The Liberation of Sarah

A husband’s tale

Sarah and I had heard enough about the exotic island of Palmyra that I was determined to get us there for a vacation. My wife is three years older than me. She is a pretty blonde, with hazel eyes, delicate features and a perky smile. She is petite but very nicely built, slim but shapely, with marvellous legs and a trim, supple derriere. Her breasts are not large but are firm and well-proportioned. She is, to me, the perfect woman, beautiful, fragile and adorable.
For both of us, this is our second marriage, and we have each tried hard to avoid the mistakes of the first. I was possessive and Sarah was neglected, although I cannot imagine why any man in his right mind would ignore such a treasure. So we have sought constantly to rediscover and renew our love and our desire for each other.
Yet I have always felt the urge to share my lovely wife with the world, to show off her beauty, and in particular her exquisite little body. From the beginning I loved how, in a short dress or formfitting jeans, she excited other men. It gave me an intense feeling of pride and – yes, I admit – potency. And to this end, I had been slowly moving Sarah towards a greater awareness of her sexuality. I encouraged her to do the sorts of things she could not bring herself to do before, to be the sort of woman she might be if only she could free herself from her inhibitions.
In her professional life, Sarah is self-assured, businesslike and assertive. Yet the experience of her first marriage left her unsure of herself. As a result, in our relationship she prefers the passive role, leaving to me the guidance and control. She is not exactly submissive, but the impulse to do something different or daring or adventuresome has always come from me.
So when I read about Palmyra, I saw an opportunity to draw out of her the self-confidence and sensuality we both knew were latent within her. For a long while, she looked at me, doubtfully; but with some coaxing and a little prodding, she eventually came around. This gave us both hope for her complete sexual emancipation.
I made all the arrangements, booking a two-week stay at the most expensive hotel on the island. All seemed fine. Yet on the morning of our departure, I awoke to discover that my little Sarah had endured a sleepless night. It saddened me that I felt so wonderful while she was so anxious. She reassured me that she was not troubled by what lay ahead for her. Rather, she was afraid that she might disappoint me. I kissed and caressed her. I told her how proud I was of her, and that she didn’t have to prove anything to me. I said we could cancel the trip.
“If you think you’re going to bail out now...” she laughed, and sprang upon me. I wrestled her onto her back and we made love. And for a while, everything else was forgotten. When I am inside her, the desire to share her with the rest of the world evaporates. But it always returns.
As we were packing, I noticed Sarah putting something into the suitcase, underneath my clothes. Curious, I looked in, to find one of her dresses and some underwear. I gently mocked her but immediately regretted it, when I saw her wounded expression. She started to explain, but I tenderly pressed my fingers against her sweet lips. I understood straight away her need for some sense of security. I told her so, as outside the taxi cab driver sounded his horn.

Our flight did not proceed directly to Palmyra, because the island’s airport cannot handle the big jets. Instead we connected with a charter plane at Kingston, Jamaica. The check-in area was located at one end of the terminal, and a queue had already begun to form when we arrived. I felt so very proud standing there with my lovely wife, as other travellers, knowing our destination, turned to look.
There were maybe thirty passengers altogether. Most were, like us, couples, generally around our own age. There was an all-girl group in their early twenties, a couple of lone women but no single men. All the females were skimpily dressed, although really no less than if we were on our way to any tropical island resort.
I wasn’t so naive as to expect the booking clerk in Kingston to be naked, but I was nevertheless somewhat let down to discover that our cabin crew were also in uniform. The flight attendants wore short blue dresses. The captain, who came back to introduce herself, was an attractive woman with close-cropped hair. She had the friendly, no-nonsense manner of a veteran pilot, and she spoke with the accent of a Briton who had lived for many years in the Caribbean. She had on a snug-fitting white blouse and a black miniskirt, without stockings. It was a sexy outfit for an airline captain, but I could not help but feel a twinge of disappointment that it was there at all.
As we boarded, the mood all round had been cheerful, if subdued. The women were quiet and thoughtful. They clung to their partners, and we extended protective arms around our womenfolk. Once we were in the air, how­ever, the atmosphere lightened. The flight itself was uneventful, but as we descended for the final approach, a buzz of excitement filled the cabin.
Like any airport in the world there were the formalities to be endured, passport inspections and customs declarations. These duties were performed briskly and professionally.
It was not until we headed towards the baggage collection area that we saw the first nude women. Beyond the glass partition, airport personnel could be seen going about their business. The females were almost without exception gorgeous, their glistening skin a lavish variety of hues from ivory to ebony, but uniformly bare of clothing. Most were moving briskly, but under a sign “ARRIVALS” a dozen or so young women were standing about, carrying boards inscribed with the names of hotels and tour operators. Each held her placard above her head or out to one side, so as not to obscure any portion of her naked body.
As I took in this charming scene, Sarah squeezed my arm. I looked down at her. She was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I scanned the other women in our group. All were staring, no one uttered a sound, and some appeared quite shaken by this first encounter with the raw, unadorned, full-frontal reality of Palmyra.
