A Tryst at the Beach

I'm Rich. You probably know a good deal about me from a series of stories my wife Sharon has posted titled "Dealing With Change" describing how we brought new life back into our marriage of more than twenty years by opening our relationship to include sex with others.

Without spelling out all the lascivious details (which are described graphically in Chapters One through Ten of the Dealing With Change stories) we progressed from merely sending each other dirty pictures to sex with friends, relatives, visitors, a wild night of uninhibited sex training with a preacher in Boise known as the Rev, and eventually polyamory with our old friends Jill and Cam who had moved back from the East Coast and purchased the house next door to us.

Our relationship with Cam and Jill included a specific agreement amongst the four us that any of us could step outside the bounds of our foursome to enjoy sex with others. That was originally intended to protect a casual relationship I had with a woman named Lisa. She lived in Idaho, but several times a year she and I would meet at a cottage she owned in a small town on the Oregon coast for long walks on Oregon's windswept beaches, sharing poetry we each found for the other and, oh yes, some serious sex. Sharon referred to Lisa as my slut but not out of jealousy. The two of them had become friends via frequent phone calls during which they shared their opinions of my faults, and I suppose my skills in bed. I don't ask and Sharon doesn't object when I spend time with Lisa.

It was early February and I was at loose ends. Jill and Cam had gone off for a week of skiing in the Sierras, an activity my aging knees deny me. Sharon had flown to Paris to help her sister Christine deal with her latest marital trauma. Christine and her husband Herve's marital traumas were a regular occurrence and usually Sharon dealt with them by phone. But given that it was mid-February, and there was little or no work for Sharon to be doing in her garden, she elected to fly to Paris.

As is commonly the case in that time of year the weather in the Sacramento Valley where we lived was not particularly cold (lows in the 40's with highs in the 60's) but each day began and ended with a dark, gloomy "Tule Fog" as the locals called it. I was alone and a little bored when I received a call from Lisa.

"Lisa. How are you?" I answered, recognizing the (208) number on my cell phone's screen.

"Cold. We haven't seen the warm side of freezing here in two weeks and we are socked in with an inversion the makes everything gray and depressing."

"Yeah we've got that fog here too, but at least the sun comes out for a couple of hours mid-day and it's not near as cold."

"And I'm horny."

I smiled to myself. "How can you be horny with that oversexed family of yours around?" Lisa's family was quite free with their sexual relations with each other and with friends.

"They've all gone off to Sun Valley to ski. You know I don't like to ski, so I'm all alone, cold, and horny."

I laughed. "Well as it turns out I'm in pretty much the same situation. Sharon has gone to Paris, and the others to the Sierras. Maybe we should get together."

"Ooh could we? I was so hoping you would suggest that. Let's go to Lincoln City. The weather will be terrible over there. There is a big storm coming. The waves will be huge, but it will be warmer than here and no fog." Lincoln City was the small Oregon coastal town where Lisa owned a cottage that we had used for our trysts in the past.

" You do obsess over those big waves." I said. "But no fog sounds good to me."

"Yeah. We can walk the beach, read poetry, and then, well you know."

I chuckled. "Yes I know."

"That big hard cock of yours can fill up my hot pussy. I've been thinking about how much my pussy enjoys that big hard dick of yours." Lisa can be very graphic when she is 'in the mood' and it appeared she was suddenly very much 'in the mood.'

"This is sounding better all the time. Can you meet me in Portland tomorrow?" I asked. "I think there is a morning flight from Sacramento that will get me in around eleven."

"Sure. I'll start driving early. There's no snow forecast for the Blue Mountains so it should be easy."

"You could fly, you know."

"No, no. You know I hate to fly. Besides it's only a five hour drive," she responded.

"Six hours with speed limits."

"You know I don't do speed limits. Besides it's mostly just straight freeway so I can be thinking about you and what we can do together."

"You mean the beach and poetry?" I asked.

"Oh for sure and you know those other things. Those things we do in bed... and in the living room... and in the kitchen... and maybe even on the back porch if the sun comes out and it warms up. Those things you do with that luscious hard dick of yours,... and your tongue; that oh so sexy tongue of yours. I love it almost as much as your dick." Lisa was very much 'in the mood.'

