The Return

My heart was racing as we pulled up at the entrance to the path leading down to the beach. I hadn't really expected to be so affected.

Across the road was the holiday house my family had rented last summer.

Almost a year ago today I had walked down that path early in the morning, single and a virgin. In a way that would have been incomprehensible to the girl who walked down the path, four hours later I had emerged from it hopelessly in love and well and truly deflowered.

As I got out of the car the timber top rail on the fence at the start of the right hand side of the path brought back its own memory. It was that rail I leaned against to give Greg a quickie when he dropped me home late at night after we'd had to clean Kate up and put her to bed when - dazed, drunk or drugged and barely conscious - she'd found us after escaping a new boyfriend who'd slipped her a date rape drug. Kate had stolen an orgasm for herself as she leaned against Greg for support while I washed her under the shower and after we'd got her into bed he'd fingered me to two of my own while we sat pashing on the couch waiting for her mum to come home.

All the while Greg had uncomplainingly suffered an unsatisfied boner. I figured he deserved the quickie, and I quite enjoyed it myself. Anyway we had needed to get that boner under control.

Although it was just one sexual adventure of many we had shared during that holiday, I found myself momentarily tempted to create a memorial to that first summer by marking with a permanent pen the outline of my bum cheeks on the spot where it happened.

It had been a long drive from Sydney to get here and it was now late afternoon. Instead of going straight to Greg's place where I had been invited to spend this second summer, we'd come here first. With daylight saving, the sun was still high in the sky and the day still hot. Ostensibly we'd decided to drop by for a swim on the way to the house. However the truth was, neither Greg nor myself really had a swim as the first thing on our mind.

Now dressed only in a bikini and with Greg in his speedos, we walked briskly along the 50 metres of beach up to the sand dune where I'd willingly offered up my virginity as I'd lowered myself onto Greg's shaft on that first day and had shared innumerable sexual encounters with him in the three months that had followed it.

With our sex lives in Sydney restricted by the privacy constraints of my parent's house or Greg's share-house and the lack of suitable outdoor venues, the orgasm count (if I can put it that way) over the next 9 months might have been impressive by most people's standards, but it just wasn't the same.

As soon as we got into the privacy of the dune we laid out our towels. Then in an instant we were in each other's arms; standing up, our torsos pushed firmly together, our hands exploring down the back of the other's swimwear and our lips engaged in the most passionate, penetrating kiss.

As Greg became aroused his cock - sheathed in the stretched material of his swimmers - grew into the space between my legs and up against my crutch. In an all too familiar and enjoyable way, it pushed firmly against my clit, encouraging me to rock gently back and forward on it.

Greg knew my swimwear fetish - of how I found them sensuous on my body at any time, but still having them on enhanced my enjoyment of this early stage of foreplay - and was more than willing to take it slowly and let me enjoy it.

The bikini I had on today was quite deliberately a special one. As far as Greg knew it was the one I was wearing the day we met and he first undressed me (well he did a lot more than that - but you get the picture). In reality, that pair had been put away wrapped in tissue paper at the end of my last holiday.

This was an identical one; same brand, same colour and bought at the same shop. Except on this pair I'd cut out all the linings. Both top and bottom were just a single layer of lycra because that made them feel better on me; especially when, as now, they were part of foreplay. What was that I said about a fetish?

Fortunately the orange and black sunset pattern wasn't too bad about going see through when they were wet. The lack of any pubes helped as far as the bottoms were concerned, although the dark colour of my nipples did tend to show through the top. Mind you the wet material tended to plaster itself against my skin; conforming to the contours of my crutch to produce something of a camel toe and - because of the size of mine - really showing a severe case of bikini nip. The former could be adjusted out. In connection with the latter, I sort of missed whatever memo went around banning women from having nipples after Janet Jackson had her silly so called wardrobe malfunction. Since high school my nips had been called "Karen's famous nips" and frankly I didn't care; maybe because my mum's were so often visible too.

And did I mention Greg was also wearing a pair of speedos I'd given him (and encouraged him to wear) with - you guessed it - the lining cut out.

This is all relevant because it contributed to the feel of the cock between my legs being so stimulating as I first rocked back and forth. Soon I had wrapped my hand around the triangle of stretched material Greg's erection had induced in his swimmers, squeezed it up against his shaft and was using my hand to play the tip against my clit. Quickly my body's juices turned the crutch of my bikini to a wet slimy mess; which only enhanced the effect.

Greg had initially placed a hand over one bikini top, teasing up the nipple underneath. Now he bent down and took the top material and the nipple underneath into his mouth, sucking it and flicking his tongue across it, while the now free hand moved across to the other breast, slid itself under the triangle of my top and played directly with the nipple.

As I put my hand around the back of his head to support it against my nipple, I looked down between our bodies. There I could see my hand wrapped around his shaft; some of the length of the shaft disappearing under my crutch as I swayed back and forward. Even more excitingly, just below my hand I could see that the waist band of his swimmers had been pulled away from his pubis by the inability of the material to stretch far enough to accommodate the full length of his erection. Looking down I could see the naked base of his shaft and the balls beneath it; the very view that had contributed so much to my arousal on the day we met and the string of events that eventually led to me all too willingly losing my virginity.

I'm sure Greg would have just liked to have pulled all the ties on my string bikini, render me naked and go for it. But he never failed to ensure, not just my own satisfaction, but that I actually had my own sexual desires and fantasies seen to. Knowing I liked this, he always waited for my signal that it was time.

Today I had sort of got myself locked in.

Already excited - sexually and emotionally - by being back where it all started, one part of me might have wanted to expose Greg properly and let him strip me. The other was enjoying what we were doing at the moment and didn't want to stop. The problem was I had sort of gone past the point of no return; that phase of arousal where you know you're not far off coming and don't really want to interfere with it by changing anything. Pulling string ties is easy enough; properly exposing Greg would mean stopping and starting again. Not for the first time I wished guys had string tie swimwear too.

Greg didn't have long to wait. With a typically loud groan I came; pulling him tightly against me and I'm sure just about suffocating him as I held his face ever more firmly against my breast - trying to draw out every bit of available pleasure from my orgasm.

Already Greg was pulling the strings on my bikini; leaving the parts draped across his cock or over the top of his head as they fell away from my body. As soon as I'd finished I dropped to my knees, pulled his swimmers down his legs and laid myself out on my towel for Greg to have his way with me.

When we'd first got together, Greg had been too gentle with his love making; so scared of hurting me that he didn't really communicate his passion to me or stir up those feelings in my crutch that (I'd since learnt) good sex really can. I won't say I trained him out of that reticence; more that we'd worked out together what was good.

Now Greg unleashed his sexual needs on me; communicating his manhood not just with the strength and size of his arousal, but with his whole body. Not every girl might like this, and it always depends on who the guy is too. But where Greg is concerned, I like to feel taken; pounded even. His excitement and passion become mine too, even if it doesn't hit the right spots for a second climax.

All too quickly, Greg had filled me with his cum.

Only then could we put our swimmers back on and have the swim we'd pretended we'd come here for.