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The Last Wall

By: MQAllen



The woman in the yellow dress blurred, as if she stood in two poses at once. She vanished and a moment later appeared on a balcony. Her hair, now unbound, streamed on the wind.

So it had been for weeks. Wim would catch a glimpse of her on the Last Wall, then she would reappear in another place on it or vanish entirely, always as if there was some trick of the lighting, some superposition that made it seem as if she was in several places at once. And often, before she vanished, her gaze seemed to single him out.

It was very peculiar but the most unusual aspect was that he could see anyone there at all. On the Last Wall, at the heart of the city, smoke rose from chimneys. Pennants fluttered from flag poles. Curtains swayed as if a person had just passed by. But for years, never had he seen a single soul, not until he had first spied the woman in the yellow dress a few weeks ago.

Wim's childhood friend Raim rustled his hauberk to get his attention. The two stood in the street outside Wim's family-shop.

"Oh, sorry," Wim said. "Stop over-tightening the spring."

Raim took the pocket-watch. "And you should stop looking at the Wall."

"Why? You learned anything since you joined the City Cohort?"

Raim jerked his head in tight negation. "No one likes to talk about it."

The woman in yellow disappeared from the balcony.

"As bold as you are staring at it, you'd do okay as a guard. I could get you in," Raim said. "It'd put some muscle on you. Women like a strong man in armor." 

Wim waggled his long, callous-free fingers. "Your talents lie in cracking skulls, mine in finer pursuits."

"Bah, you're just a tinker. Show a sense of duty."

"I'm a watch-smith," Wim said. "Women like a good living even more than a pretty tabard, at least, the ones I'm interested in."

Raim clattered off, affecting a frown.

If the stories were true, it was the Wall not the guards that really protected the city.

It was more a palace on a ribbon of stone than a defensive work. Chambers and balconies cantilevered in all directions linked by arcing spans of iron and stone. Spires and towers rose with no particular pattern. There were even clusters of well-ordered trees that poked above the walls, probably the mark of little gardens. Even without vanishing ladies, there was plenty to hold the eye.

"Wim!" shrieked his mother. She jabbed him in the elbow with a broomstick, having sallied forth from inside their shop. She joined him on the stoop, her scowl somewhat undermined by the way her gaze kept flitting toward the Wall before darting away.

Wim rubbed his bruise.

"Never look at it! Never!" his mother said. "You'll bring a curse, not just on yourself but on all of us."

"What's the harm?"

"Ask my brother, if you could," she said. "One day he swore he saw a woman in a tower perched high, high up. The next day, a building collapsed on him."

"But that had to have been just an accident."

"Was it? Folks who give that... that... place too much heed have a way of turning up dead." His mother grabbed the silver pendant at her neck and mouthed a silent prayer. "Never look at it again. Forget it."

"But mother-"

"No! Finish setting out the new stock, then it's off to the temple for you. You can bring the white doves your father was saving for holy-day. I just hope it's enough."

Wim went back inside and set to emptying a crate of mantel clocks packed in straw.

The Last Wall drew his attention much more than his mother realized, that's why Wim knew there really was no harm in it. But Raim's barbs stung more than Wim cared to admit. As children, the two had played endlessly at knights and dragons. Both had dreamed of doing battle and protecting the weak. But Wim did not have the backbone to stand down a rowdy drunk or face an angry mob. His talents lay in sedate, studied activities, like deciphering the complexities of a clock mechanism. Still, he could not deny that Raim's offer had not put a brief flutter in his stomach. Youthful dreams of glory took time to die.

It was all fancy, though, his fate decided. Wim had enough set aside to take a wife and become a formal partner in the family business. His father had cleared out the top floor in anticipation of a second household. The negotiations with Katrina's family were complete, waiting only Wim's formal acceptance. He liked her. They would make good partners. But if he grew bored, if he had time, there would always be the Wall to ponder, and maybe the woman in yellow.

#

Wim paused at a street corner not far from the foot of the Last Wall. Purple motes wafted from the open window of a shop selling self-moving banners that could bring a breeze to a stuffy room. Across the intersection another shop, judging by the over-sized dustpan over the door, seemed devoted to magical aids for cleaning house. Such stores were plentiful in the wizard's district. The other two establishments at the crossroad offered food, with their windows full open and tables set out under awnings. A carter with a wagon loaded with beer barrels rattled by.

From the nearest tavern, a sweaty man stepped to him and pushed a mug toward Wim. "Just a Sh'bol," the man said.

"Can you tell me where the temple is?" Wim asked.

The man grinned and shook the mug, sloshing a bit of beer onto the cobbles.

Wim fished a coin from his purse.

"How can you not know where the temple is?" the man asked.

"I'm from the market district."

"Use the market temple."

"Can't. There was a fire last night."

"Regent's temple is your next closest."

"Aye, but some noble's getting married. Priest turned me away."

"Not your day for making an offering, is it?"

Wim shrugged.

"No harm in you offering at my temple, I suppose." The man rubbed his jowls. "Cut over to the next street, a narrow one that runs up the hill-"

"Towards the Last Wall?"

"Yep, that's the way. Mind you, it's steep. At the top of the rise, you'll see it, marked by two twisty sort of columns. Usually a pretty priestess or two out front."

Wim finished his mug and set forth.

The heat had raised a haze that obscured the lower city and the river that bisected it. It had also driven the worst of the city smells into the stone, leaving only a dusty bite that tickled his nose.

At the next crossroad he turned up the hill. There was no walkway on this little roadway, just a gutter in the center and enough space between doorsteps for a cart to pass. Halfway up the hill, a wagon full of barrels blocked the street. It was the one that had passed him earlier, now moving too slowly to make a clatter on the cobbles.

Should he try another street? Nothing ran straight around here. He could spend half the day wandering about lost. He ought to be able to slip past the wagon. He set off up the steep way, passing a little girl setting her clay dolls out on the stoop of her building. From the look of it, a knight was going to have to rescue a princess from a dragon.

At a window to the right of the girl, a woman stood up from her loom, shuttle still in hand to check on the girl. He attempted a benign smile as he passed by.

Higher up the street, past the lumbering wagon, there was some stonework that might be one of the tavern keeper's twisty columns. Beside it stood a woman in a yellow gown, staring at him. The sight turned his tongue dust-dry. It was the woman from the Last Wall. Despite her stern visage, she was as beautiful as he had imagined. But how could she be here?

There was a faint snap, like a father's switch across the bottom of a wayward child. A barrel broke loose from the wagon, followed by the rest of the load. They were big, almost waist high. They bounced and rolled, gathering speed and spreading out to the width of the street, roaring like a dragon in the narrow chasm between the four-story buildings. 

Wim dropped the birdcage, darted uphill to the closest doorway and dove into the lee of its steps. A barrel bounced over him and smashed near his foot, drenching him in beer. A second darkened the sky. It wasn't going to fall clear. He twisted to roll aside. Bones splintered as the barrel smashed across his hip. Mind-blanking pain seared him. The barrel continued toward his head. All turned black.

#

The world was dim. Wim shook his head to clear his sight. Where was he?

Before him, a narrow street ran up a hill. From behind came the burble of a busy roadway. On top of the rise, beyond a lumbering beer wagon, were the twisty columns and the woman in yellow, again. Again? He had never been in this quarter of the city but somehow he knew he had walked this very street. Was he dreaming?

Snap. A barrel rolled from the wagon. The rest of the load followed. A roar filled the street. He dove for the shelter of the nearest steps. Before he reached safety, a barrel bounced high and caught him full in the chest, knocking him into oblivion.

#

The woman in yellow gazed at Wim from higher up the street, from beyond the wagon. He had seen her before, not on the Last Wall, but here, on a street he was visiting for the first time in his life.

Snap. The barrels broke loose.

A stoop just up the hill beckoned, promising false shelter. He bolted downhill. Doves till in-hand, he found refuge in the archway of an apartment just before the first barrel roared by. More barrels bounded after it, some spilling their contents, others of stouter oak careening with growing speed.

The little girl looked up from her dolls, her face calm and uncomprehending. A barrel swept her away, leaving a splash of foamy beer.

A wail rose, the cry of the bereaved mother.

Wim ran to help but there was nothing that could be done for the crushed child. The mother's wail turned to sobs.

The girl's little knight lay smashed into bits, only the stick-sword recognizable. A hollowness filled Wim's head. All this was familiar, ordained somehow. And if he was forewarned, he should have been able to save the little girl at her play. But how? What could he have done?

#

The sight of the woman in yellow, standing at the temple, thrust an icicle through his heart. There was death here.

Snap. The barrels broke free.

There was no shelter in the lee of the steps. He turned for a doorway downhill, ran for it with all speed. Farther down, the little girl played, her head turning to the sound of roaring barrels. He saw the splash of beer that would soon take her place. 

The cold in his chest raced to his throat, threatening to choke him. Though he had never seen the child until this day, somehow he had failed her before. He would not fail her this time. He ran for her. He would scoop her up and throw her into the house.

