One Night on Hedo Island

Fate is a funny thing.

I mean before fate intervened in my life… I had no idea such places existed, and even if I had I wouldn’t have cared.

It was our fifteenth anniversary, and our marriage councillor had suggested a week’s retreat without kids (something we hadn’t done since we started having kids seven years ago).

So after my parents agreed to watch our brood for nine days, we arranged to go to Jamaica for a week (plus an extra day at each end for travel).

The flight to Jamaica was delayed twice because of stormy weather forecasts, which got me annoyed… I was a stickler for being on time. I was terrified we’d miss the boat the resort had provided to take us to a secluded island for our stay. It was billed as a destination for lovers trying to reconnect, and the photos looked like a tiny island paradise.

Once our plane landed, we hurried to get our luggage and to a taxi… our boat leaving in twenty minutes.

We arrived at the pier twenty-two minutes later.

We rushed along the pier to the dock, quickly waved our tickets at someone and were ushered onto a boat that was just departing.

Thankful we’d made it, we collapsed onto a couple of seats out on the open deck, my always glass-is-half-full husband smiling and trying to be funny, “Woo! That was a real rush.”

God, his puns still weren’t funny. Everyone I knew kept telling me how lucky I was to have such a good-looking, caring husband with such a wicked sense of humour, and yet all I heard was “Blah, blah, blah, ha-ha, get it?”. This trip was supposed to help us reconnect, and I realized I needed to make a better effort. I mean I still loved him, it’s just that traits I used to find cute now annoyed me, and no matter how much I tried to convince myself I didn’t mind, that I shouldn’t mind, the more they got under my skin.

“I need a drink,” I said, noticing how hot it was here even out on the ocean, now that I had a moment to breathe and take in my surroundings.

“Probably two,” he prescribed helpfully, as he got up and headed to the bar.

I smiled as I let out a sigh of relief and looked around. The boat was bigger than I’d anticipated, and there were more people on it as well. Yet I had no idea how big the resort was we were going to, so it didn’t really faze me.

What did though, was when I began noticing the people.

We were going to a couples only resort, and yet there seemed to be a fair number of individuals traveling alone.

For instance, there was a guy sitting by himself in just trunks and massive pecs… he looked like a football lineman or a pro wrestler. He was easily one of the hottest men I’d ever seen in person.

I looked away, not wanting to stare… although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take another glance… but then I looked away quickly when I saw he was looking back at me, and rather too boldly. I felt my cheeks go red… I get embarrassed easily. I was a mother of three, on a cruise to reconnect with my husband, so I shouldn’t be checking out guys no matter how hot, or encouraging them to reciprocate.

While I was looking the other way I saw two girls, they couldn’t be older than eighteen or nineteen, wearing the tiniest bikinis I’d ever seen, and the highest heels to go with them… each six inches and completely impractical. They made the flip flops I was wearing look pathetic and lazy. Were they lesbians? Young lovers? They didn’t appear to be, since they kept pointing out guys to each other.

Near them was a well-built black man in shorts and a white t-shirt, who walked over to a very pretty redhead in a flowery sundress. At first I assumed they were married, but he extended his hand and they shook hands, obviously introducing themselves, and very flirtatiously.

I directed my attention to the bar, where my husband was chatting with a large-breasted black woman in a white bikini that showcased every curve she had, and God, did she have curves. A Beyoncé butt, with breasts that seemed to defy gravity. She was very dark-skinned, almost totally black, and way beyond totally gorgeous. Instant jealousy coursed through me.

I have smallish 34a breasts, which don’t look too out of place on my tiny body. I’m just five feet tall. I’ve been described as the cute girl next door for my entire life. Brunette, brown eyes… skinny but ultra athletic. I was the rover on my college volleyball team, a track star and although not an Olympic gymnast, I’d always placed high in my state competitions. In other words, the polar opposite of the voluptuous African goddess talking to my man.

Like I said, I was jealous so I was about to go over there and intervene, when she walked away, although I couldn’t help noticing that in parting she squeezed his ass, or at least it looked like she did.

My husband Steven was a lawyer (although he didn’t look like one, with his surfer blond hair and California tan) and he was ridiculously good looking. All my friends were in awe of his looks and body. I was also in awe of those things, but it was his charming personality and compassion that I’d fallen in love with.

