Message-ID: <847eli$9705210008@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/847> Path: qz!news.accessus.net!not-for-mail X-Path-Preload: news.accessus.net preloaded to thwart rogue canceller there Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> 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. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /