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Subject: {ASSM} Beach House, 1/2? (MF ?rom ?lit[ish])
Date: Mon, 8 May 2000 15:10:06 -0400
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I'm looking for comments and suggestions here folks. I also hope you enjoy
the story and anything else that comes as a result of reading it!
--== Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ ==- Before you buy.
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<1st attachment, "Beach_house.txt" begin>
All rights remain with the author. Possession of a copy of this text
does not imply permission to distribute it, other than for no fee and in
its entirety, including this notice.
This story is fiction. The names and characters are fiction and bear no
intentional similarity with any persons known to me. Some parts of
some of the situations the characters find themselves in are not
fictional in the sense that in order to write I draw upon my own
experience. I hope you all enjoy it. Comments, good or bad, are
welcome, as they are to all of my stories. It is only through knowing
what you, the reader, thinks, that I can write better stories. Tell me
what you like, and what you don't like. I can promise to provide what
you want, indeed I'll never be able to write to order, but at least I'll be
working in the right direction. This is another stylistic variation within
my common theme. So is this worth continuing? Does it hit your spot,
or just mine? As yet I'm not sure how many parts I'll do. I have the
rest of the plot mapped out, and much of the 'action' - probably
enough for another good part. No, don't giggle... Oh dear... :-(
Just a few more words before the action starts: I don't write about
things that turn me off. I don't write about underage (less than 16)
sex, forced sex and rape, anal sex, homosex (though MMF and FFM
shared experiences do find a place in my stories) and anything that
might be considered as a 'fuck-fest'. I hopefully write about
meaningful experiences based on reality, though the meaning might
well be a little hidden. There are no vast organs, gallons of secretions,
instant recoveries and the like here - sorry :-(
This story is for adults, however that might be defined in your
country. In mine everything recounted below is legal, even though it
didn't happen in my country.
Joseph Lawrence, Copyright 2000
Story: The Beach House
Ample hips, no more fettered by tight white shorts, bearing
down. Lush flesh taut over bone deep. Smooth flesh, straining flesh,
hot flesh. Sweat running over heaving, rounded breasts. Nipples
standing firm on crumpled flame-feeling discs. Hair flowing over
shoulders held tight on steadying arms full-stretched. Thighs, hot
with effort: pumping, pumping, and pumping. Eyes staring, glazed-
popping ahead. Mouth gaping as wide as the hips below, the
movement between the lips of each continuous, drawing in, flowing
out, pulling in, flooding out. Air rushing between natural red lips,
each breath pained-for and taken hard as the thumping heart drew
more and more from the soaring mountain of tension that the body
was becoming with every urgent plunge of those hips. The tension
inside was for release; a desperate all-consuming need that could no
longer be denied. It flowed from between the thighs; flooding up from
deep within, a heat and power so strong that it took over the whole,
burning everything that it touched, touching everything with its
flames. They licked at the heart, which could barely fight against the
fire. It too must surely succumb and burst. The fire took all it its path,
and its path was upward, ever upward.
Gone now were discrete sensations, of flesh filling flesh and
skin slipping over skin. All feelings now melded into one, into one
overwhelming sensation that craved only one resolution. The
sensation had to be fulfilled, it had to be ended, and yet it had to never
end. The world grew shadowy and vague as the fire engulfed
everything. Now there was nothing but the feelings that thrust
unstoppably, surging up in waves, one atop the last, from the female
core. It could not last, nothing that powerful could last forever, yet it
denied itself ultimate resolution, the fire refused to blow itself out: it
refused to die.
Moan-filling now, the thighs minutely pumped less strongly
with each thrust. The aches could not yet break through the fire-
feelings. They were held, pinned down, by the burning fuelled from
within. They threatened to burst out from under the fire, to shatter the
brittle-taut urgency. Though as yet unfelt, they could soon dowse the
flame, bringing everything down in tear-rending failure. Flesh on
flesh grew stronger as the slip began to grow drier. The fire had to run
its course, but the race might yet have to be abandoned, un-won and
unfulfilled. Cries, building now, would stay deep within; chained
down by cruel pains from unexercised, but luscious flesh.
