Читать книгу For The Love Of Sara - Christopher Lee - Страница 12

CHAPTER 7

Grant woke up alone in the bed and wondered what had happened to Emma. There was no sign of her. He checked the bathroom. No. He opened the bedroom door and saw Tim and Sally fast asleep. He closed the door and looked in the second bedroom. Jill was in one bed and Emma and Ben in the other. He checked his watch. It was 6.30. He went to the bathroom and the extractor fan roared into life when he switched on the light so he turned it off immediately. But with the door closed and no light in the bathroom he couldn’t see where to pee. He solved the problem by putting the waste bin against the door to keep it slightly open. He stood there urinating, looking at himself in the mirror above the wash basin at the side of the loo. He wondered if she would be in the pool.

He found his gold coloured trunks and slipped them on, putting his boxers in the black plastic sack Jill had earmarked for dirty washing. He grabbed his American Express beach towel and headed for the pool.

He passed the larger pool and headed for the smaller one. He had half hoped she would be there, but she wasn’t. He placed his towel and apartment key on the diving board and dived in. The water seemed colder than the previous day. On his back, he looked up at the balconies of the hotel, but couldn’t see anyone. He could smell the aromas of breakfasts cooking in the hotel kitchen. He swam a couple of lengths and promised himself a cooked breakfast when he got back to the apartment. Then something hit him on the chest, something sharp. He floundered momentarily. It was his apartment key, now on its way to the bottom of the pool. He recognised the impish laughter. He could hear her, but couldn’t see her.

“Sara?” he called. “Where are you?”

She stepped out from behind the hedge which bordered the pool and screened it from the service road by the hotel. She was wearing the same black swimming costume. She ran around the pool and climbed on the diving board from where she had taken the key.

“Morning,” she giggled. “Do you want your key back?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Grant, “but I can get it.” Even as he surfaced dived and swam down towards the bottom he saw the young girl cutting through the water like a dart. Her dive from the board had given her greater impetus. She kicked hard and they both reached the key at the same time. Grant reached for it and so did Sara. Her hand clasped it first, his hand clasped hers. They looked at each other, their faces only inches apart. Grant was running out of breath, his cheeks already puffed. Sara giggled and a stream of bubbles escaped from her mouth and blazed a trail upwards. She put both her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down and herself up. Grant kicked off from the slippery bottom of the pool and propelled himself to the surface. Sara was waiting holding the key aloft like a trophy.

“If you want it, you’ll have to get it.” And with that she tossed it back into the pool. Grant dived again. Sara dived after him. Side by side they raced towards the key which glistened near to the grid in the middle of the pool floor. Again she reached it first, a split second before him. He tried to pull it out of her hand, but she clenched it too tight. As he caught her wrist with one hand, she put her other hand on his shoulder and pressed her lips to his. Before Grant realised what was happening she broke off the embrace and shot to the surface. Grant followed. By the time he had got his breath back, Sara had hauled herself out of the water and ran around to the diving board where she dropped the key on his towel before running back towards the apartment.

Grant was stupefied. He watched her run off. She turned, waved then ran on. He couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Then he told himself it was too ridiculous to be true. She was a very dangerous young lady and if he didn’t put a stop to this right now, he would be in serious trouble.

He climbed out of the pool and sat on the side, his legs dangling in the water. Something would have to be said. A voice inside his head said; “For Christ’s sake man, you’re nearly 40 and she’s young enough to be your daughter!”

He got to his feet and wrapped his towel around his shoulders and walked back towards the apartment. Nothing like this had ever happened before. What the hell was he going to do?

On the walk back he met Jill and suddenly felt terribly guilty, like a naughty schoolboy who’d been caught out. He smiled sheepishly.

“Have a good swim?” she asked.

“Yes, great,” he replied. “The young girl from the disco made a pass at me in the pool. She kissed me underwater then ran off.” The words were forming in his head, but not being spoken out loud.

“I’m off to the shop,” she said leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “I’m sorry about last night. I think I was still upset about losing the money.”

“Don’t worry, it was an accident, everything will be fine.” As the words left his lips he unconsciously looked up. Standing on the balcony of one apartment was Sara looking down, smiling.

Grant was back in the pool lying on the floor eight feet under. Sara was writhing on top of him. Her long blonde hair swirled around her head like a golden halo. He held her gently around the waist sliding his hands up and around her firm young breasts. She giggled and gurgled. Grant’s thumbs found her nipples which stood out like wheel nuts. His hands moved back to her waist, then lower. He expected her buttocks to be soft and yielding, but they were hard and scaly. He moved his hand to seek out her femininity, but something was wrong. Instead of finding her sex her flesh was cold and rough. He pushed her away and she laughed again sending a crescendo of bubbles towards the surface. As her body propelled away from him her hair cascaded towards him covering her face. Through blurred vision he could now make out her true form her beautiful face and hair, her long neck, soft breasts, slim waist and … her hips disappeared not into slender legs, but into an aquamarine tail with brilliant blue and green scales. Her hips undulated and circled him like a porpoise.

