SEXUALLY SPEAKING. . .

Author's note: this is a lazy coffee-time short story for feet-up, chill-out time. It's about a girl, and a guy, and girl/guy stuff -- though if you're not into romance of the explicit kind, you may not want to read on. . .

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The sun is warm against his skin, the rock against his ass a total pain.

He has been here for maybe thirty minutes and lying down for twenty: absurd, the amount of time spent on looking around, choosing a spot, getting undressed, oiling up, smoothing the sand, packing the sand, actually moulding the damned stuff so that he can finally nest his towel in a comfortable hollow.

Except it isn't. There's a rock trying to get up his ass.

It wasn't there to begin with, or then again, it probably was, but the sight never registered, so great was his urgency to be at one with this deserted beachscape: roll out the towel, lie down, that's it.

He raises his hips, turns onto his side. Gets a different perspective now, the sand, the meagre outcroppings of rock, the lacy edge of ocean and hazy sky above.

The person next to him.

She says: ‘Hi.'

He opens his mouth to reply but surprise makes speech elusive.

She says: 'You don't mind?'

'I didn't see you,' he says. So halting, so weak, she's either not going to hear anything or think he's asthmatic. He sits upright, draws his knees quickly to his chest. 'Sorry.' Tries a smile, but it has about as much strength as his voice.

She is sideways onto him, kneeling down to unroll her own towel. It's blue like the sea. But unlike the sea there's no patterning, no texture.

She's in denim cut-offs that don't reach the knee and a white T-shirt that hardly covers her chest. The trekker boots she wore to get here are placed neatly by her towel as is the canvas rucksack she must also have lugged all the way out to this spot. The rucksack and the footwear look like they've always been there, not so much set down in the sand as pushed up and out from somewhere deep.

The sun plays on her skin like a stage spot-light picking out a new arrival on the scene. It's not that the light actually shifts, more that there's a sudden intensity about it, the wattage ramping up so that for a moment she is actually too bright for him.

He looks down at his knees. They have caused his belly to compress. He would rather not see the little rolls of fat so stops looking at his knees and stares first at the ocean and then at her, his eyes narrowing against the expected brightness but it's all right, the strobing white and the searing blue have gone, she's stuffing her clothes into the rucksack.

She straightens up. Faces him. She's five three, five four, 25 going on 35, or less than the one or more than the other, he’s hopeless at figuring any woman’s age. There's no make-up on her mouth or around the dark eyes, no artifice about the tawny hair that sweeps across the forehead and frames her face.

There are no clothes, either.

She is naked now and more golden than the sand.

'Strip.'

Spoken so quietly, he's sure he has misheard. 'Sorry?'

She laughs. The sound is husky. Warm. 'My fault. I was thinking aloud. Well; talking aloud.’ A quick shake of the head, her hair tossed as if by a benevolent breeze. ‘I have favorite words. Sometimes, they come to mind.’

‘Ah.’ He is trying to hold her gaze, to let her know that is all he is doing, staring into her eyes but it's impossible to blank out peripheral vision, the way her breasts are wide and high and shining, the aureoles narrow, the nipples discreet.

'Strip. Stripped,’ she says. Negligently, a hand tracks a line across from one hip to a stomach that's almost but not quite flat and then down to her pubic mound. Fingertips graze absently over the triangle of sun-bleached hair. ‘Not sure about stripper though.’

'No?' Even to his own ears, the sound is hoarse. He coughs but the dryness won't go away.

‘Its power. Not what it was.’

His pulse quickens but it's not desire; the stirring is in his mind, not his groin. It has just occurred to him that this is like encountering a concert pianist who cannot play correctly a single note. There should be melody, not dissonance.

'Yes. Well,' he says, and at that she laughs again.

'You're not comfortable. I'll move somewhere else -- '

'No. It's all right.' Said before he can stop himself.

She's watching him with her head inclined to one side, her expression amused, inquisitive. She does not, he persuades himself, look like any serial killer he has ever read about.

'I do like the dunes,' she says, nodding towards the banked sand and high rippling grasses behind them. 'But not when I’m alone.'

