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Messing around with colleagues: don’t do it. I can give you that advice because I’ve got butter on my head. Or rather, because I’ve got experience. A long time ago, I jumped into bed with Annet. For a few months, we fucked the stars out of the sky, but when it went wrong, nothing worked on the shop floor anymore. It was her or me out the door, and in the end, I packed my bags.

When Joyce was introduced to me as a new colleague a year or so ago, I barely noticed her. Joyce isn’t the kind of woman men turn their heads for. Unjustly, as I came to realize over time. Because even though Joyce doesn’t have a divine body, that naughty glint in her eyes gets you sooner or later. Mean tongues might call her fat, but my tongue is rarely mean, and when it does get mad, it’s to bring a woman to ecstasy. Sure, Joyce is a bit chubby, but her curves are just right. Joyce is deliciously chubby. Voluptuous, I think they call it. In winter, she often wears short skirts with tights underneath, and in that tight fabric, her thighs look like something you’d want to sink your teeth into. Cup D, I’d guess, but I like to call it SD. With the S for sturdy.

The tricky thing is that Joyce started being really nice to me pretty quickly. I now know she’s just a really nice girl, but back then, I took it as a form of flirting. And I was really nice back. Not because I’m such a nice guy, but because I started to like her and could hardly resist her. She lives alone in the center of Amersfoort, and the fact that male colleagues sometimes joke that she’s in desperate need of some love didn’t make it any easier for me. Every now and then, I fantasized about her kicking off her sneakers, peeling down her tights, and me exploring the soft flesh underneath with my lips and tongue. A terrible way to uphold my principle of “no messing around with colleagues.” Still, I tried to imagine what it’d be like to kiss that spot where her thighs meet, to unzip that skirt, how her breathing would sound if I touched her nipples.

“If you’re ever near Amersfoort, you’ve got to come by for coffee,” Joyce said a few weeks ago. I promised I would, while vowing to be wiser than that. But now I’m pressing her doorbell, even though I’ve got no damn business being in Amersfoort. Unless you count Joyce. The fragile membrane separating dreams from reality is starting to crack.

She peers at me through the crack in the door, pleasantly surprised. “Rutger!” she says, swinging the door wider. “How nice, come in.”

I step into her world and pull the door shut behind me. Joyce walks ahead of me through the little hallway, its decor completely lost on me because my eyes are glued to her round backside, hugged tight by her eternal skirt. I order myself to keep it at coffee, I promise myself something tasty with the coffee.

A little later, Joyce is busy in her kitchen, deftly handling an impressive espresso machine. “What brings you to my city?” she calls over the hissing.

I bite my tongue, but it’s no use, and I lay my cards on the table: “You.”

Joyce turns around and smiles at me with a sparkle in her eyes. “How nice!” she says for the second time in a short span. Only “come in” doesn’t follow this time. Her arms forget the espresso machine and hang by her sides. My hands find hers, our gazes locked. Her fingers intertwine with mine, I feel her sweaty warmth.

“Jeez, Rutger, I don’t really know what to say.”

I shake my head in response and pull her a little closer. Joyce rises onto her tiptoes, bringing our lips within reach. I purse mine and press a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. She smells of some spicy perfume, with a hint of sweat lingering from the summer heat. I tickle the inside of her hand with my thumb, and Joyce returns my kiss. The first few kisses are shallow but tender, our lips brushing, just touching. But then the pressure builds, our mouths open, and our tongues join in. At the same time, I let go of her hands and place mine around her waist, hers on my shoulders. I taste the inside of her mouth, glide the tip of my tongue over her smooth teeth, circle hers, and breathe in her scent. My right hand moves up to cup the back of her head. Joyce kneads my shoulders, her breathing quickens. I run my fingers through her soft hair now, kiss her cheeks, the tip of her nose, the soft flesh of her neck. My other hand slides from her waist down to the firm curves of Joyce’s buttocks, eliciting a little moan right in my ear. I think this is the point of no return.

My left hand strokes the fabric stretched over her buttocks and doesn’t have to do it alone for long, because my right hand soon joins in. With both hands, I pull her pelvis closer to mine, and I feel the warmth of her groin against my budding erection. Joyce has her arms around my neck by now, and I feel her lips move against mine as she whispers something between a “yes” and an “ah.” She rests her head sideways on my shoulder, her hot breath driving me wild against my neck. That makes me pull her waist even tighter against me, and this time Joyce responds with a slight but unmistakable thrust back.

