Just A Beach

It was just a beach. It was just a couple of wine coolers. It was just a couple of hours away from all the responsibilities and demands.

Yeah, and they were both ‘just’ in serious, long-term relationships they weren’t trying to lose.

So why were they here?

Nobody was talking about that part.

She told herself it wasn’t anything dirty. There aren’t any rules in the universe that make things automatically sexual just because they’re between a man and woman. Sure, there are social norms, but those are made to be ignored, defied, and destroyed.

It was just a night out. Just a couple of hours. Nothing was going to happen. He probably wasn’t even thinking that way. She was sure of it.

He was thinking.

In part, he was wondering what she was thinking. She’d said she had only been to the beach at night a couple of times, and he heard the implication in her words — it hadn’t been like this. Those times were innocent. She didn’t know what to expect from this, and he could tell it.

Their relationship was still delicate. They’d become important to each other, and the connection they had was precious to them both,in but their respective partners were also important, and that wasn’t going away. There was a lot to lose.

Still, it was the beach. It was July. It was hot, it was dark enough for cover and light enough to see the waves crash. It was light enough to see each other.

He led her to a lifeguard stand and took a little pride in being the first to introduce her to the experience of climbing up into the high seat in the moonlight.

“Ladies first,” he said, gesturing.

She wasn’t fooled. A woman wearing shorts goes up the ladder first, if a guy has any say in the matter. That’s just how it is. She might have rolled her eyes a little in the dark, but she went.

At the top, she offered to take the case of wine coolers to ease his climb, but he assured her it was covered, and she climbed up to the bench seat.

He followed closely behind.

She propped her legs on the rail of the chair to stop them from shaking. She flicked sand off her legs, wondering if she was drawing too much attention to them.

Still, she knew there wasn’t anything sexual here. He’d repeatedly expressed his disdain for men his age who were involved in secret relationships with married women twice their age. She felt confident he wasn’t aiming to emulate them.

Still, bodies are bodies and night air is somehow hot and cool at the same time, and it moves on skin and wakes senses, and who can sit in the dark on the beach and not have carnal thoughts? It’s the atmosphere, she decided.

He opened the case of drinks, and they each cracked one open, with uncertainty hanging heavy in the air.

Luckily, one of them maintained communication skills and pulled out an icebreaker.

“So, tell me something good that happened today,” he invited.

If she had needed a magic word to relax, this was it. She poured out the day, including a trip to the bookstore. Drawing her out, he asked about the books she’d bought, and she found herself trying to spin the magical universe of George R.R. Martin’s ‘Wild Cards’ universe into visibility.

It was only as she wound down from the story that she realized she had relaxed, and she angled her body slightly away as she volleyed back, inviting him to talk about his own day.

A few stories swapped back and forth, and she noticed her leg had relaxed into contact with his. Opening another drink, she pressed it a little closer, enjoying the physical contact. It hadn’t been a bad day, but she’d been stressed for a while, and touch was nice.

Did she feel him pressing back, or was it her imagination?

He used an exaggerated reach for another bottle as a cover for sliding his body a little down the bench towards her. She felt his hip bump against hers, and she drew in a breath.

Here was where caution played a part. She knew it was too easy for a sigh of pure pleasure at a touch to be interpreted as a gasp of annoyance or anger. She held her breath for a second, hoping he wouldn’t pull away.

Not that she knew what she wanted. Well, except this. The touch was good. She told herself this could still be considered platonic. It was just a hip. Just a leg. With clothing between. There was nothing wrong. This wasn’t inherently sexual.

A strong proponent herself of the platonic cuddle, she knew damned well that neither of the people whose absence she could feel so strongly right now would agree. Neither of their significant others would gaze upon this scene and think, oh, just a little friendly leg contact, no problem.

But then, that was the thing, wasn’t it? Neither of them was there.

The two sat and talked and drank, and as conversation moved, she said some typically self-deprecating thing, and he moved to contradict her. He laid on praise so thick she felt sure he must have thought she was fishing for compliments, and, a little embarrassed, she turned her head and placed a hand on his bahis siteleri arm to stop him.

