Skilled Hands and Quiet Beaches

The locals think we're crazy.

It's only April, you see, and to them this is still coat weather. They see me in my sundress and you in short sleeves and think O Lord, mad dogs and Englishmen. Then they shiver just looking at us and turn their eyes away. If they saw us now they'd faint: I'm stripped down to a cute two-piece bikini, the one you said was the only thing redder than my hair.

I like deep, vivid colours when I'm not in office formal. See, I have a healthy appreciation for my own beauty -- false modesty is half the sin of pride, as Granny used to say -- and I love the way they contrast against my fair skin.

You're in your swim shorts, of course. At lunch, you said no grown man should wear speedos unless he's posing for a magazine. I, rather boldly considering we were in public, teased that it didn't make much difference, since you could wear baggy clown pants and still sport a bulge. You had one at the time, bumping at the underside of the cute little table in that cute little café on that cute little plaza, though my cute little foot running teasingly up your leg might have played a part in that.

The weather today would be considered perfect for a British summer, but the locals are such wimps that we have the beach to ourselves.

I shouldn't be mean, really. I'm sure they could handle heat that would kill us, but it's hard not to laugh. You wouldn't know it from work, since I've worked hard for my RP accent, but I was born in Scotland. Pure Baltic this is not. I've always preferred to holiday in the Spring; places like this are warm enough to be pleasant without being blazing hot, everything's less crowded, and you get better travel deals because you're not flying during Tourist Season.

Of course we're sufficiently well-off that we don't need the deals, not strictly, but being good with money is part of the reason why. So here we are, with blue sea and blue sky, golden sand and golden sun, the heavens a mirror of the earth.

There's just one problem.

I could burn in an Arctic winter.

"Be a dear and do my sunscreen, will you? I feel like a vampire." Hiding beneath the parasol, hissing at passing Christians. And of course you oblige. Wouldn't be the first time you've covered me in white, after all. So I lie down upon our beach-blanket and stretch out like a cat, complete with purring, and settle down to get to grips with my book. Standard fare, cop turned PI with a dead family sort of thing. I'm turning the pages idly like the fast reader that I am, while you squirt cream into your hands. Naughty boy.

You start with my back, liberally slathering the sunscreen onto it. I find myself sighing under my breath, since I've always loved the feel of your hands. They move in circles, methodically covering my skin, and I can feel knots disintegrate that I didn't know were there. Rubbing, pressing, working the protective cream into me. Soon you realise there isn't enough; suncream never stretches as far as you think it will, just like phone charge and shared olive platters and lube. So you add more, squirting it directly onto my skin in a way that covers it so efficiently you'd think you'd had practice.

Then rub, rub, more rubbing, those steady ministrations that have me making little sighing noises on the regular now. I swear, you could have been a masseuse.

I'm still reading the book, but my mind keeps wandering. Being seen to by those big, warm, strong hands will do that to you. I'm starting to think that this crime author should try his hand at horror, what with all the spooky monologues, when you decide my back is done and take your hands away. The moan of disappointment I make is a little embarrassing. But you aren't gone for long; disappointing women was never your style.

Now you're moving south to my hips, the part the rather skimpy bikini doesn't cover, and my thighs. I hear you draw back, the better to pay them attention. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't adjust my posture a little, to give you a better look between my legs.

"The view is beautiful today." You murmur.

"Yeah," I agree, "that sea view really is something." And we laugh, because we both know that's not what you meant.

My thighs are thick and firm and I'm proud of them. I can do some pretty dramatic things with my hips, too, and I'm also proud of those. You certainly seem appreciative enough, and I hope you're proud of yourself for handling them so well. I know I am. More cream, more rubbing, protecting me with that thick layer of white, administered by hands whose touch is starting to feel a little... possessive.

I raise my bum a little bit, enough that I can pretend it's just to make your job easier, and sure enough your hands start to press a little harder. For a moment one of them seems to slip, your fingers brushing the fabric of my bikini bottoms, and you give my left buttock a brief squeeze before returning to the pretence. It makes me squeak.

Then my hips and thighs are gone and you move down, down, down. Wouldn't want my legs to burn now, would we? You even do my feet for me; so considerate. I don't think my soles rightly need suncream, though, what with me standing on them most of the time. But you've always liked touching them, so I don't mind you getting a bit overzealous.

Besides, it feels so good.

I moan and sigh through the impromptu footrub, novel forgotten. After reading the same line three times I figured it was a lost cause. Instead I just appreciate the pleasure flowing up from my feet, the wonderful feeling in my soles that radiates waves of relaxation up my bliss-slack body. You start with my left, then once that's done and your hands move over I decide to repay you, just a little.