"Oh yeah. Those things. I remember those."

"Yeah," she said. "I'll be thinking of those things while I drive to Portland... of your dick and your tongue."

I laughed again. "Great. I'll text you my flight details, but I have to get off the phone and organize a few things around here. Save yourself for me."

"You too."

My day had just improved dramatically. I made airline reservations and sent a text to Sharon telling her I was going to Oregon for a few days with Lisa. She responded with an emoji with a lewd smile and the words, "Fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Lisa was waiting for me when I came out of the secure area in the airport. I was staring in awe at the roofing system the new terminal of the Portland airport had included. It was a complex structure of interconnecting wood beams that allowed lots of light in from clear roofing mounted above the wooden structure. It looked a little like 'pickup sticks' made with 2X4s but organized in a fashion to provided artistic appearance and structural support. It was stunning. I would later read it was composed of wood harvested from sustainably managed woodlands in Oregon and Washington and manufactured from logs to beams in local mills. So Oregon, I thought.

I was staring in awe at the intricate structure when I heard Lisa yell, "You're here," just before she ran full tilt into me throwing her arms around my neck and smashing her chest against mine. I staggered a bit, dropping my carryon bag to regaining my balance and throwing my arms around her. Before I could say anything she pulled my head down for a long wet kiss, our bodies pressed together. Never being one to worry about what others would think I stood there kissing Lisa and rubbing our bodies together as a crowd of people passed us on either side. I suppose someone may have looked askance at two middle aged adults making out in the middle of the busy terminal but I was too occupied to notice.

Eventually we untangled ourselves. "What were you starring at?" she asked.

"The ceiling," I responded, pointing upwards.

Lisa looked up and said, "Oh yeah. It's new. But you're a lot prettier. I couldn't wait for you to get here. I've been driving since six this morning and I want to get down to Lincoln City with you and watch the waves pound the beach while you pound me. You didn't check a bag did you? I don't want to wait for that."

"Slow down and stand back for a minute. I want to look at you. It's been three months."

She stepped away and stood leaning against a counter with her hips and her chest thrust out. Lisa was tall, at least 5-8; more with the heels on her riding boots. Although well past forty she was trim, but not so thin as to not look attractive. Her chest was ample and pushed a pair of full mounds out on the western shirt she was wearing. While not probably as high on her chest as they had been at eighteen, her breasts were something I couldn't wait to get my hands on. Her belly was hidden beneath the shirt, but I knew from experience that it was trim but still soft, and delicious to rest my head on after sex. She spun around leaning on the counter with her back to me as she shoved her hips out and stood wiggling her plump round ass at me. I stood watching, a gleam in my eye and a smile on my face. She had a lovely round ass.

Returning to her original posture Lisa stood watching me, a sparkle in her blue eyes and a lascivious smile on her lips. She pushed her thick blonde hair back. It was streaked with a bit of grey which she made no effort to conceal. "Like what you see?" she asked.

"Always," I said. "Now let's get out of here. I don't care about the ceiling anymore." Dozens of people had walked past us during her little display and no one had paused for even a moment.

"Good." She linked her arm in mine and led me out of the terminal into the short term parking structure to a shiny new, top of the line, F-250 pick-up. It was a gleaming medium blue with all the glitz and gadgets Ford's marketing guys could muster. It occurred to me that even one of the big tires probably cost more than I paid for my first car.

"Wow. Where did this come from?"

"It's mine. Luke gave it to me for Christmas. He's a great husband, don't you think."

"Yes because he lets you come to Oregon to be with me," I said.

She smiled. "Just as your wife Sharon does. I told Luke I was coming on this trip."

"And I told Sharon."

The topic of our spouses done, she launched into a long description of all the new features of Ford's latest Super Duty pickup including its towing capacity, improved fuel economy, internet connectivity, and on and on.

I let her run on for a while before interrupting, with a question: "Was this trip to see me or just an excuse to take your new toy on its first road trip?"

