Beaches and Cream (2 page)

I was immediately sorry for my assumption of inadequacy about this place. We'd arrived at the side of the house, and this veranda was only the middle section. The main area of the house was accessible through the wide glass doors in front of us. The house had been built stepped into the side of the mountain, and four stories rose above us. On the next level down, again with its own separate veranda, a clear blue pool glinted in the sunshine. And on the lowest level, a wide and wild garden in full bloom had been beautifully crafted right to the periphery of the property. The whole place, still bathed in the full radiance of the late-afternoon sun, was elegantly secluded by a wide perimeter of strawberry trees and mighty firs. There was not another soul to be seen or heard.

As I took in the warmth, the light, and the stillness of the air, I was shaken from my reverie by a yelp of delight from Tia. She'd already kicked off her shoes and was sprinting across the veranda. Her bare legs were a blur as she trilled down the crescent of stairs, pulling her t-shirt over her head as she ran. At the bottom of the stairs, she wriggled out of her shorts and underwear like a woman shaking off chains. With a flick of her fingers, her bra was off as well. Then, completely nude, and totally indifferent to her audience, Tia bounded joyfully with long, limber strides and dove headlong into the pool, disappearing beneath the water in a dazzling cascade of crystal droplets.

Veronica and I leant on the wrought iron fence at the end of the veranda and watched from above.

“She always does that,” Veronica laughed musically. “It's always the first thing she does.”

I smiled too. But Veronica must have seen something behind my eyes that suggested such brazen nudity was something altogether unfamiliar to me.

Veronica laughed again. “Don't worry! We do often go naked here when it's just the girls. But it's by no means the law!”

She squeezed the back of my hand affectionately and looked directly into my eyes.

“Wear exactly what you want, or don't want, Mand. It's your first holiday here. And I want it to be your best one.”

I liked the way she called me Mand. Like Tia did. Rather than the oddly formal “Amanda” that my own mother used. Veronica beamed a warm, genuine smile that immediately transformed my smile from worried to contented.

We turned again to watch Tia splashing about in the water, just in time to see her bare, gleaming bottom break the surface of the water, like a wet peach bobbing to the surface, before she dove deep to glide in a languid breaststroke along the bottom of the pool.

The next morning, after a delightfully leisurely start, we enjoyed a late breakfast of warm croissants, homemade jam, and sweet, fresh fruit on the veranda. The place was even more beautiful than it was the day before. The warm wooden floor of the house flowed seamlessly through the open doors and out to the warm terracotta beneath my bare feet. The birds sang in the trees, and clouds of exotic floral fragrances enveloped me everywhere I went. I adored the lack of distinction between indoors and out and, although I was quite comfortable in my summer clothes, I could easily see how someone could go naked here.

Tia stretched like a satisfied cat, and announced that she was going to go for a run.

“Are you?” Veronica sounded almost disappointed. “I was going to go down to the beach. Should I wait for you?”

“No, don't worry,” Tia replied. “I don't know how
long I'll be. And I was only going to hang out by the pool today, anyway.”

“Would you like to come to the beach, Mand?” Veronica brightened. “Or would you like to stay here? It's totally up to you.”

It had been an age since I'd been to any beach, and longer still since I'd been in the sea. So for me, my choice was clear.

“I'd love to go to the beach with you.”

So, while Veronica and I finished our second cups of coffee, Tia changed into what had become the ubiquitous outfit of the stylish athletic—skintight leggings and a crop-top cami that exposed her midriff. Tia certainly had no problem with her body image. I couldn't tell if she never thought about what she looked like, or if she didn't have to think about it because she already knew she was beautiful.

Tia paused and leant against the doorframe. She crossed her ankles casually as she stood. The tight fabric of the leggings clung smoothly to her pelvis, and the creases immodestly followed the shape of her body, clearly outlining the mound of her sex. If ever I took up sport, my wardrobe would have to be a bit more demure.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“We're heading down to the beach,” I replied.

“Oh, nice! Have fun!” Tia exclaimed as she bounded off again. “I'll see you when you get back.”

