HELEN
Helen Sinclair sat at the small, wrought-iron rococo table for two on the quaint little café’s grey-stone patio. The café sat perched above the harbour of Road Town, the capital of the British Virgin Islands, on the island of Tortola. From behind her fashionable sunglasses, 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 above her by a sliver of shade and a large chic hat, a soft late morning breeze gently flitted the hem of her light cotton A-Line dress. She unhurriedly sipped her Americano, beads of condensation beading her water glass, and glanced at the currently vacant seat next to 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 concealed nervous butterflies in her tummy. She glanced behind her, ensuring that her ‘guest’ had not yet arrived, then quickly checked her lipstick, makeup, and hair in her pocket mirror.
At sixty-two, Helen’s immaculately coiffed, shoulder-length hair was now an elegant silver-white. With her green eyes, full lips, and fine symmetrical features, she remained, by any measure, a beautiful woman. In her previous career as a senior economist with Her Majesty’s Exchequer in London, she had always arrived at her office well-turned out in expensive woman’s business attire, consistently carrying herself with tasteful elegance, femininity, and a chic fashion sense. Still, despite the unmistakable legacy of a posh private boarding school background, there was always a palpable sexiness about Helen.
In her dress, her blouses were always just one additional button undone, the slit of her skirts just a few inches more provocative, than what might be considered properly conservative, and men took notice.
Though married, and it was presumed happily so, with three adult children, she was an object of fantasy for more than a few of her male (and female) colleagues. One look at her was enough to convince her admirers that beneath those expensive skirts, blouses, dresses, and tailored suits, was the finest in Perla lingerie and Gio silk stockings. Even into her early sixties, her figure remained fetching. Indeed, with the advancing years, and her child-bearing years decades removed, her hourglass silhouette had only become more pronounced.
Her breasts, large even as a teen, had continued to expand to the present day, affording her ample opportunities for playful but tasteful décolletage. Emphasized by a narrow waist, wide hips, relatively thick thighs, and a curvaceous derriere, her figure was, in a word, voluptuous – fecund, though never overly ‘fleshy’.
Sipping her coffee that lovely morning at the cafe, she mused about the events – both recent and more distant — that had brought her there. Having retired from the civil service at sixty, 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 from a private equity consortium in the British Virgin Islands, she was intrigued – a twelve-week contract, lavish accommodation, and manageable demands of her time. She and her barrister husband both agreed that it would be a lovely opportunity for her to get away and recharge, while still maintaining her ‘brand’ and visibility.
Dropped off at Heathrow by her eldest son, she had embarked on her journey, connecting in St. Maarten, before finally reaching her destination at Road Town. Provided with her own private ‘handler’ at the airport, she’d quickly been delivered to her temporary island home – a gorgeous, gated villa overlooking a private, white sand beach.
A short walk down the narrow road from her villa was a charming little village of high-end shops, restaurants, cafes, even a spa. With Helen opting to work mostly from the office space in her villa, Nathan, the consortium representative she’d dealt with directly, 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. Nathan highlighted the advantages of the latter. Preferring to limit her driving and avoid having to navigate the sometimes-chaotic island traffic and its confusing network of roads, Helen graciously agreed.
The following morning, she’d heard a knock on her door. Still, in her short silk robe, she opened the door and found herself face to face with a very attractive young black man. The young man, who appeared to be in his early twenties, smiled and introduced himself as Devon, her assigned driver. Pointing to the sleek, black four-door Mercedes in the driveway, he provided her with his cell number, explaining that he would be at her beck and call, available whenever she needed him, for drives, errands, even tours around the island.
Still somewhat scantily dressed, she momentarily hesitated before inviting him in for tea on her deck.
Dressed in form-fitting white trousers, Italian loafers, and a pastel-coloured shirt, Devon cut a rather impressive figure — short-cropped hair, strong jawline, dazzling smile, beautiful brown eyes, and easy confidence. Tall, with broad shoulders and an athletic frame, he looked more like a male swimsuit model, film star, or Chippendales dancer, than a chauffeur. Despite his obvious youth – likely some four decades her junior – his looks and physique were matched with impeccable manners and an engaging charm.