She laughed. "Well, maybe a little of both. But I've got plans for you that the truck won't be involved in." She paused while I stood shaking my head. "Unless you want to try sex in the back seat. The back seat in these new ones is huge and no one has been screwed this truck yet. It's sort of a virgin."

Now I laughed. There's a proposition I don't get every day, I thought. "Probably not here in the airport parking lot," I responded. "Let's just head to the coast. Can we stop and get some lunch somewhere. I'm hungry."

"Oh for sure. We have to stop in Dundee. I need to pick up a couple of cases of wine I ordered from one of the wineries near there. You drive. I've already got a little over 400 miles under my belt today. No tickets though. When we get to Dundee wake me. Here, let me plug the destination into the computer. Just drive where the truck tells you to go and remember you have to swing a little wider around corners with this beast."

Lisa was asleep before we got out of the airport. Once I managed to steer the big truck around the twists and turns of the parking structure it drove smoothly. Lisa was right. All I had to do was to follow the driving instructions that were on the screen. Traffic on the freeway was a bit hectic, but sitting up high in this giant truck it was easy to keep track of the rest of the vehicles. An hour later I pulled into the parking lot of a winery a mile or so out of Dundee; or perhaps I should say the truck pulled in. My effort was minimal.

Lisa was there to pick up two cases of Chardonay and a case of Pinot Noir she had ordered. As I lugged the wine out to the truck I asked, "How much were you planning we would be drinking on this visit?"

"Oh that's all going back to Boise with me. I have to keep some wine around. The rest of that red-neck family of mine can't get their tastes beyond the nearest case of Bud but I like to have a bit of Chardonay or Pinot around for a before bedtime sip or two. Don't worry. You won't have to drink all of it this week. Now let's go back in and get some lunch. They have a great restaurant."

We sat at a table looking out over the vineyards dropping away from the hilltop location and at the rise of the Coast Range beyond. The mountains rose in a foreboding mass beyond the vineyards, their slopes covered by a solid coating of dark second growth Douglas Fir. If you looked hard you could see the straight lines delineating the clear cuts of decades earlier but much of it was now thirty to fifty years old with the demarcation between prior harvests fading as the timber reached maturity. Not 'old growth' but nearly indistinguishable unless you knew what you were looking for. At some point the difference between an old growth forest and a maturing second growth forest becomes more of a state of mind than an obvious distinction. The clouds of the oncoming storm obscured the tops of the range.

We sat on a porch outside the winery's tasting room. There was still enough sun on us and the vineyards immediately down the hill from us to be pleasant. The vines were bare and a bit gnarly looking with their fall leaves long gone. There was just the lightest fuzz of green shoots poking above the bare ground between the vines; a promise of things to come but a long way off. It was warm enough to sit outside in the sun, but the clouds building on the ridge tops warned of coming rain and cold. Lunch was delicious, dungeness crab cakes and a tasty green salad along with a glass of the winery's smooth Chardonay. Ignoring the oncoming storm, Lisa chattered on about how pleasant the sun felt compared to the cold weather she had left behind in Boise.

"Do you ever think about going to Palm Springs or Arizona for the winter?" I asked.

"Hah. There's no chance of getting my no-count husband to do something like that. He thrives on winter. 'Has to go over the ranches in Oregon and feed the cattle,' he says. God only knows why anyone would want to go out early on a cold winter morning and break down bales to feed cattle when there are already folks there that are being paid to do that work. He's really at his happiest when it's ten degrees below freezing with a nasty wind and a few snowflakes drifting about. Ugh no thanks. Worse than that, all the rest of my family seems to think the same way.

"The problem is they all grew up on that god forsaken cattle ranch we own out there in the Owyhee Mountains. It's so remote that we don't even use it for raising cows anymore. Too long a haul to get cows in and out and too cold in the winter to leave them there. It's too cold even for my family. We don't plow the road in the winter anymore. That's why we bought the big ranch down near Vale; so we would have someplace to take the beeves in the winter instead of having to sell them to a feed lot operator before they were big enough to get good money for.