My cunning left foot slips out and presses against your leg, then moves to what I know will be there -- a throbbing, iron presence. No mere bulge now, but a great erection that I just know is pulling your trunks forwards and up as it tries to tear its way free. I hear you utter a sigh of your own, and smile.

Once my feet are done you rapidly move back up again, and my foot slips away from your rock-hard dick. At the time I was thinking you were going to turn me over, to do my front, but no. I should have known that the game was over by now. Instead you grab my ass with both hands, all pretence thrown away, and squeeze.

"Mmm!" Say I, hips rocking at your touch. Your fingers press between my legs and my body responds on autopilot, jiggling, wriggling, bucking to and fro. My moans are breathless now, savage and needy.

"Don't slip them in," I warn between the gasps, "Suncream and ladyparts do not mix."

A laugh. "I knew a guy who did that to himself once. He said there were fringe benefits."

I'm sure there were, but now is not the time.

Besides, the job's going well enough even without direct contact, pressing the fabric of my bikini against my tingling, engorged lips. This won't take long -- it isn't normal for bikini bottoms to get this wet while still on the beach. Sun, sea, sand, the knowledge that work can wait 'till next week, and a lovely man working to serve you? Now that's an aphrodisiac.

I mean. You don't think I narrate my grocery runs like this, do you?

Then there are fingers looped into the hem of my bottoms, and the red fabric comes down. You stand, shorts falling away, and I rise onto all fours for what I know is coming.

Me, pretty shortly. I'm going to be coming. I'm already halfway there when you drop to your knees and mount me.

I cry out on the first stroke. Always have. Even the lustiest girl on earth doesn't have something up there all the time, and feeling that imposition, that new invading presence, it's a lot. Even with fingers or small toys or lesser dicks by far, I always make some noise. It's a lot less likely that I'll keep making noise, mind, but with enough dick and enough effort, it can be done. You can do it. You do it then, with the strong thrusts of a skilled shagger who has tapped this ass often enough to know the way I like it.

You do it with regular, reliable strokes, not random stabs or slow, desultory motions. These aren't the too-quick efforts of people who think fast is the same as hard, the over-enthusiastic drilling of someone trying to sprint a marathon, or the glacial pace of those who tell themselves they're being sensitive but really just don't have the vigour.

I'm far too ginger to be Goldilocks but you, my big strong bear, are just right.

The hands that served me so attentively are still not idle. At first they grip my hips, steadying me as you thrust deep inside, but once you find your rhythm they move, stroking their way round to my front, where --

"Don't bother," I manage between the gasps, "you've worked hard enough. I'll handle that, ooh, fuck, myself."

A truth that frightens many men is that pumping with X inches for Y minutes is not a surefire formula for success, just like how there are better ways to get a girl in the mood than just poking her box with your fingers. Cock is good, cock is pleasurable, I love the feeling of being penetrated and filled with it, but if that's the meal's only course I'll probably get sore before I get off. You know that, and so I have to slap your fingers away from my clit. Let the damn things rest. Have some fun.

Instead I put my head in the crook of one arm, raising my ass and bending further, while stroking above the place where your hard shaft enters me. The wonderful pleasure within starts climbing almost immediately. Meanwhile your hands stroke as they will and where they might, making my skin tingle, finally seizing on my swinging breasts in their red bikini top. You fondle them, squeeze them, unable to fit the whole of them in your palms but determined to try. Fingers quest inside the top to grasp warm flesh and tease hard nipples, making my pleasure rise even higher.

And of course there's one more factor, one more instrument in this horny symphony that's soon to reach its crescendo. The risk. The fact that we're doing this in public. Never mind that the beach is nearly abandoned, that we're being brisk about it. This is no leisurely lovemaking session on some fine continental morning, or a wild marathon fuckfest after an evening of dancing and sangria in the hotel bar. There's a chance, however small, of some unusually brave locals or fellow mad Englishmen finding us here in flagrante.

It's probably a stupid risk -- how would I show my face at the office if it had been plastered all over the Scum under a "British holidaygoers caught on 'public indecency' charges" headline? But its like the stupid risks you take when you're young and drunk; the brain is so off its gourd on horny hormones that crazy just makes sense. And there's undeniably a thrill to things like this.

Fuck in the office after hours and hope the cleaners don't catch you. Fuck in the park on a 'romantic walk' and trust the undergrowth to hide you from dog-walkers. Fuck in the garden knowing that the neighbours will faint if they look past the fence.

