The beach is somewhere between Newcastle and Berwick. It's not a secret; just a place whose name you wouldn't recognise, where the sand occasionally has a blackish hue from tiny grains of coal washed ashore, and where the skyline to the south is broken only by a small wind farm, a mile out to sea.
It's a long beach; you get lots of day visitors at the southern end during summer weekends, but less during the week. I'm not lying at the southern end; I'm further north, in a hollow curve of the dunes, with a small sun tent erected to shield me from the view of anyone coming straight over the top of the dunes.
It's not that I don't want to be seen. Not at all. John has taken thirty pictures of me already, and is changing the memory card in his camera while I read my book. It's just that if you want to see me you have to play by our rules. John will publish a few of these pictures on bulletin boards, inviting people to email him for more pictures. He encourages them to tell me, in the emails, what it feels like to look at me, naked. The more explicit their emails, the more pics he sends them by return.
So it is with real life voyeurs on the beach. He wants me to see them, to know that they're there. He knows they arouse me. I can't help this streak of exhibitionism. It's just one of the isms I've discovered about myself since John came into my life. I don't want to write my biography. Not yet, anyway. That's not what this story is for, but I do want to tell you about my life. Exhibitionism in words maybe.
I'd never sunbathed naked before John. I still wouldn't, without his presence or knowledge. I'd have continued to buy old fashioned bikinis at shops my mother would approve of. I still do buy bikinis, but Wicked Weasel isn't a brand my mother's acquainted with.
I wear them to the beach, or in the car, or walking through the dunes as I did today, teamed with a sarong to keep the peace. I wear them at homes sometimes, if the girls are at their father's and John is visiting. Once, at a barbeque John hosted at his house near Edinburgh, I wore the smallest bikini and a denim skirt with high heeled mules, or come fuck me shoes as John calls them. I may tell you what happened there later.
Anyway, back to the story.
I'm lying on the beach, one leg bent, the other straight out in front of me. I'm looking over my book at a man who's trying to be surreptitious, about thirty feet away. He doesn't want to be caught looking, but he can't keep his eyes away from me. I'm delighted. I don't need any more suntan oil, but I start to make a pretence of rubbing some more in. I love the way I look since John took me on. Still slim, suntanned, cared for; nails polished, feet pedicured regularly – I'm a different woman to the one who got divorced years ago.
Different in another physical way; I wear more jewellery on the beach, naked, than I ever wore during my marriage. One gold ring, in each nipple. One gold and diamond stud, in each ear. A gold and emerald belly bar, piercing the top edge of my navel. A gold barbell piercing each labia, quite low down so that I feel them if I squat or walk vigorously. A gold ring through the hood of my clit, hanging down. John loves to suck my clit through the ring - the result is an exquisite sensitivity that brings on the most painful and blissful orgasms.
And that's just the jewellery I wear all the time. This is one of my naked days so I'm wearing silver torque bracelets around my ankles; they bend into shape and have tiny hooks to keep them closed. On the second toe of each foot is a silver ring. I miss my collar or the solid necklaces I wear when it's not a beach day; the ankle bracelets have a way of reminding me that I'm different.
