By the Sea

The following is a complete work of fiction.

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The following story may contain erotic situations between consenting adults. If it is illegal for you to read this please leave now.

Any resemblance between the characters and any real life person is completely coincidental. Please do not copy or distribute the story without the author's permission.

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By the Sea

I live in my house by the sea. I have lived there since I was eight. My grandfather took me in and gave me the love and support I needed after my parents died. I was shy and timid. I always have been. Eventually, I grew up. I became six-six and weighed 250 pounds. I grew fur all over my chest and belly, the same golden color as on my head. But I was always easier, more comfortable, working in the garden or cooking in the kitchen. My grandfather had many friends that he was close to during World War II. I spent many a Wednesday afternoon listening to their stories and cooking for their lunch. When I graduated from high school, I enrolled in a cooking school in New York. I graduated after two years and my grandfather wanted me to go to Paris to continue my studies. I loved my time in New York, but I never really felt comfortable. I was good at what I did, winning many awards, but I wanted to return to my home by the sea.

I decided to spend a few weeks at home before going to Paris. When I got there, I realized that the time away had not been kind to the old man. He was frail and looked sickly. I knew I wasn’t going to go to Paris and leave him. Before my twenty-first birthday he passed away. I sat inside my house by the sea and grieved, but not forever. All of my grandfather’s friends came by on Wednesday as usual and had me sit with them and tell stories and then listen to theirs. It helped, and somehow they have always understood how shy and quiet I am. Shortly after, I found out that the house and everything in it was left to me as well as a trust fund from my parents. I realized I didn’t want to go to Paris and decided to turn my home into a bed and breakfast so I could cook for others and still stay at home.

I spent weeks going over all that I would need to convert the house. I looked at furniture and fixtures, talked with contractors, and even an architect. When all was said and done, I hired a contractor from out of state to oversee the project. Since where I live is fairly secluded along the Oregon coast, within sight of the majestic haystack rocks near Cannon Beach, I let the man stay with me. His crew was made up of local craftsmen, but he wasn’t local, so needed a place to stay. Over the next couple of weeks, I started to decorate as soon as each new room was completed. I decided to use large, sturdy, comfortable furnishings and bright, warm colors. I wanted people who came to my home to be comfortable and relaxed. The contractor, whose name was Robert, and I became friends. He was a tall man, but a little shorter than my towering height. He was big and strong and often worked without his shirt. I found myself becoming tongue-tied around him. I blushed a lot and stammered when he talked to me. In truth, I was attracted, extremely attracted to him. He would smile at me and wink. It made me feel even more flustered and shy around him. About two weeks into his stay, he came to my room one night.

He told me that he had seen me watching him and wanted to see how far things could go. With that he was kissing me. I was shocked, it was my first kiss, first everything. He took off my shirt and sifted his fingers through the hair on my chest. Then he took off his shirt and pressed me to him, pulling me, melding with me. His chest was covered in coarse, dark hair, such a sensual contrast to my soft, downy fur. He was fast and a little rough. He pulled and pawed at our clothes until we were both naked, standing by my big bed. He pushed me down and pulled my face to his lap, feeding me his hard shaft. He wasn’t all that long or thick, but it was my first time and I gagged a bit. But soon I became accustomed to his invasion. He held my face and started pounding his hips into me. His cock wasn’t long enough to go beyond my tonsils and my nose kept being bumped into his pubic bush. He pulled away and tried to catch his breath, telling me he didn’t want to cum so soon.