Fuck on the beach in the open in broad daylight, and to hell with the consequences. The adrenaline, the risk, it makes my heart soar.

Risky or not, it looks like we'll make it. Because I can feel my climax coming, rushing, sweeping onwards, cresting like the waves that are close enough to hear, just like my orgasm is close enough to taste the way you can sample a wine through mere aroma in the moments before it hits your tongue... And then hit it does.

"Mmmmh!" I cry, muffled by my own arm. Not exactly up to my usual standards of eloquence, but I challenge anyone to be articulate when they've buried their face in their own elbow. The pleasure crashes in like those waves on the waterline, dousing me, flooding me, in my clit and my pussy and everywhere, until my eyes well up and my toes curl and my skin tingles, hands clenching and heart fluttering and hips going wild. This is usually where things get clumsy, but you've felt me cum so often that you adjust your strokes instinctually, working together to keep the rhythm steady.

Steadiness is key. No need to go mad at the last moment. Just thrust, thrust, thrust as I rub, rub, rub, while I become a vessel for liquid bliss.

So much of it. So much bliss. I remember I wept after my first ever orgasm, eighteen and bawling in an older man's arms; I hadn't known such pleasure existed in the world. I was lucky enough to have had it on my first time... or unlucky, perhaps, in that it gave me somewhat inflated expectations going forward. You're the first person who can make me cum as hard and reliably as my first partner, the first to smash through the shell of self-superiority and mild disdain for the male sex I developed like a suit of armour after the second and third let me down. Not that there weren't bright spots between the two of you, of course. But there was nothing as glowing as this.

Glowing, glowing, a happy light that turns the mind to mush. A joyous atom bomb inside that leaves an afterglow of fallout around every tingling nerve, a tidal wave that floods the body in an ecstatic flood.

In time, of course, the waters recede. The wave washes back into the sea, leaving only that sweet and fuzzy afterglow. It's over -- for me, at least. But getting my own pleasure is no excuse to be lazy. So my hips keep moving, throwing it back, while I raise my head and plant both palms in the ground and slam myself onto you with all my strength, feet gouging furrows in the sand beneath our blanket. Then at long last your steady pace wavers, becomes faster, your breath quickening as your cock begins to throb around my coaxing, kissing lips.

I wonder just how it feels. I'm not a man, so it's hard to know for sure. But I think it must feel good to be in sex's victory lap, to know you've done your job right and now there is nothing left but your reward. Your partner is happy and satisfied, you've done it the way the movies and dirty books say you should, the finish line is behind you and now you can just relax, have fun, and focus on your own pleasure. Take your gold medal... well, your silver. You didn't finish first, after all.

As I think this, silver shoots from you. Or glistening white, in any case. I hear it and feel it at once, your triumphant and almost desperate cry, the final throb as your cock erupts. You slam it into me as fast as you can now, striving to get as close and as deep as possible, the clapping-slapping sound of you against me almost drowned by your groans and grunts and the moans of encouragement I make to coax every last drop from you.

Yours doesn't go on as long as mine, but it can't have been less intense. I know that because you kneel there, gulping in air, shaking as your still-stiff penis remains inside me. You know my body but I know yours too, know that when you shake like that it means you're too sensitive to pull out and so shaken that you're dizzy. Which suits me just fine; I'm a mess myself.

After a time another noise makes its way into my ears, and it gives me quite a jolt.

Turns out not all the locals are scared of the cold. An attractive young couple stands watching us, the girl topless in the way they sometimes go here, the man with a bulge that could maybe pass for yours. They clap politely, and the pair of us laugh. Then he nods to you, she winks at me, and the pair walk past us hand in hand.

Better than the local plod, at least.

We enjoy our afterglow then, in a rather practical manner. You need your own sunscreen. And I still need my front done, not to mention I've probably sweated off some of the first layer in any case. Sure, you just gave a generous donation that by now is oozing out of a very happy little vagina, puddling in my re-donned bikini bottoms and darkening the fiery tuft of hair around my crotch. But while what you give is hotter and thicker and much better tasting than sunscreen, it won't protect me from UV rays. Nothing's perfect. At one point we're making out as you do my ears, and the image makes me break the kiss in laughter.

But soon we're done, and up we get. Yes, yes, I know the cliché says the lady shouldn't be able to stand afterwards. But I'm a strong girl, and while you've definitely made me walk funny in the past, there's a time and a place. Much better to stand, to run and splash in the waves, to ignore winter's lingering chill and drag you in behind me as your soft English ass yelps in shock at the water.

Yes. Much better to run hand in hand to the shoreline, and cool off in the sea.