They sat together on the patio, engaging in pleasant conversation over lemon tea. Helen, legs crossed, self-consciously but surreptitiously drew down the hem of her short robe with her manicured fingers, aware of the slightly indecent amount of thigh that was exposed.
“Are you a born and bred islander?” she asked, taking note of an English accent very similar to her own.
“No,” he replied, explaining that he was a fellow Londoner and recounting how he found himself living in the British Virgin Islands and working for the consortium.
Their pleasant conversation lasted close to an hour, and Helen found the young man’s company quite delightful, deciding that having a gorgeous twenty-something black man at her beck and call was not a disagreeable situation.
Initially, Helen was a little reluctant to take advantage of Devon’s services; however, over the next few weeks, she found herself relying on him more and more frequently, and the pair soon developed a burgeoning friendship. She enjoyed taking breaks from 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, which she enjoyed immensely.
On one particularly pleasant excursion, Devon escorted her around several historic sights on the back of his motorcycle. At sixty-two years of age, dressed in short shorts and a thin blouse, she felt delightfully exhilarated as they bobbed and weaved through the 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 house’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 naughty smirk. “Seems such a waste. Shall we try it out?” Devon turned and gave her a somewhat surprised but knowing smile.
She blushed, suddenly regretting her risqué remark.
Later that afternoon, riding along an oceanfront road overlooking several beaches, big and small, they had stopped for lunch. They laughed and shared stories over Creole-fusion dishes and cool drinks. At one point, Devon pointed to the entranceway to a white sand beach across the street.
“That’s Road Town’s nude beach,” he grinned. “You won’t find many locals there,” he added, “but the European tourists seem to like it.”
“Another site on a future itinerary?” she teased.
“Careful,” he replied with a cocky grin.
Helen would often talk about her family back in London – her husband, now approaching seventy, and her three children that ranged in age from her eldest son of thirty-two to her youngest daughter, twenty-three. Devon confessed that save and except for an uncle and his immediate family, he was an island ‘orphan’ – everyone else being back in the United Kingdom.
In short, order, as Helen depended on her handsome young guide more and more, the two of them became relatively close.
Young Devon had succeeded in winning Helen over completely with his manners and charm, his intellect, his sweetness, and his delightfully understated sense of humour. She quickly came to look upon Devon with a kind of maternal-like fondness.
In truth, their rapport quickly evolved, as another layer of complexity began to emerge. What began as a playful but subtle two-way flirtatiousness, slowly but perceptible evolved into something more overt. Was it possible that Helen, some four decades older, had developed a bit of a schoolgirl crush on young Devon? If so, it went beyond his looks, and though loathe to admit it to herself, their time together quickly became the highlight of her day.
When she was honest with herself, and she was whenever — moments after he escorted her to her door — she found herself alone in her thoughts, she would shake her head with a self-mocking smirk.
‘You silly woman, she would reprimand herself – you’re old enough to be his grandmother.’ She was quite sure Devon would be mortified if he knew about the existence of her, albeit harmless, crush. Still, after three and a half decades of marriage, it was fun to fantasize.
She could be forgiven for being seduced by the idyllic sensuality of the island, its light, fragrances, rhythms, and energy.
Postmenopause, Helen’s sex drive had remained insatiable, and as her husband’s had waned, she had been forced to find alternative outlets – for example, the latest erotic romance novel, accompanied by a luxurious bubble bath and a measure of self-care. She went to great effort to please her husband in the bedroom and enjoyed the way expensive bras and panties and stockings made her feel feminine and sexy, even if that effort often went unappreciated by her husband.
There was something in the way Devon looked at her – never crudely – that made her feel truly sexy for the first time in years. It was rather easy for a woman her age, voluptuous figure notwithstanding, to feel slightly invisible to men. Despite the conspicuous age gap, Devon’s appreciative gaze felt quite wonderful.
