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From: teej2@aol.com (TEEJ2)
Subject: Florida Getaway (MF cons)


FLORIDA GETAWAY

THE FIRST NIGHT

We met someplace neither one of us ever goes, in a town in the Florida
panhandle called Seaside.  The houses there are Victorian, crabbed up
against the beach, separated by bougainvillea-slung walkways and narrow
streets.  The downtown, such as it is, presses against the back of the
last dune before the sea, wrapping around a town square where jazz bands
play.  We were there, in a restaurant called Grace's.  Grace's is in an
old house, an L-shaped, screened-in crackerbox on stilts.  It is the only
place in town to beat the heat without succumbing to air conditioned
isolation.

It was hot, the midsummer off-season when the town is empty but for
residents and a few hillbillies with so little sense that they go south
for the summer.  I was sitting at Grace's bar, a runaway from the stress
of real life.  No work, no wife, no kids, no phone.  Just a hot night and
a margarita and a plate of osso bucco.  I had been in Grace's for three
nights in a raw, getting friendly with the staff and closing the place
down because the cottage I'd rented was too hot to sleep in until well
after midnight.

You came in in one of those cotton summer dresses that billows when you
walk.  You were hot, too, sweating just enough to make the dress stick
slightly to your back.  I love those dresses.  I go limp when a beautiful
woman in a light summer dress comes into the room; the simplicity and near
nudity of summer dresses makes me want to reach out.

I picked up my margarita.  It was warm and almost gone.  I raised the
glass and the bartender arched her eyebrows, our evolved code for One
More.  She went to work mixing.  You sat down at the bar.  My drink
arrived, and you looked at it, almost staring.

"She makes a great margarita," I said, and you smiled, embarrassed as if
you'd been caught looking at something much more personal than a drink.  

***

Here is the story you told me:

You were from the west coast, but declined deftly to be more specific. 
You were on vacation from home and family and an unspecified business that
was dragging you down.  You had chosen Seaside almost at random, looking
at maps and reading tourist books.  You would be going back to the west
coast, but you weren't sure when.  

***

Here is a story the bartender told that you laughed at, a laugh that gave
me just an inkling of the possibilities:

She had been walking on the beach one day, scantily clad, and a tourist
had interrupted her thoughts with a proposition.  She heard him out,
considered, and then kicked sand on him as she turned away.

"You didn't want to be propositioned then," you asked her, "or the
proposition wasn't right somehow?"

The bartender laughed.  

"If the proposition is right," the bartender said, "there is no wrong
time."

 You laughed.  She turned to me.

"Don't get any ideas, Yankee," she said.

You said nothing. In my mind, I began to craft the right proposition.

***

When Grace's closed, you, the bartender, and I walked through the tiny
downtown together.  We laughed and joked and I flirted shamelessly with
you.  When the bartender peeled off in front of a gray house with a white
front porch, you and I walked on together.  My flirting became more
pointed.  You didn't participate, but you didn't kick sand on me either. 
Every time I felt I'd gone too far, every time I pulled back for fear of
losing you,  you smiled and nudged me on.

"I'm sorry," I said after launched a particularly un-subtle double
entendre.  "I've gone too far."

"Or maybe not far enough," you said.  "It's a fine line."

We both laughed because that was all we could do.

Outside your cottage I invited you for lunch the next day, and you asked
where I was staying.  I told you: In one of what are called in annoyingly
adorable Seaside "Honeymoon Cottages," two-story, one-bedroom,
ten-foot-wide cottages right on the beach.  Mine was thirty feet from
Grace's, in the opposite direction we'd been walking.

"You said you'd walk me home," you said, "because I was on the way."

"You are," I answered, "I just didn't say on-the-way to what."

You smiled; my motives were unmistakable.  Your smile was so beautiful
that it would have been worth the most cutting rejection just to see it.

"I'll stop by tomorrow," you said, "if the time is right."



THE SECOND DAY

I wandered around the boardwalk the next day, thinking that going to your
house would be too forward but hoping that I would run into you.  I killed
time buying things: Fresh-baked bread, a gray t-shirt with "Seaside" in
plain white letters, two eccentrically Caribbean batik ties, a wonderfully
tacky seashell clock.  

I looked, but you were nowhere to be seen.