Her fingers splayed across his warm skin, first just pressing slightly, then, as she again felt her awareness of his proximity heighten, she felt her hand close on his arm, as of its own volition.

Alarms went off in her brain. She wasn’t supposed to be grabbing, gripping, holding him. Platonic. Just an arm. There was nothing sexual in the compliments. There was nothing sexual in an arm. At least, there didn’t have to be.

But there was something sexual…. somewhere there. Hanging in the air.

She pulled her hand back, but somehow — accident? desire? — she didn’t let go of his arm, and as she moved she realized she was dragging his hand on to her leg.

She had rationalized leg contact just moments ago by assuring herself that there were clothes between them, but of course, those were mostly his. Her own shorts were tiny, riding way up her thighs. There was a lot of bare skin there.

For his hand to land in her lap and not be on bare skin would have required a touch much higher than she could possibly rationalize to herself. Not that this was necessarily better, more appropriate. His hand was on her thigh.

Knee. She was going to use the word knee, not thigh. Her knee was way down there, where contact could still be entirely platonic, friendly. A pat on the knee. People did that. People patted a friend on the knee. You could pat your sister or mom on the knee, probably.

Okay, there were long inches between his fingers and what could really, honestly, anatomically be called ‘knee,’ but still. That was going to be the word.

All this in the space of an instant, while he reacted. He slid his hand half an inch lower on her leg than where she had deposited it, as though he read her thoughts about placement, but he also slid his fingers around her leg, not a pat but a slight squeeze, closing her hand on her thigh (knee!) and accordingly placing his fingers between her legs.

She felt herself freezing, thrilling to the touch, every nerve ending in her skin seeming to reach out and absorb the contact. She was more aware than ever of her denim cut-offs. She could feel how short they were, and how narrow the piece of fabric between her thighs. How easily, if his hand just slid up, only a few inches, that piece of fabric could be transversed.

She could feel the seam in the jeans, pressing against her body as though the shorts had gotten tighter since the climb. They’d felt loose enough then, when she’d wondered how much of a view he was getting up them. Now, they felt as though they were caressing and squeezing.

It was as though she’d ridden the wave of sensation for hours, but it had surely been fractions of a second. His fingers were moving against her inner thigh — not sliding up higher, closer to that hot place where she now couldn’t stop imagining his touch, but just gently caressing.

She quickly clamped her knees together.

“Be still. It tickles.”

She dared a glance at his face, and saw the grin playing across his lips, but spoke firmly. “For real. I don’t like to be tickled.”

He nodded seriously, and kept his hand still as she relaxed her legs apart again. “I’m not going to tickle you, but I’m going to switch hands.”

He slid his left hand off her thigh, returning his right hand to the same place — maybe a fraction of an inch higher up her leg? No, probably not — it was probably the cooling air, then the return of a warm touch that made it feel as though his hand was just a little closer, a little more intimate, a little less of anything she could delude herself into imagining wasn’t sexual — and he wrapped his left arm around her shoulders.

Oh. That was why he had needed to switch hands. She had never been so aware of her heartbeat. Her right elbow was between their bodies and felt awkward. She slid her hand between them, putting her arm around his waist, and gripping his hip lightly. It felt good have something to hold onto, more secure, as though she was still in some semblance of control. Her other hand still held a nearly-empty bottle. Her second, or third?

It wasn’t just the touch. It was the words. The acknowledgement. They’d both verbally acknowledged that his hand was on her thigh — knee — leg — no, inner thigh, if she was going to be honest. Speaking it made it more real, and made it… almost an agreement. Like it was something they had both decided would be okay.

She drained the bottle, more for something to do than because she wanted the drink. What she wanted was every inch of this touch and more. What she wasn’t supposed to want was this touch.

He shifted his body as she reached to place the empty bottle in the box, and for a second, she feared he was reading her motion as an attempt to pull away from him. When she sat back up, he’d be in his own space again, and it would be as though she had imagined it.