Truth was, he was my first and only love.

Yes, he was the only man I’d ever fucked, and I was the only woman he’d ever had.

High school lovers who ended up married.

Cliché… I suppose.

But we were meant to be. I needed to remind myself of that whenever I got annoyed at him so easily.

A good-looking guy in a polo shirt and shorts sat down beside me and asked, “Here alone?”

“No, with my husband,” I answered, surprised at the question.

“Interesting,” he said, although I couldn’t figure how my bland answer qualified as interesting. He asked, “Where is he?”

“At the bar,” I pointed. He was now at the front getting drinks.

He looked to the bar and asked, “The one at the front?”

“Yeah,” I said, knowing that many men were intimated by his looks and build.

“Straight?” he asked.

“What?” I asked more in a gasp than reply, and then recovered and answered. “Of course.”

“Shame,” he said. He turned his attention back to me. “So… first time?”

“In Jamaica? Yes.”

“Nice.”

“And you?” I asked, trying to make fake chit chat out of this weird conversation.

“Fifth.”

“Is your wife here?”

“No wife.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

Just then Steven returned. He handed me my drinks, as promised he’d gotten me two, and the other guy stood up and said, “Hi, I’m Mike.”

“Steve.”

“I hope to see you around,” Mike said, before walking away.

“That was so weird,” I said.

Steven asked, “How?”

“Well, he isn’t here with anyone,” I pointed out.

“That is weird.”

“And what about Beyoncé?”

“Who?”

“The black woman in the micro-bikini I saw squeezing your ass.”

“Oh, that was weird too,” Steven answered.

“How?”

“She asked if I was here alone.”

“Mike asked me that, too.”

“Strange.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, she said she hoped to see more of me on the island,” Steven admitted. “And she said it like a come on even though I’d mentioned I was here with you.”

“We may have been misinformed by the advertisements,” I said, getting quite annoyed.

“Seems so,” Steven shrugged. He then sat down and said, focusing back on me, “But whatever. We’re here together, going to a tropical paradise.”

“True enough,” I smiled, Steven being great at defusing a bomb inside me before the ticking started counting down. He really was a great man, and he understood me in a way no one, not even my mother, who I was a lot like, did.

For forty-five minutes we drank, enjoyed the view and each other. I found myself getting over my earlier bitchiness and kind of falling in love with my husband all over again. Even his jokes were getting funnier. We chatted, talked about things we might do on the island, including our first-ever couple’s spa, and just enjoying the lack of chaos that was our life back home with a seven-year-old, a four-year-old and a two-year-old.

Once we docked, we got off and were in awe. This place was even more beautiful than the pictures. Literally a tropic paradise, as advertised.

We strolled hand in hand to the entrance, pulling our suitcases behind us. It was so pretty, the air so pure, that I wasn’t even annoyed when we had to wait forty-five minutes to check in.

That said, my sweet tranquility came to a crashing end when the good-looking guy behind the long counter (he looked like Matt Damon and his name tag told me his name was even Matt) said he couldn’t find our reservation.

I sighed dramatically, it was a thing I did when it was important to let the other person know I was annoyed, as I yanked the confirmation out of my purse. I handed it to him as Steven gently rubbed my back, trying to keep me calm.

“Oh my,” the Matt Damon lookalike said.

“What?” I said, not remotely trying to stifle my annoyed tone.

“Um… you’re booked at Tropical Cove.”

“I know,” I said tersely, “I booked it.”

“This is Hedonism Island,” he bomb shelled.

“We got on the wrong boat,” my husband figured out just before I did.

“I’m really sorry, but it seems so,” Matt nodded sheepishly. He was very good at his job, implying it was his fault even when it couldn’t possibly be.

“Well, the plane was late, and we were in a rush,” Steven explained.

“We need to get back to the boat,” I bewailed, frustrated, no longer at the Matt Damon lookalike, but at fate.

“Umm… more don’t shoot the messenger news,” he semi-cringed, “but the next boat isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, our cruiser only comes and goes once a day, and it left fifteen minutes ago.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized.

“But it’s our fifteenth anniversary,” I said exasperated, as if that was somehow going to make this okay.

A dignified older Jamaican man in a suit and tie came over from helping someone else and said, “I know I can’t totally remedy this situation for you folks, but I can give you one of our honeymoon suites for the night if you wish.”

