The Red Bikini (Short Story)

He watched her everyday.

It was a ritual. One coffee and one croissant, which he usually left half eaten for the seagulls.

Sitting on the resort terrace, sipping coffee and nibbling at the croissant, he watched her lying by the pool.

Watching her was part of his small ritual.

Exquisitely beautiful in an elegant but sexily skimpy red bikini, she lay on the white sun lounge and surveyed the world through her fashionable sunglasses.

Honey coloured skin, cascading thick black hair and red lips, fingernails and toenails to match the bikini.

When she shifted her leg, he caught a glimpse of the slight furrow in the red cloth of her bikini bottoms that hinted at the cleft of her sex.

It could be his imagination as he was an artist.

The twin curses of the artist – an overactive imagination and a deep appreciation of beauty.

Her legs shifted again and he was positive the tight bikini bottoms were pulling against her sex.

Yesterday, he had deduced she was bald. There were no tell tale pinprick indentation  in the cloth from pubic hair. Of course, he did not know if she waxed or shaved. That small detail was kept from him. Only her lovers would know.

And where were her lovers? There were none to be seen.

That puzzled him.

A woman that beautiful and that beguiling should have a lover! Perhaps a famous football star from Spain or a French film actor. 

The lover would be young, sullen, and extraordinarily handsome. Probably with a brooding, smouldering demeanour and a muscular body in tight white European swim trunks.

A god for the goddess.

Or, perhaps she preferred women! That would be interesting! Any woman that seduced the goddess would have to be as equally exotic.

However, he had watched her for three days and there wasn’t a lover – male or female – to be seen.

Of course, various young men approached her and she always sent them away with a dismissive wave of her hand, long red fingernails glittering in the sun.

Perhaps she’s waiting for someone?

That was his best guess but what man would keep this goddess waiting?

Would a helicopter suddenly appear and a famous person walk up the beach to sweep her from the sun lounge?

It was almost time for the ritual to end. The coffee was almost finished and then he would walk away, leaving his half eaten croissant on the table for the seagulls.

Suddenly, a change in both their rituals.

The woman swung her legs down and stood.

He was mesmerised by the perfect breasts quietly jiggling in the twin red triangles of the bikini bra.

The outline of the nipples was clearly visible.

Even from a distance, it was easy to see there was not a blemish on that perfect honey coloured skin.

She bent over to pick up her sarong wrap and towel, presenting him and the other diners with a wonderful view of her sculptured arse.

Taut cheeks in a low slung red bikini!

Carelessly, she turned and walked towards the terrace, a complete break from her normal morning.

The other diners were few and there were many empty tables and he wondered which table she would select.

She surprised him.

Calmly, she sat down at his table!

The goddess was sitting opposite him and smiling slightly.

‘You have been watching me for three days, yes?’

He could not pick her accent. French? Belgian? Definitely not Italian or Spanish.

As he searched for an acceptable answer, he wished he could see her eyes.

In the end, he decided not to lie.

‘Yes,’ he murmured.

‘Do you like what you see?’

‘Very much,’ he said softly, wondering of she was going to create a scene, accuse him of being a dirty old man.

‘You are Inglis?’


‘They are the same, no?’

‘Not really.’

‘It matters not.’

‘No,’ he agreed, ‘in the end it does not matter.’

‘You are looking at my chest.’

Again, he decided on honesty.

‘I’m sorry but I can’t help it.’

She shrugged in a somewhat Gallic manner which, of course, jiggled her breasts again.

‘I know. You are a man. And yet, you do not approach me? Why?’

He half smiled.

‘I am much older, at least twenty years older than you.’

She did not allow him to escape with his small lie.

‘More like thirty years, yes? You are how old?’

‘Fifty seven,’ he admitted.

‘There,’ she said, waving an elegant finger, ‘I am twenty six. There you have it.’

‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘there you have it.’

‘Why did you not approach me?’

‘My age?’

‘No, there is more.’

‘Perhaps I was afraid you would send me on my way like those young men…’

‘The boys?’ Her verbal dismissal was laced with scorn. ‘They are only interested in fucking me. It is a bore.’

Another shrug and he tried to tear his eyes from her jiggling breasts.

‘Probably not a bore for them,’ he murmured and she nodded, a serious expression her perfect face.

‘Of course. They poke and jiggle, then spurt. Poof! It is over!’

‘I can see how that would be a bore,’ he said and, for the first time in six months, laughed.

‘But you would not be afraid of rejection. You have wisdom, not pride.’

‘Nice of you to say…’

‘It is obvious. So, why did you not approach me?’

‘I’ve been ill,’ he said slowly. ‘A heart attack…’

‘Ah,’ she said with a nod, ‘you are afraid to have sex. Did you have a heart attack when you were with your lover?’

‘No. It was in my studio. The cleaning woman saved me.’

He was surprised he was giving her so many details.

‘You see, there is the difference. You did not approach me because you think you could not make love to me, yes?’

‘I suppose that’s it.’

‘And you enjoyed watching me?’

‘Very much.’

‘I like your eyes. I have a cabana here.’

‘You do?’

The cabanas were very expensive and on the beach.

‘Yes,’ she said as if everyone had a cabana. ‘I have decided what you can do for me.’


‘You have been staring at my crotch for three days. Are you a pussy man?’

He felt his face grow hot at her casual and careless question and for the first time since the heart attack, his cock pulsed.

‘I suppose…’

‘Yes or no.’


‘I want someone to love me with their mouth. No more, no less. Can you do that? You will not even have to remove your clothes.’

‘Why me?’

‘You have nice eyes. I like to look down on a pair of nice eyes as you eat.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Should there be more? You have a soft white beard that will not scratch me. There! Is that enough?’

‘I suppose but…but I don’t know your name. I’m…’

‘No! No names. We do not need names. Names are a burden.’

For someone so young, she was, he decided, very wise.

‘I am going now,’ she said. ‘Walk with me or go back to your room alone.’

She stood up and turned away.

Slowly, he stood up and walked after her, leaving his half-eaten croissant for the seagulls.

9 Notes The Red Bikini (Short Story)

  1. Nice little fantasy that I could see myself enjoying although with my luck she would look more like Cass Elliot (Mamas & Papas fame) rather than Catherine Zeta Jones

  2. I like your small stories. Very good.

  3. Great story.

    Jackkat. Mama Cass roflmao

  4. Love this story, How I wish I were he.

  5. Great story, thanks for sharing.

  6. Delightful story, thank you.

  7. a pleasant really confusing story

  8. Really enjoyed this story