
In short order, Helen became very dependent on her handsome young guide, their burgeoning connection growing ever closer and more familiar with the passing of days. Young Devon quickly succeeded in winning Helen over with his manners and charm, his intellect, his sweetness, and his delightfully understated sense of humour. And then there was that formidable sex appeal. A keen observer couldn’t fail to detect that, beneath Helen’s blossoming enchantment and maternal-like warmth, lay something less platonic, something that went beyond a cute, age-inappropriate crush. It was in their body language, Helen’s frequent excuses to touch Devon’s arm or hand, the way their eyes often met, the way their touch or eye contact lingered that extra moment.
Sexual attraction. Intense sexual attraction; carnal, interracial pheromones swirling.
As their rapport quickly evolved, another layer of complexity began to emerge. What began as playful but subtle flirtatiousness slowly but perceptibly progressed into something more overt. For the attractive matriarch, it went beyond an appreciation of Devon’s looks, and though loath to admit it even to herself, their time together quickly became the highlight of her day. When she was honest, when she found herself alone in her own thoughts – perhaps moments after he’d escorted her to her door — she would shake her head in self-mocking reproach.
You silly woman, you’re likely older than his mother. He’d be mortified to think that a woman approaching fifty might be smitten and thinking libidinous thoughts.
Still, after decades of suffering in an unfulfilling marriage, lurid daydreams about a gorgeous black man half her age were a welcome distraction, albeit a guilty one, for the sexually ravenous older woman.
Helen could be forgiven for being seduced by the idyllic sensuality of the island — its light, its fragrances, its rhythms, and energy. The island’s energy soon held her in its embrace, captivating her, heightening her senses, amplifying her desires. Post menopause, Helen’s sex drive had remained insatiable, and as her husband’s had waned, she had been forced to find alternative outlets – erotic romance novels, luxurious, candle-lit bubble baths with glasses of champagne and ‘self-care’, her fingers invariably slipping between her thighs, even sex toys and a spot of porn now and then.
Always going to great effort to please her husband in the bedroom, she enjoyed the way expensive lingerie made her feel feminine and sexy, even when, all too often, that wifely effort went unappreciated. So, perhaps owing to those prolonged periods of feeling rejected and undesired, Helen was keenly attuned to Devon’s unsolicited, masculine gaze. There was something in the way he looked at her – always discreetly – that made her feel truly sexy for the first time in years. Notwithstanding her looks and alluring figure, it was sometimes easy for a woman her age to feel slightly invisible to men. Understandably, and despite the conspicuous age gap, Devon’s appreciative gaze never failed to trigger a shiver of excitement in Helen or cause her mature honeypot to tingle. Her young black chauffeur had a way of making the older woman feel like the center of his attention, and it was intoxicating.
In the reverse, and with similar stealth, Helen’s feminine gaze was frequently fixed upon her young attendant’s Adonis-like form. The way his white shorts or light coloured chinos hugged his tight behind sometimes prompted the older woman to press her teeth to her lower lip. And the way he filled out the crotch of his pants led her to suspect that, at least in Devon’s case, the myth about black men may indeed be true. Nearly a virgin when she married, her husband was rather modestly appointed in that regard, and her feminine imagination sometimes wandered into lascivious territory when her thoughts turned to her young chauffeur.
Me thinks my handsome young minder might have a very big dick.
With no need to compensate Devon for his services in terms of salary or money, Helen began repaying his kindnesses and dedication by tipping him handsomely, paying for his meals, buying him expensive gifts — cologne, a Swiss watch — even having him fitted for a tailored suit. On one special occasion, she’d treated him to dinner at a restaurant that was decidedly romantic in terms of its ambience, even awkwardly so, given their relationship and the gap in their ages. That evening, she’d dressed in a low-cut summer dress, open-toed heels with ankle straps, and pearls – the former drawing attention to the way her push-up bra accentuated a rather deep line of décolletage.
Helen knew the island’s reputation. She knew St. Monique held a special allure for older white women from Europe and the United Kingdom; women of means who came hoping for romance and a sexual dalliance with one of the island’s virile black men. Devon had not been immune to their charms. When they were together in such instances, she was keenly aware of the assumptions those around them were likely to make. Regardless, when Devon placed his large hand on hers from across the table to emphasize a point in their conversation, his touch lingering just a bit longer than was necessary, Helen felt another little shiver of excitement. And when he escorted her to her door that evening, her head still buzzing from the wine, conversation, and the effect his beautiful eyes and smile had on her, there had been a pregnant pause of prolonged, slightly awkward silence. Eventually bidding him goodnight, she’d softly and affectionately drawn her hand across his cheek. The gusset of her lacy panties, by then, was more than a little moist.
DEVON
Devon Taylor parked the consortium’s black Mercedes in the parking lot of the café where he and Helen had arranged to meet that morning. He glanced at the time on the gold watch she’d bought for him. He was a bit beyond fashionably late, but it was his off day, and he wasn’t on the clock. He was allowed to keep the car even on his days off in case he needed it for a client. He sat there and collected his thoughts, which centered on Helen.
