Summer of '12

This is the second part of the story "Summer of '12".

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The long section of beach, curving inwards like a sabre's blade, was hedged by tumbled ramparts of dune and beach grass. The sand seemed to pour from the dunes until it steepened at the ocean's edge. There the sand darkened as it was pounded by small breakers from Atlantic, impelled shorewards by an unremitting breeze. High cumulus dotted the sky casting whorling patterns of shade and sun on the beach below.

A slim blonde -- the same blonde seen at the beginning of this story - was making good progress down the beach with an elegantly athletic stride. Her long, lean legs poured out of a pair of slightly flared, cuffed white shorts (that exposed most of her toned thighs) and a deep marine-blue cashmere hoodie worn over a Lacoste polo. Her frame was thin, but there was a feminine curve to her hips and her breasts (high and round and ample and swaying gently and unsupported under the two layers). A blue and white summer scarf of linen and silk was trailed loosely around her neck and looped up to gather her waves of blonde hair away from a patrician face of slightly severe beauty. A Labrador, more surf-wary now, darted ahead between dune and the ocean's edge. Occasionally the dog would gather itself and make a run towards a gull standing impassively on the sand. The result was always the same: the gull would rise effortlessly in the air as the dog's charge gathered pace and the bird would hover mockingly four or six feet in the air above its canine tormentor. The dog would look up helplessly and then, tail thrashing from side to side, dash back to its mistress for approval.

On any normal day, this would have provoked a gentle smile, one that could magically soften and transform her face, but this day the blonde was seemingly distracted.

Some hours earlier her younger lover, half her age and blessed with the freshness and fitness of his last pre-Ivy League summer, had collapsed exhausted beside her on a bed in the guest bedroom. The sparkling white Perla sheets and the wavering whispyness of the white curtains had set off his reddy-brown hair, which was slightly plastered to his forehead. They had lain naked, side by side, in silence. The surf and wind and swishing of the curtains provided a soundtrack. A broad grin, all sparkling teeth and enthusiasm, had spread across his face. And why not? The unabashed adoration he felt for her, and the sexual fascination this sparked in each of them had propelled them into bed. There they had knocked over one boundary after another in a mad dash for mutual pleasure.

That morning he had begun stimulating her with a vibrator and then slicked the seven inches of his uncircumcised shaft and guided it past her pink ring into her ass. She was not at all a prude (half European, she had an uncomplicated and unstressed attitude towards sex) and rather enjoyed anal when she was in the right frame of mind. The vibrator was a surprise to her, though not unpleasant as it seemed to produce a wider and deeper orgasm. For him the dual penetration -- of a woman fitter and hotter and more elegant than any girl he knew - had taken this to number one in his short sexual career: he felt like a porn star who'd fucked another porn star, hence the grin of almost idiotic pleasure.

Had there been an observer present then, knowing this, he or she would have interpreted her look of beachside preoccupation as uncertainty with where this relationship had arrived at and, even more so, where it was going to go. That same observer would have remarked on the furrows of concentrated analysis on her forehead, and how the blonde fiddled absently with the large sapphire on her left hand. Perhaps she thought of her husband, dealmaking in a newsworthy way in Singapore, and whatever he was up to.

That evening she went for a long run, designed to be purgative, her determined pace consuming the miles of cycleway and lane and beach. Her ponytail swished a like a metronome in the now stiller air, and the sun, warmer now, and her pace left her a glowing, sweaty hymn to exercise.

After a couple of hours of work, she drove to town and shared red snapper and meursault with a friend. As the dinner advanced their voices dropped and, heads bowed, they punctuated soft conversation with unexpected peals of laughter.

She woke early the next day. She brushed her teeth and flossed, but then slipped on a short robe of inconsequentially light cotton and walked to the pool. He was there, draped on a lounger, his tawny hair no longer matted with effort but floppy and shiny in a wind-tousled part. He'd dressed for a run but the excited rod defined by the fabric of his grey cotton shorts suggested a yearning for a different exercise.

