Looking back on that afternoon, there are a couple of things that I hold responsible for what happened.
The crisp and salty sea air, for one. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved the beach. The sound of the ocean waves breaking, crashing against the shore; the fine spray that permeates the air; stepping lightly through rock-pools as they glint in the sunlight; hearing the steady lap and savouring the sensation of sand and sea water sucking at my toes as the water recedes, and returns, then recedes again. Or sitting at the top of a cliff and watching, hearing and feeling the thunderous power of the waves smashing violently against the rock-face. There is something so awe-inspiring about the ocean; the pure power of nature, the influence of the moon on the changing tides, the way the air just smells right. Even the cacophonous cries of the seagulls as they hover in mid-air, riding the ocean breeze, is like a symphonic masterpiece to my ears.
Secondly, I was on holiday. Many miles from home. A strange thing happens to me whenever I’m away from home, by myself and in an environment where no one knows me. I become a different person. I don’t just mean that in a poetic sense, either. It’s as though I channel another part of myself when I’m out of my usual setting. I eat foods that I would never normally touch when I’m at home, I shed my inhibitions and wear the kind of clothes that I’d never normally wear (shorts! me, with my pale Scottish legs!?). I’ve even been known to use an alias and/ or create an entire alter-ego for myself while on holiday; for a ten day period in 2009, the restaurateurs and bar-staff of Provence knew me as ‘Alessia’, an exotic dancer from Rome. (Unfortunately, I got caught out eventually when a sexy waiter started hitting on me in my “native tongue”: I don’t know a word of Italian.)
So, all of this is just to say that, in my defence, I’m not quite myself when I’m on holiday. And I blame that fact for what transpired last summer when I was in Cornwall.
Early July in Cornwall is brilliant. The weather is usually perfect, warm but not too terribly hot. The schools haven’t yet broken for the summer hols, so you can avoid the hellish crowds, and you can get a halfway decent hotel room without having to empty your entire savings account.
I was staying in one such hotel when it happened. The room was on the sixth floor, and looked out over Great Western Beach. There was a big picture window that offered a panoramic view of the vivid turquoise water and looked all the way out to the horizon. Being so high up and facing out to sea meant that the room was completely private and, ensconced as I was in my customarily hedonistic holiday universe, I had taken to lounging around the room completely naked.
It was around 4pm. I’d ventured out to Fistral Beach that morning, and spent most of the day soaking up the sun and ogling the sun-bronzed surfers, before stopping in the centre of town for a lazy lunch of cod, chips and peas. There was wine, too, a large glass of crisp cold Zinfandel, then another, and another and then, what the hell- I’m on fucking vacation! – a fourth. (Hmm, perhaps I ought to add all that wine to the list of culprits, too….)
Feeling that devil-may-care langorousness that comes from a boozy lunch, I sauntered on ever-so-slightly unsteady legs back to my hotel room, where I promptly stripped off all my clothing and stretched out on the comfy Queen size bed. Despite the fact that you couldn’t really open the window (hotels are inordinately concerned about suicidal guests nowadays), I could still hear the sound of the waves and the singing of the gulls in the distance. I closed my eyes and folded my hands lightly over my bare belly.
My mind wandered back to earlier in the day, watching the surfers riding the waves. In their sleek black wetsuits, they’d looked like seals, darting in and out amongst the currents. But I especially enjoyed when they would head back into the shore, stick their boards in the sand, and unzip the top halves of their suits to expose their tanned, toned torsos. Spying from behind my dark sunglasses and under a wide-brimmed hat, I’d followed these aquatic Adonises with hungry eyes. Now, relaxed and randy, I allowed myself to fantasize.
A blue-eyed, blond-haired sun god; a smooth and hairless chest revealed by a half opened wetsuit, clinging sensuously to his perfect physique; emerging, dripping wet, from the water like a masculine Bo Derek in “10”, shaking thick droplets of salty sea water from his hair. In my mind’s eye, my oceanic fantasy man took long, slow-motion strides towards me, fixing me with those piercing eyes and lowering his wetsuit. Lower, lower, lower….
In the cool hotel room, I let my hand traipse over my belly and down to my nude pubis. I’d had a Hollywood wax before I’d left for Cornwall, so my mound was entirely devoid of hair. I enjoyed the silken smoothness of the skin under my fingertips, and lingered a moment to stroke back and forth.
