This is my first Literotica publication and may go through a couple rounds of updates before I'm satisfied. Thanks for all the feedback, I used it to end the first part with a bang and set up the second (and likely last) part. Hope you enjoy and please don't be shy about offering feedback!
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DAVIDA
"Come on, baby. It'll be fun," I whine, growing frustrated at having to beg my husband for sex yet again.
I lie alone in my hotel room, in my decadently plush queen bed. I push the crisp white sheets aside to cool my burning body. The ice cold air conditioning drifts across my hardening nipples. I imagine Maurice with the phone to his ear and his thick, brown fingers wrapped around his long cock. My hand drifts across my round belly, past my curls and down to my weeping channel.
"It's been a long day. All I can think about is sleeping," Maurice says from the other line. Guessing by his annoyed tone, his hand is nowhere near his cock.
"We can make it a quickie," I say huskily, the phone lodged between my ear and shoulder. With my free hands, I part my swollen lips and rub my throbbing clit. Watching all those muscled surfers at the beach has left me in need of release.
Maurice yawns. "Tomorrow, I promise. I can hardly keep my eyes open."
I huff. "Fine. Goodnight." I end the call before I hear the usual, half-hearted apology. I resist the urge to throw my thousand-dollar smartphone across the room.
I'd hoped a few days apart - and some steamy phone sex - might help to kick start our fledgling sex life. Eight years of marriage has managed to suck the sex out of our relationship.
I even agreed to open the marriage at my husband's request. I have yet to take advantage of the arrangement, though I've received more than one offer from a close male friend. Maurice, on the other hand, has had no qualms about engaging in a handful of trysts in the past year alone. His only issue seems to be garnering the energy to have sex with his own wife.
I switch off the bedside lamp, drowning the room in darkness. I shut my eyes, imagining one surfer in particular from earlier that evening. His tanned skin lighter than the dark complexion of my husband, his lean body much slimmer; his shoulder length black hair slicked back from the hard lines of his face; his body drenched with the salt water of the ocean.
I dip a finger into my tight hole for lubrication, rubbing my stiff clitoris. I pinch a nipple beneath my black silk nightie, wishing it were the wet tongue of my husband. Penetrating my vagina with two and then three fingers, I stretch myself to capacity. I cry out in disappointment as my orgasm sneaks up on me, as unsatisfying and anti-climactic as my married life.
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DAVIDA
The blue waves crash against the jagged rocks, spraying my face with cool water. I delight in the refreshing sensation of the seawater evaporating from my face under the warm sun. The beach is one of my favorite places to be.
Born and raised in California, I finished med school in the UC system and moved to New Mexico on a whim, completing my residency at a small hospital in Santa Fe. I met Maurice at a casino during a girls' trip, our first encounter ending in an illicit hot tub session. We were married a year later.
The beginning of our marriage had been much like our first night together, full of blinding lust and passion. In the last few years, however, something has shifted. Maurice is distant and I drown myself in work. This business trip to California has been a welcome respite from awkward dinner conversations and silent movie nights with the man who shares my home.
During my three days in Santa Barbara for the Annual Western Dermatology Conference, I've been spending evenings at the beach when I should be networking with colleagues. The serene ocean view and harmonic rhythm of the waves always pumps the life back into me after a long day of lectures on anti-aging procedures and acne management. I want to burn this view into my memories and take it back home to the arid desert climate of Santa Fe.
In the distance I notice a wave forming, one of the biggest waves I've seen in my life. It's going to be at least fifteen feet high when it crests. The lone surfer I've noticed every evening, paddles toward the waves, his deeply tanned arms cutting into the water at a breakneck speed. I'm entranced by the sculpted muscles in his back, sparkling in the light of dusk.
Reaching the wave, he pushes himself into a standing position. He's at least six feet tall, lean without an ounce of fat on his muscular form. Bright blue board shorts cling to his well-formed thighs and buttocks. I lick the salt from my lips.
As the wave crests, he keeps ahead of it, cutting the board against the wall of water, riding the wave in a kind of ocean dance. Even from this distance, I can feel his focus, bending his knees and adjusting as necessary, his rhythm mesmerizing.
He seems at home in the sea, born from the waves he rides. I envy him. Here's a guy in his 20s who seems to have found his place in the chaos of this world and I can barely find comfort in my career and marriage. A profitable private practice, stock broker husband and 5,000 square-foot mansion nestled in the mountains hasn't come close to bringing me the peace I sense this man experiences while riding a wave.
I lean forward, noticing the wave cresting at a quicker speed. Too quick. In an instant, the surfer is swallowed up in a vortex of water. I jump up from my seat on a beached log, waiting for him to resurface, but seeing no sign of him. Knowing it only takes minutes for someone to drown, my years as a beach lifeguard kick in and I respond automatically, shedding shoes and clothes in no time. In only a matching white lace bra and panties, I sprint toward the water, diving straight into a wave.
Not as strong of a swimmer at 36 as I was at 18, my chest burns as I cut quick strokes through the water, reaching the approximate spot where I saw the surfer go under. I gulp in air before dipping under the surface. The salt burns my eyes but I keep them open, searching for any sign of him. Finding nothing, I resurface, swallowing more air before diving again.
Just as I'm about to go up for another breath, I spot a bright blue streak a few feet away. I use the last of the air in my lungs to dive further, grabbing the guy under the arms and back to the surface of the water.
My lungs scream for air. I do my best to keep his head above water while recovering. Making my way to shore, I tug his limp form along.
Please be alive, I silently pray. Finally ashore, I drag him through the cool, wet sand, out of the reach of the waves. I check the rise and fall of his chest. He's not breathing.
I start compressions, counting as I press against his sinewy chest. I pause to tilt his head back and wrap my warm lips around his cold ones, blowing air into his mouth. I alternate between compressions and breaths until he suddenly spits up water, coughing and wheezing, the color returning to his blue lips.
"Thank goodness," I whisper, pulling him into a hug.
"Whoa, what happened?" he croaks in a deep baritone that surprises me.
I pull away, finally getting a good look at him. His shoulder-length black hair is plastered to his face. Long lashes accent almond-shaped, chestnut-colored eyes. A strong jawline and broad nose balance out his softer features. He looks to be of Filipino descent, maybe biracial. Either way, he's stunningly beautiful, unlike any man I've ever encountered.
"You okay?" he asks, breaking the trance.
"You almost drowned," I nearly yell.
His chuckle comes out more as a cough. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"This isn't a joke, you could've died." The thought of not finding him in time is accompanied by a wave of panic.
"Good thing you were here to save me then." He smiles and a sudden rush of lust makes me snatch my hands away from his shoulders, as though I've been singed.
He looks me up and down. "You've lost your clothes." He focuses on my bra. "Not that I'm complaining."
I look down to find that my bra is practically see-through, my dark areola and nipples on full display in the drenched fabric.
