(Author's note: This story is an official entry into the 2013 Literotica Summer Lovin' contest. If you enjoy this little romantic tale, please make sure to vote and leave a comment if you wish. I also urge you to read all the other contest submissions; there is a lot of great talent on this site.)
* * * *
Heartbreak had faded, pain had ebbed. What had been the worst tragedy anyone could be asked to endure was behind me now, after more than two years. What lingered was the loneliness. And that was perhaps the worst of it all.
"Vincent?"
My mother's voice disturbed me from yet another self-pitying moment. I turned away from the packing box in which lay the photographic record of a life now gone and gave my aging mother a weak smile. "I'm fine."
She cocked her head as she leaned upon the walker. "That's not what I was going to ask," she said. "I think I've asked that question enough in the last couple of years."
"Sorry. I guess it's turned into a habit, you know, expecting everyone to ask me how I'm doing."
"People mean well," she said, in that sort of way that southern women say 'bless his heart.'
"So . . . ." I prompted my mother.
"Oh! Of course," she said as if jolted. She managed to let out a small laugh. "I just wanted to ask if you finished the list for the auction. Mr. Haverty sent me a message about it this morning."
I nodded. "I'll email it to him this afternoon," I said, then glanced to the small stack of boxes in the middle of the now-barren living room. "Although it'd be easier to list what
isn't
going to be auctioned off."
"Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?"
Again I nodded, more vehemently. "Yes," I told her firmly. I met my mother's gaze. "The important things are in these boxes," I said, then tapped my temple. "And up here. The rest is just . . . extra."
Her head bobbed sadly. I hadn't been the only one to endure pain and loss, after all. It seemed to have hit her harder, though; she relied upon the walker more and more and had started smoking again. I couldn't blame her for ignoring her doctor's advice in the face of overwhelming mortality. I had spent a year as a self-pitying alcoholic, after all.
"When is your flight leaving?"
"Six-thirty tomorrow morning."
She gave a wan smile. "Call me when you land."
* * * *
Friends and therapists had been telling me for more than a year I needed to get away. "You need a fresh start," they told me. "You gotta get back out to the world of the living."
Pithy words, I had thought, but the idea grew and grew until it became part of an obsession. When I finally made the decision to auction off the house and just about everything in it, I planned a vacation as the culminating chapter to the worst period of my life. Maybe it would be a fresh start. Or maybe I could just let myself feel alive again, if only for a while.
"So, where are we going?" my friends had asked, taking it as a matter of course that I would bring them along. But they had been part of the ongoing tragedy, if only by virtue of the fact that they reminded me of it through looks, words, and deeds. As touching as their sympathy and support had been, they only aggravated the situation.
"
I'm
going . . . somewhere," I told them cryptically. Some understood my reticence; others didn't. Those who did agreed that I needed time to myself, to reflect, to assess, to decide what was going to happen to me. Those who didn't understand thought I was snubbing them. Melancholy, fortunately, didn't allow me to care about the latter.
Banishment of such distracting thoughts came, thankfully, as I stepped from the taxi before the airport terminal. The cabbie had been a nice guy, just talkative enough to make the ride pleasant without being intrusive. I saw no reason not to share details with him that I wouldn't with even my mother.
"Have fun in Mexico, man," he said after I'd awarded him a generous tip. "Watch out for them senoritas, though. They know tourists when they see one."
I managed a smile. "Where I'm going, not many tourists know about."
"Private resort, huh?"
"Something like that."
I bid the man farewell and headed into the terminal. Each step closer to the gate seemed to echo the slowly-increasing beating of my heart.
* * * *
The little house was not much to look at, to be honest, but I had not expected a four-star resort with servants in white suits offering complimentary margaritas as soon as I walked in the door. In fact, no one greeted me after I had pulled the rental car into the short driveway. That was fine; the less pomposity, the better.
The instructions in the email told me the key to the door would be under a little clay flower pot covered by a sunset mosaic, and indeed, there it was. I had to jiggle the lock a bit to get the door open.
There were two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room and a single large, spacious bathroom. Nothing too remarkable, until I stepped into the sunken living room and realized the entire south-facing wall was a series of wooden shutters, with slats open to reveal the generous lawn and, most importantly, the white sand beach beyond.
My cheeks suddenly hurt. I realized I was actually, honestly, smiling.
I took in a deep breath of crisp salt air. The sounds of the Pacific ocean drifted to me: lapping waves, seagulls, rustling palm fronds. Apparently, I had stepped into a Hollywood beach movie . . . just without Frankie Valli and all the annoying, giggling kids.
Upon the dining room table was a basket of fresh fruit and an envelope, addressed to
"Sr. Paterac."
