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From: losgud <lushgod@hotnomail.com>
Subject: <*> {losgud} NEW--Beachbum
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TO THE REGULARS UP AT THE BAR:  yea yea, I've been immersed in several 
longish unending pieces, & the real world is flogging away at my free 
time and blah blah blah.  I submit these two short "Rib" & "Beach" 
stories purely as evidence that I am still breathing.  Get them pushed 
off the desk.  A little bit of ball&shout, which--save your dissin'--
will likely be quickly dismissed as of the "lesser losgud canon."  Ehh, 
so what?  Better than licking the carpet.  Several full-fledged pieces 
soon to follow.

=========================
The following work is pure fiction.  All people, places & situations are 
complete fabrications of my imagination.  Any resemblance is wrong.  
Content includes GRAPHIC SEX.  If your laws state that you are too young 
to be reading this, grow up and change those laws.  Until then, duh, go 
wild in your own head.

©1998 losgud.  These words belong to me.  Don't fuck with them.  Write 
your own.  NO for-profit use, reposting, archiving [other than a.s.s.m & 
Deja News] etc.  Read, download, share with a friend.  Consider 
unauthorized inclusion in a personal web site as an infringement of 
copyright.
=========================
M/F  Cons  Humor
NOTE:  Here's a quickie...a petite homage.  And while there may be a 
little sand left between my toes, there's not a grain of truth inside 
this pearl.  Sorry for the I/you narrative; it's just the way it came 
out.  Apologies for the age-old slather-'er-up scene...but hey, what's a 
beach story without it?  As always, enjoy!


BEACHBUM

I work the thick salve slowly up from your ankles.  Medicinal stuff, 
really.  But it doesn't smell that bed.  Smeary white tropical cream.  
To keep your skin from turning into pork cracklings.

I've taken the care of your skin into my hands.

Because of course my back and chest are like red crepe paper.  It is no 
fun wearing the soft cotton shirt I have to keep on--as an extra shield.  

I smear the SPF stuff slowly up your legs.

The damn stuff says it's waterproof, but by the time you get around to 
reading the small print about reapplying after you've been in water, 
hell, it's too fucking late, now, isn't it?

I will not let that happen to your skin.

Pretty skin, gone the color of toffee from the sun.  How the sight of it 
entrances me!  Though it really isn't the golden tones I find so 
appealing; in the stark dead of winter, the milky white of your flesh 
makes me lap at you like a kitten.

Last night I was too sun-delirious to make the climb on top of you.  And 
no matter the mattress, there was no way I could take it flat on my 
back.  My initial screams were not of pleasure.

I'm feeling much better, thank you; it is a vested interest:  my hands 
slick upon your skin.   Keep you from feeling tonight as I did last 
night; make tonight a vastly improved version of last night.

As I finish up the backs of your thighs, I've come about to the end of 
my trip across your body.  I nearly want to cry.  Because my actual 
motive isn't a subliminal sort of seduction.  It's because of the way 
your skin thrills my fingertips.  The touching of you.  The way my love 
for you is physically translated into electricity--the shock as I make 
contact, then the flow of current up and down my fingers.  With you I am 
like a person touching high voltage wires:  I cannot be loosed without a 
broomstick.

My fingers decidedly _linger_.

They want to slip up under your suit and grapple your ass.  Your ass 
that dissatisfies you, in the common way of many women.

"Stop staring at my ass; it's too fat!"

I stop staring, instead moving my hands to squeeze it through the fabric 
as I lean down to your ear.  "What are you talking about?  Your ass is 
_fantastic!_  If I wanted a little boy butt, I'd be chasing after little 
boys."

"I know, but still.  It's hardly the nicest bum on the beach."

The precocious 15-year-old girls, the assured women in their very early 
twenties.  But the way you fill your suit drives me wild.  Any wilder 
and I'd have to be caged.

I don't tell you that.  I don't need to tell you that.  You know that as 
a fact.  I grope your ass.  "You question my taste?" I go faux haughty.  
"You're the only beachbum for me," I speak, my breath of words a waft of 
exotic perfume.

You slap back at my hands.  "_Enough!_  Back to work.  Back to skin."  
Your slaps are unaimed; as fast as my hands move, you are mostly 
slapping at your own ass.