He made her feel like the center of his attention, and it was intoxicating. In the reverse, she’d certainly enjoyed discreetly casting her feminine gaze upon her young chauffeur.
The way his tight behind filled out his light-coloured chinos sometimes prompted her to bite her lower lip. 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 when her thoughts turned to her young chauffeur.
As there was no money transacted between them, Helen began repaying Devon for his kindness and dedication by tipping him handsomely, paying for his meals, buying him expensive clothes and cologne, a Swiss watch, even having him fitted for a tailored suit.
One evening, she’d treated him to dinner, at a restaurant that was decidedly romantic in terms of its ambience, even awkwardly so. She had dressed that evening in a low-cut summer dress, open-toed heels, and pearls – the latter drawing attention to the way her size 32GG push-up bra accentuated her rather deep cleavage. Still, when they were together in such instances, she remained quite sensitive to how they might appear to others. When the waiter brought them their aperitifs that evening, she thought she’d detected a slight smirk at the corner of the waiter’s lips. She imagined she wouldn’t have been the first older white woman from abroad, far from home, and temporarily freed from the responsibilities of husbands, families, and careers, to find herself a little black male ‘companionship’. That said, she was keenly aware of the assumptions she assumed those around them were made from such an unconventional ‘couple’. But when Devon placed his large hand on hers from across the table, she nevertheless allowed his touch to linger, feeling a private little shiver of excitement. When he’d escorted her to her door after dinner that evening, her head still buzzing from the wine, conversation, and his beautiful eyes and smile, there had been a pregnant pause of prolonged, slightly awkward silence. She eventually bid him goodnight by softly drawing her hand across his cheek. When she’d undressed later, she’d noticed that the gusset of her lacy panties was soaking wet.
DEVON
Devon Clarke 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 fashionably late, especially as it was his off day and he wasn’t on the clock. He was allowed to keep the car even on his days off, especially when he needed it for ‘clients’.
He sat there and collected his thoughts. Though Helen was completely in the dark as to what manner of client she was, she was certainly that. His role with the consortium was part headhunter, part facilitator, part gigolo.
Bottom line, he was there to seduce the women he was assigned to. The consortium was angling to offer Helen a permanent appointment, and his job was to keep her happy, very happy. If that meant sex, that meant sex. He didn’t normally feel guilt for the subterfuge, but in the case of Helen, he did.
Since he’d signed on a year ago, he’d been assigned to several older women, usually in their forties or fifties, a few married, a few not, always with the same goal. He adored older women, loved making them feel adored, and the sex was not unpleasant.
He was invariably their first black man, and he endeavoured to deliver on the sexual mythology. Still, married white women, after several decades of married life, could sometimes present a unique challenge. He remembered one instance where the client, after being neglected by her husband for years, hadn’t achieved an orgasm in almost a decade.
He’d managed to best that challenge, and he recalled how as he’d held her in his arms, post-coitus, tears streamed down the woman’s cheeks, so grateful was she for being able to feel like a sexual being again after all that time. He often genuinely liked his older female clients, but he never allowed himself to become attached emotionally.
So how had it happened, he asked himself as he sat there in the air-conditioned Mercedes, the Caribbean sun beating down on the black leather interior? How had he come to feel the way he did about this admittedly beautiful woman in her sixties? Against his better judgement, and despite her being three times his age, Devon had allowed himself to become emotionally involved. That was a clear breach of the arrangement. His other clients had been younger and often quite attractive in their own right, but Helen was different. There was something regal about her — polished, lady-like, and so feminine. She was beautiful, articulate, extremely bright, and effortlessly sexy in such an unassuming way. Despite her years, the posh accent, and the somewhat reserved demeanour, she positively exuded sex to the young man. Devon had found the combination irresistible. Though just twenty-two, he had never wanted to fuck a woman so badly in his life. Precisely the reason, he recognized, that he needed to proceed with caution.
