The Cove at Conic Beach

Everyone at work had subtly, and not so subtly, pitied her when they learned she was vacationing alone. Monica-the-witch had kindly mentioned that Nadine was probably lucky to not be encumbered with a man. She'd meant, of course, that Nadine never had boyfriends. Nadine had simply smiled an answering smile as false as Monica's own, and withheld comment, a reaction bound to drive Monica wild. Monica hated not having an effect. Still, the comment rankled all the long drive up the coast, all the way through the tiny strip of New Hampshire that could boast ocean frontage, all the way up the Maine turnpike. She began to simmer down as she left Bangor, and was even smiling as she stopped to buy her groceries in a nearly dead supermarket. She found the turns by luck and the strength of her high beams, and by the time she was in her isolated rental unit, two weeks of vacation stretched out ahead of her like crossing into the Promised Land.

Her tiny bedroom/sitting room was as unremarkable as modern motel décor could make it. The tiny scrap of a kitchen had a sink, a microwave, a coffeemaker and a miniscule refrigerator whose top was an electric stove with two burners. The bathroom was even smaller. It was a good thing she liked showers since the bathtub wouldn't let a child sit in it. She didn't care. This time was hers and hers alone, and by all that was holy, she planned to enjoy it.

She unpacked her groceries and went out to find a drink. She wanted a stinger but her own drink making skills stopped at Screwdrivers and Gin and Tonics. She found a dingy little bar in Trenton. It was small and dark and had a small sign that read "Ladies Welcome." There were no motorcycles outside, only a couple of pickups and a car. Ordinarily she'd not go near such a place on a bet, but she was on vacation. She went in anyway.

Inside the place was spotlessly clean. There was one guy off by himself in a corner booth. She could smell cooking and sawdust. She went to the bar, picked a place where she could reach the door in a hurry.

The bartender smiled in a friendly way, "Welcome Miss. What can I get you?"

She smiled back, "A stinger on the rocks and dinner if you serve it."

"Got the best lobster salad in the state," he said.

"Sold. I'll take a lot of it, please." He made her drink and went away. When he came back he carried a plate heaped high with lobster salad. It tasted better than it looked and she nearly licked the plate clean.

"Not seen you before, Miss." He smiled at her empty plate. "Nice to see a girl not afraid to eat."

She forced herself not to look down at her too generous bosom and hips. "I'm only a tourist, not even summer-people, but my college roommate was born here, does that count?" She smiled at him. "This is the second best lobster salad I have ever had."

The bartender had grinned as she described herself, but at the slight to his salad, he bristled. "Oh?"

"Herbie's, Atlantic Avenue, Boston," she said quickly.

He stopped cold. "Oh. We use the same recipe." His smile returned full force. " That puts you a little higher than just tourist. Need another drink?"

"The same again, please," she said. "You make them well."

He smiled as he set the new drink on the bar in front her. "College roommate. She was from here?"

"Yes, from Oak Point, but all she ever talked about was Conic beach. She loved it here."

"It's not Conic beach," A tall, broad shouldered man took the barstool one over from her. He seemed solidly made, strong and wide, the strength in him hidden under his skin. In the dim bar his eyes seemed golden, a bright hazel so clear and brown it glowed. He wore his brown hair pulled back in a careless ponytail on the nape of his neck, and his tawny skin was tanned dark from year round outdoors life. He had strong hands, callused from work. His warm voice poured like dark molasses pouring from a jar. It was the man from the corner, and up close he was impressive.

"It's not Conic beach," he said again. "That's a corruption. Originally it was Draconic Beach, but in time it changed to The Conic Beach, and now, simply Conic beach."

"Draconic? As in a dragon?" She could not help the skepticism in her voice.

"A dragon sleeps there. Has slept there for years." His voice was grave and deep. He didn't have a Mainer's accent, but his speech sounded from away. She could not quite place where. "But he still collects treasure."

"Even here in the middle of nowhere, someone would notice a dragon," she told him. She glanced at the bartender, but he seemed relaxed, smiling as if nothing was wrong and she had no reason to be uneasy. She decided to enjoy the conversation.

The man smiled, his full lips raising all kinds of thoughts in her secret heart. "A smart dragon doesn't get caught. They're natural wizards."

