Ciana Rose's Erotic Stories

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Chapter 1



It took three co-workers from my office to convince me to take this vacation. A solo trip to paradise is not my idea of an ego boost but one has to make do with what life dishes out and so, here I am.

The accommodations are everything that was promised, to my relief, and the travel brochures had not exaggerated the spectacular beaches of Cancun.

With a drink in my hand, I cross the white sand in hot pursuit of only one goal--to reach the straw umbrella farthest from the crowd before someone else does.

Victorious, I drag a chaise lounge into the sun and drape my towel over it. Who in the world decided that beach towels should be so obnoxiously bright and colorful? I make sure all four corners of the towel are secured to the chair then begin to arrange everything that is essential for a lazy-day-on-the-beach strategically. There is good reason why they call me the queen of efficiency.

I glance around to get the lay of the land and decide the view is magnificent. The sun reigns in all its majesty in a cloudless sky while below, aqua waters wash over the fine sand endlessly.

I am not particularly the maternal sort and had purposely chosen a pricey 'adults only' resort. It is bad enough to be alone amongst couples but being alone amongst families is more than I can handle. So you can imagine my surprise when I make a casual turn to assess my beach-mates and spot someone else sitting by himself. Surely, there must be a significant other lurking around somewhere, even if there are no such signs at the moment.

While I speculate the man's status, it occurs to me that he himself seems focused in my direction. Could he be watching me? Hard to tell from sixty feet away, especially through those dark sunglasses he wears. I doubt it.

I give myself an imaginary shake to dismiss him then slide off the straps of my beach dress and absently let it drop on the sand. I am not accustomed to this kind of humid heat, and it is ever so slowly that I bend to pick up the dress. As I straighten, I try hard not to glance over but you know how it is. Yes, I think he is watching me. Is that a smirk under that mustache?

He looks attractive enough from here. I guess him to be in his early thirties. His dark wavy hair is on the longish side and his body appears lean, well toned. I would say his bronze complexion is not solely the result of the sun but I cannot determine a specific heritage. He looks neither Mexican nor American. Cancun is a popular vacation spot for tourists from all over the world so he could be from anywhere. On the other hand, the ample confidence his demeanor exudes--a quality that attracts me to the core--is unmistakable.

I quickly avert my eyes and concentrate on tying my shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. Not so easy when being scrutinized by such a hunk. My fingers lose their grip and the hair-band shoots through the air. Damn!

I walk over, a little chagrined, and pick up the band then send him a small polite smile and return to my seat. I manage to tie up my hair this time, forcing myself not to look over. It all goes well until I reach for the suntan oil. Curiosity manipulates my intentions and I sneak another glance at the man. I fluster for an instant because he appears to nod but the movement is so slight that it is debatable.

Oh never mind him.

I pour some oil into my palm and rub my hands together. With this heat, I feel like I am stuck in slow motion. I start with my shoulder and gently work the oil into my skin with long strokes down my arm. My wondering eyes betray my resolve and drift in the man's direction as I pour a second handful of oil. No mistaking this time, he is smiling and he is smiling at yours truly.

It has been three years since my very unpleasant divorce. Having sworn off men for a while, I have not encouraged any flattery or flirtation from anyone since. The few dates that I have had have should I say this...with safe men, men who I knew did not have a chance at winning my heart. I have to admit though the attention I am getting from this man seems to be just the medicine I need. It feels good.

It apparently feels too good, because suddenly the oil is pouring onto my lap instead of my hand. Embarrassed, I quickly glance over to calculate the set back this calamity has caused. I see him laughing and decide damage control is in order and a little retaliation, very deserving.

I am not normally forward but a strong sense of freedom always grips me whenever I am on vacation. So I go to work. Making a deliberate show of it, I swipe the spilled oil off my thigh and begin to treat my other shoulder with the same languor.

I pour another supply of oil into my cupped hand then lean back and assume a more relaxed manner. I take special care in protecting my face then proceed to stroke my throat, giving it a good coating. I have no idea what effect my efforts are having on the man, but I am feeling deliciously sensual.

As I move on to work on my chest, I carelessly knock my sunglasses off the chair. Some impression I must be making!

