I’m Andrea, 23, have been living with my boyfriend (like me, a waiter) for a few months. I was meeting up with my family for the first time in ages at the airport, them living in the Cotswolds in the English countryside and me in feral London. The holiday away was my Mum’s idea, thinking that it might be our last chance to all go away together, now that her kids were so close to being independent. Normally we’d go to Wales or Scotland, this was only our third trip abroad ever. At the last minute though, Jeremy had to stay back because Mum’s caretaker manager had broken their hand when falling off their bike, so he, capable as ever, was going to fill in.
I had kept away from my Dad for the best part of three months. My Dad was…old school. My boyfriend was….not white. A Bangladeshi. Handsome, charming, funny, great in bed. Somehow we just clicked, and running my fingers down his flanks as we lay facing each other side by side on the sofa or in bed, holding on to his arm or his hand in crowds, or when we went into restaurants or somewhere new, I always felt safe, secure, and happy.
In those pre-smartphone days, my Mum had only seen a picture or two of this boyfriend, my Dad probably hadn’t. I was nervous how things would go when my boyfriend Shah and my Dad Leo met, let alone for the rest of the holidays, but the formal handshakes at the beginning seemed to go OK and the rush and crowds of summer holiday check ins at the ‘world’s busiest airport’ meant that we were too busy for any of the frowns and seething disapprovals that were my Dad’s default expressions of unhappiness. My Mum, gave me a little squeeze and eye-check — she certainly approved of Shah. Him being so effortlessly relaxed didn’t hurt either and he and Chris bonded straightaway which was a really good sign.
We took a ferry from Athens to Kefalonia, and got in, a little tired mid-evening to our villa, not too far away from the sea. We dropped our bags, had dinner, came back, drank wine on the balcony and made plans to hire scooters and a car the next day to get around. The plan was to do our own things during the day and meet up every night for dinner. It was us (the youngsters on two scooters) against them (my parents) but the first couple of days we were all on the beach together.
My Mum surprised me. Us. She went topless from Day 1. She and Dad actually looked fitter and trimmer than when I’d last seen them. They’d been exercising! I looked at her closely, her body was the one I was likely to have when I was her age after all. After three kids she had some stretch marks of course, a bit of a roll around her belly which I thought was really sexy, and her breasts drooped a little, but a lifetime on her feet (farmer’s daughter first, then working woman/businesswoman after my Dad who had been on police training in the countryside met her and got her pregnant) had kept her fit and trim. She was a short-haired brunette, gorgeous, and attractive in a way that both men and women noticed. I’d be happy if I looked as good as she did when I was 43. Certainly compared to all the other Mums, grannies and youngsters on the beach she more than held her own. My Dad never ogled her directly, but the boys Chris and Shah certainly did. I could tell my Dad was proud of his wife though, as much of a bastard he could be, as blunt and rough and coarse as he may be at times, he could also show the most refined courtesy to my Mum and my grandmother. He loved my Mum a lot, even if he mightn’t have been the best thing for her overall.
When I was growing up my parents would never bring liquor to the table. I realise now it was only because they didn’t want to let me know how much my Dad actually drank. Anyway, we bumbled along, love won in the end. And love my Mum I did. We all did. Shah really took to her, “I’ve got a huge Oedipus complex”, he cheerfully admitted early on in our relationship. I was starting to understand what he meant, the more I saw him interact with Lisa, my Mum.
Mum was in a high-waisted white tanga and following her example, I too went topless, with a brown thong on the bottom. Mum came alive in the sun, the fine hairs on her body vibrant in the light, and she moved with grace in everything she did at the beach. Pretty much topless all the while. In recent years I think fewer women are stripping down at the beach, back then, we were all much more liberal. Sun cream was applied liberally too, and whereas Shah had the honours with any part of me I couldn’t reach, only I was allowed to baste my Mum’s back and bum. Happy to be seen as my Mum’s daughter by our resemblance by all who struck up conversation with us. As with every European beach there weren’t as many Brits as there were Germans, Dutch or Scandinavians but we managed to have French as a common language when English wasn’t possible, when we had to interact with others.