Educated in England and France, fluent in French, passable in Italian, Spanish, and German, and despite his academic achievements, Devon had been destined for a professional football career before a devastating knee injury precluded all ambitions of a life on the pitch. When an uncle in the French West Indies suggested he sojourn there for a time to lick his psychological wounds and consider his options, he jumped at the opportunity. Later, after obtaining his chauffeur’s license, he’d landed a position with Jean Paul’s consortium.
To maintain his fitness level and speed his rehabilitation after his career-ending injury, he began frequenting his uncle’s exclusive men’s gym and social club. One afternoon a year prior, after a workout, he stood under one of the communal shower’s large square shower heads, his hands pressed against the dark grey granite walls, the water cascading over the contours of his sculpted frame. Turning his head, he’d noticed a man – in his early fifties, he guessed – casting more than a few glances in his direction, endeavouring not to notice.
Devon was, as the women he bedded knew only too well, rather massively well-endowed, and it wouldn’t have been the first time a gay man, or even an incredulous straight man, gave him more than a second look in such a setting. Indeed, the size of the young man’s flaccid, circumcised penis was truly awe-inspiring — in both length and girth. From its root below a neatly trimmed patch of dark, tightly coiled pubic hair, his dormant sex hung down some eight or nine inches, handsomely shaped, as thick as a woman’s forearm. His feminine conquests, and there had been more than a few, especially since relocating to St. Monique, knew that the size of his erection was enough to strike fear in the horniest and most intrepid size queen among them.
For young Devon, when it came to sex, the world of women lovers fell into four camps. The first group was women who, young or older, were just too afraid to even try. For the second group, try as they might, it just would not fit, no matter how patient or gentle he was, either because their nervousness caused them to tighten up or because his penis was just too large. The third group of women, their curiosity and lust enflamed, was determined to persevere, despite the initial challenges and discomfort, and having their cervix repeatedly bumped. The fourth group, of which there had been very few – either nascent or confirmed size queens — practically salivated with the revelation of the thick anaconda between his legs, achieving a sort of dizzy euphoria during sex. These women simply could not get enough of his cock, despite his size causing them to walk and sit down somewhat gingerly for a day or two after sex. ‘Equus XXXL Extra-long Extra-wide’ brand condoms were a godsend, and he rarely went anywhere without them. Before that, condoms had been a nightmare, invariably tearing during sex. Turned on, terrified, or both, there was always that inevitable look of shock when a woman first laid eyes on his cannon of an erection – twelve inches in length and almost eight inches in circumference when fully aroused. One incredulous Canadian woman had dubbed it his “Pringles can”. In truth, as much a curse as a blessing, he had been highly motivated to learn how to use all that largesse, lest he be continually denied access to that hallowed spot between a woman’s thighs.
Changed and headed for the club’s exit that day, he was approached by the same man he’d spotted staring at him in the showers. The elegant-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair now wore an expensive, well-tailored suit, French cuffs, and cufflinks. Devon had sighed, fearing the worst, but as it turned out, he needn’t have been anxious.
The distinguished older gentleman had introduced himself as Laurent. He claimed to be an art dealer and the owner of several high-end art galleries on the island, offering the handsome young black man his card. Pointing at a gleaming Porsche parked across the narrow laneway, he asked Devon if he could buy him a drink, someplace public. With a knowing smile, the suave older gentleman assured Devon that he wasn’t gay, and that he might have a somewhat unconventional “business proposition” to make. Devon initially hesitated, but having nothing better to do that afternoon, ultimately agreed to hear the man out.
Over single malt scotches in an upscale men’s club, the smell of cigars, whiskey, and expensive cologne filling the air, the older gentleman took his time coming to the point. Starting their conversation in French, they eventually switched to English. Laurent’s initial line of enquiry made young Devon feel like he was auditioning for something, rather than discovering the details of any business opportunity. But the man seemed to have an innate ability to draw Devon out, and as they continued to converse, the tone of their conversation began to shift. In time, it became clear to Devon that he had passed the ‘audition’. It was then that Laurent made his pitch — Devon posing for his wife, a fashion photographer, at her studio, for a fee. Choosing his words, the man explained that outside of her work, his wife had a special interest in nude photography, and was always on the lookout for handsome male subjects … preferably attractive, preferably young, preferably black.”
Devon was taken aback, though hardly scandalized. This was, after all, St. Monique. Still, the young man remained lukewarm to the idea. Laurent sipped his scotch, eyeing Devon with steely blue eyes.
“I’m a bit of a hobbyist photographer, myself,” said the man with a sly smirk. “My new toy is a Steadicam. First, my wife would take some photos of you, and then … I would like to … film the two of you … together.”
Devon sipped his drink, shifted in his seat, and gave the man an uncertain look. He wasn’t sure he was ready for the hotwife scene.
