At the Beach
© 2019 Victor Cabana
God! She is SO gorgeous! Just lying there on her stomach beside me on the nearly deserted beach, her petite, shapely buttocks just sitting there, jutting up, taunting me, scarcely confined by her blue bikini bottoms.
Her angelic face, framed by sun-streaked blond hair, is towards me, eyes closed. My left hand, still tingling from applying suntan oil to her back ten minutes ago, needs to touch her again.
I shift slightly, raising my left hip, giving my swelling room to grow between the sand under my towel and my groin. It strains, tangled in my trunks, still wet from cavorting in the Pacific.
Unbidden, yearning, my hand rises, edging towards her narrow waist. Her skin is so smooth, so soft, tan and taut. My fingers tremble a trifle as they near her. How will she react?
They lightly land.
She smiles, but her eyes stay shut.
My fingertips trace little circles on her velvet skin. Electric shocks pulse from her, shooting through my fingers directly to my distending appendage, which twitches and throbs, straining against the ocean-wet fabric.
She sighs, opens her Periwinkle eyes. They smile.
“That’s nice,” she whispers. Her right hand glides across the sliver of hot sand between our towels and rests against me. I pulse at her mere touch. I’ve been visiting at her parents’ house for two days, and though we did heavy petting last summer when we fell in love, we’ve been four months apart at different colleges and I haven’t even been able to kiss her since our reunion. We’ve never been alone.
But this, her planned trip to the shore, is promising.
She deftly turns and lies on her back. My stroking fingers now alight, delight, on her concave belly. I imagine, remember from summer past, the delicious feel of what lies mere inches higher. And lower.
Her hand again finds my hip and her fingers match my circles. Does she know she’s making me throb?
Evidently.
I suavely suppress my gasp as her fingers worm their way between my towel and my hip bone. Then go further.
And further. My hip raises, helping, making room.
My next gasp can’t be suppressed.
“Oh. Is that for me?”
Though her fingers on my tip have made me mute I manage to grunt something. A clever bon mot, no doubt.
My nineteen-year-old testicles warp into hyper-drive as her ministrations begin. I hear that I’m catching my breath with each twitch of my erection. Does she?
She stops; her hand withdraws.
Oh.
It’s a good thing, I think, resigned, as a big, really big, wet spot on the front my Bermudas would be embarrassing.
GAAA! Her fingers snake inside the waist of my trunks.
And down.
AAAHHHH!
We never actually had sex last summer, just mutual handiwork, and now she’s again fondling the bare head of my penis, spreading my copious clear fluid all over.