Between the thighs another threat grew unheeded. It pulsated
with another rhythm. It stroked the slick-flushed flesh, kneading,
pummelling, beating, stretching, and dividing it. It was alien,
intruding and invading. The flesh abetted its violations, taking it in,
accommodating its demands. The flesh flowed around it, caressed it,
giving it more and more of the fire with every motion. That motion
grew more basic, ever more animal, yet the intruder stayed firmly
unburnt. It could grow no more, it too was filled with unbearable
tension, but that tension was determinedly borne. Had it been released
then the fire would have died immediately. The tension had to remain,
it had to be released, the pain had to be experienced as ultimate
pleasure. It had to explode, it had to, it had to!
***
Sweat poured from her body. In the humid heat great drops
rolled down her belly from her frantically bobbing breasts. She held
her head back, staring at the sky, then she threw it forwards and
looked down. Her eyes cried out for her release. Between her thighs
her heat grew as her lubrication began to falter, her flesh now rubbed
slightly dryly, though not painfully. Her legs strained up and down,
they had for some while, but with each movement her release seemed
to recede rather than to grow closer. She grew ever more desperate,
increasing the speed of her already frantic motions. All the time the
friction grew, it seemed to be a race she couldn't win. She said
nothing, simply drawing breath in time and again, time and again.
Sweat and now tears; there was more fluid on her than within
her. The breeze, thick and humid, did nothing to carry the sweat away,
yet on she pounded, on and on. Her delicate flesh growing redder and
ever more tender with each thrust, yet her belly remained unflushed.
Only her nipples changed, softening, the protrusions sinking back into
the soft rounded fullness of her breast.
Her's was not the only reddening flesh. His too showed the
signs of their desperate union. He lay flat on his back on the decking,
the hard boards pressing into his back. He held on to the unvarnished
leg of a chair. It scraped on the deck with each of her powerful, yet
increasingly irregular thrusts. At first she had set a slow, steady and
powerful rhythm. Slowly she increased it, gently urging him to lie still
and enjoy the show. Her words grew harder and few. Soon, as the
deck began creaking under her, she stopped talking altogether,
concentrating all her energy, steadily being sapped by the almost
oppressive heat, on rising to her release. Now even her vision had
been sacrificed to her fire. She was a desperate, cornered beast, intent
on nothing other than her escape. Everything she did, she did for that
alone. He acceded to her wishes; he lay still, holding back his urges to
thrust; to help her in her desperation. At first she had felt wonderful,
her inner flesh rippling and surging to him. Later, as her pace rose,
she abandoned her inner movements and relied on baser motions. She
rode him mercilessly, determined that she would come, and that apart
from it being he who was within her, it would be she who gave her
her own orgasm. She was going to come, whether he liked it or not,
though if not he was making a good pretence at the opposite.
The blackness of her haired mound engulfed and the spat out
the rod on which she had impaled herself. She had leaned forwards
throughout, partially to give herself greater clitoral stimulation and
partly to prevent him from giving her the same. She took him, it was
her thighs that did all the work and her arms that controlled it. Now he
felt her hands pressing hard down on his shoulders as yet again she
forced herself down on to his full length. He felt her stretching within,
filled deeper than she alone could take. Only in her heightened state,
full of stimulation, could she take all of him. His entry, or rather her
first engulfing of him, had been uncomfortable for both of them. She
had wanted the sharpness the over-deep penetration had given her. It
pushed her excitement up and up, but now she could easily take him,
and more, with no discomfort. She had expected him to come early,
there had been more than enough anticipation, or so she had felt, but
he had not. She had expected him to thrust up into her, and she had
expected to enjoy pushing him away, but he had not, and she felt for a
while that he had denied her her pleasure. That pleasure seemed
further and further away for both of them: she, for in her haste she had
let the real passion slip from her with the first flush of her lubrication;
he, for in his desire to please he had not realised that she actually
hadn't wanted to be pleased, at least not by him.
