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Subject: Elaboration 1 (m,f, divorce)
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The following story contains sexual material not designed for minors. If you
are under the age of eighteen, scram! If you are consenting adult, then read
on pleasurably. Comments and suggestions, as always, are encouraged. This
tale takes awhile to heat up, but the character development and the plot
demand such a reality. Be patient, and you will be rewarded, I believe.
The Elaboration
(part one)
One: Divorce
If truth be told, the sunsets on my beloved Puget Sound were more enjoyable
now that I was single. They brought with them a certain melancholy sweetness
– the kind you can drown in when you’re lonely. But perhaps if it weren’t
for the divorce, I wouldn’t even be in the position I’m in now. I’d still be
living in the city, working sixty, seventy hours a week, suffering from
exhaustion, insomnia and anxiety seven days a week. And though I’m not
always happy about my newfound single life, I have to admit that some days
I’d rather be in no other circumstance.
I had asked Cindey to be patient with me. Hell, I’d even promised her that
it would all be over soon: the long hours, the ornery moods, the
combativeness. It’s hard for me to believe that she could love my job so
much in the beginning and loathe it so completely in the end. I can’t really
blame her, though. I certainly would have had a hard time being married to
somebody like me. She had stuck with me for sixteen years – an amazing feat
if there ever was one – and she had obviously enjoyed the perks of my job:
the bottomless credit cards, the cars, the exotic vacations, the
restaurants, the wardrobe. We seemed to have it all. Naturally, of course,
we were missing one key element for a successful marriage: internal peace.
In the beginning, we had what I thought was passion, or at least what passed
itself as passion. Neither of us had had any comparable experiences. I
purposely stayed single through my MBA, and Cindey simply had not had many
relationships. We weren’t virgins, at least physically, but emotionally we
were green as conifers.
I now know the sex was only a couple of notches past mechanical: it
fulfilled our conservative physical needs. We fell into a once or twice a
week routine fairly early and never seemed to have the desire to upset the
rhythms of our lives. I got a terrific job downtown, moved up the ladder
rather quickly. Cindey worked off and on at odd jobs: office clerk, real
estate agent, Mary Kay saleswoman. The extra money helped an already good
situation, and truth be told, I think the work helped to keep her from going
insane with loneliness. As the years came and went, I found it easier and
easier to work into the night, over the weekends, one or two holidays a year.
And Cindey didn’t complain at first.
Two years ago, that changed, however. Cindey quit Mary Kay, began dressing
up more often, and it wasn’t unusual for me to come home at ten in the
evening to an empty house. When I asked her where she had been, she usually
said, "Out," and we let it drop. But after several months, I grew suspicious
and did something completely out of my character: I hired a private dick. I
can’t say I was surprised or even hurt by the news, but in retrospect it’s
pretty obvious that’s when things changed for good. She’s been seeing a
younger man: going out on "dates" on the north side of town, dancing into
the morning hours, visiting his apartment once or twice a week. Most of the
pictures were tame enough at first, but eventually the true goods came to
pass. The last meeting I had with the private dick clinched it for me: a
manila folder with ten photos of my wife having sex with this mystery man.
And they weren’t just having sex, either. Two pictures of him going down on
her, three of her going down on him, several of the two of them in various
positions, and one that stunned me: Cindey on her hands and knees, a pained
but uninhibited expression on her face, receiving the mystery man anally.
I kept the photos. Inexplicably, when I looked at them that night when I
got home, I became excited. But it was an abstract excitement and ultimately
had little to do with my wife of sixteen years. I sat at my desk that night
staring at the 8" by 10" testaments to a deeper need, and I masturbated. Not
once but twice. I had never done that before, at least not at my desk, not
out in the open where Cindey could have caught me if she came home. But she
didn’t. Not until 3:00, by which time I had decided to leave her. As life
takes odd turns, however, I didn’t confront her when she crawled into bed
beside me, chiefly because I could smell the alcohol on her breath and wasn’t
in the mood for a scene, but also because I still hadn’t figured out how to
approach it. Cindey made quick work of my indecision, though; the next
evening I came home to a letter which put things simply: "Randall, I have
decided to leave you. I have not been happy for a long time, and now I am
seeing somebody else who makes me happy. Don’t worry. I will not make the
divorce difficult. Cindey."
And that was that. She had not lied about the divorce, either. Our
settlement was virtually painless. By the end of the week, every scrap of
evidence of Cindey’s presence in the house had been removed: clothes,
furniture, knickknacks, personal momentos, dishes, etc.
Two: Freedom
I made a quick study of bold choices. I called my broker and told him to
make three wild investments: he was happy to finally get the chance to play
with my money at his own discretion. And sure enough, our fifteen year
relationship paid off big: in the first quarter, I increased my holdings by
half; in the second, I doubled; and by the end of the year, I tripled. I now
had enough money to retire, to buy the house I always thought I’d share with
Cindey, and to relax with the new freedom I had worked so hard to achieve.