Robert took my face in his hands and started kissing me again. He pushed me back on the bed, forcing his hips between mine, pressing forward and begging for entry into my body. But when he pushed forward, he realized quickly that this was brand new to me. He immediately slowed and gentled. His forceful, pushing manner eased and he became sweet and loving. I realized that I had probably given him signals that led him to believe I was more experienced. The change in his attack was so different. Where before he was forceful, now he was gentle and coaxing. He started kissing me again, but slowly, teasingly with his tongue, begging me to play with him. Where his hands had pawed at me, now they stroked, stoking my pleasure, petting and relaxing me. I felt my nervousness leave and I started to return Robert’s ministrations. I tasted and delved my hands over his body, skimming against his back, reveling in the contented purr he let out. He continued to stroke my body, but his hands moved lower, skimming over my ass, bunching and kneading the muscular globes. He began stroking my hole with his fingers, brushing against the bundle of ultra-sensitive nerves. Then he was inside me, buried to the knuckle of his middle finger. He searched and prodded inside me, looking for admittance, for acceptance. I opened for him and he pressed his advantage. In seconds he was buried inside. He waited; he coaxed and crooned, telling me with gentle words to relax. He continued to pet me, stroke my body, willing me to relax. I did and he began to move. He rocked into me quickly and in mere moments was clenching and spurting, making noises like a braying mule. When he collapsed against me, all I could think was: this is it?

Then Robert rose for round two. This time I understood what it was all about. He stroked and built me, having taken the edge off of his own needs; he spent the time and energy finessing a response from me. When it was over, he was marveling at me, telling me how responsive I was and how good I was. It made me feel special. Our routine continued for the next few weeks while the last of the work on my house was being done. What we did in bed was mostly the same: kissing, my sucking him and him fucking me. The night before he was to leave, he came to me and was different. He was kissing me, but he let me lead. He didn’t take control. After a bit of rolling around, kissing and petting, he pulled me on top of him and wrapped his legs around my back. Robert looked at me and said ‘please’ before I sank into him. I felt him close around me, feeling him stretch around me. I pumped and thrust into him, amazed at the turn of events. I felt him build because he kept squeezing me, crying out and pawing his fingers into my shoulders. Then I felt him release, jetting against my belly. I kept thrusting into him, keeping from orgasm by the slightest margin. Shortly after, he came again and this time I couldn’t help but follow. My breathing slowed, and I slipped out of Robert while he cuddled to me.

I knew he was leaving tomorrow. I was okay with it. I was attracted to him and I will never forget the time we shared together, but it was only sex. If he were to stay, it probably could develop into more. But he was leaving. I was lying with him, watching the colors of the sunset change through the curtains of my bedroom window when I fell asleep. The next morning, he was gone.

The next few years were lonely ones. I was crippled behind walls of intense shyness. It wasn’t too bad during the long summers. My house was full of guests. But the winters were long and lonely, with nary a guest for up to three months. Those were the times when I felt it the most, an almost bone-crushing sense of loss and loneliness. I had turned twenty-five the previous summer. I was gearing up for the lonely period after Christmas when my only real contact would be the Wednesday meetings with my grandfather’s friends. I received a call from a secretary for a literary agent. She asked to book a room in my little bed and breakfast for an indefinite time, starting the second week in January. A writer wanted to stay in my house to write and do research of the surrounding area. When I asked for the author’s name, I almost fell through the floor. It was one of my favorites: Toby Hunter. He writes mostly murder mysteries with a big dash of the supernatural thrown in. I was so excited. I had read all of his books. I couldn’t wait for the next few weeks to go by.

He showed up on the 10th of January during a huge wind and rainstorm. It was dark and close to 11PM. I wasn’t expecting him until the following morning. I answered the door and helped him grab his things from the car. We were both soaked. He stood in my front entrance while I went to get some towels. When I came back I skidded to a stop. He had stripped down to his boxers. He took one of the towels from my now dead fingers and started to dry himself off. It wasn’t supposed to be erotic, but my body didn’t care. He was a few inches shorter than me, but I would say we weighed the same. His shorter frame carried his weight in his chest and shoulders, perfectly sculpted and bulging with raw sinew. His dark hair was short and tamed against the wild curl evident. His eyes were a piercing blue. His nose straight and perfectly complimented the rest of his features. His lips were full and sensuous. His chin, hard and strong, was covered in dark stubble. Then I looked down to his chest. Some people don’t like hairy chests. I find them extremely sexy. His pectorals were covered in long, straight, thick dark hair, to the point where you couldn’t see the skin underneath. The hair was in interesting whorls all along the muscular plane. The hair trailed thickly between his abdominal muscles and hid his belly button. You would only know it was there because of the swirl of hair that deepened at that point. His legs were also incredibly muscled and covered in dark whorls of the same straight, thick hair. In a word: gorgeous.

