Prilly's Journey Pt 1

April— Prilly , she was called by her friends— and Roddy, her boyfriend, had been on the island for about 3 weeks when his step-father had arrived, unannounced.

She had got excited when Roddy had told her about the little island off the eastern coast of Mexico, just south of the Texas border, privately owned by his step-father— that they could stay there for free. Reality had been even better— arriving, it had been like a movie— the perfect little beach, the collection of tiny fishermen’s houses at one side of the harbour, the quaint and weatherbeaten wooden boats pulled up onto the beach, the incongruity of the brand new jetty with a flashy 80 foot yacht moored against it on the other side, the mainland a smoky blur on the horizon.

They had had the island all to themselves— all, except for the little fishing community and the skeleton staff of the house— a hard-faced but competent housekeeper and her young son. These two did everything boring, as if by magic, so that there was an amazing breakfast laid each morning, bedding and towels were always pristine. They disappeared, too, to their own little cottage when their routine work was done, but remained on call, so that snacks, drinks and evening meals could be summoned at short notice without issue. Prilly was entirely unused to the idea of servants, and handled it rather badly— always trying to help. She could not but relax somewhat into the service, but was very pleased that they had the place to themselves mostly.

It was hard to believe she was allowed to be any part of it.

The island was not, perhaps, as lush and green as it might have been— mostly hard and rocky and dry, but Roddy had shown her a small pool where it was possible to swim, hidden in a green little valley in a deep cleft in the rocks on the far side of the island. Tiny jewel-like birds in multiple colours hovered and darted in the bushes and trees around the pool, like something in a movie about a tropical paradise.

It really was incredible.

Except for Roddy.

He’d been fine as a college boyfriend— more than fine— shockingly rich, and generous with it, easy-going, a bit cool, but not too cool, fun to be with for an evening, or a weekend, with their friends. But truthfully, before the holiday they’d never spent much time alone together, and certainly not been anyplace without plenty of bars, cafés, malls, nightclubs, movie theatres, sports events.

It wasn’t that there was anything actually ‘wrong’ with him. He was fine, she guessed. But, well, fine was as far as it went, it turned out.

She liked to swim, he wasn’t that into it. She wanted to play tennis, he couldn’t really be bothered. She liked to cook, he just wanted burgers made by the staff. He laughed at her for wanting to do stuff in the house for herself and asked the boy to do silly little things he could easily have done for himself, just to show her. She thought it would be cool to go out on one of the fishing boats and go right round the island— maybe swim in the sea— go snorkelling— the housekeeper said she could arrange it. Roddy wasn’t interested— he’d done it before.

They had run out of things to talk about after two days. It seemed he had never read a book he didn’t have to, and that what he really wanted to do was play computer games on the giant screen in the basement den, curse about something called ‘ping’, and have her suck his cock.

He was no good in bed either, she discovered. He could do a quick utilitarian fuck, which was all that they’d really been able to manage in the student dormitories and shared houses with paper thin walls, but now that they had all the time in the world to spend a lazy afternoon in bed, getting each other hot, no risk of being interrupted— something she’d always wanted to try, something only people in movies ever seemed to get the chance at, he quickly got bored, and went soft on her— literally.

Then he became irritable and sensitive and started behaving like a little shit— saying nasty, mean things.

Pretty soon they were reduced to bitty conversations at breakfast— she was sleeping in a separate room, spending her days by the pool, swimming and tanning and reading, while he was down in the basement gaming and shouting and drinking beer. He’d been getting high, too, since he’d figured out that one of the fishing guys would sell him weed, starting really early, so that he was never really available to her at all, unless she got high with him. She’d tried, she really had, but had never been able to see what the fuss was all about. She preferred intensity, experience, novelty to lying around feeling — well— fuzzy.

