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From: "Bradley Stoke" <bradley_stoke@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (4/8) {Bradley Stoke} (MF)
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Title: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (4/8) {Bradley Stoke} (MF)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 4 of 8
Keywords: (MF)
Short Summary: Ibiza: Holiday paradise in the Mediterranean,
famous for its night clubs, its beaches and its hedonism.

Degrees of Intimacy
===================

Resume of whole novel
=====================

Eight characters, eight places, eight degrees of separation, and
eight degrees of intimacy. This novella is inspired by the film
La Ronde that similarly follows a circular trail of lovers, but
this time in the twenty-first century and much more explicit in
content. All eight chapters can be read in isolation, but the
whole is greater than the sum of its parts.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

[This story has been previously published on Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com) where it was edited by the much
missed Ruthie and illustrated by Tzratzk.]



Story Description
=================

Ibiza: Holiday paradise in the Mediterranean, famous for its
night clubs, its beaches and its hedonism. Paul is having a
great time clubbing and partying with his friends, but
sometimes he feels the need to get away. On a lone trip to a
beach he meets Jayne who reminds him of his love for Trish,
his estranged girlfriend.


Chapter Four - Ibiza
====================

Paul's forehead juddered against the thick glass of the
window as the bus sped over the uneven sunbaked tarmac,
forcing him to jerk his head back. He studied the trees and
villas the bus passed on this longer dash between stops, all
brightly illuminated by the late morning Mediterranean sun.
He rubbed his forehead uneasily and let it slump again onto
the glass.

At least he wasn't feeling like shit this morning, like he did
most mornings on his three week stay in Ibiza. He had done
well to go easy the night before, his body and head
complaining after the punishment he and his friends had
inflicted on themselves in the pursuit of pleasure. His mates
were still back in the room they shared in the pensione just
outside the town. He could imagine Baz still in bed with
Tina and Dave with Sue, the girls they had got off with last
night. Paul had been less lucky. The girl he'd focused on
had collapsed in a pool of vomit and had to be helped back
to her hotel by her friends, while he tailed behind Baz and
Dave and their fresh conquests. Their score rate was always
more impressive when they held back on the booze, though
the general haze of Ecstasy and blow took away most of
their inhibitions with women.

Paul had consumed enough booze and blow to help him fall
asleep in his lonely bed where he could hear Baz and Dave
making love with Tina and Sue. Fortunately, they weren't
nearly as noisy as on that other night when Paul had also
scored, but it was Baz that time who had to doze off alone.

Their Ibiza holiday was going well. After only one week,
their relative score rates, which they often liked to
compare, was nothing to be ashamed of. Eight nights so far,
and each of them had scored with at least five lasses apiece.
It mightn't be that romantic having to fuck in the same
room as your mates, but they had to be careful with cash.
The pensione they found not long after arriving on the
island was dead cheap. This meant they had plenty left to
spend on nightclubs, drugs and booze.

Paul, no more than his mates, didn't want to go too wild.
The money they'd saved in their year off working in offices
and factories before going to university, he to Manchester
and Baz and Dave to Leeds and Sussex respectively, would
be needed to supplement their student loans. That was one
millstone Paul didn't relish carrying about with him while
studying Engineering and Physics. But Ibiza was generally
real cheap, except for the nightclubs of course. They'd done
the main clubs. Pacha. Manumission. Café Del Mar. Most
evenings, they went to rather cheaper clubs where the DJs
might be less famous but the music was just as banging. Or
seemed to be when you were tanked up and E'd out.

Paul glanced over at the middle-aged Spanish woman he'd
haltingly asked to alert him to the stop his Spanish was far
too rudimentary to pronounce especially well. Most of the
time, you didn't need to speak a word of Spanish, which
was just as well, really. Languages had never been his
strong point. He hoped though she didn't guess why he
wanted to get off at this stop. In fact, he hoped he could
avoid telling Baz and Dave just where he was going. He
hoped they might think he'd lucked out again as he did in
Tangiers with that Danish lass. Baz never stopped telling
him he was a real spawny get, which tickled him. It was
usually Dave who pulled the birds the most successfully.