‘Right.' He realises, he's going to have to get beyond the monosyllabic. Trouble is, finding the words.

She eases herself down onto the towel. Lies on her back, then sits up again, takes the sun oil from the rucksack and begins to smooth it over her skin.
He wants to watch her hands at work on her breasts, see the flesh being kneaded by her long fingers. He concentrates on the ocean instead.

‘You don’t mind then?’ she asks. ‘Me being here?’

‘No problem,’ he says. He hopes his trembling isn’t that visible. He minds her being here in the same way he would mind winning the State Lottery or object to the wettest of wet dreams. He minds so very, very much he can’t begin to tell her.

‘A nude beach,’ she says, ‘on a day like this. Doesn’t get much better.’ She’s not looking at him; her breasts preoccupy her instead as she massages the oil into each in turn.

He’s still trying to untangle himself from all that minding. It doesn’t help that the only response he can think of to what she’s just said is ‘D’you come here often then?’ Oh Jesus. Please no. Please Do Not Say That. He remains strangled by the fear of his own gaucheness, though that’s not good either, she’s arrived at his side, God knows why, God knows how, and the least he can do is say. . . Something. Anything.

Eventually, he hears himself say: ‘It is good.’

‘What is?’

He swallows. Tries again. ‘This beach. Beautiful.’

‘Is that why you come here?’ She’s tending to her thighs now.

‘Yes.’

‘You like being naked?’

At least he can manage a grin. ‘Yes. I mean. . . When I can. Not full time or anything.’

‘You just enjoy it.’

He has to swallow hard once more. ‘Yes.’ And nods, as if the gesture will somehow expand a sentence yet again pathetically short, hopelessly inadequate.

‘Me too.’ She straightens up. Smiles at him. ‘There aren’t many places like this. Away from it all.’

‘I hope it never changes.’ With a small sense of triumph, he realises he’s still able to string words together. To manage consecutive sentences, even. ‘Be a shame, this ever stopped being a naturist beach.’

'Nude.'

'Sorry?'

'Nude beach. Naturist isn't one of my words. Too. . . Prissy.’ The smile flashes again. 'But hey: don't get me started.'

'Ah.' Not sure what she means. Not even sure what he means. Or what he even thinks. Sheer dumb incomprehension threatens to overwhelm yet again.

She asks: ‘You ever go in the dunes?’

‘No.’

‘Some guys do.’

'The peepers?'

'So you’ve seen them too, huh?’

‘Easy enough to spot.’

‘Well that’s right. All those mirrors.'

To hell with the ocean, he decides. He turns to her stare at her directly. 'Mirrors?'

She's finished oiling herself. Is sitting there with body arched towards the sun, breasts thrust forwards, arms stretched down and backwards in support. 'They go there to watch but what they really want to see is their own reflection. In their mirrors.’ A small, sad, smile. ‘Not real ones, of course. Not glass. Mental mirrors, helps them imagine they look different to how they actually are.’

He swallows hard again. ‘I didn’t know. . .’

‘That’s because you’ve no need to imagine.’ The smile again, though devoid of any sadness now. ‘Can I ask, why are you sitting like that?'

'Huh?'

'Your tummy rolls. Nothing wrong with them, but if you’re shy at me seeing them, you really should lie down.'

'Oh.' He manages a grin but his face is burning and it's not because of the sun.
'Mirrors,' he says, because it's going to be more comfortable to return to that topic. 'I hadn't realised.'

'No. Well. You’re not a woman.’ She pauses. ‘To be honest, I don’t mind. I’m down here with a guy, someone I like, and we decide to get it on? Well then. The reason I'm here, it’s no longer about just enjoying my man. It’s also about enjoying being watched. Watched while I’m being fucked.’

He's jolted more aggressively than the rock against his ass ever managed.

'But all those peepers,' she's saying, 'what they actually want, they want you to watch them. Because in their mirror, they see their hard bodies. Humongous cocks. They want you to see the same thing, too. Only. . . You're not looking in any mirror. You're looking at them.'

