Beorg and Ceara stand knees deep in the sea. Their naked skin covered in goosebumps despite the summer breeze. The roar of the waves drowns out much of the city noise, although if they follow the jetty back to the harbour, it has its own living noise.
The two women lean over in the sea, letting the salty water cleanse their soapy hair and skin. The smell of mayweed and beach cactus dances with the sea breeze. Ceara smirks at the irony that her dear friend would follow the proper comportment of a lady to smell like a fresh meadow, given how only moments before she had smelled like so many ejaculations.
Their nipples stand erect against the wind. Beorg's silver hoops sway with her tits as they lean with her, perfect round forms shapely in the cool air. Ceara leans back, flinging her hair behind her to drain. She opens her eyes to a squint as her posture thrusts her breast out, then winks as she catches Beorg eying her.
Returning to their washing, the women use washcloths to wring cascades of water down their bodies. A thousand drops tickle a thousand goosebumps, the women shivering in the morning chill even as the sun warms the surface. Beorg scrubs, sighing at the slow going of cleaning cum. Eventually, the last residue has been washed away and all that is left is to douche out the copious loads within, whatever has not already run down her leg. By now, her tender hole is throbbing from the battering it took last night. Beorg handles her sensitive ring with care. It's going to be one of those days.
As the bath nears an end and they shift in the sand, the two women suddenly embrace. The cool temperature and hardness of the piercings presses against both of their hard nipples, as they press their tits together. Arms around each other. Legs brushing together. For a few seconds, they gaze into one another's grey and steely eyes. They share a tender moment, drawn to one another's heat. The moment passes and they separate, then head back to the shoreline.
-
"Good morning, Beorg!"
"Good morning Máthilde." Beorg smiles placidly at the matronly old charwoman on her way to bustling out of one surely illustrious house to another. Máthilde nudges one of her fellow bustlers about their way, beaming as she begins to speak proudly on Beorg.
"Morning, Beorg!"
"Good morning, Mr Regin!" The lanky, stubbly roofer shifts his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other as he squints and nods politely back. Regin smiles as he goes on his way, nearly bumping into passersby as he puts an eye over his hand and squints, as if seeing everyone from a distance.