***

You came for lunch and sat on my back porch, your naked toes inches from
the sand.  You seemed pre-occupied, as if you were mulling some decision. 
You talked little.  I served you chicken salad on the fresh bread.  You
ate slowly.  I watched your mouth as you chewed.
When you were done, we made small talk.  You left, thanking me politely
but giving no clue.  When you were gone, I poured a glass of crisp soave
and went out on the sand.  The gulf was almost calm, and the sand so
bright white it looked like powdered sugar.

I was afraid I would never see you again.

***

I ran into you at Grace's that night.  You were happy, less reserved than
you had been that afternoon.  You sat next to me and flirted openly, your
decision apparently made.  When Grace's closed we turned not toward town
but toward the beach.  We walked.  I kissed you, first softly and then a
little harder.  I loved the smell of your breath, fresher than the sea. 
As we kissed I timed my breathing so that I was inhaling as you exhaled,
drinking you in.

When we broke the kiss and hugged there on the beach, you said, "Well." 
We looked at each other and considered for a moment the road we were about
to travel, weighing the lies we would have to tell against the joys we
might feel.  I considered wife and family and the effect the magic of
these nights might have on it.  I considered turning and going home.

Then you turned in our embrace so that your back was to me, so that you
and I were facing out at the gulf.  My hands ran down your belly, feeling
you under your soft cotton dress, which was billowing in the breeze.  I
ran my hand down over your mound, feeling you and the tops of your legs. 
You leaned your head back, rolling it onto my shoulder as if I were a
pillow.  I kissed your neck behind your ear, feeling the edges of your
panties through the cotton of your dress.  They were small, a tiny patch
of silk connected by thin elastic strings.

You pushed away slightly, reached up under your dress, and slid your
panties down your soft legs.  You tucked the tiny ball of material into
the front pocket of your dress, and the you leaned back against me.

"It's such a nice night," you said dreamily, as if you had not just peeled
yourself naked in front of me.  "So warm."

You lifted your arms, reaching over your head to hold me.  I slid my hands
up and onto your breasts.  Your nipples hardened instantly, and I squeezed
them gently.

***

We spent the rest of the night discovering each other.  My fingers, more
aggressive than yours, mapped your hills and valleys before you began your
exploration of me.  I took you to my bedroom overlooking the beach, hung
your cotton dress on the corner of the old brass bed and laid you down on
the too-soft mattress.

I am a bundle of urges in bed, a lover who flits from desire to desire,
never completing anything before moving on to the next sensation.  In my
younger days it made me a bad lover, a greedy grazer who started many jobs
but left them all unfinished.  

But I have learned.  A lifetime of bed mates has taught me, and as my
fingers traced your skin in the moonlight they trembled not because I was
nervous but because they were straining against the limits of my patience.
 As they moved slowly up the inside of your thigh, feeling the incredible
softness of your skin, they longed to rush to your nipples, to your neck,
to massage your feet and touch your lips.

Instead, they felt you slowly.  You lay with one leg straight, one bent
slightly and turned out.  I felt along your thigh, touching the side of
your mound but not invading you, coming up to your stomach, roundish and
smooth and so beautiful.  

Kissing you.  Tasting you.  Feeling our tongues together,  breathing your
breath.  We spoke no words, made no sound.  I touched your breasts, ran a
hand up your shoulder.  You seemed to move closer to me wherever I went,
to anticipate my touch and lean to greet it.  With fingers and lips I
memorized you: The bones of your shoulders, the corners of your pubic
hair, the curve of your hips.

Your cunt.

I touched you at last.  On the outside, you were still dry, your lips
closed tightly against the inevitable. But inside you were ready to
explode, and when I probed you you opened and the moisture ran out like
juice from a ripe peach.  You were so wet inside, and I was so hard
outside.  I rolled over on top of you; you slid beneath me. You reached
down, wrapping your fingers for the first time around my cock, pulling it
toward you, rubbing me against your clit, using my cock to work yourself
up, your breath shortening. 

I waited before thrusting, enjoying the way your were using me.  My cock,
at that moment, had nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. 
Your wanting, your desire for more stimulation was all that mattered.  You
rubbed me up and down, up and down.  You had your eyes closed and your
mouth open.

I could have stayed like that forever, but like a man dancing atop a cliff
I slipped, and I fell down into you.  Slowly, as if in a dream.  One
impossibly long stroke in, with your hand still around me feeling both of
us at once, me falling into you, you  accepting me.  Together, a sensation
that should never end.  Not in and out; just in, your cunt so tight and
wet and warm.

I stopped there and you wrapped your arms around me, running your hands
down my sides, down to my ass, down to the indentations of clenched muscle
pushing into you.