He swallows again. Somewhere along the line -- along her lines -- his power of speech has deserted him entirely.

'And the point is,' she says, 'the point is, who cares? Guy parades past me, has a big belly and a small cock, so what? He goes by with two heads and three arms then OK, OK, I am going to think about it. But otherwise?' She shakes her head.

‘Male ego,’ he says. Trying but failing to make it sound like he doesn’t have one.

‘Right. Though what's even worse – and I mean, seriously worse – is, what does he do, soon as I'm fucking? What do they all do? Run off to the dunes, that's what. Hide in the grass and peep out from there. When they could at least pay me the compliment of gathering around. Jacking off.'

Speech completely gone, he realises. He may never be able to utter another word again.

'OK,' she says. And sighs. 'You've come here for some peace and quiet but a strange woman has settled down beside you and oh Christ, what kind of meds is she on?'

'No, look,' he manages, and that's a start, that's good, but she's not to be diverted:

'Some woman, she's going to dump all her neuroses. Going to talk and talk and then, who knows, get hysterical and scream and yell and . . .' She stops. Smiles. There's a kind of mournfulness in her expression. 'It's not like that,' she says. ‘I’m not like that.’

He nods again. Swallows again. Manages to smile back. Exhausts an entire repertoire of non-vocal responses even though he realises that he must do something, and do it now, because if she is a crazy woman, then his inertia may signal a submissiveness of the most provocative kind.

He lowers his knees.

It's not much of an act but at least it's decisive.

The only untoward consequence is that having been scrunched up for so long, his pubic hair is beaded with sweat and his cock squashed almost to vanishing point. He reaches down. Tweaks it. Hopes she won’t notice yet simultaneously hopes that she will.

'I only have one neurosis,' she says. 'It's called honesty.'

Having but recently lost the power of speech, he now seems to have lost the substance of his cock. He closes his eyes, the better to shutter out the thought that he is actually touching himself in front of this completely unnerving and completely naked woman.

What should have happened, of course, was that the instant he saw her -- and this, he decides, is the scenario he would have imagined, had he ever been capable of exercising his imagination in such fashion -- his cock would've assumed gigantic proportions and she would have fallen upon it with the mouth of one only too grateful for the gift of such magnificent manhood.

What could well happen instead is that she'll think he's just found a worm and is about to go fishing.

'That better?' she asks.

'Better?' Reflexively, his hand moves away.

'Sitting like that can be bad. I had a boyfriend once, he sat with his knees up, the sun got between his thighs and burnt his balls.'

'Jesus.'

'Are your balls OK?'

'Yes.' Adding: 'Thank you.'

She laughs. 'You're funny.'

'Me?'

'I like men with a sense of humour.'

'How. . . how d'you know, I've a sense of humour?'

'Because you're polite.'

'They don't necessarily go together.'

'More often than not. Also: add humour to politeness and you get something else. Intelligence.'

'Really?'

'Really. And intelligence in a man, in a woman, that's the most important of all.'

It's time, he decides, to seize the initiative. 'Well. If we're going to be polite, I'd better -- '

'No.'

'Sorry?'

'You'd better introduce yourself. That what you were going to say?'

'I. . . Yes.'

'Don't. No names. No mirrors. No clothes. We are as we are.'

'So if I was to ask you,' he continues, surprised by his own doggedness, 'if I was to ask you where you were from. . .?'

'I'd tell you, I was from where I was. And right now, that happens to be right here.’

'And you don't want me to tell you anything either?'

'I can see you. I can hear you. That's fine with me.'

He mulls it over. Realises his unease is subsiding. Says, because he can't now think of anything else: 'Can I ask you something?'

'Go ahead.'

'What you said, before. You have favorite words.’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. But I just wondered. . . What makes them favorites?’

'Power.'

'Power?'

'Erotic power. Power that doesn't fade.'

He falls silent again. Frowns.

'Look. Let's say. . . ' She pauses, hunts for an analogy. 'Try this. In your mailbox, one morning, there's an invitation. To an orgy. It's going to be held at a beautiful house with lots of beautiful people. Yes?'