That is, until the man disclosed the proposed fee, then took out his iPhone, and showed Devon a photo of his wife.
The woman in the photo, who looked to be in her thirties, was stunning, with a beautiful body, pert breasts, and long, auburn hair. Posed on a loveseat, with her thighs provocatively parted, she wore nothing but a bra, panties, and thigh-high stockings.
Devon’s young, high-octane libido eventually got the better of him, and he agreed to participate.
The man’s wife, who didn’t speak a word of English, was just as beautiful in person. Dressed in tight black yoga pants and an equally snug-fitting white Lycra tee, she was clearly taken with Devon. The young man spotted a small Queen of Spades tattoo on her right ankle.
Later, emerging from a change room dressed in nothing but a white robe, Devon had entered the main studio space, with its red-brick walls, studio lighting, large softbox, reflectors, and light stands. He noted a round, padded white dais about three feet high off to the side.
With her husband seated on the dais in his suit, the woman had playfully and seductively engaged with her young black subject, toying with several ideas for poses, gently directing him with her touch. When she politely asked Devon to remove his robe, Devon had confidently complied, revealing his punishably large cock. The woman had gasped, shocked by its ruinous dimensions.
“Ta bitte est enorme!” she blurted, wearing an expression of wide-eyed disbelief.
Later, having donned erotic masquerade masks, Devon and the woman lay on the dais in the nude, the woman’s husband circling them, silently recording events with his Steadicam.
“Prendre lent, ta bitte est enorme,” said the woman softly, her lustful, yet slightly nervous eyes peering at her black stud through the eyeholes of her mask; the mask, and her face, later drenched in thick streaks of Devon’s semen.
After a significant amount of time and several unsuccessful attempts, he was finally able to penetrate the woman with more than half of his cock. At times, she appeared as though she might pass out, completely overwhelmed; at other times, almost delirious with pleasure, panting and whimpering, in the throes of ecstasy.
There would be other women during Devon’s time on the island, other stories.
An older married woman from New York later swore to a girlfriend that she’d swallowed so much of Devon’s semen that, by the time she boarded her plane back to the United States, she’d gained weight. A woman from Stockholm had proposed marriage, threatening to divorce her husband until her adult children intervened.
Despite their initial fear and trepidation, women tended to fall in love with Devon’s cock, but they fell in love with Devon, the gorgeous, personable young man, the romantic soul, just as often or more. That said, there had been situations where Devon’s largesse proved to be a liability. Like the smitten film producer from Berlin who, upon discovering the size of his penis, was too frightened to have sex, no matter how gently persuasive or reassuring he was. Then there was the lithe, besotted nineteen-year-old trust baby from Madrid who, despite her lust, just could not handle the size of Devon’s erection. No matter how many times her tried, or how gentle his approach, he just could not fit it inside her.
The good-looking young black man genuinely adored older women and loved making them feel adored. He was often a wealthy white tourist’s first black man, and he strived to deliver on the sexual mythology. Still, older married women could sometimes present a unique challenge. In one instance, after having been neglected by her husband for years, a woman in her fifties hadn’t achieved an orgasm in almost a decade. Devon had managed to best that challenge, recalling how, as he’d held her in his arms, post-coitus, the woman’s eyes had filled with tears of gratitude, so grateful was she for being able to feel like a sexual being again. Though a bona fide ladies’ man, in that he genuinely adored women, especially white women, when he was honest, he had never allowed himself to become emotionally attached.
Helen was thus a revelation, and his intense feelings for her had caught the young Casanova off guard.
Devon sat there in the air-conditioned Mercedes, the Caribbean sun beating down on the black leather interior through the windshield.
How did this happen?
The twenty-two-year-old pondered his predicament, ruminating on how he’d come to feel the way he did about Helen, a woman more than twice his age, though admittedly beautiful. Against his better judgment, Devon had allowed himself to become emotionally involved, a clear breach of his own personal modus operandi when it came to dating and relationships. There had been other older women, often quite attractive, but Helen was different. There was something regal about her — polished, lady-like, so alluringly feminine, so sexually captivating. She was beautiful, articulate, extremely bright, and effortlessly sexy in such an authentic way. Indeed, despite her years, her posh accent, and somewhat reserved demeanour, she positively exuded sex to the young man. Devon had found the heady cocktail irresistible. Two years older than his own mother, he had never wanted to fuck a woman so badly in his life. Precisely the reason, he recognized soberly, that he needed to proceed with caution.
Devon sat in the cool confines of the Mercedes for a good ten minutes before finally stepping out and making his way to the café entrance; the hot, late morning sun already beating down on the back of his neck. Fashionably dressed in white shorts, taupe loafers, and a short-sleeved, coral-coloured shirt – the loose-fitting short unbuttoned to reveal a ‘V’ of strong, broad chest — he stepped into the shaded entranceway. The pretty front-of-house girl recognized him straight away. Beaming, she flashed Devon a coquettish smile as he approached.