Occasionally he tried to be nice to her over dinner, but she quickly figured out that was when he wanted his cock sucking. She did it for him too, if she felt like it— she was still grateful for having been invited, and it was fun to tease him with her mouth— she felt like giving head was something she was good at, liked getting him desperate, then knocking him back, doing it a few times before she let him come into a tissue. No way was she letting him do it in her mouth or on her face though. So Gross!

Roddy had told her that they would have the house to themselves, that his step-father and mother were on a trip to China or Vietnam (he wasn’t even sure), and, when it had finally sunk in that they really did have the whole place, that there was a pool, that it was private, that Roddy was going to spend every day, pretty much, in the basement, she had decided to relax and just take it as time for herself.

It came to her that she could do something she had never dared do, and sunbathe naked— there was a high wall around the end of the pool away from the house, a sun-trap, so she had started to spend a couple of hours in the late morning out there, naked on the lounger, turning herself every fifteen minutes, trying some special poses she’d found on the web to make sure her sides, underarms and inner thighs got tanned evenly.

Even in the morning, the heat was really quite powerful, and she was often quite drowsy with it towards the end— she had grown to like that feeling— much better than being stoned; she would allow herself to have sexy daydreams, something she would normally shy away from— all this luxury, she thought; loosening up your morals, your inhibitions!

She was on her back, eyes closed, having such a a daydream, her knees drawn up, splayed outward (for inner thighs), arms up behind her head, palms up (for the undersides of her arms), at a point of intensity in her erotic reverie which had her arch her feet up onto her toes, let her hips softly surge, maximising the sensation.

Picture: Prilly, sunbathing naked, legs up Click here to reveal.

Crashing onto that moment came a sudden wrench when a casual, relaxed voice, vaguely amused— a stranger’s voice— gave her a horrible shock;

“And this delightful surprise is … who?”

Her reaction was entirely instinctive— a desperate, screechy squawk of a noise and an ungainly twist and flop onto the floor beside the lounger, so that she was on her knees, curling up. But he was behind her! She was showing him her ass, her pussy! She flipped again, with a soft, weak cry this time, to end up sitting on the tiles, knees drawn up, hugging herself, heart thumping, staring at a man.

He wasn’t so close— at the other end of the pool— well dressed in a dove grey linen suit, older, looking directly at her; he was grinning too, openly enjoying himself.

She wanted to die, she wanted to run, she wanted her robe, but it was next to him, on the other lounger. She had knocked over her drink, smashed the glass, so that she was sitting in a puddle of cold soda, wanting to move but nervous of glass shards, feeling desperately vulnerable, her brain still fuddled from the heat and her daydream, in total disarray, sunk with embarrassment, so that she could not make herself speak.

His grin had faded, though he was still amused, from the crinkles at his eyes. He was waiting for an answer, making sure she understood that it was she who was on the spot, that there was no stress for him— he was interested in an answer, though not particularly concerned.

She looked around, as if … as if what? She felt her blush, the heat of it then, realising she must be coming across as utterly stupid; a silly little girl, when …

… when she really, really didn’t want to.

Because this was a man. She had rarely been in the presence of such masculine energy, so concentrated, so self-contained, so at ease of his surroundings, so much himself.

And she … she was all over the place;

“um… oh! I … I’m Prilly, April … um, not the month, obviously … Of … of course… …” she dried up, appalled at how weak her voice was, how ridiculous, what rubbish was pouring out of her hesitant mouth, as he simply looked at her, a sort of maybe not actually disgusted turn to his lips all that kept her from running away; “I … I’m here with … with Roddy … my … well … he … he invited me and … and … " it just got worse. Why couldn’t she stop saying things? “… and … and here … Here I am, by … by your pool!”

For she had guessed by then that this must be Robert LeStrade, Roddy’s step-father, very much not in China, or Vietnam either, but here, looking at her, and she was naked.