Barrels cracked and snapped behind him like a spluttering dragon. A blow knocked him flat. Bones crunched. He had just begun to shriek before the life was crushed from him.

#

The woman in yellow put a chill in his chest. Was it because she was supposed to be on the Last Wall? Or that she was the nexus of his nightmares?

The wagon would bring death. He knew this, though he could not say why. He knew too that he could escape his doom, should he choose. But what of the girl at play?

Snap. The barrels began to roll.

He ran for the girl. Behind him, barrels smashed and cracked. Without looking back, he dodged one. It hit a cobble, bouncing into the air. Beer sprayed from gaping staves, but it was not yet spent. It rolled on, toward the little girl.

The barrel hit another protruding cobblestone and jumped once more into the air as if seeking the poor child. Spewing beer, it swept the girl away.

The mother began to wail.

There was a flicker of movement at the foot of the street. A man garbed in white, carrying a little cage with two doves began to ascend, a ghostly man.

Wim shut his eyes. Was he going crazy? Was this a dream?

When the mother's sobs had died to a low moan, Wim opened his eyes. The ghost was gone. By the temple columns, the woman in yellow frowned. He closed his eyes again. What was he supposed to have done? He had failed the child but he could not have outraced the barrels. There was no way to save her. Yet why did his tongue taste like ash? Why did despair press so heavily on his shoulders?

#

Wim paused at the foot of the narrow street. Halfway up, the barrel-laden wagon blocked the street, moving too slowly now to clatter on the cobbles. The sight stilled his breath. Closer, a child played. Why could he see her mother cradling her broken body even as the girl made her toy knight fight a dragon? At the top of the street, though he could not see her yet, stood a woman in yellow, the woman from the Last Wall. How did he know that?

An echo of a mother's cry wailed in his head. The pain of splintered bones lashed his every limb. And yet, his body was whole, the memory of being crushed and crushed again by barrels, what? A remnant of a dream?

It was an omen, nothing more. He turned away. There had to be another way to the temple.

He had not gone many paces when a rumble rose in the street he had forsaken. He kept his head fixed straight ahead, even when the last of the barrels disgorged from the narrow street and continued down the hill. But he could not help look back at the mother's wail.

When a gush of crimson beer flowed from the gutter of the narrow street, Wim ran.

#

He tried to forget the little girl crushed at play but he could not. A child he had never met haunted his dreams and hovered at the edge of his waking moments. He knew he had failed her, yet how could that be? It had something to do with the Last Wall. If he could bring himself to study it once more, perhaps he could find an answer. But he could not bear to gaze at it.

Some months after the girl died, he took Katrina for his wife. The watch-shop prospered. The two worked well together. The top floor became a cozy home. In time, they had their own child, Naolo. When she grew old enough to play with her own dolls, Wim found the memory of the other girl hard to hold at bay.

One day, Naolo played at his feet while he reassembled a clock on his workbench.

"Why do you sigh every time Naolo picks up a doll?" his wife asked.

Did he? He watched his daughter set out a tea party.

"A girl died, much like our little one," he said, as Naolo served her toys. "Killed while at play with her dolls."

Katrina's eyes widened. "How can you mention such a thing in our home?"

"I'm sorry. It was very sad."

"If there's a shadow on your heart, you must ask the gods to take it away."

His head felt light. The room seemed to darken. "An offering at the temple?"

"What has gotten into you?" Katrina said. "Make it a special offering, for all of us, for Naolo."

"I'll- I'll go now."

"Don't let this fester another day."

He left the house wearing a wool cloak against the rain, his white supplicant's robes beneath. His tongue cleaved to a dry mouth. His scalp prickled. Why did a simple trip to the temple put him off his ease? But he saw the little girl with her toy knight in hand and knew the answer. He did not want to go to the temple. Yet he had to, for Naolo and for Katrina.

In the street, a flash of yellow caught his eye and before he could stop himself, he turned, heart in his throat. But it was only a bedraggled chicken pecking in the gutter. Despite his dread, his eyes followed the street up the hill, to the Last Wall but today its spires and balconies were lost in mist.

He turned away.

"Enough of ghosts and nightmares." He took a deep breath and set off to the market district temple. 

Only two vendors of sacrificial animals had bothered to come out in the rain. Both stood as he neared, gesturing to the stacks of cages behind them holding finches, doves, and piglets with a few goats bleating on tethers beside them. He purchased a goat after a brief haggle and led it inside. It was gloomy in the temple with just a hearth gone to coals for light. The priest did his work efficiently. Soon the goat's burning entrails fouled the air.

Why did the dead girl torment him so? He had not even been on her street when the disaster occurred, yet he could see exactly how the barrel had swept her away.

He left the temple and began to walk, heedless of his whereabouts until he found himself at the foot of the street where the wagon had lost its barrels.

Heart pounding, he made his way to the stoop where the girl had died. A man sat inside the doorway, smoking a pipe, listening to the rain.

"Do you know about the little girl killed here a few years ago?" Wim asked.

The man drew his pipe from his mouth. His clothes were patched. His gray beard was too sparse to cover much of his face. "Aye, she was my granddaughter."

Wim's tongue turned to wood. "I'm very sorry," he said, at last.

The man nodded.

"What happened to her mother?"

"Died last winter, heartbroken." Tears welled in the man's eyes.

Wim attempted to offer further condolences but he could not speak, not with the knot in his throat.

He turned away from the old man and looked up the narrow street. He was not surprised to see the woman in yellow beside the twisty pillars. Neither frowning nor smiling, there could be no mistaking whom she held in her gaze. He met her eyes for a time but the echo of the dead mother's wail blanched his soul. He looked away, looked down the street to see his 'ghostly self' walking toward him, bearing the two doves.

As the ethereal form began to ascend the steep roadway, a second version of himself turned away, seeking another path to the temple. A third appeared at the bottom, hesitating as it considered a wagon, long gone, blocking the road.

He should have saved the little girl. He should have tried harder.

Wim ran to the bottom of the street, skittering on the wet cobbles.

The first ghost had faded away as it began its upward journey. The second was already on its way to the next street. The third had just decided to ascend.

"Grab her!" he yelled to his other self. It took no notice, starting up the hill.

What could he do? His echoes continued on their set paths. He ran after the nearest one.

Wim touched the phantom and felt nothing, not even a chill. This was nonsense. The image was just a remnant of a dream. He should leave this place. But he could not, not with the ache in his heart for the lost little girl.

His ghostly form moved silently up the street. How could he tell it to save the girl? If he could only go back himself, before the barrels broke free. Was it possible? Maybe if he joined with the image? He drew a breath and stepped into the phantom. The image took no notice. A broken watch could not be slapped back together. Perhaps this, too, required care and precision. He matched the figure's pace, mirroring its limbs and head exactly.

Sunlight warmed him. His body tingled. The sky brightened. His cloak was gone. In his hand, he held the wooden cage with its pair of doves. Ahead, the little girl readied her toy knight to charge a clay dragon. Farther up, he sensed the dark bulk of the fateful wagon. Beyond that, he knew the woman in yellow watched, though he did dare to check.

He bolted for the girl and swept her into the doorway just as the strap snapped. The girl squealed in surprise. The mother rushed from her room, eyes first narrow in anger but widening when the barrels thundered by.

"My dollies!" the little girl cried.

The day darkened and Wim was once more on the rainy street. The sad, old man smoked his pipe.

The scent of roses wafted by.

"Well done," said the woman in yellow.

She stood at his side. Her perfect black ringlets glistening in the damp air. Her skin was clear as a baby's, her teeth dazzling white. She wore a long yellow, silk dress with full sleeves and a bodice of cream lace in a foreign style. Except for a belt of faun leather with many small pouches, she looked like a noble lady of another age. And with her clear, gray eyes and high cheekbones she might have stirred his heart had she troubled to smile. Instead, the copper taste of fear seared Wim's tongue.


The Last Wall



"He- he still looks like he has lost both daughter and granddaughter," Wim said.

"He has."

"But I saved the child..."

"Come with me," she said.

She started down the street.

He could run, flee this sinister woman. But was that even possible? Would she simply reappear ahead of him? And the little girl? Was there no hope for her?

Trembling, Wim followed the woman in yellow to the next street and the shelter of an empty vendor's stall. In it, there was a loose cobble sitting atop a pile of sand. She picked up a nearby bucket, filled by the rain, and trickled water onto the stone, sending tiny rivulets running off in all directions.

"Time runs like scattered threads," she said. She bent down and wiped the stone dry with a cloth from her belt. She poured water again, this time using the fingers of her other hand to merge the rivulets into a smaller number of streams. "With effort, we can nudge the threads into a desired course." She dried the stone once more and poured a single stream of water. "Once matters have been altered enough, the passage of time is set. The scattered rivulets pass lightly over the stone until they are directed. Then, they cut a channel too deep for the threads to escape. The possibilities in time become fixed."

"I don't... I don't understand."