He was grinning, of course. She stood at the edge of her pool, diagonal from him, to give him the best view of her, all of her. She was well in view of anyone perched on top of the dune or who'd stopped at the gate in the hedge to peer in. She untied her robe. The flimsy fabric parted and began to slip, revealing cleavage, a toned belly and a smoothly waxed pussy, before snagging on her nipples, which had stiffened with the morning temperature and excitement. They did not hold the robe for long, and it slipped to form a pale green puddle around her feet. She caressed her flanks and the side of her breasts slowly before elongating her arms in a graceful arrow above her head. As he applauded appreciatively, she rose onto her toes and arched gracefully into the air. She pierced the water cleanly and flowed shimmeringly under the water before surfacing half-way down the length of the pool. She finished the length in a steady and well-tutored crawl, before doing a racing turn and efficiently crossing back. She exited the pool with her back him, hiking up onto her arms before springing and extending her left leg up onto the pool's edge. She paused, raised on her arms and leg held straight, giving him a direct view of her back and of the water trailing down her partially opened ass crack and the outline of hairless lips below.

She sprang out of the pool, shook off and walked (her hips gently swaying) to the outside shower. She soaped herself slowly, evenly, and paid attention to everywhere. She watched him consume her with his eyes. He was intent watching her rinse her hair or soap her belly as he was when she gave her breasts a soapy massage.

He rose, but she motioned him to sit. His cock was still tenting his shorts.

She walked around the pool and stood perhaps six feet from him, her feet planted apart, arms set akimbo, all on show for him in the bright morning sun.

"Take off your clothes" she demanded, in a low, steady voice with a touch of excitement and gravel in it.

He stood and whipped off his short and shorts, his shoes somehow kicked off in the process. Seven inches of fleshy rod waved about above some tightened, surprisingly large, balls. She motioned him to lie back.

"Stroke yourself."

He was distracted in the moment by distant voices on the path some dozens of yards away on the path. They were screened, mostly. She remained standing, confidently gazing at him. He began to pump his cock, the burgundy head appearing as his foreskin slipped up and down. He was devouring her with his eyes. The voices faded away.

She walked to his lounger and then climbed onto it on her knees, straddling him. His face impelled her pussy towards his cock with a hungry look. Her pussy lips had darkened considerably with blood flow, so when she poised over him and then sank onto his shaft, she did so easily and fluidly. She closed her eyes as she sank onto his rod, inch by inch of flesh embraced by her willing cunt.

He sat up to lap at her nipples with a greedy and enthusiastic tongue, his hands grabbing her ass cheeks as he did so. She angled forward to offer her tits more fully to him. As she did her ass cheeks parted and his left hand advanced to her bumhole. She moaned as he circled it. He put his right index finger to his mouth and sucked it in to slick it. That finger then swapped places and, as she began to rise and fall, he used her motion to worm his finger into her ass. Soon it was buried to one knuckle, and then past that knuckle

New voices still carried on the wind, close but not immediately near them. He was of two minds, almost distracted but intent on an orgasm. She began grinding him and then leaned forward to increase the friction on her pubic bone and angle his cock more effectively. Her right hand began to play with her clit. His right hand was still finger fucking her ass. She began to orgasm on him, and then flopped onto his chest, her pussy still riding his cock, as the afterwaves hit her. They stayed in that position for a minute or two, and she sat up.

He was still rigid inside her. She climbed off his shaft, slick with her juices and shiny in the morning sun, and reset herself on her knees between his legs. Her ass was aimed at the gate in the hedge beyond the pool some yards away. She bent and, tucking her hair behind her ears, popped his cockhead into her mouth and swirled her tongue. It took perhaps twenty seconds of this before he began to spurt into her mouth: once, twice, thrice, four times.

She removed his penis, the head now slicked with a sheen of moisture, and held his gaze as she discernibly swallowed the mouthful of cum.

Rising to sit on her bum and gaze at him she asked, "What is your wish, lover boy?'

"I want to see walk on our beach, naked, so everyone on the beach can see how beautiful you are. And then make love to you."

"So show me off?"

He nodded, amazed and embarrassed at what he was saying.

"So not just masturbate for you in a fold of the dunes, but make myself be seen, naked, and then let you fuck me in those dunes, where we might be caught?"

He nodded.

"And will your friend be there.'

His cheeks had fully reddened. He was at the limit of expressing his boldness.

