Stretching out on the orange and blue striped beach towel her body molded its form into the sand. Having undone the string of her bra like so many of the younger women on the beach she wriggled her chest, her breasts displacing the sand beneath the towel which cooled them as the hot upper crust was broken.
Many a man on the beach that day noticed the attractive woman in the one piece, electric blue suit. Though her figure had once been a perfect hourglass the birth of two children and the onslaught of middle age had thickened it. But no one noticed. Its flowing curves were still attractive enough to capture the eyes of leering men that gawked at the shapely legs which disappeared beneath the electric blue fabric of her bathing suit and continued into the sinuous pear of her bottom.
From a distance one might have thought she was a coed. Her auburn ponytail brushed her neck just below her shoulder blades and everything about her suggested a vibrant woman who was young and perky. A closer view of her face revealed classic lines, sans wrinkles, with the exception of fine crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. A scar on her cheekbone was nearly invisible but when she smiled it formed a dimple that made her appear girlish. Though her 36C breasts were not perky like a coed's they still held themselves at an alluring level. And her tummy, although slightly pooched, was toned and supple.
Agatha Wilcox was proud of her body, proud that at the age of 50 men still turned their heads to look when she walked past or stared, as some stared now, as she basked on the beach. Although she had steadfastly maintained the austere standards of a preacher's wife, she had recently been increasingly guilty of rebellious thoughts. I wonder, she mused, what they would think if I sat up, let my top drop and waggled my boobs?
"Those are immoral thoughts, Agatha." That's what Phillip would had said ...if he knew...and he would have suggested that they kneel and pray for forgiveness. She had had enough morality lectures from her pompous husband to last into the next lifetime.
The forbidden word that floated in her mind rose in a bubble. Fuck, she thought. She loved the fricative sound of the word, how the air flowed over her lips when she said it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mouthed silently, picturing an erect penis, the kind she had seen in pornographic pictures on the net, sliding into a glistening slit (more wickedness). The word expanded the bubble until it popped and flowed over her lips, "Fuck," she said and added, "...you, Phillip."
The afternoon sun baked her back and legs and soaked through the thin fabric of her blue bathing suit, toasting her bottom. She wondered if Phillip, when he would see her naked at the end of the week, would even notice that she had no tan lines on her back. He never seemed to notice anything she did to make herself more attractive for him, once again, doubting that the effort would be worth it. More than likely, if he did notice, he would have castigated her for acting like a Jezebel. But I have such a nice body, she thought, and wondered if anybody else would ever see it.
Such a passionate presence behind the pulpit, Phillip Wilcox was, but he never brought any of it to their bed. For him, sex was a way to satisfy his needs...using her... in a similar way that he satisfied other bodily needs using the toilet; so much for passion. Phillip had eyes for other women, women less attractive than she and he postured for the ewes of his flock, some of whom she knew lusted for him. But, given his lack of passion for physical pleasure, she doubted he would ever do anything about it, other than allowing them to stroke the most important swelling in his life, his ego.
Resting her chin on the backs of her hands she watched children splashing in the surf, screaming and throwing sand, digging and making sandcastles. Couples walked on the beach (some hand in hand). Her peripheral vision caught a young couple strolling toward her. She shifted her eyes and noticed the cute brunette woman's lithe figure and smallish breasts. The man, in tight electric blue Speedo trunks, was about six inches taller. He was bronzed and muscular with six-pack abs. His hairy legs were athletic, all the way to his bulge. Agatha curled her index finger inside her thumb and squinted, pinpointing his bulge and, just like at the ballet, where she had seen dancers who had been accused of wearing a rolled up sock in their jocks, she felt a thrill between her legs.
The couple passed, his arm draped over the girl's shoulder. Lucky girl, Agatha thought and dwelt on the image of the bulge, imagining how it would become elongated and rigid. Her eyes followed the movement of his tight buns, captured the girl's, then watched the two swaying side by side and visualized their coupling, moving their tight asses to the rhythm of his probing, rigid shaft.
Legs together, Agatha tightened her large lips around the tiny erection that had swollen at their apex. She rippled her muscles, slowly at first. Phillip could preach a year of sermons on the wicked temptations to which she had been exposing herself but she no longer cared. Squeezing the knot that had grown to the size of a lima bean she tingled. Her breath slid through her nostrils slowly then, with the rate of her contractions, increased. She clamped her lips against her Jack-in-the-Pulpit and gasped her muted orgasm into the sand. It happened almost every time now, the drenching of her crotch panel... almost like she had peed herself.
On her wedding night Agatha, a virgin, nervously anticipated what Phillip would do to her. When he finally pushed that formidable giant of a thing inside her, her fear was confirmed by pain then replaced with ecstasy, confirming a mystery she had been pondering since she was a girl in high school. She was glad that she had waited. It made her feel special, like she was giving Phillip the gift of herself. When he exploded after a half dozen strokes she was pleased that he cried out so excitedly. But he rolled off, turned over on his side and went to sleep...without as much as a goodnight. For the next ten days they made love three and four times a day. Each time, the newness of having him inside was thrilling. But, each time when he came so quickly, she felt a niggling sense of dissatisfaction.
She was apprehensive that someone might notice the wet spot in her swimsuit so she draped a towel over her bottom. This "condition" should have been blissful for her but Phillip complained about her copious wetness calling it "disgusting." But, like a naughty little girl who liked to pee her pants she enjoyed the feeling and secretly loved it. Pressing her thighs together she felt the delicious squishing between her legs, like a sponge full of warm water.