The glasses have fallen too far for me to grab from my sitting position and I have to lean way out to reach farther. I have a moment of panic when I feel my full breasts on the verge of spilling out of my worn bathing suit top, but then the devil argues the possible advantages and I see the amusement in it. I am even a little disappointed when it goes without mishap.

I upright myself, resolving there will be no more embarrassing incidents and pour more oil. My hand glides across my chest to cover the top of my shoulders one more time then returns and dips deep inside my cleavage. Enjoying my little game of seduction, I spend more time there than called for. I even reach into the cups of my suit and give my breasts a casual caress--all in the name of 'sun tan oil' of course.

I sneak a peek at the man and so far so good. I move on to pamper my tummy, convincing myself it is womanly to have a small bulge. Whom am I kidding? My next glance catches him looking a little too amused so I summon all my seductive powers and reach for my greatest asset, my legs. With a pronounced shift, I part my bent knees just enough to whet his appetite then slowly look his way to see the effect. He slants his head and the corner of his mouth twitches, showing obvious interest, which makes me feel terribly smug. I pour a generous amount then make laggard work of oiling my legs. For his benefit, I straighten one leg, giving him a full glimpse of soft inner thigh while I work in the oil with languid strokes.

Satisfied that I have made the most of that particular asset I stop to admire the ocean, aware that the whooshing sound of the gentle waves has already peeled away all the tension with which I arrived. I could get used to this.

I do not even bother to resist glancing over when I resume with the application of suntan oil. I deserve a little boldness, a little fun.

Now the man looks pensive, as if he is studying me. I spend an adequate amount of time using my feminine wiles while I oil my other leg, bending and straightening this way and that, striking the most tantalizing poses. I seem to be on the right track; as far as I know, he has not glanced away once.

I fix my gaze directly upon him and raise my hip. I slide my hand inside my bathing suit, rubbing gently, partly to tease and partly to actually ensure full coverage of my buttock. As I shift to do the other side, I muse on the sheer sensuality of applying lotion.

If my little game is half as seductive for him as it is for me then he must be at least semi hard. If only he would lower his shielding bent knee then I could see the exact condition of that package those skimpy briefs are holding so dearly. How big? How hard? Does it flop to the side, or straight in front?

Rather devilish of me, I know, but this is the first time a man has stirred me in more than three years.

Feeling very suave, I finally screw the cap back on the bottle of oil and lean back in my seat. And that is when it happens. The supporting bar slips from its notch and to my horror, the back of the chair slams down flat, taking me with it. So much for my resolve! I squeeze my eyes shut, humiliated, and refuse to open them. If I could only bury my head in the sand... Dear God, that is not out loud laughter I hear.

I lie still in an effort to preserve some dignity. Maybe if I pretend this was my intended position all along he will believe it. Truly, the man has a knack for bringing the klutz out in me.

Eventually other thoughts of him begin to intrude. How odd that I should feel a disappointment that my embarrassment is fading. Odder that I seem to be even more aroused now than before the disaster.

The Mexican heat is relentless and after a while perspiration and oil blend to make my skin shine, transforming the sensuousness that I was feeling into an erotic hunger.

Unable to lie on my back any longer, I bravely raise myself on one elbow and shade my eyes with my hand. The ocean is still there but most people have left to escape the afternoon sun.

He has not.

A revitalizing thrill shimmers through me.

Although I am not ready to face him yet after my fiasco, I am well aware that he continues to observe me and therefore I take my time and every precaution when I decide to turn over. I sigh with relief at my success and close my eyes.

I regret having made the turn within minutes. Sunrays scorch my unprotected back mercilessly.

What else can go wrong?

I am not brave enough to risk another turnover just yet. All I need is for the chair to collapse completely. Stuck in the position, I reach back as gingerly as possible and blindly search for the bottle of oil with my hand.

"Why don't you let me do that."

The deep voice paralyzes every inch of me except for my heart, which suddenly begins to pound like the drums of an African tribe.""

Thank God he speaks English. American English.

He pulls up a chair while I am busy stammering like a fool. "May I?" he asks but does not wait for an answer. He sets the ground rules by taking the liberty of unsnapping the hook to my top. He does it with one hand and so swiftly that I do not realize what he has done until after the deed. The man has obviously had a little practice.

"Why ruin a good tan with lines? Ey?"

Yes, why?

Dumbstruck, tongue-tied, and inept are all good adjectives for me right now.

