A slim woman strode down the beach with an elegantly athletic gait. Twelve hours earlier she'd disembarked the Range Rover from the ferry. The ship was loaded to its gunwales with residents and tourists, the car equally heavily loaded (with luggage for a month and one overly keen Labrador).
This section of beach ran rather steeply to the water, and wind-whipped surf of the Atlantic thudded in breakers of two and three feet onto the sand. Her loose white oxford shirt was whipped inland, the bottom of the thick tennis sweater that she'd draped over her shoulders flapped flag-like behind her. Her blonde ponytail streamed waywardly, this way and that and around to flick at her face. She was long-limbed, lean yet with middling-large breasts that strained at the shirt fabric and a soft curve to her hips.
The Labrador was ineffectually darting at seabirds that had momentarily alit upon the sand. In one exuberant charge it misjudged, missed a bird and collided headlong into an oncoming wave. The dog tumbled and, trying to regain its footing, tumbled again.
Before she could react a very young man, 18, in a scarlet polo shirt that did little to set off his reddy-brown hair, had dashed into the surf and expertly snagged the bewildered and panicked dog by the collar. The dog clawed for survival: at the water, at the air and at his savior. A matter of seconds and the Labrador was shaking and looking shocked on the beach. It ran to her and she gave it a hug, drenching her shirt.
The young man stood smiling at her. His hair -- still dry was dancing -- but his shorts and the bottom half of his shirt was soaked. His was trying hard not to be overt with his glances at her soaked shirt (which outlined her breasts). He had a lovely smile, all white teeth and engaging charm, and a pair of deep blue eyes that sparkled with energy and mischief.
He clutched his right arm, which has two long and bloody scrapes on it.
They introduced themselves and she thanked him with word and smile. The howling of the wind meant that they did this with awkwardly raised voices. She pointed to the wound and gestured that the path through the dunes leading to her house was not far behind. His wounds looked worse than the reality, but she should at least give him first aid cream and a bandage.
The noise of the wind dropped once they were in the lee of the dunes. The grasses atop the sandy ridges gyrated crazily, but now at least they could hear each other. "The house is this way, let me get you a bandage." They progressed by order of height: dog, woman, man.
"I am in your debt." She said. "This dog is all enthusiasm, no judgment."
"I have a Black lab. He's much the same." She was tall for a woman, but when she turned she found herself looking up him; he was comfortably over six feet with a lean build (not a surplus ounce) and a strong torso that spoke of rugby. He smiled again, perhaps even more gently this time. She reciprocated, brushing stray hairs the wind had dislodged as she did so.
The roped off path led to a subsidiary trail. A left turn and they were arrived at a gate in a picket fence backed by a taller hedge. The house beyond was flanked by trees and set on a rise behind a series of plantings (anchored by beach rose) designed to provide privacy; the pool complex and gardens were set below the house.
They skirted the pool area, which had notably unkempt grass verges, and mounted the steps where she set him in an Adirondack chair on the long, covered porch. She disappeared into the kitchen to fetch the first aid kit.
"That really was very kind of you" she repeated as she administered ointment and a rectangular bandage over the worst of the scratch.
"When did you arrive?" he replied.
"Last night. I was held up in New York by work and missed the ferry I'd booked. I rebooked on the later one: thank heavens it was a weekday and they had room. It was too late for the agent to meet me, but he left the keys and a note saying no gardener for a week. Problems of the lucky!"
"When does your husband arrive?" he glanced at the ring on her left hand.
"Hopefully in two weeks. He's in Asia working on a complicated joint venture. Our timing wasn't brilliant."
She then quizzed him. His family's house was one lane over. He'd finished prep school and was off to an Ivy-clad university in New Hampshire in the autumn. "All set then?" she smiled with a slight challenge in her eyes.
He reached forward and moved stray tendril of blonde hair. "You have lovely green eyes."
She could not help a small laugh. "Are you really hitting on me? Technically, I'm just about old enough to be your mother."