When I discovered that the "dream home" Cindey and I had been eyeing over
the past few months of our married had been bought (new surprise there), I
began looking in earnest. The immediate problem came in the real estate
crunch in Richmond Beach, where we had always wanted to live. There were no
houses for sale, and property values were sky high. My real estate agent
began looking for a new dream home. I told her to focus on water, to secure
me some private land on Puget Sound. I was willing to pay, but I wanted to
be savvy about it, to keep my good business sense. When the phone came
telling me that three acres of beach front property in Jasper Bay was up for
sale, I took the plunge.
The building took longer than expected, but I used my time wisely. I took
up Zen meditation, started to exercise, to get out more. And although I did
manage to meet a few women and have a couple of flings, for the most part I
kept to myself. It was a period of rediscovery.
When spring rolled around, the house was finished. Two stories, modest, but
comfortable. The west side was done entirely in windows so that the house
had a wonderfully open feel about it, and the views were stunning.
Especially the sunrises and sunsets. I had made sure that the house itself
was a good distance from the beach, I’m not sure why. It was nestled
perfectly in the side of a hill. From the front, my house looked like a
cottage compared to the other mansions on Jasper Bay, but from the back it
was a gorgeous eye-catcher. Perfect. Simply perfect.
I was free now, and though I had no clear ideas about what to do with my
freedom, I knew intrinsically that my buried dreams and desires were about to
blossom in ways that I could scarcely guess at. I was often lonely, yes, but
I was also extremely happy.
Three: New Digs & Guru
Anybody who has taken the selfish time to relax knows that personality
quirks come roaring out with little stimulation. In my new digs, I
rediscovered some old parts of my personality that I had not indulged in
years. The first was the exhibitionist in me. By June I had discovered
Constance Beach, the clothing optional strip several miles down the shore
from my property. Though I had never been to a nude beach in my life, I
discovered that I was a natural: I stripped and lay out, took walks, drank
in the wonderful sights. I surprised myself the first time I had a public
erection: instead of rolling over to cover it up, I lay there, completely
exposed, basking in the glory of it, the liberation. The feeling of the eyes
on my body thrilled me to no end. But unlike others at Constance Beach, I
didn’t indulge the urge to masturbate or to pick up women (or men for that
matter – there were quite a few gays here). I just lay there with a
tremendous erection.
I bought a telescope so I could search. And search I did. Beaches are
natural attractants for exhibitionists, and exhibitionists thrive on voyeurs.
I played both rolls to the hilt, so to speak. I found the corners of the
shoreline where lovers went, and my masturbatory life grew in leaps and
bounds. Before long, I was having two, sometimes three orgasms a day as I
peered through the telescope, standing naked with my cock in hand in full
view for the curious others peering through their own telescopes. Delicious.
But I also began to feel restless for inexplicable reasons. I signed up for
a yoga class to reduce my new tensions and frustrations, most of which were
sexually motivated. The instructor’s name was Geena, a beautiful and sinewy
woman with long, black, curly hair. I took a shining to her, and in no time,
she picked up on the vibes; she became my private yoga tutor, my guru.
Geena was a Pagan. Not one of the New Age types who specialize in flighty
concepts about the zodiac, earth mothers and crystals, Geena was an old
school Pagan who worshipped the physical body, all things sexual. Geena
taught me about passion. Sex with her was sweaty, gymnastic, exploratory and
profoundly experimental. We had sex whenever the desire stuck us. One night
after the yoga class, she attacked me on the mats just as the others were
leaving the room. I was nervous at first, but Geena’s manipulations didn’t
allow room for opprobrium. By the time she had pulled out my cock, a couple
of people noticed and held back for the show. It was a relatively quick
show, too, but it was charged with taboo and passion: I watched them
watching Geena giving me the most energetic blow job I had ever seen: she
took me completely, which I had never experienced, and her head was a blur in
my mouth. She was rough with me, urgent, and I came copiously in her mouth,
cocking my head back and closing my eyes, grunting with the intensity of it.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw the couple leaving with grins on their
faces. I was pleased that they had decided not to make a big deal out of our
little exchange. When she lifted her head, Geena smiled and said, "You have
a delicious, beautiful penis."
After a couple of months with Geena, I began to see that she was not the
type for ongoing relationships, which I guess is what I really wanted. The
sex with her was marvelous, and she taught me things I had never imagined:
positions from the Kama Sutra, occasional anal sex, "riding the wave" with
tantric exercises. She was an amazing lover, making sure there was never a
dull moment. But when she announced to me one night after a private session
that I was ready to move on, take on a new teacher, I knew she was correct.
I thanked her for everything she had given me, for helping to open me up not
only to my own body but to the sensual world at large, and prepared quietly
for the next phase of my life, whatever it may be.