"Ohhhhhhhhhh," I said, a shudder, a whispered word trailing off to nothing
but breath.  

"Mmmmmmmm," you answered from somewhere deep inside yourself, savoring or
bemoaning I could not tell.

I pulled back slowly, my full length, wishing now that I was a foot longer
so I could pull out and out and out, drawing myself slowly along your
clit.  But I am not a foot longer, and I ran out of me and had to turn
back, plunging anew into you, still fighting the urge to rush, to hurry
toward our destiny.  

My back arched.  I was in, out, in.  Slowly, obscenely, feeling your hands
pulling me toward you, pushing me away, making demands of my own even as I
took direction from you.  Your fingernails were sharp on my skin, sharp as
cat's claws, and you were moving beneath me, meeting every thrust
perfectly, pulling back as I did like a hammer drawing back to drive a
reluctant nail.  I reached down, supporting myself on one hand while the
other touched your ass,  your hipbones,  your breasts. If you felt what I
did, if your inner skin was as aware as my outer, you were near the verge.

For the first time in what seems like hours I opened my eyes.  You were
looking at me, your eyes bright like you were on a roller coaster, like
something was happening to you that you volunteered for without fully
understanding.  I was fucking you hard, driving deep into you and pulling
far away, getting a running start on each desperate charge.  I heard
things: The slapping of skin against skin, the sound of moisture, your
breathing, I swear the beat of your heart.  

Sweat dropped off of me onto you.  You smiled and pushed my hair out of my
eyes and leaned up, your tongue reaching and licking a tiny drop of
perspiration from above one eye, and then you fell back, tasting my
saltiness.  

Suddenly, like a summer squall over the open ocean, you were coming.  Your
eyes close and your breasts bounced and your teeth sank into your lip and
you said ohhhhh yes ohhhhhhhhh god, ohhhh, yesssssoh yess that's good oh
yes ohgod.  Watching you come set me off, and I came too, in great surges
inside you.  Your eyes were closed and your head was back and suddenly,
after seven or eight or a thousand spasms there was silence but for the
sound of the waves on the beach.  I listened for the echoes of our ecstasy
in the quiet outside, sure that we had been so loud in our coupling that
it would only moments before the police arrived, informed by callers as
far away as Texas that someone was dying.

And I am laughing.  There is nothing funny, but I am laughing.


CHAPTER 3

You were gone when I woke up, gone like the night itself.  Outside, the
sun played on the white dunes and the turquoise water.  The kids dug into
the sand, adults strolled down to stake out their territory in the
unbroken daylight.  An hour after I rolled out of bed I was down there
with them.

On the sand, my orange juice spiked with vodka, I sat isolated behind my
sunglasses.  I stared out over the top of an open Travis McGee  novel, my
camouflage for the day.  For all anyone could tell I was a tourist without
a care in the world.  Far out over the water, clouds light on the top and
dark underneath dragged gray streaks of rain across the Gulf.  

But I was not a tourist, and I was not without care.  I was nagged by a
belief that I hadn't really possessed you, that I had violated my marriage
vows without even attracting your full attention.  I was sure that a part
of you had not really been with us, in that bed, but that part of you had
been somewhere else.

I thought about the way you had been and, inevitably, the way you weren't.
 For all the wantonness, for all your desire, there remained something
reticent, something hesitating around your edges.  It was as if our affair
was a party, and while you had attended you had never lost sight of the
exit.  As your orgasm burst through, you pushed yourself desperately
against me. But you also turned your head away and closed your eyes as if
denying in your mind what was undeniable in your cunt.  It was as if you
were as much casting me away as you were pulling me toward you.

And then you left as I slept.  And I was on the beach, wanting that part
of you you had refused to give.

***

Out of juice, out of vodka, I packed up my book and beach chair and towel
and headed back to my lonely honeymoon cottage.  Halfway up the beach I
found you, almost naked, sprawled on the hot sand like driftwood.  You had
not been there when I came out, and you could not have set up that close
without seeing me there.  You had chosen not to acknowledge that I was
there.

You seemed asleep under your sunglasses, your camouflage, and I considered
walking past you without stopping.

"Hello," you said.  "We meet again."

"Yes, we do." 

It was our first truly awkward moment.  

"So," I said, improvising brilliantly, "So, ah, I...ah, I didn't know if I
was going to see you again."

"Oh, I'm sorry about that.  I didn't mean anything by it."

