A Wild Night On The Island

 

I looked at his cold and condescending face, thinking of how much I'd always wanted to be marooned on a luxurious wind swept island with a mysterious and dashing lover. But it was just my luck to be stuck on this tattered piece of earth in the middle of a monsoon, marooned in a dirty rattrap hotel with the prick of the century!

I knew Peter Britain well. For five years I'd slaved for him in his video company, watching this perfection of manhood, with all the charisma of a moviestar, bend the world around him to suit his designs. The women that had been on his arm were countless, beautifully composed specimens of femininity with flawless skin, tiny bodies and clothes that cost a fortune. Peter, himself, seemed flawless to me, his sandy brown hair so perfectly groomed, his classically chiseled cheek bones and clear sharp eyes with his high arched brows made it hard for me not to stare at him.

Me, with my mass of curly dark locks, my slightly exaggerated features-mother always said they give me character -and my mundane secretary's wardrobe, I always felt like the frumpy old spinster next to Peter Britain's well-perfected life.

I was his "right-hand-man", or so he occasionally called me. Just one of the guys, I suppose. Always there, always ready to do his bidding, working long hours days in a row with little more than a quick smile as a reward, and a few extra dollars in my paycheck. Yes, I was appreciative of the money he sent my way, but it was never personal the way I thought it should be between such close working professionals.

And still, being with him every day for such a long time, it was hard not to fantasize about the man. In fact, we'd even started something about a year after I came to work for him, while I was still smitten with the crush of the century on my gorgeous boss. He took me out to dinner after several late nights, even brought me roses once. I longed for him with all my heart, but I was cautious, maybe too cautious. The fling that went nowhere seemed to disappear for lack of interest.

After a year of mooning over him, hoping that he'd ask me out one more time, I decided to quit pining for him. Whatever he wanted, I apparently didn't have, and I forced myself to give it up and remain Miss Nobody in his world. After all, I did have my own life, terrific friends, some very terrific boyfriends, and a wild enough sex life to suit my fancy. Peter probably wouldn't have understood me anyway, my fascination for the unusual, including my sometimes kinky sexual fantasies, not the least of which was having my bottom spanked.

It didn't happen with every lover, but occasionally I'd share a fantasy with a very opened minded boyfriend, and I'd get my wish, a rollicking joyride over a man's lap, getting the living daylights paddled out of my naked bottom. Of course the wildest sex would follow, which was always the best part. Sometimes, I thought myself the weirdest person on earth, but then who was it harming, anyway?

Sometimes, I thought of Peter taking me over his lap. His stern and dictatorial manner seemed to lend itself so well to the dominant sort of man I dreamed about most often. But no way would that happen. He was in a different league than me, looking for something I couldn't furnish him. I'd never be perfection like he was used to. I had to remain me, which was sometimes scruffy, sometimes daring, and often sexually provocative in my own unique ways.

No, I'd decided after my first two years of wishing for something I couldn't have, that I was better off without a man like my boss. I'd leave Peter to his own world. Even when on some rare occasion, Peter Britain would turn gracious, and out of the blue invite me to one of his dreadfully dull cocktail parties, or suggest we grab a late night pizza because we'd been working late, I discouraged him. I was sure of my conclusions and adamant about maintaining a rightful distance.

 

All conclusions aside, being marooned on a retched island with him was another matter altogether. I had no desire to be alone with him for god knows how long, the sole recipient of his dictatorial wishes, and having my sexual yearnings playing havoc with me.

It was all his fault we were in this stupid predicament in the first place. That was something to be angry with from the beginning. Realizing that there was a storm approaching fast and no way to get off the island until the next day, I decided to be miserable. Storming into the old lobby, I plunked down in a squishy overstuffed chair and pouted.

"I suppose we'd better make the best of it," Peter said, as I watched him shake off his drenched parka and hang it by the rattling door.

"Best of it? How's that?"

"A fire would be nice, don't you think?"

"I'm not cold," I answered, not knowing why I was acting so snippy, but it seemed appropriate.

"Hey, it won't be long. There should be a boat back here to get us by morning."

"Let's hope so."

"Then how about some food."

"I suppose you want me to whip something up in that kitchen?" I asked him.

"Just get the sandwiches from the cooler. I'll make a fire."

I shrugged and leapt off the chair, heading toward the kitchen where our few meager stores sat on the broken tiled counter. It was the last of a whole galley full of food that had fed our crew and cast that afternoon, before the winds had forced everyone off the island. Everyone except Peter and me. How ironic.

***

 

We were sharing two bowls of soup by a raging fire an hour later, and my mood hadn't changed. Peter, on the other hand, was being exceeding friendly, trying to engage me in conversation.

"Glad we got these videos shot, before this happened."

"You know, I told you this wasn't a good time of year down here."

"Might I remind you, we have deadlines. And you were the one that set the schedule," he said.

"Yes, deadlines." I sighed deeply and turned away from him looking at the flames leaping wildly inside the grate.

Peter said no more, and I got up to wander about the hotel lobby, perusing racks of beat up magazines and novels, the frayed tourist information on the desk, and dusty paintings on the walls. Such a boondoggle, choosing this ancient and deserted place. Peter thought it would be perfect for the commercial we were shooting, just the right brand of decay he wanted and we didn't have to build a set at all.

"I think I'll go out and see what the weather's doing," I told him, as I moved to the courtyard door.

"You will not!" Peter suddenly barked at me.

"What?" I turned about surprised by his sharp retort.

"Samantha, there's a storm raging out there. It's hardly time for a pleasant stroll."

"The wind's died down," I assured him, even though I could still hear it howling. I tried the locked door.

"You're not going out!" he roared at me again, over the sound of the rattling wood, and the incessant swooshing noise of the wind outside.

I was dumbfound. Never in five years had Peter sounded off to me so passionately. His criticisms were normally leveled at me with sarcasm and a judgmental cool.

"Why this all of a sudden. You care about me?" I asked in wonder.

"Of course, I care," he looked at me as if I was totally stupid.

"Oh." That was my only response, the entire exchange still quite unbelievable.

I wandered about the lobby for a time, marveling about what power I had to provoke him. After all these years, such a response. Taking a corridor at one end of the room, I disappeared into a section of the hotel where our crew hadn't gone. Exploring at bit, I poked inside rooms and closets finding nothing, and was suddenly aware of the oddest sensation at my back. Jerking about, I was shocked to find Peter just a foot away.

"What the hell are you doing!" I jumped back. "You scared the living daylights out of me."

"Sorry, I was beginning to wonder where you were."

"I'm fine."

"I didn't want you going out."

"You don't need to be a nursemaid."

"Yes, but I am responsible for your safety while you're here."

"I never thought of if that way," I retorted, and I swept past him on the way back to the lobby. How strange this was, Peter ordering me about, worrying over me. It was curious, and unwelcomed, though I found myself responding with a familiar tingling sensation, and thoughts of dominant men swirling about my fantasies as I recalled some of my startling daydreams.