My fingers tug at her top, pulling the hem out from the waistband of her skirt. The warm, soft skin underneath is maddening. I knead the tender flesh above her waist, which again prompts a slight thrust from her pelvis. That spurs me to slide my hands further up, to the valley between her shoulder blades, where her bra strap stretches like a suspension bridge. I find the clasp and unhook it with a quick motion. I knead her shoulders, let my thumbs slip into her armpits, and lick the inside of her ear at the same time.

“I…” Joyce stammers.

“Me too,” I whisper in her ear. My hand slides forward from her armpit, finds her nipple, and cups her SD-sized breast. Beneath it, I feel her heartbeat like a runaway steam engine. She’s now grinding against my thigh. I think it’s time to say goodbye to the espresso machine and find a more suitable spot. But before we get there, I let my hand slide back down her spine, to the waistband of her skirt and beneath it. It’s too tight, so I hike her skirt up to cup her buttocks from below. I pull her tights down a bit and then feel her divine, naked flesh.

I knead her buttocks for a moment, letting my fingers inch closer to the center each time. The crease between them is steamy warm and damp with sweat. Joyce’s hand moves forward. For a second, I think she’s reaching for my fly, but then she starts stroking my stomach. I can’t take it anymore.

“Shall we find a more comfortable spot?” I whisper.

She looks at me mischievously. “Have I shown you upstairs yet?”

Her bedroom is light and cozy, but that barely registers. She stands by her bed, and I gently push her back until she flops onto her duvet. I sit beside her, push her onto her back, and start kissing her again. She raises her arms, and I pull her top loose from the front too, exposing her stomach. It’s a mound of soft, pink flesh. Her navel sits in the middle of a horizontal fold of skin I want to run my tongue through. But first, I pull her top over her head, and her bra, already unhooked, comes off with it. Her breasts are as firm as I’d fantasized for years, with small, brown nipples standing at attention. I lean forward and lick them. First the left, then the right, and back again. Somewhere below me, I feel Joyce kick off her white sneakers. My hand cups her fleshy waist, then her belly, and seeks the hem of her skirt again. Joyce grips the bedposts, her head tilted to the side, eyes closed, mouth open. I get the impression I’ve got carte blanche from here on out, and I’m damn sure I’m going to cash it in.

The secret of her skirt turns out to be a zipper on the side. I pull it open and tug the skirt down. Another sigh from Joyce, who’s now wearing nothing but her tights and panties. With one smooth motion, I strip those off her legs; Joyce lies ready to be thoroughly taken.

My fantasies turn out to be reality: Joyce is beautifully thick. The curves are tight, perfect, begging to be caressed. I can barely resist burying my face between her thighs, but I manage. I don’t want to come off as too sexist, so I start kissing her again.

“Not fair,” she whispers against my lips. “You’ve still got everything on.”

She’s got a point. I kick off my shoes, drop my pants, and pull my shirt over my head. Joyce watches and welcomes my naked body into her arms. My dick’s grown pretty hard by now and presses against her plump belly. Joyce breaks our kiss, finds my ear with her mouth, and whispers, “Are we going to have sex now?”

“I want to,” I whisper back.

“Me too. Be gentle with me.”

“I’ll do exactly what you want.”

Joyce lets out a sigh. “Mmm, nice. I want this.”

My hands stroke her belly, her breasts, her thighs, her mound, while my lips and tongue play with hers, and my erection presses heavily against her thigh. Joyce fumbles awkwardly over my back for a while, but after a bit, she dares to grip my dick and slide my foreskin up and down. It helps that I slip my middle and index fingers between her legs at moments like this. I feel her getting warmer and wetter with every move. Then my ring finger joins in, and I lick them clean to taste her arousal.

That feels too indirect, so I move down, past her breasts, her belly, her navel. She pushes my head away for a moment, but it’s just for show. As soon as I find her sensitive spot, the resistance melts away. Joyce wraps her legs around my neck as I slide my tongue between her lips and into her pussy. Her heels drum on my back when I tease her anus with my index finger. Joyce squeals, she screams, she moans, she pants. I feel her feet on my back, my dick throbbing into her mattress. I sense her orgasm building, but I don’t want it to go that far yet.

Neither does she. Suddenly, she pushes me off, sits up, and presses me onto my back. “Your turn. Lie down!” she commands.