"Oh, no, I never thought...It's just, I'm glad...you know, that we bumped
into each other.  We were so close here on the beach and I guess we just
didn't see each other.  Until now.  I guess."

You folded up the book you had been reading, choosing to ignore my jab at
you.

"I leave tomorrow," you said.  "Back to...where I'm from."

You smiled slyly, enjoying the game of talking without divulging anything.
 I looked up the beach, inhaling deeply, smelling the sea and your
sunblock.

"What if I asked you not to go," I said, surprising even myself.

"I have to," you answered.  "I have a life..."

"Me too."

And we stood there in the sand, you almost naked, me towering over you.  I
wanted you so badly, wanted to undress you slowly and see you again and
touch you and run my tongue along the soft edges of your labia and the
hard points of your nipples.  

"Dinner tonight?" I asked with a trace of élan.  "A little bon voyage?"

"I'd like that."

***

We rendezvoused at Grace's and sat at the bar where we'd met.  We stayed
there, pointedly denying ourselves even the intimacy of a shared table. 
When we were done, we wandered out to the rail overlooking the water and
made small talk.  I was impatient.  

"I have a bottle of Champagne," I said.  "I'd like you to come over
again."

"I need to walk on the beach."  You looked at me and stepped toward the
sand.

"I can live with that," I said, and I took a step.

"No," you said.  "Alone."

***

I banged around my rented kitchen for a few minutes, mixed a glass of iced
tea and drank it, made a brave show of not caring.  I was leaving the next
day, too, I had decided.  There was no reason to stay.  I missed real life
and had tired of the heat and humidity, was ready to plug you into my
memory as a regrettable interlude.  I called the airline, couldn't get a
seat until late afternoon, and resigned myself to one last lonely day at
the beach. I turned on the ceiling fan, pulled down the sheets, and heard
a soft knock on the French doors downstairs.

You.

It was you.

I opened the doors and there you were, sweaty from the walk, your t-shirt
tied in a belt loop. Your pink bra must have looked like a swimming suit
from a distance, but close up it was clearly lingerie.  Lace eyelets, a
slight boost, deep cleavage.  The effect was overpowering, innocent and
naked at the same time.  

Every ounce of wanting you came back instantly.  I grabbed you, kissed
you.  You stood straight up, sliding your hands up past my chest and my
cheeks and the sides of my head, reaching toward the ceiling and rocking
your pelvis toward me.  I ran my hands up and down your nearly naked
torso, feeling skin and silk and the way your jeans pulled away from your
back as it arched.  You turned your head and closed your eyes and as I
kissed your neck you said one thing very slowly.

"Fuck me."

***

Upstairs I laid you naked on the bed.  You stretched out while I fumbled
with my jeans.  Your pink bra was at my feet.  On the chair were your
jeans and your panties and...two batik ties.  The ties I had bought two
days earlier on the boardwalk.

You who had left me in the night, you who were leaving in the morning. I
sat on the edge of the bed next to you, leaned down and kissed you,
running my hands up your arms, intertwining my fingers with yours, holding
your arms above you on the pillow, holding you down, pushing them back. 
Our tongues played like dancers, moving toward each other and away
teasingly.   

Without really thinking I reached for a tie.  I wrapped the narrow end
around one of your wrists, tying a loose knot that would get tighter if
you pulled against it. I kissed you again, and you kissed me openly but
not long, breaking it off and looking at me, your eyes filled with
challenge.  

"Fuck me."

I pulled your arm upward, wrapping the other end of the tie around the
farthest reach of the brass bed.  Hurrying, afraid that you would
disappear again, I wrapped the other wrist, stretched it taut and bound it
to the other side of the bed.  Your eyes never left me.  When you were
securely tied, I slowed my pace.  Suddenly, I had all the time in the
world.  You could not leave me.  Not tonight.

Your breasts shone with sweat and light reflected from the ocean, your
nipples pink and hard.  I ran a hand slowly down your stomach, running my
fingers across your public hair but not through it to your flesh.  Tracing
across your skin, the lines of your bush, getting to know again, with a
leisure that had not been part of earlier encounter.

I kissed you again.  It was different.  You were suddenly desperate,
demanding.  You sucked my tongue like it was a cock, sliding you mouth up
and down it as if you could make it come.

"No," I said, pulling away, holding a finger reproachfully above your
face.  "There's no reason to hurry."

You looked confused, as if I were breaking an easily kept promise.