Four: the Visitors
By early summer I had established a relatively loose routine: Constance
Beach had ceased to stimulate me, so I began lounging naked on my own beach
front. Sometimes I masturbated, which was delicious all on its own, but
mostly I got a good tan. Aside from the occasional straggler from up the
beach, I was alone on my property: the residents of Jasper Bay were good at
respecting the privacy of one another’s beaches. And I was more than happy
to spend some time perfecting the yogic and tantric meditation practices
Geena had taught me: they strenuous and difficult at first, but in the end I
found that I was able to stretch and bend in the most amazing ways. The
result, finally, was a very fit body. I had never felt this healthy, at
least physically, and once again I began to desire companionship.
My desires were answered in the strangest form. One morning, when I went
down to the beach for my daily regimen, I discovered a few beer cans and a
small fire pit. Whoever had left the little mess must have arrived after I
had left my telescope the night before to go to bed. Cleaning up the mess, I
felt slightly annoyed and vowed to put a stop to it. I figured the criminals
were college kids, probably sons or daughters of one of the rich families in
Jasper. I had seen quite a few of them at Constance Beach once school let
out, mostly horny frat boys looking for a thrill, mostly the ones who kept
their clothes on as they slithered up and down the beach taking photos of
naked people. And, as I would find out the following weekend, I was
partially right in my assessment.
On Friday, I awoke at around midnight and decided to get a snack. As I
passed the telescope, I noticed an orange light out of the corner of my eye.
Peering through, I discovered the fire down by the water, but where I
expected guys (more likely than girls to drink beer, I assumed) instead I saw
two young women. I also happily discovered that they were nude.
The taller one had blonde hair and was rather skinny. Small breasts and
thin hips. The shorter one was dark-haired and had a rather dramatic hour
glass figure. The sight made me hard instantly, and I was faced with the
curious dilemma of how to handle the situation. Pushing back the urge to
masturbate, I threw on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt and walked toward
the beach.
As I neared the two women, I chose to make a noise to alert them. I didn’t
want to scare them off exactly, but I figured I’d give them the choice to
dress before I got there. I picked up a stick and whacked some weeds by the
rock half way down, but since they were downwind the tide must have drowned
out the sound. I threw the stick in their general direction, cleared my
throat a couple of times. No good. Their voices drifted faintly in the
wind. An occasional giggle. When I was about twenty yards from them, I
said, "Hello?" as warmly as I could manage. My heart was racing. I did not
want to scare them. Luckily, they heard me, and what followed was a quick
but efficient scramble for clothes. By the time I reached the small fire,
both of them were standing, pulling on shorts. I looked away while they
threw their shirts on.
The expressions on their faces was a strange mixture of fear, drunkenness
and curiosity. The blonde spoke first: "You must be Mr. James."
"Randall," I said, looking on as they adjusted their clothing.
"Hi, my name’s Crystal," the blonde said hurriedly. "I’m sorry, I know this
is a private beach . . . my Mom is Tara Miller . . . ."
I knew Tara. Well, I didn’t "know" her, but I had seen her around town. A
beautiful tall woman in her early fifties who sometimes went to Constance
Beach. Incredible body. I vaguely noted that Crystal had not inherited her
mother’s breasts.
I smiled and said, "That’s okay, really. I don’t mind you using my beach so
much, but I’d appreciate it if you cleaned up after you left."
The smaller girl was clearly the shy one. She didn’t say anything, kept to
the shadows. Crystal elbowed her friend lightly, but when she didn’t get a
response, the blonde said, "This is Kelly, my cousin."
Kelly nodded and looked away.
"Are you two twenty-one?" I asked, suddenly made aware of the particular
problems behind the circumstance.
Crystal’s face dropped a little. "Well, Kelly will be legal next month,"
she said. My birthday isn’t until winter. You’re not going to call the
cops, are you?"
She was flirting with me in that sugary way some young girls do when
confronted by authority – even though I certainly didn’t feel like an
authority. I smiled and said, "No, I’m not going to tell on you. That is,
if you promise to stay out of trouble and keep me out of trouble."
Kelly finally spoke up. "God, thanks Mr. James . . . ."
"Randall," I repeated, making eye contact with her. She was striking:
dark, doe eyes, a wonderful nose, high cheek bones. I felt a strong
attraction instantly, and I suspected that she noticed it. She looked away.
Crystal piped in, "Thanks, Randall. We’ll stay out of trouble." Then she
added, "So, it’s okay if we hand out here every now and then? I mean, we
don’t really get too drunk, and we don’t have anywhere else to go."
This last comment was clearly foolish, but I had already grown fond of these
two girls and so let it drop.
"Just be careful," I said and gave them both a little wave and started my
walk back toward the house. A few feet away, though, I stopped and turned.
"By the way, feel free to go au natural," I said with a smile. "You
shouldn’t be ashamed of your bodies." With that I walked back to the house,
fighting the urge to look back the whole way. Once inside, I had to wrestle
with the urge to go to the telescope; something decent in me prevented that
invasion. Odd how voyeurism loses its delectable charm when a personality is
placed on the victims.
(continued)
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