She padded to the kitchen, yawning wide, tawny skin bare and beautiful without a thread of clothing to cover her. At the kitchen table Max sat, nude in the summer air, his french blue eyes scanning the newspaper spread before him. Delia’s hand smoothed over his shoulder as she passed, headed for the ancient coffee pot that sang on the stove. She poured them both a cup, hers thick and sweet with cream, his black as his byzantine curls. They sat together and looked across the table at each other. Something good and dirty flashed between their eyes, a spark of igniting fire over the rims of their mugs. “When does your husband come home?” Max asked. “Not until this evening,” she answered. In one smooth motion he rose, reaching for her as she left her chair and dove into his arms. His kisses were a tender rain, his lips exploring her skin as though they had never tasted its softness before, though they had countless times in nights gone past. He was pushing her against the counter,. The quad bike trips there had made me want to just wander around and have a better look at the place. I wore yet another way too short, flimsy skirt, a see-through bikini top and one of my butt plugs. I didn’t go there to deliberately show myself but wearing what I was I knew that it would happen.I liked Ibiza town, a mixture of small shops, bars and restaurants. There must have been office blocks there and I guessed that they were above the bars and restaurants. I went down to the harbour and watched the boats coming and going and the people getting on and off the ferries then I went and wandered around the narrow streets with all the little shops, a lot of them being fashion shops that looked as if they catered for the rich people that must visit the town. Then I wandered into the old part of the town and imaged that for the people living there living there it must be very much like it was hundreds of years ago. A beautiful place to visit but not somewhere that I’d like to live all.
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