Quickies Presents: Quick & Filthy: Two Erotic Short Stories. Featuring Sex Vacation by Beatrix Wren and Laid Over by Imogen Markwell-Tweed.

Sex Vacation

by Beatrix Wren

1

Lydia Hayes could pinpoint the exact moment she’d realized that her tropical vacation had been a mistake, but in hindsight, she realized the clues had always been there….

When the letter from her Aunt Helena arrived, notifying Lydia that she was being gifted an all-expenses-paid trip to a private island, the name of said island — The Wild Isle — should’ve been her first red flag.

Lydia had been stunned by the magnitude of such a gift but knew better than to ask where her aunt had gotten the money. Aunt Helena — a.k.a Hell-On-Wheels Helena, a.k.a. Helena Handbasket, a.k.a many, many other nicknames that could only partially cover her aunt’s wild-child ways — had always marched to the beat of her own marimbas.

Aunt Helena was a mystery wrapped in an affirmation wrapped in a thrifted romper; she jumped in, feet first, heart on her sleeve, wild and impetuous, taking all the hits on her way down. Helena would turn up tanned and henna-tattooed after six months off-grid at a sustainable housing commune that had been built with recycled plastic eco-bricks, and talking about green roofs and water reclamation. Or she might update her Instagram after a massive hiatus with pictures of her cuddling up with a mysterious, silver-haired man at a ski chalet. Helena lived big.

Lydia lived small.

But small was how she liked it. Small was safe, predictable, reliable. Small and careful had built a freelance graphic-design career that was sustainable and afforded her the life she wanted. She didn’t want Helena’s life….

But how could she refuse the temptation of balmy, tropical breezes, private beach-side cabanas, and bottomless margaritas? She couldn’t. She really, really couldn’t. Not when winter had been dragging its cold, wet ass across Portland like a dog with a problem.

No, it hadn’t been then that the regret started sinking in. And it also hadn’t been at any point on the flight — though perhaps she should’ve gotten an inkling when she realized that all but one of the dozen occupants on the puddle-jumper from the Honolulu airport to The Wild Isle were middle-aged women.

But what was wrong with middle-aged women going on tropical vacations? Nothing at all! That was, as the kids would say, #GOALS. But she had thought to herself, Who am I fooling? I’m thirty-four; solidly out of the age bracket to be "hashtagging" anything.

An all-expenses-paid vacation to a private Hawaiian island had been an astonishing gift from her favorite aunt, and despite her cautious nature, Lydia had known not to look a gift coconut in the hole, so to speak; as long as that coconut had rum inside and a straw, what could be the harm?

She’d scrolled through the resort’s website as freezing rain battered her windows back home. Despite her cautious nature, nothing on The Wild Isle’s website had rung any alarm bells. The tropics sounded heavenly. There were pictures of the warm sun on beaches, conjuring up thoughts of gentle breezes, unlimited piña coladas….

The website had also shown plenty of photos of handsome men. At the time, Lydia had assumed it had just been a Chippendale’s convention… a Magic Mike LARP or something. Maybe they were there on the island to take turns rescuing each other from the sea, or to shoot a charity beefcake calendar.

And the suggestive promise she’d read on the resort’s site… suggestive of what, exactly, hadn’t dawned on her at the time:

The Wild Isle… the place where all your wildest fantasies can become real. Bask in tropical breezes that warm your nights… and revel in your darkest desires.

Generally speaking, Lydia wasn’t one for having dark desires, unless you counted desires that could, theoretically, take place in the cover of darkness, like making out in a movie theater. Seven minutes in heaven.

The closest thing she had to a dark desire was a bucket list yearning to go somewhere above the arctic circle, where winter meant near-total darkness. There was great stargazing, and minimal light pollution.

The Wild Isle, however, wasn’t arctic. It was decidedly tropical. As the island came into view from the small plane’s window, Lydia took in the sight of palm trees, pure white sand beaches, rugged volcanic cliffs, and an uplands jungle that looked lush and green and gorgeous.

There was a central building, and dotted amongst the trees were the private cabanas, just as advertised. When the plane touched down and the door cracked open, that warm, humid air came in and filled her lungs in a way that made the whole seven-hour trip completely worth it.

Her alarm bells were suspiciously silent as she navigated the seven steps of the plane’s stairway to the tarmac of the little runway. Distracted by her wheeled suitcase, Lydia didn’t take much notice of the line of people that were waiting for them.

When the wheel of her suitcase caught on a rock, she finally looked up, and her eyes were also caught, on rock-hard abs; a line of extremely attractive and very shirtless men on full display awaited the group. Just as advertised, she thought. But is it the same group? Or a different one? Is every week Hardbody Week here?

