Sun Seeking Janine Ashbless
He had the most beautiful arse.
I’d seen a lot of naked backsides that morning, male and female, big and small, but one glimpse down the length of that hall took my breath away. It was . . . just awesome. Not a bum; bums are soft and round and a bit silly. There’s no muscle in a bum. Kids have bums. Women have bums, particularly when they’re worrying about whether their pants are too tight. Even builders have bums. This was emphatically not a bum. It wasn’t a nearly non-existent student slacker rear either, or a slightly hairy squared-off male backside.
No, this was an arse. A truly magnificent arse. He stood tilted on one hip as if about to take a step forwards, the right buttock clenched. Both cheeks were distinct, the crack between them a deep cleft. I felt an urge to grab those proud glutes and run my tongue up that crack. It was something to do with the dimples at the top of his cleft, something about the easy line of his spine, and the way the long folds of his cloak hung off one shoulder as if he’d just let his clothes slip and casually revealed himself to me. As I walked up the Archaic Sculpture hall, my flip-flops snapping on the flagstones, I realised my pussy had suddenly grown warm and puffy, and I blushed.
Nobody was supposed to get hot looking at sculpture, I told myself. I’d been round the Archaeology Museum in Athens on the first day of my holiday and I’d been in this little museum on Delos for nearly an hour already, admiring the marble torsos of athletes and deities and heroes, and they’d never had this effect on me before. They were certainly beautiful. But this statue – far bigger than life – he was sexy.
I looked at the typed label on the plinth as I drew close. Kouros: 5th Century BC: Parian marble. They weren’t into long explanations in here. Kouros just meant ‘young man’. I looked up again. Now I could see the cracks where they’d pieced him back together. They hadn’t found everything; he was still missing most of his arms, both feet and, most obviously, his head. But they had his long thighs and his broad shoulders and lithe hips and that fantastic edible-looking arse.
God, I was really letting it get to me. The barren room with its stone exhibits suddenly felt warm and airless. I wanted so badly to run my hands up the old marble. I wanted to touch myself.
‘D’you like him?’ said a voice at my shoulder.
I jumped and spun around; I’d had no idea there was anyone else in the room. All the other tourists had gone to look around the ruins first, before the museum.
‘Huh? Yes.’ I went pink again.
The woman was taller than me and wore shades propped to the top of her head, where her mahogany hair was pulled back in a long plait.
‘He’s lovely, isn’t he? Apollo. My favourite piece in the museum – I always make sure I look in on him.’
‘Right. Do you come here often?’ Then I realised what I’d said and dissolved into flapping embarrassed giggles. ‘I mean – do you work here?’
She raised her eyebrows, smiling. She really had the whole Lara Croft thing going; khaki shorts over long legs, a webbing belt and a tight sleeveless top that displayed tanned and toned upper arms. Not the pneumatic breasts though – or the guns, of course.
‘I do some consultancy work,’ she said, ‘for the archaeologists.’ Her accent was almost inaudible; it might have been Greek or French. The archaeologists on Delos were mostly French, I recalled.
‘Wow. What a great place to work.’
She tucked a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear. ‘Better than most. Plenty of sun. No mud. You’re from England?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I lived in London for a few years. Are you staying on Mykonos or on a cruise ship?’ She kept her eyes fixed on mine, which was a bit disconcerting.
‘Mykonos.’ I’d come over to Delos on the first ferry that morning.
‘On your own? Or is your girlfriend around?’
Boy, was she direct. I blinked. It was an easy mistake for her to have made; there are a lot of gay holidaymakers on the party island of Mykonos.
‘Well, I was supposed to be here with my boyfriend,’ I admitted, slightly emphasising his gender. ‘Only, we split up just before the holiday. Actually, I dumped him.’
‘So you came out on your own? Enjoying yourself?’
I shrugged. ‘Yeah. It’s great.’
Actually, I’d been shocked to find out how much of my confidence, after three years, had been dependent on having Lee around. It had taken a couple of nights for me to work up the courage to go to a club.
