The Ocean Spirit

This story was written with the restrictions to use present tense only and no dialogue. The following words had to be used: footprints, red lacquer, Camembert, perfume and Rolling Stones. I liked writing it; I hope reading it will give you just as much pleasure.

Water, swishing back and forth over the sands, makes a soft sound. A gentle breeze rustles the fronds of the palm trees and every now and then a coconut drops in the sand with a dull thud. I feel funny, as if I am somehow detached from the world around me. I can hear the sounds, I can feel the warmth of the day lingering in the air and I can smell the salty tang of the ocean mixed with the spicy scent of roasting meat and the sweetness of ripe fruit and night blossoms. Maybe it's that tropical perfume that makes my head spin a bit.

I walk along the waterfront, stepping carefully to avoid the shards of shells, the odd bits of dead coral. The water makes little ripples in the sand, cooling my feet as I keep on walking. I have no specific goal, I just like to walk on the hard, wet sand with the smells and sounds of a tropical night enveloping me.

My feet carry me on while my head is not completely there. I am dreaming on my feet. My eyes do not see the waves and the beach and the palm trees. My eyes see only the image in my head, the image I see off and on since I am here in this secluded piece of paradise. I do not know where the image comes from, it is new to me and it is enticing. Perhaps the image is the result of the hot sun on my skin, or too much beer Bintang with the rice and the saté kambing. I smile at the thought. I know it has nothing to do with the beer or the food.

The image. I sigh because I realize I have to do some serious thinking instead of going on with daydreaming. The locals already call me mataglap, crazy. I live almost on the beach in a tiny house, just big enough for my books and me. I go to the market every day because I have no electricity for a refrigerator. The water I need comes from an old-fashioned pump and in the evenings I light candles. They cannot understand a white woman, a blanda willing to live like that. They themselves are grateful every day for the modern amenities tourism has bought them.

Turning around I walk along the shoreline back to the big boulder sticking up out of the sands. The beach is almost luminescent in the tropical night and the moon paints a path of silver on the waves that are gently licking the land. I stand next to the piece of rock. It is flat on top, forming a natural seat, a perfect place to sit and think. I hitch up the sarong, the colorful piece of fabric I wear like a local wrapped around my hips, covering me from waist to ankles. The vibrant red, white and yellow of the batik are muted now. Only the white of my top reflects a bit. I draw my knees up and fold my arms around them, resting my chin on top. I still feel not completely in touch with reality. The image in my mind keeps interfering, demands my attention, lures me away from every day life.

Wiggling my toes is not really helping. I notice that the red lacquer on my nails is nearly black in the moonlight. I know I am stalling and I know I have to address this... this... image. I sigh because it is not even necessary to recall it. It's right in front of me, nearly all day. I see this picture of a man bending a woman over his arm and his knee. They are both naked and the woman radiates a feeling of surrender that is extremely erotic. She presents her body for him to make use of in whatever way he sees fit. Nothing very unusual so far, except that the woman is me and the man in the image is totally unknown. I have no idea who he is, but I see him very clearly. I cannot dismiss it as an erotic fantasy because it keeps coming back. And worst of all, it turns me on but I seem unable to cope with that.

The heat of the tropics always makes me feel horny, but nothing I try gives relief. For some unknown reason I cannot make myself cum, no matter what I do. Neither my fingers nor my little battery-operated friend can call forth an orgasm. The result of this madness is me walking around with all my thoughts turned to sex. I feel myself hovering on the brink of release every minute of the day. In addition, the nights are not really any different. If I sleep I dream of this unknown lover, but even then I cannot let go. I wake up every morning with the same wetness and the same throbbing between my legs, waiting to explode. I feel as if I am the embodiment of that song by the Rolling Stones: "I can get no satisfaction" and that does definitely not honor me.

I try to see this tormenting lover more clearly. His body is muscled and has a smooth brown skin, suggesting he is one of the locals. However, he is too tall for that I think. His face is beautiful with broad planes and a wide mouth. His black hair is long and lies in a braid across his back. What really gets to me though, are his eyes. The are like black holes with a flame of lust in them and the way they sweep over my body makes me feel so desired it is almost painful.

No matter how hard I try, I do not remember a man like that. I know he is a stranger. He is no more than a figment of my imagination, isn't he? I sigh, not one step closer to understanding what is happening to me. I look around me and see there is not a living soul in sight. I am aware that the failure to find release is driving me on to act more and more out of character. Or am I? I find myself thinking all kinds of alien thoughts. I want to go naked to the market, I want to fuck the saté vendor at the corner of the square, I want to present myself and my dripping cunt to every cock in the village. I shrug and unwrap the sarong, fold it and put it on top of the rock together with the white top. It's all I am wearing these days so now I stand naked at the edge of the ocean.

Slowly I make my way into the waves. The water feels lukewarm, still retains some warmth of the day gone by. I do not even know why I am doing this, but it feels appropriate. The waves start lapping at my thighs and I stop walking now that the water caresses my hot cunt. My fingers start pinching my nipples, only increasing the burning hot need between my legs. Nearly sobbing I sink to my knees as my right hand finds its way once again to my clit. I know it will be to no avail, but I still have to try.

My hands drive me nearly insane, but once again I cannot cum. In total frustration I cry out to the sky, asking I do not know whom for help. Then my heart stops beating. I know I am alone in this stretch of ocean, but I do feel a hand taking my fingers away from myself. My head whips around but I see nothing, just the waves, the beach and the trees with the moon above. My ears are filled with the soft laughter of a male voice. Am I finally going mad?

The hand leads me out of the waves and I can feel the body attached, but only when I stand clear of the water do I begin to see. It looks as if a mist of water is slowly coalescing into a human body. I look back at the water and see only one set of footprints, mine. That is all I am able to notice before the apparition demands all my attention.

One hand is still holding mine; the other cups my breast. The gesture is enough to make me shudder violently. The second hand comes up to my breast as well and I cannot stop the mewling sound at the back of my throat. The laughter turns to whispers, giving me permission to cum. To my surprise that is exactly what I do. Just from the touch of those hands at my nipples I explode into an orgasm that sends me to my knees.

The now fully materialized person, spirit or whatever snaps his fingers and my sarong spreads itself on the sand. He kneels on it and drapes my body in his arms in the pose that is haunting me for days now. He bends his head and kisses my neck. Then he starts whispering again. Telling me I am a very strong woman to resist his call for so many days. He chuckles. Nobody can resist the call of an ocean spirit forever. I know I can't. His hands are caressing my body and take my desire to new, unimaginable heights. His fingers, his lips, his tongue are all making me want one thing: to be filled by his cock. I live the image and feel the most wanted woman on earth. I cry out again and beg him to take me. I see the grin on his face turn into something not completely human but I do not care. All I want is his beautiful cock inside me, all I want is to cum, and to cum and to cum again.

The sun colors the ocean a soft pink, then comes up in a blaze of red turning into the hot white of another tropical day. Water, swishing back and forth over the sands, makes a soft sound. A soft breeze rustles the fronds of the palm trees and every now and then a coconut drops in the sand with a dull thud.

The mongrel dog of the crazy woman sits on his haunches, keeping watch over a piece of colorful batik and a white top that lie discarded near the big rocky seat at the waterfront. There is no sign of the woman and the dog refuses to listen to the locals. But then, they do not know his name. He only listens to Camembert, her name for him. And sometimes, when the moon is full he can hear her voice, telling him she is all right.

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