Sun Sea Sand and Sultry Sex

Leena smiled. It was a wide, open mouthed, delighted, self satisfied smile that displayed the whiteness of her perfect teeth, and that reminded me of the moment when she had completed her first length of our villa swimming pool, an entire twelve metres, ecstatic that at the age of thirty she had finally learned to stay afloat. I felt proud that day as well, that I had managed to teach her, in just two afternoons.

But that was then, and this was now, and we were not at the villa that we had rented for two weeks of hot, French, July sun. We were at the beach, and we were in the sand dunes, not the sea. Leena had not been swimming in the water, but she had most definitely been swimming against the tide of several thousand years of Indian norms and expectations, and of what is forbidden and taboo to a well brought up Sikh woman who was not just a respectable suburban wife, but a practicing medic, having followed her proud parents into the only profession that they would give their blessing to.

Yet Leena was smiling, exhilarated, even though her face and hair and breasts were spattered, globules on her forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, neck, shoulders, and yet more on the slopes of her generously full breasts with their dark, saucer-like areolas and pencil-rubber nipple stubs. Her smile was so wide that one globule, that had hit her upper lip and started to slide onto her chin, was stretched into a fine, glistening spittle-like teardrop that threatened to break and cling instead to her gleaming teeth.

I rotated the zoom lens on my camera to get a close up, just her face and hair. That face could be nothing other than Indian. Leena has a classic, regal look, her nose perhaps a little too prominent, too strong, to be truly beautiful, but it is striking just the same, and complements her well defined, high cheekbones, huge eyes, dark irises and lashes, strong forehead, determined chin, and full, soft, lips, the same lips that had caused the spurts and spatters that were now despoiling her. I wanted to capture that face on film, or at least a memory card, the moment when she looked not the high class member of what thought itself the superior caste, but rather a stunning but outrageous whore.

A child might have done it, a playful rebellious ten year old with a water pistol, firing again and again at its human target. Except instead of water, it would have had to be a mix of something thick and slightly yellow, with something watery, perhaps yoghurt diluted down with milk, to get both the colouring and consistency exactly right. Not so thick that the water pistol would be difficult to fire. Not so liquid that it would just run down the target's face in watery drips. Pull the trigger and the pistol would eject, not a stream, but a spurt of creamy fluid. Aim and fire. Splatter, spurt, splatter, spurt. Eyes, mouth, nose, cheeks, neck and breasts, her open mouth the best target, forcing her to swallow.

Not that any of the creamy globules had been made from milk, or fired from a child's toy gun, or would taste of yoghurt, certainly not the sweetened kind. More bitter than yoghurt on the tongue. Sticky too, like translucent, creamy coloured treacle, clinging to her face and upper body. One of Leena's eyes was closed, a globule lying horizontally across the lid, trapped by her long lashes. Yet even with this eye closed, Leena was still smiling delightedly.

I was around ten feet away, from where I had watched it all take place, the sexual baptism of Baleen Kaur, now Baleen Armstrong, no longer pure and wholesome, but despoiled by men she did not know and never would. Leena had anglicised her given name to something she considered to be more feminine, although she had once proudly told me that Baleen meant "a slender and pretty girl", chosen by doting parents, confident their daughter would grow up to look just like her mother, as she had done. This baptism of Baleen by semen had been worth capturing on camera, and mine is old school, not a cell phone, but a real camera, optical viewfinder, exchangeable lenses, a mount for separate flash, and the lens that I was using was a compact zoom, which was why I could home in on every detail of her face.

I took several shots in succession, the best way to ensure that one, at least, would be the money shot. I may be an amateur, but my technique is reasonably good. I was confident that I had it in the bag, but before I had time to lower the camera, Leena saw it. She gave me a look, but could not question me without first lapping up any globules within licking distance of her tongue, cleaning her upper and lower lips and swallowing, which led her to screw up her mouth in protest at the bitter taste.

"Have you been taking photographs?" she asked.

"Of course," I said.

"You can't!" Leena almost squealed in mock embarrassment, yet managed to laugh at the same time. I love her accent, high class Indian, unchanged by life in London since her family moved there from the Punjab when she was just twelve.