As if reading my thoughts, she asked, ‘You like the nightlife?’
I winced inwardly. Everyone else on the island seemed to be with a pack of friends. It was impossible to break into a group of women, though it was easy enough to hook up with some lads – in the same sense that a side of beef can hook up with a tank of piranha.
‘I’m not that much of a party animal,’ I said, trying to sound casual.
My first attempt at a two-fingers-up-to-Lee holiday fling had been a huge disappointment. I’d gone with an English lad back to my room in the small hours; sex had been over within minutes, and then he’d hogged the bed, snoring, for the rest of the night. In the morning, we’d had nothing to say to one another. My exciting stranger of the previous evening had turned out to be, well, just an ordinary bloke from Sheffield, not particularly good looking and no conversationalist for sure. ‘Cheers,’ he’d said as he’d slipped out. Cheers! – I ask you!
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t looking for romance or anything. I just didn’t want it to be so . . . ordinary.
‘You’re more interested in this sort of thing, then?’ The flick of one wrist somehow indicated the museum, the island of Delos and more than three thousand years of history. She had lovely hands with long fingers.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Why not? I thought, then panicked that she might call my bluff. I was really here because there isn’t much to do in Mykonos if you’re on your own, other than lie on the beach or take the half-hour crossing to Delos. ‘I mean, I don’t know that much or anything . . .’
She put her arm on my shoulder, riffling her fingers up the hair on the nape of my neck. My heart skipped and I froze.
‘I’ll show you around the island then,’ she said. ‘Would you like that?
‘Great,’ I said numbly. I have a very long fuse; I never react quickly to a surprise. Hey, it took me two years to get round to dumping Lee.
Her hand gripped the back of my neck. It should have freaked me out but it was weirdly reassuring. ‘I’m Phoebe.’
‘Ness.’
‘Good.’ She looked up at the statue. ‘You finished in here?’
I nodded. My heart was doing uncomfortable things under my breastbone. She released me and I followed like a lamb, with only one look back at my kouros. I consoled myself with the thought that it would only have been a disappointment to have gone round and taken a look at his front elevation; Greek statues always have teeny little dicks.
Phoebe knew her stuff. She walked me right round the ruins on the tiny island, starting with a climb up Mount Kythnos – more of a hillock really, but it was a steep incline and against the fat surface of the Aegean it looked taller than it really was. I was grateful for my straw sunhat. Below us, we could see the excavated ruins stretching from the hill to the harbour where the tourist boats waited: the theatre, the stadium, the residential districts, the many temples to gods Greek and foreign, and the sanctuary area dedicated to Apollo and Artemis, who’d been born on the island and had promised to hold it in their care. For thousands of years, Delos had flourished as a centre of pilgrimage and as a trading station.
Then she led me back through the ruins, which were a maze of mostly waist-high walls, restored in some places so that the pillars and pediments stood again. Diving into different houses, she showed me wall paintings and intricate mosaics: a god riding a leopard, gurning theatrical masks and grinning toothy dolphins. On returning to the harbour area, we visited a terrace on which stood a row of curiously slender lions. I took a photo of her leaning against one. She had her glasses back over her eyes now that we were outdoors and they made her face look masklike. I was growing dizzy from the sun, despite my hat. The light struck up off the marble roads as fiercely as from the cloudless sky overhead.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ I suggested. ‘There’s a café by the museum.’ I was enjoying the tour but all the names and dates didn’t mean much to me. I knew I wouldn’t remember most of them in 24 hours.
We cut back through the ruins. ‘You’ve got to see this,’ Phoebe said suddenly, taking my elbow and drawing me aside. ‘This is the sanctuary of Dionysus.’
I looked obediently. There wasn’t much to the temple itself; another low ruined enclosure. But out at the front were two pedestals, and on them balanced the biggest stone phalli I’d ever seen, angled like guns at the heavens. My mouth fell open, then I couldn’t help laughing.