He wished he'd kept in touch with Marla. They'd swapped
e-mail addresses, but Paul sensed that any mail he sent her
wouldn't be answered with quite the alacrity he always
showed when something new appeared in his inbox that
wasn't spam. She was a bonny lass. Not as much so as
Trish, but bonny nonetheless.

The woman smiled at him from across the bus and gestured
to him.

"Is this the stop?" Paul asked as the bus slowed down.

"Si!"

Paul staggered out of the bus. "Cheers mate!" he said to the
bus driver, who made no comment. He wondered if it was
just because Spanish drivers didn't acknowledge you like
they did back in Newcastle or if he guessed why Paul
should choose such an out-of-the-way place to disembark.

As the bus drove off, a cloud of dust blowing in its wake,
Paul fumbled in his rucksack for the Lonely Planet guide
he'd brought with him. If this was the bus stop, then he still
had quite a walk to get where he wanted to go.

It had always been a secret ambition of his, one he'd never
confessed to anyone except Trish, let alone Baz and Dave,
to go to a nudist beach. He knew there were a few on Ibiza
and now just seemed the right time to see what one was
like. He wondered if that meant he was some kind of perv.
Maybe it wasn't a pervy thing to go round starkers, but a lot
of nudists were supposed to be real cranky. And Paul
wasn't sure he wanted to go because he wanted to enjoy the
open air au naturel or because he just wanted to gawp at
naked women, but he was committed now. He couldn't very
well go back without doing what he'd come to do. Even
though he'd later have to invent some excuse that he'd been
wandering round the markets to justify his absence to Baz
and Dave. If they told his other mates back home, well,
he'd be laughed out of the Stag and Hounds. And maybe
the New Inn and all.

Paul followed the signs to 'La Playa' which he guessed
meant 'beach', but you wouldn't have guessed that as the
trail led him through thick brush and over rocks. Finally,
perhaps a mile or so later, he was at last at what was a
beach. But was it a nudist one?

Paul nervously walked along, glancing at bathers dressed in
normal swimsuits. Just past an official looking sign he
could see bodies in the distance which, squint as he could,
displayed no evidence of bathing costumes. Paul waited
until he'd passed a few naked bodies, mostly couples, some
with children and some rather old, before he decided that,
yes, this was definitely a nudist beach.

He felt slightly excited as he took off his shorts and tee-
shirt, the new one he'd bought at Manumission, and stuffed
them into his rucksack, wearing now only his designer
sunglasses and the espadrilles he'd bought for next to
nothing at the market. He hoped his excitement wasn't
express by the penis that swung between his legs, one he
had no need to be ashamed of, but was so easily aroused.
And there was a lot to arouse it.

Somehow, even ordinary women looked so much better in
the nude. And yes, not only were they topless, which was
no big deal, but he could see the hairy patches of pubic hair
magnified in his mind out of all proportion to the bodies
that sported them. Even the plump girls didn't look bad. He
was slightly disturbed by his feelings when he saw two
naked girls, probably not even twelve years old. He wasn't
some kind of paedophile, was he? That wasn't right. He
averted his gaze to distract his mind from inappropriate
thoughts, wondering now whether what was most pervy
wasn't so much going about starkers, which he was sure
was no big deal (though it seemed so not so long ago), but
that he couldn't take his eyes off the women.

In actual fact, there were more naked men than women, but
when you'd seen one limp cock in a bush of hair you'd seen
them all. He just wished that some of the women weren't
accompanied by either men or children. There was no
chance for him to get to know them, And that, as Paul got
steadily bored with walking along the coarse sand, the sea
crashing on the shore and hidden from any roads or houses
by thickets of palm trees and rocks, was surely the point of
this exercise. Much as he liked beaches, he'd had more than
a week of them now and this beach was nothing special,
beyond being a bit secluded. He'd spent many hours dozing
with Baz and Dave on much nicer beaches than this, only
with a towel and a Science Fiction novel to keep him
company.