“How much?” I snapped, expecting some exorbitant amount.

“No charge,” he said. “I feel really badly for what happened: our person should have caught the error when you boarded the boat.”

“Really?” I asked softening for the first time.

“Yes, certainly,” he nodded. “It’s the least we can do.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Steven offered. “That’s extremely kind of you.”

“Yes, extremely,” I agreed.

“It’s the least we can do,” he repeated in the friendliest manner I’d ever encountered. “And I’ll call your hotel and inform them of the mix-up. Tropical Cove, is it?”

“Yes it is; and thank you very much,” Steve said.

He handed Steven a key card and asked, “Do you know anything about this island?”

“Not this one,” Steven admitted.

“We’re a resort that caters exclusively to adults.”

“Okay,” Steven said, not catching on… but I did.

“Does that mean this is a sex island?” I asked, all of our interactions on the ship suddenly making sense as I realized the island was called Hedonism Island, which was a term I wasn’t very familiar with, but recalled it having a sexual connotation.

“To put it baldly, yes. It’s an all-inclusive adult paradise where fantasies can and do become reality,” he answered with a smile and then apologized, “Sorry, that flowery language is the trademarked slogan I’m mandated to say to every arrival.”

“Oh my God!” I gasped, as I glanced at Steven, who had a deer in the headlights look on his face.

“You may hear me screaming that more than once while we’re here,” a woman said from behind us. I looked back, and it was the Beyoncé beauty from the boat. She was still wearing her hardly there bikini, and even though I wasn’t into girls, I couldn’t help staring at her large, firm breasts.

I laughed at her opening line, the entire situation completely surreal; this was a scene straight out of a badly written porno. Yet, wanting to make it clear Steven was my man, I smiled and said, “Oh, he’ll be making me scream that phrase all night.”

“I bet he will,” the black beauty smiled. I wasn’t sure whether she’d missed my meaning or contemplated helping him make me scream .

The man in the tie explained, “There’s a map in your room of all the amenities, and also indicating where clothing is required, where clothing is optional and where clothing is prohibited.”

“You’re serious?” I asked again, feeling like I was on some crazy Totally Busted television show.

“Yes,” he nodded. “All restaurants are clothing required, of course. The cocktail lounges vary.”

“Unless this lovely couple wants to dine on me,” the black woman flirted.

I literally gasped. I mean, I was no prude. I was quite kinky in the bedroom with Steven (well I used to be before having kids; now our sex life was rare and when we did have any it was predictably boring, brief and anti-climactic), even if he was the only man I’d ever been with. But that was the bluntest offer I’d ever heard directed at me. Yet… and I have no idea where these next words came from, I’d never said anything like that before, I defended to myself it was for shock value… I flirted, “Well, I do like chocolate for dessert.”

My husband was the one to gasp this time. “Mary!”

The black beauty took my come-on completely in stride (and up close she was utterly beautiful), as she smiled and said, “Sweetheart, my chocolate shoppe is open to you twenty-four seven.”

“I bet it is,” I leered back, enjoying the stunned look on my husband’s face as well as some other people’s paying attention nearby… it was a big-time rush and one that led to a gush (did I mention I’m a writer for a living… okay, that wasn’t my best rhyming go but it did flow (pun intended… apparently Steven’s so-called wit over the years had bit). (Did any of that chaotic doggerel make sense? If not, I enjoyed it anyway.)

The dignified Jamaican man added, “Everything here is included, so enjoy the scenery, the amenities, the food and the drinks.”

“I do believe we shall,” I turned back to him and said, getting kind of horny.

Steven said, “Let’s go.”

“Definitely,” I agreed, taking his hand in mine.

“Two final things,” the man stopped us.

I turned around questioningly, and he said, “First, there’s one very strict rule we have for our guests as they interact with each other, although happily we rarely need to enforce it: ‘No means no.’ And second, we need to confiscate your phones until you’re ready to leave.”

“I like the rule, but you need our phones?” I asked.

“Yes, privacy here is of the utmost importance,” he explained, his tone quite apologetic.

“Oh, okay,” my husband agreed, handing his to the man.

“Whatever,” I agreed, kind of getting the point since there were clothing prohibited areas, handing him mine.

“Thank you.”

