Drenched

  Drenched

  An Anthology of Wet and Wild Erotica

  ♦♦♦♦

  Compiled by Kojo Black

  For naughty nixes and seductive sprites

  ♦♦♦♦

  Sweetmeats

  Water holds so much power and so much mystery. It is deep enough to keep a thousand secrets, and it is as ethereal as a spirit. It nourishes a barren land back to life as easily as it tears down a mountainside.

  With so many facets of this invaluable element to choose from, I was delighted to present this watery theme to five of the most fabulous erotic authors. They have allowed water to inspire them, and they have burst forth with a fountain of tales that ultimately bathe us in imagination and ecstasy.

  Water has so much to give that I feel we have barely rippled the surface of this theme, and I am already looking forward to revisiting it again. However, for the meantime, immerse yourself in the pages of Drenched, and do not be concerned if things get more than a little wet!

  -Kojo Black

  Also from Sweetmeats Press

  Paperbacks & eBooks

  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

  Diary of a Library Nerd by Kyoko Church

  ♦♦♦♦

  A Sweetmeats Book

  First published by Sweetmeats Press 2014

  Copyright © Sweetmeats Press 2014

  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 and Kojo Black. 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 978-1-910147-06-1

  Typeset by Sweetmeats Press

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

  www.sweetmeatspress.com

  Contents

  Melusine by Janine Ashbless

  The Pool Party by Primula Bond

  Naiad by Justine Elyot

  Hard to Swallow by Lisette Ashton

  A Divine Solution by Vina Green

  Melusine

  ♦♦♦♦

  by Janine Ashbless

  So tonight Martin sits in his rental car, in the country hotel parking lot, watching the stairs to the front door through the rain. It’s a filthy wet night. A Friday, of course—what else?

  This is how a man breaks.

  He’s cut the engine and turned off the windshield wipers, in case it attracts attention; and he has the passenger window open for a clearer view. He takes no notice of the seat getting wet on that side; he can afford to pay off the rental company for the extra cleaning. He can afford to buy the car outright, if he likes. Buy it, scrap it, and buy another one with dry upholstery. He’s got everything he could reasonably want, money-wise. He’s got the perfect life, or that’s how it looks; hanging out with celebrities, flying all over the world for business and leisure, two sweet kids, a truly beautiful wife …

  Six days a week, anyway.

  Not Fridays. Fridays from sunset. Those are … holes in his life. Black spots in the calendar, as if Lucy has taken a magic-marker and blocked in the squares. He can’t read what’s written beneath. He can’t write his own plans. Nothing there but darkness.

  And after ten years, that darkness has started to leak out and stain the rest of his life.

  Martin sits up straighter as headlights blear the night. Another car, a familiar red BMW, pulls in. Yes: there she is. Just as the private investigator promised—she books into this spa hotel every Friday evening and stays until midday on Saturday. It’s two hours’ drive from their home in London, and longer if traffic is really bad.

  Room 112. She always books the same luxury suite on the corner.

  Martin’s hands are clammy now. He clenches his fists and then rubs his palms on his trousers as he watches Lucy, wrapped in a long coat, walk to the hotel entrance. She doesn’t hurry through the rain; she even lifts her face to let the drops kiss her, as if rain is exactly what she wants tonight.

  Lucy always gets what she wants.

  She got him, after all.

  ♦♦♦♦

  Martin Fiske first met Lucy Doro in the South of France, at the villa of a very wealthy ex-pat client. Martin was there to work on Russ’s financial portfolio and partake, at his invitation, in the good things that international television success and Martin’s sound financial advice had brought into Russ’s life. What Lucy was doing there was never entirely clear to him, but the house was full of friends and assorted hangers-on for Russ’s annual birthday bacchanal, and presumably Lucy was a friend of Russ’s laid-back wife Angie. Or something.

  Martin was sitting with an ice-cold beer on the patio, trying to squeeze in a little work before the afternoon’s jaunt down to the coast by prepping a form Russ had to sign. He’d chosen a shaded spot behind the open stairs that led up to the pool terrace, and his eye-line was occasionally broken by feet ascending or descending the broad rustic treads. He glanced up yet again as a door opened at ground level, a woman came out and called a greeting to some other guests, then strolled up the steps—but this time he lost all ability to concentrate on the papers.

  From her point of view, the young woman was probably only looking down at wooden treads. From his, he had a direct line of sight as she rose up over him like a vision: hair then shoulders, breasts, waist, hips, legs, feet. Each exquisite part in turn, like some Venus magically emerging from the foamy surf. She was, he thought in awe, golden from top to toe; golden and sleek and smooth, with legs as long as forever. And wearing a very brief dayglo-green bikini, and over that a mini-dress of netted string. That pseudo-dress only emphasized her near-nakedness. It suggested that he shouldn’t really be seeing the triangles of bathing suit beneath, or the taut smooth flesh. Those should be hidden. Yet there they were—and there he was, looking.

