Naed & Wet in the Swirling Ocean

by

Buck Maelstrom, M.D. and

Miss Manners with a Whip

At daybreak, Dan Lewis emerged from his battered Jeep Wrangler and pulled out his nylon gym bag. Turning away from the Jeep, he caught a glimpse of his own image in the window glass. Brushing back a mop of Redford-esqe hair, he realized he'd forgotten to shave but concluded that one day of beard stubble wouldn't render him socially unacceptable.

As he ascended the hill toward the beach, barefoot, his climb was cloaked in fog. Mornings at the ocean were frequently cool and foggy, and standard morning lifeguard attire was sweatpants, zipfront sweatshirt, and a yellow rubberized Beach Patrol jacket. The beach was empty at the early hour. The ocean was audible, but almost invisible in the fog.

Huddled against the chill in the sweatshirt, Dan cupped his hands around the tall styrofoam coffee cup. Mornings at the ocean were so peaceful that D.T. Suzuki could have written about them. The tourists were still slumbering. Surfing had been banned at many of the more crowded locations, so the only thing to break the morning silence was the occasional jogger trying to run on sand.

It was almost a Zen moment, with all desire extinguished. The sound of the ocean, the cool, salty air, the sandpipers at the shore. Dan huddled in the warmth of the faded sweatshirt, sipped the coffee, and realized that he desired nothing more in the world.

But then, at that most calm and peaceful of moments, Dan recalled the lingerie catalogue he had skimmed the night before. He remembered the black lace garterbelt, with its delicate design, and he recalled the way the little garters teased his imagination, and made him want to trail tender kisses along the smooth tan legs of the model wearing them. But being a lifeguard was a serious matter. Lives were at stake, at least statistically speaking. A whistle might be necessary to summon an exuberant child closer to shore. So Dan did not want his mental clarity ruined by intrusive thoughts of exotic lingerie.

Lost in reverie, Dan pondered. Watching the ocean as the sun rose, burning red streaks across the horizon, he thought of Matthew Arnold's Dover Beach. And so his mind drifted, as the sun began to burn off the mist, as the air began to warm. He removed the yellow slicker and the sweatpants as the beach began to fill with early sunbathers. Filled with a renewed commitment to professionalism, Dan swept away all thoughts of earthly passion and began to focus on what Alan Watts would do.

Spotting a movement to his left, Dan's eyes turned to gaze. It was the next lifeguard up. He knew Captain Morrison, the head of the Beach Patrol, had advised him that a new guard would be posted, but there had been no mention that it would be a girl. Dan watched, and even from a distance it was apparent that her ascent of the guard stand was graceful. She seemed sleek and svelte, taut and tan, but he was careful to avoid staring. He casually acknowledged her semaphore message.

As the sun began to intensify, about 10 am, Dan unzipped the gray sweatshirt. After lunch, he would apply zinc oxide to his nose, but for now he was perfecting the tan which had almost bleached white the hair on his legs and forearms. At 10:30, he semaphored the new guard of his intention to go for a final cup of coffee, but then decided a personal greeting would be more polite. Walking up the beach, he saw that her zipfront sweatshirt was also open in the gathering warmth, revealing a firm, tan tummy.

She was applying sunscreen to the tummy, carefully smoothing the oil onto her bronzed skin. Dan noted that the her gaze never strayed from the crashing waves, and he surmised that she was meticulous both in her lifeguarding duties and in avoiding damaging UV rays. He admired her vigilance. He admired it almost as much as her sun-burnished skin. It was a close call, in fact, but the skin won out.

As he watched her hands, he noticed her fingers as they moved rhythmically across her tummy. He saw the backs of her fingers, tan and delicate, as they spread the oil over her taut stomach, watched the fingers as they almost caressed her tan skin. Almost without warning, Dan realized that he was becoming aroused, against his will, at the sight.

Against his will, he began to envision her wearing a white thong with a scalloped top edge. And he began to imagine how good it would feel to kiss the tan skin along the top of the front of that white thong. Dan was a person with strong principles, and he firmly believed that lovely lingerie should have to pass the Kiss Through test. Sure, a bra or a thong might look lovely, but Dan knew from his college courses in Lingerie Design and Engineering that the important thing was whether the lingerie wearer would feel pleasure if kissed through said lingerie.

