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 Come to Jamaica and feel all right. Well, that was the plan, for Michelle and me when we headed out there for a week of rum punch, steel drums and natty dreads. Our only desire was to swoon each night on the beach and wake up to One Love as the sun ascended the clean line between the Caribbean Sea and the cool turquoise of the new morning sky. Michelle, my upstairs neighbor back home in Fulham, South West London, had planned this trip with a bloke, her boyfriend, Dean "Dickhead" Davis. Well, Dean, it turned out, clearly had some kind of health problem. Because at the eleventh hour he left Michelle for another girl. A doctor! Michelle was a beautiful exotic dancer - the E word describing the kind of dancing she did, as much as the nature of her beauty - and this prick had left her for an urologist. Do you know what an urologist is? A pisshead. Which based on the fruits of our seven day sunsplash in Montego Bay is more than a little ironic. But we'll get to that soon enough. Seven nights of sin, sun and Captain Morgan's rum, bought and paid for, and Dean had upped and left her for some witch's tit at a North England University Hospital. There was Michelle, 25 years of lithe, tan thigh and he chucks her for someone ten years older and five years better educated. Bastard!  Well, fuck him. I took his place in Air Jamaica seat 34D (oddly corresponding with my bra size, I figured it was a cosmic sign of some kind) and I languished in his spot on the crisp, bamboo-print sheets of the hotel bed.Eventually, I took his place between Michelle's long legs, too, and under the soft skin at the back of her neck, beneath the wild tangle of brown hair that fell about so perfectly along the graceful geometry of her shoulders. This, I can tell you, was not on the itinerary. A day snowboarding at Dunn's River Falls seemed more likely when we set out, and a shark attack would have surprised me less. And it was quite by accident that things went the way they did. But ah, Michelle, ma belle. It was so nice of her to let me come. Now, until I was bitten, Michelle and I were just friends. But as they say in half a dozen ads for chocolate delectables, of which the two of us could have had our fair share had we not been so distracted by jelly and the pale pink throbbing of my inner thigh, "Once bitten, Forever smitten." You see, when Michelle and I planned on checking out some watersports, I think we'd both banked on windsurfing, jet skiing, and perhaps a trip around the bay in a glass bottom boat. Maybe it was sunstroke that got us so hot, and we were toasted on ultraviolet, mutually radiating solar energy. Maybe it was the ganja that melted me, making me one with my predator, turning me to a slippery wet jelly below the waist. Maybe it was the White Jamaicans, those viscous cocktails the hotel bartender slid to us across a watery path of melted ice and clear rum at Happy Hour. Never trust a drink you can't see or smell. Because you become that drink after it enters you. You can't see or smell yourself, and you get into trouble until you can. And all your senses come pouring back in a rush of pain and pleasure. But, like I said, we'll get to that, soon enough. Anyway, Michelle and I had a room at the Pink Shells in Montego Bay. We knocked back a couple of these drinks at the Blowfish, our "No shirt, No problem" hotel bar, and we hit the beach. Linford and Bedford Maxwell, a couple of locals we'd met that afternoon at the pool, were going to hook up with us on the jetty, where Electro Cute, a new female techno-reggae dance act out of Kingston 12, was having a CD release party. The plan was to get as high as the Blue Mountains on their weed, as tanked as a couple of aquarium clown fish on cheap rum, take these youth boys up to the room and fuck them hard till daylight come and me wanna go home. Maybe it was the moonlight, searing into the water, penetrating the gently restless black waves that beckoned Michelle and me to strip and plunge from the jetty, and swim away from the party, together alone.  