I was afraid I had started drooling. I know I lost the ability to speak rationally. So I ducked back down the hall to change my clothes, hoping I could make the erection go away. When I was dry and had everything tucked away, hopefully not so noticeably, I went back to see to my guest. He had opened a suitcase and pulled a shirt over his head and was pulling up a pair of jeans. I offered him some food and when he declined, I helped carry his bags to his room. It was in the tower, directly over mine. It was the best I had, and considering how long he was going to be spending here, figured he needed the extra comfort and space. When he was settled, I went back to my room and crawled into bed. I was still hard, but I didn’t do anything about it. I drifted off to sleep and indulged in some incredible dreams.

The next day, Toby sat with me in the kitchen while I got ready for my Wednesday lunch. He talked to me and told me what he was hoping to find in the area. I asked if he always worked by not working and he laughed and told me that he wanted to take a couple of days and unwind, he had been on a book tour. He actually joined my grandfather’s friends for lunch. I was absolutely mortified when one of them whipped out a scrapbook and showed Toby. I was embarrassed and escaped to the kitchen. I didn’t realize that they had kept such records of me. Every single picture and article from cooking school was there. I had volunteered my free time at a women’s shelter in New York, but I kept it private. The school didn’t know until someone from the paper came and did an article on what I did. I hadn’t realized that my grandfather knew. It brought the pain of his death back to me. God I missed that old man. I carried dessert back into the dining room. One of the group told Toby that they were so proud that I did so much for so many people and all without a hint of recognition. Then he told him how I spent Fridays donating my cooking talent at the shelter down the coast a bit. It was true, but I was still embarrassed. Another member of the group wondered why I didn’t ask for something or do anything to get recognition. Toby piped up and said that some people had so much love to give that they wanted to share it and the sharing was its own reward. I actually fell in love with him right then and there. I had been fiercely attracted to him, but having him so easily define why I was motivated to help others was the last thing needed to have my feelings bloom. I actually smiled at him, full wattage, without ducking away in shyness when he returned it.

The next day I spent driving Toby around the area. I showed him a great lookout for viewing the haystacks of Cannon Beach. Then I showed him the lighthouse that the movie ‘The Goonies’ was filmed at. We drove to Tillamook to tour the cheese factory. While sitting in the café, eating some of their heavenly ice cream, I watched him watch the passing ladies. That kind of calmed my hope of a returned attraction. I know it’s foolish, but I was kind of hoping he would be the one to see me for the worthwhile person I really am. That his words at lunch yesterday would actually lead to something else. But I guess not. I could still be his friend. After all, it was probably hero worship; kind of like the silly crushes teenagers have for movie and rock stars. Though I knew it wasn’t.

That night Toby sat in my kitchen while I did my baking and prep work for Friday’s trip to the shelter. He was amazed at how much food I was preparing and I told him about my time in New York in which I would cook for a couple hundred people a day. What was nice was that he offered to go with me and help. We actually had a good time. Then Saturday morning, he was shut in his room, pounding away at his laptop. I had never seen anyone work so diligently at something before. He was in total concentration. I was in awe at the raw energy that went in to his creative process. Just watching him aroused me. He was truly beautiful. While he worked, he had steel framed glasses that he kept pushing up his nose from time to time. The total concentration seemed to make his face more angular. It was a breath-taking sight. But I stayed away, letting him work, bringing sandwiches and coffee every few hours. I would leave it by his side and collect the used plates later. He did come up for air every couple of days or so and I would help him with a tour of the area or a description of the seasonal changes. I gladly helped as much as I could, all the while fearing that my feelings were growing deeper and stronger, to never be returned.

