This is something of a follow-up to my earlier story, 'Fun Times and Threesomes'. At the end of that tale I had promised a sequel, to be ready for the following Valentine's Day Competition; but life got in the way, as it so often does for us all, and I've found myself struggling to make any proper headway into the sequel, tentatively (and very imaginatively) titled 'Fun Times and Foursomes'.
I decided to skip ahead in the story, and write out one of the later chapters I had planned; and given the paucity of writing-time I've had in my life lately, and the number of readers expressing their dismay at the lack of the promised sequel (for which I apologise!), I've decided to publish this completed scene from the tale.
I hope you enjoy it, and my sincerest apologies again for the delay on the full sequel - here's hoping I can polish off the adventures of Jamie, Brett, Mick and Callie in time for the next V-Day contest!
***
Brett had been pestering me since practically the beginning, to go with him to the nude beach.
Well, pestering may be too strong a word. It started out with a few gentle suggestions, the occasional random "I reckon we should go to the nude beach someday" from him, maybe once in a month or so. Enough to earn a roll of the eyes and a "yeah sure, dream on" from me in reply, to which he'd reply with a "yeah, we'll see..." delivered with that grin of his - the shit-eating grin, which I simultaneously hated and loved.
Then maybe of a fortnight, he might lay eyes upon me as I reclined buck naked upon the bed before him, in preparation for a thorough ravishing, and he'd cast a faux-critical eye across me and say "y'know what'd be great for those tan lines? A quick sesh at the nude beach!" He'd cop a bit of grief for that level of cheek, but my light slaps or punches would only make him grin evermore, the shithead.
Then as we got back into summer proper, with the days warming up and the weather becoming more and more beach-friendly, the nude-beach-mentionings came quicker and closer together. Never mind if we went to a regular beach - which we both very much enjoyed, toasting ourselves on the sand, bobbing over the waves, enjoying fleeting touches out of the water and passionate grope-sessions in the deep - there would obviously be no satisfying him until we went to the bloody nude beach.
It all came to a head one afternoon, when I slipped out of my bikini top at a quiet part of the beach. I didn't think about it too hard - we were virtually alone, our nearest fellow sunbathers were a couple hundred yards away and people were only walking by once every five minutes. And it was not like I had put my boobs on full display, I was tummy-down on my towel and I quickly pressed my chest down too, intending only to get a bit of sun across my back for a few minutes.
But it was enough to totally set him off. "Ooh, look out! Jamie's got the birds out!" Brett crowed.
"Oh, shush you," I chastised. "Haven't you seen them a thousand times already? I'd have thought you'd be over them by now."
"There's no getting over perfection," he half-grinned, half-leered.
"You sleaze," I laughed.
"So here you are," he went on. "Tits out in public, finally surrendering to the exhibitionistic urge I've always known you've had. And then you go and press them into the sand!"
"Into my towel," I corrected. "I only want a bit of sun on my back for five minutes, I don't need to go flashing my nips at the whole world."
"At who? Me and a pair of seagulls?" he quizzed. "We're on our own, Jamie. Go nuts! Get 'em out, love!"
"Someone could walk past any minute," I returned, somewhat feebly. "I do know people around here, you know."
"Give them a thrill!" he urged, wickedly. "Go on, roll on over and give the girls some air! You know you wanna."
His incredibly cheesy style of egging me on was having its usual, weirdly successful effect. He knew me too well. He was fully aware that the idea of someone I knew seeing me, laying eyes on my bare breasts, would be a secret thrill. How had this man got so deeply into my head, in such a short period of time?
"Fine," I grumbled - and with a wonderful growing heat in my crotch, I rolled over on my towel and bared my tits to the world, my heart and mind singing as I did it. "But I expect you to tell me if someone's coming, so I can roll over and maintain my modesty."
"Do you trust me?" he enquired, his words dripping with mock-evil and malice.
"No I don't," I told him, fighting back a grin. "Tell me if someone's coming. I don't want anyone to see me."
"Uh huh," Brett returned - voicing not only a temptation to not give any such warning, but also broadcasting his doubts over my wanting no-one to see me.
"Tell me if someone's coming, fuckhead! Or no sex for a week," I promised.
"Fine, fine," he sighed - he'd tested my no-sex-for-a-week threat once before, and he'd definitely come away second best. "How close do you want someone to come before I give you warning?"
"A hundred yards."
"A hundred? What about fifty?"
"I said a hundred," I told him, punching him in the thigh for emphasis. "Fifty is too close."
"Come on. Who can see boobs from fifty yards?"
"Are you saying my boobs are small?" I growled, leaping up onto my elbows to fix him with a challenging eye.
"What's wrong with small?" he cried. "Come on James, you've got the best B-cups in the business! You know I love your Itty Bitties."
"I hate when you call them that," I groused again, fighting back another grin - I secretly loved when he called them that. I loved that he loved my smallish boobs, though I did hate that he knew he could get away with calling them 'the Itty Bitties'.
"Yeah, sure you do. By the way, I reckon that guy's about twenty yards away."
He was looking behind me - my heart froze, as I had my head turned to chastise Brett but my body was still aligned towards the sky, making my bikini-bottoms-only state of affairs all too evident to anyone so close.
I looked. And of course there was no one for miles.
