The Lighthouse 5

My wife and I are turned on by lighthouses. Sexually turned out. It started back a decade ago, before we were married, when we visited a lighthouse turned museum in Maine. The place was deserted, save for an attendant on the ground floor who told us to take our time and pointed to the stairs which led upwards to the light.

The climb was about three storeys, but the view from the top was breathtaking: Atlantic waves crashing against the rocks far below, a sandy coastline stretching into the blue sky distance beyond that.

We were standing there, glass all around, the warm summer sun in our face when in unison we turned and kissed. And our romance being more lust than love in those early days a kiss quickly turned into serious French and panted groping -- one hand fondling her lush braless breasts through her T-shirt, the other squeezing her ass through her thin skirt while she stroked by hardening cock through my shorts.

And then the sound of my zipper being pulled down. Her hand snaked through the opening, pulled my erection free. "Back up," she ordered. I did. Behind me was a wooden chair. I sat down. She pulled her skirt up, tugged the narrow strip of her thongs aside and straddled me. She was gushing wet. My cock slipped in easily. She moaned. I groaned. Our lips still locked together. She started to move over me, grinding my cock deeper. I thrust upward. Grind thrust, grind thrust, grind thrust.

"I'm gonna cum," I mumbled. "Give it to me," she whispered. And I already was.

We got our clothes rearranged scant moments before some other guests climbed the stairs and emerged into the sunshine at the top of the lighthouse. The could probably tell by looking at us we'd be doing more than watching the scenery. Probably could smell it, too. But we just smiled and started back downstairs.

On the ground floor again we chatted for a few minutes with the attendant, then my lover asked to use the washroom. Later, giggling, so told me cum was running down the inside of her leg as we talked there at the front counter.

And so that's how we got turned onto lighthouses -- and turned on by them.

This past summer we celebrated a wedding anniversary by touring Canada's Maritime provinces, following something they call the Lighthouse Trail. That was hardly an accident. We strapped a couple of bicycles to the back of the car so we could tour more leisurely the small communities we stayed in each night and planned a trip that saw us travel some days as little as 50 miles -- from lighthouse to lighthouse so to speak.

It turned out, however, Canadian lighthouses have long ago been converted to automated beacons and most of the really historic towers have been torn down. But there are a few still standing -- a terrific one at Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia, for example, that attracts hundreds of thousands of tourists each summer, although it's hardly the place for a little semi-public pleasuring, even in a hurry.

But one very hot July afternoon we found the perfect spot. A traditional lighthouse perched on a rocky outcropping on the outskirts of a small fishing village. The tower itself was locked up, apparently being renovated into a local museum according to a nearby sign. But behind the tower facing the sea was a short bench, obviously there so passers-by could sit and watch the waves roll in.

At virtually the same moment, it seemed, we both had another idea.

About a block away from the lighthouse, down the single paved road in the village, was a restaurant. We stopped in and asked about reservations. An older woman behind the till laughed. "We don't get many folks at night," she said. "What time would you be thinking of dinner?"

"What time does it get dark around here," I asked. "Oh about 9:30," said the woman. "So how about we make reservations for 8 p.m.," I responded. "That's awfully late by the locals," she said, "but we'll be open for you."

An hour or so later, after peddling our bikes all over the village, we returned to our bed and breakfast room converted out of an old fish house. From the balcony out back we could see the lighthouse on the far side of the harbour.

When we're travelling we usually shower in late afternoon. Most times we make love before dressing for dinner so I wasn't surprised, when I emerged from the bathroom, to find my wife sprawled naked on the bed, her legs spread, her nipples hard. My cock twitched and started to rise. That made her smile, which made me smile, which made my cock twitch again.

I kissed her blood-red painted toes, the top of her feet, then her calves. I climbed over the end of the bed and slowly kissed my way up the inside of her right thigh, then her left one, the scent of her bath lotion lingering in my nostrils. Then I gently spread the lips of her vagina and licked the pink moistness within. She squirmed and moaned, lifting her knees to spread even wider the opening to the most delicious pussy I've ever tasted.