He saw her tension plateau and then drop, even while her
pace grew faster and more irregular. She needed release, he decided
he would help her, even though she had told him to "lie back and
enjoy. Have a nice day!" Seeing her nipples retreat, he let go of the
chair and reached up for her breasts. It was not as easy as he had
imagined to touch, let alone lovingly caress their madly bobbing
roundness. For a second he made contact, though her nipples were no
longer clearly felt through the crazed, madly sexual haze. She opened
his eyes to him.
"Get off! You lousy pervert!" She lifted a hand from his
shoulder and struck him an ineffectual blow across his chest. She
raised her other hand and grabbed at his to tear him away from her.
Jumping up, she stomped away leaving him lying flat on his back, his
raw erection glistening in the sticky breeze. A little way off a cheer
went up.
"What's the matter?" he called after her. "What was that all
about?"
"Goddamn great show! That's what!" echoed the distant
voice.
"Why can't you give me a proper fuck? Jeez, it's not asking
for much. Just a proper fuck!"
"Here doll, I'll give you a proper fuck!" came the echo.
He got up and hurried inside, tossing a remark to the breeze,
"Yeah, and I'll fuck you proper if you don't mind your own sodding
business!" He slid the glass door to behind him, shutting out the echo
for good.
***
He often sat out there on the deck. The house lay on the
ocean, white sands stretching out for miles on each side. It was
wooden, elevated to make it partially resilient to hurricanes and the
mountainous seas that they brought. At home wood was not used
much as a serious building material, and this house, three floors
including the lower kid's bedroom, went against all his instincts as to
what a proper house should be. He felt a proper house should be brick,
with a stout simple double pitched roof in slate or tile. This timber
edifice was nothing more than a glorified garden shed, but what glory!
A grand staircase stretched from the door at ground level, nestling
between two car ports, to the top floor. Two flights alternately ran
towards and away from another as they chased each other to the top.
Between, a massive glass lantern hung on a long gleaming brass rod.
Everywhere, even around the massive TVs built into three of the
rooms, the wood was varnished. Little, other than the rich blue stair
carpet, did anything to distract from the natural beauty of the wood.
On the top floor, the massive open kitchen-diner/family room opened
out through two sliding doors set into the glass wall onto the main
deck. On the level below the bedrooms nestled, each with their own
bathrooms, around a smaller TV lounge. That too opened out on to a
deck, one that wrapped round two walls and extended, thrust even, out
over the dunes to the ocean. At the house, one end of the deck ended
in more glass doors, opening into a bedroom. It was indeed the end, to
go further it was necessary to enter the bedroom, his bedroom, yet
there, in the setting sun as often as not, the hot tub bubbled, inviting
all to linger, glass in hand. Away from the ocean another smaller deck
opened out from the bedroom. It served the bedroom only,
overlooking the road, and the still vacant lots beyond. The lot on the
nearest side was also empty, the deck had been as private a place as
any for love, or so he had thought. Though now the bedroom, with its
curtains and air conditioning, shouted out as having been much the
wiser choice.
The house was indeed glorious, and quite out of his
experience. The woman was similar. The house was not his, even if he
was alone in it for much of the time. It was rented, and not by him, but
by the university. Extravagances indeed, but an essential one, for all
the houses round about were roughly similar in style and quality, and
all were up for vacation rental at similar rents, there was simply no
other cheaper accommodation for miles.
Below the lower deck lay a small rubber boat, it was his
transport to work, taking twice daily samples of sediment in the ocean
sands, weather permitting It was a lonely life, only at the weekends
did anyone else join him in the house. The rest of the time was his
alone, and someone else was paying for all of it, the boat, the car, the
house, the tub, the AC, the TVs, the cold ones in the evenings on the
upper deck. They even paid for the woman! Well, what they actually
paid for was a maid, another thing which carried entirely different
connotations for him. To him maids were eighteen, thin, Victorian,
prim and seemingly proper dressed in black with a starched white
apron and hat, called everyone ma'am and were inclined to hanky-
panky with the footman. This maid came on Tuesdays and Fridays
and nearly always wore a green tee shirt, sandals and white shorts.
About the only thing she shared with his image was her age. The way
her butt stretched her shorts as she vacuumed was very un-Victorian.
