Beaches and Cream

For sun worshipers and libertines everywhere!

There's just something about the summertime. The temperature rises and clothing retreats. Everything we wear gets shorter and looser. Naked skin gets softer and browner—warm and enticing in the heat. Everywhere you look there is a celebration of abandon. People are so easy to watch as they move—no longer hidden beneath layers of heavy clothes.

The chiselled and powerful arms of men, strong and sinewy, extend from sleeveless shirts to flex and gleam in the sun. While the soft, naked thighs of women emerge alluringly from beneath the most tantalising of skirts. Even bodies that can bear to remain covered in the heat still ripple and sway beneath clothing that is barely there.

So, whether the summer is a distant memory, or you're about slip into part two of Sun Strokes in the sunshine, I hope the story within these pages will tease out the sun-worshipping hedonist in you!

The Candy Box by Kojo Black

Sun Strokes by Kojo Black

Immoral Views by Various Authors

Named and Shamed by Janine Ashbless

Naked Delirium by Various Authors

Making Him Wait by Kay Jaybee

Seven Deadly Sins by Various Authors

Strummed by Various Authors

Made for Hire by Various Authors

In the Forests of the Night by Vanessa de Sade

First published by Sweetmeats Press 2011

Copyright © Kojo Black 2011
Illustration © Ruby Baiser 2011
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from Sweetmeats Press. Nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-0-9564390-8-6

Typeset by Sweetmeats Press
Sweetmeats Press, 27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3XX, England, U. K.

www.sweetmeatspress.com

I'd had my suitcase packed for a week.

That's not entirely true. I'd begun packing three weeks ago. One week ago I'd finally decided upon everything I was going to bring. And all of it had remained packed in my suitcase under the bed ever since. Two weeks of dreaming, shopping, packing, unpacking, shopping, organising and repacking had finally resulted in the definitive holiday collection, packed finally and lovingly into the suitcase under the bed.

As my excitement for this holiday grew, I also became just a little annoyed with myself for not having done this sooner. Tia and her mother Veronica had invited me to their holiday home every summer since Tia and I were teenagers. And every summer I would make up an excuse not to go. And every summer, Tia would return home, radiant and bronzed from top to toe, to regale me with tales of holiday hijinks and lollapalooza. Some years, especially early on, I genuinely could not go. It may have been a question of money, or time, or some other inflexible decider. In those days, the choice was made for me. However, as time passed, it was the disgruntled looks of my mother that persuaded me not to go. My mother and I had always been close. And, while I clung indifferently to her advice and opinions, I clung a bit too fiercely to her emotional blackmail.

I knew of my mother's distaste for Tia and Veronica. So, at every holiday invitation, I broached the issue with my mother with greater and greater trepidation. And every time her answer was the same. She would purse the left side of her mouth, as if she'd just bitten down on something sour, before saying:

“Go if you want to, Amanda. But you know I'll worry. I've always worried about your friendship with that girl. That whole family, in fact. I don't know what it is, but there's something funny about them. I just don't trust them. Go if you want. I won't sleep for a week, but go if you want….. And what kind of name is Tia for a grown woman anyway?”

Tia's name was, in fact, Marguerita. But she had been unable to pronounce her own name when she was little. The best she could do at the time was “Tia,” and that was the name that had stuck. Even though she was now quite capable of pronouncing her full name. “Tia” suited her. A short, sweet and flighty name, for a short, sweet and flighty girl. She was funny and spritely, quick-witted and light-hearted.

I suppose our friendship was an unlikely one. But it was in no way as dangerous or formidable as my mother surmised. Maybe I was a bit quieter and more of a homebody. While Tia generally preferred to be out rather than in. She would probably be described as sporty and cool, while I would probably be described as cool and quiet. She didn't smoke, but she knew how. Whereas I knew how to crochet—but didn't. Because I was quieter, I always had time to listen to Tia. And for me, Tia was the most honest person I had ever met.

In any case, when Tia and Veronica invited me this summer, I think that all three of us were equally stunned when I said yes. My mother and I went through the same ritual as before, as she impassively gave me every reason why such a journey could be a disaster. But I held my nerve and navigated my way through the quiet but persistent storm of guilt and coercion.

After several days, when it was clear to my mother that I would not change my mind, she simply sighed forlornly and said, “I know what people can be like, Mand. But sometimes you just have to find our for yourself.”

I had to smile at this. My mother really could bring operatic drama to absolutely anything. “I'm sure I'll be fine,” I said, trying not to laugh.