At that moment, our flight crew overtook us, and they turned to wave good-bye. The women had taken off their uniforms. The captain’s skirt and blouse were folded over one arm, her bra and panties draped neatly on top. Her co-pilot, the only male on the team, scrutinized the bodies of all the women he passed, but he seemed completely oblivious to the delightfully unclad forms of his fellow crew members.
As they moved off, we reached the baggage conveyor. Standing beside it was a family who appeared to be locals – a mother, a father and a young boy. She was tall, with chestnut-brown skin and glossy black, ornately braided hair. The man was half a head shorter than his statuesque wife. He bore that harassed, docile expression you see on the faces of the downtrodden. He wore dapper white trousers and a neatly pressed, floral pattern shirt. The boy was dressed almost identically, and this father-son combo looked rather comical.
The woman had already shed her clothing, even her shoes. She seemed completely at ease with her nudity, making no attempt to conceal anything. Her body was well-maintained, belly smooth, hips narrow. Between her thighs, a luxuriant growth proclaimed her marital status (it being Palmyran custom for married women to go unshaven down there). She held herself erect, her shoulders drawn subtly backwards, accentuating her breasts. One leg was positioned just forward of the other, bent slightly at the knee. Her posture was a most intriguing blend of coy, modest and provocative. She seemed in no way self-conscious, standing there naked, her fully clothed husband and son by her side. To each of them, this was totally natural.
The woman’s composure contrasted with the growing agitation of her husband, who awaited impatiently the arrival of their luggage, and with the frenetic energy of their son. When the boy seemed just about to climb onto the carousel, she seized him by the collar and hauled him back to her side. He stayed there, surly but obedient, until Dad had retrieved their suitcases.
Watching them, I was struck by this image of a Palmyran family – classically matriarchal, and compromised not at all by the fact that this woman, like all other females on the island, is forbidden by law to conceal any part of her body.
“Here comes our suitcase,” Sarah exclaimed, wrenching me from my distraction.
“Are you excited?” I asked quietly.
“Oh yes, definitely.” She did not sound very convincing. There was a nervous edge to her voice, and her lower lip trembled.
“It will be good,” I promised, and I put my arm around her. “We’ll have an amazing holiday, you’ll see.”
I took our baggage from the conveyor and we proceeded to Customs. As luck would have it, we were chosen for a random inspection. The officer, who greeted us with a cursory apology for the inconvenience, was a ruddy-complexioned, middle-aged man in dark trousers, a white shirt and a navy-blue tie. At the adjacent counter, attending to a second couple, was a young woman whose only adornment was a blue armband. As she leaned forward to examine the contents of the suitcase, her sumptuous breasts swung over it in a most evocative manner.
“Thank you, sir,” the man said, as he sifted through the bag and discovered Sarah’s things. “Madam, you do know you will not be needing these?”
Sarah allowed herself a thin smile and nodded sheepishly. Beginning to blush, she lowered her head to stare at the floor.
I was annoyed, barely resisting the urge to point out how gratuitous the question was. Luckily, at that moment, a side door opened and another woman entered the room. She was small in size but conveyed a distinct air of authority. A dark leather collar encircled her neck. She was, of course, otherwise naked. She perused the paperwork and spoke briefly to the man, who offered her a casual salute. Neither seemed at all mindful of the eloquent symbolism of this gesture, a man in uniform saluting a completely nude female.
The woman dismissed her subordinates and spoke to us: “Everything is in order, sir, madam. We apologize for your delay, and we hope you have a wonderful stay.”
She beckoned in the direction of the arrivals lounge, and she followed us to it.
By this time, the other people from our flight were already experiencing, at first hand, life on the island of Palmyra. The females were in various stages of undress. Most were clearly embarrassed. Some giggled nervously, some had petulant expressions, although none appeared overly distressed. Most tried to hide behind their partners, or turned sideways, or crouched to minimise their exposure. The all-girl group used bravado to cover up their embarrassment, with teasing and playful banter. Only one woman that I saw appeared to be enjoying her striptease.
The men were sympathetic and solicitous, but obviously loving the show.
It had not occurred to me that the women would have to disrobe in such an open place. I suppose it was logical, as they were going to be exposed in public anyway. However, I don’t think any of us anticipated that their first unveiling would be so abrupt.
Sarah turned to face me, and for a moment I thought she was going to give in to her apprehension. But she just whispered, “Love you” and reached for the buttons of her silk blouse.
The corners of the room were already occupied, so we were in unrestricted view of everyone. Sarah tried to put herself between my bulk and her potential audience, but with limited success. Then, without further hesitation, she undid the buttons, drew the blouse off her shoulders and let it slip down her arms behind her back. She raised it up in front of her and considered it for a second, then handed it to me. She tried to unfasten the clasp on the side of her skirt, but her trembling fingers fumbled and it took her several attempts.
I felt sorry for my little honey, but also elated, as a number of the men in the room turned to look. Aware that she was being watched, Sarah paused, beginning to lose her courage. She gripped my sleeve and buried her face in the front of my shirt.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she pleaded. I stroked the cool, bare skin of her back. As my fingers ran over the tiny hook on her brassiere, I had a strong urge to release it. Yet I resisted. She must do this herself.