Within was a copy of my rental agreement with the owner, as well as menus to a few local restaurants and the number for a delivery service that would bring me fresh groceries if I desired.
I took an apple from the basket. It was fresh, ripe, as good as any straight off a tree in Washington. I was beginning to feel spoiled. A man could get used to living with such simple luxuries.
After getting settled in and calling home, I changed from casual dress to a pair of brand new, rather loose-fitting nylon shorts and headed out the back. The pleasant tropical air was delightfully free of the stench of city life. There was no industry in this little Mexican town other than fishing, agriculture, and some light tourism. There were a few cars here and there but most of the locals seemed to get around on foot or on bicycle. Other than the occasional satellite dish, none of the constructions looked to have changed in over a century.
The back yard of the hacienda which was to be my home for twenty-one days was framed by tall palms and a number of thick tropical plants the names of which I could not guess. The result was a noticeable sense of privacy, which had been the main requirement for my getaway. And indeed, when speaking with Hector, the owner of the property, he assured me my privacy was virtually guaranteed. He even pointed out that the beach, while technically private, was considered clothing optional.
Hmm. Naked on a beach, I thought. I've never done that before.
But I resisted going all out on my first foray across sand so fine and white that a Zip-lock bag of it would probably get me arrested. It was hot, but not scalding, and while my feet were tender from decades of easy living, I could walk across it readily enough. With nothing more than a bottle of locally-produced beer, I found a spot where the sand was a little damp and cool and watched the tides roll back and forth.
* * * *
I slept in late every day, decided not to shave, and didn't even bother to make use of the bathtub. I ate when I felt like it, drank whatever I desired. At times I enjoyed a bit too much of the local brew and succumbed to fits of depression. Now and then I drunkenly considered going for a midnight swim and let the sea take me away forever.
But it wasn't time for that.
On the fourth day of my voluntary exile, after accepting a delivery of shrimp, flank steak, and a variety of vegetables from an extremely agreeable young man, I decided to take advantage of my beach's "option" and venture out to the surf in the buff. In the preceding days I had not seen a single other person other than dark specks moving distantly down the beach. The haciendas flanking mine were either unoccupied, or their tenants had no true love for the beach.
All that meant, of course, that stepping boldly and gloriously nude to the edge of the water was easy enough. The flow of salty air across my now-naked genitals was, well, titillating, perhaps even a touch arousing. I almost felt like swaggering. Like a naked Captain Morgan, I planted one of my feet upon a piece of large driftwood and tilted the bottle of beer to my lips.
I was lord of my domain. Vincent Paterac, King of Naked Beach.
And in Mel Brooks' immortal words, it was good to be the king.
A reckless, careless chuckle left my lips. I had never felt such freedom before. For the first time in my life, I truly had no cares, no demands, no deadlines to meet or fools to please. There was only I, the sea, and the wind.
And the woman who inexplicably appeared in the corner of my vision.
"Good afternoon," she said casually.
In that instant, I was a twelve-year-old boy, suddenly foolish and embarrassed. I settled my free hand over my crotch. "Uh . . . good afternoon," I replied.
She chuckled, amused at my gesture. "Don't worry, you're not offending me. I've seen naked men before."
Now I felt even more embarrassed. Here I was, a man of forty-four years, naked on a private beach where it had already been established that nudity was kosher . . . and I'm covering my dick because a woman happened to be there.
She was about twenty feet away, just at the imaginary dividing line between my rental property and my easterly neighbor. She wore a stark white bikini with a transparent wrap that fluttered around her legs like the tentative hands of a doting masseuse.
I could honestly say I had never seen a woman quite like her before. Her skin was darker than that of any black woman I had previously seen. It wasn't just chocolate dark, it was
dark chocolate
dark, like the richest and most alluring shade of pure ebony. Her eyes glowed in contrast, as if lit from behind, as did her teeth when she spoke. The pale color of her garments looked like purest ivory in contrast.
At last, I found a voice to speak with. "I didn't think anyone else would be on this beach."
Her amused expression remained, even as she gave me a once-over. "I'm getting that impression."
I looked at her painfully. "I'm not a pervert."
She just shrugged. "I didn't think you were." She took a few steps closer. "It's okay. I'm not going to call the police, if that's what you're afraid of. I don't think I could, to be honest. Anyway, I know this beach is clothing optional. I might even strip down some time myself."
I arched an eyebrow. That would be something to see, I had to admit. The woman had a very nice figure, which was thankfully showcased by her scant attire.
"My name's Nina," she said by way of introduction. "I'm guessing you're from the States, too?"