"You are in an eddy of time that has no successors," she said. "You did not escape the barrels."

"But I dodged them! It took only three tries!"

"That is all you remember. There were many more attempts. The past is set. You are dead."

"Then why am I here?"

"Those of us in the Last Wall are severed from the stream of time. We live outside it, intervening as necessary. When the city is threatened, we change the course of events to remove the danger."

"The last line of defense."

"Yes."

"What can my fate or this accident with a wagon have to do with the city's well-being?"

The woman's skin remained as flawless as ever, her hair as silky black, but the depth of her eyes, the sudden droop to her shoulders made her seem terribly, unaccountably ancient.

"You will be my apprentice," she said. "You will take my place. And then I shall be no more."

"Why me?"

"Have you heard of the Arcthions?"

"The Arcturions?"

"Is that what they are called in this age?" She turned away from Wim and her eyes focused on a distance the street could not encompass. "They destroyed the city. Nothing was left."

Wim frowned. "No, even though it was long ago, we know-"

She jerked her gaze back to him. "It was over a thousand years ago. And I assure you they left barely one stone upon another in the smoking ruins." For a moment, her eyes watered. "But I knew a way to change things. You see, I had learned to walk through time. With that art, I meddled until the enemy army succumbed to a plague. The sack never happened. The city still lived."

"How did the Last Wall come to be?"

"I convinced the king, a foolish man responsible for our near ruin, to set aside the wall for me. And I recruited others, those with an attention to detail and a quick wit to assist me."

"If there are others, why do you need me?"

"We live apart from time itself. Our bodies are ageless. Our souls are not. To save the greatest number, to protect the city, it is sometimes necessary to let those die that could be saved, even to put some into peril. The others who began with me have already sought oblivion."

"You killed my uncle."

"I manipulated events to put him into harm's way."

"Why?"

"To see if he could affect time. To determine if he could take my place."

"He failed?"

"Like you, he eventually succeeded."

"Then why..."

"He refused my offer."

"What will become of my wife and daughter?"

"Your daughter can never be. When you died, Katrina married another."

Wim's stomach heaved. "You did this. You made it so that the nearer temples were closed. You're the reason I was on the street where I died."

She held his gaze for a moment before nodding.

"I refuse you as well," Wim said.

"Then, like your uncle, you shall be no more."

"How can you mock me if you seek oblivion yourself?"

"I do not mock. I merely state the result of your decision. I will find another." She smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle in her dress.

Wim felt dizzy. Did the needs of the city outweigh his own? No, not enough for him to become a creature such as her.

"I won't-"

The day was suddenly sunny once more. He and the woman in yellow stood at the bottom of the steep street. There was a tug on his supplicant's sleeve. The little girl was at his side.

"Sir, my mommy wanted me to give you this apple for saving me."

He coughed to clear the tightness in his throat. "Thank you little one." He took the apple from the child. She curtsied and skipped away.

"She and I are both... both dead?"

The woman in yellow nodded.

"Why can't we live our lives in this- this eddy you say we're in?"

"Like a bubble on the water, it will not last."

"Have you no compassion? Not only have you destroyed my life, you've killed the little girl."

"Had I not interfered, she would have been killed by the barrels. I merely brought you to the place where this happened."

"But you could have changed things so that she didn't die."

The woman in yellow sighed. "When I intervene, time becomes fixed. It can no longer be changed before that point. Should an army have appeared that threatened the city, I would only have been able to address that threat by manipulating events after the girl's life was saved, had I chosen to do so."

"But my actions must have fixed things."

She clenched her jaw for a moment before speaking. "Then you must realize how important release must be to me."

Wim bit his tongue to avoid vomiting. Her talk of time made his head dizzy. He was not sure he fully understood what she meant except that she had doomed him. If he joined her on the Wall, would he become a monster like her, toying capriciously with lives? Determining who lived and who died, with no recognition and no escape in sight?

"You never told me why you selected me," Wim said.

"Because you have the mind and the heart to do this terrible task."

Was this his chance to slay dragons? If she spoke the truth, he was already dead to his family but he could still protect them, and the city.

And the little girl.

"If the child can come with me then I will be your apprentice."

A trace of a smile softened her visage. She nodded once more.



The Last Wave Goodbye



(Author's note: This story is an official entry into the 2013 Literotica Summer Lovin' contest. If you enjoy this little romantic tale, please make sure to vote and leave a comment if you wish. I also urge you to read all the other contest submissions; there is a lot of great talent on this site.)

* * * *

Heartbreak had faded, pain had ebbed. What had been the worst tragedy anyone could be asked to endure was behind me now, after more than two years. What lingered was the loneliness. And that was perhaps the worst of it all.

"Vincent?"

My mother's voice disturbed me from yet another self-pitying moment. I turned away from the packing box in which lay the photographic record of a life now gone and gave my aging mother a weak smile. "I'm fine."

She cocked her head as she leaned upon the walker. "That's not what I was going to ask," she said. "I think I've asked that question enough in the last couple of years."

"Sorry. I guess it's turned into a habit, you know, expecting everyone to ask me how I'm doing."

"People mean well," she said, in that sort of way that southern women say 'bless his heart.'

"So . . . ." I prompted my mother.

"Oh! Of course," she said as if jolted. She managed to let out a small laugh. "I just wanted to ask if you finished the list for the auction. Mr. Haverty sent me a message about it this morning."

I nodded. "I'll email it to him this afternoon," I said, then glanced to the small stack of boxes in the middle of the now-barren living room. "Although it'd be easier to list what isn't going to be auctioned off."

"Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?"

Again I nodded, more vehemently. "Yes," I told her firmly. I met my mother's gaze. "The important things are in these boxes," I said, then tapped my temple. "And up here. The rest is just . . . extra."

Her head bobbed sadly. I hadn't been the only one to endure pain and loss, after all. It seemed to have hit her harder, though; she relied upon the walker more and more and had started smoking again. I couldn't blame her for ignoring her doctor's advice in the face of overwhelming mortality. I had spent a year as a self-pitying alcoholic, after all.

"When is your flight leaving?"

"Six-thirty tomorrow morning."

She gave a wan smile. "Call me when you land."

* * * *

Friends and therapists had been telling me for more than a year I needed to get away. "You need a fresh start," they told me. "You gotta get back out to the world of the living."

Pithy words, I had thought, but the idea grew and grew until it became part of an obsession. When I finally made the decision to auction off the house and just about everything in it, I planned a vacation as the culminating chapter to the worst period of my life. Maybe it would be a fresh start. Or maybe I could just let myself feel alive again, if only for a while.

"So, where are we going?" my friends had asked, taking it as a matter of course that I would bring them along. But they had been part of the ongoing tragedy, if only by virtue of the fact that they reminded me of it through looks, words, and deeds. As touching as their sympathy and support had been, they only aggravated the situation.

"I'm going . . . somewhere," I told them cryptically. Some understood my reticence; others didn't. Those who did agreed that I needed time to myself, to reflect, to assess, to decide what was going to happen to me. Those who didn't understand thought I was snubbing them. Melancholy, fortunately, didn't allow me to care about the latter.

Banishment of such distracting thoughts came, thankfully, as I stepped from the taxi before the airport terminal. The cabbie had been a nice guy, just talkative enough to make the ride pleasant without being intrusive. I saw no reason not to share details with him that I wouldn't with even my mother.

"Have fun in Mexico, man," he said after I'd awarded him a generous tip. "Watch out for them senoritas, though. They know tourists when they see one."

I managed a smile. "Where I'm going, not many tourists know about."

"Private resort, huh?"

"Something like that."

I bid the man farewell and headed into the terminal. Each step closer to the gate seemed to echo the slowly-increasing beating of my heart.

* * * *

The little house was not much to look at, to be honest, but I had not expected a four-star resort with servants in white suits offering complimentary margaritas as soon as I walked in the door. In fact, no one greeted me after I had pulled the rental car into the short driveway. That was fine; the less pomposity, the better.

The instructions in the email told me the key to the door would be under a little clay flower pot covered by a sunset mosaic, and indeed, there it was. I had to jiggle the lock a bit to get the door open.

There were two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room and a single large, spacious bathroom. Nothing too remarkable, until I stepped into the sunken living room and realized the entire south-facing wall was a series of wooden shutters, with slats open to reveal the generous lawn and, most importantly, the white sand beach beyond.

My cheeks suddenly hurt. I realized I was actually, honestly, smiling.

I took in a deep breath of crisp salt air. The sounds of the Pacific ocean drifted to me: lapping waves, seagulls, rustling palm fronds. Apparently, I had stepped into a Hollywood beach movie . . . just without Frankie Valli and all the annoying, giggling kids.

Upon the dining room table was a basket of fresh fruit and an envelope, addressed to "Sr. Paterac." Within was a copy of my rental agreement with the owner, as well as menus to a few local restaurants and the number for a delivery service that would bring me fresh groceries if I desired.

