At The Beach 18

At the Beach

Kathryn M. Burke

What else is there to do on a warm—no, hot—June afternoon in southern California except go to the beach? So that's where the seven of us went.

Seven of us females, that is. One guy tagged along—that would be Brenda's boyfriend, Justin.

We all ranged between the ages of nineteen and twenty-two, and on this lazy Saturday we were all basking in our freedom from the rigors of the small liberal arts college where classes had ended a few weeks before. And I have to say, all seven of us were scrumptious. Maybe not Miss America contestants (although some of us were close), but succulent enough for your average horny college boy to salivate over.

There was Patsy, whose mammoth tits were always in danger of falling out of her skimpy bikini top, and whose lustrous golden-blonde hair made her the perfect California girl.

There was Madeleine, who opted for the Goth look—you know, jet-black hair, black lipstick, and so on and so forth. But she was no bloodless waif like so many Goth girls: she had an ass to die for, and was happy to show it off with the thong bikini bottom she habitually wore.

There was Shawna, a tall, willowy Black girl with a face like a Nubian Aphrodite and dark chocolate skin that looked tasty enough to eat. The boys at college did a lot of nibbling on her, whenever she gave them the chance.

There was Nauko, a short, feisty Asian girl, smart as a whip and with flinty eyes that showed she didn't suffer fools (especially of the male variety) gladly. But her curvy figure made all the boys follow her around like little lost puppies, their tongues hanging out. Every now and then she would condescend to allow some lucky guy access to her body, and he was never the same again.

There was Elaine, a brunette whose melancholy eyes made all the guys yearn to protect her from the onslaughts of this cruel, cruel world—and whose bust and bottom made it more than worthwhile for them.

As for me (my name is Sandra), I like to think that my oval face, framed by wavy auburn hair, my 34D bosom, and my round, firm bottom make me a lot more than chopped liver for any man who has ideas of sampling my treasures.

Brenda herself was no slouch in the beauty department, but her smallish tits and less-than-hourglass figure gave her a bit of an inferiority complex. I personally thought she looked kind of like a doll (some men like that)—you know, round, wide eyes, rosy cheeks, and a weird mixture of shyness and come-hither wantonness that made her an attractive little piece. I heard she was quite a handful between the sheets, almost attacking her man of the moment out of fear that he would wander off and take up with some more luscious damsel.

I didn't think Justin a real prize, frankly. He seemed a bit of a dweeb, although Brenda claimed he wrote poetry in his spare time. Imagine that! Otherwise he came off looking like a not very bright surfer dude—blond hair, blue eyes, a kind of confused expression that made you think he wasn't quite fit for the complexities of modern society. He wasn't all that tall (a point that will become relevant later on, as you'll see), but I guess he was a good sort, more or less. He had some of the usual male deficiencies, as you'll also see in a minute.

He and Brenda had been going out for a few weeks, and they were still in that clingy, joined-at-the-hip stage that comes over couples when they first consummate their relationship with several bouts of frenetic sex. And, in fact, that's what led to what happened that Saturday afternoon.

By the way—don't think we other girls didn't have our own beaux. Some of us did, some of us didn't. A few of us (I was in that number) had decided to take a break from being poked and prodded by men; others had just decided that on this occasion it was going to be a women-only outing. But Brenda just couldn't bear not to have Justin tag along.

And that was what set in motion the strange events of that day.

After only about half an hour of lounging on the beach, taking tentative dips into the warm ocean water, munching on snacks, and otherwise engaging in good, wholesome, mindless fun, Brenda pulled me aside with a worried look on her face.

"Whatsa matter?" I said. "Something wrong?"

Brenda gave a glance back at Justin, who was sitting on the sand gawking at everyone around him but otherwise not doing much of anything.

"It's Justin," she said with a worried look.

"What about Justin? Isn't he having a good time?"

"It's not that," she said, biting her lip. "He wants to . . ."

"He wants to what?" I siad. I had this sinking feeling that I knew exactly what she was trying to say, but I wanted to her to say it without beating around the bush (sorry, bad pun).

"He wants to do it with me!" Brenda said in a desperate whisper.