She felt the disappointment of loss, the anticipation of awkwardness canlı bahis siteleri in the space after touch. Her skin felt alive and aware where his hand had rested on her thigh. Though his fingers still lightly grazed her leg, he’d pulled his hand back, out of her way as she moved. The warmth of his arm around her was already a memory moving into sad distance.

But no, as she reached for an empty space in the box, the fingers of his left hand trailed down her back. Her shirt rode up just a little with her stretch, and his fingers grazed over the exposed skin between shirt and shorts.

When she leaned back again, his hand was just under the hem of her shirt, and his body was behind her. Her back was against his chest. His left leg was propped on the bench behind her, so that now she sat between his thighs, feeling the heat of his body against her own.

His left hand slid around her body as she moved back against him, settling just inside the waistband of the shorts, which she again feared were too tight and would deter him from further exploration. His right hand wrapped around her leg again, and slid up her thigh towards her jeans — towards her body, towards her heat, towards her swelling throbbing desire — and she felt her hips rise as she instinctively tried to meet him.

Pressing her butt back more firmly against him, she felt a certain firmness that told her he was also feeling the thrill of anticipation.

She knew what she wanted, where she wanted his touch, but anxiety and body insecurity plagued her. Still, he had seen her in a bikini and her belly wasn’t going to be a surprise to him. It was just a body, and if the hardness at the back was any indication, he wasn’t issuing any complaints about it.

She was hit by an urge to be bare, uncovered, touching nothing but skin and air.

Sitting forward a little, she slid her shirt over her head, baring her breasts to the night air. She felt the heat and dampness between her legs intensify with the exposure. No one would really see her here — the chair and the dark gave enough privacy. But there was the sensation — the idea, the feeling of a little public nudity, a little exposure.

It heated her up. She thought if he slid his finger inside her shorts just now, she might go off at the first touch.

Instead, he read her invitation clearly, and brought his hand to her breast. The moment of his palm sliding across the stomach that was not flat or toned, the stomach about which she felt so uncertain and insecure, caused her a brief tension, but then his fingers were playing over her nipples, his hand cupping one breast and then the other, and then — then his lips. He was kissing the nipple most convenient to his reach, the right one, then pulling it between his lips, flicking it with his tongue, closing his teeth on it gently so that she had to clasp a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out audibly.

She turned to face him on the bench, moving to straddle him as he moved towards her, presenting her chest like an offering. He pressed his face between her small breasts and she put one hand on the back of his head, holding him against her, as she moved her body to now place the left nipple against his mouth.

As he nipped her body, his hands moved, sliding under her butt and gripping, and her body responded by lightly rocking against them, enjoying the squeeze and pressure.

When she moved one hand to his zipper, he moved with her, taking over the task and opening his pants, producing the organ she sought. She moved both hands to wrap around his cock, hard and swollen, and he returned his hands to her ass, pulling her closer as he returned the attention of his mouth to her nipples, lightly biting one, then the other, before closing his mouth on the flesh of her breast and sucking hard.

She gasped, aware he was marking her flesh, but unable, unwilling, to protest. She wondered if she should warn him of just what was likely to happen — but there was no time. She felt her body clench, and her panties and the crotch of her shorts go from damp to soaked.

“Did you just –” he began.

“Yes,” she blushed. “Exactly what you think.”

Unable to bring herself to say the words in the open, even now, even with his cock in her hands and his thumb slipping under her jeans to stroke her labia, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “Sometimes nipple play is enough to get me off.”

She felt his cock jerk in her hands, and for a moment, wondered if the revelation had been too much, but no, he was still moving, moving in her hands, hard and hot and thick. She stroked her thumb over the head of his cock, as he slid another finger inside her jeans. She felt two fingers stroking, first across the sopping opening of her body, then slipping between her lips, but only for a moment before they stroked upward to find her clit, swollen and protruding, pleading for touch.

“Yeaaaaaaah,” she groaned and his fingers played across her, teasing and circling.

“I think güvenilir bahis we need to get these out of the way,” he said, sliding his hand free of the too-tight shorts and reaching for the button. She couldn’t come out of the shorts and the panties under them fast enough, and was shoving them off the bench onto the floor of the lifeguard stand as he returned his hands to her body.

