The Angels' Share (3 page)

The man’s mouth dragged down his lover’s neck to her bosom. He heaved her weighty breasts together, lavishing each chocolate disc with his tongue and coating it with a skim of saliva that I could actually see glistening in the lamplight. My own nipples burned for attention. I consoled myself that, other than organising the cottage and buying supplies, my first mission would be to find an expendable, anonymous man for a few hours of no-strings passion. I wouldn’t even tell him my name. In reality, I knew this was unlikely however much I desired such a scenario, but the thought went nicely with the visual feast on the cliff top.

The binoculars were becoming too heavy to hold with one hand so I had to make do with sporadic bursts of touching myself. My show couple had moved on. The man was gripping the woman’s girth while he pulled and pushed her pelvis. I saw by the delight on her face that her clitoris was bumping on and off his tongue, giving her tantalising shots of hot, moist pleasure. I could feel it myself as I allowed my finger to creep beneath my jeans and inside my knickers. His tongue, my stiff little bud. He could do that for as long as he liked in his warm, cosy cottage with his voluptuous wife watching in jealous annoyance. How I longed to be in there with them. But, considering my situation, it was about as likely as the impostor in my family home giving up the Creg-ny-Varn estate willingly.

Then, as if the couple were playing entirely for my benefit, the woman came up to the window to show me her aroused body. She pressed her nipples onto the glass then leaned forward so her breasts squashed into what looked like an almost edible marshmallow. With her face tipped sideways, she took the outer lips of her lightly shaved sex and pulled upwards so that the shell-pink folds were completely visible. Everything about this woman reminded me of consumable treats. Served on a plate, she would have made the most delicious dessert and I envied her lover having the chance to taste all her flavours. But I made do with what I had and dipped my own finger into the flow of white juice around the edge of my pussy. As if sucking on a lollipop, I pretended that he had allowed me a sample of his wife’s sweetness. And it was true. She tasted of warm honey and gooey, pink candy.

Something else was happening to her, apart from the thrill of exposing herself to the night. Gradually, the pulsing became more noticeable and her face and breasts began to slide up the glass panes before quickly dropping down again. There was no doubt that her lover was shunting her from behind, unable to wait for any more foreplay. Part of me was disappointed. I didn’t want him to come yet, snap the curtains closed and curl up in bed with a cup of tea. I wanted to watch them drive each other to a place where they could think of nothing but orgasm; where their bodies were catapulted into oblivion at the last possible moment, where nothing else in the world mattered, not even the delight of discovering they had been watched, as their minds crumpled beneath waves of pleasure that not even the sea beneath them could mimic.

I needn’t have worried. My untouchable man had swung his woman around and had her on her knees with his cock forced down her throat and an expression on his face that told me she was kneading his head with the skill of a well-trained lover. He leaned against the wall as she worked on him and I was thankful for her short hair, which allowed me an uninterrupted view of the veined erection delving a disconcertingly long way down her throat.

‘Do you give lessons?’ I wondered, in awe of her skill. ‘I sure would love to learn from you.’ I inserted a finger inside myself and hooked out an ample amount of moisture, smearing it around my lips and clitoris in readiness for the finger-frenzy I would soon be embarking on. Just these initial touches mailed signals of a long overdue yearning for a body-cramping climax to tired and distant parts. My fingers glided between my smooth lips, encouraging them to swell and pout.

My athletic couple were wrangling against gravity. Having prepped myself and teased my body to an on-hold status with occasional flicks of my clitoris and a moistened stirring of my nipples, I watched eagerly as they ravished each other in a sweaty, hungry display of abandoned lust. The woman had her man’s bursting balls pressing on her chin as she licked the space behind his sac. Then suddenly she was manoeuvred upright and her legs were hoisted around his waist as he prepared to enter her again. They staggered a little and she tossed her head back, laughing at their struggle, but soon he was in and she rode him like a jungle animal, clutching him around his waist. He had his hands under her buttocks for support. I panned up to their faces where their mouths were gaping and their tongues pressed together. The woman’s fingers dug into her lover’s shoulders and her legs gripped him tightly, forcing their genitals together. It took almost all my concentration to keep the binoculars steady while I fumbled in my knickers.