I took an apple from the basket. It was fresh, ripe, as good as any straight off a tree in Washington. I was beginning to feel spoiled. A man could get used to living with such simple luxuries.

After getting settled in and calling home, I changed from casual dress to a pair of brand new, rather loose-fitting nylon shorts and headed out the back. The pleasant tropical air was delightfully free of the stench of city life. There was no industry in this little Mexican town other than fishing, agriculture, and some light tourism. There were a few cars here and there but most of the locals seemed to get around on foot or on bicycle. Other than the occasional satellite dish, none of the constructions looked to have changed in over a century.

The back yard of the hacienda which was to be my home for twenty-one days was framed by tall palms and a number of thick tropical plants the names of which I could not guess. The result was a noticeable sense of privacy, which had been the main requirement for my getaway. And indeed, when speaking with Hector, the owner of the property, he assured me my privacy was virtually guaranteed. He even pointed out that the beach, while technically private, was considered clothing optional.

Hmm. Naked on a beach, I thought. I've never done that before.

But I resisted going all out on my first foray across sand so fine and white that a Zip-lock bag of it would probably get me arrested. It was hot, but not scalding, and while my feet were tender from decades of easy living, I could walk across it readily enough. With nothing more than a bottle of locally-produced beer, I found a spot where the sand was a little damp and cool and watched the tides roll back and forth.

* * * *

I slept in late every day, decided not to shave, and didn't even bother to make use of the bathtub. I ate when I felt like it, drank whatever I desired. At times I enjoyed a bit too much of the local brew and succumbed to fits of depression. Now and then I drunkenly considered going for a midnight swim and let the sea take me away forever.

But it wasn't time for that.

On the fourth day of my voluntary exile, after accepting a delivery of shrimp, flank steak, and a variety of vegetables from an extremely agreeable young man, I decided to take advantage of my beach's "option" and venture out to the surf in the buff. In the preceding days I had not seen a single other person other than dark specks moving distantly down the beach. The haciendas flanking mine were either unoccupied, or their tenants had no true love for the beach.

All that meant, of course, that stepping boldly and gloriously nude to the edge of the water was easy enough. The flow of salty air across my now-naked genitals was, well, titillating, perhaps even a touch arousing. I almost felt like swaggering. Like a naked Captain Morgan, I planted one of my feet upon a piece of large driftwood and tilted the bottle of beer to my lips.

I was lord of my domain. Vincent Paterac, King of Naked Beach.

And in Mel Brooks' immortal words, it was good to be the king.

A reckless, careless chuckle left my lips. I had never felt such freedom before. For the first time in my life, I truly had no cares, no demands, no deadlines to meet or fools to please. There was only I, the sea, and the wind.

And the woman who inexplicably appeared in the corner of my vision.

"Good afternoon," she said casually.

In that instant, I was a twelve-year-old boy, suddenly foolish and embarrassed. I settled my free hand over my crotch. "Uh . . . good afternoon," I replied.

She chuckled, amused at my gesture. "Don't worry, you're not offending me. I've seen naked men before."

Now I felt even more embarrassed. Here I was, a man of forty-four years, naked on a private beach where it had already been established that nudity was kosher . . . and I'm covering my dick because a woman happened to be there.

She was about twenty feet away, just at the imaginary dividing line between my rental property and my easterly neighbor. She wore a stark white bikini with a transparent wrap that fluttered around her legs like the tentative hands of a doting masseuse.

I could honestly say I had never seen a woman quite like her before. Her skin was darker than that of any black woman I had previously seen. It wasn't just chocolate dark, it was dark chocolate dark, like the richest and most alluring shade of pure ebony. Her eyes glowed in contrast, as if lit from behind, as did her teeth when she spoke. The pale color of her garments looked like purest ivory in contrast.

At last, I found a voice to speak with. "I didn't think anyone else would be on this beach."

Her amused expression remained, even as she gave me a once-over. "I'm getting that impression."

I looked at her painfully. "I'm not a pervert."

She just shrugged. "I didn't think you were." She took a few steps closer. "It's okay. I'm not going to call the police, if that's what you're afraid of. I don't think I could, to be honest. Anyway, I know this beach is clothing optional. I might even strip down some time myself."

I arched an eyebrow. That would be something to see, I had to admit. The woman had a very nice figure, which was thankfully showcased by her scant attire.

"My name's Nina," she said by way of introduction. "I'm guessing you're from the States, too?"

I nodded. "Chicago area."

She smiled broadly. "No kidding! I grew up in Gary."

"Small world."

She looked behind me to my hacienda. "You rented from Hector, too?"

"Yes. Four or five days ago. Something like that. I've already lost track of time."

She flashed those dazzling white teeth once more. "That just means you are officially on vacation," she commented. "How long will you be my neighbor?"

"Around two more weeks, a little more."

She nodded with a purse of lush, soft-looking lips and started to turn away. "I guess I'll be seeing you around."

I watched her go, and for the first time in a very long time, I found myself admiring the shape of a woman's behind. She wore a thong beneath the transparent wrap, which vanished between a pair of nearly perfect spherical buttocks. Despite my omnipresent somberness, I actually felt the stirrings of arousal.

"Wait!" I called.

Nina stopped and gave me a quizzical look over her shoulder.

"My name's Vincent."

She smiled. "Nice to meet you, Vincent."

* * * *

My retreat included satellite TV, but after flipping through numerous channels, I decided that all I wanted was some music. So I found a music station playing the pop hits from the 80s that I still knew and loved as I went about assembling my dinner. I fired up the gas stove, heated a pan, boiled some water. Pan-seared flank steak with steamed broccoli was on the menu for the night. I figured I would switch the 50-inch big screen TV to something banal as I ate, then maybe order a movie and crack open a bottle of tequila.

The chime at the front door was not at all anticipated.

I frowned at the sound of it and considered simply ignoring it. At just after six in the early evening, it could have been someone trying to sell something.

But it sounded again.

I grumbled as I made my way to the door. Annoyance fueling my movements, I jerked the portal open, ready to let loose an angry tirade upon whichever hapless soul happened to be standing on the doorstep.

Instead, however, there was no hapless soul. Just my beautiful, exotic, dark-skinned neighbor, holding a small basket in her hands. She flinched and stepped back before my less than amiable answering.

For a long moment, we just stared at one another. My annoyance was gone in a flash, replaced by admonishment.

"Is this, um, a bad time?" Nina asked.

I breathed out with an embarrassed laugh. "No," I said. "Sorry."

She blinked, eyes round and wide and making her look even younger than she already appeared. "I could, uh, come back . . . or, not at all . . . ."

"No, it's fine, really," I said emphatically, even as I wondered why I felt I needed to endear myself to this woman. Part of me, apparently, wanted to be a good neighbor. "I'm sorry. I'm not the easiest person to get to know. It's been a while since I was, well, social."

Her features softened. A smile crept across her face. She had a very cute and round nose, I noticed. Button-like. "Me, too, actually," she said. "But, maybe it's because I'm on vacation, but I figured, what the hell. If there's any excuse to step out of my shell, this would be it."

Now a real smile came to me. "I can relate to that," I said. I pushed the door open wide. "I was just about to make dinner. I could easily make it for two. Would you care to join me?"

Nina grinned. "I think I would."

* * * *

We ate, we drank, we spoke of banal things the likes of which two strangers would casually reveal. I learned that Nina was a professor of communication, who taught at a university in Memphis, Tennessee. I shared with her some basic details of my career in real estate. Interspersed with that was the usual banter about popular culture, a few vague references to politics, and other topics. My initial assumption about Nina's age -- which I figured, based on her appearance and energy, to be in the late-20s range -- was challenged by some of her remarks.

". . . sometimes I think I'm beating my head against the wall when I try to explain things like irony to my students," she said at one point, as we sat in the living room of the hacienda, sipping from glasses filled with wine.

I chuckled. "I love a good dose of irony," I said. "Reminds me of one of my favorite movies. 'I was thinking of the immortal words of Socrates, who said, I drank what?'"

Nina laughed, tossing her head back as she reclined upon the couch beside the chair in which I sat. "Oh my God! Real Genius! I love that movie!"

I shot her a look. "I saw it in the theater," I said pointedly.

She gave me a look of her own. "So did I," she shot back.

That surprised me. I looked her over once more, trying to assess whether or not this woman was pulling my leg. She was clad in loose khaki shorts and a yellow tank that showed off both the smooth dark tone of her skin as well as the apparently youthful muscles beneath. There was no way this woman was more than thirty, I figured, but her comments suggested otherwise.

"You look surprised," she said.

"That's because I am."

Nina tittered and sipped her wine, then eased forward to set the glass upon the low coffee table before her. Her gaze drifted out through the open doors and windows of the living room to the grounds beyond and the dark, rolling waves of the sea.

"I've always wanted to take a tropical vacation," she said absently. She dipped her head, looking down. "But we always ended up spending our vacation time on Superbowl and things like that."

"'We,'" I echoed.