I flop onto my back and let it happen. I see Joyce’s chubby body rise, her dark blonde hair falling like a veil over her face. I watch her kneel above me, one leg on each side, the soles of her feet visible. The tips of her hair tickle my stomach just before the tip of her tongue does the same to my tip. She teases circles around the head of my penis while her fingers massage my thighs, my balls, and sometimes my shaft. The warmth I feel on my dick starts with her breath, then her mouth, and finally my unrestrained lust. It’d take a miracle not to come in her mouth right now.

“Stop, Joyce. Stop!”

She looks up, giving me a perfect view of her parted lips between her hanging breasts. I’m on the verge of coming, and it’s exactly where it needs to happen.

“What do you want, sweetie?” she asks. “You can come in my mouth if you want. I’d like that.”

I nod toward her wide-open pussy. “There,” I manage to choke out. “But will you come too?”

Joyce rolls over and falls onto her back. “Come on then, honey.”

I climb on top of her, press my erection between her thighs, and slide inside. Joyce yelps and thrusts her pelvis invitingly forward. “Will you come too?” I manage to ask. She moans something that sounds like yes, and then there’s no holding back. I thrust a few more times, deeper than I thought possible, and then I pump my load into her wet, warm pussy with force. My stomach slaps against hers, and I bite her soft neck as Joyce screams and stomps her feet, reaching her climax.

To think that yesterday we were discussing debtors, and tomorrow morning we’ll be doing it again.

She must be a tourist; it’s almost impossible for her not to be. I’ve lived here for over twenty years and know practically everyone on this small island. That’s why everyone knows me too, and in the past, that’s caused me too much trouble. That’s why I only sleep with people off the island. Except for tourists, of course, and that’s why I hope she’s one. I saw her for the first time last week at the Spar in the village, where she was paying for a meal salad and a couple of rolls. She was wearing a white flannel dress, her smooth, tanned legs peeking out beautifully from underneath. On her feet, she wore white sneakers, with a silver anklet tinkling above her left one. She had medium-length, dark blonde hair with a slight wave, and though I guessed from a distance that she was somewhere in her forties, there was a striking youthfulness in her face. I feigned interest in the rack of beach items near the exit so I could discreetly watch her walk out of the shop, passing less than a meter from me, before disappearing around the corner toward the campsite, away from me.

Since then, I’ve wanted her. It’s as simple as that. Well, simple might not be the word: I may talk a big game on shady websites, but that’s no great feat. The women there are after just one thing—the same as me. In real life, I’m hardly a hero. The single meal salad and those two rolls give me some hope, though. That suggests I’m not lusting after a mom with a husband and a couple of kids who’s brought the monotony of home along with her. If she’s really on vacation, she could leave any moment, so a bit of haste isn’t a luxury.

The sultry breeze plays with her hair as she, unaware of my presence, gazes out over the sea

It’s unbelievable that I’d see her again right here, of all places. I come here often to avoid the tourists. This stretch of beach on the far northeast side of the island is hard to reach and far from the village. If I don’t seize this opportunity, I’m not worth a damn.
The white dress has been swapped for a light pink T-shirt and jeans with the legs cut off. A knit cardigan hangs loosely over her shoulders, hinting she must have set out early. Her shoes dangle from her left hand, and the sultry breeze plays with her hair as she, unaware of my presence, gazes out over the sea. A flutter stirs in my lower belly, and my heart rate picks up. I climb a bit higher up the dune and scan the area for a companion, but she seems truly alone. Good. But how do I approach her without startling her?

She turns around and seems to start heading back, but after a few steps, she spots me. She waves. That’s the nice thing about remote places: even strangers greet each other. I wave back, and as I do, an opening line pops into my head.
“Watch where you step! There’s quicksand in the low spots between the dunes!” It’s an instant tourist test—no islander would fall for that nonsense.
Her face falls, the fear in her eyes as real as the Van Gogh in my mom’s hallway. “Are you serious?” She bursts out laughing and glances down at her own feet, the bottoms of which have turned to sandpaper from the dry sand.
“Well, in winter, maybe. Sometimes,” I scoff back. “On vacation?”
She takes a few steps down toward me. With each step, her foot sinks a few centimeters, and she balances with her arms outstretched. I climb toward her and offer my hand, which she takes. I support her for the last few steps, and then she’s standing beside me in the dune hollow.
“Were you spying on me?” She flashes me a fraction of a smile, pulls the cardigan off her shoulders, spreads it out on the sand, and sits down on it. I plop down next to her, a peachy whiff of her perfume enveloping me.
“It’s fine, you know. My mom always says, ‘As long as they’re still spying on you, there’s hope.’ Not that anyone’s spying on her anymore.” She lets out a cute little laugh.
I throw my hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, you win. And if you really want to know, I was already spying on you last week when you were shopping.”
She laughs again, this time a hearty cackle.