The children had recently left the nest and she was finally alone, able to experience leisure time. Phillip was away for the week at the annual conference for the clergymen of the church. One of their wealthy parishioners had given the Wilcox's the use of his cottage at the beach and she had come down on the train after church that morning. During the train ride Agatha thought of the five delicious days she was going to have without her husband, who would be picking her up the next Saturday afternoon. She had thought of it many times before but, this time, vowed, "I'm not going to let life pass me by."
It was just after 7:00. Agatha was seated at the open air restaurant right next to the railing by the boardwalk. Her skin was hot and tingling from the exposure to the hot sun. The intense heat had died down and she was in the shadow of the sun on its downward arc. As she was taking another a sip from the sweat-beaded glass of iced tea she heard, "Excuse me." It was a young voice and she knew it wasn't intended for her. "Excuse me," the voice said again.
Just on the other side of the railing from Agatha was a gorgeous young man, his fit and muscular body of about six feet was bronzed. He wore blue boxer swim trunks and a blue tank top, both with red trim, both with life guard insignias. His clear cerulean eyes gleamed below a mop of curly blonde hair and his teeth flashed blazingly white. "I hope you don't mind and, if you do, I apologize but I've been watching you all day." Agatha raised her eyebrows. "You look just like my aunt, my mom's younger sister, and I couldn't keep from looking at you...to make sure you weren't her."
Agatha was dressed in white Capri's, a low cut white and blue, horizontally striped t-top that showed a generous offering of her cleavage that was coppered by the sun. Her auburn ponytail hung through the hole in the back of her dark blue baseball cap; it drew out the indigo in her eyes. Blue canvas wedgies on her bare feet highlighted her well shaped ankles. Her full lips were colored elegantly by coral lipstick, lightly applied. Hoping her eyes weren't obvious she tried not to look the young man up and down. "And just how old is your mother's sister," she asked.
"38," he replied. "It's wild how much you look like her."
Agatha smiled up at him, the fine lines of her crow's feet crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Well, young man, that's quite a compliment." She held him in her gaze and smiled at the impossibility of such a fantasy. "I'm old enough to be your mother, young man."
"Wow, you'd never know it," he said. "You look much younger...like my aunt." He blushed and so did Agatha. "I...I'm sorry ma'am," he said. "I 'm kind of a dweeb when I talk to girls ...I'm sorry." He backed up and turned to leave.
She hadn't been talked about as a girl for so long that she couldn't remember, and thought he was flattering her. But still, she thought, it was sweet. "Don't be sorry for the compliment you just paid me. I thought it incredibly sweet." She cocked her head and grinned, asking, "And just how old are you?"
He shuffled and said, "I'll be 19 in October ma'am."
Nineteen, she thought, the same age as Malcom (her son). "May I know your name?"
"My name's Bart, ma'am."
"I'm Agatha Wilcox, Bart" she said, extending her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you."
Shyly, Bart took her hand and shook it. He smiled, looking around as if he was trying to find somebody.
"Am I holding you up Bart?
"No, it's nothing like that Mrs. Wilcox" (she corrected him to call her Agatha) "It's just that I was looking to see if my buddies were around. I guess I must have acted kind of rude."
"Oh, if they're expecting you, go on. I understand."
"I, I'm sorry Mrs. ...I mean... Agatha, I pointed you out on the beach to them...told them how much you looked like my aunt...thought, if they were around I wanted them to let them get a closer look. Is that dumb, or what?" He blushed and smiled foolishly, like he had made an embarrassing mistake.
Feeling a small thrill in the pit of her stomach Agatha's cheeks tinged a deeper pink. That the young man wanted to prove to his friends that she was an attractive woman was an incredible breath of fresh air to her. She giggled and said, "So, Bart, where are your friends?"
"Dunno, they could be along anytime soon...or...maybe they stopped somewhere, or met some girls. Ya know how it is with guys in college." His smile was disarming.
Yes, she thought, her son Malcolm was just starting his sophomore year. She was charmed with Bart's youthful enthusiasm, his lack of sophistication, his proximity in age to her own son, of whom she had had more than one questionable thought. She blushed and coughed, trying the ruse of covering her mouth to hide her reddened face. Then, giggling at his look of perplexity she said, "Go on Bart, go find your friends."
"No. Really Mrs...Agatha, I enjoy being away from them. Actually, I'm kind of a loner. I just thought they would get a kick out of seeing what a knockout my aunt is, is all." His face reddened. I mean..."
"That's okay, Bart." The compliment warmed her all over. "You seem to be quiet taken with your aunt. How much older is she than you?" She already knew that Bart's aunt was 38—twelve years younger than she—but wanted to work the conversation.
"Nine years," he volunteered, a wave of prideful pleasure rippling over his face. "She's an airline flight attendant ...still not married."
"So Bart, you should probably look for greener pastures; you're young and probably would like to be with girls your own age." Bart smiled and shook his head. Now, she was going to make a complete fool of herself, something he would probably tell his friends... they would all laugh. But she let the fantasy simmer. "If you have nothing else to do, maybe you'd like to keep this old lady company... for dinner." Her heart quickened at his eager response. "I'm buying," she said, hopeful of his acceptance.
