First Massage At A Nude Beach Ch 01

The sun beat down on my shoulders from an almost cloudless sky as I walked up to the tent. I call it a tent. It was made of a striped material and had straight sides with square corners. Three sides were closed but the fourth through which I now entered had a wide opening that faced toward the sea. I was tingling with a mixture of trepidation and excitement as I was about to have my first ever massage and I was completely naked under a light wrap. Up until five hours ago I had never been naked on a beach before, but it was beginning to feel deliciously normal.

It turned out the masseur was a young man. He introduced himself as "Yves" and spelled it for me in case I was confused. I replied I was Chantal and said a silent thanks to my parents for not giving me a nerdy name. He remarked my name was French, no argument there, although I explained it was my father's mother's name and the other grandparents were Scots and Irish. It's a difficult name to shorten but through school my nickname was "bean pole" and I wasn't sharing that. Despite my mongrel ancestry I'd grown up in the Midlands of England and always thought of myself as English, much to the annoyance of my Scottish cousins.

I say he was young. He was probably about my age and I'm twenty-eight. He was dressed in a clean white singlet and navy blue shorts that were cut to just below mid-thigh. As a writer I tend to be constantly observant of details. He had a broad chest and nicely muscled body. The kind that comes with athleticism, not body-building.

He indicated that I should lie down on the massage table, which was just at a comfortable height to do so. I am quite tall, about five foot ten and he was maybe a little more, not much. I like my body. I was always rather lanky as a teenager but I've filled in nicely. My breasts aren't large but they have a good natural shape and my nipples jut out when excited or cold. Thanks to the light breeze off the sea and my trepidation they were that way now.

I folded my wrap on the chair to one side and quickly lay face down on the table. He laid a clean sheet over me and proceeded to gently rub my shoulders, then down to my butt and all the way down to my legs.

As it was my first massage, I did not know what to expect, but thanks to a couple of happy hour cocktails and a glass of wine with lunch over an hour ago I felt quite at ease. I'd flown over from London two days ago and not had a very good night's sleep before flying down here yesterday afternoon. I was just falling asleep, when he folded back the sheet to my waist and began to apply a pleasant-scented lotion to my shoulders. We made small talk about how nice the resort was.

I didn't say much, just grunted as he found some tight knots in the muscles by my shoulder blades. He stopped talking and concentrated on working my shoulders, then pulled and lightly pummeled my loose flesh moving gradually down to my buns. He folded the bottom of the sheet up over my shoulders as he began to press deeper into my glutes. I work out regularly so I felt I was in pretty good shape but he still found some tight and tender spots.

As he worked I reflected on the last few days. I had broken up with my boyfriend a few weeks ago. He wasn't cheating on me. I just decided he was a rather selfish, inconsiderate oaf and I deserved better. I have to confess I'm not good at relationships as sooner or later most of the men I've met have disappointed me one way or another. I also like my own company as I think many writers do. I say I'm a writer. I have written a rather popular line of romantic fiction: not very racy, but full of breathless pauses. They are not the magnum opus I would like to write but they are published and together with day-job as a freelance journalist nicely supplement my income as I hone my craft.

Anyway, my Stateside friend Melanie told me she was going on holiday and had rented a unit on a Caribbean beach for two weeks and she would be happy if I would join her. The timing seemed perfect so I jumped at the offer and immediately booked my flights. As I am self-employed, I only needed a couple days to make the necessary arrangements. I flew into Miami where we shared a room for the night. It was only on the plane journey down that she told me the unit was on a clothing-optional beach and that she came once or twice a year as it was her favourite place.

I started off in my bikini on day one, but within ten minutes my top was off and less than an hour later I said 'what the hell' and joined Melanie and other beach-goers naked in the sea. It felt wonderful, as did air drying on our loungers in the sun. Why did people wear clothes to the beach anyway? Melanie had the barest hint of a fading bikini tan line. I on the other hand was white as a sheet apart from my face and forearms and I energetically applied suntan lotion everywhere. Around ten thirty a steady procession of clothed people came walking up and down the beach. Melanie told me they came from the cruise ships that did a day stop on the island. They were an interesting species to watch as they clutched beers and held hands nervously. No doubt worried that their beachwear might fall off them or they might be spirited off into the sea by the

merpeople

.

While I was musing about this, the masseur had moved from my glutes and was working from my thighs to my calves and ankles. It was then I realised that Yves must have a full view of every part of my naked body. I felt a tingle of excitement, but then I thought 'this is a nude beach; he sees this every day.'

By now he was massaging the soles of my feet, working his thumb across the heel. It felt so good. Then he massaged the bit just above the back of my foot, the skinny part where it meets the ankle and each stroke was sending little thrills to...well you can guess where. He finished the one on the left and moved to do the same to the one on the right. I don't know if this works for everyone but it worked for me. I could feel myself getting very stimulated down there.

He removed the sheet completely and moved back up to work on the knots in my shoulders a bit more before returning to my legs and, moving them slightly apart, he began massaging up the inside to my inner thigh. Suddenly, I had a new awareness of my nakedness and felt a rush of heat to...you know. Wow, as he worked up the other leg I felt my juices flow. My instinct was to move my legs together but that was hardly possible given where his hands were. I wondered if he felt my wetness.