I stay away, my fingers sliding downwards to the purity of flesh.  You 
stop your batting and eventually relax, settling against the towel, 
spreading your thighs enough that I can cover the final few square 
inches of your bared skin.  The tender patches palming your pubis.  One 
hand, two fingers spread, caressing the deep creases where your legs dip 
then end, the parallel straps of elastic sewn in fabric, the skin 
underneath sculpting then down to the kiss of lips around your private 
pocket.

"Stop that," you send a slap back that I wave away.

I go immediately bold, slipping fingers sideways under the band, pushing 
under cloth, swirling through the curly hairs.  Quickly touching cunt.  
A finger plowing your furrow.  You shift away with a grunt, but then 
push back.

My fingers greasy, the sweat between your thighs, the start of your 
juices--immediately I've a finger to the knuckle up inside you.

"What do you think you're doing?" you gasp.  "_Stop that!_  We're in 
public."

"_Look around_," I caution, "then, _re-e-lax_.  I'm the only one who can 
see what I'm doing."

"And what is it exactly that you think you're doing?"

I slip another finger up your cunt, the knuckle of the first bent and 
rubbing against your clit.  "Paying homage to the only element of 
perfection in my life."

Instantly I regret the wording, but from what I hear, you haven't taken 
offense.  On the contrary, you settle down into your towel, the sand 
shifting beneath you as you lower your pelvis all the way, beckoning all 
of my hand against you.

Once that's decided, you take off, a biplane sprouted a pair of jet 
engines.  The canvas sheds in shreds from your wings; you tilt, then 
dive to kiss the ultimate crash.

You bite down on the towel, catching a pouch of sand between your teeth.

I've barely begun and already it's upon you, the intensity, ferocity and 
duration of your orgasm sucking the breath from the both of us.  Your 
hips give a final thrust, then seem to actually deflate.  I slip out of 
you when you collapse.  My entire hand glistens with you.

In a way I'm disappointed:  I wanted to play with you more than this.  
As if reading my mind, you recover and rise to all-fours.  But just as 
I'm about to touch you you leave your knees and spring to your feet, 
your hands on the towel pushing you upright.  You scamper to your feet 
like a freshly foaled colt.  Once your legs are steady, you step around 
to face me.  You give me a smile that fades in and out of being a smirk, 
the very smirk of satisfaction.

I'm still thinking about you standing up.  Your magnificent bum racing 
through its paces just inches from my face.

"Might as well go in for a swim, considering how wet my suit is anyway.  
Want to come with me?"  You give the final sentence the expected 
emphases.  Eyebrows damn well flickering.

I shrug my shoulders, touch my shoulders, then shrug them again.  Me and 
the glare off the water, even with a shirt, is otherwise a bad match.

You simply turn with a quickly mouthed kiss, tapering longly into a 
knowing smile.  "Okay," you shrug.  You throw your hair in an alluring 
toss and let your ass jiggle.  "But you can't come in if you don't come 
in."

After a few steps you stop, not turning.  "I'm going to go out there, 
stand in chest-deep water, and tease my clit 'til I explode again.  Care 
to join me?"

I'm already following before you move on.  This comes as no surprise to 
you.  You direct us, entirely.  We walk out until the water comes 
lapping at our ribs.  At exactly the level where it remains clear that 
your breasts are floating in air, not on water, the buoyancy all their 
own.

We swap goofy grins, then slide our lips together.  Your tongue plays 
shy for about two seconds.  And then you're fucking my mouth while your 
hand glides greedy strokes between my legs.  So quickly you have me so 
hard, and so free, the front of my trunks stretched back behind my 
scrotum.  Then the full waist goes halfway down my thighs.

No wonder my hands are fast at the strips holding your bottoms up.

Abruptly you break our kiss, pushing away from me, though with a smile.  
You raise your arms above your head, then slip completely underwater.  
Kicking and splashing, you thrash about, raising a storm.  Then you come 
back up.  Water sluicing off your flattened hair.  Brimming the same 
smile.  The top of your suit glued to your breasts.

