We are spending a long weekend at a beautiful rental home in Hermosa Beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The houses lining the beach are in a combination of styles, some Spanish Hacienda, some non-descript boxes of mostly cement with some windows, and some modern homes with much glass and skylights. We are in the bedroom of one of the modern houses, early in the morning. The semester has finally ended, and the timing is perfect: You are in your insatiable part of the month, the lunar cycle of lust when it seems the moon pulls on your dark pink nipples as it does on the tides, keeping them taut... desperate for tonguing... and for that little twist you love when you are nearing orgasm. We brought with us nothing but steamy novels and a laptop computer for writing our own erotica. You've fantasized about staying nude the entire weekend. You've been bundled up against the cold in Canada for too long. It's mid-May, and your husband has encouraged you to give yourself a little vacation so you can write to your heart's content with no distractions.
As the sun begins to rise higher in the early morning sky, we are awakened by the streams of light coming through the windows. The pleasures we took in the night have left us still in the pulse of arousal.
The ocean outside continues the beat of its pacifying, energizing rhythm--its swelling and cresting, again and again, as it builds to a crescendo with the onset high tide. Unfolding ourselves from our sleep, we seem to absorb within us the energy of the Pacific as well as the sun: We begin again our own patterns of swellings and risings and crestings.
We are almost wordless as the tides of our desire speak through us. Nothing more is needed than soft, light touches... lips mating together, your fingers tracing my hardness, my fingers sliding down, finding you moist, slipping inside, parting you open, circling inside. You strip away the sheets and reach out for my cock and just hold it in your hand in admiration... like a surfer picking up his board before entering the ocean for the first ride of the day. You mount the board, taking me inside you, and then you steady yourself, almost still, quietly content.
You then make love with me in a rhythm that has the passion arising from deep within my loins and surging through me to the tip, and then back down, like a surfer waiting patiently far out in the ocean, resisting the smaller and medium sized waves, waiting for the best one, the one that will give him the best ride of the morning. And you are on the verge of riding a little wave of orgasmic ecstasy, but you know, in this position, on top, this morning, with me, it would be the same exquisite intensity as pleasuring yourself, but even better, for the pleasure would be shared, and as you rode me, your imagination would return to the visions and fantasies we shared in our first letters.
But now instead of words from my pen entering your mind, a cock is deep inside you, and my tongue is scrolling up and down your body, from lips down to nipples, and across: my mouth a cursor, stopping at various places to edit and revise, the tongue inserting itself here and there with a twirl or tease or touch like adding a new phrase, and you are using me again--all of me, body as well as mind and heart--to reach the height of ecstasy, transforming words into flesh.