I said, “You’re beautiful, you have a perfect body, and I love you! Trust me. You can do this.” I hugged her, and I kissed her affectionately on each cheek. She looked up into my eyes, and with a bittersweet smile she said, “I’m doing it for you.”
“I know,” I said, loving her, feeling the guilt, relishing the moment.
She stroked her bra straps pensively, then changed her mind and reached down once more to her skirt which clung loosely to her hips. She slowly pushed it down her thighs, and when it reached her knees the skirt fell in a crumpled heap about her ankles. She daintily stepped out of it and squatted to pick it up. She carefully folded it and gave it to me. I tried to catch her eye, but her gaze was fixed on something far away.
The woman customs officer and some of the passengers were still watching. I was so proud that my lovely little wife was the centre of attention. She was now down to her white lace bra and panties. Suddenly, she drew in a sharp breath and reached behind her back. In a rapid and graceful motion, she plucked the brassiere from her chest. Her breasts wobbled playfully, welcoming their newfound freedom. The sensation must have stimulated her, because for the first time she permitted herself a hint of a smile; and yet her eyes remained bashfully downcast. Awed by her beauty and her courage, I looked upon the delectable body of my darling Sarah, clad in just her panties. Her transformation was almost complete.
It did not surprise me that again she hesitated. This final piece of clothing, small as it was, attached her to the world beyond the shores of Palmyra. When that was gone, she would be giving up a part of herself. For the next fourteen days, men would gaze upon her naked body, invading her most intimate places and sharing my greatest treasure.
She was now breathing heavy and shallow. Her face was flushed. Her exposed nipples were erect. She was pressing her thighs together. I realized she was experiencing the beginning of an orgasm, and I could hardly conceive how humiliating it must be for her. I started to reach out. Yet a look of determination came over her, as she abruptly pitched forward, grabbing the sides of her panties and sliding them down over her knees. She stood erect and stepped out of them, one leg at a time; she kneaded them into a ball. For the first time, she raised her head and turned about, her expression one of triumph and relief. That only lasted a second, but it was done.
While I was packing away her things, the other couples from the plane were beginning to leave. As the room cleared, the all-girl group tarried near the exit, laughing and teasing and daring each other to be the first one out.
No longer preoccupied with her undressing, Sarah’s hands fidgeted at her side. She desperately wanted to conceal her shame. My guilt returned, in spite of my excitement, and I put my arm around her slim, bare shoulders. I could feel her little body shaking. She looked up at me, with lustrous eyes and quivering lips.
“Look honey,” I said, “maybe this was a bad idea. We can be on the next plane out.”
“No, no, it’s fine” she answered, with an ever so faint smile. “I just need some time, okay?”
“Well, that’s definitely no problem,” I said.
I carried the suitcase, my free arm encircling the slender waist of my glorious wife. I held her close to me so that her arms were pinioned to her side, and I grasped her wrist so that she could not move her hand to cover that which was no longer hers to conceal. In her tiny fist, she still clenched her crumpled panties.
We departed the lounge, crossing the near-empty terminal in silence. Naked women passed by. I glanced back and the female customs officer was moving off. She looked up and saw me. She gave me a wink, then turned away.
We exited the airport terminal, emerging into brilliant sunlight and a world completely different from anything we had ever known. Over the doorway, a sign in big, red lettering harshly declared: “NO CLOTHED FEMALES MAY PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT!”

Palmyra’s airport commands stunning views, in one direction a cerulean ocean of startling clarity, in the other verdant hillsides dotted with neat, whitewashed houses. Lining the roadside which abuts the landing strip are the low weatherboard buildings that accommodate the travel agencies, vehicle hire operators, duty-free shops, souvenir stores and refreshment kiosks.
According to the brochure, our objective was about halfway along the block. In contrast to the calm of the terminal, the street was vibrant with exotic sights, sounds and smells. It was early afternoon, and a fresh breeze wafted in off the bay, the salt air mixing with aromas from the coffee shops and fragrances from the gardens. Tourists and locals mingled noisily, haggling, socializing or just loitering. It could have been any Caribbean resort, full of perspiring men in straw hats and loud shirts, dark-skinned youths in outsized T-shirts peddling cheap wares, red-faced salesmen in white suits touting their trade, jaded tour guides shep­herding their groups and organizing buses and taxis.
But then there were the women. Hanging onto the arms of husbands and boyfriends, shopping and strolling, plying the crowds out­side the storefronts; vendors, agents, guides, minicab drivers; black, brown, pink. All were stark naked. Some wore hats and footwear, but in between was nothing but bare skin.
Among the tourists, it was easy to spot the new arrivals. Their bodies were slightly hunched, as if against the cold, though it was warm and sunny. They clung to their partners and avoided eye contact with anyone who passed. The few who moved with ease and confidence were the veterans, those with more than a few days’ experience of their public nudity.
I had hoped that the anonymity of the street would soothe my sweet Sarah’s apprehension, but her panting breaths and tentative steps gave her away. In a moment of weakness, I almost barked at her to “snap out of it” but I caught myself. I could hardly imagine what she was feeling.
