Andrew had never known such arousal. His legs were weakened. He was hard to the point of pain. Andrew found it nearly impossible to steady his hands, but by force of will, he brought his camera into focus upon the figures below. What he saw through his lens was alone enough to bring Andrew orgasm; quickly, before he exploded, Andrew took the picture.
Amy's tiny hands clutched at the sand. She whispered his name. It aroused her She felt the consonants of his name pass over her tongue and press through her parted lips. The newness aroused her, and the pleasure surged. Amy arched her back, lifting her small breasts and firm nipples to the full moon. She pressed her sex hard against the source of her pleasure.
Amy saw the flash through her closed eyelids. She turned her head to see the silhouetted figure on the rocks. Tears filled her eyes as a subtle smile creased her lips. Then the hungry mouth, soft lips and playful tongue begged her to return. She submitted. She closed her eyes and surrendered herself to this forgotten and forbidden pleasure.
**********
Andrew
The trip was never going to solve any problems. That wasn't why we went. It was just a diversion. By the time the second bottle of port was finished, we had all agreed on Lake Powell. We'd rent one of those houseboats for a long holiday weekend.
I remember looking around the room. The years had made us bored (and a little boring, I'm afraid). The promise of youth hadn't really borne itself out. We were disappointed in our jobs, our kids, our spouses, ourselves. If nothing else the trip to Lake Powell might help us remember those days when our faces were smoother and our tummies flatter. The days when love came naturally.
I watched Amy once the idea of Lake Powell was on the table. She positively lit up. She pressed hard for it. I think the destination may have been her suggestion in the first place. I don't really recall. Amy always loved Lake Powell. We used to head up there two or three times every summer.
Amy's enthusiasm overwhelmed everyone at the table. The picture she painted was irresistible, but then it had always been Amy's role to be the romantic. It's what made her such a valuable companion to the other women. It's also what ignited the imagination of our male friends. They loved to flirt with Amy when she was at her most energetic. They didn't know that Amy had stopped bringing that same creative energy to our bedroom years ago.
**********
Amy
I knew just what Andrew was thinking. There goes Amy, again. Always the little cheerleader. I didn't care. I'd given in to his cynicism too often. Oh, he liked to think of it as his artistic sensibility. Our house was filled with his photographs of trees in winter vacant buildings, and empty playgrounds. I tried to convince him to bring his camera to Oak Creek in autumn, but it never suited his mood.
I didn't let myself care. I hadn't been to Lake Powell in years and I wanted nothing more than to sit under the hot August sun on the deck of a houseboat as it drifted through the lake's remote channels. I longed for the still pools of cool water and the towering walls of ancient stone.
I also wanted us all to be together again. Andrew would say I was just being nostalgic. Maybe I was, but I don't apologize for it. Those were wonderful times. I think we were all at our best when we were together. We laughed harder and longer. We flirted and teased shamelessly. We were always so hopeful. And when we left their company, back in the good old days, Andrew and I couldn't wait to strip away our clothes and make love in the first private place we could find – sometimes the places weren't very private at all.
**********
Andrew
I think the change started after she got her real estate license. Suddenly, her job was getting the kind of time and energy that she used to devote to our love life. I loved the extra income, don't get me wrong, but the early years were unbelievable. We hungered for one another with an insatiable sexual appetitive. We spent all day at our jobs acting like real grown-ups, but in private Amy and I became shameless sex-craved adolescents. I can't count the times Amy would send me an email at work in the middle of the day, pleading for me to come home. She'd be waiting for me. Her skin flush and her nipples already erect. I'd feel between her legs and find her drenched. God, I still feel the soft wet bristle against my hand. I can even feel her press herself against my hand as she graphically described her aching lust. On those afternoons we rarely made it beyond the living room. We devoured one another with such a selfish desire that it was all we could to do lay in the streaks of afternoon sun; waiting for our strength to return so we could begin again.
Before her career became so important, we devoted all of our creative energy to lovemaking. Seemed like every time we entered a new place, we both instinctively looked for a place to fuck – a dark hallway, a swimming pool, a putting green, or a parked car. We went to the movies a lot in those years, but I don't remember ever seeing one clear to the end. We were as brazen as the darkened theatre would allow us to be. When it was crowded, my hand slid under the sweater she draped over her lap. I loved to touch her as she watched the actor on the screen. I knew which ones turned her on.
It all changed slowly, so slowly that I didn't even realize it was happening. Suddenly I stopped reaching for her at the movie theatre, for fear she'd push my hand aside. I stopped looking for vacant bedrooms at the parties we attended because she was always engaged in some conversation about one "hot property" or another. The emails stopped coming in the afternoon, or if they did, they were to tell me that she'd be late again. Our phone conversations when we were apart were about the banalities of "our day". I longed to share with her my fantasies. I loved to hear he voice become breathless. I loved to her cum. Then, without warning, I lacked the one-time omnipresent certainty that she wanted to hear me, as well.
*********
Amy
I know that Andrew blames it on the job, but that wasn't it. It was something subtle that we lost. It was something instinctive and primal. We used to know just what the other wanted without asking. I could tell when Andrew wanted me to be the aggressor. I'd tell him to come home and I'd attack him the second he walked in the door. I knew when he wanted me to be slutty, so I'd look at other men in public; I'd flirt; I'd show off my body. And when Andrew couldn't control himself any longer, I'd talk like a whore as he fucked me like one. It worked the other way, too. Andrew could sense when I needed to be controlled. My kink became his kink. His fetish mine. Then sometimes we arrived at love making with the ease of running water. It might start with his hand on my waist. I would concentrate on his touch and he would feel my breathing become ever so slightly labored. He'd kiss me lightly. Andrew could be such a gentle kisser. His mouth would explore me, probing the depths of my need. He'd undress me slowly, talking to me quietly and kissing my undraped skin. He'd compliment each part of my body the moment he unveiled it. Soon we were in the bedroom, our entwined bodies, luxuriating in our nakedness. This always led to lovemaking that was so slow and warm that I would nearly be brought to tears.