He had been educated in England and France, was fluent in French, passable in Italian, Spanish, and German. Despite his academic achievements, he had been destined for a professional football career before a devastating knee injury precluded all ambitions of a life on the soccer pitch. When an uncle in the British Virgin Islands suggested he sojourn there for a time to lick his psychological wounds, he jumped at the opportunity.
Desiring to maintain his fitness level post recovery from injury, he frequented his Uncle’s exclusive men’s gym and social club. One afternoon after a workout, standing under one of the overhead nozzles of the communal showers, his hands pressed against the dark granite walls, he’d noticed a man – in his early forties, he guessed – casting more than a few glances in his direction. He endeavoured not to notice.
Devon was, it must be stated, rather massively 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 young man’s flaccid, circumcised penis was truly awe-inspiring — in length, thickness, and shape. From its root below a neatly-trimmed patch of dark, tightly-coiled pubic hair, it hung down some seven or eight inches, handsomely shaped, and as thick as a woman’s forearm. His feminine conquests, and there had been more than a few, knew that the size of his erection was enough to strike fear in the horniest and most intrepid among them.
For young Devon, the world of women lovers fell into four camps. The first group was women, young or older, who were just too afraid to try. For the second group, try as they might, it just would not fit, even after repeated, gentle and incremental attempts. The third group, their curiosity 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, achieved a sort of dizzy euphoria and simply could get enough of his cock, despite the sex causing them to walk and sit down somewhat gingerly for a day or so afterward. ‘TheyFit G3’ brand condoms were a godsend, advertised as the largest condoms on the market. He never 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 shock when a woman first laid eyes on his cannon of an erection – almost eight inches around and eleven inches in length, one woman had dubbed it his “Pringles can.” As much a curse as a blessing, he had been highly motivated to learn how to use all that excess, lest he be continually denied access to that hallowed spot between a woman’s thighs.
Changed and headed for the exit of the club that day, he was approached by the same man he’d spotted staring at him in the showers. The man now wore a well-tailored suit. He sighed, fearing the worst, but he needn’t have been anxious.
The man introduced himself as Nathan. He was associated with an island equity management consortium. Though he remained somewhat vague as to what his specific role was, he offered Devon his card, pointed at his gleaming Porsche 911, and asked Devon if he could buy him a drink, someplace public. With a knowing smile, he assured the handsome young man that he wasn’t gay, but that he might have a somewhat unconventional business proposition to make. Having nothing better to do that afternoon, Devon first hesitated then, shrugging his shoulders, agreed to hear the man out.
Over single malt scotches, Nathan’s initial line of questioning made Devon feel a bit like he was in the middle of an audition, rather than the reverse. But Nathan seemed to have an innate ability to draw him out, and as they continued to speak, the tone of the conversation began to change. After a while, it became clear to Devon that he had passed the ‘audition’. It was then that Nathan pitched the idea of work as a ‘male companion’ to wealthy older women visiting the island on business.
The money was impressive, as were the perks – cars, clothes, even travel. Not to mention, in all likelihood, and depending on the client, a great deal of sex. Lots and lots of sex.
“I’ve seen you in the shower,” noted Nathan. “With a cock that huge, you would be an acquired taste – a young, handsome, well-educated, well-mannered, and charismatic black man,” Nathan observed. “But with a cock big enough to make any woman tear the bedsheets with her teeth.”
In short, Devon did indeed go on to become one of Nathan’s stable of young men and women. There had been early wins and losses. Despite eating like a bird the entire time she’d spent on the island, a married woman in her fifties from New York had swallowed so much of Devon’s semen that she’d gained weight, before finally inking a lucrative deal with the consortium and boarding her plane back to the United States. A woman from Stockholm had proposed marriage, threatening to divorce her husband and abandon her children before Nathan was forced to diplomatically intervene. Women fell in love with Devon’s cock, but they fell in love with Devon just as often or more. That said, there were other situations where Devon’s largesse proved to be a liability, like the middle-aged heiress from Berlin who, as a promising contractual agreement with Nathan’s group was approaching the finish line, discovered the size of Devon’s penis, and was too frightened to have sex, no matter how gentlemanly, how gently persuasive and reassuring, he was. Happily, for Devon, the deal was untimely finalized just the same, despite the fraulein’s fantasy remaining unfulfilled.