She strode off the veranda and up the pebbled path, sunlight flashing between her interchanging thighs. Her athletic body was well defined in the figure-hugging clothes. This was the second time I found myself marveling at how revealing and defining tight clothes could be on a body. Tia's tight clothes, as her mother's had in the rain, drew even more attention to her figure—even more than when she'd been naked. Her bare back was slim and strong. The soft fabric of the leggings clung to her hips and nipped into the soft crevices where her pert bottom and flexing thighs met, winking and smiling and then smoothing again with each step. These women were clearly and unrelentingly prideful of their bodies. I could certainly stand to take a leaf from their body-confidence manifestoes.

Veronica drove us down to the beach and we made ourselves comfortable on the sand. The water was a rich, turquoise blue, and the sand dazzlingly white—nearly too hot to walk upon. I love the smell of the beach. That smell of salt sea air and hot sand, mingling with the occasional whiff of coconuts and the other scented lotions all of the nearly-nude people use to protect themselves from the sun. Many of the women went topless here, clad only in bikini briefs, sipping a cool pressé, or elegantly smoking like Riviera film stars of the '60s. I was surprised and comforted to see that Veronica opted to remain clothed, top and bottom, in a sensible two-piece that matched her elegant sun hat.

I pulled the halter neck of my sundress over my head and wriggled out of it. I adjusted the bikini that I'd fretted over, rejected, reconsidered, and finally purchased and packed. The vivid sunlight was a far cry from the cold, fluorescent light of the changing room, where I'd first worn this bikini. I was pleased to see I'd made the right choice, and the little outfit looked really rather good. The sun on my skin was like a drug and, with sounds of laughter on the wind, and the hypnotic rush of the sea in my ears, I soon dozed off.

I don't know how long I'd slept for. Probably only a few minutes. But I was startled awake by Veronica fussing and buzzing beside me.

“Good heavens, Mand! It's a good thing I've caught you! You've fallen asleep in the sun without a drop of sunscreen on!”

As I awoke from my daze, she was already rubbing the lotion into her hands. Slowly, I began to get up.

“No, Mand,” she said, placing her hand on my back. “You've got to make sure you're absolutely covered out here. And you can't do your own back.”

Both her hands pressed lightly at the small of my back, smearing the slippery lotion over and into my skin. Her hands were soft and strong, and they swept smoothly over my back as she coated me with the protective fluid. She clucked and cooed as she worked.

“Dear me, Mand! Whatever were you thinking! Falling asleep out here in the afternoon sun. You'd be burned to a crisp. You just cannot be too careful!”

Her hands coursed purposefully over my body, gliding up my back towards my shoulders. Her thumbs slipped under my bikini strap and traced the line between it and my skin, from the centre of my back right out to where the cups of my bikini top began.

“You must cover absolutely every inch,” she said softly.

Her face was near to mine. She had applied more lotion, kneading it into my shoulders, her thumbs pressing softly upward between my shoulder blades, until her hands enveloped my neck, and her fingers sweetly and gently applied the lotion behind my ears. The sensation was unexpectedly intimate. My body spasmed involuntarily for just a moment and, had my neck not been covered in oil, I'm sure Veronica would have seen goose-bumps.

I'm sure I could hear a smile in her voice. “The sun is very strong, Mand. And it can get everywhere, you know. That's why we must put cream everywhere.”

Her hands were both gentle and assured, and I realised I was nestling down into the beach blanket so that she might continue her ministrations. Her slippery hands eased under my arms to make sure I was protected there too. But I'm extremely ticklish, and I gasped as Veronica's nimble fingers traced over the sensitive flesh.

Veronica laughed, low and soft. “Sorry, Mand...”

But even as she said it, her agile fingers swept down the side of my body, over my ribs, playfully and prominently tickling me. I bucked with surprise as my tummy tightened and released. And now I was laughing too.

“Veronica!” I exclaimed. “You're just tickling me!”

“I'm sorry,” she said again, still laughing.

She anointed the backs of my legs with cool dollops of cream and began her caring, careful massage there as well. Her strong hands roamed over my thighs, slipping and sliding up and down. She kneaded the soft flesh, her hands slipping almost accidentally inward and between my legs, and then back out again, to make sure I was completely protected.

