As a freelance journalist on a small Caribbean island I’m always looking for ideas. Things to write about in a human-interest, non-investigative way. I don’t dig the dirt, don’t look for trouble, just try to find people and things that readers of local magazines will find interesting.
That’s why I was at this press conference at a trade show in a fancy hotel (or resort, as they like to call them here). It was a showcase for the island’s travel industry and a networking opportunity for local businesses. There were hotels and guest houses, restaurants and quirky little operations like a vegan couple pushing their lifestyle and a micro-brewery. And there was me, not having paid for a stand, but using my roaming correspondent status to get talking to people.
I had a wallet full of business cards, my own diminishing and other people’s increasing in number, and the list of potential little stories was looking good.
The press conference was to feature bigwigs from the tourism board and the director of the airport.
As usual, I had got there early, which was just as well, because there was no parking in this resort and we were all blithely told to find somewhere down the street and then walk back. It was the sort of unprofessional touch I had come to expect, but what can you do?
Up in the conference room, I sat in the front row so I could take pictures without getting in the way of the TV cameras which are parked at the back and in front of which you dare not go because the cameraman think they own the place.
Sitting next to me was a tall, willowy woman who had spent too much time in the sun. Her bare arms and the skinny legs that emerged from her thin cotton dress were a loose, shiny, mottled teak and her face contained blue eyes that seemed out of place. With skin like this they should have been brown.
She had the notebook and camera that gave her away as one of my clan. You record things on your phone these days but I and some of my fellow veterans take a notebook along, just in case.
“Journalist?” I asked.
“Visiting,” she replied, shaking my hand. “You?”
“Resident,” I said.
I was about to ask her name when the event organizer came along and boomed, “Trudi Travel. How the hell are you, my dear?”
I sat back and got my camera out to check the light and focus as the two old acquaintances did their catching up, and eventually he moved away.
The conference was a yawn, as they usually are, with everyone in the world being thanked for something or other amid a flurry of smug assertions that this was the vacation capital of the Caribbean.
When it was over, Trudi and I got talking. She had been brought in by the organisers, put up in this very hotel. She was a travel journalist in the US and spent much of her time in places like this, schmoozing and smiling and being grateful for the opportunity to… etc.
“The restaurant here is okay, but I feel cooped up,” she said. “Is there somewhere not too far away that does a decent spread?”
I picked her up at seven and took her to a bar called The Palms, where they do a proper margarita, one that doesn’t involve some sort of tequila-flavored hyper-sweet syrup, and Trudi enjoyed being out and about, talking to the staff I introduced her to and making mental notes for her article. It’s this sort of unexpected personal contact that gives a piece authenticity.
Then we went across the road to a Greek-style tavern that was not too expensive but the food was consistently good.
Trudi was of Dutch and German stock, based in Philadelphia but on the road much of the time. Divorced, two grownup kids, enjoying her second youth, as she put it.
“I kind of missed the first one,” she said. “Too busy making a career and then a family, so now I’m out the other side. So where’s your place?”
“Little apartment near the beach,” I said. “Two minutes’ drive. Fancy a coffee and a liqueur?” I felt slightly pervy saying that word, as licking her was exactly what I was thinking about.
Ten minutes later we were on my balcony with a splendid view of the road and a glimpse of the sea possible when the palm trees across the way blew aside.
Trudi opted for a sun lounger, which seemed like her natural furniture, and lay back with her eyes closed, listening to the crickets.
“Do me a favor, Vic,” she said quietly. “Get me a cocktail and give me a kiss.”
“You can have the kiss first,” I said, leaning down and planting my lips on hers. She opened her eyes as her lips parted and her tongue met mine. Suddenly we were locked into each other, my hands on her shoulders and up her skirt, hers on my neck and my crotch.
After a while, we broke for air and I went inside to make some rum punches. Trudi followed me into the kitchen and put her arms around me from behind.
“This is nice,” she said. “When I was seventeen I’d have been thinking about my reputation and playing a game. And you’d have been either nervous and clumsy or arrogant and pushy.”
“Nervous and clumsy,” I said. “Thinking about touching your breasts but scared you would think that was too forward.”
“What breasts?” she said casually. “They’ve disappeared over the years.”