Devon continued to sit 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. The front-of-house girl recognized Devon straight away.
Beaming, she offered him her most coquettish smile as he approached.
“Mrs. Sinclair is outside on the patio,” said the young woman, clearly besotted with the young black man before her.
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, her Audrey Hepburn hat, the way her fabulous yellow dress accented her heavy bust and comely legs. For a brief moment, he imagined those sensuous, glossed lips stretched around the head of his huge penis.
When he had invited her for coffee that day, on his day off, it had felt to both of them like their first official ‘date’, however unorthodox it might seem for a sixty-two-year-old woman and a twenty-two-year-old man to be out on a date.
Once again, they fell into easy and delightful conversation, this time the air heavier than usual with playfully flirtatious banter, the gravitas of unspoken thoughts and feelings. He always delighted in making her laugh with his dry humour, and before long she was wiping some 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, “what shall we do today?” Her gesture with the napkin felt to him both maternal and vaguely sexual.
He 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. Devon nodded. “The one and only,” he replied as nonchalantly as he could. “It might be fun. I’ve heard it’s a tranquil, Zen-like atmosphere. The people are all legitimate naturists – very cool and respectful.”
Given the way he felt about Helen, he determined 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.
She’d never done anything like that. Once, she’d acquiesced to skinny-dipping at night during a trip to Greece during her university days, but that was with her boyfriend at the time and two other girls. That was the extent of it, and that was almost forty years ago. She thought about how young and gorgeous his body likely looked in the nude – all flawless, taut skin and sculpted physique – than her own, with its patches of cellulite, matronly hips and behind, and the legacy of six decades of gravity. She was both somewhat horrified and genuinely intrigued. Life was indeed short, and when life offered up serendipity and playful hedonism, would it not be tragic to turn away from that, she wondered? How often does a married Londoner in her sixties get to frolic on some pristine Caribbean beach with a handsome twenty-two-year-old black stud in the nude? Cellulite or no cellulite, she took a sip of her coffee, primly brushed a lock of silver-white hair behind her ear, and responded as matter-of-factly as Devon had asked.
“Alright,” she said. “You sold me on ‘…tranquil, Zen-like atmosphere.’ I could use a bit of that.”
“Lovely,” replied Devon evenly, hiding his genuine surprise.
He drove Helen back to her villa to change, telling her that he’d be back in an hour. “I’ll take care of everything we need,” he said. He returned, looking as sexy as ever, wearing a short-sleeve black shirt, grey shorts, and leather flip-flops. 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.
She was genuinely touched.
Helen wore another big floppy sun hat, a snug, lavender-coloured cami-top, and a short, deep purple sarong. The form-fitting cami-top, combined with her relatively trim tummy, made her breasts look even larger, and when she sat in the car, her sarong opened at the side, exposing her tanned thigh to the hip, as well as the waistband of her lavender thong.
They parked in a lot just across from their destination, a narrow one-lane road separating them from the thick foliage of the entranceway to the beach. Devon removed a disassembled beach umbrella from the trunk then, ever the gallant gentleman, took Helen’s hand in his as he escorted her across the street, checking in both directions for oncoming traffic that often appeared out of nowhere. She felt a tingle of excitement in her tummy, her face and throat went slightly flush from his protective male impulse.
Still holding hands, they meandered down the tree-lined, white sand path towards the beach, passing a sign that read, “Clothing-optional beach: You may encounter nude sunbathers beyond this point.” Helen pursed her lips, trying to steady her case of the jitters. She felt her heavy breasts and curvaceous behind undulate with each step through the soft sand.