At the entrance to the travel agent’s office, a young woman greeted us by name. That surprised me, until I saw that she was holding a checklist with all other names crossed off. She was tall and dark and slim, with a pleasant face and curling, shoulder-length hair. Her breasts were not large but they were in perfect proportion to her athletic body, immaculately smooth and impeccably rounded. Below her deliciously concave belly, the lips of her sex were pink, tender and moist, like rose petals framed in mahogany.
Introducing herself as Catriona, she spoke with a rich West Indian accent. “May I please welcome you to our island? We guarantee that you will enjoy your stay.” She raised her hands skywards. “The weather has been perfect lately.”
I could not avert my eyes from her magnificent chest. As she spoke, she gestured copiously with her hands, causing her breasts to stretch and bob and sway. I wondered if this might be deliberate, but she seemed fully innocent of the effect it was having on me.
She explained our hotel arrangements, concisely and efficiently, and handed me a portfolio containing the tickets and the documentation we would need for our stay. She gave us her phone number and a map of the island showing the locations of her agency, our hotel and various landmarks. She then turned to my wife.
“Madam, naturally you are familiar with our laws, but if you have any questions or problems we are always at your service. The staff at your hotel are trained to give you whatever assistance you may require. It is normal that for a few days you will have some anxiety, and you may even feel a little scared. But those feelings will pass quickly, I promise you. In just a few days it will seem perfectly natural to be naked, having men admire your body. Accept their attention as a compliment. They are surrounded by nude women, and if they take an interest in you, it means they think you are something special. Enjoy it.”
Sarah thanked her for the advice, the uncertainty still in her voice.
For the trip to our hotel, Catriona had booked us places in an open-air taxi. This was a customized utility, or pickup, with a canvas roof and bench seating along the sides of the truck bed, facing inwards. The vehicle was spic-and-span, although the driver was rather shabby, unshaven and wearing a frayed sweatshirt and threadbare trousers. He acknowledged Catriona’s terse greeting with a sullen stare. She was clearly displeased with his attitude and quietly berated him. He reacted in a surly way that made her more animated. She began gesticulating, with the same effect as before. The driver turned away in defeat. He sulkily offered Sarah a helping hand as she climbed into the back of the taxi.
Our hostess apologized to us, but I must confess that I enjoyed the little drama. It was really quite a show, to see a beautiful naked woman upbraiding a fully clothed man, waggling her bare breasts at him as he shrank from the onslaught. I wondered, at the time, whether it even registered with him that she wore not a stitch on her body. He seemed to show no awareness of the fact, but I doubt that any red-blooded male could have been indifferent to such splendour.
We took our seats, and Sarah squirmed as her bare bottom touched the cool, slick upholstery.
There were two other couples already on board, and we sat across from them. One of the women, in her late thirties, was obviously comfortable with her nudity, although the way she was pointing out the attractions to her husband made me think she was a first-time visitor. She either did not realize that I was studying her, or she was pretending not to notice, or she just didn’t care. Her knees were set apart, giving me an unrestricted view of the luscious velvet folds of her womanhood. Next to her was a young lady in her early twenties. She was beautiful (if not quite as ravishing as my Sarah) with long blonde hair, luminous blue eyes and a cute upturned nose. Her breasts were perfect, tipped with succulent, rosy nipples. She had no tan lines. Her thighs were pressed together, and even though her head was tilted downward, she was timidly looking up at me as I savoured her delectable nudity. She flashed me a shy smile, then turned away in embarrassment.
Both the males were examining Sarah, as closely as I studied their partners. She clutched my hand and tried to pull it across into her lap, but I resisted her.
We kept to ourselves during the journey. Occasionally, I shifted my gaze from the women opposite me to take in the scenery. Everything was clean and tidy. The streets were congested, but the traffic was orderly. Elegant, colonial style buildings and neat, well-kept houses lined broad leafy avenues. People were everywhere, and already the sight of naked women was becoming familiar, if no less gratifying. At one point another taxi, packed with boisterous wenches, drew up beside us. The girls were laughing and cavorting and waving to passers-by, revelling in their nudity. They were the group from our flight, and they called out a greeting, which I returned.
The ride was pleasant and relaxing at first; but once we left the bayside flats and climbed into the hills, we were jolted and jostled. The women got the worst of it, since their bare buttocks provided little traction on the slippery benches; and their unencumbered breasts suffered a good deal of jerking and bouncing. It lasted about twenty minutes, and I enjoyed every second of it.
We left the other two couples at the Bayview Apartments, located a short distance down the road from our own destination.
Our hotel was located on a hill overlooking the capital, Régate, a long way from the water but with a superb, panoramic view of the town and the bay. The Bellaire is a genteel establishment, graceful in design, set amidst carefully tended gardens and groves of palms and pines, comfortable rather than opulent. The faux-Renaissance, pink sandstone façade might at first appear a little pretentious, but it is not overdone, and the interior’s fine stucco decoration and period furniture do set the Bellaire above the norm.