I decide he should have his hands registered as lethal weapons the moment he lays them on my shoulders. Heat radiates from his palms and sears through my body, summoning a burning desire that I never knew I housed. I moan and my hips push up before I know it.

Just because I have not been laid in three years... I blame the heat for this sudden dissolution of my inhibitions.

His touch is experienced and deliberate as he works across my shoulders in small rotations. Well mannered and eager to express appreciation to a man that knows what he is about, my body responds without hesitation, heating up from the inside, growing more needy for contact.

Who is he?

Let there be no significant other in the corners of his life, my heart begs of fate.

As I sink deeper into relaxation, sexual heat continues to tighten its grasp on me. It grows more difficult to control my willful hips from distending themselves by the second.

"Don't fight it," the man instructs me as though he has first-hand knowledge of my inner turmoil.

If you cannot beat them, join them. I heed his sound advice and let my hips loose to do as they wish and my mind, to drift through all the other things I want those hands to be doing to me. Let me see; where shall I start?

As he continues to massage his way down my back, I grow dizzy with anticipation. The descent is slow, with manipulative pauses to make me push out my bottom farther with yearning.

It is a lengthy period of torment before his hands reach where I need them, but not before my back is arched deep and my rear raised high, extending the full invitation that he has been silently demanding.

"What do you want, baby?" he asks as if we have known each other forever.

His intimate manner dissolves any pretense of hesitation I may have been contemplating like a cube of sugar in hot tea. I know instinctively that if I commit myself now there will be no returning. Driven by an unnamed force of trust, I commit--my silence, my permission.

My skin tingles when he eases his fingertips under the worn elastic of my swimsuit. Thank heavens there was no time to buy a new one. With each circle his hand makes he reaches farther inside, and I nibble my lip harder and grow a little wetter.

I cannot believe how loudly I moan when I feel his hand sweep across my ass cheeks. Lucky for me the beach is now deserted but even if it were not, I doubt I would care.

He scoots his chair closer and works with expertise. His hand slides back and forth, dipping lower between my cheeks with every pass, dividing my appreciation between the merits of the massage and the fuse of arousal that it has ignited. That is until he suddenly digresses, backing his hand out slowly. While he pours more oil, I wait patiently with my back arched and my rear protruded. The message cannot be any clearer.

"Perfect," he murmurs, pleased.

What in the world has come over me?

This time he ignores my cheeks and slides a finger directly toward my rectum. Guess he has no qualms about letting me know exactly what it is he wants. Some men have a flare for getting you to hand over what they seek on a silver platter. My friend here seems to be an expert. With his fingertip gently rotating my anal sphere, not only I make no effort to hide my pleasure but also my rear wiggles to boast of it. The circles grow smaller and smaller, until his finger stills directly on the opening. Then he pats it.

My deep embarrassment does not surprise me but the sudden gush of desire pooling at the apex of my legs does.

The man somehow seems to know the effect of my embarrassment on me and abandons one entrance for the other, as if to inspect the fruit of his deed. Using two fingers, he parts my sticky pussy lips then lets his hand rest, holding me spread. The long pause is intentional, to emphasize that I am at his whim. If he wants me to crave him, he has succeeded.

Having made his point, he takes time to fluff my pubic hair then eases his middle finger into my pussy partially. Nothing could have prepared me for the intensity his invasion generates! The man is well deserving of my inadvertent whimper of awe.

"Ooofff, what a wet pussy." He flutters his finger inside me but does not insert deeper than his second knuckle.

When he begins to withdraw, I want to scream, "Fuck me." Instead I keep still and let him lead. I have no desire to be the one in control here.

He returns to his original stop at my anus, circles and rubs briefly then picks up the bottle of oil once more. I see him dip the full length of his finger from the corner of my eye. O' yes, he has plans.

He slides his hand back inside my suit and positions his lubricated finger at my anal entrance. The gentle pressure he maintains is just enough to keep my rear dancing around the tip, looking for pleasure.

I would be proud of myself if I were he. Who knew anticipation and dread could be such an electrifying combination.

A tiny yelp escapes me when he unexpectedly forces and stretches the opening enough to lodge his fingertip just inside me. Since the yelp is not from any real pain, then it must be from satisfaction.

"I see you've got a real tight ass, baby."