'I don't know.’ He looks utterly defeated. ‘The only ones I get are from Publisher's Clearing House.'

She tries to stifle her laughter. 'No, seriously. You get this invite, okay? And at the bottom it reads: "Please note that on arrival, all guests should undress".'

'Wow.'

‘Wow?’ A frown in fast furrow. 'I don't think so. No wow there. "All guests should undress". Those aren't words that kick. Words that you feel. They're, well. . . Nothing.' She shakes her head. '"Undress". God above, what is it, you're being asked to report for a medical?'

'So,' he says, taking it slow, concentrating hard, because she's obviously heading somewhere with this and he'd really like to hang on for the ride, 'so how should it read? This invite?'

'Well first off, delete the "please". It may be polite but it’s also formal. Too formal.’

He nods uncertainly.

She considers him. 'You don't seem sure.'

'I'm not. Well; what I mean is -- '

'Oh, come on,' she says. 'People who can't speak the language of sex are never going to have great sex. An orgy, there are just two things you do: one, minimise the semantics, and two: maximise the semen.'

If he hadn't understood before what she meant by words that kicked, he does now. He breathes deep to steady himself.

'So how it should read,' she's saying, 'it should read: "Note: you will strip on arrival". Or, better: "Note: on arrival, you will be stripped". See? Strip. Stripped. Words that make you warm, make you shiver, all at the same time.'

He says, in a voice turned inexplicably thick, though that doesn’t matter so long as he can keep hanging in here, keep her momentum going and his delight increasing: 'But not stripper.'

'There was power once, what it meant. What it conveyed. I’m not sure now.'

He turns to her. Props himself up on one elbow. 'I don't understand.'

As if in counterpoint, she now lies down, turns on her side to look at him. 'Well,' she says. 'Years ago, you went to watch a stripper, she comes on stage, dances around, gets her top off and lets you see her pasties. Then she might or might not drop her G string. But all you'd have seen was her ass when she left the stage.'

His incredulity is genuine. ‘Good God. How d'you know that?'

'I just do. And I'm assuming, you know, too?'

'I was very young.'

'Yeah. Right.' She laughs again. 'So anyway. This stripper. What did you really want to see of her?'

'I wanted to see her stripped.'

'Her body.'

'Yes.'

'Her tits.'

'Yes.'

'Nipples.'

'Yes.'

'And?' She looks at him like a schoolteacher, eyebrows arched in encouragement as well as challenge.

'And. . . ‘ His lips are dry. He has to lick them. ‘Everything.’

‘Everything.' The echo mocks him. 'Thing is, my friend, even if she had taken it all off, you wouldn't have seen. . . everything. Back in those days, she would not have opened her legs.'

The jolt this time is much more localised. It's warm and gritty, too. His cock has somehow managed to rediscover its substance, to extend sideways and, because of his position, touch the warm sand.

'Whereas now,' she continues, 'that's what they do. Well most, anyway. But that’s it. Finito. Exit stage left. The old routine may have gone but the new one is still just that: routine. As a performance, it’s still without power.’

He hesitates, then: 'You'd rather she didn't, you know, show herself?'

A momentary exasperation: 'Of course she has to show herself! No point in paying to watch her, she doesn't spread. What the hell is she stripping for – so we can admire her ankles?’

He gulps. Nods. ‘I see.’ And wishes he hadn’t said that, spoken confirmation of that already envisioned. What she says next makes that vision even more transfixingly graphic:

‘Say it’s me watching her. Say it’s me who has gone along with you. What I want to see happen is, she exerts her power. Power over her audience. So after she displays what she's got, she now shows how she uses what she’s got. She does herself -- for me, for you, for everyone watching. Does herself till she comes. Till we can see her cum. That way, her body is bared, her emotions are bared, her essence is bared. That way, she demonstrates her power to affect us all.’

The pulse that is hammering in his temples is also beginning to hammer in his cock.

