Ocean Girl

Part One: Plastic Heaven

The scenes that gathered around me were nearly ethereal, otherworldly. I sat on the beach, watching and listening to the ocean's roar. It was almost hypnotic the way it swooshed in and out, receding shyly. Except for this, it was oddly quiet - like an unnamed paradise that I had somehow found myself in. The sun was setting, dipping below the surface of the horizon, mingling with the ripples of the water, laughing at its mangled reflection. The day had strangely slipped from my grasp - I didn't know where it had gone, but I was happy to find myself where I was at that moment: a plastic heaven.

It had been determined - by the doctors who approved of my release - that I was ready to greet the world again, and it, me. On this unidentified shore, there were no cells that could contain me; on the contrary, the walls that faced me were round and not square.

A noise borrowed my ear; there was someone to my left. I could not say exactly how far away this girl was except that she was far enough to be out of reach but close enough to memorize each detail of her simultaneously angelic and provocative appearance. She was unaware of my presence, and I must say I ogled at her freely as long as she was not witness to my perversion. They say that seeing is believing and at that point I considered myself a believer.

One of the things she and I had in common was our age: she looked to be in her early twenties, just as I was at that time. She had a long, lithe figure and probably stood about 5'7" in stocking feet. There was a playfulness about her. She was alone as she sat on her beach towel, looking about like a mischievous child wondering what trouble she could create. Her hair hung long and was of a sun kissed blonde color. It was swept and swept again away from her face as the ocean's fingers reached themselves out and mingled with her strands.

Her face was that of sweetheart-shape and she wore a dark beauty mark above her upper lip. It appeared to me as though her eyes were a green or blue color. She then looked over at me, validating this observation I had made. A grin crept across her face, and I blushed the color of scarlet. Her demeanor was that of a tease, a restless ocean kitten that had been planted there specifically to make me mumble and fumble with my bearings.

Covering her most intimate parts was a red bikini with white polka dots. This swimsuit of hers nearly made me drool - my south was certainly drooling, prone to the pull of gravity; her top was much too small for her breasts. She was a slim and tender young woman, but the way her breasts heaved and fell, her cleavage expanding outward, suggested that her bikini top should've been a size or two larger. Of course, I was not going to be the one to express this opinion to her, and I redoubled that opinion when I saw that small, modest amounts of sand had been splashed in good nature on the full swell of her tits. I assumed she had been playing with a boy while I had sat upon my own meager beach towel, pondering the contents and purpose of the universe.

She was a natural beauty, a goddess that normally would've appeared out of a fairytale and not that of an erotic story. But no good family organization would've approved of a fairytale, told to children, with the heroine posing as a buxom little beach vixen like this woman was.

The gloss of her lips reminded me of the sea's surface: they were slick, as if she had just completed a day at a high school kissing booth. Her lips were the color of an innocent, coral pink. The mascara on her eyelashes were unobtrusive and, as the French say, noir.

Next to her lied a wicker basket full of odds and ends: magazines, worn-out romance novels, suntan lotion, and snacks. It was then I noticed her pick up a glass Coca-Cola bottle, half-full of soda. Sprouting from the neck of the bottle was a red-and-white striped straw, and she wrapped her lips around the tip of the appendage, eyeing me with seductive glimpses. Her head was tilted downward, but her eyes peeked up at me from under her lush lashes. I could feel the bottom portion of my swimsuit moisten at her quiet but clear stare. It was not an unfriendly stare; it was a girlish, sweet collection of glances, interrupted, now and then, by a soft blink. Her tongue darted out every now and then, advertising the talents she surely had to offer with it.

I felt my face blush an even deeper shade of red. Surely, surely this obscene angel's appearance must've been a trick of some sort. She was too heavenly to be planted on the planet we had come to know as Earth. Earth, over the years, had been subject to man's uses and abuses; it was no longer holy or pure as it was when it was born out of imagination.

She appeared to me as a fantasy water nymph. I questioned and doubted the certainty of her, the way the wind played with her hair so pornographically on this most public of places. Public it was, though we were alone. And the glow of orange of the retiring sun played upon her curious and inquisitive face: a baby-adult unknowingly a victim to the cauldrons of lust and desire. Mine.

And that's when I decided she was mine. And I named her Oceania.

Part Two: Combined World

I felt modest compared to her - not ugly, just modest. In contrast to her Western sex kitten aura, I had long, curly dark hair that flowed down to my waist and my eyes were a dull brown color: Plain in color, but attractive in their dance.