Must he voice my every embarrassment? And why does it send such a surge of excitement through me when he does?

I moan wantonly when he does not insert beyond his fingertip. Like a pro, he holds his ground, demanding a greater gift. I cannot arch my back any deeper or extend my rear any farther. So I oblige him by begging him to insert more with a soft whimper. It is inexplicable why I hold such complete trust in this stranger but it seems I do.

I am inexperienced and therefore tight, as he says. He buries his finger open-handed, with patience but persistence. When he grasps my bottom firmly in his palm, hesitation is not an option for me. I am more than willing to grant the consent he demands for his free reign and do so with a small mewl.

He makes a token sound of triumph and extracts his finger half ways then reinserts deep. He does this once and removes his hand.

I am flabbergasted when I realize our play has concluded. This is not something my body can accept readily. Placing the lotion beside me, he bends forward and lays a gentle kiss on the back of my shoulder then stands.

I manage to rearrange my top over my breasts. At this point, what's a pair of naked tits? Holding the suit against my chest, I turn over clumsily only to find him walking back to his chair. What, without a word? Not even an exchange of names?

He glances over and gives me a cheeky wink then takes his seat and puts on his sunglasses and straw hat. Scooting lower in the chair, he folds his arms across his chest and grins like an imp.

I am still steaming an hour after my complete seduction and unable to take my eyes off him. My disappointment doubles when he begins to gather his beach things. How can he just leave?

I exhale a deep breath when he does make a detour and stops at my side, then I stop breathing all together when I glance up and find him looking down at me with that killer air of confidence.

"My name is Carlo," he says over the thunder of my heart.

"I-sa-bel," I stammer.

"Well, Isabel, why don't you go in now and get yourself ready. I'll see you in the restaurant at seven." It is an instruction, not an invitation. "Don't be late," he throws over his shoulder taking his leave, his swagger ever so sexy.

I sit stunned, no doubt my mouth gaping, my eyes glued to those perfect male buns receding, my mind calculating their exact firmness, were I to ever to get my hands on them. When he disappears through the tinted double doors of the hotel, I smile then hustle to gather up my belongings.

I may have brought only two dresses that are appropriate for a dinner date but I spend an hour deciding which one might appeal more to Carlo. Fixing my hair and applying makeup are not exactly a piece of cake either, as my hands shake with excitement.

I feel so alive.


Chapter 2


I arrive at the restaurant as nervous as if it were my first date. My heart races like a hunted rabbit's would when I search the room and do not find him. Then I turn toward the bar and our eyes lock.

Carlo is seated on a barstool, holding up a Margarita glass. He inclines his head, inviting me to join him.

Damn, but he looks good in those tan slacks and that print shirt.

I collect my faculties quickly and use the time it takes me to walk the longest twenty feet wisely. I remind myself, in a hardy pep talk, of the differences in behaving like a mature woman as opposed to an adolescent girl. With Carlo perusing me every step of the way, I make an effort at a provocative walk. Are you kidding, with lead feet? My heart no longer races; it pounds. As klutzy as I have been today, it will be a miracle if I make it there without stumbling in these high heels.

"You look great." Carlo stands and takes my hand to help seat me.

I would tell him so does he, but I still have not found my tongue and can offer no more than a nervous smile.

He strokes my cheek lightly with the back of his hand, compassion oozing from the gesture. "Relax, Isabel."

I am mystified by whether it is the ring of my name rolling off his lips or his instruction to relax, but magic is suddenly cast and I am ready for drink and conversation. Or maybe it is he himself, or those dark hypnotic eyes. They convey so much--wisdom, assurance, so many heavenly promises.

We spend the next half-hour on the preliminary background reporting customary for any first date no less one with a complete stranger. I am sure there will be a more in-depth probing during dinner.

As if to intentionally put me at ease, Carlo addresses the question foremost on my mind. He arrived two days ago and leaves the day after I do. Then he makes a more noble gesture by clarifying his unattached status, and his intention to spend our time here together. I believe that agreement was reached the moment we laid eyes on each other.

I feel exceptionally comfortable with Carlo. He is intelligent, considerate, and unlike my husband, interested in what I have to say. He listens intently and asks questions when I speak about my profession as a computer programmer and my life in Michigan. The fact that I am two years older than he disturbs me a little but I decide to chuck the rules and enjoy the passing fling.