"Draconic Beach, it's a prettier name, I grant that." She sipped more of her drink, wrinkling her nose and smiling at the same time. She really did like Stingers.

"Don't forget," he told her gravely. "Dragons never stop collecting."

"I won't forget," she said. She saw no reason to add that she didn't think she had a thing to worry about. Men usually didn't find her all that interesting, she doubted a dragon would either. Nadine finished her drink and settled her bill. She smiled at the bartender, then thanked the other man for his history lesson. She drove back to her motel, and was asleep moments after hitting the bed.

She woke before dawn and packed her supplies. Two ham sandwiches with lettuce, no mustard or mayonnaise or the bread would get soggy and gross. Her water bottle filled to the brim. Her travel paints, watercolor pad and favorite brushes. Her trash bag supply. Her old ratty blanket, the one she'd bought as a newly minted employed person with her first job. The blanket was faded now, its synthetic fibers pilled from use, colors bleached with time and inexpert laundering. Still, she'd never thrown it away; she loved the cheerful animals covering its surface, adored their improbable colors. She put on her bathing suit instead of underwear, long pants, and a long sleeved shirt. She tucked a sweatshirt in the painting bag; even in July Maine could be nippy.

She loaded the car efficiently, and then set off for adventure, following Caroline's often-repeated directions. The morning fog hadn't burned off yet, but Caroline's landmarks weren't hampered by fog. This early, no other tourists were up and about, only a few local people, and she smiled as she passed them. The roads unrolled like a route she's always known, and soon she was signaling her turn.

Nadine parked her car and got out. She stood a few minutes, admiring the Atlantic as it pounded the rocks, and then turned to make sure her car was well off the road. Satisfied, she went back to the car and got her supplies, her blanket, her paint bag, her hat, and started the picky, slippery scramble down through the rocks. According to her old roommate, the cove at Conic beach was well worth the scrambling hunt.

The ocean spray made the rocks slippery and wet, and the footing was dangerous. The path, if you could call it that, was little more than hard packed sand and small stones. Still, the ocean was breathtakingly beautiful, even cloaked in the morning mist. She tried to stay focused on the climb, but kept stopping to watch the waves. An especially tall breaker doused her with spray and she shivered at the shocking cold of it. The path wandered back and forth through jagged rocks and into tangled locust thickets. She navigated the trees carefully, wary of the thorns. She noted several good painting spots in case Caroline had been making up the cove, so even if there was no sheltered perfect stretch of pure sand the trip was not wasted.

The path turned abruptly, so abruptly, it seemed to end at a tall, jagged rock. She braced herself as best she could and peered around the obstruction. The path continued south of the rock, though navigating the turn looked delicate. Not for the first time she wished she were built more like the current, skinny ideal of female beauty. But she wasn't. Her hands and wrists, ankles and feet were all small; the rest of her was generous. And now she had to decide if she could shimmy around that rock without getting herself killed.

Nadine jammed her silly flowered hat more securely onto her head, pushed the bag till it lay against her back, and flattened herself against the rock. She wrapped her arms around it as far as she could reach, mashing her ample breasts on the stone. Slowly, checking her balance she reached around the stone, feeling with her foot for where the path continued. Suddenly she found it. Everything balanced perfectly. She slid around the stone as easily as making a turn on a dance floor.

On this side the path was wide and easy, which was a blessing. This was the south side of the rock and it lay in shadow. Here the rocks on both sides were taller than her head, and she was grateful that the path was so wide. Caroline had been right about the path being deserted; there was no litter, not even a cigarette butt. The path led gently around and down through high rocks until it opened into a spill of sunlight.

Conic Beach was a small and perfect cove cut into the towering rocks and hidden by locusts. Even from the ocean side, the arrangement of cliffs made the cove hard to see. The rocks hid it, as did a thick misty fog. But in the cove itself, the pure yellow white sand glowed in the bright sun. The outer rocks made a breakwater, and the waves in the cove lapped gently on the sand. The encircling cliffs made this a pocket of almost tropical warmth, shocking on the New England coast.

Nadine stood for long minutes, staring at the sheer glory of the cove. She moved across the sand, again noting only the sea's own litter, driftwood, shells, rocks, and no sign of humans anywhere. She chose a smooth gray boulder as her backrest, and spread her blanket out before it. She set down her bag, pulled off her shoes, and settled herself on the blanket to watch the sea. She'd paint later.