Having just glimpsed this svelte, fit new lifeguard, Dan's mind was already running riot. He envisioned her not only in kissable bras and delicious thongs, but after twilight on the old floatation device moored a quarter mile from shore. And Kama Sutra positions were flitting through his mind more rapidly than a butterfly on crack cocaine.

As he gazed at her, with her long hair whirling in the ocean wind, he pictured sex with her in the Position of the Courtesan. Except that his hands might creep up to tease her swollen nipples, it was perfect. Dan wondered what the Position of the Courtesan would look like in a room with a mirrored ceiling. Idly, he began singing to himself the old Gene Watson song, "Love in the Hot Afternoon."

With that image burned into his mind, Dan pondered his new beach colleague in the Position of the Overlapping, with her breasts touching his chest hair. Again, though, Dan made bold to improve, in his mind, on the Kama Sutra. Perhaps, he thought, a prudent fellow would allow his hands to stray downward and caress her hips?

Yes, Dan approved of the Exotique position as well, but was concerned about not wanting to appear to dominate. The Slave position, of course, was impossible to consider given Dan's long record on Civil Rights.

Dan liked the idea of the Amazone position, and kicked himself daily for never having tried it personally. Regrets, he'd had a few, but then again too few to mention. He had tried the Ciou position, but found it too much like exercise. He liked the notion of the Accordean posture because it afforded an opportunity for him to watch the firm hips of his female partner writhe in pleasure.

But Dan's sensitivity was such that he was aware of the dermatological risks of Astroturf-covered rectangular rafts. Thus it was that he favored the Variope position, with the female in a superior position (as was right in cosmological terms). And the Variope position had so many other virtues. Dan could reach overhead and caress a breast, or reach around and run his hand over a lean tummy. Or perhaps, in the gentlest possible way, he could lightly pinch a hip as his female partner cascaded into ecstasy.

But Dan realized that he had to wrench his mind from such thougths and focus on the present. He forced his eyes to lift from her stomach, forced himself back to duty, honor, and beach. Realizing that his drifting mind had created an erection harder than the Hope Diamond, Dan had no alternative but to remove his t-shirt and wrap it casually around his waist, hoping that his new professional colleague would not notice his excitement.

Just as he was about to speak, she suddenly bolted from her station, dropping the bottle of Hawaiian Tropic with the rapidity of Suzy Favor Hamilton in a 10K tossing aside an empty power gel wrapper. As he watched her race down the beach, he was reminded of the opening credits of Baywatch, a show he ordinarily scorned. This time, however, he was struck by how much more plausible the shot would have been had the cinematographers filmed the very dash he was watching. Simultaneously, he was struck by his own callousness and irresponsibility. There must be a swimmer in distress to have precipitated such a dash, and there he was, struck by aesthetics he realized were rooted in his own carnality. How innapropriate to muse at this moment upon the shapes a bright container could contain, to be lost in mindless admiration of how, when she moved, she moved more ways than one.

Dan hurried after, accelerating his pace in case the lifeguard was slowed by the unfamiliar terrain of her post, but he need have had no such concerns. She plunged into the pounding waves immediately, striking out for an object he now spotted, alternately bobbing above the surface and disappearing with the motion of the surf. He couldn't tell what it was, but the beach was no place for vacillation. The new lifeguard had almost reached the object when he saw her pause and tread water. After a moment, she turned back, striking toward land with an easy, graceful stroke that brought her to the shoreline in moments. He fully intended to praise her decisive action, no matter what the bobbing object had turned out to be, but when she emerged from the surf, he was struck speechless by the way her swimsuit was plastered against her lissome curves, the protuberance of her turgid nipples against the fabric, and the path of salty droplets as they trickled down into her considerable cleavage.

The oil on her body glistened in the summer sun. The water formed droplets on her golden skin, paused for a moment, shimmering, and then descended. Dan found himself wishing to extend his tongue and catch those salty droplets. But such thoughts were unlikely to lessen his erectile status, and he elected to think of unsexy things like Gertrude Stein.

As his eyes met hers, their gazes locked. He knew she knew that he had gazed unreservedly at her emergence from the water and not in a lifeguard-evaluating way, but in a you-are-hotter-than-combustible-hydrocarbons way. He could see the knowledge in her eyes, which, now that he noticed, were as green as the water off a sandbar in the Gulf.