“There’s a beautiful blonde English lady on the patio,” said the young woman. “She looks a little lonely. Don’t suppose she’s waiting for you …” A glimmer of Devon’s mega-watt smile formed on his lips.
“Well, we can’t have that,” he replied from behind his dark, Tom Ford sunglasses, his smile and smooth, masculine tone making the young woman melt from behind her stand.
“She’s way too old for you, just sayin’. Call me sometime?” she said in a hopeful voice as Devon passed her on the way to the patio.
The handsome black man turned and, without breaking stride, blew her a kiss.
“For sure.”
Once outside, he greeted Helen as she sat at her table, gently squeezing her hand before taking the seat opposite.
“Hello, you,” she said with a warm smile.
“Hello, you back,” he replied, noting her ubiquitous red lipstick, chic hat, the sunglasses reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn, the way her dress accented her full bust and comely legs. His mind’s eye briefly imagined those sensuous, glossed lips stretched around the head of his colossal python of a cock.
When he’d invited her for coffee that day, his day off, it had felt to both like their first official ‘date’.
They fell into an easy conversation, punctuated, as always, with playfully flirtatious banter. This time, the air practically crackled with sexual tension, the hot electrical current of their unspoken carnal thoughts and feelings.
The young man always delighted in making the beautiful blonde giggle with his dry humour, and before long, Helen was carefully wiping laughter-induced moisture from the corner of her eye.
“So, young man,” said Helen, reaching out with her napkin to wipe a speck of croissant from his lip, “can we spend the day together?”
Does she know how it makes me crazy when she does that?
“That was my hope,” he replied.
He then decided to throw caution to the wind.
“It’s such a gorgeous day,” he said. “It’s midweek, the beaches won’t be as busy today. If you were in the mood for something a little different, I thought we could try out Josiah’s Bay.”
“Isn’t that the nude beach?” she asked, the inflection in her voice rising.
Devon nodded.
“The one and only,” he replied as nonchalantly as he could. “It might be fun. It’s tranquil, bit of a Zen atmosphere. The people are all legitimate naturists – very cool, very respectful. No pressure, of course, just one option of many. And only if you think you might enjoy it. You mentioned before the nude beaches you’d been to in Spain and France.”
Devon suppressed a smirk from forming at the corners of his mouth.
Given the way he felt about Helen, he decided that it would be better to know her reaction to ‘it’, the figurative elephant in his pants, sooner rather than later.
HELEN
Helen was genuinely taken aback by Devon’s invitation, feeling a swirl of butterflies in her tummy.
Despite her previous feigned indignation and bravado, she’d lied about ever having been to a nude beach before. Once, during her university days as a young woman, she’d acquiesced to skinny-dipping at night during a trip to Greece, but that was with her boyfriend at the time and two other girls. That was the extent of it, and that was almost thirty years ago.
She pondered how young and gorgeous his body likely looked in the nude – all flawless, taut skin and sculpted physique – as compared with her own. The imperfections beyond the age lines around her eyes that she could mask with make-up, the little beachheads of cellulite that were increasingly impossible to ignore, the legacies of age and gravity.
She was both a bit rattled and genuinely intrigued.
Woman, life is short. The stars are offering you up a bit of serendipity and playful hedonism. Tragic to turn away from that. How often does a married Londoner in her forties get to frolic on some pristine Caribbean beach in the nude with a handsome, twenty-two-year-old black stud? Cellulite or no cellulite.
Helen took a sip of her coffee, primly tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Alright,” she said, as nonplussed as she could, her tummy still all swirling butterflies. “You sold me on ‘tranquil, Zen-like atmosphere’. I could use a bit of that.”
“Lovely,” replied Devon, his even tone hiding his genuine surprise.
He drove Helen back to her villa to change, telling her that he’d be back in an hour to pick her up.
“I’ll take care of everything we need,” he said.
He returned, wearing a form-fitting black t-shirt, matching black shorts, and leather flip-flops. The snug-fitting t-shirt accentuated what looked to be a broad, muscular chest.
My goodness, that is one sexy-looking black cub.
In the backseat sat a beach bag with towels and sunscreen, as well as a small cooler with pate, soft cheeses, almonds, grapes, and a bottle of semillon-sauvignon blanc.
Helen smiled, genuinely touched by the effort he’d gone to.
Her big floppy sun hat still covering her blonde hair, she wore a deep plunge, sleeveless, V-neck tank top in a pretty pink, a short, lavender sarong wrapped around her womanly hips. The form-fitting, low-cut tank top, combined with her trim tummy, made her bust look even larger, and when she sat in the car, the slit of her sarong opened all the way to her hip, exposing her tanned thigh, as well as the waistband of her white thong panties.
They parked in a lot just across from the entrance to the beach, a narrow one-lane road separating them from the thick foliage framing the entranceway and path to the secluded, white sand beach.