As the pair bucked in the backlit window of the cottage, I squirmed and moaned and brought myself to near maximum arousal without crashing over the edge. I’d see when they came and I wanted to do it with them. Timing things correctly while holding the binoculars steady and keeping my clitoris on fire was not an easy feat. I sharpened the focus as the pair slowed for a moment and the man wetted his finger. I watched him, magnified so it appeared that I was in the room with them, as he inserted a finger in the woman’s exposed bottom. Her body tensed as she took the first joint, then another, and then she whispered something to him. He grinned and slipped a second finger inside her, right up to the knuckles. I imagined the cramped feeling this must have provided around his deeply seated cock. I had often desired such a sensation myself, perhaps with two men frantic for my body, each vying for space. In reality, I would never dare suggest such an act.

I saw that they were set for the finale. Their masks of concentration, the woman’s determined stare as she pulled her sex up and down the shaft of her man, not only for his pleasure but to ignite her own climax, indicated that just seconds of the display remained. If only I could have yelled out to them to continue; that I hadn’t seen nearly enough of their lovemaking, that it had been over a week since Marco had visited my
cortijo
in the middle of the night as the cicadas sang out and my white mosquito net billowed in the breeze. So long since his leather-coloured erection had sought me out.

I flicked the tip of my clitoris and imagined that it was one of the exhibitionist couple eating me up. I didn’t care which. My fantasies were often filled with other women, usually present to help my masculine character get the most from me. The pretty women I concocted were expendable fancies, usually frighteningly attractive and perfect, and while they were seemingly innocent and naïve on the outside, when it came to pleasuring my body they were naughty vixens. Another secret fantasy: making love to a woman. It was all in my journal, with which I would cuddle up later.

When I saw the pounding slow, when I saw the woman lay her head on her man’s shoulder and gradually slide off his spent body, I put down the binoculars and probed myself while rubbing my clitoris until my sex tightened around my fingers. The shivers of an extended, overdue orgasm worked up my spine, across my shoulders, into my neck and mind and back down again into my toes. I flopped in the chair and laughed as I remembered that I was still wearing my walking boots, having simply unfastened my jeans.

I put the binoculars to my eyes again and located the cottage window. A dim glow emanated from behind closed curtains. Funny, I thought, to shut out the world
after
the act. It made me wonder: did they know I was watching? I could only hope that they would perform again soon.

*   *   *

I layered myself in sweaters and jackets, having been kept warm previously by my steamy observations. My body hummed from near-perfectly satisfied thrills, my lucky discovery of the cliff top couple having sated my need for a man. My fingers alone would have never sufficed.

I relit the candles and began to arrange the cottage to suit my needs. I peeked into the back room and recoiled, fastening the door behind me. Birds and other wildlife had been in residence, entering through the broken window, and the room would need a massive clearout before it was vaguely habitable. For now, I would have to sleep on the two armchairs pushed together. At least, if I got it going, I would be near the fire.

I searched at the side of the cottage by torchlight, where I recalled my father storing driftwood and logs he had dragged from the cliff top. Sure enough, as if no one had cranked up the stove since my childhood adventures, I found a pile of dry wood in a ramshackle shed attached to the cottage. Back inside, I cleared out the fireplace as best I could in the half-light. I sneezed a couple of times as ancient dust and soot wafted into the air. To test the draw, I balled a piece of old newspaper lying on the table and lit it in the grate. After an initial surge of grey-white backdraught into the cottage, the chimney sucked up the smoke beautifully. With the skill of a Girl Guide I arranged knots of newspaper, kindling and some of the driftwood before setting light to the lot. Within minutes, I was sipping again from my emergency brandy flask and warming my toes by a blazing fire.

‘Nothing quite like it,’ I said, referring to the open fire although wondering if perhaps I was conjuring an imaginary friend. Had the loneliness of my predicament got to me already? Having become a voyeur, was I now inventing company? I laughed and shook my head in despair.