I rolled my eyes and looked over at Justin. I'd noticed him looking at each of us seven girls in turn, and you could practically see the thoughts running through his mind—or, should we say, by the thing coming out of his groin that so often passes for a mind in men. After all, we were all wearing bikinis—each one more revealing than the last. In fact, Justin was staring at just about all the females within view—and there were heaps of them. Some of them may have been old enough to be his grandmother, but even they looked nice in one- or two-piece bathing suits that left very little to the imagination.

"Omigod, Brenda!" I cried. "You mean—right now?"

"Yeah, right now."

"Well, how exactly do you expect that to happen?"

The beach, I should mention, offered absolutely no place of concealment—I mean,

nada.

Just one long, curving strip of sand, chock full of people taking advantage of the hot weather to enjoy a refreshing dip into the Pacific.

"Why don't you two do it in your car?" I offered.

"God, no!" she cried. "There are people walking around all over the place. What if someone sees us?"

"I guess there aren't any motels in the area you could shack up in."

"I don't think so. Anyway, we don't have any money."

"Well, you have a problem, girl. Can't you just tell him to restrain his lustful instincts until you two can get some privacy?"

"He—he's pretty demanding."

"Yeah, I bet he is." And Brenda was one of those un-self-confident women who feel the need to spread their legs when their man snaps his fingers.

I mulled over the situation. Even though I found Brenda sort of pathetic, I did empathize with her. She was convinced that Justin was the guy for her, even though I had strong doubts he'd make good husband material. But she was clearly infatuated with him, and I didn't want this relationship to blow up in her face.

"Okay, I've thought of something," I said suddenly. "I need to talk with the other girls. I'll be right back."

And I went over to our little cadre of bikini-clad vixens, explained the situation, and outlined my solution. Some of them giggled at what I was proposing, but they all agreed to go along.

When I got back to Brenda, I gave her the low-down on what I had come up with. She let out a gasp.

"Jeez, Sandra! We can't do that—not in front of all you guys!"

For the record, I take offense at the use of "guys" when referring to females. And Brenda was referring to the six of us who were with her here.

"Sweetie," I said, "I just don't see any other way."

"Oh, okay," Brenda said with a sigh. She shook her head, as if to say:

The things we do for our men .

.

.

My plan was, simply put, this. We six girls would take up three of the huge beach towels we'd brought along and, with two girls each holding up one of the towels, stand around in a sort of triangle. Inside the triangle would be Justin and Brenda, and they could do their business (standing up, naturally) and no one could see them.

Well, of course we six would see them, and that's what made Brenda squawk. It wasn't exactly public sex, but it would still mean that her friends would get to see her being banged by her boyfriend right in front of their eyes.

But, as we all know, men are pretty demanding, and when the urge comes over them they are not to be denied. Brenda, certainly, wasn't about to deny her beloved just about anything he wanted.

So we put the plan into action. Some of the beach towels we'd brought were a bit on the small side, but there were three huge ones that would serve the purpose. People might wonder why six of us were standing around holding up beach towels at the level of our chins, but the intimate couple would at least be more or less out of sight. All the girls (except Brenda) were tickled at the idea and jumped at the chance to aid and abet what was, at a minimum, an illegal act of indecent exposure.

Justin seemed more eager than any of us.

The moment we'd surrounded him with the beach towels, he peeled off his skimpy swimming trunks and actually stepped out of them. He was totally nude. A number of us girls let out murmurs of approval when we saw what he had to offer: his cock was at least eight inches long, and it was so hard that it was actually quivering with excitement. I won't say I've never seen a bigger cock, but his endowment was quite a bit larger than the average American male's. And I have to say he had a nice butt too.

Brenda, consumed with embarrassment, couldn't bring herself to strip entirely. She kept her bikini top on and pulled the bottom down to her knees, exposing a surprisingly luxuriant bush that totally covered her delta. No shaving for her! She later told me Justin liked a thick bush—actually enjoyed rubbing his cheeks all across it. Men are strange, aren't they?

Even though Justin was almost painfully erect, Brenda felt the need to do a little foreplay, even though that only magnified her mortification at being on display in front of us. She fell to her knees and tentatively put Justin's cock into her mouth—only a few inches. She was giving it a few hesitant licks and kisses when he took her head in her hands and basically tried to shove his entire cock in her mouth. Brenda gagged immediately and pulled her head back, saliva dripping messily from her lips.

"I've told you not to do that!" she snapped.