Up and down I licked, from the rosebud of her anus to the erect little finger of her clit. I could feel her body begin to tremble, her arousal gathering quickly. My tongue found her clit and slowly I began wiggle it up and down. "Oh yes," she said. Then a little faster. "Right there, right there." Now faster still. "Oh fuck, you're gonna make me cum." And even faster. "Ohhhh . . . fuuuuck . . . Ohhhh . . . yeeees . . . Ohhhhuuuuug!" She thrashed and twisted and I gripped her bare ass cheeks to keep my tongue glued to her clit until she began to calm down.

Then I kissed my way up her belly to her full breasts, wiping her juices off my face as I moved, until I was lying beside her. I kissed her gently, she kissed back harder and deeper, then rolled on top of me.

Normally what happens next when we make love is that she will kiss her way down to my cock and give me head. Sometimes she'll get me nice and hard before straddling me and burying it in her wet pussy. Sometimes she suck me off. Either way it's my turn to blow.

This time, though, she simply reached down and stroked me. "Here's the deal," she said. "You're not going to cum right now. I want those balls so full (she fondled them to underline her point) that when you ejaculate tonight you fill my vagina to overflowing."

My wife works in the health care field and when she is being matter of fact she uses words like vagina and penis and intercourse and ejaculate. Only when she's horny does it become cunt and cock and fuck me and give me all your fucking juice baby. Right now she's all business.

"Jesus," I whimper. "I can't last until then. You came, it's my turn now." I'm stroking my cock to emphasis my point. She slaps my hand away, replaces it with her own, then leans down and gentle takes me into her mouth. She deep throats me, once, twice. Then pulls off with a pop. "There, think about that until later."

Oh god, my balls ache already.

It's already 7 o'clock, time to dress for dinner. No underwear, I tell my wife. No, she says, complaining her breasts are too big to go braless. (They are big, 38D, but not too big). No bra or no go, I say. She gives me a face and agrees, "but I've got to wear a jacket over my T-shirt." I relent. "Okay, but don't button it up." She grins, leans down to lick a swirl of pre-cum off my straining cock, lifts my balls, deep-throats me again, once, twice. Then rolls off the bed to get dressed.

Just under an hour later we pull up in front of the restaurant. Because it's a warm night I'm hearing a smartly casual shirt, walking shorts and sandals. My wife is wearing a light purple short-sleeved sweater made of a satin-like material, cut low enough I can see the swell of her braless breasts -- and far more if she bends down -- complemented by a flowing skirt that comes just to her knees, white open-toed heels and a white jacket unbuttoned. When she turns quickly I can see her sweater tighten across her breasts. Her nipples are full high beam.

My cock twitches. Again. Well in truth, it hasn't stopped twitching since we saw the lighthouse.

There are two other older couples in the restaurant. One couple is almost finished eating, the other about half done. Both will likely be gone before we're ready to leave.

The women we'd met earlier is nowhere to be seen. Instead there's a young waiter. As he stands at our table to explain the night's specials he can hardly disguise the fact he's talking to my wife's breasts. I don't blame him. She looks gorgeous at age 45, a cougar in her prime. But, kid, this cougar is mine.

We order boiled lobsters. Oh yes, that evokes a memory too. Once, shortly after we were married, I cooked a late night dinner for two -- lobsters for lovers, I called it. I dressed in silk pajamas, my wife in a long, black, virtually see-through gown. Somehow during dinner it got ripped off, melted butter got spread over tits and cock and there was a lot of really messy, really memorable sucking and fucking on the table, on the floor and later in the shower. That was the first time we had anal sex. But I digress.

The lobster is served. Two steaming platters, melted butter on the side. As we prepare to dig in I feel my wife's bare foot push into my lap and rub my cock. "Just checking," she says. "I want that hard and I want those balls full." It is, and by the way they are throbbing I'm guessing they are.

But just to be sure, as we savor the lobster, she reminds me of that last time we tasted this pleasure. We're now alone in the restaurant and the waiter hovers not far away, catching I'm certain snatches of our conversation about the various things that can be done with cocks and cunts and tits and ass, lips and fingers and tongues when two people are really, really into each other -- figuratively and literally.

"You know," she says as we finish the delightful bottle of wine, "we should do more anal. Maybe tomorrow morning, you up for that?"

My darling, right now I'm up for anything as long as it involves putting my throbbing cock into some warm, moist place on your body.