She props herself up on one elbow. Her gaze moves from his face, slowly, deliberately. Down his chest. Over his stomach. She smiles again. Says:
'I did wonder. Why you were covering them.'

‘Covering?’

‘Your genitals.’

The electricity surges again, actually sends him flat back down again but this time with his shaft thick and high and hard, the foreskin back from the cock-head, his hand under his balls the better to squeeze them and splay them.
He’s conscious of the intensity of her gaze. The way she’s inventorying him.

The throbbing of his cock fuels a new-found bravado. He asks her: ‘That better then?’

‘Is it for you?’

‘You bet.’

‘Well then.’ Her smile returns. ‘Nice.’

His hand moves to his shaft. Clasps it tight.

‘Very nice,’ she says.

‘That another of your favourite words, then? Cock?’

'Definitely.'

'You have a lot of such words?' Unthinkingly, he works the erect flesh. What he is doing, and what he is saying, are pretty much dislocated and he knows it but that doesn't matter, all that matters is that she is looking at him, looking right there at him, and her smile is one of gentle pleasure, of quiet satisfaction, no more than that, but no less than that.

'You want to know?' she asks. 'About my words?'

'Yes.'

'Then relax. Relax, and we'll discuss.'

__________________________________________


'Okay,' she says. 'Where to start?'

They're both on their backs now, a couple of feet of sand separating them, he'd like to move his towel and get his flank against hers but he senses, though doesn't know why, he senses that such would not be appropriate. Not polite. Not. . . Intelligent. Any space to be bridged between them, they'd have to do so together.

Instead, he says: 'Power.'

'All right. Tell me: what's the most powerful sound in the English language?'

'No idea.'

'Uh.'

'Sorry?'

More emphatically this time: 'Uh.'

'As in. . .?'

'Fuck.'

'Ah.'

'Go on. Say it.'

'Fuck.'

She frowns again. 'Savour the word, don't just throw it out. F-uhh-kk.'

'F-uhh-kk.'

'You see?' She pauses. 'Right. So that's the most powerful sound. What's the most powerful word?'

'Fuck? Sorry: f-uhh-kk?'

'Cunt.'

His balls seem to spin. His cock definitely surges.

'C-uh-nnt.' She says it slowly this time. 'Go on. Your turn.'

'C-uh-nnt.'

'Great, isn't it? How it sounds, what it is.' Another pause, then, softly this time: 'Cunt.'

'I thought,' he says slowly, 'I thought, you know. Girls. Women. They didn't like that. That word.'

'No?'

'I thought. . . Pussy.'

'Aw, Christ.' There's an edge to her voice that has never been there before. 'You thought pussy. What else did you think? Beaver? Beaver, perhaps? Or what, something else from the a****l kingdom? Zebra?'

'Hang on, what I meant was -- '

'Listen. You ever meet a woman who always and only refers to her cunt as her pussy, move on. She's u******e, if not physically, then certainly emotionally.'

'Ah.'

'You ever meet a guy, he tells you he fucked his wife's pussy, also move on.' She pauses. 'Or call a****l rescue.'

Laughter engulfs them both. Finally, she says: 'I'm sorry. But really. . . It gets me. Cunt: the most powerful of words describing the most powerful of features -- and people run away from it. Go hide in the dunes.’

Surprisingly, his erection is softening. He has to look down to check. For some reason, that doesn't matter. Actually. . . nothing at all matters. After too long a time in his life, much, much too long, he finally realises: he's becoming comfortable.

'Genitals is all right though,' she says. 'Like: we were discussing, the stripper? And if you'd said, or if I'd said, what we wanted to see was her cunt, well. That's the absolute truth. A woman can savour the sight of cunt just as much as a man. But sometimes we have this need to be, well. . . Less explicit. So here we could say: her genitals. See her genitals.'

'And you would have done?'

'Done what?'

'Wanted to see them?'

'I already told you, no point in watching a woman strip if you can’t see how she is between her legs.'

'Ah.' He doesn't have to open his eyes to know what's happening again elsewhere.
The pre-cum must surely be bubbling now.

