We were on a pink sand beach in Bermuda. The beach had a series of boulders leading down along a narrow path to the water. Above it was the country club where John and I had lunch and mimosas.
We slipped in between those rocks and started kissing.
He untied my bikini top and it fell down and my breasts hung bare and pendulous. He buried his face in them, licking between and around them, finding my nipples and nuzzling them, then sucking them, then taking them in his hands and pulling the nipples hard and erect.
Another couple walked down the path and I knew they were looking at us, but I didn’t care, and John certainly didn’t. Then they were gone and we were alone enough that I pulled down his swim trunks and knelt down on the soft pastel sand.
I took his big hard dick in my mouth and rubbed my tongue along the tip and around the edge and in the little cleft of it on top.
He pushed himself deeper into my mouth, to the edge of my throat; and I started sucking him, pulling him in and out, in and out of my mouth, rubbing his big wet dick across my cheeks, and then lower, against my dangling tits.
He came hard, with a groan, and I swallowed his cum, and still kept sucking at him, still kept him in his mouth as one of the waiters from the restaurant came whistling down the path, went silent when he passed us, hurried on.
I stood up. “Not exactly private,” I said to John.
He pulled up his shorts and tied my swimsuit top for me again, and we went on down to the beach.
Out in the warm, hazy aqua water we bobbed and swam; he pulled me against him and we started kissing, and sucking on each others’ tongues.
He pushed my bikini bottom to one side and slipped a finger up inside me; the warm ocean lapping around us while he made me cum. I wrapped my legs around him and he added another couple of fingers inside me, working on my clit, and made me cum again.
The sun set even pinker than the sand, and the beach emptied out. We lay down on the club’s striped beach towels under a striped umbrella and he climbed on top of me and ran his tongue along my neck and shoulders, slipped my tits out of my bikini top again and sucked and licked them, licked my sea-salty belly and down my thighs.
We fucked standing up against those rocks along that path, stars out above us, moon bright, me wrapped around him like I was in the water, but with only his cock making me wet and wetter, no ocean water, just my cumming again and again rising and falling like the tide.
We were wild for each other from the first night we met on the silver disco dance floor in Hamilton town. He bought me a drink; we bumped hips and he brushed my tits with the side of his hand, and I let him. He was tall-dark-handsome and maybe twenty years older than my 22; a renowned journalist, I knew him from the evening news.
I asked him, that first night, when we were fucking in his hotel suite, clothes thrown around the room, hot and sweaty on the bed, my legs raised around his neck, “John, why me?”
And he said “You’re young, you have great tits, and you were by yourself.”
“Nothing else?” I asked, hoping for beautiful eyes, or your smile! or the way you moved your hips, but all he said was “Want to do it in front of the three-way mirror?”
And of course I did.
I loved standing in the dressing room, watching his tanned-dark skin up against my lighter, pinker breasts; loved seeing him lick me and leave little red bite marks along my neck.
I loved seeing him doing me from behind, a triple image of his dick sliding in me, slipping between my asshole and my pussy. I loved seeing my own cum all slippery and glistening when he spread my twat with his fingers and circled and flicked my clit.
We both had a week’s vacation and deserted our friends and abandoned our mopeds and our plans to go scuba diving and spent it either on the beach or in the sea or in his bed or at the fancy country club dining room having sex and making other people click their tongues and shake their heads.
I think we both got off on that, too, along with each other.
I think he liked that some people even knew who he was, a big deal, and maybe wanted to be with him, too, the way I was.
He asked me if I’d watch him the way people were watching us if he was doing it with someone else, and I knew that was what he really wanted, but I didn’t want to do that. At least not yet.
I was still kind of into the romance of it.
The long lazy lunches at the white-table-cloth restaurant overlooking a patio with a mosaic of a bird in flight, and the unreal intense aqua sea and that pink beach below.
Drinking Bloody Mary’s and Mimosas and sitting at the table in a gauzy dress with no bra and him watching my tits. And when he could get away with it, brushing his hand against them so that my nipples jutted out through the thin fabric. I’d gasp while he tweaked them, lazily, slowly, while sipping his drink.
He’d put his hand on my knee, let his fingers drift up my thigh, while I drained my own glass. He’d slip his fingers under the folds of that gauzy dress, and stroke me through my underwear, until my panties were soaked and I was chewing my lip trying not to cry out each time he made me cum.
I reveled in the feeling of walking through the restaurant, the balmy sea breeze brushing at me through the open windows, the feeling of his fingers playing across my lower back and against my buttocks.
Not talking as we waited for the elevator. Inside it, me unzipping him while he lifted up my dress, tugged my wet panties down to my knees, and thrust his cock inside me. We did it in the elevator with the stop button pressed, and the alarm ringing. My back was up against the wall and he held my hips with his hands while he rocked against me. Over the sound of the blaring alarm was the slapping of our skin together, the sucking sound of his dick in my sloppy wet pussy.
I stopped wearing underwear. We did it in the country club ladies room with the door locked; me on my hands and knees on the plushy red carpet by the make-up mirrors, while he took me doggy style with my dress shoved up against my hips.
We did it by the side of the pool in a cabana at noon with a bowl of chilled grapes waiting on the table. He fingered me the way I liked it, just one finger, moving in and out lightly and rubbing at my clit with his palm, and then when I was good and juicy, rubbing my wetness over my tits and licking it off, then pushing all five fingers inside me — well, four – his thumb he kept out, rubbing it across my pubes.
Then I would take out his dick and jerk him off rubbing and rolling his long hard cock between my palms until he shot out all over and I cleaned us both off with my tongue and a pool towel.
We did it on the beach after midnight, our bodies glowing in the moonlight like we were some kind of phosphorescent fish; and again, still sandy, leaving little clumps of damp sand on the bed in the suite.
Finally, on the last day, I gave him what he really wanted. I sat on the chaise lounge chair in his suite in a mini skirt with no underwear on and masturbated with my fingers and my vibrator while I watched him fuck one of the waitresses from the disco where we’d first met. I came almost in spite of myself, as many times as she did.
She knew him, and I think she’d been doing this with him alot longer than I had. She probably saw ten of “me” come and go; she was always the penultimate fuck. She winked at me when she left, and he lay there all sleepy and the scent of her sex on him, and told me to come lie down now, and I did.
He wanted to fuck me but I said no.
“Eat me out,” I demanded, and he did, spreading my legs, rolling up my little black skirt, licking his way up one thigh and then the other until he found my clit and nibbled and flicked it and lapped it with his tongue. I made him make me cum six times – as many times as he’d made the waitress scream.
My plane left before his in the morning.
I let him sleep and took one last walk down that path where I sucked him off, to the beach where we rolled around on the sand and fucked, and then I left and never saw him again except on those nights when I watched the evening news. With my vibrator.