We were met by a doorman attired in a splendid red uniform with copious gold braid, befitting the old-world charm of the hotel. He politely cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, madam.” He pointed tactfully towards Sarah’s feet.
She was uncomprehending at first, then rather shocked. She took off her sandals and handed them to me. I put them in the bag with the rest of her clothing.
For the first time since our arrival in Palmyra, Sarah laughed. “Good lord,” she exclaimed, “this place really is posh!”
We approached the reception desk across a gleaming marble floor. In her bare feet, Sarah tiptoed charily over the hard, cold surface.
The young woman behind the counter was coloured a rich coppery brown but spoke with a pronounced upper class English accent. Like most of the females we had encountered, she was extremely attractive. She wore her blonde hair braided in a well-kept dreadlock style that brushed the tops of a fine pair of breasts. I wonder if nudity has given rise to a natural selection process that has made all Palmyran females beautiful, or whether the authorities give preference to the most attractive immigrants. Maybe it is just an illusion. In the end, it doesn’t really matter.
I signed in and we were given our keys and some more brochures. The receptionist reminded us that the hotel had a bar and a dining room, a swimming pool and gymnasium; and she bade us to have an enjoyable stay. I assured her we would and nodded towards her naked torso. She responded with a flirtatious grin and winked at Sarah. Winking seems to be another national trait.
There was no attendant to carry our luggage, which was fine because we had so little. We found our room, on the third floor. I opened the suitcase on the bed, took out my things and stowed them in the closet. I carefully replaced Sarah’s in the case. She watched me do so with a wistful expression, and even though we were alone she cringed, just a little, as she stood naked before me. She had never looked more vulnerable, nor more inviting.
She broke the spell by heading for the bathroom; while I stepped out onto the balcony to take it in the view. When she returned, I beckoned for her to join me. She hesitated.
“It’s fabulous, not a soul to be seen anywhere,” I hinted.
She came out and I embraced her marvellously sexy little body. Her skin was smooth and cool, and I could feel her nipples hard and sensual through the fabric of my shirt. I wanted her there and then, and so I took her back inside and had my way with her.
We showered together and I changed into fresh clothes. I suggested that we go down to the bar. Sarah was hesitant, but we both knew she couldn’t hide in our room forever. Anyway, she’d already been seen by dozens of people. Still, I wasn’t at all annoyed by her mood. In fact I found her reticence both endearing and – yes, I do confess – arousing.
I told her, “We will just stay inside the hotel today; take things easy for now.”
So we went down to the bar. The place was almost empty. It was quiet and cosy, with half a dozen tables. Sarah eased herself into one of the big lounge chairs. She gasped as the naked flesh of her back and bottom came into contact with the leather.
Our waitress was a girl of no more than twenty, tall, olive-skinned and streamlined. Her breasts lacked the heroic stature of some I had encountered this day, but they were well-formed, and her nipples were pink and pointed. Farther down, I could not help but notice that the lips of her vagina were wedded by a tiny, golden lock. I wondered who held the key.
As we were ordering a second drink, another couple entered the bar. They were in their mid-to-late forties. He was bespectacled and somewhat paunchy, with a ruddy face and a double chin. His gaudy shirt and voluminous Bermuda shorts were a caricature of the stereotypical American tourist; and indeed, as he greeted the barman, he spoke with a broad Midwestern accent. She, on the other hand, was well-built and well-toned, with platinum-blonde hair and a pleasant face, keen eyes and a wry smile. She had shapely breasts and a fading tan line. Her pubes were clean-shaven.
The man came over to us and asked if he and his wife might join us. I turned towards Sarah, but she just beamed and said, “Of course, we’re delighted to have some company.”
“I’m Ted, this is Valerie.” We shook hands and they sat down. The waitress came over to take their order, and Ted paused to inspect her body from one end to the other, his gaze lingering at the most interesting places along the way. He did so unabashed, and the young woman just smiled good-naturedly, completely nonchalant at having her every nook and cranny examined so thoroughly.
Ted turned to Sarah, giving her the same treatment. She must have blushed, because Valerie leaned across and patted her gently on the knee.
“First time, honey?” she asked indulgently. “It takes some getting used to at first, but it’s the best feeling in the world, you’ll see.”
“This is our third trip.” Ted explained. “We’ll keep coming back, too. Can’t get enough of it.”
Val punched him playfully in the arm. “No, you can’t.”
“Your wife...” Ted raised a quizzical eyebrow, until I nodded, “is very pretty.”
“As is yours,” I answered, feeling proud.
“We’re both very lucky men.”
“Yes, you are, and don’t you forget it!” his wife laughed.
Ted’s enthusiasm and Valerie’s optimism were infectious. Sarah sat back in her chair, more at ease than I had seen her since we’d left home. I noticed that her knees had drifted apart.
“First time we came,” Valerie was saying, “I hid in our room for two days. By the time we left I had almost forgotten what it was like to wear clothes. You get so into it.”
She continued after a sip of her cocktail. “There are basically two types of men here, and believe it or not they don’t divide cleanly into locals and visitors. Some will look at you out of the corners of their eyes. They’re self-conscious about it, but they can’t keep their eyes off you. The other kind will stand there and take a good long look, and when they’re satisfied they will go about their business.”