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. Helen marveled at how exquisitely beautiful it was and 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 young Devon’s word, the preternatural tranquility of the place overwhelmed her. The energy felt hedonistic, but also serene and unobtrusive. Several dozen nude sunbathers, laying on their beach towels, were scattered across the flat expanse of sand, 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, despite still being rather tentative with what was her first genuine experience with public nudity.
They settled on a spot towards one end of the beach, halfway between the tree line and the shoreline. While Devon set up their umbrella, then dutifully spread out their towels and belongings, Helen seized the opportunity to dip her feet in the lapping water. Having cast off her sandals, the water felt delicious after the hot sand of the beach. She turned back just as her young companion removed his shirt. Helen thought she might swoon. The young man’s pectorals and shoulders looked like they had been fashioned from smooth brown marble. His washboard abdomen seemed to flex as he moved. But when her twenty-two-year-old chauffeur matter-of-factly drew down the zipper of his shorts and removed them, she felt positively light-headed, presented as she was with the sight of the largest penis she’d ever seen in her life.
Devon’s flaccid sex hung thickly between his athletic thighs like a small boneless arm, swaying heavily as he moved. Shocked, she quickly averted her eyes, only to notice the couple closest to them staring in Devon’s direction.
“The water’s wonderful,” said Helen as she approached their towels, smiling at him in the most neutral way she could muster, consciously downplaying the awkwardness of the situation and avoiding looking down. He smiled back, donning his sunglasses, and scanning the beach as he stood.
“I’d forgotten how fabulous it feels to be nude outdoors,” observed Devon. “I think you’ll agree once you’ve doffed your kit.”
Helen affectionately placed her hand on the side of the young man’s waist. “On behalf of the world of women, we thank you,” she giggled. “I don’t mean to tease,” she added, pressing her head to his shoulder, “but you have such a gorgeous body. I have to say, the thought of exposing my matronly old figure in contrast 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, she desperately needed the positive affirmation. With a deep breath, she began to undress – first her sarong, then her cami-top, then her tiny thong. She was grateful for having had the foresight to get a base at a tanning salon in London before her arrival. With the additional time spent on her villa deck in her bikini, she was mercifully brown relative to her normal shade of alabaster, albeit with bikini tan lines.
She felt the warmth of the Caribbean sun envelop her nude body, her large breasts, and pink, saucer-sized areolae, the neatly-cropped delta of pubic hair between her thick thighs. She felt wildly hedonistic, and there was something quite liberating about it, even if she hadn’t yet overcome her self-consciousness.
The air of sensual hedonism, the reality of the situation, suddenly hit her, and she had to fight back feelings of guilt and betrayal, her husband and children back in London. She beat back those feelings with a rationalization – it was all harmless. She was sixty-two, married, he was twenty-two. Nothing has happened. It was just a bit of adventure in the name of platonic fun. In grappling with her feelings of marital guilt, Helen conveniently failed to acknowledge another reality – that her feelings for the young man now went beyond the purely platonic. In her heart, she knew this to be true. Despite the inappropriateness of a forty-year age gap, she found him very sexually attractive. The size of his penis, though intimidating in the extreme, was nevertheless an incredible visual turn-on. Her lusty reaction to his huge endowment surprised her. She’d always been quite satisfied with her husband’s modest size, but at that moment she was grateful for her dark sunglasses, fearful as she was of being caught staring at Devon’s manhood.
They both settled onto their towels. Devon lay back on one elbow, mostly covered in the shade of their beach umbrella, his huge sex laying along his right thigh, leg bent at the knee, while Helen sat up, knees together, arms wrapped around her shins. She’d doffed her big hat in favour of a fashionable-looking hairband.
A handsome couple in their forties, smiled at the two of them as they walked past, hand-in-hand.
“Why don’t you lay 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, while Devon hovered above her, sunscreen in hand. Gently sweeping a few strands of silver-white hair from the back of her neck, he began covering her back, shoulders, and arms with the silky liquid. His touch was decidedly sensual, more like a massage.