I was sure that Tia and Veronica would be wonderful and relaxing travel companions. But, more than that, I'd also reached the very important conclusion that I had to become a grown-up at some point. As long as my mother felt that her coercion affected my choices, she knew that she could still control me. So she exercised that power wherever and however she could to maintain the child/parent dynamic for far longer than she needed to. She may even have done it subconsciously, because it was a pattern she felt safe with. I suppose that as long as she could still identify with me as a child, she felt she could always protect me. But, having recently (and, if I may say so, elegantly) vaulted the first of life's two main hurdles—my first job and my own place—there wasn't much that I needed protection from. And I decided I would instigate and advertise this change by spending a holiday with my friend and her mother.

And so, with a defiant heart, I'd begun packing my suitcase three weeks early. On the morning of departure, I was awake and dressed two hours before my alarm sounded. I made my way through a hazy urban dawn to arrive at the bustling train station only slightly earlier than necessary. I nursed an iced café mocha between excited hands, enjoying the creamy sweet silk of the chocolate cut through with the bite of strong coffee, as the condensation made my fingers wet in the stuffy heat.

Tia and Veronica arrived in due course—still half believing that I wouldn't actually join them. When at last we met and embraced, I could see in their faces that they were overjoyed to have me. And their enthusiasm only amplified my excitement. I loved the way they so enjoyed each other's company. With so much laughter and consideration. I wished the relationship with my mother was this easy, this fluid, and this much fun.

I couldn't stop smiling as we boarded the train, and my heart fluttered in my chest as we pulled away from the station. Veronica especially had such an easy way about her. Indeed, her form and bearing were distinctly and elegantly matriarchal. But she was so engaging and warm that she could talk easily with us about anything. With my own mother, I found that even the most lighthearted banter could turn into a precautionary tale of woe within the space of one sentence. But Veronica never took on such a tone, and we were free to gossip and laugh without fear of sudden reprisal for overstepping the mark.

We flew along our guided path as the city gave way to suburbia. Only a couple of times did we stop to collect a final smattering of passengers before the train resumed its rhythmic ride. Suburbia eddied into farms and fields. Placid cows watched through the polleniferous haze as our mysterious gilded pod roared past, and frolicsome ponies bucked and cantered in the summer sun. The train dove southwards, plunging beneath the hills into longer and darker tunnels. Every time I caught my reflection in the darkened window, I was smiling. I also caught Tia smiling at me—as if she still couldn't believe I was finally here. We crossed borders and nudged each other excitedly as we tried to read signs in languages we could barely understand.

We changed trains in a foreign capital, stopping for a brief but surprisingly delicious lunch in a delightfully characteristic café. We sat outside and the city whirled around us—the old and the new swirling together as new cars sped round the corners of buildings three centuries old. While elegant and trendy oppidans laughed and shouted, kissed and cursed their way down ancient streets. The moments I sat with Tia and Veronica even smelled of holiday. Everything—the tarmac, the flowers, the cars, the vapour sneaking up from the underground, the very air itself smelled different and new.

We left the café and, halfway between it and the train station, we were caught in sudden and tumultuous summer rain. The ludicrous raindrops were the size of grapes and we squealed as the monstrous pellets popped and spattered even harder against our defenseless bodies as we ran straight into them. Then, just as we rounded one last corner and began our final dash into the station, the rain cessated as suddenly as it had begun. We stopped running and immediately burst into laughter as we took in our saturated state. The rest of the city seemed to emerge, much less the worse for wear, from the awnings and alleys that had obligingly revealed themselves. It was as though we alone were the victims of some elaborate natural prank pulled by Gaia herself.

Soaked through to the skin, Tia and I simply looked bedraggled in shorts and jeans, respectively. But the hard rain had absolutely drenched Veronica's silk jersey wrap dress. I almost felt sorry for her as the once loose, floating fabric now clung to her full figure. The bodice had become almost sheer, the skirt clung tenaciously to her lower half, and the wet frock left little to the imagination. The gentrified city ladies furrowed their brows and tried not to purse their lips too obviously, as they condemned Veronica for being too brazen in her own skin. I wanted to scream at all those prissy women to lighten up and stop looking at Veronica as though she were a sodden tramp. It wasn't her fault she got caught in the shortest, most vigorous rainstorm in history! Veronica valourously ignored the prejudices of the other women. She was a far braver woman than I. I would have been irrevocably embarrassed to walk around in public like that—half drowned and wholly delineated. And, even late for a train, I would have scuttled into the nearest enclave so that I might dry off tidily and thoroughly.