“Sure,” I shrugged, as we began to walk towards our room, a good-looking Jamaican man leading the way with our luggage. I chortled, “Can you believe we’re on a sex island?”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head.

“Well, good news, if you’re interested in exploring your same sex side: that guy I was talking with on the boat was apparently not hitting on me so much as enquiring about you,” I teased.

“Maybe he wanted a threesome,” Steven countered.

“Mmmmmm,” I teased, “with me or with you?”

“Perhaps both,” Steven said. He then added in his teasing tone, “But I wasn’t the one offering to go down on another woman just now.”

“You know I love chocolate,” I shrugged, not killing the idea like he probably thought I would.

“I did, but I didn’t know you liked pink chocolate,” he countered.

At first I didn’t catch on, but then I did and shrugged, “I like white chocolate and dark chocolate, so it seems probable I’ll like pink chocolate.”

He laughed, “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

I shrugged, even though at the time I was just being playful and didn’t mean it, “When in Rome, light up some Roman candles.”

We’d reached our room, the porter opened the door and we entered.

We gasped (gasping something we were doing a lot of today).

It was huge.

A king-sized bed.

A hot tub that could seat at least six.

A sixty-inch television on the wall.

A chilled bottle of wine on a table with a buffet of fruit.

Steven offered the bellhop a tip but he refused it, saying there was no tipping at the resort, before leaving us alone.

“Well, maybe this time fate loaded the dice in our favour,” I said, going to the table to pick up a strawberry and take a nibble.

“I thought you liked peaches,” he smirked, sexual innuendos having faded from our relationship over the past few years but seeming to be re-emerging since our arrival here.

“I actually prefer sausage,” I countered, walking over to him, dropping to my knees and fishing his cock from his pants. It was rock hard.

As I stroked his five-inch cock, I tried to recall the last time I’d been in this subservient position, likely it had been years. I blew him on occasion, but usually in a rushed way, just to get him hard for one of our rare quickies and not in a submissive way, like years ago I used to take such pleasure in doing.

As I slid my hand up and down his shaft, I asked, “Why are you already hard?”

“Because of you,” he said sweetly.

I swirled my tongue around his cock head and purred, “Liar.”

“Would I lie to you?” he asked.

“Yes you would, because you know what’s best for you,” I accused teasingly, before moving to his balls… treasures I used to worship lots before becoming a mother. I also teased, “Are you hard because of that big breasted black booty bitch?”

“Nice alliteration,” he laughed with a moan as I sucked a testicle between my lips.

“Thanks, but tell me,” I said, his balls cupped in my hand, “did she turn you on?”

He sighed.

“It’s okay,” I encouraged him, “she turned me on.”

“She did?” he asked as I sucked on his other ball.

A moment later, “Yeah. I don’t know why, but flirting with her got me kind of wet.”

“I see,” he said, his tone curious but still cautious.

Deciding to push him in a bit, I purred, before sliding my tongue back up his hard shaft, “I bet you’d love to watch me eating some pink chocolate.”

“I plead the fifth,” he moaned.

“I’ll take that moan as pleading guilty, you bad boy,” I said, slowly stroking his cock and flicking my tongue over his cock head, getting more and more turned on by our naughty conversation, “Would you like to see your wife’s face buried between those ebony legs as I eat that pink peach?”

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked, shying away from that question too.

“Not this, in like forever,” I said, waggling his cock at him before I took it in my mouth and began bobbing.

“Oh God,” he groaned.

I took his cock out of my mouth after a dozen or so deep throat bobs, and protested, “Hey, the Beyoncé babe said I was supposed to say that.”

He pulled me up, carried me to the bed and playfully tossed me onto it. One advantage of having a gymnast’s body is that I’m so small and light, it’s easy for him to throw me around when he wants. It was beginning to look like he’d be wanting to do that a lot in the next while.

I coyly smiled, loving the rare time he took charge, and used a ‘C’ word I hadn’t used in years, “Did imagining me eating cunt get you all revved up?”

“No, you did that just by being you,” he said, as he roughly yanked down my shorts and panties.

“I think you love the idea of your wife being an ebony cunt eater,” I continued, completely taken over by the dirty talk and a possibility that I wasn’t serious about but was fun to fantasize. I wouldn’t actually eat her cunt, would I?”I bet you’d be a natural cunt muncher,” he said, moving between my legs and burying his face in my pussy.