Returning one hand to his cock, she steadied herself, placing the other on his shoulder, knowing what must be coming. He cupped her pussy with one hand, as though to hold in the heat, squeezing gently, then slightly less gently. She could hear a growl coming from her own throat as she pushed her body against his hand, demanding touch, demanding contact.

Instead, he pulled his hand back.

Gasping, shocked at the sudden absence of him, she waited for some explanation.

“Stand up,” he directed.

She glanced around. Even standing, she would probably be pretty well shielded from view by the sides of the stand, and it was dark. She stood.

“Turn around and face the ocean,” he spoke in barely more than a whisper.

For a second she was confused — was he hiding something?

But no. She felt him stand behind her. His cock was between her legs, pressed between her thighs, and his hands were on her, one teasing her clit, making little circles around only almost making contact with that most sensitive point, and the other stroking a breast, lightly pinching a nipple.

His chest pressed against her back and she thrilled at the skin contact even now, leaning against him as he whispered in her ear, “You’re so exposed. Look at you, wet and naked in moonlight on the beach. What do you want me to do with you?”

She didn’t have the words to say what she wanted — she wanted to cum again, she wanted her clit rubbed until she exploded, she wanted her pussy filled with hot flesh. She wanted to feel a cock stroke across her innermost depths, and pound another orgasm out of her. She wanted to be fucked.

“Yesssss,” she groaned.

“Uh-uh,” he directed, “That’s not going to work. You’re going to have to use your words, and tell me what you want.”

She tried to take his hand and move it to her clit, force him to put pressure where she needed it so much and stop teasing her, but instead he grabbed her hands and pulled them both behind her.

“You have to tell me,” he insisted.

“I…I want you to rub my clit,” she whispered.

“Do you want to stand here, where anyone can see you, or come back to the bench?”

“I kinda want to stand here….but if you make me cum I’ll probably have to sit down. I don’t think my legs will hold me up.”

“Let me handle that part.”

He was pressed against her again, his cock against her butt. She wiggled a little, inviting it closer. He spread her ass cheeks and laid his cock along between them, and then, only then, did he slide his hand back around to her pussy, which he squeezed warmly before moving one finger to the swollen hot button that throbbed for touch.

He moved his hips lightly against her, and she could feel the friction along her butt as he worked one finger in teasing circles around her clit, drawing closer, then lightly pinching between thumb and finger, making her gasp and buck her hips, pressing her body back against him hard.

She felt his mouth on her shoulder, biting and sucking, and the hand that wasn’t now stroking her clit was rolling a nipple, and she knew her body wasn’t going to take much more. She felt her muscles spasm in that way that is somehow so hot and magical, and she felt her pussy gush with warmth. It was too much. Her legs felt like jello.

She felt herself collapsing, but she’d forgotten just how strong he was. He was holding her upright, even as her bones seemed to dissolve, and his skin was against hers, it seemed like his skin was everywhere hers was, but at the same time the night air touched her and reminded her of how exposed she was, outside in the moonlight on a public beach.

When she could stand again, he was moving to the bench, where he sat and started to pull her down onto him. Pulling away slightly, she shook her head and turned, so that her back was to him, before lowering herself across his lap.

At some point he had prepared, and it was the smooth rubbery sensation of a condom that stroked over her slit, teasing, before she pressed her body downwards, taking the full length of him inside, pausing to absorb the sensation of being filled, of being close enough to occupy the same space.

Pressing her body back against his, feeling his chest against her back, she rocked her hips lightly, and he wrapped his arms around her, overlapping them and locking her against him, and moved with her. It was a slow thrill ride to her third orgasm of the night, hot and sweet and close.

Only then did she turn on the bench to face him, his body shielding hers from the air and any hypothetical viewer, perhaps on the balcony of one of the many-storied beach houses nearby, with their binoculars, seeking their own cheap secondhand thrills.

While they moved together, his hands and mouth stroked and explored her skin, squeezing here and tasting there as the moon moved in the sky and the ocean cried out its own release only a few short yards away.