‘Great, aren’t they?’ Phoebe waved her hand at the nearest. ‘Give me your camera; I’ll take a picture of you.’
For a moment I wondered if she’d put all this effort in just to run off with my new digital camera, then I decided I didn’t care. I handed it over and went to stand by the plinth, looking up at the monstrous stone phallus above. Balanced on its oval tightly drawn-up testes, it was thick and ridged and ready to salute. What a pity it was broken off part way up the shaft, I thought.
‘Stand against the pillar,’ Phoebe ordered, shoving her shades up her forehead once more. ‘That’s right. Smile.’ The camera clicked repeatedly as she ran off the snaps. ‘Lean back. Lift your hands over your head.’
There was no one else around. I did as she’d said, grinning cheekily, jutting my hip. My fingers brushed the marble. Wasn’t this what I’d come to Greece looking for – sun and big cocks?
‘Very nice,’ she said, squinting at the viewscreen. ‘Stick those pretty boobs out, Ness.’
I essayed a jiggle, trying not to crack up. Phoebe closed in until she was right in front of me, still snapping away. Then she lowered the camera and looked me right in the eye. There was one long silent moment when I could have said something or broken her gaze. I didn’t. She leant in and kissed me full on the lips, her mouth as ripe and juicy as the tomatoes in the taverna salads. I trembled. Something hot and wet writhed inside me. Her tongue broke the seal of my lips and slipped into my mouth. I made a little noise in my throat; not protest, just surprise.
Phoebe chuckled. I could smell the suncream fragrant on her skin. I’d never kissed a girl. She was softer to the touch than a man, her lips fuller, and her tongue stirred rather than thrust. Her breasts were now brushing up against mine and there was a heavy feeling in my sex, so heavy that my legs were weakening under the strain. And now she had hold of my skirt and was drawing it up, sliding her hand up my thigh. Her fingers were cool on my burning skin. She released my mouth and pulled back a little so she could look me in the eye as those fingers found the edge of my panties. I was quivering like a leaf. I’d waxed to hell and back in preparation for the holiday, and she was finding only the softest, smoothest skin, even when she slipped a finger under the edge of the cotton.
There, over the centre line of my mound: the last tufts of pubic fluff. She stroked them up and down. She broke the seal down there too, releasing a tiny trickle of moisture as she stirred my clit. I pressed my rump to the marble, needing the support. We were in full public view. What if someone saw? I couldn’t tear my eyes from hers.
‘Good girl,’ she whispered. ‘What a lovely thing you are.’ Then she tilted her head. ‘I know somewhere we could get a drink and some lunch. Much better than the museum café. It’s on the beach, out of the way of all the tourists.’
I’d not heard there was a beach on Delos. ‘Is is far?’ I asked, my voice husky.
‘Not far.’
‘I’ve got to get back to the boat in an hour, remember,’ I said weakly. ‘You know how strict they are.’ Under Greek law people were forbidden from spending the night on Delos. I didn’t know why, just that I had a timed ticket.
Phoebe laughed at me. I noticed that she wore a necklace, a silver crescent which rested at the top of her breastbone; I wanted to touch its smooth metal. ‘We’ve got our own boat, Ness. We can get you back to Mykonos any time.’ She withdrew her hand from my knickers, flicking the elastic. ‘Come on. You might learn something new about . . . island life.’
Why not? I asked myself. I’d wanted something that wasn’t ordinary.
She was right about the beach, and it wasn’t far. She held my hand as we walked. My head was spinning and I didn’t pay much attention to our route, but in a few minutes we passed beyond the excavated area and over a low headland, and there in front of us was a narrow strip of sand, the dark Aegean washing up against it. Right at the far end was a taverna.
‘See? You can meet my brother. He’s staying there.’
I ran my free hand under my chin. ‘Oh . . . It’s so hot.’
‘It’s Greece, Ness, what did you expect? Did you bring sunscreen?’ She brushed a finger down my breastbone, awakening little tremors right through my limbs. ‘What about a paddle in the sea?’