Nina nodded. "My husband was a big sports fan," she said ruefully. But then she laughed and leaned back, falling into the cushions of the couch. Her breasts bounced beneath the single layer of fabric covering them, nipples making outlines against the cotton. "But this vacation . . . this is all mine." She smiled broadly.

"So . . . I'm guessing the husband is now an ex-husband," I ventured.

Her head rolled toward me with a smile. "He sure is," she said, dark eyes boring into mine.

And there it was. A meaningful look. I had not been privy to too many of those in my lifetime. A few during my collegiate days, when I was foolish enough to be part of a ridiculous fraternity, then more later, after the wedding. My wife had been exceedingly adept when it came to conveying desires and intimations with her eyes.

Suddenly, here was another woman who seemed to possess the same talent. Or perhaps that was ego, wishful thinking, or simple maladroitness on my part. Regardless of the reasons, I felt Nina was sending me a message, one for which I was not yet ready.

I sat up, looking away, seeking a diversion. "Why don't we go to the patio? It's a nice night."

I did not look to her as I stepped to the wide-open portal -- I had not bothered to close it during the last few days -- but I gave her an amiable smile as I stood aside and allowed her through. She smiled back, somewhat reserved, I thought.

"How long were you married?" I asked her as we took our seats at the round wooden table overlooking the lawn and sea beyond.

"Seventeen years," she said wistfully. "I met him in my junior year. He was a teacher's aide . . . and star running back for the football team."

I chuckled. "Brains and brawn?" I asked.

"Sure seemed that way," she answered, and I could tell she was a little perturbed by the turn in conversation. "Fooled me enough to make me want to marry him and put up with his shit for longer than I should have."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up anything painful."

She turned her face toward me, and for a moment, there was a hard, biting look in her eyes, the sort of look which would have been the inspiration for the phrase 'shooting daggers.' But quickly enough, her dark orbs softened and the warm, friendly, casually flirtatious smile returned. "What about you? How long were you married?"

I automatically glanced to the ring that still adorned my finger. After more than two years, I still couldn't take it off. "Twelve," I said. "Almost thirteen."

"Second marriage?" she asked. "Or . . . you were just waiting?"

A smile borne of nostalgia tugged at my lips. "I had a few near misses before I met Jessica," I said. "But she was the only woman I'll ever be married to."

Nina's eyes darted as she tried to read my face. "Once is enough?"

I nodded.

Thankfully, the conversation turned to more light-hearted fare after that. We talked about music, television shows, books. Nina, though she never directly came out and told me her age, was obviously a good decade older than I figured her for. I commended her on maintaining her youth.

By midnight, I was feeling tired, and announced my intention to get some sleep. Nina at first gave me a somewhat hopeful look, as if I was suggesting she stay the night and let whatever passions we may feel run their course. But by that point, the possibility of sex had already come and gone, if it had ever existed at all. So I led her to the door, thanked her for the basket, and sent her on her way.




The Last Wave Goodbye



I finished the rest of the wine by myself and went to bed.

* * * *

Over the following couple of days, I did not hear from Nina. I honestly was not surprised. If she had come over with the intention of seeking sex, and having clearly not found it, I could not blame her for not wanting to waste her time with me again.

With little else to do, I took to morning swims in the ocean, followed by minimalist meals. Abandoning the "ruffian" look I sported, I shaved off the beginnings of my beard and refrained from drinking, considering the tumultuous nightmares I suffered following my evening with Nina. Those I attributed to too much alcohol.

I called my mother. She was being cared for by a live-in nurse provided by her insurance and my additional financial support, so I had little reason to worry for her day-to-day well being. As the only real remaining member of my family, my mother was the last anchor attached to the world in which I lived.

"Are you doing alright?" I asked her.

"I'm fine," she said, following a barrage of bronchial coughing. "Lily's taking good care of me, as always. How's your vacation? Met anyone?"

I rolled my eyes. "I've met a neighbor," I said, indulging a little white lie. "He's old and fat and doesn't speak English. Not my type."

My mother laughed. "No pretty young beach girls?" she asked teasingly.

"No, none of those."

"Maybe that's just as well, they might talk you into staying there."

"Don't worry, mom," I told her. "I promise I'll see you soon."

* * * *

Being something of a fair swimmer, I made it all the way out toward a sandbar which lay a good two hundred yards or so from the beach. The water beyond was dark and cool, in contrast with the warmer, lighter-hued body swirling lazily between the bar and the beach. The edge of the continental shelf, I assumed. Even standing on the sandbar in less than two feet of water, I could feel the insistent pull of a powerful current, as gently nefarious as a siren's call.

One step over the edge would be enough to do it, I realized, and backed away. I plunged back into the warmer, safer embrace of the lagoon and headed back to shore.

"You want to be careful about going past the sandbar," a voice called as I trudged through the roiling surf at the edge of the beach. I lifted my head to see Nina standing in her stark white bikini . . . or, just the skimpy bottom, anyway. Her dark breasts hung free upon an athletic chest, nipples a shade darker even than the skin surrounding them. Based on the almost perfect roundness of the fleshy globes, I surmised they were implants. Not that the fact made her any less sexy.

"Yeah, I could feel the tide pulling at my legs," I said as I slapped wet feet upon the sand. "Don't think I'll be swimming that far out any time soon."

She cocked her head, assessing me as if we had just met. "Hector didn't tell you about the ultima ola?"

I frowned. "The what?"

"Ultima Ola," she repeated. "The Last Wave. According to local legends, the souls of drowned sailors swim just past the sandbar, waiting to drag people to their death."

I arched a brow. "I guess I'd better be careful, then. Wouldn't want any dead souls pulling me under."

For several heartbeats, neither one of us spoke a word. We stood just a few paces apart, me naked and uncaring, she topless and otherwise nearly nude. In any other context, the moment could have been the prelude to some torrid From Here To Eternity scene of reckless passion.

"I'm sorry I offended you," I said at last.

Her brow furrowed. "You didn't offend me," she said.

I nodded as I stepped past, toward my beach chair and towel. "Yes I did." I took up the towel and dabbed my face before turning back to her. "I turned you down."

Her eyes narrowed cattily. "Turned me down?"

I fixed her a look. "Nina," I said, almost patronizingly. "While we may not be old, we're both too old to play games. You wanted the other night to end a certain way. But I wasn't quite ready for that."

She faced me fully, in an almost challenging way. "Wait a sec. You think I came over because I wanted a booty call?"

I stared back. "Yes."

She started to glare, body language indicating the imminent release of a powerful vocal tirade. But then she softened, and actually smiled. I had been right, she knew it, and there was no reason to be coy about the matter. "Why aren't you ready?"  

I smiled back, sheepishly. "I haven't had sex in over two years, Nina," I told her. "I haven't even masturbated. Hell, I can't remember the last time I actually had an erection. Truth is, I might be impotent, but I haven't even bothered to check."

She looked sympathetic. "What happened, Vincent?" she asked in a way that went beyond the immediate application of those words. It wasn't a 'what happened the other night' question. It was a 'what happened to you' question.

I sighed, averting my eyes. "That would be a very long conversation, and one that I don't think I want to have right now."

Nina's eyes dipped. "You're not divorced, are you?"

"No," I said flatly. "I'm not."

Her breasts rose and fell as she heaved a sigh. "Vincent, I'm sorry. I came down here to let loose and get away from some bad memories and just . . . feel alive again. I thought anonymous sex with a complete stranger would be a good way to do all that. Guess I was just being selfish."

I chuckled wryly. "You have no reason to apologize," I said. "You're an incredibly beautiful woman. I still can't believe we're pretty much the same age, because to look at you, I'd think you weren't even thirty. You just had the misfortune of taking a vacation next door a guy with a lot of baggage."

Her brow furrowed quizzically. "I think that's the strangest compliment I've ever gotten."

"As long as you take it as a compliment," I said.

She watched me as I toweled off and slipped my shorts on. "Vincent," she said at last.

I gave her a questioning look.

"You want to grab something to eat? You know, just two friends getting lunch together?"

I nodded with a smile. "Honestly, that sounds really good right now."

* * * *

We opted to walk to the little grocery down the street rather than drive. The air was warm and flavored by the sea, the sun glowing but not unpleasant. The grocery sold barbacoa tacos and had a few old weather-warped tables sitting out front. We ordered our lunch along with a couple of Mexican Cokes (made with real sugar, as opposed to the crap made in the states with corn syrup) and sat at the table, sharing anecdotes about our lives without getting too personal.

Afterward, we strolled through a local market and I bought Nina a straw hat with pink hearts painted upon it. She smiled demurely at the gesture and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. It was the closest gesture to intimacy we had shared yet.

I could not help but notice the ogles and almost outright lustful stares Nina in her skimpy white bikini earned. Men young and old stared at the exotic beauty walking beside me, and I could not help but think some of them were envious of our perceived intimacy. I could not deny that I enjoyed expounding upon the illusion, even going as far as to hold Nina's hand now and then, or touch her casually upon the arm or shoulder. Her presence was doing wonders for my ego.