We stood almost the same height, I guessed: I was 5'6" and while my breasts were not as big as hers, and it looked as though my hips were rounder; I looked a bit like a false mermaid in my turquoise-colored, one-piece swimsuit. The swimsuit was something I had purchased not long ago, although I cannot remember where or when - but it appeared new to me and relatively unworn. My bathing suit was lowcut and had a cutout swooping pattern at the sides, exposing the sides of my abdomen.

This is the first time - the virgin episode - of my interest in another woman. I was unsure if anything would come of my attraction to her, and I looked in her direction. She had put down her bottle of pop and was flipping through one of her glossy magazines that she surely could've been a centerfold for. This was territory I had not explored before. But one thing I did know for sure, with all my prior male partners, was that they were sturdy men, though not dependable, emotionally. They were extremely fleet-footed and sometimes scared of behaviors that I felt I could not control. When the animal in me came to the forefront, they had ceased to be my kindly captors.

My grasp on the clock was loose. I couldn't be sure how much time had passed, but I did know that I had divorced husband number three not long ago. He was a lumberjack who I rarely saw. It seemed as if he were a ghost - he would disappear from our home at the oddest times of the day or night, as if his existence was expendable. It wasn't. I depended upon him a great deal, and since our divorce I had been forced to make my living in the most humiliating ways in the green-aired belches of back alleys and two-bit motels.

He was very much like my first two husbands and my lovers in between, prone to running when our world got rough around the edges. It was as if they were birds and they were afraid that, if they didn't run just then, then I would clip their wings, with my trusty pair of one-bladed scissors. They'd disappear, as if they were a pillow of steam emptying from the top of a train. Poof! It was like God was playing a magic trick and, no matter how many times I witnessed the ploy, I was always amazed at the cleverness of it. These lovers always left before I could finish with them.

This girl - whom I decided should be named Oceania - was different. She looked like a fresh fruit that had fallen out of the vines of heaven. The contradiction of her appeal is what shook my insides: she had a great sexiness about her that was coy and receding, in a hard-to-get manner, and yet I knew she wanted the experience of passion and love just like I did. If I didn't know better, she had openly flirted with me in her quiet, shy manner, and yet I knew she craved intimacy. My assumption was that she was not paid for her sexual attention, and that it was given as a gift of her offering. That was where we differed. But that mattered not. Not anymore. We came from two opposite worlds. Hers rotated counterclockwise, mine rotated clockwise. And yet we found ourselves on the same stretch of land, our worlds fused with glue.

Part Three: Beach Love

Little Oceania looked over at me, baring her teeth for the first time. Her teeth were like white squares, shining panes of glass that had just been polished. And from within her folded palm, she made appear a little trinket: a small, silver bell. She rung it aloud, delicately, and it twinkled its chime in the evening air. The sound of it was clear, as was the message: she wanted me to come near her. She rung the bell in an undemanding and coquettish manner, her wrist arched, knowing I would fulfill her in every way I could as a servant would.

I was uncertain. I had never known the curves of a woman before besides my own and I was hesitant. I spotted a dove on the beach, and though it was more likely a seagull, I could not tell the difference, as my vision was not perfect from long distances. I took it as a good omen of peace and hope - clearly as a sign from some divine source - and approached the girl.

Barefoot and feeling the cool sand between my toes, I walked over to her and stood above her, looking down into those beautiful, light-colored eyes. She looked up at me with a mischievous, suggestive smile, but did not say a word. She sat on her small bottom, one leg stretched out in front of her, and one leg bent at the knee. Backwards she leaned on the palms of her hands, and, with a casual shake of her head, she let the ocean's fingers mingle with her long tresses. Oceania was inviting me to a tryst, and I could not help but fall to my knees in utter submission.

As if taking a male position was natural to me, I began to crawl in between her legs, feeling up the smooth, silky skin of her thighs. She opened them slightly to me: they were curved and slender, tanned and bronzed from having been baking in the sun. I allowed my hands to feel up her body. I noticed, for the first time, that she wore a string bikini, and her modest gut sucked itself in automatically when my warm hands made contact with her abdomen. She was a healthy girl with just a hint of rib that peeked out from the layer of her skin. And then I came to her breasts, oh, those beautiful breasts I just wanted to live in as if I were an infant nursing on my mother.

I looked at her questioningly, my eyebrows arched in uncertainty. She tilted her head back and nodded. First, I gently untied the neck of her swimsuit top and then untied the strings that lie in the middle of her back. The triangles of her top remained on her glorious, upturned jugs, and I could not help but admire their vibrant perk and the way the material did not fall in sagginess: her breasts were enough to keep the fabric fitted to her body.