Lydia glanced to one side, then the other. All the other passengers seemed to be totally nonplussed by this — or, if they were plussed, they were… happy about it. Fine with it.

What is going on? Is this some kind of extremely fortuitous firefighter convention or something? Or does this resort have the beefiest hiring policy on the planet? She pushed her sticky hair off of her forehead, trying not to be too overt as she ogled the wall-o-beef.

Welcome! a smiling, middle-aged woman said. She was slim and toned, a Pilates instructor’s dream, swaddled in a coral linen wrap dress highlighting her tanned skin and her hair’s effortless beach waves — which Lydia knew took a hell of a lot of effort and product.

I’m Peach Davis, owner and chief guest experience coordinator here at The Wild Isle.

Peach — if that really was her real name — looked as if she went to microblading appointments the way some people go to mass. When she smiled, most of her face that ought to move didn’t, which was almost as disconcerting as the line of shirtless men waiting to escort the all-female passengers off the plane and over to a line of waiting golf carts. Lydia tore her gaze away from the men, taking a good at Peach.

Honestly, Lydia thought, a ray of bright-shining clarity breaking through her horny confusion like sunlight through thunder clouds, who names their kid Peach?

That wasn’t the point.

The point was that even now, Lydia still wasn’t aware of her mistake.

My assistant, Asher Rose, and I will be on hand, on-demand, to ensure that for the next ten days each and every one of you has the most fulfilling, special, memorable vacation here at the resort. Peach gestured to a man standing at her side, the only man there with a shirt, save for the guy who’d been on the plane with them. Lydia looked at him, and something in her body — something travel-worn and cynical, something lonely and yet hopelessly romantic, something aching and open and needy — woke the fuck up.

The man, Asher, was tall. All the guys here were, more or less, and maybe it was the fact that he was more covered up, but Lydia responded to the hint of his collarbone from the way his shirt was open at the throat, like a repressed Victorian man seeing a calf for the first time: hornily and with great judgment.

He was just too much; she had to take in the sight of him in fragments, trying to piece together the sum of his presence in order to process it. Asher looked like he’d be right at home in a firefighter’s calendar.

His hair was auburn, a little overlong, with a loose curl to it; the wind tousled it in a thoughtlessly disheveled way that could only be supplied by nature, or hair product photography. Stubble caressed his jawline, framing his mouth, which was currently set in a look of stern disapproval. He had glasses on, definitely adding to the whole disappointed professor who absolutely, positively can’t be convinced to accept any form of extra credit, no matter how lovingly and thoroughly administered in his office after hours vibe.

Feeling faint as the other guests disembarked and were each escorted over to a ride, Lydia tugged on her suitcase again as she took a few steps forward. As she struggled to get the wheels to stop catching on the gravel, she wavered on her feet and, a heartbeat later, strong hands were there to support her. Strong hands, connected to strong arms, connected to a strong man — Asher was there beside her.

You okay? he asked.

Their eyes met. From behind his glasses, his were amber-brown, like honey. His dark brows were drawn together in a look of concern.

I’m fine, Lydia answered. Or, maybe she had said, Please never stop touching me, ever, thanks so much.

No. It was definitely the first thing. Because he didn’t look at her like she was insane. He just kept looking in her eyes, gaze darting back and forth like he was checking her for a concussion.

I think you might be dehydrated, he said, which was just the sort of thing Lydia had spent her whole life hoping and praying a sexy man would tell her. We can bring you to medical; have you checked out.

I’m okay, Lydia hastily assured him, as the heat of embarrassment spread across her face from hairline to throat. Really. I’m just horny. So goddamn horny I might pass out.

She looked down, realizing that her hand was still placed on her rescuer’s forearm. His sturdy, steady, tattooed-covered forearm.

Lydia looked up at him again, at loss for words, and it wasn’t because of a medical condition — unless clinical horniness was in the DSM-IV now. Maybe she should write a letter and have them put it in. Heh. Put it in.

Are you sure?

What?

Asher was looking at her now with a very concerned expression. Damn it! He probably does think I’m nuts, the way I’m standing here gaping at everything. Lydia gathered every ounce of sense left in her brain and made herself behave like a normal, functional person. Thank goodness there was no one left on the tarmac to witness her making a fool of herself.

You’re right, she said, giving him a reassuring smile, because there was nothing a man liked more than a woman telling him that. Probably just dehydrated. But I don’t need medical attention.

To her surprise, he didn’t puff or preen at her words, just nodded, seemingly convinced. Like a gentleman, he picked up her suitcase as though it were full of feathers and offered his other arm to lead her to the very last cart.

Lydia perched stiffly on the bench seat, and after setting her suitcase in the back, Asher went around to the driver’s side. Hold on, he said, and Lydia obeyed. Hell, whatever he wanted her to hold onto, she would, for as long