She didn’t wait for my assent this time. Pulling me firmly in her wake, she tripped down the path to the shore. The sand was coarse underfoot, like demerara sugar, but the shallows were blue and inviting and I went with her willingly, right over my knees in the water. My pink skirt swirled around me.
‘Too warm still?’ she asked, scooping up water in her cupped hands.
‘Oh no,’ I protested, shrinking back, but she poured it over my head anyway, and it ran right through the straw hat. After the first shock, it was lovely, but I yelped.
‘Quiet.’
I froze at her peremptory tone, pouting at her from under the rat’s tails of my normally sleek hair.
‘That’s better.’ She dumped another scoop over my right shoulder and breast, drenching my clothes. I shuddered, wondering what it was that gave her the right to do this without me putting up any sort of fight, but the ache in my body answered that. Phoebe held me out at arm’s length for inspection. ‘You’re so pretty.’
I felt I should return the compliment but I was tongue-tied. The cotton of my skirt clung to my thighs so closely that I could see a dark mole on my skin through the wet fabric. My blouse had turned translucent too and the bikini top I was wearing instead of a bra was quite visible beneath. Phoebe bit her lower lip, smiling. I couldn’t see her eyes through the tinted glasses but I was sure there was a wicked glint back there. She slipped her hands up my back, under the wet top.
‘Hey, no,’ I protested as she pulled loose the first bikini tie and my breasts swung free. ‘This isn’t a topless beach.’
‘You’re not topless.’ She transferred a hand to the nape of my neck where the second bow was. I grabbed to stop her.
‘No!’
Knotting her fingers in my hair she pulled my head back firmly. ‘Don’t,’ she said calmly, ‘be such a baby.’
I went quiescent in her arms. She pulled my bikini top out through the neck of my blouse, leaving my nipples to rub on the cotton, then tucked her trophy into the front pocket of her shorts, letting the bright-fuchsia straps hang out.
‘Better,’ she said, looking down at me.
I have boobs big enough that I really do need a bra – otherwise I jiggle wildly when I walk. Now, under the wet cotton, both orbs were quivering. My nipples were prominent and so sensitive they felt sore. Hot and cold waves of embarrassment washed up and down my body, all emanating from the cauldron that was my sex. That cauldron, neglected for too long, was simmering over and the contents were soaking my knickers.
‘Come on.’ Phoebe was amused at my obvious shame. She led me up the beach. I was raw with self-consciousness. My breasts jounced with every step and the skirt gripped my legs, displaying the contours of my bum-cheeks and the pale triangle of my panties. I was grateful that the sands were empty – or nearly so. As we passed a scattering of boulders, some lads sitting in their lee looked up and spotted us. It didn’t need the St-George’s-flag shorts to tell me that these youths were British; I could tell that from the jeering tone of their catcalls, even before I caught the words. Blood flamed in my cheeks. I stumbled, trying to hide my face. Phoebe glanced sharply at me and then at the boys with a look of chilling hauteur. Interposing herself between me and them, she put one arm around me, her hand on my buttock, and we walked on together. My embarrassment vanished at her firm touch, to be replaced by a feeling of dizzy calm. I no longer felt vulnerable. I felt owned.
By the time we reached the ramshackle taverna, my clothes were no longer dripping. I hesitated before the structure as Phoebe took the steps two at time. Old fishing nets had been draped over the wooden frame and vines were intertwined with the mesh, effectively screening the interior. Outside on the sand were a few plastic tables and chairs and an unlit charcoal grill. A dog with a curly tail took one look at us and fled. Inside, someone was playing an acoustic guitar.
‘Come on, Ness,’ Phoebe commanded.
