sand dunes

It’s May, 2008. I am working as the plankton of the scientific food chain, which while it did not afford me much in terms of upward mobility without the acquisition of another degree, it did provide me with a regular income, vacation days, and free evenings. I was taking advantage of all this spare time by being on vacation with Simon in one of the gayer spots on the American coastline.

We spent four days enjoying our unfamiliar surroundings. We explored some beaches, saw some flea markets, walked miles and miles in quaint villages, ate some delicious in-season seafood, and purchased some high-quality leather goods (which is a story for another time). 

Simon and I had a little thought that we wanted to realize on this trip.  Our last night, we set out for a walk along the beaches well after most of the sleepy vacation town had gone to bed. We walked along back roads, him in jeans and me in a knee-length A-line linen skirt with no panties. We walked hand in hand; seeking out a spot that we weren’t sure was real. We had a beach blanket and a pocket pack of tissues in tow.

There were few cars out that night. We walked out of the town, and wandered and wandered until we came across a beach that was made of sand and patches of grass that was situated away from the road by 25 feet and dunes. We slinked out into the moonlight, spread out the blanket, and laid down, side by side, on the oversized terrycloth.

His familiar touch across my thighs was magnified by the openness of the beach: his hands were firm on my muscles, kneading them and heading up to my hipbones, then spreading my legs apart with his knees and my labia with his fingers. It was not a warm night. We both had our hoods up as we writhed, with gooseflesh appearing on the outsides of my legs and the heat from my partner’s body warming their more medial aspects.

There was a zip, a fumbling of buckles, and the insistent pressing of Simon’s cock against the aching opening of my pussy. I raised my hips into his, my legs wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck, and I felt the satisfying stretch of him entering my body.

We rocked back and forth, tangled in each other, feeling the sting of sand whipped up from the beach and listening to the sound of waves overcoming our heavy breaths. I looked up into his face to see him surrounded by nothing but stars.

When a rare car drove by from the north, the headlights would trace out over the dunes, and we were hidden in their shadows. If someone were to drive by from the south, they would be treated to the sight of pale, muscular calves and thighs—mine—wrapped around a slender man’s frame.

When Simon came, he thrust into me, moaned into my ear, and wrapped his hand under my head between my hair and the sand. My pelvis is tilted up, his orgasming cock is pressing against my swollen g-spot and pushing me into my own climax. I cry out, I bite his neck over his pulse to stifle the sound, I run my hands under his hoodie and leave scratch marks across his back that I discover when we get home.

When we are done and coming down, we pant and wrap the blanket close in around our bodies to keep out the slightly too-cool air. Simon kisses my forehead. The air is crisp and salty, there is a car driving by and the dune’s shadow lengthens, shortens, and disappears. After a time, we separate, we grab some tissues to clean ourselves off, stand up, and dust off the sand from our bodies. We pick up the blanket and wander across the dunes.

There is a trace down the inside of my right leg of Simon’s semen leaking out of my pussy: our tidying attempts were clearly incomplete. I didn’t protest: the viscous fluid helped my thighs slide past each other as we walked back to the bed and breakfast. We stopped by the ice cream shop on the edge of town before going back to bed.