Paul wasn't sure what he expected to gain from talking to a
naked woman on the beach, any more than he was sure why
he was there in the first place, but it seemed the natural
thing to do. And there at last, almost totally obscured by the
huge boulders around her, Paul saw an unaccompanied
woman. As he approached her, he was sure she was a
bonny lass. She certainly wasn't fat, although certainly not
thin, and she had a very impressive pair of breasts. Paul
didn't think of himself as a tit-man, although when he and
his mates discussed what it was that they liked most about
women, he'd never quite decided if he might not be. He
didn't have Dave's attraction for arses or Baz's for thighs,
and he was self-aware enough to know that a pretty face,
however bonny, wasn't enough without a good
accompanying package.

Experience had told him that whenever an opportunity was
presented, the right thing to do was to dive in. When he was
younger and his mates started seeing girls, he had been so
painfully nervous he never got anywhere. Then his mate,
Dave, gave him good advice as to what to do. It doesn't
matter what you say, he told him, just say something. And
don't worry about how crap it sounds. A lass isn't really
listening to the words anyway.

"It's a good thing you've got a shade up in this sun, like!"
said Paul, pointing at the sunshade that sheltered most of
the woman's body.

Until then, Paul had really only seen her back and the
pendulous bosom as her body twisted round to rest her
buttocks on a huge beach towel. He'd noticed that her dyed-
blonde hair was short, not severely so, but off the ears. Her
skin was a medium golden brown rather than the deeper,
almost chocolate brown, of those people who made a
religion out of sunbathing. The eyes behind her small steel-
framed sunglasses peered into a slim novel by someone
called Jeanette Winterton, whom he'd never heard of
before. But when she turned her head around to look at him
as he stood a yard or so away from her, he now noticed that
she wasn't a young lass at all.

She wasn't old exactly. Well, younger than his Mam which
was Paul's benchmark of middle-age, but not that many
years younger. Maturity had made her breasts pendulous,
her arms thicker than the stick-thinness of a younger
woman's arm, and her stomach less flat. In fact, she might
even have had lines on her face, but Paul couldn't be sure in
the shadow of the sunshade.

"I'm sorry?" she asked in a voice that had lost every hint of
girlishness.

"The sunshade, like. It's a good thing you've got one in this
bright sun and all."

"You're a Geordie, aren't you?" she asked with an amused
smile, turning her body round to face him. She looked him
up and down dispassionately.

"Aye," said Paul weakly, suddenly feeling very naked, his
penis now such a prominent thing between his legs but one
he knew it was far too late to try and hide behind his hands.
And now he could see her in all her nudity, he felt a sudden
frisson as he regarded her crotch. She hadn't even a little
patch of pubic hair there. Not even the little stripe adorned
by porn stars and strippers, like the ones at Manumission.
And, unlike those children, equally bald in that region,
whose crotches had disturbed him so much and made him
evade his eyes partly from respect and partly from fear of
his own desires, this was not the tidy smooth vulva of a
London statue. The lips of the vagina spilled out and were
clearly visible, as golden tanned as her breasts and the rest
of her body. No white patches, unlike the rather obvious
one he exposed between his waist and lower thighs.

"And you're alone, are you?" she asked. "You're not with
some friends hiding behind a rock laughing at you while
you chat up a strange English woman on the beach?"

Paul blushed. Was he making a fool of himself? "Naw!
There's nobody. There's now't but me, like. I just saw you
sitting there, all alone, like..."

"And you thought you'd chat with me, is that it?"

"Aye. I'm sorry if I've pissed you off, like," he said
crestfallen and blushing in that way he still couldn't control.
Just as he had with that Danish lass in Morocco. "I'll just
leave you, like. I shouldn't have disturbed you."

"Don't be silly!" the woman laughed with some kind of
Southern accent. Not a London accent, perhaps, though
Paul was no expert in these matters. Maybe Home
Counties. "I don't mind. As long as you don't think I'm a
likely catch, if you know what I mean."