Outside the sun has set. We decline coffee, accept instead the waiter's suggestion of a large splash of Bailey's on ice which we sip as he prepares the bill. Before we leave my wife decides to use the washroom. Two pairs of eyes watch as she deliberately wiggles across the empty room. When she emerges a few minutes later she has removed the white jacket. Her large breasts bounce seductively as she comes to the table, her nipples busting out at full alert. This sight never fails to arouse me; I can only guess what it's doing to the young waiter who stammers a weak, "Good night, come again," as we step outside.

"You are evil," I tell my wife as we walk down the street toward the lighthouse, my arm around her gently squeezing her bare bottom through the thin material of her skirt.

"I know, but I couldn't help it. He seemed so . . . ah . . . wishful. I hope he goes home and jacks off like crazy." She laughs. "But I was really doing it for you." She stops. I stop. She folds into my arms and kisses me, deeply, hungrily, rubbing her pelvis against my erection as she does. "Just checking."

At the lighthouse on the edge of the village there are no streetlights. But it's a clear night and the rising moon is nearly full. It glints across the ripples of the harbour. We walk behind the lighthouse and stand in front of the bench looking out at the ocean.

My wife pulls her sweater over her head. Her breasts gleam in the moonlight, the nipples a dark blue and hard. I lean down and take one, then the other into my mouth, sucking and nibbling. She tosses the sweater onto the bench and puts her jacket back on. Just in case, she says. She kicks off her shoes. She unbuttons my shirt. Then she unbuttons my shorts, unzips and pushes them down. My cock, erect and quivering, is also blue in the moonlight. I've stopped breathing.

"Sit on the bench," she says. I take a long breath, move, sit down. She gathers the hem of her skirt, pulls it up, straddles me and gently eased herself down on my shaft. There's no resistance; she's as hot and wet as I am hard and horny. We start to move together.

"It's not going to take me long," I warn. "I know," she says. "Just give it to me when you're ready."

"Put your hand down there and rub yourself," I tell her. "Cum with me." I feel her fingers move between us. She always uses her left hand to jill at times like this. The diamonds of her wedding ring scratch my belly. They'll leave a mark, sometimes draw blood. I love it and she'll make it better tomorrow.

We're kissing now as we thrust and perry. With two fingers I pinch a nipple. My other hand is gently slapping her ass cheek. She's using one hand to rub her clit, the other on my shoulder for balance. We're moaning and groaning into each other's mouths. One little piece of my mind says I wish I was watching this. It's sheer lunar lighthouse lust.

"Harder," she says. I don't know whether she means to fuck harder or spank harder. I try both. "Oh yeah, like that." She grunts and groans. "I'm so close, baby, I'm so close. Harder."

I give her a sharp wallop on the bum. At the same time I feel the telling tingling warmth begin to spread through my loins. "Fuck I'm gonna cum," I say.

"Give it to me, give it to me, give it to me," she chants, the phrases punctuated by spanks and thrusts and squeezes and the ever-frantic wriggle of her strumming fingers.

"Ohhh fuck," I groan. As I do she lifts and my cock slips out of her pussy and slides up and across her clit. I spurt. And spurt. And spurt. Gobs of gooey cum gush over her pussy, her bush, up her belly, lubricating her fingers. The head of my cock slides back and forth over her clit as she continues to move her pelvis up and down.

She shudders. Squirms against my cock. Swears. I hear snatches of words -- "hard cock, fill my cunt, fuck me, harder, harder, harder, cuming, oh Gawd, oh Gawd, ohhhhh fuuuucking Gaaaawd!!!"

Afterwards there's hard breathing. Holding tight. Damp skin against damp skin. A wonderful, warm, loving glow. And then, after a minute or so, a giggle.

My gorgeous wife, now topless (the jacket having been discarded at some stage during our fucking frenzy), still on my lap, my softening cock still buried between her legs and snug against her soaking pussy and covered by her skirt, leans back and looks up. In front of her stands the lighthouse.

"That is beautiful," she says looking at the lighthouse. She kisses me. "And that was wonderful." She kisses me again, a nice long French kiss. My cock twitches. How far to the next lighthouse I wonder.