The Leeward Islands;

She was loping down the beach, jogging at an even pace, running without any evidence of tiring. He was an athlete himself, and considered it great good fortune to stumble upon a fellow running enthusiast in the course of his normal exercise schedule.

He lengthened his stride, and in 250 yards, they were advancing side by side. The beach was both wide and long, as such things go, but no beach is infinite, and he was accustomed to five laps. They covered the length twice wordlessly. At the end of the third length, she was prepared to take him seriously. "Where do you go to shower up and hydrate?" she asked between laps. "I know a lifeguard, and I use the county facilities," he replied. "They don't extend the privilege to tourists." She grinned infectiously. "We have tourists at Hidden Hollow area too," she agreed. "Is there a 'Y' I can patronize later?" He wasn't shy. "I'll take you back to my place if you like... it's 35 minutes away, so you might want to plan to stay a while." She assessed him discretely with her eye, and agreed to think about it for four more lengths.

45 minutes later they ended their exertions, and turned back to society. Her efforts had been greater proportionally than his, and she was compensated with a runner's high that he did not achieve on this occasion. For him this was more of a solitary endeavor, and he felt well compensated by her company. They rinsed off at the public showers, and she donned a warm-up suit in favor of running shorts. His casual attire was lighter, but identifiably athletic. They set off for his domicile looking like a pair of matched Morgans. He fed her rotisserie chicken, and she was appreciative of his solicitous care. His duplex was a town house, and they arrived at dusk.

The obligatory tour was easily accomplished, and his room mate made her welcome by inviting her to use his spacious bath, while he himself attended to the toiletry necessary to the courtship dance. They had a rule. A fully charged laptop and library privileges (with a mad money kitty,) complemented camping equipment for just such an occasion. His room mate left for the movies soon after the local news ended. The note he left for them both read, "Old friend pulling an all-nighter... don't wait up."

He checked his answering machine, and took a note or two. Her shower had been extended and, one could only assume, luxurious. When she made her entrance in a pastel halter top, low-riders and clean sneakers, he found her striking. She was toweling out a short mane of blond hair, and her piercing blue eyes met his gaze with frank invitation: she had been a "daddy's girl." Her lip-stick was a color of skin that made a visual cue for intimacy, and her darkened eyebrows made a contrasting frame for the shaded window of her gaze.

He had been fortunate not to over dress. His khakis and Nike Polo were earth tones, and his Green Bay Packers ball cap tamed his unruly hair unobtrusively. He felt a chemical thrill run though his loins, and racked his brains for a suggestive double entendre. It came out cheesy... "You look like a fallen angel. Can I help you adjust your halo?" She was undeterred. "If you have a Nintendo, I'll kick your ass at HALO III... I love _anything_ with a joy-stick."

Inspiration finally struck, and he gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. "Call me 'August.' I'm a role playing fanatic. Have you ever made conquest of a man named August?"

She had been taken off guard, but the playfulness of it kept it from being weird. "I'll be 'Mary.'" she played along. "I'm from Europe, touring the States on 14 dollars a day. My priest is against birth control, and I _LOVE_ hot August nights!" The vision of her in a knotted white Catholic School top, with an abbreviated pleated plaid skirt competed for his subliminal appreciation that, where male gonads would have been, she had an unobstructed availability.

"My Minister will be back in early morning, Mary. He'll marry anyone that asks him, so we needn't trouble ourselves to withhold our appetites. He's Hassidic... his name's 'Rabbi.'" His eyes twinkled.

Her eyes glistened in return. "During my times with the Peace Corps in Africa I learned to milk snakes of their venom. I know how to use emergency first-aid for life saving measures even after they bite you!" She knew that for all pursuits on earth, experience is an excellent pre-requisite, and began moving rhythmically with the music playing softly in the background.

Her hair was orderly despite her casual treatment, and her halter top hardly disturbed it at all as she removed it. He responded by removing any impedance for her to the object of her remarks... the shirt would go later. She made no secret of getting eye drops from her kit, and applying them not to her pupils, but her strawberry invitations. It was obviously an excellent vaso-constrictor, because her physique took on the character of welts, and his gaze danced between them until she walked up to him and took his head in her arms, drawing him to her with blatant affection. Her fingers wandered through his hair as Finger Eleven came over the speakers, announcing to all the world that the flirtation of her eyes had challenged her body to deliver physical Utopia.

Her hands spent little time stroking, before their strength became evident. They kneaded and searched his torso, kindling coals of desire that were never far from the surface. She matched his ready erection with nakedness surprisingly quickly. She covered him and began to bump and grind. "Watch my boobs bounce," she teased. She liked a canter, and he was well compensated as her steed. She reached around behind, and stroked the pouch of his family jewels as this treatment afforded opportunity. "What are you doing?" he inquired hesitantly. This was not SOP. "I care about the twins," was her reply.

She had the belly of a Greyhound, and used his athletic tolerance to the limits. He was marveling at both her endurance and his own when he finally climaxed. Her mons veneris was what you'd call "clean." "Was it Nair or waxing?" he wondered.

She was a demanding jockey, and he was testing the texture of the canvas at her instruction before James Blunt was finished crooning out "Annie," in its entirety. She assisted his efforts with her hands at her breasts, proclaiming the nipples "wonderful," as the blood coursed the constricted capillaries. "Ahhh... that feels good." She kept a steady banter of encouragement going, until he finally balked like a Show Jumping Horse at a Jockey's poorly timed approach to the bar. He took time away from his otherwise persistent attentions to say, "You know that a true Jockey uses the crop sparingly."

She was not impervious, and deflated. It was no time to argue semantics of who was whispering encouragement and who was using the whip. "I'm only human," she pleaded. "I am but a man," he capitulated. He became a gymnast and she became his equipment.

Their next moment of clarity found them locked in full embrace, with his hands on her shoulders, like a chin-up bar. Her wiry frame yielded little, like the tuned suspension of a responsive sports car. "I want to be sore in the morning," she whispered in his ear. He was no amateur, and did his best to render her noodle kneed. Her cries of pleasure waxed and waned, culminating in tears. "I didn't want to admit it, but it's been FOREVER!" she admitted in a moment of weakness. "I haven't taken a lover since my Dad died two and a half years ago." He softened to her confidence, and turned discussion to his small stock of Global Politics when a lull in the action supported a change of subject.

"I'll probably never forget you," he assured her before turning up the lights and patronizing pay-per-view. She was (as Hollywood puts it,) free, and she capped hours of mutual enjoyment with an extended and applied French Maid demonstration. The apartment was spotless when she again donned her daytime attire.

She was gone in a rush when the time came. Rather than retire, she told him to "Take me to the bus station." She was gone 30 minutes later, like an emotional hurricane from the tropics. "Be my Madonna forever," he entreated. "I will," she agreed. "I feel like we really bonded!"

The bus pulled away, and he lingered; she waved and her "take care" echoed through the canyons of his mind.

"D-E-V-A-S-T-A-T-I-N-G," he thought.