Called a “trollop with a laptop” by the East Bay Express and a “literary siren” by Good Vibrations, Alison Tyler is naughty and she knows it. Her sultry short stories have appeared in more than seventy-five anthologies, including Sex for America (Harper Collins), Sex at the Office (Virgin), and Best Women’s Erotica 2008 (Cleis). She is the author of more than twenty-five erotic novels, and the editor of more than forty-five explicit anthologies, including Naked Erotica (Pretty Things Press). Visit www.alisontyler.com for more information.
Island Goddess
Yuri
T he taxi driver opens the door for me. I step onto the sand-sprayed steps in front of the hotel. The front entrance looks much better than it did in the brochure. The blush-colored building blends into the sky like a compact sunset and the people enjoying their view atop the balconies are like heavenly deities watching as people frolic on the white sand beach. I pay the driver and begin my trek into heaven. Making sure not to mess up my day-old French manicure, I drag my clearance designer suitcase behind me.
While I’m here I will be every girl’s wet dream. I am a vixen sweeping through this exotic paradise, only to leave behind broken hearts and longing lovers. For my debut, I chose a wide-brimmed straw hat, cat-eye glasses, and a halter flower-print dress themed in red to match my lipstick. My stiletto sandals click on the expensive marble floor of the hotel lobby. It took me over a year to save up enough money to spend one week in this island paradise. With my free hand, I lift my sunglasses and place them on top of my hat, Audrey Hepburn-style.
The front lobby reminds me of Greek myths, where the pantheon would sit on lavish benches, while drinking ambrosia. Beautiful people in elegant clothes chat about the pleasant weather over afternoon cocktails.
As I walk to the front desk, I make sure to make eye contact with at least three of the classy rich women and a few of their husbands. By the time I reach the front desk, it feels like the entire room is watching me.
“Welcome to Paradise.” The desk girl smiles at me. She towers over me like a Nubian goddess and her deep mocha skin and eyes catch my breath. “I am Milani. How may I help you?” she says with a tilt of her head, making the tight ebony ringlets peek around her head from their hiding place in her ponytail. To keep from losing my composure, I dig into my carry-on bag. I turn back to her with my cool façade intact.
“Thank you…Milani, is it?” I carry a pretentious accent that I’ve been practicing on the plane. “I believe I have a reservation for a suite with a balcony.”
I offer the chocolate goddess my passport and printed confirmation. She accepts them with a close-lipped grin and a deep, but brief, glance at my cleavage. As she types on her computer, I allow my eyes to wander. Her navy uniform jacket is left open, revealing a white form-fitting button-down over which a man’s thick navy-and-gold striped tie descends below the counter.
“Here you are, Ms. Sanchez,” Milani says. Our eyes meet as she returns my paperwork; long enough for my face to burn like a summer day. It’s like she can see through my diva exterior to the shy teaching assistant hiding beneath. “I hope that you find everything to your liking.” She hands me my key card.
“I have so far,” the diva in me says. I turn away from her slowly, giving her a full look at my ass. Every step I take toward the elevator is forced into a slow, steady pace; to give her the opportunity to look as long as possible. I only allow myself to relax when I enter the elevator, alone, and collapse against the mirrored wall. Somehow I’ve pulled this off, I think, smiling. For a moment, I take in the light elevator music. If I were at home, I wouldn’t have been able to make eye contact with a girl like her. Okay, get it together, Alyssa, I think, straightening my posture.
The elevator doors ding before opening and I return to diva-mode and walk the hallway like a runway model until I reach my door. I release my suitcase to draw out my keycard. It slides easily into the slot and I open the door, ready to experience what only eating Ramen noodles for months on end can buy.
The suite is even better than the picture I taped on my bathroom mirror. A queen-size that promised to be a heavenly experience, covered with Egyptian cotton sheets and marshmallow pillows. The balcony doors ahead of me offer a clear ocean view that’s worthy of a postcard, shrouded by white curtains and lined by thicker drapes. In the right corner, the open bathroom door around the corner, I see a Jacuzzi tub I can’t wait to get into.