I followed her. The space within was filled with tables and chairs. Thick sand covered the floor, but in here under the dappled shade of the netting it was cool to the feet. A dozen people were sitting around; all but one were obviously local. That one was the man playing the guitar, and the others watched him in absolute silence. Phoebe pulled out a chair at an empty table and waved me to sit next to her. I sank down and held my hat over my breasts, grateful for the shade and the anonymity. An old woman dressed all in black brought us two bottles of cola from a battered fridge and Phoebe accepted them without a glance, her attention on the guitarist at the next table.
He was worth paying attention to. Wearing only cargo pants slung very low about his hips, this was pure surfer dude; the kind of beach-bum who’d never realised that you’re supposed to give it all up at some point and get a proper job. His unruly brown hair was bleached corn-blond on top and he carried a deep tan that offset the pale-gold strands on his long shins and the muscular arms that cradled his guitar. He flashed a smile at Phoebe and I saw that his eyes were a blue like the clear Aegean shallows.
‘That’s Xander,’ she whispered to me.
God, could he sing. I don’t remember the lyrics now but I remember his voice and the sweet pain of the emotion stirred by it; a terrible hopeless longing for something forever out of reach. He switched to Greek and it made no difference; everything was carried by his tone. In moments, I felt the tears prickling in my eyes. I looked around and saw the same tears streaked down the faces of everyone in the taverna – all except Phoebe. She sat with a cool smile, tilting the cola bottle to her lips.
When he finished, it felt like the world had stopped. I wanted to applaud, but no one else moved.
‘Xander, this is Ness.’ She waved a hand at him. ‘This is my brother.’
‘Ness?’ he mused, tightening his tuning pegs. ‘Short for . . . ?’
‘Vanessa,’ I confessed. ‘But no one calls me that.’
He smiled and I felt it strike me like a kiss, leaving me tingling. It’s unfair that men like that should exist; women have no defence against them. Except, I supposed, women like Phoebe.
She rose from the table. ‘Doste mo mezedes,’ she ordered the old woman, and went to the back of the room to look in the cabinet and the fridge.
I took the opportunity to ask, ‘Are you really her brother?’ They looked nothing like one another.
‘We’re twins, actually.’ There was a twinkling almost-smile in his eyes. ‘Guess who’s the elder.’
‘Her,’ I said without hesitation.
He lifted one eyebrow teasingly, then broke into another song – something about the last apple left on the tree.
Phoebe returned with a platter of pickles, olives, cucumber slices and dips, which she dropped on my table. ‘There’s not much of a selection.’
‘That’s OK.’
Feyete!’ she ordered, waving at the Greeks – and without a word every one of them rose and filed out of the taverna. She followed up behind them like a sheepdog herding ewes.
I was stunned. Not just by her rudeness, but by their obedient attitude. Xander caught my expression and muted a complex instrumental improvisation long enough to explain softly, ‘Our family owns this island; the Government just rents it from us. Some of us keep some bad old habits, I suppose.’
‘Your family’s Greek?’
‘Originally. We live all over the place now.’
Shipping millionaires or something, I guessed. Men might be from Mars, but the rich are from another galaxy altogether. Over by the taverna entrance, Phoebe tugged down a swathe of netting to block the gap and the speckled gloom deepened very slightly. I shivered. My damp dress was less comfortable now.
‘Come on,’ Phoebe said, switching off a tablecloth and laying it clean side up on the sand at Xander’s feet. Taking the platter, she sat herself down picnic-style and patted the cloth next to her. I slid out from behind the table, feeling a little weird now that there were only three of us left. I felt worse when I’d sat down and she scooted behind me so that I was reclining back against her. With a snort, she snatched away the sunhat held casually at my breast. The damp cloth of my blouse still clung in places it was supposed to conceal. I squirmed inwardly. I hadn’t bargained on getting cornered by a strange man; it seemed far more risky than just going off with a girl. But, I thought naively, a woman would be on my side if it turned nasty – wouldn’t she?
‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ said Phoebe, and Xander nodded, his enigmatic near-smile teasing.