My Dad tried not to look too obviously at his near-naked women but I know he did. Every once in a while he would lift his eyes out of the Thomas Harris books he was reading and it gave me a little thrill. I knew he kept eye contact with me when we were both talking topless, but I’d wave my hands over my chest and belly just to draw him in to my web! I tried not to be too obvious about tracing the line of his chest hair down to his belly down into his beach shorts to look for evidence of his cock. Shah would flip over anytime he had an erection and not move until it had come down. He flipped over quite a lot that holiday. Chris soon discovered that his light blue trunks weren’t the best idea to hide either his regular erections or the signs-of-arousal drips his cock was releasing. We all saw them, and so what, he was my kid brother, the youngest in the family, not a grown-up yet. Whatever he was feeling and expressing was totally natural. I’d be bum to tum, hip to hip with Chris whenever I could, just because it felt good. I loved him very much. Shah too would nudge his stiffies against me often enough, and bump his shorts against my hand whenever the opportunity presented itself but we were in high-season Greek beaches full of people and kids, or with my parents, so it wasn’t as if I could stroke him or suck him off in public. Much as he or I wanted to. And oh, how I wanted him to lick me. Lick me everywhere. Whenever I felt my own pussy start creaming I would just walk into the sea. Those first few days as we just settled into the warm sands and the hot air, and the liquid sex that the fir trees and orchids fragranced the air with.
Our second night, we found our way to one of the local nightclubs and danced and danced. Mum kicked off her heels and was truly the centre of attention in the middle of the dance floor, Dad moving and swaying near her, half-proud, half-shocked, fully in awe of Mum. Jeez, I was just a little jealous and my competitive instincts kicked in as I danced near her. I wanted everyone to look at me too. Hips don’t lie and hers were juicy and full of life, expressing her woman-inity and happiness to be dancing in this crowd. Mum singing along to the radio had become Mum singing along to the crowd-pleasers Yazz, and Ultra Naté, in the club. Chris was hovering, his eyes on stalks not just at us, but at all the dancing women. Whenever Shah and I came together, I could feel his erection pressing into me, and when he held me and his fingers and thumbs pressed into me under my breasts or around my bum, I’d feel electric pulses flowing straight to my pussy. Dad’s face glowered whenever he caught Shah fondling me, but it certainly didn’t stop him squeezing Mum’s bum while they were dancing face to face.
We started going dancing every night, mostly at the same place, ‘The Kolosuss’, and Mum and found a group of people their age to drink with there too. Shah, Chris, and I even though we had all the energy and all the youth, didn’t dance as much as the grown-ups who seemed to dance as if with every shake and shimmy, dip and bop, step to the left and right, they were throwing off the chains of the real world and being free for the first time in a long time.
We’d walk up the slopes back to the rented villa buzzed and tired and feeling that whatever had happened back in England or the rest of the world that day, whatever was on TV, or even what Jeremy had been up to with Mum’s café — none of it mattered. We’d feel the warm air surround us, smell the ocean and the trees, know in our bones that tomorrow was going to be the same. Island life, island life…
We all fucked hard at night though. Furiously. Savagely. Desperately. Hungrily. Like we were slaking our thirst after a day without water. And as quiet as Shah and I tried to do it, I know we weren’t quiet enough. Chris letting us know the mornings after was one thing. Hearing our parents fuck was giveaway enough. We might close the doors to our bedrooms but this was sticky-hot-night Greece, and our windows had to be open. Poor Chris, all he could do behind his closed doors at the opposite end of the corridor was wank. He’d had to leave his girlie mags behind for fear of getting arrested or embarrassed at the airport but hearing us would have been material enough I’m sure to stroke himself to regular ecstasy. Or reliving how he’d seen me and his Mum in our little costumes or filmy dresses, or us in our toplessnesses. Let alone all the other girls and women at the beach and elsewhere.