"Sorry, babe," he said.

After a few minutes she got up, figuring the time had come for the main event. As I said, Justin isn't all that tall—maybe five foot seven at best. Brenda is only an inch or so shorter than him, and that's important: having sex standing up doesn't work unless the two parties are fairly equal in height. Your genitals have to line up—you know what I mean?

Brenda took Justin's cock in her hand and, raising herself on tiptoe, stuffed it into herself.

I have to say that I'd never seen a couple having sex so close to me. I mean, I could have whacked Justin in the butt to encourage him along—if he needed encouragement, which he didn't. The moment he found himself in the paradise of his lady's vagina, he let out a huge gasp, grabbed her around the waist, hugged her close, and began pounding her as if there was no tomorrow. I could see Brenda's face as it rested on his shoulder. She was emitting soft little grunts at each thrust, wincing a bit. He was in pretty far, about as far as he could go, and maybe she still wasn't quite used to it. For her part, she was clinging to him like glue, arms encircling his neck. Every so often she gave him little kisses on the neck.

Justin was now really getting into the spirit of things. As all six of us girls were watching open-mouthed, he took hold of Brenda's butt and squeezed it hard. In fact, he almost lifted her off the ground in his passion. After a while one hand reached up and seized her breast, fondled it, and then twirled the nipple. That made Brenda squeal like a schoolgirl—and actually made some of us standing around him wriggle and shudder as if he'd done it to us. Guys, take note: all girls like to have their nipples twirled!

You gotta understand that while Justin was plowing into Brenda, all sorts of people were walking or running around us. I'm sure some of them thought it a little odd that six girls were standing around like idiots, holding up beach towels, but otherwise they didn't seem to think anything particularly unusual was happening.

Given how excited he'd gotten ogling all the pretty girls and women around him even before this impromptu act of semi-public sex, it wasn't surprising to any of us that Justin couldn't hold out very long. First he came out with a low growl like a bear, and then there was a succession of heavy groans as he shot his load into his girlfriend. Brenda, feeling his come dousing her pussy, expelled several high-pitched shrieks of her own. Whether she'd actually come, or was just excited at the prospect of her lover emptying his discharge into her, I couldn't tell.

For a while Justin remained in her—he was clearly wanting to prolong the sensation, both for himself and for his love, as long as he could. I gave him credit for that. I'd had more than my share of men pulling out of me the moment they'd finished and rolling off, as if my body had suddenly become radioactive. But Brenda had other ideas. Now that she'd satisfied her man, she wanted to put an end to the business at once. Prying his cock out of herself, she immediately pulled up her bikini bottom—but not before (as I could see clearly) quite a lot of his come dripped out of her pussy and down her thighs, only to be caught up by the bikini and saturating the crotch. Brenda gave us all a smug little smile, as if she liked the feeling. I for one, though, am not terribly keen on wearing what amounts to come-soaked panties.

Most of us thought the incident was mercifully over, but a few of us seemed to have other ideas. In the first place, Justin seemed to glory in the vision of nakedness he was providing us girls. He actually spun around on his heels to show us that dripping cock of his, which frankly (and astonishingly) wasn't getting all that soft. I've long thought most men are natural exhibitionists: they'd love to be able to strut around naked at home, at the office, and everywhere in between if only the law allowed it. Justin was clearly proud of his equipment and also at his vibrant performance, and he wanted us all to know it.

But there was someone else who wanted the show to go on. Madeleine now piped up, saying, "I'm next!"

There was a stupefied silence for a while.

"What do you mean, next?" Brenda shot back, picking up Justin's swimming trunks and holding it out for him to take and put on. "There's not going to be any next."

"Look, Brenda," Madeleine persisted, "we did this for you—so we need to get something out of it."

"Get

what

out of it?"

"I think you must know," looking at Brenda as if she was a moron.

It took the poor girl a few seconds to figure out what Madeleine meant. Then she came out with an appalled gasp and whispered, "You mean you want Justin to—do you?"

"You bet, girl!" Madeleine said happily.

"But—but he's

my

boyfriend!" Brenda wailed.

"Oh, I don't want him as a boyfriend. I just want him to fuck me."

And without further ado, she thrust Brenda out of the ragged triangle we were still forming with the beach towels and, pulling her bikini bottom down and grabbing Justin's hardening cock, put it into herself.