She says, softly: 'I see her mouth, is it full lipped? Her smile, is it warm? Her eyes, are they welcoming? I look at her tits, are they generous, are they firm? Her nipples, are they small? Erect? Well then. Her cunt.' A pause, then:

'Is it closed like a clam? Partly open, like a smile? Her labia, what are they like? Full and generous? Slender, waiting to swell? Her clit, is it hooded or engorged? And when she spreads her lips -- because she definitely has to spread them -- her hole. How pink is it? How dark? Is it wide? Is it moist? Is it dripping?'

He can't help himself. He has to reach down. Grasp his cock. She has touched him only with words but she might just as well be jacking him, sucking him off.

‘Same with a male stripper,’ she continues. ‘Oh, he’s lovely, I like his ass, I like the way he carries himself. He doesn’t have to be Mr Macho Man – actually, I’d very much prefer if he wasn’t. So now he’s finally got everything on view and that’s what we’re all concentrating on: his cock, his balls. It’s what we’ve come to look at. But what, that’s it? Of course it can’t be. He’s got to show what he does to himself, now that he’s naked for us. He must work on himself. And finally. . . Come. Come hard and come long. Show us his sperm.’

He doesn’t speak. He cannot speak. Vision after vision is exploding upon the inner eye and he knows if he says anything now he’ll say far too much, that what she’s just described – the woman obligated to work herself to the most public of orgasms, convulsing and spilling in front of an audience; the man obligated to delight another audience by doing the exact same -- yes oh God: he would appreciate watching both in all their gloriously decadent spillage.
But Jeez, how perverse is that?

‘It’s like,’ she continues, then stops, marshalling more of her words into line. ‘It’s like cunnilingus. Like. . . Fellatio. For God’s sweet sake, what do they mean? What the hell do they convey? I want you to go down on me. I want you to eat me, feast on me, drink me. Your cock, I want to suck it, suck it and swallow all your cum. So why don’t we say so? Why aren’t we honest about what we enjoy?’

Omigod, he thinks. I’ll come soon. I’ll come without even touching myself.
It’s an effort to pull back from that, to push the enormity of release from his thoughts, but he tries nevertheless. Because he has to. Has to. Think think think what to say to her now.

'So, so. . . So what about,' he says, and now his voice is no longer too dry but too thick, 'what about. . .' He stops. Shakes his head.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'No. Tell me. What you were going to say.'

'It's personal.'

'You don't think I'm a person?'

He closes his eyes. 'I was going to ask. . . Well, the way you’ve been looking at what I’ve got.’

Ye-es. . ?’

‘How about you doing the same for me?’

She laughs. ‘Christ. ‘S been awhile, I played this game. Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’

‘So?’

Her smile is still there. Teasing him. ‘So all right.’

He watches her. Waits. But she doesn’t move. Just looks at him, a kind of good-humored expectancy. Patient toleration, almost. Eventually she says:

‘Well? Aren’t you going to ask?’

‘I just did.’

‘Uh-huh.’ A shake of the head. ‘Ask me properly.’

‘Show me what you’ve got.’

Another head shake. ‘Nope. Try again.’

‘Open your legs for me.’

‘Well yeah, I’d have to do that, wouldn’t I?’ The smile fades. ‘Hey. Mr Man. What we’ve just been talking about? Don’t run away from words. Don’t go hide in the dunes.’

Understanding dawns belatedly, and with it a surge of humiliation almost adolescent in its intensity. He waits for the heat to subside and then slowly, deliberately:

‘Cunt. I want to see your cunt.’

'Good.' But as before, she doesn’t move. Eventually: 'I have some more words for you. Some more of my favourites.'

'Okay.'

'Say "spread".'

'Spread.'

'Good. Say: "wide".'

'Wide.'

'Put them together.'

'Spread wide.'

'Say: "open."

'Open.’ He needs no further cue. ‘Spread wide open.'

She sits up. Stares at him. Seems to be concentrating on him, his face this time, his expression. Nowhere else. 'Also say, "yourself". Between "spread" and "wide".'