"A catch?" Paul wondered.

"Well, whatever you youngsters call it these days," she
said. "Look! Sit down. I don't mind. I'm by myself. My ...
er ... friend, she's sleeping off a hard night at the moment,
so I thought I'd wander over to the nudist beach. Catch up
on a bit of reading. Improve my tan. As long as you don't
get any silly ideas, I really have no quarrel."

Paul sat down nervously beside her. Perhaps this wasn't
such a good idea. He looked around the beach, where the
next nearest company was quite a way off. "Naw! I wasn't
going to ... you know ... I'm not really that kind of guy.
Not really." Although, when he was with Baz and Dave,
and the girls were so obviously up for it, there was no
doubt in his mind that he could be and, in fact, almost
certainly was that kind of guy. But here, alone, with a
woman more than fifteen years older than him, he was
definitely not lying.

"I see," said the woman, placing her paperback face down
on the towel. Paul noticed for the first time that the
illustration on the cover was of a quite sexy young woman.
"My name's Jayne, by the way."

"Paul."

"Paul the Geordie," Jayne laughed. "Almost every region of
Britain is represented here in Ibiza. Why's that?"

"It's the clubs, like," Paul said. "That's why me and me
mates are here."

"You like dancing, do you?"

"Oh aye! Going to nightclubs and dancing. That's the biz."

"And what music do you listen to? Is it this house music
that they play?"

"Well, some house. Mostly hard house. But I like trance,
me. But I'm not too fussy. I'll dance to anything if it's got a
good beat. You know, garage, progressive, drum & bass,
even R&B."

"Really?" Jayne asked, leaning over with a smile, that
shaven crotch less than two feet away from Paul's limp
penis.

Paul breathed in deeply. This reminded him of the
unexpected consequences of his encounter with Marla.
What the fuck had he let himself in for?

"Are you a nudist, like?" he asked.

She nodded. "Are you, Paul? Surely you must be to come to
a beach like this."

"Not really," confessed Paul, trying hard to keep his eyes
off Jayne's shaven crotch, but not sure where else to look.
He could see his reflection in Jayne's sunglasses as surely
as she could see her own in his. "I thought I'd just see what
it's like."

"I'm not a card-carrying nudist. I don't belong to any
naturist organisations. But I like to be naked. And do you
have a girlfriend?"

"What here? On the beach?"

"Well, anywhere?"

"Not really. Though I did a few months back. Do you have
a boyfriend?" He asked this to deflect the conversation
away from the subject of his single status.

"No. In fact, I've never really had a boyfriend."

"No?" wondered Paul, feeling quite sorry for the lass. She
wasn't bad looking and she didn't seem especially shy.
"Why's that, like?"

"I don't really want one. Men don't appeal to me very
much."

"Oh!" said Paul, feeling even more sorry for her. This
reminded him of what Trish told him the first time he
persuaded her to go out with him. Perhaps Jayne was like
that for the same reasons.

"That's what my girlfriend said at first," he told her.

"She did?" Jayne asked, with a genuine expression of
interest. "But she changed her mind, did she?"

"It took a long time," Paul admitted. Somehow, it didn't
feel so bad talking about such things with an older woman.
"We'd been going out together nearly a year. She let me
kiss her and touch her up and all, but whenever I suggested
doing anything more she got all upset and sometimes
angry."

"Was it because she preferred women?"

"Women?" wondered Paul, who'd never thought of that
before. "Naw! She wasn't a lezzie... a lesbian. It was her
Dad that made her like that."

"Her Dad?" asked Jayne, with a slight catch in her voice
that suggested genuine concern.

"She didn't tell me about it for months. But she made hints
I didn't really understand, like. In fact, we'd been going out
for ages, and we sorta pretended we'd been, you know,
doing it, so our mates wouldn't think we were queer or ow't,
and then she told me all about her Dad. He'd left her Mam a
couple of years before and she'd never really told me why.
But it was because... it was all because of her..."