The rock against her back was smooth and warm, the sand under her butt was hot and the ocean sang its morning song, the big waves crashing and the little ones licking the sand. "Bless you Caroline Mooney, wherever you may be," she said softly. She meant ever word. "This is even more perfect than you said it would be."

She pulled suntan oil from her bag, not to block the sun, to keep her skin smooth as she absorbed it. She oiled herself thoroughly, smoothing the liquid over her skin, banishing the dry patches until all over her was soft and slick, gleaming like well tended teak. Then she dried the excess oil from her hands and surveyed the cove again, deciding what she wanted to capture.

She pulled out her supplies, the paper, the paints and the water. She settled the pad on the easel of her knees and painted, brush flying over the paper. The hot sun dried the watercolors almost as she laid them down. She worked faster, capturing the light and the color, the rocks and water and isolation all growing on her paper with jewel bright color. The sun beat down baking her and the sand alike. She leaned away from the rock, hunching over to get the image fixed on paper before she lost it. She added a last bit of pale red to tint the sky and laid her brush down with a soft sigh. She sat still a moment, breathing and stretching, then she laid the pad aside and cleaned up, careful not to stain the sand either with her used water or paint.

Nadine did not look again at the painting. Instead she stripped down to her sensible one-piece bathing suit. She folded her clothes neatly, tucking them into the painting bag. She walked to the water, and greatly daring, waded in. The little waves tickled her feet, and were surprisingly warm. "You sure you aren't the Pacific in a clever salty disguise?" she asked the ocean.

The ocean declined to answer.

Nadine waded out deeper, amazed by the clearness of the water and the gentleness of the slope underfoot. She splashed and played; dunking herself and letting the water run down over her in rivulets. Eventually, hunger drove her back to shore. She trudged out of the water, hating how she grew heavier as the land reclaimed her. A stone caught her eye. It just filled her palm, a smooth brown nearly perfect oval flecked with black all through, as if rods of obsidian pierced it through. She laughed and held it against her arm. "You're almost exactly my color," she told the stone. "Guess you're coming home with me."

Her boulder welcomed her back. She leaned on it and wolfed her ham and lettuce sandwich, not dropping so much as a crumb. She petted her new rock then tucked it into her painting bag. "Story time," she said out loud. She laughed and settled more comfortably against the boulder. "It's napping time. Can't nap without a story first."

She closed her eyes and wondered where to begin. As a child she'd excelled at making up stories, whispering them to herself until she slept. The habit had died in college, where a roommate made talking to herself impractical. It had only recently come back, now that she had managed her own apartment. Here at Conic beach where there was not another person for miles, she could speak in a normal voice, several normal voices, and act out all the parts, as she used to long ago.

"Once upon a time there was a Princess," she said experimentally. She opened her eyes and looked down at her large breasts, barely contained in the sensible suit, likewise her broad hips and wide thighs. "Nope, cancel Princess." She laughed again and closed her eyes.

The sun pulled the water from her suit, warming her and making her sleepy. Her body felt softly heavy, languid with sun, her joints felt like melting wax, easy and sleek and warm. Nadine smiled drowsily as the sun got hotter and sleep laps at her the same way the waves lapped earlier. She settled deeper into the sand, held by the sun and warmth of the cove, and fell asleep, secure that her dark skin would keep her from the ravages of sunburn.

Dreams came, warm and slow, singing with the voice of the sea. Seductive dreams, warm and languidly arousing, licking like the sunlight over her skin, holding her in sensual comfort.

The Dragon stirred, its sleep disturbed by her scent, her presence, and her skin against its forepaw. He opened one eye slowly, carefully, certain that the woman will not notice. She slept against his talon, her sun-warmed flesh soft and inviting, her scent enticing. He moved slowly. He curled his talons out of the sand, and enclosed her in a sharp admantium prison. Once he was sure he had her secure, he lifted his other foreleg clear of the sand. He slid a single claw into the cage he has made for her and sliced through the fabric of her swimsuit. The fabric fell away revealing her lush, molasses colored skin.

The dragon drew in a hissing breath as he eyed the bounty held safe in his taloned grasp. He closed his claws more tightly until her warm flesh yielded to the pressure of his grip. She barely stirred, wrapped securely in her dreaming and his talons.