Carlo is also witty. His sense of humor is an unexpected delight. His father was Greek and his mother is Italian. He seems to hold a special fondness for his younger brother. It is obvious his is a close-knit family and I cannot help but feel an innocent envy. Mine never was, and now no one is left. Only recently have I begun to realize my decision to marry David was based on nothing but my dream for a congenial family.

Immigrants, Carlo's family has lived in Southern California since he was a young boy. He holds a degree in civil engineering and owns a construction company. He also helps run his family-owned Italian restaurant. I bet he is a good cook. I certainly would not mind tasting his spicy meatballs.

But as I listen to him, I cannot shake off a disturbing thought. A man this perfect could not have escaped matrimony for no reason. There has to be something wrong with him.

"Come on, let's eat." Carlo suddenly snatches my hand. I manage to set my drink down without spilling any just as he drags me off the barstool.

Our table has been ready for some time apparently and he leads me straight to it. No sooner do we sit than the waiter places two plates of chilled salad in front of us. Ordinarily I would take offense at my date choosing my menu but somehow with Carlo it is a welcomed gesture.

Our main course, again preordered, comprises of broiled shrimp over rice and fresh vegetables. Meanwhile Margaritas continue to arrive. Compliments of the house, there is an endless flow day and night.

Our platonic conversation brushes the undeniable sexual tension that is between us to the background for the time being. I feel closer to Carlo by the end of dinner than I ever did to my husband. When the check arrives, Carlo charges it to his room then without warning, he grabs my hand and drags me out of my seat. "Let's go."

I trot behind him like an obedient pet to keep up with his long strides. I do not bother to ask him where we are going--it really does not matter.

A hotel attendant hails us a cab. It is a twenty-minute ride while Carlo makes friends with the driver before we arrive downtown. We bid the driver good health and a long life, and I find myself standing in front of a nightclub.

The club is jammed and festive. Carlo whisks me straight to the dance floor. Mexican music blares through the speakers and not a bone alive could resist dancing to it--certainly not mine.

I am beside myself when Carlo turns out to be a terrific dancer. It is in his blood. Not to be egotistical but I am overly passionate by nature and my entire life I have wished for a man who could compliment me as a dance partner.

Vigorous exercise in humidity is even more exerting and soon we begin to perspire. Carlo leads me to the bar and again equips me with a drink without deference to my choice. As it has been the case all evening, what I get is the very thing I would have chosen. The thirst-quenching cranberry juice hits the spot.

We make a bathroom run then return to the dance floor. The room is more crowded now and we dance body to body, stoking a different type of heat. Something about the Latin culture, particularly the music tends to ignite passions. Intense sexual tensions vibrate not just between Carlo and me but also throughout the entire room.

The music slows and Carlo takes me in his arms as though he has done so a million times before. We fit. Perfectly. I chain my fingers behind his neck and he wraps his arms around my waist. We move to the rhythm sensually. Free of cologne his unique smell is a serenade to my senses.

The lights dim for more romance and encourage our first kiss, the beginning of our intimacy. So new, so wondrous--the taste of his breath, the moisture of his tongue, his gradual demand for possession. I soak up the warmth and memorize the feel of his mustache.

When the circle closes in around us and allows more privacy, Carlo cups my ass cheeks and, eyes locked on mine, bends me backwards. "Feel that, baby?" he asks, pressing my pelvis against his erection. "I want you."

The hardness he offers like a promise makes my knees go weak. I can just sense the intensity of his first entry into my body.

The precision with which this man hones on my sexual desires is enthralling. I close my eyes and let my head roll back.

God, please let him be for real.

While I pray, Carlo's hands slip between my upper thighs from behind and rub my crotch through the folds of my skirt. My eyes snap open and I see that the gentleman dancing next to us is fixated on my bottom. He slowly raises his lust-filled eyes to mine. His approval of the liberty Carlo takes is silent but unmistakable. Why is it that I am not at all bothered by this?

My telepathic communication with the man breaks when Carlo's arms come back up to embrace me. A woman could soothe herself eternally against a hard broad chest such as his. As he spins us around, I shut my eyes and breathe in his existence.

With the end of the song, he takes my hand and once more, we depart abruptly.



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