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 politely.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” she said quietly, feeling her heart beating faster as her young companion began working the lotion into her fleshy buttocks with his strong black hands.
“That feels quite marvelous,” sighed 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 cleft of her bum. “You have a gorgeous bottom. Very sexy.”
Helen couldn’t help but smile.
Her back done, she thanked him and sat up, proceeding to take care of her front.
She caught the young man stealing glances as she spread the lotion over her inner thighs, briefly tending to her exposed labia, and her large breasts.
“Contrary to what white people might think,” said Devon, “black people need protection as well,” and began tending to his front.
“Let me return the favour,” said Helen. “On your front, sweetheart.” Devon cheerfully obliged. Free now to survey his young physique unobserved, she marveled at his strong back, narrow waist, and strong legs. His tight behind was enough to make her want to reach for the camera in her phone. She went about softly applying the gooey lotion over his entire back half.
“You have such a strong back,” she observed, clearly impressed. Without asking, she squirted a generous amount of sunscreen in her hand and gently smoothed it across his gorgeous black behind, her touch was tender and soft. With his legs slightly parted, she couldn’t help but spot his massive organ as it pressed against his towel, braced by his thighs. She pressed her lips together and observed a slight trembling in her hands.
Her work 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 covering his nose and face, he nonchalantly worked a liberal amount of lotion into his long, thick penis and scrotum. 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 the 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.”
Helen’s response was a welcome signal to Devon, genuine or not.
Since he’d first revealed his huge sex organ to her, Devon had been quietly assessing her reaction. To that point, it had been a conspicuous non-reaction, so careful had she been not to acknowledge the noteworthy dimensions of his penis. Still, he had noticed her surreptitiously sneaking peeks at the oversized appendage between his thighs, and though they could have been entire of the ‘wide-eyed disbelief and incredulity’ variety that he was accustomed to, he sensed an element of feminine desire. He indulged himself in a momentary sexual daydream – those manicured fingernails of hers, digging into his arms as he slowly penetrated her delicate little quim with his monstrous erection.
Feeling an alarming swelling between his legs, Devon hurriedly shook off his thoughts of 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. There was something about her voluptuous behind and hourglass figure, despite her age, the way her bum undulated when she walked in the soft sand, that fired his loins. When she bent over to wash her hands in the turquoise water, he could make out the tidily-cropped folds of her labial lips from behind. Once again, he had to avoid arousal by forcing himself to concentrate on something decidedly non-sexual.
His thoughts of Helen, as he lay alone in his bed at night the past few weeks, were quite different. Stroking his immense shaft with both hands, his sexual imagination was free and uninhibited. In those moments, his thoughts were wanton and unrestrained. Her lady-like cries and whimpers of his battering ram of a penis being too big, unheeded.
Helen’s heavy breasts bobbed and bounced as she made her way back to her towel, her large pink areolae looked puffy and convex in the sun. Accented by her chic hairband and fashionable sunglasses, and despite her bit of a tummy and small cesarean section scar, Devon thought her nude body the picture of mature feminine sensuality.
The contented pair spent the next while nibbling on cheese and grapes and sipping their chilled pinot grigio from plastic cups. Sometimes chatting amiably, savoring 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 after they’d sated their appetites.
“That would be lovely,” she replied eagerly. “I’m feeling a little light-headed from the wine.”
As they approached the shoreline, Helen softly brushed some sand from Devon’s tight behind. He turned and extended his hand to her. She blushed a little, then smiled, slipping her small hand in his. Normally, the gesture would have been purely tactical on Devon’s part, to woo a female client, but with Helen, it was an impulse inspired by genuine ardor.
They walked together along the water’s edge in the nude, the young man’s sex bobbing from side to side, slapping against his thighs as he walked. Two stunningly attractive young women passed them heading in the opposite direction, both smiling at Devon. The latter responded by squeezing Helen’s hand a little tighter.