He almost fumbles it: 'Yourself, spread,' then halts, starts over. Takes a deep breath to stop the quivering in his shaft becoming a quavering in his voice. 'Spread yourself wide open.'

She nods slowly. Sweeps her hair back from her forehead, then lies down again, arms by her sides, hands palm flat upon the sand. 'But no touching,' she says. 'All right? You don't touch me.'

'I won't.'

'You want my nakedness, don't confuse it with your nakedness. Don't clothe me in your needs.'

'I promise.'

'Kneel in front of me then. And. . . Watch.'

__________________________________________________


He gazes at her breasts, there's movement there, her nipples are rising, hardening, but then he realises that below the blonde tuft her legs are beginning to part, both at the same time, slowly, slowly, like scissors.

On his knees, he shuffles across the sand. Gets himself into position where his viewpoint is as if at the base of a triangle, her left leg angling from one side, her right leg angling from the other, both going up in a flowing sculpturing of sun-bronzed calves and thighs.

He doesn't speak. Silently watches, instead, the gradual emergence of lips, of cowl. He could ejaculate now: one touch, that's all. One curling of thumb and fingers around his glans. But that would not be right. This is her time. Not his.

'Wide?' she says. Her voice is soft, her hands still at her side. But her eyes are open and looking at him, calm, unwavering.

He nods.

'I have to spread myself wide open?'

But it's a charade, her hands are moving downwards even as she speaks, and now fingertips are resting on the lip-flesh, the flesh that's neither too full nor too lean, resting first and then pressing down, beginning to pull back, slowly, slowly, he can see a sheen on the pinkness as sunlight sharpens softness, as warmth comes flooding in on heat, as that which was folded now separates then merges.

And further, wider, her legs stretching even more apart than before, but it's this he's concentrating on, it's all his being locked on to all her being at a moment beyond every word in the language except the most powerful of all.

Pearled strings of moisture are in unbroken festoon, they shimmer and stretch as her fingers continue to press and part, they tremble from one side to the other of the opening cleft, are trapped under her fingertips but are still unfragmented as the darkness between at last accepts the light.

'Can you see me?' she asks.

'Yes.'

She raises her head. 'My hole, am I open? I want you to see me open.'

'You're open.'

They stay like that, neither of them moving, separate from each other yet bound together by the same brightness, the same heat, the same sunlight that touches the nape of his neck, that plays upon her cunt. He is as near to weeping as he has been for many a year, but does not know why. He can hear the sound of the ocean but it's strangely distant: wherever the place that they are both at now, it is not the beach.

She sighs. 'I feel beautiful.'

'You are beautiful.'

'Shall I start?'

For a moment he's confused, then remembers, what was said before. Showing everything she's got is but a preliminary. What’s necessary, now, is for her to be lost within her own nakedness, a revelation of everything she is, a demonstration of the power that she has over him.

'Start,' he says. 'Show me how you do yourself.'

'Fuck myself.'

'Yes.'

'Until I come?'

'You'd better.'

He watches as her hands move again, the left to press down more firmly than ever on the parted labia, the right to edge sideways, fingers curling, first one, then two, two going in.

'Three,' he says. 'If you can. Three inside you.'

And now the third slides in.

'Ready?' she asks, as if he is the one about to perform.

'Ready,' he says. Deep, shuddering breath: 'Fuck yourself until I can see you come.'

For a moment, there's no movement, but then the fingers of one hand begin to withdraw, and then push back inside, withdraw, push in, withdraw, push in, rhythmic, not frantic, measured, not uncontrolled. Her head turns from side to side. Nor is the other hand idle: finger tips encircle her clit, squeeze it, then part to rub upwards and downwards in parallel at the sheen of her inner lips. Doing herself two handed. For him.

In, out, in, out, breasts rising, breasts falling, head beginning to turn more quickly even though her pace hasn't changed.

