Читать книгу Look at Me! - Felix Baron - Страница 9

When she alighted from her plane it was dark out. The air was as warm as fresh-squeezed milk. The airport was all grass huts and exotic plants, though the huts had been built out of two-foot-thick timbers that were held together by massive steel bolts.

A trio of pretty girls in flowery dresses greeted the passengers with weary ‘Ola’s and a few desultory dance steps. Well, it was eleven at night. There’d been headwinds. They were three hours late. The travellers were whisked through customs and into an open area that had buses parked around its perimeter. Hers was clearly labelled. Just twenty minutes after she’d landed, her bus was tunnelling its way between dark green walls of dense foliage. Constance caught glimpses of distant gas stations and fizzing neon signs but for most of the following hour it was just gigantic leaves brushing at the sides and roof of the bus and sharp turns taken too quickly. Then there was an open gateway that would have accommodated King Kong, and she was there, at the resort, in the place where she’d be free to explore her own immodesty to her heart’s content – but not until after a good night’s sleep and a long hot shower.

Once she’d booked in, a good-looking man in black short-shorts and a white T-shirt loaded her luggage onto a golf cart and whisked her along a many-curved driveway to her room on the ground floor of a three-storey modern pink-brick building. Constance tried to listen while he explained the mysteries of the air conditioning and so on to her. By the time he was done, she only had the energy to wash quickly and crawl into bed stark naked, for just the second time in her young life.

Constance was woken by happy squeals and splashes. The dappling of light on her ceiling told her there was brilliant sunshine and moving waves just a few feet beyond her gauze-draped French windows.

It was all waiting for her – people with admiring lascivious eyes – perhaps romance – certainly some sort of adventure.

And she was terrified.

Of course, she didn’t have to expose herself to risk and potentially to shame. The room had everything: a lovely onyx-tiled bathroom, a king-sized bed (for one?), a minibar and room service. There were likely to be some English-language programmes available on the 50-inch flat-screen TV. If she decided to chicken out, she could stay in her room for her two weeks, resting, just being idle. If courage came to her tomorrow, she could venture out then. If she never summoned the nerve, well, no one would know or care that she’d been a coward. She could lie to Shirley, make up tales of all sorts of wild adventures.

And her mother would have won. That was a sickening thought.

One step at a time, she told herself. Just do what comes naturally first, then see where that leads. Don’t think ahead. Don’t look behind. It was still morning, just. In the morning, she always got up and had a shower. So that’s where she’d start.

Constance hadn’t noticed it the night before but the air in the bathroom was scented. The shower itself was adjustable in a dozen different ways. She luxuriated, which isn’t the same as procrastinating. When she washed her intimate parts, Constance made a conscious effort not to avert her eyes.

As she stepped out, she remembered that the resort had hung a fluffy white robe on the bathroom door for her, on the outside. She could always wrap herself in a bath towel, but the robe was only a door away. She opened it.

‘So sorry, Miss. Housekeeping. You didn’t hear me?’

Constance reached to snatch the robe from its hook but the maid beat her to it and held it out to help her on with. Hoping that her flush from the hot water concealed her blushes, Constance braced herself and fumbled for the sleeves. There was no way for the girl to know that this was the first time since her adolescence that another human being had seen her stark naked.

‘Thank you!’

‘You very pretty.’ There was admiration in the young woman’s eyes, perhaps more.

‘Thanks for that, as well. You’re very – kind.’ She couldn’t very well return the compliment. The girl was quite plain and very thin. She had virtually no bust, but her nipples were very prominent under her clinging white T-shirt. Perhaps Constance should compliment her on them? She had to suppress a giggle at her own thought.

‘Anything you need, Miss?’

‘No, thank you. I’m Connie. You?’

‘Maria.’

‘Thank you, Maria.’

‘See?’ Maria pointed to a heart-shaped do-not-disturb sign lying on the credenza. ‘For when …’

‘Thank you.’

‘No problem, Miss Connie.’

‘Just Connie.’

Constance’s tummy rumbled, making her decision about what to do next for her.

For her first foray into the tropical world, Constance chose a beige playsuit. The fitted top had cap-sleeves and came down to about three inches below her bust. The shorts had four-inch legs and rose to a bare inch above her navel. She’d be exposing five or so daring inches of her bare midriff. Might as well jump right in!

There was a ‘train station’ grass hut about fifty feet from her building’s front door. There was a train already waiting. It consisted of an oversized golf-cart and a string of half a dozen two- and four-seater carriages with open sides and a brilliant yellow canvas roof.