“A naked woman is as natural as sunrise and sunset,” Ted cut in.
“He gets poetic around pretty girls,” Valerie scoffed, good-naturedly, “but he’s right, you know. Take some advice. Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed. If they’re looking at you, it’s because they like what they see. Treat it as a compliment. So don’t try to hide anything. Let them see what you have.”
Catriona had offered the same counsel; yet it was not having the desired effect, as Sarah had once more pressed her thighs together. Valerie picked up on this, because she changed the subject.
“The island has lots of things to offer besides... you know. Some very nice restaurants. Wonderful scenery, especially when you get out of the town. Lots to do. Snorkelling and scuba diving – that’s our hobby. One last piece of advice though. Sun protection is a must, particularly on your pussy.”
Sarah audibly sucked in a breadth.
“You don’t want him sticking it in there when you’ve got a bad case of sunburn.”
Ted and Valerie were an interesting couple.
After some time and a couple more drinks, I managed to extricate us from the Ted and Val show. I admired their forthright and comfortable manner, but they were the sort of pair whose joie de vivre quickly exhausts you. Their natural habitat is the large gathering where they can pass – or be passed – from one audience to the next.
We retired to our room to prepare for dinner; and it did not surprise me that a woman takes just as long to get ready when she has quite literally nothing to wear.
As we were about to head down to the restaurant, I walked into the hall and turned back to see my wife in the doorway, her naked figure in silhouette, illuminated from behind by the dim orange glow of the security lamp. She was surrounded by a faint aura of light that gave her an ethereal quality. The gentle curves of her body were softly muted, as if a gossamer veil had been drawn across her. It was a vision of transcendent beauty. I offered her my arm, and we went downstairs.
With considerable relief, when I scanned the hotel dining room there was no sign of Ted or Valerie. Three or four tables were occupied. As we waited to be seated, I was proud that my Sarah was so quickly coming to terms with her nudity. She no longer made any effort to conceal herself, standing with her hands behind her back or at her side. When someone glanced her way, she appeared to draw back her shoulders, as if to accentuate her breasts. I may be mistaken about that, for it might have been simple pride that swelled inside her.
The dining room was a fancy one, with white starched tablecloths, crisp napkins, silver candleholders – all the accoutrements of a high-class establishment. The serving staff comprised two waiters and four waitresses. Each of the males wore an elegant uniform of black pants and ruffled white shirt, with a spruce-green tie and a vest trimmed with cord of braided gold. The girls were, of course, naked head-to-foot. They were marshalled by a smallish, intense-looking woman, the maîtresse d’hotel, whose only accessory to what nature and a vigorous daily workout had endowed upon her was a thin gold neckband.
Watching as they moved smoothly amongst the tables, I was mesmerized. It wasn’t merely the sight of the nude bodies that excited me. It was the unique vision of society that it represented. I have been to many a swank restaurant where the female staff are dressed déshabillé. Their skimpy clothing creates the ambiance – sensuous, intimate or risqué, depending usually on the magnitude of the bill. Yet here it was different, and the reason is why I keep coming back to this contrast between the fully clothed men and unclad women. When such a potent symbol of our public sexuality, how much clothing is worn, has been eliminated, what’s left are the distilled essences – pure masculinity and pristine femininity. This was what I felt, sitting in that place attended to by our nude waitress, discussing our wine selection with an au naturel maîtresse d’, gazing across the table upon my little naked Sarah.
We enjoyed a quiet meal. The dining room quickly filled. Ted and Valerie did show up, but after a cheery hello they mercifully moved on. Sarah had a glass of wine too many, although I could hardly blame her. It had been a strange day for her. I helped her upstairs and carried her into the bedroom.

On our first morning in Palmyra, we woke to a chorus of songbirds. Sarah was in an equally chirpy mood, having thrown off the effects of last night’s wine.
I must have dozed off again. When my eyes opened once more, she was not in the room. I could hear her talking to someone. Still drowsy, it took me a while for me to focus. I could make out her words only indistinctly, but a baritone voice answered. I didn’t get up. However, the bedroom door was wide open, and beyond it I could just see out onto the balcony. The outline of Sarah’s naked figure was hazy through the billowing curtains.
She was talking to a man on the next balcony, separated but close enough that they could converse in low voices. I could discern only a few words, but they certainly spiked my curiosity, in particular “so beautiful.”
After a few minutes Sarah came in, looking very pleased with herself.
“Getting acquainted with the neighbours?” I inquired.
“Ah, you’re awake,” she said.
“Obviously,” I replied, unable to hide my irritation.
“What’s up, dearest?” she asked, without even trying to hide her amusement. “Bad mood?”
“Me? No, why?”
“Well, you seem to be in a grumpy.”
I told myself that I was still tired. Unlike Sarah, I have never been a morning person. But she knew what was making me so testy.
She volunteered the information, without my asking: “Those were our neighbours, John and Petrina.”
“I didn’t hear a woman’s voice.”