Instead I found myself moving my legs further apart inviting a more intimate touch. It didn't come. He had the sheet in his hands again and draped it back over me and asked me to turn over on to my back.

He then folded the bottom of the sheet to my thighs and began to massage the front of my legs. He took each leg in turn and bent it upwards and over to stretch my hips. Despite where he had placed the sheet, he must have had a very good look at my pussy unless he was working with his eyes closed. I hoped it wasn't leaking too visibly because it was certainly feeling quite moist to me.

I keep my pubic triangle neatly trimmed, definitely more than the landing strip that Melanie has, and was glad I had shaved that morning. Back to my feet, he was running his fingers between the main bones and then pulling on each toe in turn. Then he began to massage up the inside of legs again and I could feel my outer labia, which are always quite prominent, expand and separate as the blood flowed into them. By now I wondered if he could also smell the scent I felt I was exuding. If so, he didn't mention it, but then he wouldn't, would he?

He folded the sheet back down over my legs and folded down the top half instead. He massaged my arms from the tops to the hands, working the muscles between the main bones in my forearms and then stretching out my fingers much as he had done with my feet.

As he did this, it was my nipples turn to put on a show, especially as he moved his hands from my shoulders to my abdomen around, but sadly, not over my breasts. I was intensely turned on and wondered if this was normal. Then he ran his hands across my abs and over my pelvis in a clockwise circular motion several times actually at times stroking the top of my public hair. I thought if he did it much more I would either orgasm or pee. He stopped and covered me with the sheet.

I thought he was done, but he then went behind my head and reached under my shoulders. He pressed into the muscle behind my shoulder blades on the right side. He seemed to find a tender spot there that he hadn't found before. It was painful, but I felt it release something. He did the same thing on my left side. I embraced the pain and release and in that same moment I was overcome with a powerful orgasm. I bit my lower lip to avoid crying out as my pelvic muscles contracted and released rapidly as the spasms shook me. Even covered by the sheet my reactions must have been obvious. He must have known but he gave no sign. I guess it happens. Thank God I am not someone who gushes liquid when I orgasm.

His hands had moved on and were gently stretching my neck muscles before massaging my temples and scalp. I found this more soothing than erotic and gradually my body relaxed the way I thought massages should work.

When he was done he left me for a moment to get off the table and put on my cover-up and flip-flops. I paid him, thanked him and gave him what I felt was a very good tip. He said "Merci beaucoup" and smiled but did not really meet my eyes. I could not help glancing at his shorts for signs of excitement, but really nothing more than a hint that he had a nice package in there. He had been totally professional throughout and I could not quite believe how turned on I had been.

I walked back to the beach, dropped my wrap, kicked off my flip-flops by my lounger and quickly headed for the sea. I swam out until I could stand on a sandbar with my head and shoulders above the swell. I enjoyed feeling the water washing between legs. I reached down to make sure any traces of my earlier arousal were washed away and suddenly I was aroused again. I gently began to run my right hand over my pubic hair and down to my vulva. I did this several times before letting it move directly over my clit. That felt so good I could feel the water around my labia as they blossomed.

When I moved my fingers to my vagina I found it already open to welcome them. I dropped my left hand to my clit and let the index finger of my right hand move inside me to my G spot. I had to bend my body forward a little to do this and pretended to stare intently into the water in front of me. I frigged myself with both hands as hard as I could and was close to climax, when I realised a man had come over and was trying to see what had my attention. I stopped abruptly and fortunately saw a conch shell and I pointed to it with an amazed expression on my face. He must have thought I was a complete idiot to be so engrossed by an empty conch shell, but at least I preserved my dignity. I swam about energetically to get rid of my inner cravings and it worked.

Going back to my lounger I realised that, although some people said being nude was a totally natural and asexual experience, for me it was highly erotic. I had seen more penises in my first hour on the beach than I had seen in my life and I was no blushing virgin. I continued to see new ones that differed in length and width, colour and shape, circumcised and uncircumcised.

I saw ones that were smaller than I had ever imagined and others that were truly larger than I had thought possible. I knew about "growers and showers", because I had had boyfriends of each variety, but I could only guess at what some of these ones on the beach might look like erect. It was the sort of guessing game I liked, but I wasn't sure I should discuss this with Melanie or if she'd think I was some kind of pervert And balls, I mean I had taken testicles for granted, but these too differed widely. Also the men, like the women, treated their pubic hair in very different ways. I had not met men who were totally clean shaven down there before, but here on the beach it was not uncommon.

There were also men who clearly paid that area no attention and were just wild and woolly, some almost to the point that their penises weren't visible. By far the majority seemed to fall in between, either shaving or trimming the hair around their cocks and testicles without totally removing it. I had boyfriends who did that and one got really angry when I said, as a girlfriend had suggested to me, that he only did it to make his cock look bigger.

"No!" he said "It's not any bigger. It's just so you can see the size it really is." I suppose he had a point. Anyway, all of this was definitely having an effect on me, but as I did not want to be a cheap slut, I guessed I would just have to look after my own needs in the privacy of the unit.

THE END