Something powerful stirred inside me when I heard the groan of carnal satisfaction over the gentle waves. That something had been trying to return for a while, nudged toward life with every sultry glance and beautiful body that I encountered or imagined. But when I turned the corner that night and saw her on his lap, rolling her hips, unmistakeably fucking, that was when it officially re-awakened. It had been asleep for literally years; when I moved to Jamaica, it truly slept in peace. It was a long time coming, but as I felt the onset of hot slickness between my legs, and the warm welcome tingling of my flesh, I knew that my sex drive had returned in full, finally triggered by this one lingering, voyeuristic moment.

I had taken the same late-night nude walk on the beach a couple nights a week for the last month or so, starting as soon as the nights got warm enough to make it comfortable. It was a year and six months ago that I took residence at Hopewell Manor, and six months prior to that was when I introduced myself to the man who brought me here.


I knew lots of girls in school that had very specific dreams about what they wanted, and very specific plans on how to get it. Some went to college, some turned their part time jobs into full time jobs. My goals were never that well-defined, but I knew that whatever life I led, I wanted it to include plenty of comfort and cash. I’d been “on the pole” for five years, nearly a lifetime in the world of the gentleman’s club, when I saw a break in the clouds.

He gave me plenty of cash right away, and as time went by, the comfort came as well. It had been so easy to set that initial hook, too. Cheek to cheek as I ground my bare pussy on his lap in the privacy of the VIP lounge, he whispered in my ear:

“You’re so gorgeous baby, I bet you don’t know what to do with all the nice compliments and things you get.”

“No, everybody treats me like shit,” I replied, in a well practiced half-pout, half-purr.

Oh poor me, the disrespected stripper, right? But that was all it took. A c-note landed in the palm of my hand a moment later. It was the first of countless others to follow, and the beginning of a relationship built on mutual needs and without apologies: a man in need of companionship, and a young woman with a thirst for cash and a better lifestyle.

He maintained three residences, one in his native England, one in my hometown for business reasons, and one in Jamaica because it’s the place he called home. Whenever he was in town, he came to see me. Soon, I was seeing him outside the club if he was in town on days I didn’t work. Eventually, he never came to the club at all: I was staying at his house. As sugar daddies go, David was a dream. His generosity and kindness knew few bounds, and his sexual demands were few and seldom, the perfect combination for a jaded dancer with a scorching case of sexual burnout.

Night after night, disrobing and gyrating in front of, above, and up against a blur of lonely men took its toll. Being sexy became a chore, and over time, the power of sex completely lost its allure. Lots of people assume that the single strippers who don’t date and don’t trick are just uptight in some way or holding out for bigger money, but some just can’t get that excited about sex at all, especially with the same guys that paw at them for hours in the club. All I wished for was to not have to be sexy, to not be an object. Sex was the last thing I wanted, and between that and the difficulties of meeting good men anyway while working as a stripper, dating wasn’t even worth messing with.


I got the text message one day as I was preparing to go into work: he’d had a heart attack the night before. When I went to visit him the next morning, his spirits were good despite being hooked up to more than a few tubes and machines. He had an idea for me.

“Angela, my dear, all I’ve got here are doctors telling me what I can’t do, and time to think about what I can. My life is changing. I’d like to offer something to you.”

Ironically, it was a debilitating emergency in his life that created an opportunity for mine. His offer was to have me move to Jamaica to live with him full-time, and to help him manage his affairs. I’d live in a big house on an estate, be waited on hand-and-foot, and enjoy a nearly perpetual summer overlooking the ocean. What was I leaving behind in exchange? Not a whole hell of a lot, besides a job I’d hate if I weren’t so numb to it, and an empty-shell of a life I’d otherwise be leading. This was the future I’d seemingly hoped in vain would happen, so I accepted without hesitation. 


Mr. Gordon’s home- Hopewell Manor, as it is called- sits on the edge of a gated collection of mansions which terrace up the hillsides, overlooking the Caribbean coast. Everyone who owns property and lives there is white, and with few exceptions, English. Just on the other side of a high wall and maybe a half-mile of beach and forest lies the village of St. John’s Burg. Everyone who lives in the village is black, and a good many of them make up the work staff at the various gated mansions nearby, including Hopewell Manor.

There is a daily street market there, selling fruits, vegetables, meats, and handmade goods to the working and poor of the village and beyond. Every other homeowner around us prefers to send their staff with a list, but I always loved to make the trip myself. When I exited the iron gate, where the estate wall meets the beach, I always felt free, as if I’d re-entered that which was real, and left behind the stodgy ascot-and-croquet world of what passed for a social life among my expat neighbors.

Largely numb to the effects, I nonetheless always noticed the stares, both leering and curious, as I exited the beach and walked through the center of the village to the market. I was always the lone Caucasian, showing my tanned skin in slight clothing and open sandals. I dressed for the weather to be sure, but a full view of a sexy white woman’s midriff and upper thigh was not something the villagers were accustomed to seeing.

Sure, a few of these very people would serve me drinks at my poolside, or perhaps occasionally bring toiletries to me while wrapped in a towel, but work was different: the eyes were diverted, the head held lower. Here, I was in their world, on their time; they were damn sure going to look, and I didn’t really care either way. The fish merchant, an intense man who surely was somewhere near my own age, always took extra interest in me.

He never said much; his communication was all in his eyes. I could never tell if he simply lusted after me, or resented me for the interloper that I was by shopping among his people; probably both. But on days when I didn’t purchase fish, I missed the electric tension when I didn’t see him. Sometimes I would walk by, slowly, hoping he would notice me. Even if it didn’t always turn me on, I enjoyed knowing I aroused something in him every time.

In the meantime, my David, Mr. Gordon to everyone else, was forbidden by his doctors from sexual activity, among many other things. As the months passed, our relationship changed anyway. More than just an assistant and recipient of sugar daddy favors, I became his right hand associate in all matters he attended to, business and personal. What I lacked in education, I seemed to have in instinct and diligence, and as his health did not improve, I started taking more and more responsibilities.

Recently, late at night, my mind started to wander a bit. Sitting with my laptop under the verandah, letting the see breeze wash over me in the dead of night, I’d click off of a spreadsheet or email, and onto the internet. I started to let my imagination take over with an erotic story or two; or maybe it was as innocent as browsing facebook, noting the handsome men in my loosely connected network of acquaintances. But either way, between my mental workload taking its toll and my sexual identity was trying to reassert itself, I was looking for an escape without even knowing it.

I finished reading a story, one that told of a surprise encounter: the sexy young woman was blindfolded by her boyfriend on her birthday, only it turned out to not be her boyfriend at all. Deception, surprise, orgasms, and wonderful sexual expression- it made me smile, and offered me that temporary escape. I loved to let my imagination take a stroll in these stories, even if they didn’t get me utterly aroused. But as I closed my laptop, I decided to take a stroll of my own.

At the base of the stairs that led down to the rolling lawn, I shed my clothing, walked the expanse of soft grass under my bare feet, and passed through the gate, marveling at the moon’s reflection on the gentle waters of the sea as I emerged onto the beach. This never got old, it always felt something close to spiritual to me.