In my fantasy, my own hand became my surfer-lover’s hand, and I allowed my legs to fall open, inviting his touch against my soft, sensitive folds. I could almost feel his warm, damp breath brushing my earlobe as he slid a finger in between my labia and gently coaxed my pussy open. His long, thick fingers tickled and teased, sliding out of my cunt and rubbing the slick liquids inside me up to my clit, lubricating the tender, aching nub.
With his free hand, my daydream seducer pleasured my hard nipples, his thumb winding slow circles around and around the swollen tips, occasionally pinching between two fingers, pulling and stretching them tautly until the pain bit into my flesh hard and made my back arch upwards. Meanwhile, his talented fingers returned to the wet haven inside me, plunging in and out slowly, tapping the front wall of my pussy and sending dark tendrils of throbbing ecstasy into my g-spot.
Lost in my sensual fantasy, I writhed on the bed, raising my hips rhythmically up and down to meet my own thrusting hand, and thrashing my head back and forth on the pillow. It was then that I saw him; a window-cleaner, harnessed up and standing on the window ledge right outside, looking in at me.
Our eyes met, and locked. I was horrified for a split second, embarrassed at being seen naked by a stranger, and ashamed of being caught masturbating. I wanted the mattress to swallow me up. What should I do? What could I do? I’d already been spied, he was right there looking straight at me. There was no hiding, nowhere to run; the damage was already done. I was like a stunned rabbit in headlights; I couldn’t look away.
He was staring in at me, watching me intently. He was in his 40s, at a guess, with dark eyes, closely shorn hair and a rose tattoo on his right arm. Not a total hunk, (not to my taste, at least), but no Quasimodo either. He was wearing a yellow high-vis vest underneath his harness, and underneath the vest his chest was bare. On his lower half, he wore a pair of denim cut-off shorts. As I cast my eyes down, I could see that the front of these shorts was hanging open, and his cock was out, pointing red and angry towards me.
I confess, his half-exposed and erect state turned me on. Plus, I was so close to coming anyway. Why not finish the performance? I didn’t know him, he didn’t know me; for all he knew I was some sexually confident Mrs Robinson type, a seductress, an unapologetically sexual being with no inhibitions at all. The type of woman I’ve always fantasized about being, but never had the courage. But now, here on holiday and away from my friends, family and work colleagues, I could be whoever the hell I wanted to be.
And so, with my best attempt at an alluring ‘Mystery-Woman (TM)’ smile, I brought my other hand down from my breast and used it to rub hard at my clitoris. Both hands now, plunging, digging, encircling, filling the soaking wet heat between my spread legs. I saw him bring a hand down to his cock and start jerking it in brisk, urgent strokes as he watched me wanking myself hard and fast towards climax. Moments later, he came, shooting thick ropes of ejaculate onto the window. It ran down the glass slowly, and I watched it for a second, fascinated, as I continued to impale myself on my fingers.
I closed my eyes as the orgasm took hold. My legs shook violently, my nipples tightened and my areolas puckered tautly. With a low moan I came, my cunt contracting around my fingers, and spilling viscous liquid into my hand as I continued to writhe and twist on the bed. I could hear the roar of the blood in my ears, and the thumping of my heart in my chest. My movements started to slow, and I placed my left hand back on my breast, holding it softly and stroking as I came down.
I kept my eyes closed. Now that the moment was over and I had climaxed, I could feel the hot shame rising up in me. Oh my God, what had I done? What the hell had I been thinking? I was angry with “holiday-me” for taking me over and making me behave like such a filthy slut, and I was too afraid to move in case the window-cleaner was still outside the window looking at me. I lay there frozen for a while, until eventually, exhausted, I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke up about an hour and a half later, I nervously cast a glance toward the window. I don’t know what I was expecting to see; it was highly unlikely he would be standing, or half suspended there still, but nevertheless my heartbeat raced anxiously as I looked over. Outside the sky was still bright and blue, and a seagull hung in the air, coasting on the sea breeze. I wrapped myself in my satin robe and paced slowly closer to the window. The pane was entirely clean, sparkling in the evening sunlight. There was not a trace of semen left, no sign of what had happened. It made me smile to think of this guy washing the window pane almost immediately after having shot his come all over it. Probably not a work day he’s likely to forget, I suppose.
I checked out two days later and returned home. I never saw him again after that episode, but I live in fear of bumping into him one day here at home. It’s a small world, after all.