BEACH ENCOUNTER
It being summer, and me being me, I found myself reading some
book--poetry?--by the seaside. It was not Glenelg--too
populated--nor was it nude Maslins--too nude!--that was my kind
of beach at all. No, mon scene was somewhere in between. Like
with most things, my beaches happened to be (or had to be?)
niche.
So there I was, pink pineapple crush and shade and all the
sand-culture paraphernalia--"Get back Nature: let commercial
plastics and metals be my shield against you!"--around me, lazing
under the ozone 'hole'!
Taking a customary break--raising the eyes and viewing non-paper
reality--there was nothing but the happy little bourgeois family
playing in the sand a little down stage left. Much too far away
for me to make out their convo... and who'd want to?
On my next such 'intermission', chance brought my eye to a lone
(and hence rare) sight. Out of the warm, silken water, an ivory
body jutted. Slightly silhouetted by the sun, he turned to me.
His piano-key mouth (minus sharps and flats!) spoke symbolically.
He slid through the sea sensuously. He turned toward the
intangible horizon, his V back straight at me. Such a sight.
He was young: the body perhaps in the process of transformation
from boy to man, but by no way there yet. He swung his sexy arms
round and round, the muscles underneath rolling on his young
bones, the flux of teenage power visible on his taut, tanned
skin.
I could feel the pressure rising. My pathetic Hawaiian shirt (I
had insisted on it) made me feel ten times more emasculated.
Inferiority set in.
He finally turned back and smiled. His darkish hair and blue eyes
were centred on me. His lips never closed, yet he spoke not. His
abdomen was now on show. He slowly, skilfully dove with his back
into the water, tensing his chest and his stomach. He did a
couple of backstrokes and came back to inspect the mystical
effects he knew he would have on me.
He giggled with mischief, brimmed with juvenility. Yet he did not
close the space between us. Nor was it in my power to move. I was
far too sceptical to step. He continued pacing to and fro, the
water cutting off his lower body from his upper precisely at
his slim waist.
I was so curious to know what kind of swimwear he sported. Was he
a Speedo-type or a shorts-type? Was he Speedoboy or
surfie/skatie-boy, like so many other scrumptious muffins at the
malls and beaches?
And so he lolled, like the waves surrounding him. He wooed me
with his siren's hymn. It was fishing in reverse, and I was
hooked. With his slender, tanned finger he called me. I followed
like a fool, without restraint. My manly compass had its bearings
and my legs followed.
The water wrapped itself deliciously around my ankles, then my
knees and finally my waistline. The lad had disappeared into the
water. A darkened, cherry-red area coursed its way through the
blue ocean water. When about a metre away, flesh came to life and
got up. The salty liquid dripped off his satiny hair, his
sky-like, ocean-blue eyes dissolved into the scenery. His lips
were a near-blinding spectacle: rouge vivant.
We looked at each other. He scanned left-right, up-down and
through me, all in apparently one glance. The cute little
corners of his mouth moved: I sure hoped it had been approval. We
looked slyly toward the family. The kids were engrossed in the
sand and water, while the young husband romance (romanced?) his
wifey.
We sank ourselves up to our necks. I could feel his fingers run
across my front. Not too bad. My hand was on his butt. Speedos! I
slipped under and felt around: smooth and bloody tight. My index
finger swiftly ran up and down. At this point, he laughed
boyishly.
"O yeah?" he smirked.
His hand flew home under the front of my swimwear. He felt my
hardening cock. He smiled again. "Mmm," he said. He drew breath
and went under. He sucked my dick. It was the best, most
interesting feeling I had ever had. His finger teased my arse
before it shoved itself home. I moaned slightly. He came up, took
more air, and went back down.
END
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