His fingers rippled up and down the strings of the guitar, weaving cascading tapestries of sound. Phoebe fed me the appetisers from the plate with her fingers, piece by piece. I tasted reluctantly the salty feta, juicy black olives, creamy tzatziki. I wasn’t feeling hungry. There was something creepy about the intimacy here; the way she was flirting with me in front of her brother’s steady gaze.
The trouble was, the more uneasy I felt, the hotter and wetter I grew. She traced my lips in yoghurt and I lapped at her finger. She dripped olive oil on my tongue and I tilted my head back to receive it. Each new transgression forced me to find the courage to accept it, and each act of submission made my pussy burn. I wanted to squirm my bottom on the sand. When she slid one hand up under my blouse to cup my breast, I excused it to myself by saying that Xander couldn’t actually see my naked flesh. When she pulled back my head against her shoulder and kissed me, long and wet, her tongue sliding in and out of my mouth, I told myself I shouldn’t be prudish. When she rolled up my top to expose my nipples and took those points in her fingers, pulling and pinching them until they stood up fat as pink olives, then I mumbled in my head that every tourist in Greece went topless and it didn’t mean a thing. And all the time my pussy grew plumper and more slippery until I felt like I was all writhing cunt and pleading tits.
She kissed all the strength out of me. She kissed me down to heavy, to passive, to open and empty, needing her forcefulness to fill me. When she withdrew from my mouth, my lips were slack and swollen. I made little helpless noises in my throat.
‘Let’s get this off,’ she murmured, easing my blouse over my head.
I whimpered, my eyes pleading, but I didn’t resist. What difference did it make, after all, if my breasts jutted out from beneath the bunched fabric or whether my shoulders were bared too and the blouse discarded in the sand?
‘Shush,’ she ordered, pulling my head back by the hair so that she could lick my tongue.
I was grateful; she understood me. My whimpers didn’t mean that I needed her to stop; they meant that I needed her to make me go on.
Once I was resting back in her arms, she cupped my breasts from below, squeezing them as if fascinated by their weight and softness. ‘Beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘You have beautiful breasts.’
She looked up at Xander for confirmation and he nodded, one eyebrow raised, cool and distant. But his hands had slowed upon the guitar and the rapid intertwining notes were grown simpler now, as if the music were vying for his attention with something more elemental.
‘I could eat them up,’ Phoebe whispered in my ear. She took up a piece of cut cucumber and rubbed its wet cold flesh across the stiff tips of mine, glazing them shiny as the cucumber turned to pulp. ‘Do you like this?’
I nodded faintly. I couldn’t speak any more.
‘Let’s see.’ She pulled my skirt up slowly, finger over finger. Xander’s eyes, a merciless blue like the cloudless skies above the islands, were fixed upon us, barely blinking. ‘Yes. Let’s have a look.’ She cupped her hand over the mound of my sex and my hips twitched, my bum grinding into the cloth and the sand. ‘Yes. See this? She’s wet already, Xander.’
There was no denying that. The gusset of my tiny panties was soaked, the cotton already translucent from the sea water but more slippery with my juices. My thighs spread wider under her coaxing; he could look straight down between them. She pressed the cloth up against me. Then she slipped her fingers beneath the cotton and ploughed my furrow for real.
‘Beautiful pussy too,’ she breathed. ‘Oh Ness, is that nice?’
I mewed like a kitten. Her fingertip was stirring my clitoris to flames.
‘Pussy’s so wet. Pussy’s being naughty.’
There was no denying, either, what was happening here: if they really were siblings then this had gone way beyond kinky. It struck me with a kind of terror, which rendered me helpless as a rabbit in headlights. I was sagging against her arm, her right hand hooked up under my breast and tugging at my teat while her left hand delved deeper and deeper into my sex. Her fingers made little wet noises as they spread me wide.
‘Can you hear how wet she is?’
Xander dipped his chin in acknowledgement. His lips were parted. The notes fell slow and distinct from his fingers like drops of rain.
‘Dirty little pussy,’ Phoebe breathed. ‘Showing yourself for my brother.’
