Author's Note
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to people living or dead is entirely coincidental. All characters are over the age of 18.
The Beach House
It was mid afternoon when I turned towards home. I'd been out in the boat for an hour or two but the fish weren't biting and now I was on the way back, motoring slowly across the bay towards the little harbour hidden around the next headland.
I remember the day with extraordinary clarity, for reasons that will become obvious. I'd chugged out to Castle Rock and moored under its sombre shadow, dropping a line to try and lure one of the big groupers that I knew lived there... but today wasn't my lucky day. And so I'd wound in the lines and climbed ashore, scrambling up the steep slope to the very top where the view stretched almost as far as Torbess. A mild southerly change had come through bringing clear air and a thin layer of cloud that obscured the sun without diminishing the clarity and brilliance of the light, and I was glad I'd brought my camera for the scenery was spectacular. The sea was a curious slate blue with none of the sparkle that direct sunlight usually brings and it contrasted nicely with the dark obsidian of the rocky shoreline and the reds and golds of the trees on the opposite headland. The fields up towards Murphy's farm had been harvested and presented a patchwork of yellows and browns, each field a different shade separated by grey stone walls and the darker greens of the hedgerows. It was stunningly beautiful and I sat there for a while, just soaking it all in.
And now as I made my way back I was struck by the fact that there wasn't another living soul in sight. No other boats disturbed the tranquil surface of the bay and the little country lane that threaded its way up over the hill towards Thirlemere was empty of cars. It was as if I was the only living person in the world... a single soul under the cathedral of that pale slate sky with all the colour and detail of that astonishing landscape etched out just for me. And as I watched, a single beam of sunlight pierced the cloud and painted the headland to my left in a soft gold, and I caught a glimpse of the old Beach House hidden behind the trees that grew down to the water's edge.
We call it that, but it's really nothing more than a half wrecked cottage towards the end of Brinsley's Head, separated from the mainland by a narrow channel of turbulent water. It's on our land, but we seldom come here. Rumour had it that a wealthy local landowner built it not long after the turn of the last century to escape from his shrill wife and eight kids, and if that is true he couldn't have found a better spot. It's hidden by a little fold in the coast and obscured from casual view by the weathered trees that cover that part of the island... a perfect little hideaway. I'd not been there in years but the shaft of sunlight seemed to beckon me and on the spur of the moment I swung the tiller over and headed towards the little spur of rock that serves as a natural harbour. I had my camera with me and I wanted to capture a little of what I could see.
As I turned behind the spur I saw an old wooden boat there, its paintwork faded and the wood dark with age, but the painter that secured it was bright and the outboard motor on the transom was almost new. I cut the engine and coasted towards it, tying up alongside and hopping over to the rocky outcrop ashore. It was quiet: not a sound other than the lap of the little waves from the wake of my boat and the occasional cry of a seagull from the bluff. I considered calling out, but something restrained me and so I set off towards the cottage quietly, moving carefully over the rough path and peering ahead. The stone walls of the little ruin gradually grew closer, stained by salt and bird droppings, with the empty window holes gaping like missing teeth in a derelict's face.
The last time I'd seen the cottage it was uninhabitable as most of the roof had collapsed leaving the stone floor open to the weather. Someone had been here, though: one part of the roof had been patched and the windows at that end repaired - rough carpentry, to be sure, but enough to keep out the wind and rain. The door was secured, too, and the front step was clear of the debris that had cluttered it for so many years. It looked as if someone had decided to live here without our permission, and I resolved to find out who it was and what they thought they were doing.
The front door was shut and so I moved along the tumbledown fence overgrown with weeds and nettles to the back of the cottage, picking carefully through the shattered beams and blocks of stone scattered on the ground. The bushes were thicker here too, providing enough cover to allow me to approach the back wall undetected, and I stood for a moment listening. A low murmur came from within - too low to hear what was being said, but it was clear there was more than one person inside. For a moment I thought about leaving but my curiosity was aroused and so I stooped beside the shutters and peered inside.
A shaft of pale sunshine penetrated the room and illuminated a scene that I'll never forget. A naked woman was kneeling on the floor, her buttocks toward me. Her face was turned away but I could tell she was young by the shape of her body and the lustre of her skin: not a sag or a wrinkle marred its glossy perfection. Her elbows were on the floor and her breasts were hanging down - full and ripe, the dark nipples just touching the rug on which she knelt. Her ass was elevated, suspended by the delicious curve of her hips and the long, golden thighs were set apart. Her legs were askew like the awkward stance of a young foal: and between them her sex peeped out, gleaming in the soft light like a piece of luscious fruit - pink and moist and open, begging to be devoured.
All that took a second to register, and I was so astonished that I took a step back. It was like discovering a cache of gold bullion under your bed, something so completely unexpected that my mind recoiled and the breath caught in my chest. I remember standing there with my mind whirling, the image of her kneeling figure stamped on my brain like the vivid imprint of a strobe in a dark room. Part of me wanted to leave, to turn away and afford this mysterious young woman the privacy she had come to find, but the other was compelled to watch: to discover who was with her and to crouch in the shadows to see what she was doing.
And as I stood there I heard the voices again - a murmur of conversation, pitched low and full of longing and desire, and I stooped again to the chink in the shutters and watched. A second figure appeared in my view - another woman. She was petite, perhaps no more than five two, and was slender and blonde. Her hair curled around her ears to leave her long, graceful neck exposed. Her face was turned away, but I saw the curve of her waist and the swell of her little tight buttocks as she moved toward the figure crouching at her feet, and I heard the words between them.
'Hurry Baby! Do it!'
'I will, I will.'
The kneeling woman turned her face toward the approaching figure and her voice was husky with passion 'Stretch open my pussy. Fuck me with it.'
'I will. I'll open you wide.'
'Hurry. I need you inside me.'
The blonde crouched beside the kneeling woman close to the satin orbs of her buttocks and rested one hand on the small of her back. She drew the other between the woman's legs, her small fingers brushing over the glistening wet flesh, and I heard a low groan of pleasure.
'Ah...ah. Inside...ah, push inside.'