Large beach bag in hand, Devon removed a disassembled beach umbrella from the trunk, then, ever the gallant gentleman, placed his large hand against the small of Helen’s back. Checking in both directions for oncoming traffic, he gently led her across the narrow street with his hand. She felt a tingle of excitement in her tummy, her face and throat flushing from his protective male impulse.
They meandered down the sandy, tree-lined path towards the beach, passing a sign that read, “Clothing-optional beach: You may encounter nude sunbathers beyond this point”. Helen pressed her teeth to her lower lip, trying to steady her case of the jitters.
A half step behind Devon, Helen admired the way the young man’s tight t-shirt hugged his strong back, exposing his muscular arms, emphasizing his narrow waist. The back of his shorts suggested the tightest of drool-worthy young asses.
An inner voice whispered in her ear.
You want to so badly to slip your hand in his.
All at once, they emerged from the path into an expanse of flawless white sand, kissed at the shoreline by the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea. Helen marvelled at how exquisitely beautiful it was, struck by the relative silence, at first the only perceptible sound being the soft ocean breeze fluttering the palm leaves above their heads.
True to her young suitor’s word, the beach was incredibly tranquil, the vibe distinctly hedonistic, serene, and unobtrusive. Several dozen nude sunbathers, lying on their beach towels, were scattered across the flat expanse of sand and down a decent stretch of beach. Different ages and body types, couples, and singles. A few stood or splashed around in the crystal-clear water.
“This is lovely,” said Helen in earnest, trying to adjust to all the flagrant public nudity, still feeling rather timid and tentative about her first nude beach experience.
They settled on a spot towards one end of the beach, between the tree line and the shore. Devon dutifully set up their umbrella, then spread out their towels and belongings. Helen seized the opportunity to sashay down to the shoreline, her shoulders and one exposed thigh caressed by the hot sun, a gentle breeze flitting the thin fabric of her sarong. Having cast off her sandals, she let the bathwater, warm water lapping at the shoreline, kiss her feet, a delicious reprieve from the hot sand.
Turning, Helen began ambling back, the sunbaked sand squeezing through her toes, just as her young companion removed his t-shirt. From behind her dark sunglasses, Helen’s eyes were riveted to Devon’s exposed upper torso, pectorals, and shoulders that looked like they had been fashioned from smooth, ebony marble, the midday sun dancing across the contours of his washboard abdomen. She thought she might swoon. But when her twenty-two-year-old chauffeur matter-of-factly slipped off his shorts, the mature blonde felt positively light-headed, forced to suppress an audible gasp and an impulse to cover her mouth with her hand …
Oh, my god.
Presented with the sight of what was easily the largest penis she’d ever seen, Helen almost stopped dead in her tracks. She felt her face and throat flush, felt her throat tighten.
It wasn’t big or large. It was enormous. Obscene. Absurd.
The sight of it prompted a swell of warmth between her thighs.
Devon’s flaccid, circumcised sex hung thickly between his athletic thighs like a pliable, dark-skinned python, swaying heavily as he moved, capped by a huge head. Shocked, she quickly averted her eyes, only to notice the couple closest to them stealing glances in Devon’s direction. Helen swallowed and carried on back to their towels.
“The water’s wonderful,” said Helen, trying desperately not to sound flustered. Her voice sounded tremulous, slightly higher in pitch than normal. Trying her absolute best to downplay the awkwardness of the moment, she strove to maintain a level gaze. He returned her smile, donning his sunglasses, standing confidently, and scanning the beach. The size of his penis stole focus from what was otherwise the kind of Chippendale’s body hordes of screaming women threw money and panties at during a girl’s night out at a male strip club.
Somehow, maintaining their hyper-civil, English reserves, not acknowledging the obvious, only served to heighten the sexual tension.
“I’d forgotten how fabulous it feels to be nude under the hot sun,” observed Devon. “I think you’ll agree once you’ve doffed your kit.”
Helen placed her hand softly against the side of the young man’s narrow waist.
“On behalf of the world of women, we thank you,” she said with a gentle smile, still determined to remain somewhat taciturn. “I don’t mean to tease,” she added, “but you have an incredibly gorgeous young body. I have to say, the thought of exposing my matronly old figure to you is a bit daunting.”
“Don’t be silly,” he responded. “All shapes and sizes, yes? We’re naturists today. Besides, you’re an absolute stunner.”
Helen blushed, and whether he truly meant it or not, the young man’s sweet affirmation and kind assurance made her smile and squirm.
Feigning nonchalance to disguise her bashfulness, she began to shed her clothing.
Unwrapping her pretty sarong, she stood in her tiny lace thong, Devon eyeing the contours of her shapely, tanned bottom. She drew her tank top over her head, releasing her full, buoyant breasts. Slipping off her thong, she was grateful for having had the foresight to trim her pubic hair and get a base at a tanning salon back in London before she left. With the additional time spent on the deck of her villa in her swimsuit, she was mercifully brown, albeit with tan lines.