I began to come. She wasn’t even trying to bring me off, she was just touching me up, but I couldn’t bear her gloating judgement or the lancing blue of his eyes or the knowledge that she was exposing me and I was doing nothing to cling to my dignity. Electric sparks flashed through my clit.
‘Oh, what a slut. What a filthy little slut.’
And she was right, wasn’t she? I thought as I convulsed, hips and belly jerking, thrusting my tits up, longing for Xander to see them shaking, longing for Phoebe to enslave me further. The blood thundered in my ears.
Even as I came down, the pulse jumping all round my body as it does with that first easy orgasm, distress started to return in the backwash. But I had no time to think what to do next. Phoebe slipped from beneath my limp body and laid me back on the sand, pulling my arms over my head. I could feel the cool firm ripples of sand through the tablecloth. I could see the fishing nets and the vine leaves overhead. I felt her shift her position, pinning my arms to the sand under her shins. I heard the last note of the guitar fall silent. I looked down the length of my body and Phoebe slipped her hands under my head for a moment to support it. I saw the skirt rucked up around my hips and the pathetic wisp of cloth over my pubic mound and my sprawled open thighs. Beyond them, Xander laid his guitar gently aside and stood, and I knew that Phoebe was offering me to him as a gift.
I should have been angry; I should have been afraid – but I was in a trance of submission and drunk with desire. And Xander was beautiful, so crazy fucking beautiful that I lost myself just looking at him. Dappled patches of sun gilded his smooth torso; he had surfer abs to go with the legs and the arms, and his pants hung so low on his hips that the hair mounting from the base of his flat belly peeked out. He slipped the top button of those shorts, taking his time. Two more and he could drop them over his thighs and step out. As I’d anticipated, there was no hint of a tan-line; he was bronzed all over. He put his hand on his cock and tugged it once, just guiding it to full erection. The lazy strokes he gave it after that were purely gratuitous, but helped emphasise its length and grace and the utter solidity of its stance. I whimpered low in my throat, knowing a dark hot pleasure in submitting to their incestuous game.
Without any hurry, he knelt between my thighs and tugged down my knickers. He tossed them to Phoebe, not looking at them, not lifting his gaze from mine. I think he wanted to see my helpless horrified need. Phoebe took the sodden scrap of fabric and pushed it between my lips. I opened for it willingly, tasting myself, accepting the gag as I’d accepted every one of her humiliations. She stroked my face and whispered, ‘Good girl.’
Then Xander slid his hand under my hips and lifted me and guided his prick into me and fucked me – steady, implacable, slow at first so that I could feel every thrust, then faster and harder and higher. I’ve never been fucked like it. He held my bum off the floor, my cheeks on his locked thighs, my back arched across his hands. He must have been strong – he must’ve had an arse like steel. Phoebe let my head fall back and instead ran her hands over my breasts. Only the fact that she was pinning me down at the shoulders kept me braced against the sand. While he towered above me, his cock slid in and out, mashing my sex until the heat built to a blaze. Not once did he stop to touch me or bestow a caress. His expression was taut with strain now, his eyes fixed on an ineffable distance, his beauty magnificent. Then Phoebe leant forwards into the light; a moon eclipsing the sun. I looked up and saw them meet, her lips against his, their tongues dancing together.
Xander groaned into his sister’s mouth.
My orgasm came like a burst of light. It was white, it was golden – and it was not gentle. I only came back to myself when he withdrew, lowering me to the floor. I opened my eyes just soon enough to see his cock withdrawn into the shadows, still erect and nodding sagely and glistening with my butter. My muscles clenched yearningly around emptiness. I was awash with his come, I realised.