Naked in front of him— and he had seen her before, seen her pussy spread open— had maybe even been watching her (did he see me flexing my hips? I couldn’t bear it if he saw that!), this billionaire, this father of her boyfriend, this owner of the house she had been staying in for days— it suddenly occurred to her than Roddy might not have mentioned her, even, might not have asked permission to stay, that she might, actually, be here illegally; trespassing. Trespassing in a foreign country!

He was looking at her, not speaking, not responding at all actually, although perhaps his smile was actually real, now?

Was he looking at her body? His sunglasses made it hard to tell, but it certainly seemed as if he was looking at her right between the eyes. Not intensely, without any emphasis at all in fact, but still, it felt intense to her. Somehow, she felt that he saw her in detail, saw her blushes, saw her freckles, saw that she was trembling— why did he have to be so close, so fully dressed, with her so nearly naked? She wanted to run away, but there was no way to go that did not mean standing up, naked, and going towards him, close to him, naked.

Why wouldn’t he speak?

Why couldn’t she stop herself babbling?

“Is … is it umm … I mean, it is OK, isn’t it? For us … me … to … to be. Here?”

At last, then, he spoke;

“If the ever assuming Roderick invited you, then, of course, my dear, you are welcome. I’m sure you’re no trouble.”

“But on the other hand, how can I be sure that’s the case? Where, for instance is Roderick? Why, if he invited you here, is he not with you, not enjoying your delightful curves, so … generously … presented?”

Oh but this was terrible— he was not being a gentleman about it (it was impossible, at the same time, not to file away for later examination the suggestion that he approved of her body. How would she, should she think about that … no time!).

“OH … um, Roddy … Roddy’s not here. He’s … He’s in the village.”

“Indeed— very convenient, if you should in fact be a— what would you say? Trespasser, or vagrant, or, um, home invader?”

“Oh … oh no. No S…Sir. He … Our ‘phones don’t … don’t work here so … the … the housekeeper said the shop would have a local sim card … He’s…”

He had stopped looking at her, and the last remnants of his smile had gone too. He was bored; his mind had moved on. She found she very much didn’t want him to be bored with her, but had no idea what to do with that feeling, surprisingly plangent though it was.

“I … I won’t be any trouble, S … " it seemed best to call him Sir?— it was what well brought up youngsters called senior men, for sure, but … but wasn’t she a woman, a full grown woman, and wasn’t this the 21st Century? “Sir. I … I promise.”

There went her mom’s feminism!

“Trouble? I shouldn’t imagine so. But perhaps I should call the police— just in case?”

He didn’t wait for her reaction, just casually turned and walked back toward the house.

Prilly was left unaccountably breathless. It had all been so, so fast, and and … well, just to be naked (maybe worse than naked if he had seen…) with that strange man.

Not that he was strange, really— it was his house, after all; he was perfectly normal, actually. It was her, Prilly, who was weird. She had been so stupid, so ridiculous, so silly. She’d said such foolish things; stuttered and stammered like a frightened little school-kid! He must despise her.

She felt like crying, then, for a minute; alone in the world, far, very far from home. Hardly speaking to Roddy, overwhelmed by his ste-father, still naked, feeling very lost; unimportant, unwanted, vulnerable and useless.

She had no idea what to do, for a minute, her mind a blank, biting her lip.

And into the blank, all unasked for, shocking, came the knowledge that she wanted him to fuck her.

Roddy’s step-father, Mr LeStrade. He had seen her, naked, seen her touching herself, probably. He liked her body; he’d as much as said so!

She shivered at the thought, felt a slow, unusual curling in her groin, right between her legs, a sensation she had never had before, but which was, unmistakably, something that made sense of a word she had read but never really felt before; she knew it though, now she had felt it. This was lust— sexual lust. Mixed, very strongly, with fear. She was frightened by LeStrade, by his superior, almost cruelly teasing manner— at the same time she had never been more aware of her own sexuality, of sexual urgency, hunger, need …

She let herself realise it, let the feeling have her, let herrself say it in her head; I want him to fuck me, anyway he wants*. It was pure, and simple, and powerful in her. Her legs felt weak.