I held her big tits in my hands, the skimpy material the only fence between her and I. And then I took the fabric away, and what I saw I had never before seen or felt: two beautiful and golden jugs, firm and tight, adamant in their desire to stay young. On the apex of each breast was a nipple the color of coral, each spot in the shape of a heart.

Again, she made the miniature, silver bell appear, and she smiled and rang it softly. Her breezy ocean smile was enough to liquify the most solid of men, and at that point she was melting me. When she rang the bell, my lips turned up into a grin, and I could decipher her command without her having to say a word.

Like an ocean's breath, I gently cupped her tits and ran my thumbs along her erect nipples. They stood so proud - almost humorous in their shape - her tiny erections nearly looking like an eye protruding from the center of each heart. I lowered my head to her heaving bosom and looked up into her eyes. She nodded. My nose infiltrated the sweet crevice in between her tits. Her cleavage was deep and inviting, and there were bits of sand upon the swell of her breasts that I could not help but taste: the grains were sweet, salty, but her sweat was almost an aromatic seaside perfume, the way it entered my nose, as I dove deeper and deeper into the world of her feminine offerings.

It felt like I was beyond the realm of control. I hugged her hips with my small hands and massaged the upper part of her bottom that was sitting upon her beach towel. Her breasts were sensationally big, and they had fallen heavy from their confines. They were extreme in size, and I nuzzled them, kissed them, cherished them, as if I did not have a set of my own. I was really quite like a farmer's swine, the way I had a field day with her bosom. My tongue was in heaven, I was in heaven, and I heard a noise from her painted, o-shaped mouth: it was a slight moan, and her head was tilted back in shuttering-eyelid ecstasy. My tongue ran along the entire length of her cleavage, from bottom to top, and I began to kiss my sweet girl on the neck, brushing her long hair aside, and, in my position of control, dominating her mouth with mine.

Playfully, she pulled her head back and struck a sex-kitten pose, her chin leaning on top of her shoulder as she giggled. Once more, she brandished the bell like a delicate weapon, and opened up her thighs to me, even wider than before, to accommodate my own curves, and I took the hint as to what I was to do.

I kissed and suckled down her body, again taking each heavy breast inside my mouth as I had done before and licked her abdomen and bellybutton. For the first time - with the sensitive tastebuds of my tongue - I could feel a very light layer of hair on her tummy: it was blonde and invisible, but I could feel it, and I dampened it as I penetrated her navel with the tip of my tongue. It was a small, sweet hole to capture all the things from the oceanic air. She tasted of sand, perspiration, and some indefinable perfume that seemed to emanate from her flesh naturally.

And downward my head went, distracted by her navel, but not taking my mind off the ultimate prize between her legs: her golden pussy. With the hands of a woman but a gentleman's nature, I untied her bikini bottom, first one side then the other, and she lifted her sweet butt from her towel to allow me to slip it away from her. She was nude before me now, and I studied her pussy: it was a bare and sweet cherry, inflamed on the inside with protective walls on the outside. Her body was protecting her from unwanted forces.

I rearranged my body so that I could navigate her southern regions better. I petted her kitty, and Oceania, above me, seemed to purr like one, though with the mix of the ocean's roar, it was hard to differentiate. Her sweet bud of a clitoris poked through its hiding place; it was desperate and seeking sexual attention. I touched it with quiet reservation, and she squealed and giggled at the surprise of my caress. I looked up at her and smiled.

I began to rub it for her, and above me, she took her two round jugs and started to molest them, again her eyelids shuttering in near-orgasmic pleasure and her mouth in the shape of an "o". As I rubbed her sweet rosebud, her little honey lovehole gaped opened for me in trust and in youthful easiness. Her vaginal walls had completely relaxed themselves with my warm, butter-touch, and now it seemed that she was the one who was liquifying before me. I was as solid as a man, and if I had had a penis, I would surely have had an erection. But I didn't. I owned a vagina, and it was draining from its center into the more private parts of my teal swimsuit.

In contrast to my pink, wet tongue, my lips were parched, partly from nerves, partly from the dry atmosphere of the ocean. As I fondled the sweet kitten between her thighs, I gave her small kisses on her most intimate skin, and this seemed to drag long, wet ropes of desire out of her body, no doubt lovely payment for my mouth's adventurous toil.

And each strand of honey fed me, filled my body with its sweetness. I was no doubt hungry in all ways, and this girl helped cure one of the aches in my belly. She was not orgasming yet, but I could tell she was close to it as her doubled-breasted caresses became more hurried, and as the walls of her pussy - her sweet pink pussy with a near pearl I was coveting - began to tremble and waver in and out from the center.