  Martin’s mouth hung open. The finance form was forgotten. The cheery conversation going on around the patio faded under the thrum of blood in his ears. And then just as suddenly, she was gone, her bare feet stepping lightly overhead.

  Someone crashed into the chair at his elbow. Blinking, Martin turned to see Russ grinning broadly at him.

  “It’s not a bad life, is it mate?” He winked.

  “Uh …?” Martin shut his mouth and cleared his throat. “Who was …? I mean, sorry. I was just …”

  “Oh, don’t apologize. That’s the point of all this sun I’m paying for.” Russ, his hairy belly toasted brick-red and mounded over a pair of shorts better suited to a younger man, tilted a beer glass conspiratorially in his direction. “Her name’s Lucy. Old money, Luxembourg family I believe, likes swimming and photography.”

  “I wasn’t …”

  “Well, you should. I’ve never seen legs like it.”

  Martin took a sip of
his beer.

  Ten minutes later—shortly after Russ wandered off again, in fact—Martin was mounting the steps to the pool terrace in pursuit of his vision. He felt embarrassed; he was not the sort of man who followed bikini-babes around. He wasn’t, he would have admitted, the sort of man bikini-babes took any notice of, unless they had a daddy complex. But the lure was so strong that it overcame his own self-image as a man of propriety and good sense. He’d like to have claimed it was curiosity; an almost feverish urge to ascertain if she really was as perfect as his brief glimpse had insisted. No real woman could be that flawless, he thought. Yet every time he tried to concentrate on his work, those mental pictures rose before his eyes again and overwhelmed him: those incredible long smooth thighs, those exquisite amber breasts cradled in their lycra cups, the near-flat plane of her belly and her lithe waist, and the hypnotic twitch of her hips as she ascended.

  He hadn’t seen her face properly. She’d worn dark sunglasses, and he’d been too blinded by the body presented below. But he thought she was young. It had been a young body. Far too young for him, he admonished himself; too young for a divorced accountant already turned forty who had found himself playing tourist in a surreal world of sunshine and glamour.

  I just want to see. Dear heaven, just let me look one more time. I’ll die happy, I swear.

  The pool terrace was scattered with people, thank heaven; Martin wouldn’t have wanted to be conspicuous. And the pool itself was big enough to justify swimming lengths, which was what that girl, that Lucy, was doing. She swam between the idly splashing knots of pool-users with long smooth strokes. She was gold against the azure pool.

  Golden as the sun in the Mediterranean sky above, Martin thought, and staring at her would just as surely make him go blind.

  He sat down on a cushioned sun-lounger and opened his file of papers on his thigh, trying to look casual. He could feel the awakened heat in his blood, and the weight of his balls; their speculative clench was an almost unfamiliar sensation. He’d always kept sexual indulgence for the bedroom where it belonged. He’d lived an ordered, proper life and never listened to temptation. That was the way he liked it. Mooning after some strange girl like a hormone-driven teenager was not his style at all.

  It wasn’t as if he could even see much as she swam. Just the lift of her breasts, perhaps, as she flipped over into backstroke. Just the long taut lines of her torso and the sheen of her flashing thighs. The water hid and distorted everything. It made it hard to judge if his first assessment of her perfection had been correct.

  He couldn’t leave now.

  So he stayed, even when the gong sounded to signal the promised trip down to Russ’ fancy new yacht and the champagne-soaked tour around the bay. Everyone else upped sticks and left, even the swimmers who mimed panic and blotted off the water and tumbled themselves into beach-dresses.

  One swimmer stayed. She showed no interest in the summons or in anyone else, neither their absence nor their presence. She did a length of front crawl and then a length backstroke and then a silent length underwater, over and over again, absorbed in her own activity, her own body. Self-sufficient, Martin thought, glancing up from his papers surreptitiously for the hundredth time, and finding—for the hundredth time—his glance caught on the honey-glaze of her skin for far longer than he’d intended. For longer than it was wise, too, now that everyone else had departed to leave him alone on the poolside. Watching, full of yearning, as she ignored them and him and all the world.

  Then she stopped, and drew herself up at the poolside facing him. Her hair was slicked back and darker now, her eyes wide and blinking. Martin cast one last furtive glance and tried to hide his own eyes in the thickets of accountancy. He couldn’t help be aware of the rush and the regretful gasp of the water as she jumped and caught herself on straight arms, heaving herself from the pool. He couldn’t help seeing, peripherally, as she walked across in front of him to where she’d stashed her towel and discarded clothes. The dayglo-green bikini winked in the corner of his vision as her bottom twinkled past, glittering with water drops. He felt his cock thicken and swell, incorrigible.

  The open pages on his lap were a blur. He’d never read another word again, he knew. There was nothing in his head but this Lucy’s divine body; half-seen, half-mystery. Wholly bewitching.

  Then he heard her light footfalls and saw a blur of tan skin and unnatural green, and he knew she was standing in front of him.