To steady her jitters, her quickened pulse from the sight of Devon’s massive sex, Helen forced herself to focus on the feeling of the sensual, enveloping warmth of the Caribbean sun upon her nude body, her breasts with their large pink areolae, the narrow, neatly cropped patch of blonde pubic hair between her thighs. She stood for a moment, eyes closed, feeling a flush of soothing calm. There was something quite liberating about being nude, even if she hadn’t yet overcome her self-consciousness or the shock of Devon’s reveal.
With the air of sensual, sexually charged nudity, the reality of Helen’s situation suddenly hit her and — ironically, given her husband’s wounding infidelity – she had to fight back feelings of marital guilt. She beat back those feelings with the weakest of rationalizations – it was all harmless, she was forty-eight, married, he was twenty-two, and nothing had happened.
Just a bit of harmless relaxation in the name of platonic, body-positive bliss.
Weak, because the reality of her present situation defined easy rationalizations. A married wife and mother in her late forties, she was sitting on a beach, in the nude, next to a young black man, also completely nude, who was blessed with a penis that would inspire envy in the most well-appointed porn star in the business.
In grappling with her feelings of marital guilt, Helen conveniently failed to acknowledge another reality – that her feelings for the young man now went well beyond the purely platonic. In her heart, she knew this to be true. Despite the inappropriateness of a twenty-six-year age gap, the sexually ravenous older woman was rapidly becoming more emotionally and sexually drawn to Devon than any man in her past. In her most private thoughts, the size of his penis, though intimidating in the extreme, was an incredible visual turn-on. Her lusty reaction to his endowment genuinely flustered her, forcing her to face her desires. She’d always convinced herself that she was more than content with her husband’s very modest size. But at that moment, she remained grateful for the discretion her dark sunglasses afforded her, fearful as she was of being caught staring at Devon’s enormous, dark-skinned sex. An inner voice once more whispered in her ear.
It’s huge! What would something that size feel like? Does it actually fit inside a woman?? Beggars belief to think that it might actually get even bigger. But it’s so gorgeous, so powerful looking. It’s as big as my forearm.
They both settled onto their towels. Devon lay back, propped up on one elbow, mostly shielded from the sun by their large beach umbrella. One leg bent at the knee, his staggeringly thick penis lay along his right thigh, almost double digits in length, a thick vein running along the heavy shaft. Helen sat up, knees together, arms wrapped around her shins, having doffed her big hat in favour of a fashionable-looking hairband.
An attractive, middle-aged couple smiled at the two of them as they walked past, holding hands.
“Why don’t you lie on your front, and I’ll take care of the back of you with sunscreen,” he said.
“Are you sure?” she replied. “That’s very sweet of you.”
Helen lay on her towel, arms at her sides, eyes closed, her breasts pressed to her towel, whilst Devon hovered above her, sunscreen in hand. Gently sweeping strands of hair from the back of her neck, he began covering her back, shoulders, and arms with the silky white liquid. His touch was slow, sensual, more like a massage. She practically purred. The touch of his large hands prompted her to press her lips together before releasing a soft, open-mouthed sigh. When he leaned forward to sweep another few strands of hair from the back of her neck, the tip of his penis inadvertently dragged across her wrist.
“So sorry,” blurted Devon.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she replied, her voice soft, her senses still privately reeling from the warmth of it, the sheer weight of it against her skin.
He moved on to her calves and the back of her thighs, softly but firmly kneading her soft flesh.
“Is it alright if I … take care of your bottom as well?” he asked a little sheepishly, Helen finding his use of the more polite term “bottom” adorable.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” she answered quietly, her beating heart contrasting with her languid body, as her young companion worked the silky lotion into the bronzed flesh of her bum with his large, strong hands.
“That feels marvelous,” purred Helen, adding with a smirk, eyes still closed, “No jokes about the size of my behind, young man.”
“Oh, please,” replied Devon, his fingers coming perilously close to the crevice of her bum. “You have a gorgeous bottom. Incredibly attractive.”
Helen couldn’t hold back a smile.
Her back done, she sat up, her large breasts heaving with her movements, before managing her front herself.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said with a serene smile. “You spoil me.”
She caught the young man stealing glances as she spread the lotion over her inner thighs, briefly tending to her exposed labia and breasts.
“Contrary to what white people might think,” said Devon, “black people need protection as well.” With that, he began tending to his own front, working lotion across his gorgeous chest and taut abdomen.
“Let me return the favour,” said Helen. “Lie on your front, sweetheart.”
Devon obliged, discreetly tucking his girthy cudgel between his thighs.
Free now to survey his young physique with immunity, the mature executive admired his sculpted back, narrow waist, and strong legs. His tight black behind was enough to make her want to reach for the mobile’s camera. Smirking at the thought, she lovingly went about applying the gooey lotion across his entire back half.
“You have such a strong back,” she observed.
