Every Game You Play
Sun, sand, and sex. Tracy has plenty of the first two. The third has all but vanished from her life.
Or has it? Sex, it seems, is everywhere around her. Her exotic pavilion on an island in the Gulf of Thailand exudes it, from the erotic decor to the licentious staff, and it’s driving Tracy crazy.
A mysterious masseur might be the answer to her needs.
Tracy lay on the massage table, naked, and waited.
No one else shared her pavilion, and even if there had been others, it wouldn’t have worried her. She enjoyed the absence of clothes, and this climate was meant for nudity.
Every night she lay on the vast bed beneath a billowing mosquito net, on cotton sheets so fine they might as well have been satin. It was far too hot to wear anything to sleep in, even if she had been the sort of person who did. When she swam in her private pool, she saw no need to cover herself, and instead enjoyed the silken touch of the clear water flowing over every part of her body.
On the rare occasions she ventured beyond the walls of her personal compound, she usually wore little more than a colorful sarong, tied modestly over her ample breasts. The modesty was false, of course, as every step she took showed all of one leg, and anyone who cared to watch caught a glimpse of more private parts.
Not that there were many places to go. There was a beach, completely protected from crocodiles and sharks. The water was clear and warm and turquoise blue. A few days ago, she had dug a tiny bikini out of the pocket of her suitcase, and immersed herself in water as warm as her bath. As she lay back, letting the salt water support her, she wondered what was happening back home in London. Nothing she need worry about, she supposed.
The plane ticket had arrived almost two weeks ago. She assumed Phillip had sent it, and had barely been able to suppress her excitement as she gathered up the few of her belongings that were suitable for a tropical paradise, her passport, the ticket, and directions on how to get to the island resort, before heading to Heathrow.
On one level, she was still miffed with him. Phillip had left her behind when he’d gone out to Thailand all those months ago to have the surgery he hoped would restore the use of his legs, damaged in a car crash many years before. While he was gone she’d had plenty of fun with their friend Nicholas, it was true. Phillip understood her like few men did. He encouraged and supported her adventures with other men.
She’d believed she and Phillip had something special, something involving mutual trust, perhaps. Something that would have had her holding his hand while he recovered. And other parts as well.
He had his reasons, no doubt, and she resolved to enjoy herself while she could.
She and Phillip had an active and interesting sex life in London, despite both his lack of mobility and his being her boss. He understood the power of her libido as no one ever had. He appreciated her spirit of adventure and often demanded details of her many experiences. They re-enacted them, as far as possible, over and over again.
Now, here she was, on an island in the Gulf of Thailand, being pampered from dawn until long past dusk if she so desired, and Phillip was nowhere to be seen.
The situation should be perfect, she reasoned. No ties and an endless expense account. All the massages, delicious food, and beauty treatments she could possibly want. The staff were polite, and the service was excellent, but with the exception of the reception staff, they spoke little English.
There was no one to talk to.
No one to fuck.
There were men here, of course. The masseur who visited every afternoon was as male as you could get in any culture. When he rubbed scented oil into her skin he skirted dangerously close to her most intimate places. The back of one hand would brush a nipple, perhaps by chance. She savored the heat of his fingers as they dug into her upper thighs, but he never touched her labia, or came close enough to her cunt to feel how wet she was.
Tracy was in agony.