This wasn’t really true. They were there, reclining in her bra, but without the pertness, the energy of youth.
I unzipped her dress a little at the back and slid it down so her chest was revealed and pulled her right tit out and kissed it.
“Suck it,” she urged. “Gently but firmly. You may suck my nipples, you gorgeous man.”
As I got started on that she sighed heavily and stood back.
“Nah, fuck it,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”
Trudi stood by the bed and waited for me to undress her. I surprised her by taking off my shirt and trousers and pants and giving her my surging erection to look at.
“My,” she said, stepping forward and taking my cock in her hand. “I suppose you want me to get on my knees and suck your mighty phallus.”
“Only if you want to,” I replied.
“Undress me,” she ordered. “Strip me, Vic. Make me naked and tell me to suck you.”
I spun her around, unzipped the dress, pulled it off, unhooked the bra, flung it on a chair and pulled down her briefs, which were just on the small side of sensible.
“You’re tanned everywhere,” I said in wonder as I kissed her brown, shaven mound.
“Not quite everywhere,” she said. “If you search the road less traveled you will find some white bits.”
She raised an arm to show me a pale armpit, smooth and glistening with fresh perspiration.
“Not many people are prepared to lick my sweat,” she said provocatively. “Are you?”
“I will lick all your secretions,” I said. “But first get on your knees and suck my cock,” I said, playing her adult game. She smiled and descended, hesitantly as her knees creaked silently.
Her eyes closed and she entered some kind of dreamland as she sucked me, her hands caressing my buttocks, my flanks, my balls and my shaft. She surrendered to her desires and to the man who had stirred them.
Eventually, she looked up at me and said, “My turn. You promised.”
She lay on the bed on her back with her arms raised and I licked her armpits. She flinched and relaxed and breathed deeply as she saw I was doing it properly rather than a token lick and run.
“Oh fuck, Vic,” she hissed. “There is only one thing dirtier than this. Are you going to do that too?”
“You want me to lick you?” I asked, seeking clarification.
“You are licking me,” she said. “And I know you will lick my pussy, because you’re a licky kind of man. But I want you to lick me where the sun don’t shine. Only the bad boys do that.”
I went down and licked her all over her pubic mound before burying my head between her legs. She was dripping with juice and my face was covered with fluids that had come from her. Vaginal juice and sweat. It was rich, meaty, salty and wonderful.
I knew she would like to taste it, so I quickly went back up and kissed her, and sure enough, she moaned appreciatively.
“Mmm, see what you do to me?” she said. “And now…”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I am going to do it.”
Trudi turned onto her back and drew her knees up, inviting me to lick her crack. And I did. I licked her lovingly and eagerly and she gave little grunts and brief squeals.
“Nobody has ever made me cum doing that,” she said with a quiver in her voice. “I have waited a long time for this. Don’t stop.”
I had no intention of stopping. I brought her to a climax like a locomotive pulling a train and as she writhed and ground her arse against my face she laughed.
“Oh my,” she said. “You are really something.”
“So are you,” I said. “I bet you’re a lot more fun now than you were as a girl. Although I would have loved to fuck the girl too.”
“I would have liked that,” she said. “At any time. And now, at my advanced age, I want you to lie between my legs and fuck me. Okay?”
She lay and pulled her legs up and I lay between her thighs. She was so wet I barely felt my cock enter her and it was only her gasp that told me I was in. I slid up and down, up and down, and I could tell this was like confirmation for her. Everything else had been a glorious smorgasbord of delights but to assure herself she was still a fully functioning woman she needed to be penetrated, fucked, ejaculated into.
I lifted my body so my cock was like a lever, raising her, and she felt me doing it and rose herself.
Then we landed again and she raised her knees higher, determined to open herself up to me completely and I plunged my middle finger into her arsehole. She screamed, partly with pain and partly with the sheer thrill of being violated in this way. She was up, open, gushing fluids and this man had his tongue in her mouth, his cock in her vagina and his finger up her arse.
Trudi wailed with erotic release as she came, and fucked me back until my semen rushed from my body into hers, her spirit begging me not to stop until her own striving had ceased and she relaxed, exhausted and properly fucked.
“Shit,” she said. “Youth really is wasted on the young. I want another sixty years of this.”