The dragon arched his gleaming neck. He lifted her close and inhaled her compelling, intoxicating scent. He tasted her skin delicately with the tip of his tongue. She tasted of salt from the sea and her sweat, and the slightly acrid taste of the suntan oil. Under the salts and oil, her own flavor, womanly, aroused. He reveled in the feeling of her soft flesh pressed into his claws. He flexed his talons, gently, almost like a cat kneading a soft surface, the same sensual play of muscle. His talons encased her, compressed her, and she murmured at the restraint, testing her bonds in her sleep.

He tasted again, this time between her legs to where she dripped. He teased her there, the tip of his tongue sliding into her cleft, teasing her open for him. Her taste filled his senses, as he knew it would, the salty sweetness bursting across his tongue. She was so small and so tight; he could rend her with his tongue alone. Her breath quickened as he teased her, and she whimpered when he pushed his tongue deep inside her.

He pulled himself completely free of the sand, curling round himself until even if he had released her, she would be held in circle make of his flesh. He drove her wild with his tongue. He used it to fill her, as he would fill her with himself, soon, very soon, when she might have loosened enough to accept him inside and live. He pushed harder, filling her, pushing her. He reveled in her taste, in the feel of her writhing in his claws, the soft whimpering sounds she made, her tightness. She shuddered with passion and flooded his tongue She was rich, creamy and sweet, and he swallowed eagerly.

He watched her closely; enjoying the sigh of her as her tremors subsided and she lay spent in the confining grip of his claws. He knows she will scream when he enters her, no matter which form he takes. That thought pleased him.

When she lay still, her breathing slower and easy, he lowered her to the sand gently. He kept his talons loosely around her as he stripped away the remnants of her suit. He released her reluctantly, admiring her warm dark lushness against the pale sand.

He shed his dragon-shape, took on the human shape he had not worn in years. He lay on his hip, facing her, and amused himself by tracing her curves with his fingers. She trembled under his hand, flesh quivering, still caught between the dream and the reality. He placed his hand flat on her stomach, liking the look of his pale fingers against her dark flesh.

Nadine's eyes opened abruptly. She stared, stunned by finding a naked man at her side. She tried to sit up, but his hand on her stomach did not budge. She could not even lift a little.

She opened her mouth to protest.

He shook his head. "Save your air." He gathered both her wrists into one huge hand. He closed his fingers, imprisoning her wrists, and lifted her arms over her head, pinning her to the sand. He rolled onto her, used his weight to hold her still, then pulled her arms higher, making her stretch under him.

She shivered as he took her wrists, her eyes wide. She knew she should roll away, demand answers, scream. She did none of those things. Instead she watched his eyes and shivered with desire. He was huge, bigger than any man she had ever seen in her life was. His dark eyes reminded her of the rock she's found, deep and flecked with black. His hand swallowed her wrists and part of her forearms as well, and she thought that even if she tried to hug him, she could not reach all the way around him. His skin was soft as glove leather, and was the color of ivory. She wasn't afraid, she didn't know why. His weight on her felt welcome, safe in a way she did not understand.

He searched her eyes, and saw desire but no trace of fear. Somehow she never learned to fear male strength. He kissed her gently, pleased. Her lips under his were soft. He licked her lips, tracing them with his tongue, licking away all the salt.

She gasped softly. Her lips parted and she tried to arch closer to him.

He took her mouth hard. He drove his tongue past her lips, plundering, claiming. He swallowed her gasps and kissed her almost hard enough to bruise. She responded, shocked and ardent, her own need rising in answer to his. He slid his free hand down over the curve of her belly; toyed with the curls between her legs and she opened for him. He pushed one finger into her and growled softly at the slickness there.

Nadine bucked under him, fighting to get free, fighting to get closer. His hands pinned her wrists easily no matter how she struggled. His strength excited her and she writhed under him, as much from the pleasure of being held, as the pleasure of not fearing to exert her own full strength.

He lifted off her slightly, only enough to push her legs more widely apart. She gasped as he filled her, as she felt herself stretch around him. She arched and twisted, frantic for more, frantic for escape. There is no escape. He pushed deeper, filling her, forcing her to take more of him. Pleasure danced through her, bright as flame. She has never felt so filled, so wild, so needy. She panted for breath, crying as fire raced through her, and light shimmered behind her eyes.