At one point, Helen made a playfully teasing remark about his youthful innocence. “Listen, you,” he retorted with a feigned offense, sweeping her off her feet, dashing into the water, and threatening to submerge her. Helen squealed with girlish delight, kicking her feet, her arms tightly locked around Devon’s neck. Devon finally set her down, and they stood facing each other, catching their breath, knee-deep in the clear water. He looked down at Helen as they stood there without speaking. Once again, he had to restrain himself from leaning down and kissing her passionately on the lips, and the young man again felt his huge penis begin to swell a little. Oblivious to the other nude sunbathers on the beach at that moment, some of whom watched as the unlikely pair frolicked in the water, they stood there in silence for a moment.
“I know it’s inappropriate of me to say this,” said Devon, “but I’m sure it’s painfully obvious that I’m crushing rather badly on you.” He fixed his eyes on hers, but when she momentarily looked away, Devon feared the worst.
“I’ve become … extremely fond of you as well,” replied Helen, to the young man’s great relief and excitement.
With tiny waves of warm ocean water lapping at their nude bodies, the young man moved in closer, cupping his hands behind her ears and tenderly kissing her on the lips. It was electric. What began as soft and tentative, quickly became more passionate. Devon sensed a hunger in his older companion, as Helen reciprocated in a manner that expressed a suppressed hunger and intense desires.
As she pressed the tip of her wet tongue against his, the forcefulness of her kisses surprised Devon, thrilled, and inspired him.
When Devon’s swelling penis pressed against her hip, Helen drew in a startled breath, first looking down at his monstrous organ, then up into his eyes.
“My God, it’s so big,” she sighed, seeming slightly light-headed.
“Absolutely huge, you truly take a lady’s breath away.”
Their kisses resumed — sensual, passionate — until Helen suddenly pressed her hand against the young man’s chest and broke their embrace.
“I mustn’t,” she said, her voice loaded with confusion. “I’m a married woman, and you’re young enough to be my grandson.”
Devon feared that he had overstepped and suddenly created a barrier between him and a woman he truly cared about.
“I’m so sorry,” he said with genuine regret. “Forgive me? I’m just so attracted to you.”
She took his hand and kissed it. “Please don’t apologize, darling,” she said. “You’re a very sexy young man, I’m incredibly sexually attracted to you, and I’ve gone and developed genuine feelings for you,” she continued somewhat despondently.
“Silly me.”
A moment passed before the two of them began making their way back to their towels.
Devon took a measure of solace from the word “darling”, as well as the fact that it was 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, and the sensual light of the island began to soften. Devon sat on his towel while Helen lay prone on her back with her eyes closed. Devon took full advantage, admiring her large breasts, the large pink conical areolae, her wide matronly hips, and thick but shapely thighs. He found everything about her sexy, even the cute crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. He eyed the line of her delicate-looking labia, the sprinkles of silver in her trimmed pubic hair. He imagined tending to her maidenhead with his tongue.
As the sun began to dip, and other sunbathers began to disperse, they decided to pack their things and do likewise.
“Nathan is having a party at his property tomorrow night,” said Devon, as the Mercedes pulled into the driveway in front of Helen’s villa. “A bit of a mix of guests — there will be food and dancing, and there’s a pool and hot tub. Can I bring you as my date?”
As they sat in the parked car, Helen tenderly stroked the back of the young man’s neck.
“I don’t think I can,” she answered. “The demands of my work are becoming a little more intrusive,” she added rather disingenuously. She looked down for a moment choosing her words.
“I think …,” she said quietly, “I think perhaps we should spend a little less time together.”
“I understand,” replied Devon in an amicable and respectful tone.
Later, on the drive back to his oceanfront condo, Devon pondered the events of the day, and he hold Helen now had on his heart. He could deny it no longer – at twenty-two years of age, he was falling in love with a sixty-two-year-old married woman who lived in London. He felt lovesick and vulnerable and confused, feelings he wasn’t used to or comfortable with.
End of Part One