"I thought maybe framed, put on display," I suggested.

"You shit!" she laughed. "But you can't keep them! You have to delete them all!

How many did you take?"

"Enough," I said. "I'll delete them later. Maybe."

"You'd better!" Leena was still laughing. "I need to go in the sea. My God, I'm covered! I thought they'd never stop!"

She got from her knees and stood, turned and walked through a cleft in the dunes towards the expanse of sand that sloped gently to the water and stretched for a kilometre on either side. I was left to marvel at her daring, and trying to remember just how many men had used her for the bukkake session.

I keep my promises. I had said I would delete the photographs, but first I needed to be ready. I always carry with my at least one memory stick. I took one from my bag and slotted it in place. In moments I had copied twenty something shots of Leena. I unplugged the stick, returned it to my bag, and waited for her return.

When she came back, her hair was streaming wet. Her full breasts undulated as she walked towards me. Her face was clean, glistening now with water droplets instead of the thicker, heavier, globules of semen that I guessed were now floating in the sea.

"Show me!" she demanded.

I showed her, using the screen at the back of the camera to run through my photos, one at a time.

"Oh My God!" she said again, a favourite expression for anything remotely surprising to her. "I am such a total slut! You have to delete those!"

"You're sure?" I asked. "You don't want a momento?"

"Are you kidding?" Leena exclaimed. "No one is ever going to know that I just did that! Delete them!"

More slowly this time, I went through the photos one by one, deleting and confirming each in turn, while Leena watched, until the next photo that appeared was an innocent beach scene from our walk the day before. Not even a naked naturist in sight.

"You swear you will never tell anyone!" Leena insisted.

"Okay," I said. "I swear."

"Say it properly," Leena demanded.

"I swear I will never tell anyone what just happened," I said, in a mock children's tone of voice.

"I can still taste it," she said.

"Bitter?" I asked.

"Have we something sweet to drink?"

"Coke," I suggested, rummaging in my bag and finding the cans that were no longer as chilled as they had been when we had bought them.

I passed one of the cans to her. She pulled the ring and the Coke fizzed out. She put it to her lips to stem the flow, and drank.

"Would you like some?" she asked me, offering the can.

I took it from her and drank from it, passing it back to her with a thank you.

"Is it bad to admit that I am feeling really turned on," she said, taking the can and drinking some more. "You know that sucking cock does nothing to satisfy a woman."

I was still getting used to Leena being so totally uninhibited about talking about sex, but then she had just been pretty uninhibited once she had decided to suck the first guy's cock.

"I could lick you out," I suggested.

"Would you?" she said.

"It's not like I haven't done it before," I answered.

"I mean here?" she said. "They know we're here now."

She meant the guys who roamed the dunes.

"I'll risk it," I offered.

It was not just my generosity of heart. I love licking her cunt. I am not sure what she uses after showering, but its scent is gorgeous. Her cunt is sheer, sexual heaven to my sense of smell and taste. It is depilated, the entrance totally devoid of hair, despite Sikh teaching that hair of any kind should never be cut.

I had asked her of course, the first time that I had seen her naked.

"So, if you are not allowed to cut your hair, how come your vulva has so little?"

It was my Mother," she had told me. "She prepared me for my future husband, long before we knew who it would be."

"And?" I had said, encouraging her to explain a little more.

"And she told me that I had to go and have it lasered before I took Amrit. That's what we have instead of your baptism, or maybe confirmation, but as an adult. After Amrit we are not allowed to cut any of our hair. Men or women. I do mean any. She said men do not like a woman to have so much hair, not for having sex, and most definitely not for when they use their mouths."

"She actually said that?" I remember asking, thinking of Leena's formidable, formal and reserved mother, in her medical whites, with stethoscope, or dressed in her traditional salwar kameez.

"Of course," Lenna had said, taken aback at my surprise. "Why not? Isn't that what mothers are for, to guide their daughters?"