Toby had been working and writing for over six weeks. He seemed happy with the progress on the book. He would spend most days with me in the kitchen, poured over his laptop, saying that hearing me work added a bit of homey comfort that aided his writing. On Thursday nights, when I did the majority of my baking and preparing for the shelter, he would actually help me box up things and keep me company for the five or six hours I would spend cooking. It was a truly happy time for me. I had companionship and a caring body to share my time. It didn’t surprise me when I so easily fell deeper in love with him. I would watch him concentrate on his writing, be so into his characterizations that he would forget to eat. I would make a sandwich or something in which temperature didn’t matter. He always had something to drink close at hand, whether a thermal carafe of coffee or a pitcher of his favorite cool drink of half iced tea and half lemonade. Each time I would put something in front of him or remove used plates and glasses; I would usually get a smile. One Saturday, while I watched him work while baking an apple crisp, he caught me staring and we shared a smile that shot straight through me. I couldn’t catch my breath and I was so hard watching his lips curve and the dimples in his cheeks form. I had it bad. But I knew he had no idea. I enjoyed watching him. But I kept quiet about my feelings. Too shy, too scared to share them, positive that he wouldn’t feel comfortable with them. As I pulled my crisp out of the oven, there was a pounding at the door. I didn’t have any guests scheduled for at least two more weeks. It was late and figured it was a stranded traveler looking for a place for the night. It happens sometimes.

But when I got to the door, there was a woman standing outside. She breezed in and handed me her bags and told me to place them in Toby’s room. Her attitude had me concerned, so I asked why I should place her bags in his room and she told me she was Toby’s fiancée. I blinked, trying to breathe in and out, because that simple task failed me. I knew he was straight. I knew he wasn’t going to be interested in me. But it still hurt. Nodding away the pain, I took her to the kitchen, which she was loath to do. But I led her to Toby. She squealed when she saw him and launched herself into his lap. I could tell he was annoyed at being interrupted, but he grasped her and hugged her anyway.

“Becca, what the hell are you doing here?”

She pouted at his harsh tone, but practically purred out her response. “Oh darling, I just had to see you.” She kept kissing at his neck, I wanted to turn away, but I couldn’t. It’s like looking at a car accident. It turned your stomach, but you still couldn’t look away. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Toby turned to me, with a look I couldn’t recognize, like he was looking for anything to help him. “Becca, I would like to introduce you to Jack.” His eyes softened and his smile was warm and generous. “He owns and runs this place and has taken really excellent care of me.”

She didn’t even turn her head to me. She just sort of made a little ‘how are you’ sound and then started kissing Toby. I turned from them and carried her bags to his room. I straightened up the bedding and made sure the bathroom had fresh towels. I also grabbed a stray plate off his desk and emptied the trash. I went downstairs into my office to make a list of chores for tomorrow. I heard Toby and Becca head out of the kitchen and go up the stairs. I decided to turn in and crawled beneath the covers. But sleep eluded me. After a few minutes, I heard the bed creak through the floorboards above me. I had heard the sound before from other guests, but I always tuned it out. This time I couldn’t stop from listening. I was absolutely green with envy, furiously jealous of Becca and her luck at being with someone so incredibly sexy and wonderful. I was also incredibly aroused by it. I listened for several minutes, the gentle quaking of the ceiling and the incessant squeak of the box springs. I could imagine the two of them, writhing and rolling on the bed. I could picture myself writhing and rolling on the bed with Toby. I felt myself tighten and quiver with repressed desire. I felt myself tingling with impending release. I wanted so badly to grasp my heated flesh in my fist and bring myself relief. But I didn’t. I tortured myself, listening to the two of them. After several heated moments, the pace of the squeaking sped up. So did my desire. Then I heard a loud bounce and the rumble of Toby’s voice as he found his release. Not that I could hear any words, just the timbre of his deep voice as he called out in pleasure. It was too much and I found myself clenching and spurting in my own heated release. I closed my eyes and felt each pulse leave my body and drench my tight briefs. The moment the last spasm left me; I opened my eyes and felt a deep shame. I had listened in on something so very private and personal. Even worse, I got off on it. I felt horrible. I got out of bed and went to my kitchen after throwing on a pair of cut-offs and a t-shirt. I decided to work off my guilt by starting my baking early.