_My god_, I think to myself.  I'm at the beach standing out in the water 
in front of a gorgeous woman.  Her slightly modest bikini is soaking 
wet.  I'm staring down at her breasts!  The cleavage, the swelling, then 
the bright cloth.  No fabric can hide those nipples.  And I'm allowed to 
just reach out to the nubs, tugging on them gently.  This woman is you.

I guess I'm allowed to do that.  You signal no disagreement.  After all, 
you do have a hand wrapped around my cock, jacking me slowly but firmly.

"Ah," I declare, "as Salinger said, 'It is a _perfect_ day for 
bananafish.'"  

It seems perfectly reasonable for me to reach my hands back down to your 
hips.  But--I rub my hands up and down your flanks in confusion--I can't 
find the hip straps, nor any evidence of your bottoms.

Then your other hand moves over to my cock.  Opening up a leg-hole, you 
hang your bottoms on the long peg of my penis.  "There, now," you state 
with a giggle of prim satisfaction, "I knew that had to be good for 
_something_."

You cock a leg and lock it around my waist.  It's an easy enough 
maneuver for you to get enough of me inside you to count.  Your eyes 
roll in counterpoint to your hips.  With that, your other leg sweeps 
around in an identical motion.  Slowly, so slowly, you settle down on 
me, letting gravity do the work, until I've glided all the way inside 
your waiting cunt.

How weird to be fucking like this.  The buoyancy of bodies in water.  
You hold onto my burned shoulders scarcely, with the lightest of 
fingertips.  My hands can cradle your ass, but it isn't necessary.

We _stir_ the water together.

"We're fucking," you croon, "we're fucking where anyone could see us but 
no one can.  My cunt crammed with your cock.  _Oh my!_" you cry, "splash 
some water so I can scream all I want."

My balls are boiling, so why not?  But then--and I see the malicious 
look--you lean forward, pushing against me.

I lose my balance.  My legs kick away from the firmness of sand into a 
watery opposite world.  I topple backwards, going under, carrying your 
weight on top of me.

We're thrashing.  My cock loves every little contortion.

I've had no interest before or since in tampering with loose nooses and 
plastic bags about the head.  Though there I am, grappling for breath, 
gasping with my mouth closed, and as I tumble in a water world full of 
bubbles and far away splashing, I explode in an orgasm of unknown 
intensity.  Come's slamming its way through the twistings of my dick as 
we do our underwater dance.  At one point we fall away and my cock is 
levered out of your cunt.  I finish my _small death_ scrambling to avoid 
the larger one.  I feel like a fucking spermatozoa myself.

And then here we stand, sputtering face-to-face, our chests within a 
step as our heads roar water.  We grunt-giggle at each other.  You reach 
down and unhook your bottoms from my cock.  As the water levels out, a 
flotilla of tiny white globules races to the surface.  And rests there 
like oil, like a school of tiny jellies.  Bobbing between us in the slow 
swishing of swells.

You reach a finger down, poking at one of my blobs of sperm.  "What's 
that?"

I sway towards you, reaching for your ass to pull our crotches tight 
together.

"So, you like my ass, hmmm?"   You wriggle back firmly into my grasp, 
yet at the same time walk us even closer.  "You should let me know more 
often," your tongue flickers.

Of course I'm standing there willing myself back to erection, but it 
just doesn't happen like in a porn story.  I let my hands slide up to 
your shoulders.  

You notice enough to smile.  "I'd like to get out and sun some more.  
Then we'll head back to the room, _shower_," you cant your hip, "and 
then we'll spend the rest of this lovely afternoon in bed fucking our 
brains out."

In a somewhat businesslike fashion you squat briefly in the water; then 
standing, you dance back into your bottoms.  I too pull mine back into 
place.

"Uh oh," I regain my hold on you while stepping back.  There is magic in 
life after all.  Suddenly my cock is like a giant leech, sucking all the 
blood from my body.  "It's a vicious circle.  I can't let you lay out 
some more without reapplying block.  Which in turn will lead to . . . "

"_Okay!_" you squeak like a bed.  "Hell with the rest, go for the best--
let's hit the sack and fuck!"

Of that, no doubt we will.

You turn away in the right direction, leaving me to follow.  

As if I won't.


=========================
Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome. losgud@hotmail.com
=========================
I am archived at DejaNews under "Author" name:  LUSHGOD@HOTNOMAIL.COM





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