I don't know what it was. But I was cold wet on the outside and hot wet on the inside. I dipped my head under, and watched Michelle's legs thrusting and pushing as she tread water in the liquid shadows of the moonlit sea. I watched her stomach muscles stretch taut, her breasts thrust up as she spread her arms and tipped back her head to stay afloat. Her lashes stuck together, like she was wearing some kind of new-gimmick mermaid-look mascara., and I felt the overwhelming desire to grab her beneath the waves and lick the salt off her lips, sweeten her mouth with the coconut and rum taste of my own tongue.But before I could make a move, it happened. A sharp bite between my legs, a caustic, wicked stab at the center of my universe. "Mother FUCK!" "What's the matter?" she asked. "I'm BIT. Fuck. OW !" We swam ashore, and back on the beach Michelle slid back into her underwear, her nipples crimping in the slight cold, as though somebody had circled them with needle and thread and then pulled. Crystal beads of sea water sparkled in the dark on the back of her legs, as she slipped into her bottoms, the elastic of her panties biting into the lean meat of her ass. "Let's go," I said, grabbing my clothes and wrapping myself in a beach towel. "I hurt between the legs." We walked back, to the syncopated throb of the bass, past the beach party, through an air so thick with ganja the smoke itself was almost green. Up in room 420, I stood in the florescent lemon glare of the hotel bathroom, one foot up on the toilet seat, face bent towards my crotch, trying to locate the stinging pink stain of my jellyfish love bite. "Lie down on the bed," Michelle said, coming at me from behind and wrapping a sand-freckled arm around my waist. "I'll do it."  I spread out on the neatly made bed while Michelle leaned over me, clutching a tube of Aloe Eaze sunburn relief gel."Get ready," she said, pinching a bubble of the gold-green ointment into her palm, "It'll be cold." It wasn't. The tube had been sitting on the balcony in the sun all day, and it was warm. "Ah…I see," she said, "He bit you on the lip. You poor baby. The outer lip." Michelle began to massage gel into my outer pussy lips, along the swollen red site of the jelly fish bite. "How's that?" she asked. "Is it easing the pain? Am I in the right place?" "YYYeah?" I answered, in the form of a question. "Higher or lower?" "Higher," I sighed. And harder. God, make me feel better, I thought. Rub the pain away. "Here?" Her fingertip was purposefully on my clit now. It's astounding how pleasure in one place can detract from pain in another. "Here?" she questioned me again. "Yeah. Right there." I closed my eyes as she rubbed her slippery wet palm over my pussy, working my lips and clit into a hungry pout. I lifted my hips on the bed and rubbed back, to the deep reverberations of Electro Cute's music pulsing furtively in through the hotel room window. "More?" she asked. I lifted the nest of curly dark hair off her neck and shoulders and breathed into her ear. "Rub me out." I came twice. Once to her fingers, and once to the firm thrusts of her warm tongue as she licked the Aloe from between my thighs. "Better?" she asked. "Well…"  To be honest, I felt better inside, but the cruel sting of the jelly monster still tormented my outer edges."Once a Girl Scout, always a Girl Scout," Michelle said. She grabbed "CocoNutz: The Single Girl's Guidebook to Cruising the Caribbean" from the nightstand, and ran a fingernail down the book's the index. "I knew this would come in useful," she said. "Jellyfish, Jellyfish. Antidote. OH!" She snapped the book shut with a delicious, punch-drunk grin. "What?" I whimpered, still prostrate on the bed. Without a word, Michelle leaned in towards me, stepped her right leg over my hips into a low squat straddle, and tipped her head towards to the ceiling. Cupping my breasts with her hands, she closed her eyes, I closed mine, and I lay back and felt the warm stream of pee spray my crotch and inner thigh. Sure enough, the heat of piss quelled the hot sting of my delicately situated wound. I rubbed my clit as the last drops rolled down my inner thigh, and I came again, and opened my eyes to a sweet dream of release and relief. I pulled Michelle's face to my mouth and kissed her hard. I was cured. Just then there was a knock. Without dressing, I slid off the bed and scuffed the heavy door across the carpet a few inches, peeking into the hallway. Linford and Bedford Maxwell stood in corridor armed with a stiff white spliff and a bottle of stiff dark rum…and, we expected, a couple of shorts full of stiff dark cock, and a couple of cockfuls of stiff white cum. I turned back towards Michelle, who was kneeling on the mattress, rubbing herself dry with a towel. She nodded, and we let them in.
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