We returned to my hacienda, mainly to get into some shade and relax before the TV. I cracked open a bottle of tequila and mixed it with orange juice and splashes of grenadine. Classic tequila sunrises.

"What did you want to be when you grew up?" Nina asked me as we sat on the broad couch facing the television.

I laughed. "Where did that come from?"

She shrugged. "I'm curious. What did little Vincent want to be when he was seven years old?"

"Oh, man . . ." I trailed off, thinking. "Well, I remember wanting to be Steve Austin," I said. "The Six Million Dollar Man was my favorite show. But I also wanted to be a race car driver, like Speed Racer."

Nina looked amused. "And then you ended up going into real estate."

"More like an accident of fortune that turned into a career," I said. "After six years in college, I ended up with a degree in marketing. I had no clue what to do with it. Then a friend suggested I join up with a guy he knew who had a little real estate business . . . turns out I was pretty good at flipping properties."

"Not exactly Steve Austin," she remarked.

"No, not exactly," I agreed. "What about you?"

"I . . . wanted to be a Playboy Centerfold," Nina declared.

I stared, surprised. "As a kid? That's what you wanted to be?"

She laughed. "Well, not exactly. But I did want to be a model. I was a tall, skinny kid in middle school. I remember being taller than all the boys in my class, even in seventh grade, and my teacher telling me I could be a model. The idea just sort of stuck."

"But . . . a Playboy Centerfold," I prompted.

She chuckled. "When I was a teenager, I found my dad's stash of Playboys. Not a single one of them was a black girl, and I thought, 'I could be the first black Playmate!' Of course, that didn't happen."

"Did you ever try modeling?"

Nina nodded. "After I turned eighteen, I auditioned for some local commercials, stuff like that. Made it onto a couple of of them, even did some print work. Had some, um, interesting experiences with a few less than reputable agencies."

"Let me guess: 'take your clothes off, baby, we'll make you a star!'"

Nina tossed her head back with a laugh. "You know, I think I actually heard those exact words, once." She shook her head ruefully. "Funny thing is, I think back now and wonder, if I had gone through with it, I could have been a killer porn star."  

"You would have had a much different life," I said.

She nodded. "No shit," she agreed, then sighed wistfully. "Instead, I met Mr. Athlete and thought I was in love." She sipped her drink. "But I can't really regret it. Not all of it. I have two beautiful children that I love more than life. At least he could do that right."

A nostalgic wave of emotion passed through me. "Nothing better than being a parent," I said.

"You have kids, too?"

I held her gaze with my own for a moment, considering how much I should reveal. "A boy and a girl," I said. "Madison, then a couple of years later, Vinnie Jr."

Nina grinned broadly with a display of her perfectly white teeth. "Aw, a little boy to carry on your name."

I nodded somberly. "Yeah."

"Do you still see them?"

I sighed. "Every night when I close my eyes."

I stared at the TV, sipped my drink. I was peripherally aware of Nina looking to me. I could almost hear the unspoken question just behind her lips. Thankfully, however, she did not speak it.

Instead, she rolled forward on the couch and stood, setting her glass upon the little coffee table. She stepped around so that her lithe, dark-skinned form blocked my view of the television.

"Vincent."

I breathed in, feeling more than a little intimidated. "Yeah?"

She reached back to the trailing straps of her bikini top. Her dark, glowing eyes stabbed into mine. "I think I want to be a star."

I cradled my drink, but did not sip from it. A thick slug of something formed in the back of my throat, making me swallow thickly. "Right now?"

Nina nodded. "Yes. Right now."

First removed was the top, which fell to the ground with barely a flutter of cloth. Nina's breasts stood out firm and proud, glowing with a light sheen of sweat and arousal. Then she slipped her fingers beneath the straps of the bikini, and stooped over as she slid the garment down lean, athletic legs. Now fully nude -- she even stepped out of her sandals -- she straightened, arms dangling at her sides.

I would have been a consummate idiot if I did not allow myself the luxury of drinking in Nina's beautiful, exotic nudity. Ripe round breasts floated above a trim stomach, which sat upon hips that flared out nicely before flowing into strong, long legs. Her thighs were toned, not at all fleshy, and between them lay the most incredible, smooth-shaved edifice of ebony sexuality I could ever hope to see.

The sight of Nina in her delectable nudity was enough to make me lick my lips. More than that, but I felt a sincere and insistent stirring in my groin.

Giving me a look of abject lust, she pushed the coffee table out of the way and lowered herself to her hands and knees. Her eyes glowed like those of a feral cat's as she crawled toward me. "Put your drink down, Vincent," she whispered sultrily.

I numbly complied, setting the glass upon the small table beside the couch. I flinched as I felt Nina's hands gliding across the tops of my thighs. Her fingertips slipped beneath the edge of my shorts.

"Nina, I'm not sure--" I began.

"Shh," she responded, cutting me off. "If it happens, it happens."

I felt like I was suddenly a third my age, completely unsure of myself and woefully unprepared for anything that might happen next. At the same time, the unknowable future was tantalizing, and Nina certainly knew how to turn a man on.

"Lift up," she whispered. "So I can take these off."

I complied quickly, almost drunkenly, though I had not imbibed nearly enough alcohol to dull my senses. No, I was fully sober, yet at the same time utterly intoxicated.

My shorts slid down and vanished as Nina tore them from my feet and tossed them away. She was like an impish nymph, grinning from between my legs, the half-swollen tube of my erection laying between us. Her eyes remained on mine until my feet had settled to the floor.

"Oh, my," she whispered heatedly, lips spreading with an approving smile. "What have we here? Is this all for me?"

I could not respond. I was caught between two worlds, one dominated by guilt, the other by passion. The latter won out.

"What a beautiful cock," Nina murmured, just before she pressed her lips to the base of my shaft, sucking gently. I arched my back, gasping at the sensation. Sexual nerves which had long lain dormant were now suddenly brought back to life.

Eyes heavy and mouth slack, Nina lovingly licked up and down my stiffening penis, bathing it with the heat and wetness of her mouth. Tendrils of saliva stretched from my shaft to her tongue before she lapped them away. Finally, she lifted my erection and pointed it toward her mouth. Lush, thick pink lips parted wetly. She flickered her tongue out to tease the tip.

"I want to fuck you, Vincent," she said breathily.

I trembled with a heartfelt sigh. "I don't think I could stop you if I tried."

Nina grinned, then her features became almost feral, almost predatory as she sunk her mouth down my engorged cock. I gasped at the heat, the sucking, pulling, swallowing motions of her mouth and throat. She took me to the root with ease, pressing her chin to my balls, her nose against my abdomen.

Oh, God in Heaven, I thought in stupefaction.

But then she slipped her mouth from my cock, sucking up her own saliva. She gave me a wicked smile as she moved up and straddled me, one hand keeping my glistening wet penis pointed upward. Her face grew progressively slack as she rubbed the head along her fleshy dark lips, exposing the inner pink of her delectable sex. Her clitoris was thick, bulbous, peeking from beneath a fleshy dark hood.

"Push me down," she whispered hoarsely, heavy eyes staring at me.

It was the most erotic challenge I had ever been issued. If I complied, it signaled my desire for her, turning what would otherwise have been a one-sided erotic attack into a shared expression of sexual desire. If I did not . . . .

My thoughts never got that far. I slapped my hands to Nina's hips and pulled her down, while pushing up with my own. Regardless of the inner conflict raging in my heart and mind, at the moment I wanted nothing more than carnal satisfaction.

Nina sighed long and deep as my cock eased deep within her. Slick from her mouth, and with her pussy all but dripping, I had little trouble burying my penis to hilt inside her. Heat scorched through me as if I had never before felt such a thing, rekindling ancient memories which tortured me with thoughts of why did you wait so long?

For a long moment, Nina settled atop me, shifting back and forth a little, smiling with her eyes closed to savor the sensations trickling up from her sex. Her pussy pulsed and squeezed my dick like a hand adjusting its grip, looking for that perfect hold.

Hands braced upon my chest, Nina finally opened her eyes and gazed upon me with an expression that combined abject lust with abject grace. "I don't want to think about anything but what's happening right now," she stated heatedly. She leaned over, settling her body atop mine, and ran her hands down the sides of my face. "This is just us. Just what we want."

I stared into her dark brown eyes, finding a sense of loss, a sense of wanting, that mirrored my own. Nina, I realized, was just as tragic a soul as I was.

I nodded, touched her cheek. A smile drifted across my lips. "Just us," I mimicked, then kissed her, tenderly. She whimpered, body shuddering. My response had been what she had needed to hear.

We made the rounds that night. It would have been impossible to tell who was the more desperate between us. There were times when our coupling was as romantic and tender as anything penned in a romance novel, and times when we rutted and fucked like professional porn stars. We gave to each other all the energy, all the yearning, all the fierceness we could garner.