She was just another of the many girls he saw in this country, where,
unlike his own, the young were still prepared to gladly do a bit of
menial cleaning to work their way through college. She had been
pleasant and efficient in a "have a nice day" sort of way. The way
most folks said that always seemed plastic to him, but not the way she
had said it. She seemed to really mean it, and she was quite happy to
do anything that he asked her to, anything within her job description
that is. She had even chided him for taking out his own trash. He also
washed his own sheets, to spare her any mention of his loneliness
induced semen stains.
The first day she had come and gone without saying anything
other than "Hello, where's the brushes?" He arranged a cold coke for
her second visit. They talked as they sat and drank around the
breakfast bar. Small talk: why he was there, what she did at college;
that sort of thing, nothing meaningful. She warmed to his somewhat
odd ways. Maybe she enjoyed his "accent", or maybe it was his
inexplicable enthusiasm for his lonely work, work which few would
have undertaken, even for the beach house. He admired her
determination and willingness to do whatever was necessary to get
through college. At home no student would have gone into 'service'
for that, such jobs were too 'un-cool', and in any case, servants were a
thing of the past, yet there will always be a need for good service,
something that was lacking back home.
The next time she had stayed for a while to watch TV, listen
to the stereo and watch the waves crash on the shore. Still their talk
remained innocent. His night time thoughts turned to her: her breasts,
her long dark hair running in the breeze, her eyes, soft and glowing,
falling into his. Her in his arms on the beach as the waves crashed
about them. He didn't know if she thought of him, if anything at all.
The next time she had come early. She told him that his was
the last house she did, and that, as the holidays were over, many of the
houses were now lying empty. She too, she said, was empty, for she
would soon have to go back to college. He was older than her by some
eight years, though looking at her as she completed her duties without
any fuss or pretension he often wondered who was the wiser, and who
was the luckier. He was far from home, far from his friends. He was
over three thousand miles and ten degrees Celsius, away. Over that
ocean lay his home. Her's was close by. All his education had given
him was a leaking rubber boat and ever-lonely nights. She somehow
seemed to have more than him. Her personality and body had surely
given her a boyfriend at least, someone to cuddle up to at nights,
someone to hold and warm her. Someone to give her love.
"Do... Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked as he sat in a
chair opposite her on the upper deck. "No, don't bother answering. I
know, it's a stupid question."
"No it isn't."
"Yes it is. A man of my age asking you if you've got a boy.
Of course you have."
"Why? Should I have?"
"Well... I just thought that someone as beautiful and bouncy
as you have them queuing up for miles around."
"Bouncy!" she said in mild indignation. "Ok, so my butt's a
mile wide, and my tits kinda do their own thing but bouncy...!"
"I'm sorry I said that. I'm really sorry."
"Anyone'd think that was beer you had in there."
"I've got some if you'd prefer."
"Don't you dare change the subject! Bouncy!" She got up
and jumped up and down. The deck shook a little. "Bouncy... I guess
so. What do you think?"
"Err..." he said, a little embarrassed.
"Do you like bouncy?"
What could he say? What can a man say when he's made an
ambiguous comment about a woman? If he'd have said "yes" he'd
have revealed that he did indeed think about her breasts, if "no" then
she'd like as not sulk. "Well there's bouncy, and bouncy?"
"Do you like my tits or not?"
He was well and truly on the spot now. "Yes, of course I like
your, err... boobs?"
"Boobs? What the hell are they?"
"Ok, Ok, you've got beautiful breasts."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Ok," she said downing the last of her coke. She walked back
through the open doors, placed her glass, the remnants of ice clicking
in the bottom, on the bar and walked off down the stairs. He rushed
after her, but she was already out side door before he could stop her.
His watch bleeped insistently at him. He sighed. He'd have to let her
go, it was time for work.
As he picked up his sample containers from the lower deck
and as he walked off to the beach he heard her moped fire up and
carry her, beautiful breasts and all, away. That was the problem. It
wasn't just her breasts that were beautiful, it was her eyes, her hair
and her smell. Even her thighs and hips held him in their metaphorical
grip. She wasn't just a pair of beautiful breasts, though she was, she
was a beautiful woman, and one he realised he wanted to get to know
a whole lot better.
Joseph Lawrence, Copyright 2000
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