She contemplated him squarely, waiting for him to speak. She thought that he either had a very large Boy Scout knife in his pocket or was glad to see her. She took the initiative, saying, "I'm Amy, the new lifeguard. That turned out to be an inflatable toy, but I didn't want to take a chance." He nodded, still maintaining eye contact, and as the silence lengthened, broken only by the slapping of the halyards on the sailboats from the marina, she looked away first and a flush spread into her sun-burnished complexion, deepening the few freckles on her nose and flooding her face with color.

Dan knew it was a sink-or-swim situation,so to speak. He felt the need to immerse himself in the cold ocean immediately, so he suggested a quick swim out to the float and back, followed by a training session with the external defribillator. He knew that physical fitness was paramount for a lifeguard, and judging Amy, he had no doubt that she was in top shape. However, it didn't hurt to check, and he had not gotten to be Lifeguard of the Year for seven consective years by being slack. No, he knew the bursts of strenuous physical activity required for offshore rescue sometimes as much as three miles out and even marine firefighting. So when he suggested the swim to Amy, he was relieved that she showed only eagerness, even though she'd just undertaken one.

After informed the nearest lifeguards to either side of their intentions, Dan and Amy took to the water. Once on the float, they both flung themselves down, on their backs, panting from the effort. Gradually, their breathing slowed, and Dan became aware of the sun on his bronzed skin and the lapping of the waves against the float. Given the warmth, the waves, and the sound of the wind, the effect was soporific. His eyes half-closed, he let his gaze drift over Amy's stunning form.

The summer sun had laced her light brown hair with golden highlights. Her arms, thrown back over her head, were delicate but strong. He watched as tiny streams of water trickled down her arms, crossed the smooth expanse of her armpits, the swell of the side of her left breast, and descended to the harsh Astroturf of the float.

Squinting against the glare, Dan wished he had his shades so that it would be less obvious that he was looking. But she was relaxed, and seemingly oblivious to the attention. His eye moved to her left breast, outlined rather clearly in the wet bikini top. Again, as he noted what surely seemed to be a swollen nipple, he felt his heart beat faster, felt that old weakness coming on strong.

On the one hand, there was duty. But thinking of a hand merely made him wish to place a hand on that left breast and gently tease that nipple. Then, as a wave caused the float to undulate, his eyes were drawn again to her sleek, tan tummy. There was no navel ring, no tattoo, nothing to mar the expanse of tan skin. A large drop of ocean water formed at her navel and he found himself wanting to lick it.

Relaxing, she bent her left knee and he noticed that her left leg was strong and shapely. In the harsh sunlight, the leg was tan and glistening with suntan oil, and he found himself fighting the urge to sit up, lean over, and begin kissing it. But where to begin? Should he commence kissing at the ankle, and risk neglecting her pink toenails? Despite Dan's lack of certitude regarding toe-kissing (about which he had an entirely open mind), he did feel more confident in his ability to kiss in the ankle-to-thigh region.

Indeed, Dan had once had a girlfriend who insisted that he kneel as she stood, who demanded that he kiss the backs of her thighs. In truth, her demands were superfluous, for Dan enjoyed kissing the backs of thighs, teasing them with taunting kisses a silly millimeter long, heightening the tension until it was unbearable.

Dan had read somewhere, doubtless in a dental office waiting room (the source of all enlightenment), that making a woman somewhat impatient for her first orgasm was a good approach. It created an eagerness, and it paved the way for more. Dan did believe in helping the woman have that first orgasm, but just a few minutes later than she might have preferred. Ultimately, the thermostat would be turned up for the evening, or so was the thinking.

Amy's chest rose rhythmically with her breathing, and he could not help but wonder what she would look like without the swimsuit. It was brief, a mere series of triangles held together with ties, but still, he couldn't help but ponder her tonsorial proclivities. He thought he could form a theory, given the scantiness of the swimsuit, but he'd like to ascertain beyond the shadow of a doubt. Ties...the thought led him even farther from professional considerations, and Dan wondered if she any yearning to be tied, in a totally recreational, non-threatening situation. If she had any such desires, he would be more than happy to minister to them, he thought. He would start with the tie around her neck, undo the knot slowly, and peel the wet suit away. No. He revised his fantasy. First, he would brush his lips over the wet fabric, feeling her chilled flesh through it, and exhaling warm air till he felt a response.

