Although the sun isn’t up yet, it’s close enough that the darkness is going. I can see the dark mounds of the dunes, my feet in front of me. The faint white glow of waves is breaking on the shore, a few soft stars giving up to the growing light. I walk a bit above the wet sand at the shore’s edge, enjoying the way the soft sand pulls at my bare feet, making my calf muscles work with each step. I fight the impulse to look behind me; I have to trust that you will find me, as you said you would, as you promised you would. It isn’t easy for us to meet each other, and even at this early hour, with only the really dedicated runners out, there is some risk in being seen. I imagine you waking, dressing in the dark, slipping out of the house without making a sound, without waking anyone up, already thinking of an excuse to relate when you return to the house to join the breakfasting crowd of vacationers on the veranda.
It’s not long before I sense you behind me ... someone walking close enough that it could only be you, on this vast expanse of beach, and yet not so close that we look like we’re together. I wonder if you can make out the shape of my body beneath my clothes. I have a form-fitting lycra top—my exercise wear of choice—making a bra unnecessary, and then a light flowing India cotton skirt that falls to my ankles. The sea breeze presses the skirt to my thighs, dampening the thin cloth with salt spray from the waves. I’ve left my hair loose, and I don’t fight the wind as it picks up locks and twists them around my head into a tangled halo.
I move closer to the water to walk on the firmer sand. Now that you’re here too, I’m a little more impatient to reach my destination, though the anticipation is special too, and I make an effort not to hurry but to just walk deliberately. The water licks at my feet, and the pound-splash of the waves as they break seems erotic—like the blood in my veins? A prescience of orgasms to come? Or is it just that now anything would seem erotic to me, because I feel your presence?
I begin looking up at the shore, casting around for my landmarks. Oh, yes … stunted tree, then large patch of dune grass, then log ... I’ve paced this stretch each morning for more days than I will confess to you. It’s the one thing I can control, the one factor over which I have influence. I’ve been thankful for something to expend my nervous energy on so that worry wouldn’t burn up the anticipatory energy of seeing you. I leave the shoreline and walk closer to the dunes. I hear from the scrunching of sand behind me that you are following, as I knew you would.
There, between two dunes—a narrow path, somewhat overgrown with beach grass, but still quite passable. I crest the hill and descend the other side, feet slipping a bit in the soft deep sand. The beach is no longer visible, I know, should I turn around. My hair—no longer whipped by the wind—falls back on my shoulders, and the sound of the ocean floats is less distinct, yet still powerful and near.
You reach down to remove your shorts, and I put my hands around your neck and pull you to me. I am rapidly losing any semblance of patience, and I kiss your neck, your cheeks, whatever I can reach. I can feel you lift up my skirt, a little stiff from the salt water, already dried by the shore breeze. Your rub your erect cock against my thigh then over my belly, and I move under you, trying for more contact, trying to get you inside me. I get more and more worked up as you continue to tease me. My breath is getting ragged. You push the fabric of my top up, leaving my chest exposed.
“Peter,” I say, a command and a request and a caress all rolled into your name. “Yes, Claire,” you murmur, not a question, for you know what I want. You drop your head down to kiss and bite my neck, then down to my breast where you take a nipple into your mouth. Oh god ... I can hardly speak now. For a moment I stop trying to rub myself against your thigh so that I can concentrate fully on what you’re doing to my breasts, moving from one to the other, tonguing and nibbling on my stiff nipples. As I get more worked up, you bite harder— pain-pleasure. My body shakes and ripples with my orgasm, and I hear you moan with delight; I know you love that I cum just from breast play, that you have this power over me. That I give in so easily to your touch. It’s not enough, though, not for me and not for you.
And then finally you enter me with one slow, deliberate push. I open easily to take you in. I’m soaking wet now, and not a drop of it is from the ocean. I close my eyes again to concentrate on you moving into me, back out, and in again. Out and in, out and in, like the waves. I wrap my legs around your waist to pull you in deeper and reach out to your chest to pinch your nipples as you did for me. So much of you— inside me, outside me— and I want it all. I push back to meet your thrusts. The pounding of the ocean waves sometimes matches your thrusts and the pounding of blood in my veins, in my ears, but sometimes they interrupt one another with a syncopated rhythm that threatens to overwhelm. I can hear quick hard footsteps on the wet sand in the distance ... a jogger? Voices ... two joggers. It occurs to me briefly that if I can hear them, they can probably hear me too, but I can’t control the noises that arise from the base of my throat.
I slip my right hand in between us, between your stomach and mine, then lower, till my fingers are on my clit. For a moment or two, I don’t move them, just let your thrusting push them into me, and then I rub myself. I open my eyes to watch yours; I want you to see me cum, and you do—although as my orgasm takes me I can’t really focus anymore. My body bucks and spasms, and I know you can feel my contractions around your cock, because as my shaking subsides your tempo increases. With my hand I can feel your balls tightening. Now it’s my turn to watch as you lose control, as you lose yourself in me. Anyone walking by now would surely know what you are feeling by the sounds you’re making. At last you collapse onto me, and even though it’s hard for me to breathe, I don’t move because I want you to stay like that. I hold you tightly then stroke your back, firmly but gently. At last you inhale deeply and roll to my side. Now I can breathe too. I curl up in the bend of your shoulder, listening to your heartbeat. Our sweat dries quickly in the breeze, and you pull me closer, so we can draw warmth from each other against the cool morning.
Sharazade authors Twisted Vagabondage Tales for travelers who like it rough. She is prettier than Vagabonding author Rolf Potts (though Rolf is very pretty) and could kick his ass (though only if he'd like that). Her new book called Transported: Erotic Travel Tales is published by Fanny Press.