I sunk my index finger into her waiting hole. The ease with which I could do this astounded me; I was a novice when it came to pleasuring women, but this girl - my sweet Oceania - was almost a fantasy for me. She made me feel as if I had a secret talent that even I did not know existed. And, without any solid words from her, I could feel her warmth and her come-hither playfulness, even as she occasionally rung the silver bell for me to service her.

The squelching sounds that contaminated the air was the best kind of dirty; she was enjoying my fingering and tonguing of her slit, a slit, I was learning, I could probably not contain the passion of for very long. I began to get the impression that she was a blonde nymphomaniac, an oceanside nymphomaniac, who had been sent there specifically so I could please her and for her to please me through her satisfied orgasms.

And she did. I watched her little pussy struggle and toil to produce its first orgasm of our rendezvous, and when it did, it was like the flood of a waterfall: strand after strand of honey came out upon my tongue, and I lapped it up like a beggar woman. She was extremely orgasmic, several times over, and each time, she coated my parched lips and my extended tongue with a prize that I had not known existed.

Her body trembled and her face contorted into a screwed-up caricature of itself that I could not help but admire and giggle at (beneath my breath, of course). She was beautiful when she surrendered to me fully, and the secret garden that had been nestled in her bikini bottoms, and her obscene and giant tits that were like big toys for me to play with, well, I couldn't help but treat myself to her body, and for her to treat herself to the talents I did not know I possessed.

Oceania's creamy desire made me believe there was a pearl from every oyster I would find from there on out. Her body settled back into its rhythmic, steady breathing, and I felt, as I could taste her orgasm upon my skin, upon my chin, on my lips, on my gums, down my throat that the world was now my oyster.

Part Four: Wondering

But the world was not my oyster, and I began to realize that as Oceania came down from the highs of orgasm. As I sat kneeled above her, wiping away the grains of sand from my hands, and looking at her spent and exhausted figure, she seemed to disappear like a cloud of steam and not a flesh-and-blood girl. She had vanished.

I blinked several times in disbelief. She had just been here not seconds before. I looked around foolishly, making sure that she had not escaped to another part of the beach. But she hadn't. She was nowhere to be seen. Who had taken my beloved woman and pirated me? Was it God? Could he have cheated me from the first powers of flesh that I had known since my release?

It appeared that some trickery had been involved. I began to realize - as her disappearance also became a fact - that I was somber and humbled by the question if Oceania had even been there at all. I wondered if she had been a product of my imagination... my feeble and fragile imagination. She had, in fact, seemed like a fantasy, but sometimes even when you are dreaming you are aware of it. This was not a dream. It was not a fantasy or wishful thinking. This was something honest.

Her taste had been so pure. She tasted like honey fresh from a bumblebee's nest. Her cream had been so plentiful, so desirous. She did not taste like my regular customers. She did not smell of cigarette smoke or alcohol or malicious intentions. Oceania had the aroma, the perfume of a girl who was angelic and true, pure and innocent of crime.

I pitted my heart and my mind against one another. She was not there now, and surely that had to favor the workings of the brain, no matter how much I tried to deny it. All my male lovers had been ghosts or apparitions, clouds of steam that puffed from the top of a train; they were constant in their jogging, real grand escape artists. Had this girl deceived me and vanished too, but in a more grandiose and absolute fashion?

I looked around me once more and again there was no one besides myself. This was when I noticed that all of Oceania's belongings - her wicker basket, her glossy magazines, her worn-out romance novels, her suntan lotion, her snacks, even her Coca-Cola bottle - were all still there. I picked up the glass soda bottle and observed it with my perspiring, sweating palms. It was full of pop and had been unopened, sealed on the top by a metal cap. Untouched.

The beach was even quieter than it had been before, with I as the only resident of it now. It looked like a lone paradise. I questioned my own reality, as if I had been my own deceiver. What was true and what was false, what was reality and what was fantasy were divided by a very thin line that was crumbling and disintegrating every moment.

I fell down to my knees by the ocean's roar. I began to feel defeated and heartbroken when a familiar sound came to me: that humorous, silver bell that Oceania loved so much to ring. It blended in with the whistling breeze of the sea, mating. Despite all the evidence stacked against me, I was beginning to believe again, and I knew that everything I had experienced, the girl I had known - despite the word of skeptics - had all been real, and that the chimes ringing out were the song of the woman I knew as Oceania.

The End.