I'd noticed that Madeleine had carefully shaved her pussy so that it showed an upside-down cross. What do you expect from a Goth girl? But it was her gorgeous butt that everyone, including Justin, was fixated by. It looked like two halves of an apple, except with a dimple on each cheek. When he touched it Justin let out an "Oh!" that was almost a cry of aesthetic delight—like when you get a look at the Venus de Milo in person, or something. He began pounding away with enthusiasm.

But as this was happening, there was general discontent among the other females. All kinds of raucous cries came out of their mouths: "I want to be next!" "Me too!" "What about me?" "It's my turn!"

In short, every one of us wanted a session with Justin.

If this guy wasn't going to expire from too much sex, I knew something had to be done. While still holding up my end of the beach towel, I looked at my watch and said, "Okay, each of us will have two minutes with him. That's it!"

I wasn't sure whether Justin could even come again, although I didn't put it past him, given the circumstances. When would he have another opportunity to fuck seven women one after the other? It was sort of like Hercules, wasn't it? (That old guy supposedly did

fifty

women in one night! Yeah, right.)

Anyway, the two minutes were done, and Madeleine pulled Justin out of herself with very bad grace. Elaine decided she was next. She was the soulful type, and she took hold of Justin's cock with index finger and thumb and stuck it in herself with an expression that said:

Oh, if I must, I must.

But let's not kid ourselves: she was enjoying herself to the hilt (no pun intended). She immediately starting bouncing up and down on that poor cock, leaving Justin with nothing to do except watch the proceedings with amazement.

Patsy was up next—she of the incredible tits. She didn't actually take her top off—just pulled her breasts out of it for Justin to gawk at. And gawk he did, with mouth hanging open. It was almost as if he didn't notice his cock disappear into her shaved pussy.

But after a while he did notice. With a choking cry he said, "Omigod, I'm coming again!"

Then Patsy did something strange. She fished his cock out of her vagina and, falling to her knees, pumped it so that he started spraying her in the face. Although she kept her mouth closed, she used that cock like a hose and let that come bathe her all over her cheeks, nose, chin, forehead, and even into her hair. I don't know about you, but I personally don't care to have my face spattered with come. Takes all kinds, I guess.

The aroma is nice, though. Just like cut grass!

There were now only three of us girls who hadn't sampled Justin: Shawna, Nauko, and me. I have to say Justin looked pretty exhausted, having come twice in about twenty minutes. And Brenda was staring daggers at all of us, thinking we'd treacherously betrayed her. But Justin, bless his heart, seemed ready for more, even though his eyes were looking a little glazed over. He gave me a glance that said,

You're next, babe.

And so I handed my corner of the towel, and also my watch, to Patsy, and was about to make my way into the triangle when Brenda cried bitterly:

"You too, Sandra? I thought you were my friend!"

"Oh, Brenda, settle down—we're just having some fun. Anyway, I haven't had one of these things in a while, and I miss it. Anyway, it'll only be for two minutes."

I now stood facing Justin and pulled down my bikini bottom. For all his exertions, he seemed ready to go, his cock quivering back into hardness. I'd spent some time with him and Brenda, and I could tell he had a thing for me. I didn't take a whole lot of stock in how many times he stared at my cleavage and licked his lips: all guys do that. (And they should: I have spectacular tits.) There were a number of things that led me to think there was more to it than that. Luckily for Brenda, I didn't return his feelings.

But right now I just wanted his cock in me.

Guys, you just don't know what it's like to be filled up by the male organ. There's no feeling quite like it. When it goes into your pussy, there's just this sense of

rightness:

I mean, the vagina really has no purpose except to have a dick in it, right? And 99% of the time it's lying there empty and useless! So there's a particular satisfaction when a big, fat cock goes into you.

I didn't actually embrace Justin the way Brenda did, although I think he wanted me to. Instead, I just planted my feet at a distance, stuck him in me, and then draped my arms languidly on his shoulders while he put his hands on my hips to steady himself. Aside from that, the only parts of our bodies that were touching were my pussy and his member. I was looking right into his face: not smiling, not moaning and groaning, just giving him this piercing look that told him:

I know you have the hots for me, and now you've finally got a chance to do me. Better enjoy it, guy, because this'll never happen again.