Before long, I feel the warmth of her skin against my forearm, despite the summer heat

Her name is Corrine, she tells me, and she’s here for two weeks on vacation to find herself after a failed relationship. The oppressive summer heat of Amsterdam was more than she could handle. As her words caress my eardrums and slip out just as silkily on the other side, she draws little figures in the sand between us. With each sentence, her hand inches a tiny bit closer to my thigh. Before long, I feel the warmth of her skin against my forearm, despite the summer heat.

I “accidentally” brush my forearm against hers, and to my surprise, she doesn’t pull away. Her skin feels sultry and slightly slick from our sweat mingling into a smooth film. I shift a little, letting our arms slide along each other. Again, she shows no hint of hesitation, which emboldens me to take a chance. I place my hand on hers, and her drawing stops abruptly. I brush the sand off her knuckles and fingers with my fingertips. She lets me for a moment before turning her hand over and lacing her fingers with mine. The wind plays with Corrine’s blonde hair, our fingers play with each other, and something starts to glow deep in my belly.

Up until then, we’d both been staring ahead, but when I glance sideways, Corrine does the same. The tension hovers between us for a moment, our entwined fingers tighten, and our lips find each other.

The first kiss is soft and tender, almost like a mother with her baby. I lean a little closer to her, my grip on her hand tightening further. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her dig her feet deeper into the sand. She exhales, drowning out the sound of the waves crashing on the other side of the dune. I breathe in the air she lets out, our noses touch for a brief moment, and then we press our lips together again, harder this time. I part my mouth slightly and let the tip of my tongue taste her upper lip. The salt of her sweat and the warmth of her breath blend on my tongue into a heavenly bouquet that seeps into the depths of my pores. Now it’s Corrine who edges closer; I release her hand and use my newfound freedom to wrap my arm around her.

With my fingers, I press into the soft flesh just below her armpit

She rests her head on my shoulder, her lips part, and our tongues meet. I explore her teeth—smooth and warm—the inside of her mouth, pulling her torso closer as she digs her left foot out of the sand and crosses one leg over the other, bringing us even nearer. With my fingers, I press into the soft flesh just below her armpit; Corrine moans and throws her free arm around my neck.

My free hand finds her foot, kneads it, then slides up her calf and the back of her knee to her thigh. First the outside, but if she didn’t want it, she’d have clamped her thighs shut. The opposite happens, so I inch my way, centimeter by centimeter, to the warm, soft inside of her thighs. The frayed edges of her cut-off jeans tickle the back of my hand; my thumb presses into her soft skin and slips under the fabric.

Corrine leans back and settles into the warm sand. I follow, my arm under her head, find her mouth again, and kiss her once more. My thumb has reached her groin by now, pulsing in circles. I feel wetness in the crease between her thigh and pubic bone—probably sweat, but I fantasize it’s coming from her, and that makes something grow in my pants.

She digs her nails into my back as I feel her hot breath quickening against my neck. I pull my hand back, reach for the buttons of her shorts, and undo them. Then I grab her by the small of her back and pull her pelvis against mine. Corrine’s mouth finds my earlobe and starts nibbling; my erection nearly explodes.

I press my erection against her belly, the tip at her navel

Somewhere in all this, I’ve kicked off my shoe, but I didn’t even notice. Now it’s time to free my erection. I unbuckle my belt, yank down the zipper, and pull my jeans and boxers down in one go. They bunch around my ankles, just like Corrine’s shorts. I press my erection against her belly, the tip at her navel. The fabric of her panties is so soaked it can’t just be sweat anymore. I tug the slippery triangle aside and thrust into her.

Corrine throws her arms back; her blonde hair mixes with the sand as I kiss her cheekbones while she bucks her hips against me. She pulls her legs up higher, scratches my back until it bleeds, and just as I’m starting to despair about how to make this last, she tenses, I feel her whole body tremble beneath me, she headbutts me, and she screams. My restraint can’t hold against that; I sink my teeth into her shoulder, give one final thrust, and with the force of a breached dam, I finish inside her, my release flooding into her warm, contracting core.