She was poised to push more, but she rose and showered off again, giving him another good show as he lay on the chair, his cock lying slab like on his taut belly. Later, after she'd sent him off to his (hardly demanding) job as a sailing instructor, she was glad she'd exercised some restraint.

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For some years the Island had hosted a festival of ballet and modern dance. This raised funds for the town's library, an austere and imposing white building set behind Ionic columns. Patrons were invited to a sort of ambulatory cocktail dinner and performance at a committee member's house. One committee member was the wife of the CEO of an important client of her firm, so she was an enthusiastic attendee.

She'd dressed sensibly for a lawn party: a perfectly tailored mid-thigh dress by Miu Miu, woven in the palest green and cinched at the waist with a deep green grosgrain ribbon tied in a perfectly sized bow. This matched the forest green of the lightest weight pashmina she'd bought in Milan at the Galleria Vittorio Emmanuelle, and the blaze of chunky emeralds in her necklace.

She nursed her Taittinger, matching each glass with one of Perrier, keeping a clear head for the three conversations she had to have. She had each chat, short and focused, with a precision of approach and a deftness of exit. As she predicted, all three of those people left for even more tightly spun events before the performance, but the cocktail buzzed on and she allowed herself to relax. A rather pompous hedge fund partner was introduced to her by an acquaintance and, as she was distractedly ignoring his attempt to hit on her, spied the reddy-brown hair of her lover across the artfully constructed disorder of the central flowerbed. The setting sun flamed his hair and providing a vivid contrast with the darkening blue of the sea beyond. He was with a handsome white haired couple, all white teeth, pearls and conversation about wooden boats and entrants to the Opera Cup. She assumed they were his parents. The man had the sailor's squint her father had: in that sailors were alike (though her father was a distinctly different personality type to these Americans). He was wearing the uniform -- blue blazer and pink trousers -- and looked heavily scrubbed and deliciously handsome.

Beyond them was a line of lit torches, and set beyond that was the owner's conceit: a tall and dense array of hedges with a base planting of beach roses. The hedges were designed to evoke a maze.

She excused herself from her hedge fund tormentor, who was discussing his new helicopter, and walked to the bar. The bar was set at the apex of the central flower bed and was divided into two by the broad staircase descending from the veranda. She was standing at the bar when she felt a hand firmly stroke her back. "I was hoping you'd have no underwear on."

"The inexperience of youth. This is an evening for grownups. It's is half business for me."

She turned and saw that he was visibly stung, so she smiled.

He tried again. "You look gorgeous."

The fat man in the linen suit to their left looked curiously at them, so she winked at her lover, laughed and walked away with her drink. No need to risk gossip, even of the idlest kind. Turning after six feet she saw that her lover was looking dejectedly at her, and fat man was concentrating on the bar. She motioned around the house.

He arrived a short time later. "Meet me in the maze when the performance begins. Now go pay attention to your parents' friends and do not follow me about like an adoring puppy."

She had that drink, and another, regretting her proposal. The sun put itself to bed, the sky darkened to purple and then to a cloth of deepest blue that the heavens wantonly scattered with stars.

The performance was in the side garden where the ground sloped to an improvised stage. She sat at the very back and soon eased out of her seat with a silent grace.

She grabbed a scotch at the bar and made her way across the lawn a patch of darkness and disappeared into it, following it to the deeper gloom of the maze. She disappeared into the first alley. He was prancing like an excited cat, and fell on her with hunger. His tongue pierced her mouth to kiss her with quivering excitement. His hands wandered over breast and ass. Her hand fell to his crotch, where it was met by the outline of a solid cock.

He squatted before her and raised the hem of her dress. With both hands he pulled her g-string down. Holding the hem up with one hand he used the other to brace on her hip. His breath was hot on her pussy and soon he was tonguing her. She'd taught him to vary place and pressure, and to save lateral tonguing of her clit for the end. He'd learned well. To gain greater access he paused, slipped the g-strong fully down and pocketed it. He rose and led her rightwards around a corner. They were separated from the main lawn by one hedge and a line of guttering torches, the light of which cast eerie shadows amidst the branches.