She leaned back with hands upon my knees, her legs lifted and splayed wide to afford me the incredible erotic contrast of her dark skin against my pale hue. She came with a series of shuddering cries and convulsive, jolting wracks of her body. Then I lifted up and took command, laying her upon one of the chairs. I held her lean legs wide apart and hammered deep, making her grunt, growl, and glare at me. She raked my skin with her nails, nearly bit my lip when we kissed.

I bent her over the coffee table and clutched her firm buttocks, spreading them apart to watch my slickened, pale-skinned cock plunging into her ebony-framed depths. I grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her head back, making her gasp and grunt as I pounded into her again and again and again and . . . .

And then, at last, came that incredible rush, the culmination of years of pent-up need and desire, that indescribable explosion of physical and emotional catharsis. It actually surprised me how fervently it tore through me, like a beast made to both destroy and remake me in the same moment. With each pulsing jet I spent inside Nina, I felt my strength ebb in the most delicious way possible, until I could do nothing more than collapse.

I found myself floundering on the carpet, numb, spent, incoherent. Nina giggled and cooed and curled up beside me, head upon my chest, and arm draped across my body as we recovered. She kissed my skin, hugged me close.

"Damn," she breathed at last. "Best. Sex. Ever."

I laughed ridiculously. "I can't even think."

She chuckled, warm body rubbing against mine. "Don't think. Just say you'll do it again."

* * * *

Hours later, as a sky unpolluted by man let me see the stars in all their glory, when the moon hovered above the horizon, I sat out upon the steps of the rear patio, sipping the cocktail I had set aside before.

I felt no guilt for my dalliance, as I had dreaded I would. Instead, there was a strange sort of acceptance, even approval. My departed wife, in her eternal wisdom, would understand that I, a mortal man, could not be expected to continue without certain simple physical satisfactions.

So I smiled, both from what I had enjoyed with Nina, and what I felt -- knew -- from my wife.

"There you are."

My smile remained as I responded to Nina behind me. I did not turn to look at her. "Here I am."




The Last Wave Goodbye



She stepped up behind me and settled down, wrapping naked arms and legs about my body. She was still sleepy, I could tell, by the way she lay her head against the back of my shoulder. "I woke up and you weren't there," she said. "I almost panicked. Didn't know where I was."

I touched one of her arms, kissed it. "Sorry," I said. "Just doing some soul-searching."

"Did you find it?" she asked dreamily.

I smiled. "Yeah. I think I did."

* * * *

"Vincent! How's paradise?"

I chuckled into the phone. "Still nice, Mom. In fact, it's gotten a little nicer."

"Oh? Did you meet someone?"

"In fact, I have."

"Oh, good for you," she sighed raggedly. "You've gone too long without. So, what's her name? Is she Mexican, American, what?"

I gave my mother the basics on what I knew of Nina. I knew she would have been happy for me that I had found someone to spend time with. It was what my mother needed to hear, I knew.

We had to cut the conversation short because of yet another coughing fit on her behalf. She was sounding worse and worse. I hung up feeling a slight sense of dread. There was something telling me I would never hear from my mother again. Not in this life, at any rate.

* * * *

Nina and I spent every day together following that splendidly satisfying evening. It was as if all we needed was that first consummation to allow us to be open, free, and honest with one another. Now that we had given ourselves to each other, we were like a honeymooning couple. Everything we did seemed centered around the idea of "how can we have sex while . . .?"

As an example, I rented a small sailing boat for the day. Nina climbed aboard clad in nothing more than a long T-shirt, such as that which she might wear to bed. Not even a hundred yards from the dock, and the shirt came off, revealing her beautiful, ebony body. She applied some sunscreen as I watched and hitched the sail, giving me coquettish looks of promise.

Once far enough out that we were in no danger of drifting into sand bars, reefs, or other vessels, I crawled across the boat and pushed her legs apart. Nina gave me a sultry grin, telling me with her eyes that I was free to do whatever I wished.

"You like me like this?" she asked.

I smiled up at her as I settled between her toned thighs. The aroma of her excited sex wafted to my senses. "I think I'd like you any way you want to give me," I said.

Her eyes blazed with a mixture of arousal and . . . something else. "God, everything you do to me makes me feel so good," she whispered hoarsely as she cupped and squeezed her breasts. Her dark nipples were like thick baubles of chocolate between her fingers.

I kissed along her inner thigh, from just above the knee to just inches from her pussy, before doing the same to the other. Nina squirmed, watching me, eyes heavy with passion, dark skin glimmering. The lips of her sex swelled and parted, opening to reveal the brilliant pink just beyond her dark labia. Her aroma intensified.

"Everything?" I asked teasingly, as I brushed my lips against her swollen pussy.

She hissed, pushing her hips toward me. "Oh, God, now you're teasing," she bemoaned. "Just do it, baby."

I grinned from between her spread thighs, my mouth poised over her smooth-shaved pussy. "Do what?" I asked with feigned innocence.

She expelled a sigh of sexual frustration, but even with that her face glowed with appreciation for my antics. "Do me," she responded heatedly. "Eat me. Eat my pussy."

I nipped at the juncture of her thigh and pelvis, keeping my eyes on hers. "Oh, well, since you put it that way . . ." I punctuated my words by finally and fully pressing my mouth to Nina's delectable, succulent sex. I drew her lips into my mouth, along with her engorged, needy clit, and sucked deeply, swirling my tongue all around the sensitive nerve bundles there. Nina gasped loudly and arched her back, grinding against my mouth as I gave her, at last, the sensation she desired.

Our little boat rocked upon the water as Nina and I made waves within. I devoured her ceaselessly, coaxing her to first one orgasm, then another, and finally a third. Each climactic eruption made her shudder and shake and groan and cry in increasing volume and sexual joy, until she all but screamed for the third time and pushed my head away.

She doubled up, rolling forward upon the hard planks of the sailboat's seat to cup my face and kiss and suck her own essence from my lips. She whispered things like "oh God" and "incredible" as she did so, and other praises which were much more jumbled and chaotic.

Afterward, as we held one another upon the boat, Nina stroked her fingers through my hair and gave me blissful, wondering smiles.

"This is going to be over soon, isn't it?" she asked at last, as clarity returned to her mind.

I nodded. "Vacations can't last forever."

"True, but there can be more," she said, giving me a heartfelt look. "It would be easy as hell for me to arrange a trip back to Chicago. My kids have cousins they haven't seen in years. They'd love to go back. So would I . . . now."

I shushed her with a finger to her lips, giving her a placating look. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I cautioned.

Nina studied my face a moment, fingers passing over my cheeks, my lips. "I told myself I'd never rush into anything ever again," she declared. Her face blossomed with a smile. "But, Jesus, Vincent, every day with you is like a fantasy. I don't want to stop wondering what you'll do to me tomorrow. Or what I can do for you. It goes both ways, you know."

I pulled back, gently pushing her hands down. "This has been the most incredible vacation I could ever hope for," I said to her. "But when life goes back to being normal, things change."

Her brow furrowed. "You saying you wouldn't be like this once we got back to the real world?"

I laughed wanly. "It just wouldn't be the same," I said. "We're living out fantasies here."

Her eyes dipped, and some of the elation fled. But she gave me a hopeful smile. "I wouldn't mind living out a few more."

I smiled back. "Neither would I."

* * * *

The phone call came just two days before I was due to fly back home, in the late morning. I was making breakfast for Nina and I, while my lover languished in post-coital bliss in the bed of my hacienda. The air was filled with the scents of pan-seared chorizo, pineapple, and scrambled eggs when I heard the trill of my phone.

The little device told me it was my mother calling, but I knew she was not on the other end. "Hello," I said.

"Mr. Paterac?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause on the other end. I could hear strained breathing, of the sort people make when they aren't sure what to say. "It's me, Lily. You know, your mother's nurse?"

I nodded into the phone and stepped away from the stove. "She's passed away, hasn't she?"

The response was a choked sob. ". . . yes."

I chewed my lip, staring out through the hacienda's windows at a beautiful, calm tropical ocean. "Did she die in her sleep?"

I heard Lily sniffle on the other end. "I'm pretty sure she did. I went in this morning, and she was just lying there, eyes closed. She was holding her bible."

I managed a smile. "She always wanted to die in her sleep," I said. "I'm glad she got that wish fulfilled."

Lily sniffled again. "Mr. Paterac, I'm not sure who to call, or--"

"Look in the drawer by her bed," In instructed. "There's an envelope with everything you need to know. It's just a matter of making a few phone calls."

The nurse's next words were tinted with incredulity. "Did she know this was going to happen?"

I held the phone for a moment, considering my words. "I think we both did," I answered.

". . . when will you be coming home?"

I hesitated before answering. "I'll be with my mother soon," I said.

* * * *

I didn't immediately tell Nina about my mother's passing. Truth be told, I was not particularly depressed. We had both known the end was coming, ever since the initial diagnosis of cancer which revealed how far it had already spread. It was just a matter of time before my mother succumbed to the body-wracking disease. It did not dawn on me, not until I had come to terms with my own grief, that my mother had simply been waiting for me to be happy again. And now that I was . . . .