Paul paused as the memory of Trish's confession replayed
itself in his mind. She cried so much while she told him.
She was hardly able to complete a sentence before
spluttering into tears.

"Was her father abusing her, Paul?" asked Jayne in a low
sympathetic voice and placed a hand very lightly on his
bare shoulder.

Paul squeezed his eyes. He was glad for the sunglasses
now. Not only did they keep out the glare of the sun, their
presence meant Jayne couldn't see the moisture in his eyes
behind them. He really was soft as shite, even now. He still
felt really angry on Trish's behalf. And yet Trish's father
had never seemed a bad bloke, often going down the same
pub as Paul's Dad and his pals.

He nodded his head. "Not once. Not even only a couple of
times. But all the time! And getting Trish never to tell her
Mam, like. Ever since she was real young."

"How young?"

"I dunno. It started when she were just a bairn. But he had
real sex with her when she was not even yet eleven, like.
And he kept doing it till Trish told the school councillor
about it when she was fourteen."

"Why did she leave it so late?"

"I guess she didn't want to get her Dad locked up or
summat. You know what it's like when you're young.
Family first and all. But she was always moody at school.
And got into trouble all the time. Getting into fights,
bunking off school, not doing her homework and things.
And when the councillor spoke to her, she sorta let it all
spurt out, like. And that was why her Dad had to leave
home."

"She'd never told her mother?"

"Her Dad told her not to. That it would upset her, like. And
that she shouldn't upset her Mam."

"And what did you feel like when she told you?"

"I dunno. Real weird, I suppose. But it wasn't long after
that, we sorta got it on together. But we only sorta did so
for a few months. And then she decided not to see me any
more, like."

Paul thought back to those two or three months when he
and Trish were real lovers. It was strange. He wasn't a
virgin before her, but she was his only proper regular
girlfriend. And when, a few days after her confession, Trish
said she'd decided they could have sex together, it was real
weird doing it with her. But after the first few slightly
embarrassing tries, their relationship became incredibly
passionate. And it was obvious that Trish knew a great deal
about sex.

Those first few times, she was really reserved. It was as if
she thought sex was something you did with your eyes
closed, on your back, sort of waiting for it to be all over.
But then she somehow exploded into an ecstasy and
passion that frightened Paul. It was a sudden release. And
for the next couple of months, Paul and Trish had the best
sex he could imagine anyone ever having. Every time they
made love, he just wanted to stay inside her. She made
every effort to keep him there, although because she
insisted he use a condom, and she never took the pill or got
a diaphragm, they got through quite a few packets every
week.

And then, on the phone, not in person, she told him she'd
decided they shouldn't see each other again.

And that was that.

No warning. No sign that anything was wrong the last time
they'd made love, their bodies clinging together, sweat
sticking to their conjoined skin. They had the same relaxed
conversation afterwards, when they both joked together and
caressed each other's still-burning flesh. And then, on the
phone, a curt announcement that they were no longer a
couple, a decision that didn't change at all despite all his
pleading and subsequent phone calls. And no evidence that
there was another boyfriend who'd superseded him in her
affections.

Jayne put her arms around his shoulder.

"Gosh!" she said. "Your penis is very big!"

"It is?" said Paul, startled.

And indeed it was. Thinking about Trish and their
lovemaking had somehow brought it to life, without him
even being aware of it. It wasn't fully erect. Not standing up
like a soldier, as Trish used to describe it, but definitely not
limp. A three-quarter swelling lifted it up at an angle to his
outstretched legs. Shit! If he'd not been nude, if he'd been
wearing shorts, then no one would've noticed!

Then Jayne did an incredible thing. Paul's eyes bulged out
of their sockets as she grasped his penis in her right hand
and pulled it up the whole length to his exposed purple
glans.

"It's very warm!" she commented. "Is it just the sun? And
ooh! It's getting stiffer!"

"It is!" exclaimed Paul, aware of it pumping up to full
erectness, its shadow across his chest.

"I've never touched a penis before," Jayne confessed. "Are
they all like yours?"

