An erotic novel with mixed themes including female submission, menage, lesbian and multicultural by Nicole Dere
Crissie will do absolutely anything for Simon Kent, including having sex with other men, such as Mattius, a local fisherman, and even girls like the beautiful, wayward Wanda, on the tropical East African coastal paradise to which Simon has brought her. Wanda is a runaway daughter of the Sharifs, one of the wealthiest families on the East African coast. Simon confides to Crissie that he is disastrously in debt to the powerful, unsavoury Monsieur Auguste Mazarin, who has a sinister hold over him, and asks her help in his plan to kidnap Wanda, with Mazarin’s connivance, in order to pay off his debt to him. And that's when both Crissie's love for Simon - and her need to to be dominated - are really put to the test...
Dexterous fingers deal with my bikini top, unclip the fastener between my shoulderblades. It must be Mattius, for Simon is still holding me under my shoulders, cushioning me against the roughness of the curving wood. The cups are gone, my breasts are free. Mattius’s brown hands are handling their soft roundness, the calloused pads of his thumbs flick over the nipples, which are erect little buds. He has seen me topless before. I was shy that first time, awkwardly folding my arms to hide my bosom, until Simon laughed, pulled my wrists away. ‘He sees tits every day, sweet. Bigger ones than yours, eh, Matt?’
My tits are quite small, I admit. But I’m happy with them, and so are quite a few others, including Simon – and Mattius too from the way he’s getting to grips. I can’t see what he thinks, because my head is arched back, I’m gazing up into Simon’s eyes, and his tongue is lapping and flicking at my parted lips in a series of soft, nibbling kisses.
Meanwhile, Mattius’s hands have left off their exploration, to deal with the tiny briefs. It takes him a while longer than it did to remove my bikini top but I guess it gives him as much pleasure. His fingers scrape against the sensitive skin at my hips and upper thighs as he rolls the miniscule triangles of cloth away. He has to extricate himself from between my legs and, just for a second, a flash of panic returns and I heave myself upwards, crucified against the curve of the hull, my legs stiffening as they close before Mattius captures them once more and peels the little rope of my briefs down and whisks them off my feet. Then he is back, his hands hold me by my bum, and my knees break the surface as he parts them and draws me firmly onto him and settles between my spreadeagled thighs.
At once I feel the throbbing hardness of his prick, its dome stirring, against the crease of my thigh and belly, thrusting against the fronds of my neatly trimmed pubis. I feel a ridiculous sense of shock at its touch, this evidence of his prepared nakedness, even though I am well aware what I’m there for. I can still hear Simon’s deep, tender tone as he told me so last night. ‘I’m giving you to Mattius – I want him to fuck you, Crissie, all right?’
What would he do if I said no? Tell me to pack my bags, clear out, order a car to take me from the hotel to the island’s only town, to pick up the ferry to the mainland? But of course, I didn’t. ‘Whatever you want, Simon,’ I said, as I always do.
There is to be no foreplay, no slow arousal, lips and tongues and fingers – but there is no need, on either side. Mattius’s cock is risen, pole hard, and my sheath is ready oiled to receive, beating to swallow the sword. Still I gasp at the first penetrating thrust. For all the countless pricks I have taken since that long ago and far away first, my pussy is still quite narrow and tight against the primary lunges. I gasp against the first clash of our pubic bones, the little splat of water against the slap of our bellies. The power of Mattius’s drive forces from me a little grunt, and the expulsion of air mingles with Simon’s breath as he bends lower, his lips on my uplifted mouth, his hands helping to cushion the shock of Mattius’s ramming into me, which sends the canoe rolling wildly.
In spite of Simon’s support, I feel a flare of pain across my shoulders and back as I am driven against the canoe. But pain becomes part of the pleasure, matching the fierce burn within. The long column bores in, possessing me, ploughing to the very cervix. The battering rapidity of the thrusts increases. Mattius no longer holds my bum. Instead he hooks the backs of my splayed knees over his arms, which reach out to seize the edge of the canoe, and the backs of my ankles rest on his shoulders, my kicking feet breaking surface. I slide down until the sea is lapping into and over my face, and I have lost contact with Simon’s mouth. He’s only a blurred dark silhouette up above me. I am riding on the battering heave of the brown body cleaving me. Mattius is driving up into me now, a fury that sends the boat rocking madly until I am sure it must capsize on top of us.
