Paradise - Part One (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant) Read Online Free
Author: O.L. Casper
mortified by life in general and all it entails? Or was she merely an extremely simple woman—an ox? No, since she was married to Mark Stafford there must have been something to her. Or was there?
“Welcome, Sophia. We are so happy to have you,” she said in a way that reminded me of the classic film actress Agnes Moorehead. “When the storm clears, Anna will help you move your bags to a guesthouse. Until then you may do what you like, have a look around, enjoy a cup of coffee.”
“And the baby?” I asked. It seemed to catch her off guard.
“Savannah is asleep.”
I found myself in a great, chalky catafalque of a room with flat screen televisions on every wall, a bar, and bay windows to one side looking over the great mass of sea. Wind and rain ripped through the palm trees, the bud shafts of which I was on the same level with, and lightning struck in the distance. Anna brought me tea. She sat across from me and drank coffee. She was a Cuban immigrant who looked like a Hopi Indian with large widespread eyes. Her physique, which I hadn’t at first noticed, was impressive with hourglass curves and an ample bust.
She smiled seductively and glared at me as though she was reading my thoughts—or at least trying to. “I’m happy you came,” she said at last. “When I first saw you, I know you are not like the others here. You have a very—let me say, natural way. You do not put on acts. Your movements and—how do you say?—expressions are so pure that I would say I almost can know what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“You think like the lioness, ‘How can I control? How can I take over?’ like a panther. You are strong—unbreakable—like the Amazonian woman. The myth. You are indomitable —is that the word?” She was very forward in her analysis, perhaps something of her native culture. I must say, I liked her from the start.
“Perceptive.” I laughed.
“Do you smoke?” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
“Cigarettes?”
“It depends on what kind of cigarettes you mean— grass, weed , I mean.”
“Sometimes with friends. It’s been awhile, really.”
“I have the AK-47. Come.” After shaking the thought that she might actually have a Soviet assault rifle, I followed her. I thought of all the reasons I shouldn’t have done it: first day on a new job, a promising job at that, it’s unprofessional, I’d probably have to learn quite a few new things—but I didn’t really care, I didn’t like the people, other than the baby, and now Anna. At worst, I’d end up going back to my old nanny job in Gainesville and to Julie, whom I was painfully missing already.
In a supply room no larger than the couch I slept on at Julie’s, we huddled together around a small glass pipe bearing a few buds of the AK-47 variety. After we blazed through those, Anna packed the bowl again, and, after repeating this experience a few times, I lost count of how many times it happened. Plentiful coughing ensued. She sprayed with apple-scented air freshener, we each took a stick of gum from her pack, and went out of the dank air.
She took me out on the balcony and pointed out certain landmarks on the property but I’m afraid her words were lost in the raging gale. The rain was blowing sideways, and it was difficult to make out anything as a sort of eerie mist clung to the grounds below. What I did notice was the way her dress clung to her shapely form as it got wet. I felt something surge from my legs upward as I watched her thighs, then her hips.
Next to a raging fire in the chalky, great room, Anna and I bonded over more tea and coffee. As she spoke to me about trips with the Staffords to the Bahamas and the Florida Keys, or England and France, I felt that she was painting pictures—great landscapes and portraits of the family. One moment I was in that room by the fire, the next I was on an island in the Gulf of Mexico with white beaches, crystal water, and skies of the deepest blue. I felt
“Welcome, Sophia. We are so happy to have you,” she said in a way that reminded me of the classic film actress Agnes Moorehead. “When the storm clears, Anna will help you move your bags to a guesthouse. Until then you may do what you like, have a look around, enjoy a cup of coffee.”
“And the baby?” I asked. It seemed to catch her off guard.
“Savannah is asleep.”
I found myself in a great, chalky catafalque of a room with flat screen televisions on every wall, a bar, and bay windows to one side looking over the great mass of sea. Wind and rain ripped through the palm trees, the bud shafts of which I was on the same level with, and lightning struck in the distance. Anna brought me tea. She sat across from me and drank coffee. She was a Cuban immigrant who looked like a Hopi Indian with large widespread eyes. Her physique, which I hadn’t at first noticed, was impressive with hourglass curves and an ample bust.
She smiled seductively and glared at me as though she was reading my thoughts—or at least trying to. “I’m happy you came,” she said at last. “When I first saw you, I know you are not like the others here. You have a very—let me say, natural way. You do not put on acts. Your movements and—how do you say?—expressions are so pure that I would say I almost can know what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“You think like the lioness, ‘How can I control? How can I take over?’ like a panther. You are strong—unbreakable—like the Amazonian woman. The myth. You are indomitable —is that the word?” She was very forward in her analysis, perhaps something of her native culture. I must say, I liked her from the start.
“Perceptive.” I laughed.
“Do you smoke?” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
“Cigarettes?”
“It depends on what kind of cigarettes you mean— grass, weed , I mean.”
“Sometimes with friends. It’s been awhile, really.”
“I have the AK-47. Come.” After shaking the thought that she might actually have a Soviet assault rifle, I followed her. I thought of all the reasons I shouldn’t have done it: first day on a new job, a promising job at that, it’s unprofessional, I’d probably have to learn quite a few new things—but I didn’t really care, I didn’t like the people, other than the baby, and now Anna. At worst, I’d end up going back to my old nanny job in Gainesville and to Julie, whom I was painfully missing already.
In a supply room no larger than the couch I slept on at Julie’s, we huddled together around a small glass pipe bearing a few buds of the AK-47 variety. After we blazed through those, Anna packed the bowl again, and, after repeating this experience a few times, I lost count of how many times it happened. Plentiful coughing ensued. She sprayed with apple-scented air freshener, we each took a stick of gum from her pack, and went out of the dank air.
She took me out on the balcony and pointed out certain landmarks on the property but I’m afraid her words were lost in the raging gale. The rain was blowing sideways, and it was difficult to make out anything as a sort of eerie mist clung to the grounds below. What I did notice was the way her dress clung to her shapely form as it got wet. I felt something surge from my legs upward as I watched her thighs, then her hips.
Next to a raging fire in the chalky, great room, Anna and I bonded over more tea and coffee. As she spoke to me about trips with the Staffords to the Bahamas and the Florida Keys, or England and France, I felt that she was painting pictures—great landscapes and portraits of the family. One moment I was in that room by the fire, the next I was on an island in the Gulf of Mexico with white beaches, crystal water, and skies of the deepest blue. I felt
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