The uniformed girl driver greeted Connie with ‘Ola’ and pulled away as soon as she was on board. Connie was the only passenger apart from a couple in the last carriage who were far too wrapped up in each other’s limbs to be aware that Connie had got on. Even from the far end of the train, she could hear the noises their voracious mouths were making. She focused on the scenery ahead but that didn’t block out the wet sounds. Connie squirmed, not quite sure of how she felt about the public display of sexuality.

The buffet building had windows that were three floors high. A dark Hispanic man was replacing a display menu. A sign announced, ‘Cover-up Zone’.

Oh hell! Was she underdressed?

Connie asked the man, ‘Excuse me?’ She made a gesture at her own outfit. ‘Am I covered up enough?’

A slow grin spread across his face. ‘No problem there, Miss. You plenty covered.’

That was a relief. She went into the dim room and was led to a table for two near the perimeter of the room, facing inwards. There was only a scattering of late breakfasters or early lunch patrons. Although the hot breakfast bar looked as if it was in the process of closing down, a cheerful server helped her heap a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages and home fries, plus a toasted bagel with butter and raspberry jam on the side. Constance was hungry.

She was halfway through her feast when a woman passed her on the way to the dessert station. The newcomer’s raffia wedges clattered on the tile floor. Constance looked up. The woman’s top was a poncho-style square of marmalade-coloured gauze. From the back, it was hard to see if she wore anything else. If she had the bottom half of a swimsuit on, there had to be very little of it. Constance could see every twitch of the woman’s lean hips through it. Fascinated, she watched as the woman served herself and turned back. Yes, there was a minute triangle of orange fabric covering her pubic mound. No, she had no bra on. The brown discs of her large nipples were plain to see.

The woman twinkled her fingertips at Constance and mouthed, ‘Ola!’

Constance swallowed before returning the greeting.

A movement off to her left caught Connie’s eye. A woman, half of a couple, had moved her leg and her skirt had parted up a slit that reached as far as her waist.

And this was a Cover-up Zone? It was very – confusing. The full implications of ‘adults-only resort’ crashed into Connie’s mind. It certainly didn’t just mean ‘no children’. She’d expected to come to a resort filled with honeymooners, retired couples and young singles, innocently or romantically disporting themselves in the sun and sea. She’d thought that her two-piece midriff-baring outfits and what she’d considered outrageously short skirts could make her the centre of attraction. If she met the right man, or even men, she’d been prepared to go beyond flirtation, perhaps. Whatever, she had anticipated being among the least modest of the vacationers …

Instead, it seemed that she’d landed herself in some sort of Sodom.

Was she sure? Well, now that the scales had fallen from her eyes, she’d soon be able to tell.

The train was idling outside. Constance said, ‘Ola’ and hopped on. The motor’s hum deepened and they were away. There were people waiting outside the small casino, the women dressed in everything from beachwear to tropical styled cocktail dresses but nothing actually shocking.

But the players on the tennis courts were topless, both the men and the women. A redhead stopped a serve with her left breast. Her giggling companions, of both sexes, vied to be the ones to kiss her hurt better. Hm.

The train got to the beach. Connie alighted. The snack bar, about 5,000 square thatched-roof feet of it, had the cover-up sign but half the women inside were topless. Apparently the rules slackened closer to the waves.

The beach was dotted with small tables, umbrellas and loungers, all facing the ocean. Next to the boardwalk there was a row of showers with frosted glass walls and doors. There were bins for used towels and racks for fresh ones. The Aphrodite couldn’t be faulted for the way it catered to its guests.

Connie trudged through sand as fine and white as sugar. She glanced down at the lounger she passed. Oh! The man sprawled asleep in it had a crumpled newspaper draped across his hairy chest but he was bare from his navel down, very bare and very large, curled like a gigantic snail out of its shell.

Connie focused straight ahead. Volleyball. Nude volleyball. The women bounced and jiggled. The men swayed like rope pendulums. Well, that settled that. Sodom it was! She’d come here intending to shock the other vacationers but it was she who was being scandalised. What next? As she made her way back towards the station, Connie considered her options. She could retreat. That would mean hiding in her room. Or she could just hang out, keeping herself to herself. In the clothing she had with her, she’d be invisible anyway. She could do her best with her wardrobe. Going topless wouldn’t be so hard, not when most of the other women were also showing off their boobs, as Jeff called them. That way, she might just be able to blend in.

That was funny. She’d have to show her boobs off so as not to be noticed.

But blending in wasn’t what she’d come for. She was there to be daring – the cynosure of all eyes. The third alternative would be to find some way to stand out from all the other women and become the Queen of Gomorrah.

But how?