The women were cruel enough in their judgment. But I would have died of shame if every man I passed looked at me the way they looked at Veronica in her wet dress.

It was true that Veronica was a full-figured woman, and the wet silk probably drew more attention to that fact than if she'd been totally naked. The fabric of the dress that moved and swayed with her every step when dry now clung greedily and salaciously to her thighs and buttocks. With every step the fabric wrapped and clasped and sought to enter every crevice her body made. Her once modest décolletage now plunged with the weight of the water to reveal an undeniably deep cleavage. That cleft had been hidden beneath the dry fabric, and given away nothing more than a sensual suggestion of what lay beneath. But now, the wet bodice barely clung to her bosoms, flaunting and emphasising Veronica's more-than-ample breasts at either side of that valley. She'd not expected to be this wet, and even her coordinating undergarments were clearly outlined against her body. It didn't surprise me that Veronica had worn a beautiful set of matching lingerie for the first day of her holiday. What did surprise me was that such a mature and elegant woman would wear something so.….the only word that comes to mind is: slinky. It was not in any way trashy or vulgar. But the satin fabric of her brassiere only half-cupped her heavy breasts, while the remainder of the composite was obviously of a very fine gossamer. The very size and shape of her breasts, and even the outline of her nipples, was embarrassingly bold in the two layers of nearly invisible fabric that hugged and held them.

Veronica strode purposely onwards and Tia and I fell into step behind. Veronica's exposure was no less defined from the back. Her gauzy underwear stretched taut over her bottom, while the second layer of wet fabric told of just where her panties ended and her naked flesh began. Every crease. Every mound. Every crevice. I'm sure I was blushing. Every step Veronica took reminded me how two layers of invisible cloth can be even more revealing than none at all. Even Tia shot me a sheepish grimace, admitting that she too was embarrassed by her mother's prominent and unwittingly proud backside, rolling and swaying for all the world to see, like two fleshy melons wrapped in cling film. I think Tia would have been embarrassed to walk with anyone in such a state. But the fact that the “anyone” was her mother, was absolutely mortifying. Tia smiled nervously and looked anywhere but straight ahead. Still, it was difficult for anyone to ignore Veronica.

The shyer men glanced furtively. And then glanced again. And again—not wanting to be too obvious. The bolder ones simply stared, lechery in their eyes and a smirk on their lips. An even smaller minority cat-called crudities in their own language. To these spectators—the ones that met her gaze anyway— Veronica never broke her stride. She simply smiled. Not a welcoming, warm, or inviting smile. But a patient, understanding smile that a teacher might give to a room full of excited children who would soon settle down after a little nap. Her poise was indomitable and the men withered in her wake. She was not one to let a wet dress slow her down, and she sashayed through the station, the two of us flanking her either side, our cases rumbling along behind us.

Occasionally, Veronica would toss a casual, “Come along now, girls” or a “We mustn't let the train leave without us,” over her shoulder. While at the same time schooling her detractors with little more than a glance. Every awkward step brought us closer to paradise, and at last we boarded our final train as the doors rumbled shut behind us.

It was late afternoon when we disembarked in the coastal town. Palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze, and the high afternoon sun sparkled on the sea. We collected the car and drove up into the hills, winding our way toward Tia and Veronica's retreat. We arrived in just under an hour. The entrance to the property was a secluded gateway on a country lane. Two recessed pillars marked the entrance, each crowned with a lamp—now unilluminated. Between the pillars stood a simple, heavy wooden gate, carved with the initials VCT. I imagined the initials stood for Veronica, Tia, and Claudio—Tia's father. Veronica and Claudio were not together anymore. If you didn't know the gate was here, you'd miss it. But of course Veronica knew exactly where it was, and the gate opened remotely at her command.

We entered a small, round driveway with a garage door at the other end. With only a small door to show for our journey, I must say that I expected a bit more from this house, based on Tia's tales.

“We'll carry our cases from here, girls” Veronica said, as we piled out of the car and stretched our limbs.

We passed beneath an archway, hung heavy with frangipane, the wood twisted and trained to mimic the shape of the arch. The scent of the flowers was so intoxicatingly sweet that I missed my footing for a moment and staggered through this thick, olfactory curtain. Tia and Veronica did not notice, as they led the way down a pebbled path, lined with rosemary and lemon thyme. The path wound round a bend, up a small flight of steps, and deposited us directly onto the veranda.