"More or less," said Paul, but aware that his was rather
prouder than most, including Dave's, which he'd glimpsed a
couple of days ago when he was prodding that slightly
tubby girl, Sharon.

Jayne moved her hand up and down the shaft of his penis,
from the bush of hair at the base, his testicles now hard and
aching, and up to the tip. Her fingers were warm, but they
were also firm and gripped quite tightly.

"Is this what I do?" she asked, looking into Paul's face with
a quizzical smile quite unlike the uncomfortable expression
that contorted his mouth.

"Yes! Yes!" Paul said. "A bit faster, like."

Jayne concurred, her hand jerking up and down, whilst her
other hand moved down to her crotch where she let a finger
probe into its ragged lips, perhaps to stimulate her clitoris.

The two said nothing, except for Paul's involuntary gasps,
as Jayne pumped her hand vigorously, Paul's buttocks
tightening and spasms shooting through his taut stomach.
Up and down. Occasionally, she capped his glans, which
swelled hugely at the end of his shaft. Paul squeezed his
eyes shut, his thoughts returning again to Trish and those
many months before they had proper sex, when she jerked
his penis in much the same way, not wholly confident in
what she was doing. And when he opened his eyes, there
was Jayne again, regarding his penis with almost academic
interest.

She took her other hand from her crotch and squeezed
Paul's testicles. Ooh! That hurt! And then Jayne used two
hands, one pushing up and down, while the other squeezed
it at the base.

Inevitably, his penis released itself. A globule of semen
shot out and spat onto the hair on his thigh. That was
followed by a series of smaller spurts, warm and creamy
and trailing down Paul's penis onto the grip of Jayne's hand.

"It almost burns!" Jayne exclaimed, removing her hand and
studying the milky liquid on her fingers. She rubbed it into
the sand and looked up at Paul's face. "You don't mind, do
you? I just wanted to see what it would do."

"You did?" said Paul, feeling both grateful and somehow
anguished that this act of intimacy was for no other reason
than to satisfy her curiosity.

Jayne nodded.

The two of them lay side by side on the warm sand under
Jayne's sunshade; Paul's penis now flopped uselessly on his
thigh, the semen cracking on his sunburnt flesh and the
glans no longer so swollen. His balls felt sore, but Paul was
loath to touch them.

Then Jayne stood up and picked up her novel. She stuffed it
into her shoulder bag without a word. Paul watched as she
silently folded up her towel and took down the sunshade.
She stood above him, the bag over her shoulder, towel over
her arm, and the sunshade in her other hand.

"Well, it's been nice meeting you, Paul," she said, in a
slightly breathy and possibly embarrassed voice. "But I
must be going. Cath, my friend, she'll be wondering where
I am. I suppose you'll just continue resting here, won't
you?"

Although this was expressed as a statement, Paul
understood this as a request. He smiled at Jayne, knowing
that as soon as she had walked far enough in the distance,
he'd want to head back to the bus stop again. "I guess I
will," he agreed.

"Well, goodbye, then," said Jayne. She shook his hand and
left.

Paul watched as she strode along the beach, her full
buttocks swaying with her tread, her heavy breasts
occasionally visible as she wound past other sunbathers. As
she disappeared from sight, the whole of the encounter
became more and more improbable in his mind. Did it
really happen? Had he just dreamt it?

He looked out to sea where a ship was passing slowly by. A
few children played in the waves, splashing water at each
other and laughing in that unselfconscious way only
children can do. He let his mind wander to his plans for the
evening. Perhaps he'd drop an E, snort some speed and all,
and make a real night of it.

But not yet, he thought, a sudden weariness overwhelming
him. Just a few more minutes resting naked in the sun and
he'd be ready. He'd forgotten just how tired he could get.
And besides he rather wanted to relish his memories of
Trish a little longer before facing the prospect of chasing
skirt.

But even as he became excited at the prospect of another
night of Mediterranean hedonism, he knew if he had the
choice between her and any one of the lasses he'd shagged
the last week, he would have chosen Trish every time.





For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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