The Woman on the Beach

He came here often in the summer, usually late morning, once the sun had risen high enough to clear the line of oak and cottonwood that lined the bluff above, and cast its full strength down on this narrow stretch of sand. Being on the eastern bank of the river, it received sunlight, full and strong, until the bluffs opposite obscured it, and twilight, late and summer-thick, came on. The beach was relatively unknown and so sparsely attended; few but locals knew of its existence and thus there were no hordes of school-free children screaming, splashing, or otherwise disturbing what was a perfectly peaceful place. Those that did come stuck close to the waterline, leaving him the duney scrub to lay back in, to read and contemplate the river, and those few housewives taking the sun of a mid-afternoon.

To lie in the summer sun brought him a wondrous feeling of indolence and sensuality. The sun upon his skin was restorative, a payback of sorts, for the long northern winters endured, and his body browned deeply and nearly completely, for modesty had become less and less of an issue the older he grew. He was fifty-two, in good health, and his physical state reflected that: legs well-muscled through continuous bicycling, his upper arms and torso wide and strong from years of paddling a canoe. In general, he felt good and saw no sense in wearing trunks to his knees at a place such as this. Leave that for those younger than he, whose post-adolescent sensibilities knew no better. If the sight of a well-built, middle-aged man in tight swimmer’s trunks offended them, or the coltish young women clad in less than he who tended to accompany such louts, they simply needn’t look his way. He kept himself unobtrusive. And the odd housewives didn’t seem to mind nor, he hoped, did those coltish young women.

On this morning he was taken once again, his attention arrested as he shifted on his towel, by the long dark braid at the end of the beach and it took him a moment to order the feelings of familiarity. Dark blonde and thick, shot through with silver, the loosely braided hair hung down, slightly wind-tossed, over deep brown shoulders, the faded rose straps of a swimming suit barely visible above the back of a low beach chair. He realized that he did indeed recognize her; she was here often at this same time of day, an older woman in unfortunate suit, and a full tank with pleated skirt attached dipping just below the line of her hips. She was peacefully attractive, fuller-figured but not heavily bodied, preferring the line of still-wet sand at the river’s edge, where the waves broke at her feet. Aside from a family, plump mother and three children, the braided woman was the only other person on the beach. He rolled over onto his belly, quickly feeling the intensity of the sun upon his back, trying still to place where he had seen her before, other than here at the river, and her smile came to him, a pause on a pathway through a park, as he had sat beneath a towering oak, softly picking his guitar.

That settled, he drifted back into his immersion of the senses, lost in the heat and the lulling sound of waves and wind through cottonwoods. When the sun felt almost too much upon his back, he rolled over once again and pulled himself into a sitting position, the better to survey sand and water. The woman still sat in her low chair, reading it seemed. He watched her for a moment, the feelings of sensual intrigue returning to him, bringing with them a feeling of fullness, that, looking down at himself, was beginning to become apparent, a thickness bulging downwards, plain through his trunks, pointing to his thigh.

He enjoyed the languor of semi-erection for a long moment before deciding that it was time to cool off, to float awhile in the river. Rising, he made his way gingerly over the hot sand, taking short quick steps, his feet rolling to minimize contact. His path led along the scrubby border of the beach, close to the low dunes where the woman still sat. He passed within twenty feet of her chair and was aware, peripherally, of her head turning and her eyes upon him. His was, after all, the only movement on the beach. Feigning nonchalance, yet supremely aware of her gaze, he stepped onto the cool, wet sand at the river’s edge and made his way into the water.

To float cooled him, but the water did nothing to alleviate the fullness he felt. Rather, the water seemed simply to caress him, to heighten his sensory awareness and provide a softening counterpoint to the heat of the sun. Perhaps, he thought, this is just one of those occasions on which I will walk about with the glory of a hard-on to keep me company throughout the day. Not necessarily a rare occurrence, but infrequent enough to be noted and silently celebrated, though given his apparel, not easily disguised. Buoyed by the water, wavelets lapping over his chest became the soft palms and fingers of the woman on the beach, as he floated on his back, eyes closed and gave himself over to the realms of the purely sensual reality of water against skin, river in summer. He breathed easily, drinking in the river-smells, oblivious to course or location, needing only the slightest adjustments of bodily positioning to maintain his posture afloat, one with the river.

His heels touching sand made him aware that he had drifted ashore. He opened his eyes, saw that he was back in the shallowest water before the beach, just downstream from the woman’s chair. She sat with book in her lap, looking out over him to the river, incorporating his presence into her gaze. Her eyes met his and she smiled at him, the light seeming to dance about her and catch in the silver strands of her long braid, complicating the blond. He smiled back, taken by her.

“How is the water?” She asked him, in a voice both musical and low.