With a mischievous glint in her eye, and in an ever so slightly superior tone, she continued. “Well anyway, John. Actually, we met them last night, in the restaurant.”
“What? I don’t remember that.”
“Not exactly met them. They were sitting at the next table.”
“Oh yeah.” It was hard to forget that couple, her at least. She was a dazzling, buxom blonde, about Sarah’s age. She sat in her chair almost sideways, so that her legs were not hidden under the table, but instead splayed out to the side. Nothing was concealed. I don’t really recall her husband.
“I can see you do remember.” She was looking at the bedsheet covering the lower half of my body. I quickly checked. The cover was smooth, but my reaction had betrayed me.
“He seems nice.”
“Who?”
“John, silly.”
“Yeah, and I bet he found you very nice as well.”
She smiled wickedly. “Jealous?”
“Of course not.”
I wasn’t lying. After all, this was why I had brought Sarah to Palmyra. Still, it hadn’t occurred to me that she would be enjoying herself so much so soon. Maybe it just didn’t suit me that she was starting to take control.
“So, did he find you nice?”
“He didn’t say so.”
“What, no bulge in his pants?” That was for the bedsheet moment.
“He didn’t have any pants on.”
“Eh?”
Sarah laughed again. “He was wearing a bathrobe.” She was having fun.
“I heard him call you beautiful.”
“Actually, what he said was, ‘It’s a beautiful day.’ But I suppose he may have found me beautiful. Could you blame him?”
“Not at all.” She had come close to the bed, so I seized her arm and pulled her down on top of me. I rolled on top and plunged into her. She squealed but did not resist.

The day was already heating up. The sky was a cloudless, iridescent blue. A shaft of sunlight cast a golden sheen across my darling’s gorgeous naked body, as she lay upon the bed watching me dress.
“What on earth shall I wear today?” she said.
“Same as yesterday,” I replied.
We went down to the lobby squeezed into an undersized elevator with two other female guests and one of the hotel maids. The four naked bodies pressed against each other and against my shirt and trousers. I sniffed subtle fragrances and studied the smooth undulations of bare necks, backs and shoulders. It was too tight a fit for my gaze to penetrate any lower, but Sarah’s eyes caught my own.
“Enjoying yourself?” they were asking.
I wondered aloud if all elevators on the island were like this, built to be so cramped. The women laughed and blushed.
We decided to forego breakfast in the restaurant and instead walk down to the city centre, to take in the sights and get a bite to eat there. Sarah brought her sandals, which she put on as soon as we departed the hotel grounds. That was wise, because the road was paved with cobblestones which protruded through the bitumen. Light as my darling is, I would not have relished carrying her all the way to the bottom of the steep hill. It was only mid-morning, but the air was already shimmering above the roadway.
Régate is a town of about seven thousand residents, half the population of the island. It has eschewed the untrammelled high-rise development that has tarnished the glamour of other resort communities, but there are nevertheless the unmistakable signs of progress and prosperity.
Spreading along the shore of Regatta Bay and creeping into the surrounding foothills, the suburbs are orderly, quiet and well-maintained, affluent but not luxurious. The tone is egalitarian, with no ornate villas or oversized mansions. The commercial district nestled between bay and hills is, on the other hand, busy, noisy and colourful, in places gaudy but rarely tacky or seedy. Picturesque, colonial-era architecture co-exists with modern glass and steel.
The harbour is crowded with fishing and pleasure boats, with cruise ships lying offshore in the deeper water. It is flanked on the south-west by the airport, and beyond that by the more placid anchorage of Robina Bay. In between, separating the inlets, a narrow spit accommodates Patrick’s Emporium, the public markets with a dark history. Nobody seems to know who the original Patrick was, but in the days when piracy and slave-trading were the mainstays of the Palmyran economy, it was from here that such business was conducted. Today, the lively activity is focused on tourists, and the merchandise is more mundane. There is a fruit-and-fish market, a veritable maze of trinket stalls and dozens of roaming vendors. There are even women’s clothing outlets, selling everything from bikinis to ballgowns.
At the base of the spit converge the two major thoroughfares which bisect Régate along its bayside axis. The narrow Promenade closely follows the arc of the shore and is lined with bars, restaurants and nightclubs. The much wider Boulevard runs further inland, roughly parallel to the Promenade, until the curvature of the bay brings them together. Along it are located the department stores and specialty shops, offices and banks.
To get to the town from our hotel, one has to navigate a steeply descending, winding roadway. At various points can still be seen remnants of the serriform rows of fortifications that once snaked up the hillside towards the stronghold overlooking the harbour. The walk is tiring but exhilarating. The view of city and bay, hills and islands, is tremendous.
Upon reaching the Promenade, we chose one of the outdoor cafeterias, at random, for coffee and croissants. The pedestrian traffic was heavy, with people coming up from the beach, or sightseeing, or heading off to work, producing an endless pageant of sumptuous, undraped female bodies.