"I like that old ranch in the summer though. There's nobody up there so we've declared the place to be 'clothing optional.' I like to go up to the old ranch by myself and ride a few miles up to a place we call the headwaters pond. Nice place to get naked and have a beer or two." She looked sideways to make sure no one was listening to us and then whispered, "and maybe do some serious open air masturbating," following her disclosure with a lewd chuckle. "That's one of the reasons Luke bought me the new pick-up so I could haul a horse or two up to the old ranch in a trailer. The road in there gets a little gnarly sometimes."

"Every once in a while we have the Rev and his friends up there for one of their orgy parties."

The Rev was a minister who ran a small church in Boise and did sex counseling for couples. Very hands on counseling as my wife Sharon and I had learned when we spent an evening with the Rev and his wife.

"You know the Rev don't you?" she asked.

"Yeah I sold him a software system just before I retired." I paused for a moment. "And Sharon and I went to a training session with him and that horny wife of his."

"Oh yeah, I bet that was an eye opener for you two wasn't it."

I laughed. "Eye opener is an understatement."

"Yeah," Lisa cackled. "Sharon told me how much she enjoyed her first ever gang bang that night."

I shook my head and asked, "Does the rest of your family attend these parties of the Rev's?"

"Oh hell yes," she said with a laugh. "There's nothing they like better. It's like Christmas and the Fourth of July all rolled together. It's one of the few things they can get more excited about than a good snow storm." She shook her head. "I gotta admit those parties are fun. There's so much improper conduct going on it's just about impossible to tell who is screwing who, but one thing is clear. No one much cares who is screwing who. Just one big happy horny group. We pretty much declare a holiday on family incest rules for those parties. Keeping that close a track of whose doing you or who you are doing is too complicated." She was smiling broadly now. Shaking her head, she said, "What a family I've got."

I was hardly in a position to be critical. I figured that my wife Sharon was likely doing more or less the same thing with her sister and brother in law and their friends in Paris right now. That's how her visits to help Christine get over her blow ups with Herve usually ended; an orgy with them and a few of their close friends.

By this time we were finished with lunch and the sun was giving way to the incoming storm so we paid the tab and climbed back in the truck. Lisa was driving now. She was excited about getting over to the coast before it got too dark to watch the big storm rollers crashing onto the beach and against the headlands. The nav system was unnecessary now. Lisa had driven the road over the Coast Range so often she could probably do it blindfolded. But she used the system any way; like a kid with a new toy.

We had barely left Dundee before it started to drizzle, a typical Western Oregon winter weather pattern. We drove southwest past several small Willamette Valley towns, Dayton, McMinnville, Sheridan, Willamina, all former logging towns now surviving on Oregon's thriving wine industry and the tourism it brought. It kept the towns alive but the wine business didn't pay the wages the unionized sawmills paid. Beyond Willamina we began our climb into the mountains, the grass fields and vineyards replaced by steep hills covered with fir trees and vine maple growing along the creek side, its colorful fall foliage long gone. The route twisted and turned as we climbed, tires hissing on the rain soaked road, following the ever shrinking creek as we approached the low summit of the Coast Range. The nearer we got to the summit the heavier the rain became. By the time we started down the other side, the automatically adjusting wipers were swinging back forth at their max but not fully clearing the water on each swipe.

The rain was of no consequence to Lisa as she pushed the truck around the curves and talked a blue streak about how big the surf was going to be on the coast. I had no doubt she was correct in her prediction. The wind was pushing the brush and trees on either side of the road from side to side. As we dropped we followed a different creek, this one leading to the coast and growing larger as we dropped. The tops of the ridges to either side of us disappeared into the rushing clouds.

Our progress halted when we came to a large fir tree fallen across the road by the wind. Fortunately we were in Western Oregon where people still carry long bar chainsaws in the back of their pick-ups; tools of their trade. A group of men emptied out of trucks on either side of the obstruction and made quick work of the limbs on the tree and cut the remaining log into lengths which could be dragged out of the road by the front mounted winches a couple of the trucks carried. As we sat waiting we watched the ridge lines above us fade in an out of sight as the heavy weather rushed past us headed towards the valley where we had sat in the sun in during lunch. Lisa tapped on the steering wheel in impatience at the delay. "You'd think those bubbas would know how to use a chain saw and truck winch to clear a road faster," she said.