There he returned to tonguing her. One hand began to finger her, slowly, deliberately. She displayed growing excitement, twining her fingers in his hair.

And then he stood and, looking at her in the gloom, untied the bow of her dress and began to unbutton it. She began to protest but he put his hand, smelling faintly of her pussy juices, to her lips. "No one is coming." The concert was in full swing. He continued, popping button by button and then he tugged her dress off her and carefully hung it (by the label) on a twig in a sort of depression or alcove carved into the hedge that ran at right angles to the torches ahead of them. Her pashmina he hung next to it.

She was now standing in shoes and a bra. He kissed her deeply and then his hands reached up and separated her bra. It was a soft and lacy one, that easily folded into his pocket. The surprise of being suddenly naked in the night air produced a variety of sensations.

He was back squatting, tonguing her, finger-fucking her and using his spare hand to twirl one of her pink nipples (which had stood to attention with excitement and temperature).

The orgasm built slowly, and she had to brace herself with both hands on his head, stifling her moans.

As she finished, she raised him up, enjoying a kiss and the warmth of his embrace. His hands wandered to her ass, stroking and feeling.

She laughed softly. He grinned, the dim light catching his bright smile. "Can you suck my cock?" he whispered. "Please."

She squatted before him and released his seven inches, which felt fatter than normal. She swirled her tongue around the cockhead slowly, once, twice, three times. To gain better access she unbuttoned him. Then she slowly engulfed half his rod as her left hand rose to play with his balls. She nudged his legs wider, to lower the cock and give her hand access to his perineum.

The voices startled them both. Another couple, clearly meeting secretly, and clearly now kissing, were in the alley perhaps fifteen feet away. She popped off his cock and the two of them froze, the sole movement being the swaying of his fleshy shaft an inch from her face.

The other couple were not moving. Insofar as they were doing anything it was an enthusiastic make out session.

He held his finger to his lips and used a hand to do up his trousers. Gathering her clothes in his right, and gripping her with his other hand, he led her silently, nakedly, deeper into the maze. She was padding on the soft turf, naked but for shoes, a hundred feet away from a concert. They advanced through the mazeways towards where the tall hedges opened onto the cliffside lawn. The light here was better, for the moon had risen and here it could illuminate without blocked by the hedges and their interlocking shadows. The air felt slightly cooler here. He led her right to the opening where the hedged lane they were walking down ended. She paused at the opening, but he continued for a body's length and then turned to soak in her moonlit beauty. Anyone rounding the garden, for a walk or a smoke, would have seen her lit up like a Diana of the Atlantic coast.

He raised his phone and snapped a photo. She began to retreat into the gloom of the hedges, and he followed. As he advanced he freed his cock. He found another alcove and rehung her dress and shawl, penis swaying. Half lit by a shaft of moonlight, she sank into a squat and returned to his cock, tugging his trousers down to his knees. This time there was no teasing: she was taking it as deeply as she could. She edged up and down, avoiding a gag but trying to provide great depth of stimulation. Her hand began to stroke the bottom half of his rod. She slid off it, raised it and lapped at the tight fullness of his ball-sack, her hand continuing to stroke him. The sounds she made were distinct and erotic. She brought her lips onto him again for another three deep inhalations. On the third he stiffened and gave an almost imperceptible gulf before grabbing her head, holding her onto his cock, and unloading cum into her mouth and throat.

His backed arched forward and he was hunched over her, his cock still throbbing between her lips. It had softened a bit by the time he pulled it out, and it gave a wet smack when it fell against his thigh.

He kissed her and handed her clothes over, studying her as she dressed. He made no attempt to hand her her g-string or bra. She nodded at his crotch: his penis (still turgid) needed to be wrapped back into its place.

They kissed. "We should go." He said, which was true. She smoothed her dress.

She took the long way around the house to where the cars were parked, the grass dewey damp underfoot.

Her car was blocked, so she motioned to a valet. He gazed at her chest, her tits swaying, obviously unencumbered, the nipples still tight with excitement. The valet moved a car and then held the door of her British SUV open. As she reached across to fetch a tip from her pruse on the passenger seat, she realized that her dress was open for him and much of her uncovered pussy lit by the headlights of the car he'd just moved.