It was a glorious feeling, overwhelming; like nothing else she had ever experienced; if he would just fuck her, than she wouldn’t feel lost; because she would mean something to him— even if it was just a casual fuck, it would be something, ro have fucked a billionaire. It was as dumb and obvious as that.

She felt very small and silly about it, but it was true. Silly. So silly. It was never going to happen. She was just a nobody. He had hardly looked at her, really, even though she had been so … available … to him. He’d got bored almost immediately. He had walked off as soon as he’d satisfied herself that she was not interesting. Silly girl!

She was shocked at herself, but at the same time, fascinated. She, little ordinary Prilly, had got herself all hot and bothered by an older man!

She was blushing, even though there was no-one there (or was she being watched from inside the house?).

She took a hold of herself. He was just a guy, she told herself, a stranger. Rich, in a fancy suit and expensive sunglasses. He’d been rude. She shouldn’t care about what he thought. She was fine— just caught off guard, embarrassed, and then his… well, his appearance.

Unless— a cold hand gripped her heart— had he been serious about calling the police? She felt sick, all of a sudden, made herself move— jumped up and ran for her robe, then winced and squealed as she felt the heel of her right foot cut, felt the glass slice right into her, unable to stop her weight until it was too late. She half hopped to the other lounger, pulled on her robe, and sat down to inspect her foot. It looked bad— quite a bit of blood, and the glass shard still there, sticking out, gruesome. She was transfixed, horrified, had to close her eyes, look away, gulp hard; I mustn’t faint, not now, not naked, not with him … she was never good with blood, and this was visibly pulsing out of her foot, all around the glass.

She knew she should pull the shard out, that she must, but she was not up to it, and wailed, just as he arrived.

“I thought you were going to be no trouble, pretty girl? First a smashed glass, now a lot of screeching, an injury to deal with and— look, blood in the pool, too. You had better not get a drop of it on my suit, now.”

His casual tone belied the coldness of his words, and he had squatted down beside her, taken her foot in his hands, confident and firm, twisted it so that he could see.

It took a second for Prilly to realise that this had caused the robe to fall open, that once again she was presenting him once again with a view of her pussy, spread wide by his positioning of her foot, and her hands jerked to pull it shut, to tie the sash tightly, tug at the lapels to maximise the cover to her breasts.

This time he did play the gentleman, concentrating on her foot as if he hadn’t noticed anything;

“Brace yourself; this might hurt. Count of three; one, tw…”

And he had smoothly but rapidly pulled the shard from her foot; she had jerked, but the hurt was not so bad after all, and then his pristine pocket square was firmly applied.

“Hold this; press hard. I’ll fetch a dressing.”

He brought her a glass of cool water as well as the first aid kit; splashed a little of it onto her foot as he cleaned the wound, then told her to brace for pain as he dripped iodine onto it before neatly finishing the bandage.

While he was doing this, told her;

“I know all about you, Prilly— at least all that Maria knows— I visited her first, of course. She is shocked that you sunbathe naked, by the way. Although I have to say that I would encourage you to continue.”

His tone was conversational, friendly, not in the least creepy or sugestive, but still, there was nothing Prilly could say to this; she did not trust her voice. She had come to that same sort of conclusion herself, as he had treated her wound, his firm, decisive hands on her body; not in the least caressing, but experienced by her as deeply sexual. She wanted him to look at her body again, too; but she was much too shy and embarrassed to do anything but stare at her foot.

It was then that he changed her life, in only a couple of seconds.

Sitting back on his heels, she could feel him looking at her, could not meet his gaze, and then froze as his hands pulled the short filmy robe open— wide open— to expose her completely— her legs still parted as he had arranged her to get at her heel, her breasts and belly all laid out for his gaze, and him so very, very close. But that was just the opener. Smoothly then, with casual certainty, his right hand went under her left thigh, twisting as it came up between her legs as he gently, but very definitely placed two fingers right along the crease of her sex, his fingertips grazing her clit hood.