In, out, and there's a glaze over the fingers, in, out, and the glaze is spreading back to her wrist, in, out, and when he remembers to listen instead of just look, there's the sound of the ocean, and that of her breathing, but also more loudly than both now, of wetness spilling and welling, welling and spilling, and a fragrance as old as the sea itself.

In, out, in, out, and faster, beginning to blur, her other hand with fingers splayed, the tip of one now hard down on her clit, working it as her legs start to spasm and her back begins to arch.

Out, in deep, out, in deeper, faster, harder, watch those fingers, hear those sounds, that drenching sound, that swamping sound, she's moaning now as if in pain but the smile says otherwise, the smile is wide and open like her cunt as her back arches more violently than before and her breasts thrust higher towards the sky.

Fast deep hard wet faster deeper harder wetter go on go on do it do it do that beautiful glorious cunt:

She cries and buckles all at the same time, rolls suddenly onto her side, shuddering, spasming, he needs to move across to see what is happening because her legs are closed tight, squeezed tight, one hand is still between them and is surely being crushed.

Another cry, and it's as if she is a dog shedding water from its coat, every muscle at work, shaking, twisting.

But though he tries to get there, to reach her side, he cannot now move, fists clenched, lips clamped together, stomach muscles as taut as he can make them as he fights the surge within, the one that must surely, finally break through because his cock is already beginning to spill, one silvered chain after another already emerging from the swollen slit.

His own cry joins hers as he grasps his shaft and explodes, into the sand.

____________________________________________


She sits up. Removes her hand from between her legs. Looks across at him, curled up on his towel, the oil on his skin streaked by sweat, the milky pearl that trembles over the head of his diminishing cock a small and liquid crown.

'You came?' she asks.

There are no words for his defeat. He nods.

'I would have liked to watch.'

'Sorry.'

'Oh well.' A quick smile. She glances around her. 'Where? Where did you come?'

'The sand.'

'Pity.'

She raises her hand. Inspects the glistening knuckles, the long fingers looped together with spangled moisture. Carefully, she licks the back of her hand and her wrist then slowly places one finger after another in her mouth. Sucks at the wetness. Watches him as she does so. Eventually, she removes her hand, returns it to its original place between her legs. Grinds herself against it and hooks her fingers deep inside again.

'Don't stop,' he says.

Her fingers emerge. The sheen that coats them seems even thicker than before. Again she inspects it. Again she licks. Again she sucks. Again, she swallows.
She continues on until her hand, her fingers, emerges almost, though not quite, without trace of wetness, of essence, of her. She licks her lips. Says: 'Do you do that, too?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

He shrugs. 'I don't know.' A pause. 'I don't think I could.'

‘You should. Every guy should taste himself.’ The quick smile again, fleeting, regretful. 'Next time, then.'

‘Next time?'

'You don't want to?'

'Oh, I want.'

'Give my your email then. I'll write.'

'We'll come here?' He asks.

‘Maybe.’ Her smile is so warm, so soft, so gentle, he feels himself melting away deep inside. ‘But let’s be clear. That was my turn. For you. Next time, it’s your turn. For me.’

He shivers. It's not with cold.

She picks up her rucksack, begins to take out her clothes. There's a small notebook in there and a pen. He gives her his email address, watches as she writes it down. Says: ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then don’t. Your clothes. Your name. Your protections. Your mirrors, if ever you had any. You’ve lost them all. You can let go of the words as well now.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever do that.’

He stands up. Is overwhelmed by a sudden awkwardness. She looks at him, and he can tell from her expression that she understands his turmoil.

She bridges the gap between them. Takes his hand. Shakes it.

‘I enjoyed that,' she says.

'I can't believe this.'

‘Till next time, then.' Another squeeze of his hand, and she steps back. Not even a kiss.

'Will it be as good?’ A silly joke, but he has to say something.

'Be even better.’ Her smile again. ‘If you’ll let it.’

She picks up her rucksack, her towel, walks away. Disappears eventually behind the shelving rock.

He stares after her, then looks up at the sky where a sea bird is wheeling, high and wide. . . and absolutely, totally, free.


END

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Posted by Sementics
3 years ago    Views: 143
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