She’d bought four new bikinis especially for this trip, but realized as soon as she hit the beach that all the girls were topless. High and perky, low and droopy, barely there or swinging pendulously, the breasts were out and they were free. She felt a little silly in her frilly bandeau-top, but she didn’t think she had the nerve to bare it all, particularly in front of the hot Spanish men playing football up and down the beach. It had taken enough of her courage to wear a bikini at all. But how often would she have the chance to do something so daring? Certainly not back in her conservative little hometown, where wearing your shorts higher than mid-thigh meant you’d be prayed over for the next three Sundays in a row.
But she wasn’t at home, was she? No, she was thousands of miles away over the ocean on the Southernmost tip of Spain. And just this once, she wanted to live a little. Well, fuck it! She thought, and with that she untied her bandeau-top and revelled in the little rush of excitement that filled her belly. “They’re out!” she yelled to no one in particular.
Of course it was just at that moment that she heard someone calling her name. It wasn’t possible, of course: she’d just arrived last night and didn’t know a soul in town. That was the whole point of the trip, after all. But she’d distinctly heard the name “Bexley Rose” flit across the wind, and what were the chances of two Bexley Roses vacationing in Tarifa at the same time?
She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked into the distance to see who it could be calling her name. It was…wait, was this even possible? Was that Father Murphy waving excitedly as he made his way towards her on the beach? And was that…yes, there were Sister Mary Theresa and Sister Maria struggling to keep up with him in the sand.
Bexley was sure she was hallucinating, or maybe she was still drunk from that welcome drink she got at the hotel last night, the one that was so strong they almost had to physically carry her to her room after she’d ‘welcomed’ herself several times. Why else would she see the elders of her hometown’s church walking towards her on a Spanish beach while her nipples winked at them in the sunlight?
But there they were, Father Murphy with his kind face and benevolent smile, Sisters Mary and Maria with scowls so deeply etched in their faces they looked like topographical maps of the grand canyon. All the nuns were missing were wooden rulers with which to cane her ungodly hide. The trio were most certainly real and they were coming towards her and her exposed breasts.
She didn’t even know that clerics took beach holidays — what on earth were they doing here amongst all this…flesh? As they came ever closer — Father Murphy still smiling, the nuns gearing up for the verbal dressing down they were quite obviously going to give her, if the expressions on their faces were any indication — she thought of the scandal this would cause back home. She thought of how the news would no doubt get back to her suffocatingly pious parents, how the congregation would be treated to weeks of preaching about the sins of the flesh and succumbing to corruption.
And then she thought, well, fuck it! for the second time that day, and with that she returned Father Murphy’s exuberant wave, her own happy smile plastered on her face, her breasts jiggling freely in the Spanish wind.