Well, it was just one more chapter over.

So, instead of mourning my mother's passing -- and feeling more relieved than anything else, as I knew she was, as well -- after breakfast, I took Nina down to the market and bought her a new bikini and sarong. Upon returning to the beach outside our haciendas, she proceeded to strip out of her clothing to don the new attire, much to my enjoyment, before dashing off into the lightly-rolling surf. I chased after, feeling half my age -- a common feeling, I had come to realize since meeting Nina -- and we played and frolicked in the water before our "play" became more intimate and lustful.

As we had never seen another soul upon the beach, Nina and I had no qualms about stripping down and settling upon the beach blanket in a sixty-nine.

"I'm not going to stop sucking you until you come," she declared as she swung her leg over my head, presenting her moist and and ready pussy to me. "That's if I stop at all . . . ."

We whole-heartedly devoured each other until the air rang with Nina's hoarse orgasmic cries and I ejaculated like a canon within her mouth. As she had implied, Nina did not release me, extending the exquisite torture in a way that only a mature lover could, keeping me erect with her lips and tongue and fingers so that I was swiftly -- for my age, anyway -- ready yet again.

It had been quite a few years since I had enjoyed more than a single orgasm during lovemaking. But Nina's sexual insistence could not be denied, and she stroked and sucked me to yet another eruption, this time pulling her mouth off my cock just as I began to spasm, pumping me furiously with her hand. I shook and convulsed beneath her as if in the throes of a seizure.

Finally, she lifted off me and turned about, giving me an almost demure look as rivulets of semen dribbled down her face. Globs of my fluid clung to her cheeks and chin; one dollop had even landed on her forehead.

"What do you think?" she asked.

I laughed. "You look like you lost a fight with a can of whipped cream," I said.

She chuckled and touched her face, wiping off a smear of fluid. "Forty-one years old, and this is the first time I have ever let a man come on my face," she declared.

"I'm honored," I said flippantly.

She gave me a look. "And I need to wash up," she announced, before hopping up to run, naked, down to the water.

I propped myself up on my elbows, watching her in the surf as she splashed her face. There was a part of me that felt I could have been happy to spend more time with Nina. Crazy, simplistic extrapolations had me thinking of sharing the next several decades with her. Perhaps her children would accept me, perhaps they wouldn't. And what would my friends think? Would they accept her? Would it matter?

Nina returned, face and body glowing and glistening in the Mexican sun. Damn, but she was truly beautiful, a suitably exotic beauty for such an exotic place.

She stopped a few paces away, giving me a curious look. "What are you thinking?"

I smiled and shook my head. "Nothing. Just looking at you," I said. "And the water. Put it all together and I think I've found my particular version of paradise."

Her eyes smoldered. "There you go again," she said.

I frowned. "There I go again what?"

She dropped onto the blanket beside me. "Nothing," she said. "It's just . . . sometimes you say some really romantic things. Things that make a girl wonder."

"Wonder about what?"

She tilted her head with a placating smile. I liked the fact that she had no problem being casually naked. "Don't read too much into it, baby. Let a girl have her fantasies."

I decided not to push the subject. I didn't want to spoil the mood, nor did I want to give Nina any false hopes. So we lay in comfortable silence, watching the sea lick the sandy shore. My eyes were drawn to the way the ultima ola smacked against the distant sandbar, resulting in some impressive displays of salty spray.

"You're staring at the water like you want to go out there," Nina remarked.

I smiled blushingly. "I've always loved the water. Maybe I should have been in the Navy or something. You know, I was born at sea."

"What?"

I chuckled at her response. "Seriously. I was born on a boat."

"Now that is a story I've got hear."

I sighed nostalgically, sitting up. "I don't know how many times I heard the story," I said, staring out at the waves. "My parents were living in Virginia Beach. The due date for my arrival to the world had already come and gone by a week. There was no telling when I would decide to come out. Anyway, my father had a friend, who had a boat, and they sometimes went deep-sea fishing. On this particular day, my mother decided to come along."

"Could have been a bad choice," Nina remarked.

I nodded. "Could have been," I agreed. "Anyway, they were only supposed to be out for a few hours. But, the motor died."

"Uh-oh."

I chuckled. "Yep. But that wasn't it. Not only did the motor die, but a storm was coming in. The sea was getting choppy. Thankfully, the boat was a fairly good size, with a cabin in the front. Well, with all the rocking back and forth, and my mother getting panicked because she had never been in a storm at sea . . . ."

Nina looked amused. "Poof! Instant labor?"

"Yup," I confirmed. "The way my mother tells it, I made a great big mess coming into the world. But everything turned out fine in the end. They got the boat back to shore, drove to a hospital, and voila! Vincent Eugene Paterac!"

Nina arched an eyebrow as she looked at me. "'Eugene?'" she asked.

I shot a look back. "It's a family name," I said. "Anyway, as soon as all the documents were signed, my mother was ready to go home. Walked out of the hospital carrying me."

Nina laughed. "A real trooper," she said. "I think I'd like to meet your mother."

I sighed again, but this time, the mirth drained away from my face. I could actually feel it. "That would take some doing."

"Why? Where does she live?"

My head fell. I stared at the sand. "She doesn't."

Nina was silent for a moment. Then she rolled up beside me, sliding an arm across my torso. "I'm sorry, Vincent," she said softly.

I shrugged with a sad smile. "Don't be. She had cancer. The best thing that could have happened was when she passed away."

Nina kissed my neck tenderly. "I don't know what that's like," she said. "Both my parents are alive. Grandparents, too. Longevity runs in my family, I guess. But you . . . Jesus. You've lost your mother . . . and your wife."

Those last words were spoken in a very pointed tone. I pulled back just enough to see Nina's face. It was full of compassion. I studied her eyes, assessing her, making up my mind about how she would handle the truth of my life.

She reared back slightly, obviously noting something different about the way I looked at her. "What's wrong?" she asked.

I shook my head with a small smile. "Nothing."

Her brow furrowed. "You look so serious."

I didn't respond right away. I carefully organized my thoughts, coalescing them into a form that I could share with Nina. I pushed back, folded my legs together. Nina sat up as well, apparently understanding that I was about to share something of personal importance. She gave me all of her attention.

"I'd been having a hell of a day," I said. As I spoke, memories more than two years old flashed disjointedly in my mind. "I was in for twenty-five thousand on a business property I had picked up, and had finally lined up a buyer. I had to close the deal, so I wined and dined them, gave them my best spiel. I tried my damnedest not look desperate. But I was.

"And up through the middle of it, my wife was texting me. 'When are you going to be home?' Soon, I told her, over and over and over. She finally got fed up. The kids were hungry. It was after six when they decided to go for burgers.

"Anyway, I closed the deal, after playing games with the bank's loan officer. By the time the whole thing was over and done with, it was after seven. I sent a text to Jesse saying I was on my way home."

I met Nina's eyes with my own. "They weren't home when I got there."

She swallowed thickly, looking fearful. But she didn't speak.

I glanced away, my eyes drifting across the beach and looking at nothing in particular. I watched the Last Wave crash against the distant breach. "Maybe five minutes after I walked through the door, I got a call from the emergency dispatch service. I don't really remember much after that. I think I've blocked it out, or something."

Nina tentatively reached a hand to touch me. "Oh, God, Vincent."

I managed an unconvincing smile. "At least the accident hadn't been her fault," I said. "They got rear-ended by a truck going way too fast. It . . . shoved my wife's car against the back of a dump truck. They all died pretty much instantly. At least, I hope so, anyway."

There was a long silence between us. I could just make out the constrained sobbing sounds Nina made. They clashed with the roiling surf.

She touched my knee. "I'm so sorry, Vincent," she said at last, voice choked.

I looked to her. "So am I."

* * * *

Nina did not object when I told her I wanted to be alone for the night. We kissed, we hugged, but the actions were almost automatic, as if made for effect only. She gathered up the scattered scraps of the bikini I had purchased for her and strode down the beach to her bungalow. I watched her until she stepped out of sight, a smile on my face the entire time.

Then I stood and headed to my hacienda, and to the laptop within, to pen the last chapter of my life, a story which you have been reading.

There is no grater love in my life than that which I harbor for my wife and children. Nothing could ever take their place in my heart. That simple and mortal realization was what compelled me to come to this place, this little tropical hideaway. I had been born at sea, and to the sea I shall return.

So, early tomorrow morning, when the retreating tide is at its strongest, I will wade out to the ocean, and step onto the sandbar against which the Last Wave buffets. I will jump in, and let the tide carry me away to the sea forevermore.

And I will finally be with my family once again.

--fin--

(Thanks for reading this romantic little fantasy. Don't forget to vote, and if you wish, leave me a comment to let me know what you think. Please make sure to read all the other contest entries as well. There's some serious talent on Literotica.)