Without asking, she squirted a generous amount of sunscreen in her hand and gently smoothed it across his gorgeous, taut behind. The silence between them, while she softly worked the lotion into his dark skin, was deafening. Her touch was tender, soft. With his legs slightly parted, she couldn’t help but spot the underside of his massive organ as it pressed against his towel, pinned between his thighs. Pressing her lips together, she observed a slight quivering in her hands.
Her loving labours done, Devon rolled over and sat up, just as the same couple from before approached from the opposite direction. As they neared, Devon returned his attention to his front, Helen peeking via her peripheral vision as he tended to his inner thighs. After tending to his nose and face, he quickly coated his scrotum and the girthy, nearly double-digit length of flaccid penis between his thighs, stroking the gooey liquid into the skin of his shaft with one hand, making his dormant horse cock glisten in the sun. He had just set the lotion down as the couple ambled past them, smiling in their direction.
“You make such a lovely couple,” said the woman. Helen blushed, then thanked them for their kind words.
DEVON
Devon smiled as the couple passed, then grinned at Helen.
“Don’t we, though? Try not to be too horrified at the assumption.”
“Horrified?” she replied. “Quite the contrary, sweetheart – I’m incredibly flattered they could think we’re lovers. That I might have snared a young man as gorgeous as you.”
Caught a bit off guard, Helen’s response was heaven-sent, sincere, or not.
Since he’d first revealed himself to her, Devon had been quietly assessing Helen’s reaction. To that point, it had been a conspicuous non-reaction, so careful had she been not to acknowledge the oversized appendage between his thighs. Still, he had noticed her surreptitious peeks, and though they could have been entirely of the ‘wide-eyed disbelief and incredulity’ variety that he was accustomed to, he sensed a measure of sexual desire. He indulged himself in a momentary sexual daydream – those manicured fingernails of hers, digging into his arms as he slowly stretched her vaginal canal with his monstrous, twelve-inch erection.
Feeling an alarming swelling between his legs, Devon hurriedly shook off thoughts of sexual conquest, closed his eyes, and quickly focused on the most mundane, least sexual thoughts he could conjure. To his relief, his arousal abated. That is, until Helen sauntered down to the water’s edge to rinse the suntan lotion from her hands and fingers. Her curvaceous, middle-aged booty, the hourglass figure, the way her womanly hips gently swayed when she walked across the soft sand, fired his young loins. In truth, a woman like Helen was kryptonite to the young black stud. Elegant, white, feminine, exuding a mature sexuality. This was a woman who needed sex, he surmised. Not just wanted. Needed. Rather than a detraction, her age was a genuine turn on for the twenty-two-year-old.
Bending over to wash her hands in the turquoise water, he could just make out the tight folds of her labial lips.
I’d give anything to hit that. Stretch out that elegant white pussy.
Once more, he had to force himself to avoid arousal, closing his eyes, concentrating on his senses — the feeling of the sun on his body, the sound of the water gently lapping at the shore.
Unlike at the beach, his thoughts of Helen as he lay alone in his bed at night, the past few weeks were unrestrained. Stroking his immense shaft with both hands, his sexual imagination, his thoughts, were wanton and licentious; her lady-like cries and whimpers that his battering ram of a penis was far too big, unheeded.
Helen’s heavy breasts heaved as she made her way back to her towel, her large areolae distended and puffy in the sun. Accented by her chic hairband and fashionable sunglasses, and despite the small cesarean scar above her tidy patch of blonde pubic hair, Devon thought her nude body the picture of mature, feminine beauty.
The contented pair spent the next while nibbling on cheese and grapes and sipping chilled white wine from plastic cups. Sometimes chatting amiably, sometimes savouring the serene hedonism of the moment in silence, Devon felt a desperate desire to kiss his much older client, but he dared not.
“Care for a walk along the beach?” he asked, the wine buzz, combined with the heat of the sun, enhancing the sensory bliss of their bucolic, sexually charged idyll.
“That would be lovely,” she replied. “I’m feeling a little light-headed from the wine.”
As they approached the shoreline, Helen softly brushed sand from Devon’s tight behind. He turned and smiled, extending his hand to her.
She blushed, hesitated for a moment, then slipped her small hand in his.
Normally, the gesture would have been purely tactical on Devon’s part to woo some tourist, but with Helen, it was an impulse inspired by genuine emotion and passion.
Walking together along the water’s edge, Devon’s oversized penis swung heavily from side to side, slapping against his thighs. Two attractive young women of Devon’s age passed them heading in the opposite direction, both smiling at him, and casting quick, awestruck looks at his penis.
Helen’s young black chauffeur responded by squeezing her hand a little tighter.
Carrying on along the sandy shoreline in the nude, holding hands, planes of warm water lapping at their feet, they looked like an attractive, interracial Adam & Eve. At one point, in an expression of tender affection, Helen leaned her head against Devon’s brawny shoulder, caressing the flawless dark skin of his arm. Looking up, their eyes met, hers filled with sweet adoration.
Oh, Helen, I think you’re falling in love with him.