A month ago, running away from my home without telling a soul where I was headed would have seemed a fleeting insanity. Setting out on the trail of my fortune was as likely as setting foot on Mars. But it was true. I was hiding out in a little beach cottage, preparing to launch an intelligence operation and attack on the man who had stolen my family home. I admit, it was upside-down fun: being secreted in a far corner of Creg-ny-Varn, concealed by a veil of sea mist and a heavy determination to regain what was rightfully mine, stirred something primal within me. I may have been leading a simple life for the last fourteen years, some of my closest friends having dropped out of the rat-race and become passionate about all things home-grown, but I wasn’t a fool. I knew about business from my father and my four university years in Granada had given me a cosmopolitan outlook. Whoever had stolen my inheritance was in for a shock.

*   *   *

I pulled my tightly stuffed sleeping bag out of its sack and puffed it up for maximum warmth. Despite the crackling fire, I could still see my breath condensing as I exhaled. It would be another few hours before the cottage finally warmed up after years of abandonment. Strangely, as the fire pumped out heat, I felt the walls reach out and hug me, as if the house was pleased I had come to its rescue. Depending on how long my mission took, I planned to make the place more homely. Not only would it be practical, making my transition into such a contrasting climate more bearable, but I wanted to do it in my father’s memory. I truly believed he would be shocked if he saw the sorry state of the beach house.

I pulled my backpack close to the armchairs and climbed into my sleeping bag. Once snuggled inside, I dared to remove my jeans and outer coat but refused to cast aside my sweaters and socks. I rummaged around inside my pack and drew out a rather crumpled bag of tortilla chips, a squashed packet of sandwiches and a bottle of water. I began to stuff my face when it occurred to me that I should write down the luscious sex I had just had with myself thanks to my cliff top neighbours. Had it not been so perilously cold in the cottage, I would have clambered off my makeshift bed for another peek, just to see if they were offering another performance.

I searched the main compartment of my pack but couldn’t locate my pocket-book. Puzzled, I concluded that I must have stashed it in one of the outer pouches but no, it wasn’t there either. Sitting upright, I emptied the entire contents of my luggage onto my legs and rifled through it desperately.

‘I know it’s here. I put it away on the ferry!’ Memory flashes of stuffing the book deep in my pack and securing the straps were followed by a cold sweat and prickles of fear as I realised that my most private possession – probably the most private possession of anyone in the entire world – was either lost or, worse still, stolen.

‘What am I going to do?’ I wailed. I dragged my fingers down my face. Aside from the year of work that had gone into this particular volume, I’d been looking forward to writing up my temporary ferry-mate’s antics in Paris. The thought of the ferry company’s staff finding my innermost thoughts and reading them to each other at fag break sent me into a panic. I leapt out of the armchair bed and hopped about the cottage searching for my journal. ‘Think, woman, think. You came down the beach, left your bag outside, humped it inside, put it over there…’ I briefly fumbled about outside in the dark, near the wall where I had initially dumped my bag. Nothing. I trawled the inside again, even the bird-infested bedroom, but nothing. I could only hope that daylight would render my diary visible, where candlelight had been insufficient.

I was about to climb back into bed, my search terminated by freezing limbs, when I stopped in my tracks and began to shake my head. Only little ripples of realisation at first but soon my dark hair was tossing wildly from side to side as I began to groan and wail as the truth hit me.

‘No, no, it can’t be. The evil witch!’ I threw back my head.

I remember thinking a few hours earlier:
I know my backpack is heavy and awkward but how can it take anyone so long to adjust my straps?

‘The little thief! Steph hadn’t been helping me at all. She was raiding my pack!’ I groaned again. With the deftness of a magician, she must have palmed that book as quickly as any four of hearts. ‘Damn her!’ I yelled, pacing about and pulling my hair. My only consolation was that I knew she was still on the island. I would just have to find her before she learnt too much about me.

Back in bed, lulled into a fitful sleep by waves that sounded so close I thought they would appear under the front door, I gradually began to warm up as the fire crackled and spat. My eyes kept dropping shut but then I’d jump awake as a particularly loud wave pounded the rocks on the beach. I’d blown out the candles so the only light was from the stove. Crazy images patchworked together behind my eyelids – the colourful life I had left behind, my epic journey from Spain and arrival on the island, the ferry, the crashing waves, seasick passengers, my pocket-book, Steph, panic, the rocks, the subterfuge, my inheritance, binoculars, the couple on the cliff, the figure that passed across the window just as my eyes dropped shut…