Her logic was impeccable. Still, I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation. The outcome was a vulva that was permanently depilated, other than a strip that started above her slit, and ran vertically upwards until it petered out to nothing. Licking between her darkly tinged labia is a joy, opening those folds, whose outer edges are almost black in colour, and tasting her within, is a delicious pleasure, and the chance to do it in the middle of the dunes, beneath the blazing sun, was not one I would turn down.

Finishing her Coke, Leena put the can to one side and made herself comfortable on her beach towel. The large beach sheet beneath our towels gave us plenty of space to manoeuvre. I lay on my front between her legs, leaning on my elbows. I softly kissed the exposed, moist, dark labia. They tasted wet and salty on my tongue, but then she had just been cleaning semen from her face and still had sea water droplets on her body. I probed deeper, my tongue penetrating between her labia, lapping at another wetness deeper inside her vulva that was neither salty, nor was it water from the sea. It was pure Leena.

***********

None of what had happened had been planned. Neither Leena nor I are swingers. It was supposed to be nothing more than a holiday in the sun, a get away from London. I would have been happy with not quite so luxurious a villa, or certainly without a pool, since we were just ten minutes from the sea, or even with a basic rental car and not the Lexus SUV that Leena had insisted on. My needs have never been materialistic, but then Leena had lived a charmed life, her parents, as hospital consultants, affording anything she wanted.

Neither of us had realised that the beach closest to the villa was naturist. We had already used the villa's pool, taking a couple of days after the flight from London to go nowhere else. Admittedly we had been basking naked on the luxury sun-beds since the pool was not overlooked by any other villa. To be honest, we had hardly dressed for those two days, just for one trip to a supermarche for our food. So when we parked the Lexus in the beach car park behind the dunes, used the boardwalk between dunes to reach the beach itself, expecting to wear our swimwear for the day, and saw a crowded beach full of naked people, we did not hesitate that long. Just for a fleeting moment. Then we found a spot, and shed our clothes, a British born caucasian, and a British educated Indian, both baring all in France.

I had gone naked on a beach before, not just in France, but on a Greek island, and in Lanzarote, so stripping off for me was not an issue. What fascinated me was Leena's apparent ease in taking off not just her shorts and tee-shirt, but the black one piece costume that I knew was the only style of swimwear she had ever worn, a bikini being just that bit too immodest in her culture. In mere moments, Leena put centuries of cultural norms the same place that she put her swimwear, out of sight behind her.

Inevitably, it was Leena who got noticed. Her natural complexion, light for an Indian, still defined her as decidedly non-European. Around us there were a lot of still pale bodies, a lot of Dutch and Germans with their blonde hair. Leena's hair, which, unlike her pubic growth, had never seen a pair of scissors, fell in a long curtain of glistening black, straight strands all the way to her naked butt. She stood out from the crowd, and she got looks.

But then, even had she been caucasian, Leena's body would have attracted looks. She has that perfect combination of a slender skeletal frame, with soft womanly flesh, possibly because she has never broken sweat with exercise. No track. No gym. That, in her culture, would be most unladylike. Yet her stomach is naturally slender in contrast with her upper body and her hips, even if it is still has a softening layer of what might be diplomatically described as puppy fat.

As if her slender frame were not enough, Leena has breasts to die for. They are what men dream of, and what every woman envies. They are fuller than her frame appears to be designed for, yet somehow, even without support, they still stand proud, with incredible, brown to the point of being almost black, areolas, as wide as my palm, and thick nipple stubs, the kind that other women develop during motherhood, from infants biting and gnawing as they feed, but that year Leena was not yet a mother. Her teats were just plain primed and ready, for when that day would come.

I hope, as a photographer and not a writer, that this conveys the image that she projected. One more thing. Leena not only looks amazing, but she knows it. Leena's proud parents told her that she looks wonderful every single day from birth, even before she began to understand Punjabi. They also taught her to stand proud, shoulders back, back straight, which in turn emphasises those generous breasts. No one on the beach outclassed her, and she knew it. I knew it too.