The real me breaks through as I kick off my heeled sandals, hitch up the tight dress, and jump on the mattress with childish abandon. I’m finally here, finally, at least for a week.
When I head out to the hotel bar, I try for the “corporate lesbian at leisure” look. You know, the kind that makes men give respect and women give everything else. Using the makeup tips from the salesgirl at the mall, I paint my face to look natural. Then I wear a cream linen suit, baby-pink tank, and the open-toed Mary Janes that show off my shiny new pedicure. Not to appear desperate, I bring a novel to pull out while scoping out the scene.
I make it down the stairs just after sunset, thanking the rosy glow for giving me another grand entrance. The usual lounge hogs have taken over most of the seats at the bar and surrounding tables so I make my way toward the glass deck doors and set up camp. Women, who have run past the hill, sit atop the barstools in tight sequin dresses to flirt with the bartenders, while old men and sleaze-bag townies hover in the shadows waiting for their trust-fund meal tickets to arrive and start drinking.
I walk outside the main bar, refusing to make eye contact with any of the regulars and leave through the glass doors. Thankfully, there is an empty two-person table giving me the perfect place to look over the bar and say I’m looking at the fading beach horizon. Drawing the novel out of my jacket, I open it to a random page and scan the possible dating pool. The night is still early, plenty of time.
Around one-thirty a.m., my hopes start to wane. I’ve actually read through most of my novel, and turned down three men old enough to be my father. The young movers and shakers are making their way out for the evening, wasting their parents’ money on alcohol and only God knows what. By three-thirty a.m., I’m ready to call it a night and hang up my diva exterior.
“Is anyone sitting here?” a familiar female voice calls to me from behind.
I turn in my chair to find Milani holding two purple drinks with umbrella straws. She’s turned in her work uniform for a floral-print spaghetti strap tank top and low-cut jeans that fit snugly on her hips. The tank cuts off just above her belly button. I nod to the empty chair. The mocha goddess sets down the drinks, to take a chair, turn it backward and take a seat. The more I think about it, the more she makes me think of one of those fertility statues that ancient people used to worship. She has full breasts, a willowy waist and round hips.
“You are off work now,” I say as I recross my legs.
“How observant.” She smirks, then takes a sip from one of the umbrella drinks.
“Sorry, mojitos have that effect on me,” I say. To cover my nervousness, I finger the rim of my empty glass.
“You look like a fruity-drink kind of girl,” she says before sliding the other glass with the umbrella straw in it toward me. The drink is a purple-and-red concoction with a nifty umbrella straw. “It’s an Island Goddess.” I take the glass apprehensively, swirling the straw around and making the ice clink. “Don’t worry, it won’t knock you on your ass; just give you a good buzz.”
“I’m already there, I think,” I reply before setting down the glass and then sliding it back to her.
Milani shrugs, then takes the glass off the table before taking a deep drink from the rim. She leaves her mark with plum lipstick before setting it back on the table. My eyes fall on the glass where her lips had been. A tinge of jealousy pains me for a moment.
“Why aren’t you out on the scene?” Milani asks.
“What?” She caught me while I was in my thoughts.
“I would think you would be dancing the night away.”
/> “That’s not really my style,” I say.
Whether it is the alcohol in my system or merely wanting to touch where her lips had been, I take the glass between my lips and drink deep. The fruity liquid burns going down, leaving me in a fuzzy illusion.
“What is your style?” Milani asks. She brings her own glass to her lips. “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome you were talking to earlier?”
“Maybe,” I say coyly.
“You didn’t look like the type that kisses girls.” She places her drink on the table and begins to rise.
“That’s not what my ex-girlfriend said.” I don’t really know where that came from but it felt like the diva thing to say. It’s enough to get her attention because Milani sits back down.
“What else did your ex-girlfriend say?” She leans forward in her chair, rocking on the back legs.
Her anticipation makes me want to giggle but the diva in me reforms it into a smile.