  Martin raised his gaze and, with immense effort, looked her in the face.

  No sunglasses now. Her eyes weren’t blue, as he’d imagined, but olive green, and her long dark lashes were starred by pool-water. Her face … she was just as beautiful as he’d hoped, but he was also relieved to see that she wasn’t as young as her body had suggested; her face had the planed look of a woman well out of her first youth, all angles and cheekbones. Except for her lips, which were full and curved in an asymmetric half-smile.

  Martin could feel his heart hammering.

  She was looking at him. Not just his face, either. She looked him up and down, as if assessing him, and he felt heat charge up to his face and down to his crotch. Did she see a respectable trim man in casual clothes—or a furtive, middle-aged lecher? He knew he couldn’t possibly leave now, because if he stood up she’d see he had a hard-on. Quite possibly that was obvious already, but he didn’t dare check. Her coolly judging expression made him squirm inside with shame, but it did nothing to quell his surging erection.

  Without a word, she lifted her towel and ran it across her wet hair. Tarnished darker by water, a few strands were already turning back to gold—but that wasn’t what registered. What mattered to Martin was that in attending to her body right there in front of him, she had somehow granted permission to look. So he did.

  Dear God.

  Was she even human, to look like that? He was a Londoner; he’d married an English girl, he was used to English bodies—pale, fleshy, buttery-soft, sweetly imperfect, and always slightly self-doubting. Not this golden-tan litheness, this confidence, this taut athletic ideal. Lucy had the body of an Olympic gymnast and the assurance of a supermodel. The inner slopes of her delectable breasts—not huge, not small, just utterly perfect, like some impossible lycra-wrapped treasure—were jeweled with water droplets that shivered and ran and begged to be touched, and her waist was so slender that his hands ached to circle it. Those long long legs rose to a tilted pelvic girdle, one hip cocked, the twin ties of her bikini bottom dripping diamonds and tantalizingly vulnerable.

  He wanted to lick those water drops. He wanted to touch those breasts and feel their softness and their weight. He wanted to put his hands on those hips and feel the movement of her frame, the way they rolled, as if mere engineering would make her real somehow, make her a thing of earthly possibility. Make her comprehensible to his English sensibilities.

  His cheeks burned as he met her gaze again.

  Coming to some private decision, this vision flung her towel down across his lap. “Oil me,” she commanded.

  “Huh?”

  “Oil me.” Her voice had a husky edge, a slight European accent. She tossed the bottle of sun-oil from her other hand onto the towel and Martin gasped as it smacked right on his burgeoning cock. But the blow did not register as pain; he was beyond that now. He grabbed at the bottle automatically. He was not, however, swift enough to react before Lucy moved in on him, swinging round to present her back and ass and sinking down to straddle his thighs.

  He had just enough self control not to swear with shock and delight. He couldn’t stop the noise, half earthy grunt and half groan, that escaped his throat, though. And he heard her laugh softly.

  Jesus. This can’t be real.

  She smelled of chlorinated pool water. Most of it was going on the towel, but she was dripping on his papers and his trousers and his shirt. He found he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except the fact that
she was sitting astride him, her spread butt-cheeks nestling on his crotch, her strong, slender back presented for his touch. He could see the drops running down the declivity of her spine, right there in front of him, an inch from his raised hands.

  This is crazy. Holy hell Martin, don’t mess this up! He couldn’t imagine what had he done to deserve this, in this life or any other, but he had no intention of rejecting this gift from the gods. Carpe diem, you idiot!

  So he flipped the lid of the bottle and squirted sun-oil over her shoulders, though when it came to laying a hand on her he actually held his breath, as if she were some dream bubble who might burst and vanish. But her back was solid and smooth beneath his palm, and not even cool from the pool but warm with her body heat.

  He began to stroke the oil across her skin.

  “Mmm,” she purred, arching her spine.

  “Okay?” he stammered.

  “Oh yes. Nice.” She wriggled under his grasp, thrusting her bum out a little more, with consequences beneath the draped towel that Martin did not dare think about. His brain had locked down to a tiny circle of focus: her body, alive and lithe under his hands, and the slick slide of skin on skin. The concave of her waist, the flare of her hips, the ripe peachy curves of her ass, unconcealed by the little strip of her thong … Not that he dared touch those. He caressed the oil into her back for as long as he could, dizzy with the scent of sun-lotion.

  “Shoulders?” he asked. His mouth was so dry the word sounded woolly.

  “Shoulders. Legs. Everywhere,” she answered, grabbing the bottle from where it rested at his hip and squirting a line of oil down her thigh.

  “Uh. Right.” He felt drunk, and clumsy, and unreal. He smoothed his hands down her thighs as far as he could reach toward her knees, leaning into her. Down, and then back up again, smooth as cream—and as he reached her hips she lifted herself a little, raising the perfect heart-shape of her bottom clear of the towel to allow those hands easy access below. “Oh God,” he breathed, cupping her butt like he was holding the world in either hand.