‘Oh my pretty pussy,’ whispered Phoebe, crawling headfirst down the length of my body and lying against me, one thigh draped around my neck. My arms were suddenly free and I took the chance to pull the knickers from my mouth so that I could draw more air with each gasp. I needed to; the next thing she did was wrap her head and shoulders over my pelvis and lower her face to my sex. I bucked in shock. She pushed into me, her tongue writhing, and I squirmed under her as she lapped up her brother’s semen. Aftershocks chased my previous seismic orgasm and I clasped her waist and tilted my pelvis towards her, welcoming her mouth. Eyes shut, I blindly sought the cinch of her belt and loosed it, undid her button and fly and slid my hand into her shorts. I found no hair, only smooth skin and then slippery wetness. She heaved under my hand; it was the first reaction I’d ever got from her.
Then she was wrenched from me. From behind and above, Xander seized her hips and pulled her arse high, and in a few brief movements he yanked down her shorts, before flinging them aside. Phoebe cried out and clung to my thighs. Xander planted her knees firmly either side of my head and knelt up tight behind her; I was looking straight up at the sweet shaven folds of her sex when he pressed into her with the head of his cock. I got a ringside view. Inches from my nose he pushed home, and I could hardly believe that he was still hard after all he’d done to me, or that he could fit into that tight slit. He took her all the way – and she took him. His balls, fuzzed with their golden corona of hair, slapped up against her. ‘Yes!’ Phoebe cried into my muff.
He pulled back for the next thrust and I could see the sheen of her juices lacquering his shaft. I could smell her excitement and I could smell his heat. Her clit was quite visible; if I could’ve reached it with my tongue I would have licked it like a sweet. Sweat ran down the inside of his perfect thighs, his rhythmic thrusts building wave upon wave as she arched and writhed against him. She forgot to mouth at my sex and her hot face banged against the inside of my leg. I longed to feel her pleasure. I ran my hand up her belly and then, after laving my fingers in my own spit to lubricate them, laid them upon the pink pearl of her clit. I heard her sharp mew. In stroking her, my fingertips brushed Xander’s hard shaft and were pummelled by his balls, and I added the friction of my splayed fingers to the grip of her cunt on his girth, my palm massaging the slick softness of her pussy.
Phoebe shrieked as she came. Xander’s rhythm stuttered and for a moment he seemed to lock inside her, but I only really knew he was climaxing when he pulled out and, pressing his hand down on his cock to angle it better, ejaculated in great wet splashes on my face. Warm jism fell on my lips and lashes. I was shocked by how much those big clenched balls were able to produce; he was still jetting as he stuffed his prick back into his sister’s hole to finish the job properly.
When it was all over, he bent forwards and kissed her bare shoulders before withdrawing. The expression on his face was exactly what you’d expect: smug. Phoebe slumped into a sitting posture at my side and pulled off her top to wipe her hot face; there was a wicked complicit grateful glitter in her eyes as she looked first at Xander, then at me.
She had a small crescent moon tattooed on one beautiful breast and silver studs through her nipples.
There was one last benison. She knelt to neatly lick his spunk from my face, kissing the last drops from my lips.
That was when the jeering and whistling started. At first I’d no idea where it came from, then as we looked around I spotted them, silhouetted on the netting wall. The obscenities in English identified the spies as the youths from the beach. Phoebe scrambled to her feet and I could read the fury in every taut line of her frame. She strode without hesitation across the taverna and ripped aside the nets at the entrance. Out into the sunlight she stalked, the boys whooping and gesturing before her; they fell back a little but they weren’t really afraid. They were nearly killing themselves laughing.
Phoebe pointed her hand at them. She spoke in Greek. They fell to the floor. Then they turned into dogs.
I didn’t have the best view, knelt up between the tables, but I know what I saw. They hit the sand and writhed wildly, kicking it into the air, and when they came up they were ragged-looking dogs with curly tails who fled howling with fear, tripping over their feet and falling again and tearing at their own limbs with their teeth in panic. Phoebe stalked after them, still shouting words I couldn’t understand.
I turned in shock to Xander.
He shrugged. ‘Old habits die hard.’ Then with an exasperated sigh he heaved himself to his feet and followed his sister out on to the beach. ‘Phoebe!’
His arse was exactly like his statue’s.