After gushing over the sublime splendour all around them, the pair’s chatting turned flirtatious and playful. Helen began to verbally poke her handsome black cub with affectionate teasing.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible driver?” she giggled, friskily pinching his bum.
“Listen, you,” he responded with feigned indignation and a beaming, boyish grin.
Sweeping her off her feet, Devon carried Helen in his arms into the water, threatening to throw her in. She squealed with girlish delight, kicking her feet, her arms tightly locked around his neck.
Gently setting her down, the pair stood facing each other, catching their breath, knee-deep in the clear, calm water. Standing close together in silence, their eyes met once more, the gentle waves nudging them, causing their nude bodies to sway. Their silence belied the potent force of their mutual attraction. Oblivious to the other nude sunbathers on the beach, the sexual current between the eye-catching couple – the busty, middle-aged blonde and the young, horse-hung black Romeo — was palpable.
Once again, Devon had to restrain himself from leaning down and passionately kissing Helen on the lips. His impulse once more inspired his penis, swinging two-thirds the way to his knee, to twitch.
“I know it’s inappropriate of me to say this,” said Devon, “but I’m sure it’s painfully obvious that I’m crushing on you rather badly.”
Helen sighed, holding back from voicing her thoughts.
Oh, darling, please kiss me.
He fixed his eyes upon hers. When she momentarily looked away, Devon feared the worst.
“I’ve become … extremely fond of you as well,” replied Helen, causing the young man’s heart to beat in his chest.
With gentle waves of warm ocean water lapping at their knees, Devon moved in closer, gently lifting her chin with his index finger, and tenderly kissing her on the lips.
It was electric. Emotionally and sexually laden.
What began softly and tenderly quickly became more passionate. Devon sensed a hunger in his older companion, as Helen reciprocated in a manner that expressed a suppressed hunger, intense, sublimated sexual desire.
As she pressed the tip of her wet tongue against his, the forcefulness and passion of her kisses surprised and thrilled the infatuated young man. When the surface of Devon’s swelling horse cock pressed against the blonde thatch of public hair between her legs, Helen drew in a startled breath, first looking down at his monstrous organ, then up into his eyes.
“It’s so big,” she sighed, her voice quavering and faint. “I’ve never seen one anywhere near that large before. You truly take a woman’s breath away.”
Their kisses resumed — sensual, passionate — until Helen suddenly pressed her hand against the young man’s chest, breaking their embrace.
“I mustn’t,” she said, clearly processing a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings. “I’m a married woman, and you’re the same age as my children.”
At that moment, Devon feared that he had overstepped, carelessly creating an insurmountable barrier between him and the only woman he’d ever truly cared about.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice heavy with genuine regret. “Forgive me? I’m just so attracted to you.”
She took his hand in hers and tenderly pressed her lips to it.
“Please don’t apologize, darling,” she said. “You’re wonderful, and you’re an incredibly sexy young man. You must know by now that
I’ve developed intense feelings for you, and I’m incredibly sexually attracted to you,” she continued, her voice slightly despondent. “I’m forty-eight-years old. I’m a married woman. It’s my fault, not yours. I should have known better than to let my feelings for you get the better of me. In my defence… I’ve … never felt this way about anyone. But it’s wrong.”
Several moments passed before the two of them, in silence, began making their way back to their towels.
Devon took a measure of solace from the word “darling”, that it had been Helen who reached out to take his hand as they meandered back along the beach.
With late afternoon approaching, the sun began to traverse the horizon, the harsher light of mid-afternoon beginning to soften. Devon sat on his towel while Helen lay prone on her back, eyes closed. Looking down, he cast an admiring glance at her large breasts, resting at her sides, the delicious line from her waist to the crest of her hips, the shapely thighs. He found everything about her sexy, even the age lines at the corners of her eyes. He eyed the line of her delicate-looking labia, imagined tending to her pretty maidenhead with his tongue.
As the sun began to dip, and other sunbathers began to disperse, they decided to follow suit. They dressed, packed up their things, and made their way back to the car.
Later, as the Mercedes pulled into the driveway in front of Helen’s villa with Devon behind the wheel, he turned to her.
“Jean Paul is having a party at his property tomorrow night. A bit of a mix of guests. A catered event, dancing. There’s a pool and a hot tub. Can I bring you as my date?”
As they sat in the parked car, Helen tenderly petted the young man’s hand, lost in thought.
“I don’t think I can,” she answered, adding somewhat disingenuously, “the demands of my work are beginning to intrude on my free time.”
She looked down for a moment, choosing her words. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, distinctly feminine, soft.
“I think … I think perhaps we should spend a little less time together.”
“I understand,” replied Devon, eyes cast downwards, his tone respectful, though clearly hurting.
On the drive back to his oceanfront condo, Devon took stock of his emotions, pondered the events of the day, and the hold Helen now had on his heart. He could deny it no longer – he was falling in love with her. He felt lovesick, vulnerable, and confused — feelings he wasn’t used to or comfortable with.
END OF PART ONE