“Oh, Mand, Mand,” she scolded again. “Whatever would your mother say? Can you imagine? If we sent you back to Margaret burned to a crisp, she would never let you come back here again!”

It was strange to hear Veronica say my mother's name. My mother never spoke Veronica's name, and only referred to her as “Tia's mother”. The two women had never been close and, even in passing, they kept conversation to a minimum. Although I always imagined that this was due largely to my mother's inherent suspicion and mistrust of the world at large.

Veronica's assured hands ran again up the backs of my legs, her thumbs just briefly slipping beneath the elastic of my bikini to spread the parasolic fluid over the curves of my bum.

“Just in case your bikini rides up,” she explained. “We can never be too careful. Margaret would never forgive me.”

Veronica leant over me to get more cream, and I could smell the soft, apple blossom scent of her hair and the delicate fragrance of her perfume. She concluded her protection of me by working her way down my calves, softening and relaxing the muscles as she went, gliding down to my feet.

“Just bend your knees for me, Mand,” she requested, and I responded obligingly.

Gently, she blew the stray grains of sand off my feet and toes. She took one, and then the other of my feet in her oily hands. My feet felt small and delicate in her grasp. She made sure that the anterior was covered, before turning her attention to the arches. She ran her thumbs along the arch of my foot, making a light pressure from the heel to the ball and then back. The sensation was electrifying, and I tried not to jump as my eyes popped wide and sparks shot from my feet up into the pit of my stomach and out to a dozen completely unrelated parts of my body.

But Veronica didn't stop. Her fingers and thumbs continued planing over the soles of my feet before her unctuous fingers slithered between my toes. As they did so, my mouth opened in surprise and I had to stop myself from crying out. If her skilled manipulation of my little feet had been intimate, the feeling of her fingers oozing and squirming between my toes felt positively rude. It was such an arousing sensation. And yet so far removed from anywhere rude on my body. I couldn't understand why I'd never felt anything like this before. And there was something else I couldn't understand. I couldn't understand why I liked it so much.

Sparks of delight shot through me, from the tips of my toes right to the top of my head. I want to say that these glorious and unpredictable flashes sent shafts of pleasure right to the pit of my stomach. But I would be euphemising. These little relentless sparks of pleasure were shooting straight to the depths of my vagina. Over and over they fired through me, until at last I thought I would squeal.

But Veronica stopped. “Turn over now, Mand. I've done the back.”

It felt like an awkwardly long time before I could trust myself to say anything coherent. I rolled over and looked at Veronica, hoping that I could blame the heat for my flushed face.

“I….. I can….. I could do the front myself….” I stammered.

“Oh, Mand!” Veronica laughed, slithering her grasp over my foot. “I couldn't trust you to put any sun cream on at all! I'm certainly not leaving you to it now!”

Her hands slid up my ankles and calves, working the unguent over my knees and lower thighs. Her sure and commanding hands relaxed every muscle they massaged. Every knot and every ounce of tension dissolved under her touch. And still she lavished the fluid upon me. Caressing me. Protecting me. My body was at once slack and yielding under her hypnotic hands, while at the same time twitching and tautening with delight every time she discovered yet another erogenous zone I never knew I had. Behind my knees. Gliding over the inside of my thighs and up.

I was embarrassed and delighted all at once. I couldn't tell if she knew the effect she was having on me. If she didn't know, and I told her, I'd never be able to look her in the face again—neither at the house, nor anywhere else in the world. I tried to control my body. To stay completely relaxed and stem the convulsions she was tapping from me. I consciously had to keep my lips together. Or the heat of the sun and the pleasure of her touch would surely have little moans of delight seeping from my parted lips.

Her strong hands continued to traverse my thighs, kneading the soft, smooth flesh. And again—as she had from behind—her thumbs slipped beneath the elastic of my bikini, spreading the cream flirtingly close to my fleshy pubis before gliding out to my hips. As she did this, my little bikini only served to make me feel more vulnerable. Had I been wearing no clothes at all, I'd have no defenses to breach. But, as her thumbs slid back out from beneath the flimsy fabric clinging to my sex, the clothing's casual surrender proved just how useless it actually was.