Then he would press harder, prolonging the moment, not ceasing till he heard moans and/or gasps. Only then would he untie the straps around her neck and back, and only then would he remove the top, when he was sure she was quivering with the passion he himself felt. After he had lingered there for long, long moments, then there was the lower piece to examine and tantalize as well. He felt sure he could excite an appropriate response in Amy, and it was not until she fell back, panting once again, and not from the swim this time, would he even consider satisfying his own voracity.

Sweeping a hand to shield his eyes, Dan realized that the afternoon was proceeding apace and that they should return to their guard stands. But he could not, and did not, allow the moment to perish. Making bold, he asked if she would like to go to dinner that evening.

At the back of his mind, a plan was forming. He began to envision the float after dark, illuminated only by some distant lights. He began to think of passion with Amy in the lambent shadows, his tongue flickering on her golden thighs, her hair in disarray, her moans lost in the sound of the waves. So it was that he found himself at the end of several pleasant hours in her company--or mostly pleasant; she was excellent company, relaxing and intelligent, but the sight of in a modest tank top, knotted silk sarong, and sandals tortured him in their very demureness, knowing how the golden skin lay just underneath, how the crease where her sleek thighs and hips met was just under the surface of the silk and fell against her supple body in sinuous curves.

He longed to reach out and brush the silk aside, unknot the sarong and let it fall to the floor, as he caressed her. He wanted to run his tongue along that crease where her thighs and hips met, to feel her shiver at the pleasure. Somehow he made it through dinner, and though they'd both spent the better part of the day on the beach, a walk along the dark shore didn't seem to be out of order.

The beach looked different at night, the sound of the waves not overshadowed by the bright sun and blue skies, its mystery more enticing. Dan felt none of the pressure he encountered when he was on duty; at night, he was simply free to enjoy the teasing wind and the rushing waves, not to mention Amy's presence beside him. Brief flashes of heat lightning broke the darkness offshore, or they thought it was heat lightning. Soon, however, sudden drops began to pelt the sand in front of them. Neither seemed to mind being caught in the rain, but they were wet through in a matter of seconds. When Dan spotted the lifeguard station up ahead, it seemed only natural to run up the steps, retrieve his key, unlock the door, and take shelter. Once they were inside, Dan chivalrously located a towel and handed it to Amy, trying not to notice her remarkable resemblance to Miss Wet T-Shirt Beach Babe 2004.

He watched as she ran the towel over her hair, and then down over the tank top. The tank top was soaked with water, and he could see her nipples through the thin material. Kneeling, Dan took another towel and began drying her legs. He began at her feet, and halted at her knees.

What was that sound? It was just the rain as it intensified, pounding on the aluminum roof of the lifeguard station. They were alone. No guards would appear until dawn. As Dan looked, his eyes were level with her thighs, partly revealed by the wet sarong. He reached out, suddenly seized with passion, and wrapped a hand around her right thigh. He bent his head and kissed her thigh gently.

He looked up and Amy's eyes had narrowed as she said "Oh, yes." On an impulse, he began to lick droplets of water from the front of her right thigh. Suddenly as thirsty as a non-ancient mariner, Dan pursued the droplets of water up her thigh until finding the source -- the soaked sarong.

His first impulse, speedily rejected, was to seek permission to remove the sarong. But the sarong was colorful, and its design, which provided repeated glimpses of tanned thigh, had been taunting him throughout dinner. Upon further reflection, what Dan really wanted to do was brush the sarong aside just a bit while licking the droplets of water from Amy's thighs. He lifted the wet silk and contemplated the firm but fluid muscles that confronted him. He nuzzled the burnished skin and breathed in the scent of flowers and rain.

And...something else, an intimation of something even more familiar. What was that lingering aroma? It hit him as he pressed his lips into her resilient skin--it was a trace of her suntan oil. The coconut scent reminded of his morning muffin, though the thighs in front of him were infinitely more delectable. Still, the association made him want to nibble and he acted on the impulse before he addressed the remaining raindrops that begged to be licked.