“You remind me of her.” I relax in my chair, uncrossing my legs. “You both are so cool, so confident, like you can have any woman in the room.” I wave a manicured hand to the wind. Then send out a grateful thought to the manicurist for keeping the nails short.
“So, why aren’t you two together?” she asks.
Milani rights her chair and waves over a waiter. She quickly finishes her drink and places it on his tray. They seem to know each because the waiter gives Milani a knowing wink before walking away.
“Would you like another?” Milani points to the purple drink I have yet to finish. As she speaks, I take in her swan-like neck, down to her collarbone.
“No, I’m fine,” I say. She snaps me back to reality. Suddenly, she rises from her seat. “Where are you going?”
“Let’s go somewhere.” Milani extends her hand to me.
“Where?”
“I don’t know; just out of here.” Milani picks up the purple drink off of the table.
“We, we could go to my room,” I say. I would say anything to keep her standing next to me. “I have a great view of the beach from my balcony.”
“I know.” She smiles, displaying a row of perfectly white teeth. “You’re in four-thirty-two, right?”
I nod and reach out to take her hand. When I try to rise, I stumble over my heels. She catches me around the waist with a firm hand. I take it and again realize how small I am; even in stilettos.
Still holding me tight, Milani pushes open the glass doors back into the busy bar. A lesser woman would have fallen to her knees and worshipped the ground Milani’s thong sandals tread upon. Not me, not yet. I glance around the bar, taking in the few of the stares, some in shock, some in wonder, and it makes me want to fade away. In my other relationships, I barely held my girlfriend’s hands, let alone walked arm in arm in public, so I stand proudly beside her. At least for now, I’m not that shy woman.
We exit the bar and stop in front of the elevator doors. After she presses the button, her arms come full circle around my waist, drawing me into the cushion of her breasts. All I would have to do is turn my head forward and I could bury my face there. My hands fall around her hips and slide up the small of her back, to glide along her tank top. When I reach where her bra closure should be, I find bare space.
“It opens in front.” Milani’s sultry voice melts like warm caramel from her lips to my ear. The elevator dings open. Milani untangles us before guiding me onto the elevator. As the doors close, Milani takes a drink from my glass.
“Are we allowed to take those away from the bar?” I ask. I hadn’t realized she had taken it. She leans against the wall, taking me with her.
“It’s okay. They won’t miss it.” She wraps her arms around me, leaving me in her bosom once again. This time she starts stroking my back and I can’t help but relax.
“You don’t sound like a native.” I hear myself sigh. Milani’s free hand rises, catching my chin and lifting my head.
“Don’t worry, baby. Momma’s got you now,” she says in a Caribbean accent. “Is that better?”
I rise to my toes as I lean forward and find her lips. She welcomes me wholly and takes my tongue as an offering. The arms around my waist lock me into my heightened position. Fiercely, I try to savor the fruity alcohol that lines her mouth. Milani overpowers my tongue, slowly winding it into sweet submission. Much to my dismay, the elevator dings and she breaks away. I lean against her breasts to catch my breath and feel her heart racing like mine.
“Excuse us,” Milani says as we make our way out. I look up to find an elderly couple staring gape-mouthed at us. Milani guides us out of the elevator past the couple. “Good evening,” she says casually as we pass. This time I do giggle. “Where’s your card key?” she asks me. I draw the slender card out of my back pocket. She takes it from me and, in return, I gain kisses in my hair. Long-legged, lithe women keep me wet.
“This is your door?” Milani says as we stop in front of my door.
I nod and she slides the key into the lock and opens the door. I release myself from her embrace and walk into the suite like a movie star. I kick off my sandals to sink into the plush carpet.
“I told you I have the perfect view,” I say as I twirl around in a circle, walk toward my balcony doors, and open them wide.
“Yes, you do,” Milani says from behind me.