So Leena got looks. She not only got looks, she had constant 'walk-by's. The 'walk-by's were exclusively from men. They might be walking from their towel to the sea, or wandering through the crowd of sunbathers, or exercising by heading down the beach but once they had spotted Leena, they would change direction so that they walked right by, within feet of where we were stretched out on our beach sheet and towels, and slowing to a snail's pace as they passed us. They would take in every inch of her and Leena made it easy. Her legs were always slightly parted, whether for comfort, or because she liked her almost hairless vulva to get this intimate attention.

Of course I took photographs. Leena naked in the sea, waves breaking around her legs. Leena standing in the shallows, her back to me, arms raised, hands shielding her eyes from the sun, the outer curves of her breasts visible on either side of her slender back with its curtain of hair. Leena lying on her towel, legs slightly parted, vulva displayed, breasts forming pillows that spilled slightly to the sides of her rib-cage, areolas huge, stubs of nipples pointing to the sun.

Later on we took a stroll. The beach continues for one or two kilometres to the right of the car park boardwalk. People are mostly lazy, so closer to the car park it was crowded. The further we walked, the quieter it got, until there were no more than one or two people every fifty feet or so, some by the water's edge, some in the foothills of the dunes behind the beach. We walked on to the very end, although until we reached it we did not know there was an end. It turned out to be a river mouth, too deep to wade across, more beach beyond, not naturist, judging by the swimwear people there were wearing, a convenient, natural dividing line between those who dare to bare, and those who do not care to.

We walked back, and that was when I noticed them. Just three or four of them at first. Men, in the dunes, walking, sometimes only heads visible, sometimes upper bodies, looking around as much as looking out to sea, stopping to take in the two of us strolling at the water's edge, then moving on. Leena saw them too.

"Is something happening?" she asked. "Are they looking for something in the dunes?"

"I can't tell," I said.

"There must be something," Leena insisted. "I mean, look at that guy. Is he lost, or what?"

I could see the guy, no longer walking, but standing at the top of one of the dunes, naked, as he would be on that beach, looking around for something, one hand to his forehead against the sun. He did look at us, but he spent more time looking into the dunes themselves. I could also see what he was doing with his other hand. It was at his groin.

"Your guess is as good as mine," I said.

"There's one way to find out," Leena laughed her infectious, high pitched laugh.

She changed the direction we were walking in, no longer along the water's edge, but diagonally, towards the dunes. I followed, not sure that I really wanted to explore what was happening there, but sometimes you follow where another person's curiosity takes you.

Once in the dunes, we walked in the hollows in between hillocks. We had no idea what we might be looking for, or what it was the men were trying to locate, and it was just by chance we found it. It was in a slightly larger hollow. A couple who had deep tans, darker than Leena's colouring, as it was then. They had set up on their beach sheet and towels in a spot that would mostly be hidden from view. certainly invisible from the beach. She was on all fours, and he was behind her, on his knees. They were at it. They were fucking. Actual real life, uncensored fucking.

Leena saw them first.

"Oh my God!" she said, under her breath but loud enough for me, if no one else, to hear.

I caught up with her. We had just walked between two dunes and the scene we were confronted with was no more than twenty feet away. It so happened that we had a side on view. I could see the guy's cock each time that he withdrew to thrust back in, or at least I could see the shaft. To see the cock head would have required Superman's x-ray vision. The woman's breasts were too small to sway, but they formed inverted triangles below her torso, button nipples pointing to the ground. They were in their forties, both just slightly overweight, but none of their audience seemed to be complaining.

Four guys were watching. It did not take a genius to work out that this was what we had seen the men on the look-out for. Presumably, it was known that the dunes were a place where you could watch live action, and even get close up. The guys who were watching were not standing twenty feet away, but two or three feet at most. Any closer and they would have been standing on the couple's towels.

Two of the men were just watching. The other two were doing more. They were stroking their erections. I know that this is what watching porn online is all about, but watching guys masturbate in the open air was something else again. I got nervous, but Leena wanted to see more. She edged closer.

The two men on the far side of the couple had seen us by then and did not seem to mind the intrusion. Just the same, I was far from sure that getting closer to the action was the sensible thing to do.