"I'm sorry" he said, and the hand moved back even if he did not at all look as though he meant it. The sun had pierced the clouds. He gazed intently at her. Her disordered blonde hair was set in a halo of sun, backed by a newly blue horizon of sea and sky. The sun cast his face -- strong chin and blue eyes and that sparkling smile -- in an intense light. "I should go."
She watched him set off. He had the grace and strength of an athlete. And charm. He turned to wave. She mouthed "thank you" and waved back.
---
The next day she woke to the sound of a lawnmower. The gardener? Making the pool area look less of a jungle was a minimum requirement at the price they'd charged for this house.
She rose and showered, letting the warm water caress her. She'd gone for a long run with the dog yesterday: the muscles still ached pleasantly and she enjoyed how lithe sports made her look and feel. The bedroom windows faced the ocean, and that is where she headed when she re-emerged from the bathroom, naked and still towelling herself. The long view was of dunes and sea. Sun and breeze streamed through the open windows, the gauzy curtains (she'd left them parted) swishing softly. The ocean looked blue and calmer than the wind-tossed day before. The morning sun offered just a hint of warmth as it caressed her freshly scrubbed skin. Her pink nipples stiffened in response to the breeze.
She listened to the birds chirping delightedly in the beach rose bushes. Odd that... and then she realised that the lawnmower's voice had been silenced. Dropping her gaze she saw a tall and athletic man in a Jack Wills cap and a green polo shirt was gazing fixedly at her (her naked torso framed perfectly in the window, 34C breasts jutting high and rounded) his forearms propped on the mower. Her dog rescuer?
She turned abruptly to get dressed. The mower began again. She threw on a pink cotton sweater and a loose pair of shorts she'd picked up on Capri and descended the stairs. Emerging to the pool area she noticed first the coolness of the flagstones under her bare feet. Her outrage at having been spied on was stilled by the trimmed neatness of the pool's verge.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, a slight edge in her voice. The question was, of course, multilayered.
"Your gardeners weren't coming 'til next week. I wanted to help." He beamed, a little cockily.
She looked at him taking his height and strength and smile.
"Thank you. But what's with the peeping tom?" She was feet from him now on one of the stone paths.
He was gazing at her with what can only be described as adoration. "You are absolutely gorgeous."
"I could be..."
She didn't finish the conventional evocation of age difference because he stepped forward and kissed her with determination and conviction, his hand reaching back behind her head.
She was so startled that, when he released her, she stood as though she'd grown roots through the stone. He kissed her again.
He sensed her indecision and stepped back. He tugged his shirt over his head and, stepping out of his all-white leather tennis shoes, shrugged off his shorts to stand in tight boxer length underwear. A sheen of sweat covered his torso and upper arms, the muscles of which were perhaps better chiselled than the tight polo shirt had advertised.
"May I swim? I'm hot."
He dove in and swam two lengths. He hauled himself at the edge of the pool to stand near her. Water rippled and shimmered over an athlete's frame. The white fabric of his boxers had become somewhat translucent, and an impressive package of heavy balls, cock and a patch of reddy-brown pubic hair were strongly hinted at.
She stared, longer perhaps than was necessary, before mumbling "I must go. Must go. Errands to run and pet food to pick up then I have... arrange for all the pool loungers... to be put out." Her usual lucidity deserted her.
He dressed and left by the dune gate. He turned, smiled and waved with apparent cheerfulness.
She ran 10 kilometres along the bike paths that evening before finishing with another two along the firm strip of beach by the water.
---
The next morning she emerged from the shower to another day of sun and wind softly swishing the curtains. The sound of wood dragging over stone punctuated the cries of gulls and the smaller birds nesting in the trees and bushes.
She shrugged on a robe of thin white fabric and peered down. Her attempted seducer and another friend, the same height but perhaps slightly less muscled, were shirtless carrying the heavy wooden loungers from the storage shed (do storage sheds have clocktowers? This one did) behind of the cabana.
She went down in her robe, belt tightened, but still in her robe. She was conscious of the sway of her breasts and nipples against the fabric.
The young men were of a similar height, both clearly the result of hard training. The other boy, called Andrew, and he were at school together, housemates in fact.
She thanked them and went in to fetch water for them. She felt them both stare at her ass and bare legs on the return journey.
---