At a neighbouring table, a couple were finishing breakfast. From the evidence of their laptops and briefcases, they were obviously locals, working for one of the banks or law firms that populate the Boulevard. The man was dressed in an expensive tropical-style business suit. Preoccupied with a conversation on his phone, he seemed indifferent to his companion, who would have been a magnificent sight even if she were not stark naked. She had a russet complexion. Elegant curls of jet-black hair cascaded over her bare shoulders but swept clear of her breasts. Her nipples were carmine pink with a hint of rouge. As she and her partner rose to leave, she turned away from us, and I found it arousing that the criss-cross pattern of the seat cover was imprinted in faint reddish weals on the flesh of her buttocks.
As we awaited our order, a family of four strolled past. Mother and daughter were holding hands and excitedly pointing out the most interesting shops – meaning just about every store in the street – as their reluctant men­folk trailed behind. They could have been a vacationing family just about anywhere, except that for two of them only their matching broad-brimmed chapeaux offered protection from the broiling sun.
The girl was aged in her early teens, her young figure just beginning to blossom. I tried not to look too closely, as it made me feel a tad sleazy, although neither she nor her mother showed any sign of self-consciousness. Both bodies were evenly tanned, so I decided the girl was used to being naked. Her brother, a couple of years younger, indicated not the slightest notion that his mother’s and sister’s nudity might be anything but normal.
With breakfast over, we toured the sights. The island has much to offer in charming scenery, but it is obvious what remains the number one attraction. As naked females brush by, some appear unaware of the effect they are having on you; but you can tell by the way they carry themselves, and by the pride in their expressions when they know you are looking at them, that they understand exactly what is what. Others reveal themselves in a blush and a coy smile. Raised nipples betray those who pretend they are not affected; for the nude law exposes not just women’s bodies, but their thoughts and feelings as well.
Amidst all this, Sarah appeared by now pretty much at ease. She seemed to be enjoying the looks she received and was even beginning to check out the competition.
Naturally we had to do some shopping. With or without clothes, women must follow this primal instinct; and faithful to the ways of her sex, Sarah’s first stop was at a shoe store.
Once our fossicking was completed, it did not take long to pass through the town, onto the beach. It is only here that male and female bodies approach any degree of symmetry. Yet even on the strand, the difference remains. You are warned in the literature, and by shorefront signage, that male nudity is prohibited; indeed, Palmyrans are rather prudish about this. Exiting the beach, men are expected to at least put on a shirt, and trousers or shorts are de rigueur downtown. The same formality applies in private establishments. That afternoon, Sarah and I visited the pool and gymnasium located at the rear of the hotel. A sign at the entrance sternly warns that “MALE PATRONS MUST WEAR APPROPRIATE SWIMMING ATTIRE.”
Everywhere you go, you are reminded that Palmyra is not like other places. The nude law makes the familiar strange and the unusual commonplace. Between the pool and gym is an ablutions block. At first glance it appears typical, the men’s and women’s sections partitioned by a lattice­work fence. Yet I chuckled when I saw that the “FEMALE” sign has the international symbol, the stylized figure in a dress that is so incongruous in this setting.
On closer inspection, you realize that the male section takes up almost all of the space in the block, with toilets, showers and changing room. The females’ amenity consists of a single lavatory cubicle. There is a shower head attached to the external wall. There’s no need for a dressing room for those don’t get dressed and undressed, no point in having private facilities for those who are allowed no privacy; yet it is unsettling when you first see it.
We had the place virtually to ourselves. In the gym, a couple were working out. He was assisting her to do sit-ups. Beads of perspiration flecked her naked breasts. Rivulets of sweat ran down her belly to soak into the dark curls of her pubic hair. At poolside, a woman was emerging from the water. I recognized her as the maîtresse d’hôtel and she smiled a cordial greeting. I watched intrigued as she dried herself with a towel. It took a fair amount of skill, to never allow the cloth to linger over her bosom and her lower parts. A quick dab of these ensured that they were kept exposed to public view.
Nearby, a petite Asian woman was waiting patiently for her man to emerge from the change room. She was very pretty, even tinier than my Sarah, with small, taut breasts and a smooth, tight backside. Her compact body glistened with the pool water that she had not bothered to towel off. With nothing to put over it, she allowed her skin to dry naturally in the sunlight; but she shivered a little.
Her mate turned out to be a middle-aged, balding Caucasian man with a paunch that overwhelmed his beltline and stretched to near fail-point the most garishly florid shirt I have ever seen. As he flung a massive arm around his diminutive partner, she flopped, visibly wincing, into his bearish embrace, and her little naked body all but disappeared inside his vast, dank armpit. I felt sorry for her, but their business was not mine.
When they had departed, Sarah and I were alone. She selected a sun lounge between the pool and rock garden, and settled into it. I moved another seat beside hers but facing in the opposite direction, so I could gaze upon her. As she drifted into sleep, her breasts rose and fell to the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Her nipples softened in the tranquillity of her slumber, but hardened again suddenly as she dreamed something that caused her to moan faintly. I wanted to touch her, hold her, caress her, but I did not want to wake her.
I could have sat there, contemplating my lovely, for all time. Except that already I was feeling it once more, the urge to share my little treasure with the world.

To be continued...

PALMYRA continued on the OLDER POSTS page.