I leaned down and kissed you.  First on one lip, then the other.  You bit
and strained against the ties, but I dodged your attempts to capture me. 
I inhaled your breath from just out of reach, studied the lines up your
neck as you strained to lift your lips to mine.  I drew a line with my
nose down to your chest, flicking my tongue over your nipples, running may
hands down your sides.

"Spread your legs," I said, and you did, obediently, staring me in the eye
the whole time.

"Fuck me," you said.  "Please fuck me."

My hand dragged slowly down to your cunt, brushing lightly over it and
onto your thigh.  Your legs were bent at the knees, flat on the bed,
spread wide like a street dancer in a Keith Haring painting.  It would be
a comical pose were you not so utterly naked.  I savored the fact that
there was nothing you could do, that you were helplessly mine. I ran a
finger down deep into you and found you incredibly wet, that special kind
of wet of a cunt overloaded with desire but not yet touched.  Moisture
waiting like dew on a leaf, with a single touch running in rivers down to
the ground, everything about you soft and warm and wet.

I kissed you hard at last, driving my tongue down deep into your open
mouth.  Your tongue came up to meet me, and it was as if our tongues had
been dancing together for years.  I rubbed your cunt with the palm of my
hand, pressing hard on clit and lips and hair and skin and loving the feel
of all of you down there.  Loving that I was touching you and that you
weren't going to stop me and I was going to have you, really have you.  As
I rubbed, your kisses became looser, your breath more gasping.  My tongue
wasn't big enough to fill you now, and I got up on my knees and put my
cock to your lips and you sucked it in while I rubbed you.  And you wanted
that cock, sucked it hard like it was water in a desert as I rubbed and
you started coming with my cock in your mouth, your moans escaping around
its edges and your arms splayed out helplessly and your legs spread and
you did not look away from me this time.  You sucked my cock and stared up
at me and you were holding nothing back.  This time there was nothing left
of you but what I had.

When you stopped roiling I pulled my cock out of your mouth.  

"No," you said.  "More."

"I'm going to fuck you."

"Yes, fuck me," you said, your voice trailing off like an echo of a sound
long gone.  "Fuck me..."

I got on my knees between your spread legs and ran the tip of my cock up
and down your slit.  As I traveled across your clit you gasped, and when I
pushed into you I felt like I was a foot long, aware of every millimeter
of you and me sliding together.  As I started to fuck you you looked me
full in the eyes.

"Come in me," you said.  "Come in me."

"I will."

"Now.  Come in me now.  I want to feel you.  I want to watch you."

I felt your walls clenching around me, your pelvis rising to meet me.  You
were doing everything you could, tied to the bed, to make me come, sucking
my cock with your cunt because it was all the power you had over me.  That
was all you could do.  You couldn't leave and you couldn't tease and you
couldn't deny any more.  All you could do was fuck

"You feel so good," you said, your words drawn from the walls of your
vagina.  "Just come in me.  Oh, God please.  I want to see you come in
me."

I did, in  huge bursts of white light shooting out my cock.  It was like
thunder straight overhead, like nothing I'd ever felt.  Boom.  Boom. 
Boom.  Oh God.  Coming.  

This time I closed my eyes, and when I was done and looked at you again I
saw something I hadn't expected.  I saw triumph.  I saw that in taking you
like that, not only had I got all of you, but you had somehow got me as
well.  You had no chance of escape and could throw yourself into sex
without reservation, and knowing that you could not hold back had left me
in no need of defense.  Because I had owned you, I could give to you
without fear.  

You smiled.

It was suddenly absurd that you were tied there, ridiculous that two
mature adults had played such a perversely juvenile game.  The urge that
put you there in the first place was as comically distant as crushed
velvet bell bottoms.  I reached up to untie you, one wrist at a time. 
When I was done, when you were free, you wrapped your arms around me and
turned your head, holding back once again.

***

I sat on the beach the next morning watching the planes take off, flying
out over the gulf from the airport, turning inland high over the water to
return their cargo of vacationers back to their lives.

My flight wasn't leaving until late in the afternoon.  I had time for one
more day of sun, one more jug of vodka and orange juice.  And I knew,
sitting there on the perfect white sands, that I would always wonder about
you, always wonder who you were and what that life you had to go back to
was.  To this day I look for you at grocery stores and PTA meetings. I see
you sometimes - or think I do - among the women I glimpse at the office,
moving without passion among the beige and gray cubicles.

I will always find you in places where you've never been.  Whether that
will be a curse or a joy remains to be seen.  I will be relieved to find
out.  Until then, I will wear those batik ties until they are frayed to
threads.



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