His left hand was at her chin, lifting it, so that she had to look at him, his smile lopsided, easy, amused; he was enjoying himself with her, playing with her for fun, doing this because he could, because he wanted to, taking her for granted, and he wanted her to see it.

“It’s a pretty robe, but I much prefer this,” his smile faded as his fingers rolled; very simply— left, then right— dragging and pressing just enough to part her labia, expose warm, moist, sensitive inner skin. The he pressed inward, until a soft, helpless, breathy gasp of surprise broke from her, impossible to suppress.

And it was the sound of that gasp, the world of weakness, of sensation, of apprehension in it, the utter lack of outrage or complaint— that sound, between them, the understanding in his eyes, the soft, shocked widening of hers, the way her thighs fell slack, rather than tightened, the way her shoulders opened— just a few millimetres. That was enough— they both knew— it was in his eyes and in hers.

She saw that he would exploit her weakness, and was shocked by how heart-stoppingly welcome to her his bold move was, even as she knew just what a slut she was being, that he could see it, hoped against hope that he wouldn’t take advantage of her, knowing that he would, that she wanted him to; at the same time he saw that she could not, would not resist him, and was mildly amused.

Prilly was all too aware of the power imbalance, felt helpless; knew that, deep inside her, she was guiltily swooning into the helplessness, since it meant she could not be expected to resist him.

“Interesting… " was his comment, then; “I’d be pleased if you were always to be naked for me.”

His eyes challenged her, but there was a smile in them; her breath caught; was it an order, or a tease? It was impossible to know, and she lost the chance to find out as he stood, then reached out to her, offering his hand, to help her stand, and, without question, she allowed him to do so, wincing as, thoughtlessly, she put weight on her injured heel.

“Walk on tiptoes— that will do two things— make your ass and your pretty tits move interestingly, and also save you from pain.”

Still he was laughing at her with his eyes, enjoying her blushes, her obvious struggle between the desire to pick up the cape from the chair— it had slipped from her shoulders as she stood— to regain some semblance of modesty, propriety, and her needy pleasure at having him look at her nakedness.

He was lifting her hand, just a little, but pulling her up, and, wondering at how he managed to get her to do exactly what he wanted with such casual ease, she went up on tiptoes.

And then he was all efficiency again, repacking the little first aid kit, telling her that he would be in his office should she need him, that Maria had been instructed to come and clean around the pool, telling her to go and have a lie down in the cool, that Maria would serve lunch in half an hour.

She had been dismissed and somehow again, she was going to obey, walk into the house, on tiptoes, naked, leaving the robe behind, knowing— feeling at least— that he would be watching her, unable to think of anything else to do, and so doing exactly what he wanted.

She had to accept that, honestly, she was grateful to be told what to do, so flustered was she by the last few minutes, so certain that something major had changed, been changed for her, by that experience of him putting his fingers to her, so unable was she to process just what it meant, though.

She kept getting little aftershocks of sensation at the fact of that having happened to her, having allowed it, having responded to it so helplessly, so naturally, so eagerly, knowing that she wanted more from him, knowing that more from him was going to cost her … something … certainly something, though she didn’t know exactly what, save that it would challenge her, ask much of her in terms of her assumptions about herself as a modest, sensible girl.

He watched her as she walked up the stairs;

“Slowly now, careful— you’ve had a shock. Take it gently.”

She was terribly conscious of that way her thighs opened, her crotch opened, as she took each step on tiptoes, feeling his eyes on her, knowing he was getting views of her pussy, feeling the heat between her legs, knowing she was wet, that her sex lips would be swollen, red, as they always became when she was aroused, wondering what he could see, what he thought of her, in turmoil inside, utterly overset, doing everything she could to act calmly for him, while her insides roiled.

Read the next episode of Prilly’s Journey.