Again, I’m wrapped in her strong arms. Music from below on the beachfront from a distant bonfire drifts into my suite, urging me to sway. My ass grinds against her thighs, rocking back and forth to the island beat. She takes hold of my hips, rocking me in her slow, sexy rhythm. My hands slide up her arms to find a place at the base of her neck. As we dance, her hands release my hips and begin grazing across my breasts. Her fingers slide off my cream jacket, then toss it aside. They then work down my tank straps. When the straps fall to my shoulders, revealing my strapless bra, she stops. I can feel her hand drawing my hair to one side and her soft lips brush my neck. She keeps me dizzy by alternating between biting and nibbling on my tender flesh.
So much so, that I don’t notice her hands disappear once again and reappear, stroking my lower back, then circling around to the drawstring that ties my pants. With a flick of her wrist, my crisp linen pants drop to the plush carpet. I gasp as the cool air caresses my legs like a lover’s fingertips. Milani steps back, removing her hands from my body. She bears a look of concern.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. I turn around, stepping out of my pants, to face her. I draw my tank top the remainder of the way down my waist and let it collapse onto the floor with my pants.
“Nothing, I just don’t like being cold.” I reach behind me, unsnapping my bra. “At least, not by myself.”
Milani smiles at me and draws her own tank top over her shoulders. While her arms are in the air I unzip her jeans. As I pull down her jeans, I find a simple, white, high-cut bikini and a tattooed tail descending her leg. Further down her leg, the tail becomes a tiger that wraps around her left thigh, baring its claws to me.
Her tattoo brings me to my knees in dutiful worship. I pause, running my fingers down the tattoo, then my mouth begins kissing its claws and working my way up until my tongue glides up its tail. I can smell her musk coming down and I begin nibbling at the flesh just around her panties as my nails sink into her chocolate skin. I move to her moist center. Even through the thin fabric, I find her clit. I can feel it bud for me as I graze the slick fabric with my teeth. Milani takes hold of my hair in firm handfuls, forcing me deeper and deeper into her sex. Above me, I can hear her moans flow down. I take my pointer fingers to catch the top of the bikini panties and slide them down her legs.
She keeps her muff clean-shaven. I run my fingers along her nether lips. She moans in response. I dive in, drinking deep from her fountain. I hear Milani curse, but I continue. It’s when I flick my tongue against her clit that she pulls away.
“You’re so eager,” Milani says. She kneels down beside me on her knees.
“It’s been a while,” I reply. Even on my knees befo
re her, she’s still taller than I. “You are so beautiful.” I begin stroking her face as I spread my knees to sit on her thigh. She takes her left hand and secures it around my waist. With her right hand, she cups my breast, then brings it to her lips.
My fingers leave her face to unsnap the closure of her bra. Beautiful, round mounds fall free and her chocolate drop nipples make me want to lick her even more. But Milani has other plans.
She leans forward, laying me on my back. She easily takes away my panties and dives in without a second thought. A moan wrenches from my throat as she laps me up like a kitten does milk. Suddenly, she rises and takes my hands, drawing me to a standing position.
“Did I scare you?” She laughs in my ear. “We shouldn’t do it on the floor. I don’t like rug burns.”
All I can do is nod.
We fall ungracefully on the bed. The sudden weight of her pressed against me makes me lose my breath for a moment, but I wrap my legs around hers to keep her there.
We lock lips, our tongues fighting for control, and I submit. She sucks on my tongue as our nipples tease each other in their hardened state. I reach for her chocolate drop nipples, rubbing them between my fingertips. Milani’s hand glides down my stomach, then between my legs. A shock runs through me when the tips of her fingers brush my nether lips.
“Aww,” Milani growls when I pinch her nipples a little too hard as her fingers enter me. I buck against them. My hands release Milani’s nipples to find a place around her waist. I need her against me. I need her inside me. She fills me like a vessel that shatters when I climax. Milani takes her time unsheathing. She decides to toy with my G-spot just to see me shudder. When she finally releases me, we stretch out on top of the blankets. The cool night air breezes through my curtains, bringing with it more music from the beach. I turn on my side to face Milani. Already, goose pimples ripple her flesh. I reach out to her to graze my fingernails along her stomach, making her catch her breath.