“Dad, can we go and play,” shouted Ben. And in an instant Grant was back in the apartment.

“Blimey dad, you were miles away,” added his son. “We’re all going down to the pool.”

“Huh, okay,” said Grant, and wondered what on earth was happening to him.

The family spent the day on the long beach at San Bou. Grant spent two hours carving a two-seater sports car out of wet sand for Ben and Sally. Emma spent most of the day catching rays – solar, not fish. The boys went off exploring the rocks and Jill read several chapters of the Maeve Binchy novel she had bought at the airport. Grant spent most of the day wondering was Sara was doing.

She was twenty miles away around the coast on the back of a pedalo. Her mother and Uncle Alan were providing the pedal power. She sat in the back, wondering what Grant was doing.

Grant took Jill and the children to a small fish restaurant where they dined on shell-fish, loads of garlic bread, which all the children loved, and lashings of albarino, Grant’s favourite white wine from Galicia.

They didn’t get back to the apartment until gone eleven. Despite that, the children asked to go to the hotel disco, but Grant and Jill said they should all turn in for the night, besides, Jill had a bit of a twinkle in her eye and Grant felt as randy as hell. Must be the sea food working, he thought, they say it’s an aphrodisiac. Then another thought flashed into his head – I wonder if Sara likes lobster? Why couldn’t he get her out of his head?

The children went off to bed and Jill made two cups of coffee which she took out onto the patio. After going in to kiss the children goodnight, Grant joined her.

“Fancy a night cap?” he asked Jill reaching for the bottle of duty-free Bacardi.

“Just a small one,” she replied. “To tell you the truth, I still feel a bit tiddly from dinner.”

“It’s good to see you look so relaxed,” he said.

They sat and chatted while they drank their coffee and rum. Jill went back into the lounge and pulled out the sofa bed. Grant looked at her bent over as she spread the sheets. He could make out the outline of her white panties under her long white skirt. He got up from his chair and moved quickly and silently behind her and placed his hands either side of her hips pulling her bottom into his crutch. She gave a little gasp of surprise.

“Wait until I have made the bed,” she protested.

“Fuck the bed,” said Grant curtly, and moved his hands to the hem of her skirt and drew it up over her hips. With thumbs either side of her panties he yanked them down to her knees.

“Grant, wait a minute,” she pleaded. But Grant was in too much of a hurry. There was no time for foreplay, no time for loving. He wanted her sex now. He yanked at the belt of his shorts and undid the belt with his left hand his right pressing on his wife’s back, keeping her bent over.

His shorts slipped to the floor and he kicked them away. He reached inside his pants and yanked out his stiff penis and testicles. Roughly he parted the cheeks of her buttocks and thrust his hips forward entering her to the hilt. She gave out a loud gasp.

“Grant, you’re hurting me,” she said hoarsely. But he ignored her protests and thrust harder, his pace becoming frenzied. He reached underneath her chest and grabbed her right breast as it hung loosely inside her T-shirt. He pinched the nipple, pulling it roughly.

“Grant, stop it, you’re hurting me. Don’t be so rough.” She tried to straighten up but Grant pushed her back down as he felt his climax building to an unbearable crescendo, his sperm screaming for release. Then he erupted into her as spasms of ecstasy ripped through him. He gave a grunt, reached down and withdrew his semi-rigid organ. Jill collapsed forward onto the unmade bed, face down with her legs curled up. Grant said nothing. He walked to the bathroom, his penis pointing the way.

He flicked on the light and the fan came on. The door swung shut. He collapsed against the wall, thoroughly drained. His forehead rested against the mirror and he looked at his squashed image. His breathing was still heavy and laboured, his breath forming a misty cloud on the glass. He looked into his own eyes and saw a callous bastard staring back – mocking him

“Well done son, fucking good job.” He stood over the toilet and waited to pee. When he finished he wiped himself with some toilet paper, dropped it in the pan and flushed. He turned on the cold tap and, cupping his hands, threw some of the salty water over his face. He looked at the now dripping face in the mirror then turned away in disgust. When he went back into the lounge she was still lying there, but had pulled a sheet over herself. Grant slid in beside her and stared up at the ceiling. He turned on his side facing her back and put his arm over her. She shrugged and elbowed him away.

“I’m so sorry,” he said feebly. “I don’t know what came over me.” She made no reply. He turned the other way, closed his eyes and promised himself to dream about mermaids, but he never did. He never dreamt at all that night.