“It’s wonderful. Warm.” He answered her, awash in the shallows. “I completely lost myself in it.”

“I noticed. I thought for awhile you’d just drift down to Prescott.”

“I think perhaps that was what I was trying to do…”

He wanted to rise and regain his towel, but he was unsure as to his condition. He felt, without wishing to look plainly downwards, that he most likely remained in a fairly obvious state of status quo. The willing away of erections had never been his forte; time or external stimuli were necessary for such relief. And laying there before the vista provided by her strong brown legs, parted slightly so that he fancied he could see a darker presence between them, underneath her suit, was not helping matters any. There was nothing to do but simply stand, rise up from the water, and walk past her back to his towel and this he did moving slowly over the sand, her gaze yet on him, frank and friendly.

Not quite unsettled, in fact, fairly pleased by the encounter and most definitely still aroused, he stretched himself back out onto his towel, replaced his sunglasses and cap, drawing the brim well down to shade his eyes, and drifted away again, lost once more in the element of air. Sounds washed over him as waves had: the rustle of the cottonwoods, the passing boat, the sole family packing up and leaving. The heat of the sunlight upon his flesh was once more a palpable, lulling entity, soothing him into a lucid, sensual semi-consciousness that mooted time, returning to him the feeling of floating and oblivious to all else. Half-dreams passed through these fertile fields, a long braid trailing over his body, whispers turning to moans; exquisite release gained grasping firm hips, driving deeper and deeper to shudder into stillness and the impossibility of further movement.

He became aware of the shadow upon him and opened his eyes to see her standing before him at the foot of his towel. He vaguely recalled steps in the sand, but had paid them no mind. How long she had stood there, he did not know. Her suit was damp, the odd drop still dripping from the hem gathered in her left hand. Her right slid back slowly onto her upper thigh, from underneath the elastic at her leg. Her face was flushed, though not embarrassed.

“Hello,” she said, her hand slowly stroking her thigh.

He studied her silently for a moment, taut nipples plain, a strap sliding free of her shoulder. Her fingers glistened against the brown flesh.

“There is nothing you could do that would offend me,” he said.

“You don’t mind my being so…forward?”

He slowly shook his head.

She lowered herself onto her knees, settling back against her ankles at the foot of his towel, regarding his body as she must have before he opened his eyes, the hair of his chest bleached and trailing down to his navel, and further; the strong legs brown; his obvious arousal. Her fingers once more slipped between her legs and she began a slow deliberate rhythm before him. The elastic was cumbersome, in her way, so with her left hand she held pulled it back, exposing herself and the movement of her glistening fingers, caressing, sliding within. He sat and leaned forward, sliding the remaining strap off her shoulder, freeing her substantial breasts, and baring the gentle rise of her belly. Laying back, her eyes on him all the while, he stroked his chest, traced the line of golden-brown hair to the waistband of his own suit, caressed himself into the alignment of full hardness, hearing her breathing become quicker and more shallow.

“Please. Take it out,” she asked him, and he did so, pulling back the tight fabric, revealing for her his full, hard cock, and his own need for release. Her fingers moved quicker, her breathing almost a panting now, and he took himself tightly and began to travel the length of his shaft, their eyes locked in appreciation, the one for the other. Beads of perspiration gathered on her brow and on his. She leaned forward, easing her knees somewhat, her breasts hanging just above his legs. Swifter and swifter ran the momentum of his strokes and her hips began to move against her lost fingers, buried now deep within, working feverishly to bring home the building tide. He too felt his crisis coming and held back, wanting to witness her's and release himself in time with her. And when a low moan built and escaped her and her hips bucked several times spasmodically, he loosed himself in great shuddering bursts that arced up over his belly, settling hotly into his chest hair, accompanied by a feral groan that verged on a bellow. She slumped forward when he was through, supporting herself above his thighs, the long braid catching still the sunlight, glimmering soft upon his leg. She raised her head and stared long at him, running her glistening fingers along the path of his trajectory, saying nothing for a long while until their breathing returned to normal.

“You’d better go back into the water and rinse off,” she said finally.

Riverdreams

Meet Myron Cocksmith, erstwhile principal of Our Lady Of Gethsemane, a man respected by many, though liked by few. Widely perceived as a one-dimensional man, an asshole with a big dick, Mr. Cocksmith is much more than the sum of his considerable parts though, and Cocksmith at the Helm is his story, with half a dozen other misfits joining the chorus. A bawdy hero's journey in the classic mode, Mr. Cocksmith's tale is as beautiful as it is vulgar; it'll make you cry or laugh 'til you pee. Yes, it's that funny. And when you're done, you're happy, and oddly enough, reassured. Go on now, check it out!