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I lick his palm softly and watch his sheltering eyelids for the expected
reaction. It doesn't come. Either he is deep asleep or playing possum,
something he likes to do often when I get in a particularly playful mood.
He knows it frustrates me enough to make me cry. He can be so damn cruel.
My tongue ventures further to taste the salt and sand hidden in the soft, fleshy crevice between thumb and fingers...then further on to trace along the hairless inside of his wrist and forearm and the hot bend at his elbow. His hand flops lifelessly against the smooth white beach with each of my increasingly demanding lashes of tongue.
Suddenly I halt and stare up at him, questioning him with my most pitiful brown-eyed look. "Why are you such a fucking tease?" they implore, and a tiny whimper betrays my lustful frustration.
I move forward to kiss his silent cheek and the bastard only turns to roll over on his stomach, yawning and sighing. The skimpy towel he has draped over his tan line miraculously manages to shift from covering his tempting groin to covering his delicious ass. His performance at sleep is, I judge, as convincing as his portrayals every week on the glowing box in the living room.
Losing patience, I stand and stomp once - forcefully - into the sand beside his towel-nestled head, managing to stir up enough sand to lightly salt that "fuck me" uncombed brown mop. Then I turn to walk away proudly, determined to not look back at the torturing ass fucker, determined to regain some of my dignity. I get only a few yards away, closer to the shore, when my sharp ears pick up the familiar sound of him turning over and raising to rest back on his elbows.
"Hey baby, I'm sorry...you want some attention, don't you? Come here, honey." His delivery of the line is sweet and smooth.
I don't even realize I've turned to abandon my resolve until I see his sleep-sexy face, grinning slyly with half-opened eyes; he knows that practiced expression always makes me forgive him immediately. I hop briskly to stand between his outstretched feet and smile back at him, boundlessly delighted that he's given me some kind of recognition.
I'm such a pathetic slut. Why do I let him do this to me, over and over again?
His grin fading fast, he looks left and right to the far stretches of the beach, although we both well know that we are always alone in this sanctuary of sand and sea. He reaches into his bag with one lanky arm and rummages momentarily to pull out a small, amber-colored bottle of sticky sweetness. I know its taste and texture intimately because we have indulged in this ritual countless times before.
My heartbeat grows faster, my eyes lock intently on his hand, and I stand at rigid attention between his knees, trembling almost imperceptibly. He brings the bear-shaped bottle within reach and smiles lovingly at me. A pause of significance, and he lifts up his makeshift loincloth and brings the bottle under the covering, not breaking our mutual stare for a moment. Like I said, we've had lots of practice.
"Pour it all over...every nook and cranny...squeeze that goddam bear until he screams for mercy!" my soul begs as the hand lingers under the towel. I won't be able to control my carnal, savage nature for much longer; my trembling turns to shudders.
Finally, he pulls the clear plastic bear out from the cave between his thighs and tosses it carelessly to one side. It lands with a hollow "clunk". I know it will be retrieved later - he's quite the environmentalist. I'm sure neither of us are thinking of that now.
He leans back slowly, letting his shoulder blades and spine sink into the large towel carpeting the pliant sand. I watch him shift to dig a pillowing cup for the back of his head, and I sigh at the beauty of his seductive pose: face tilted back toward the cliffs, eyes softly closed, full lips parted and relaxed and waiting, arms and legs spread slightly and lifeless on the edges of blanket, the downy brown pecs rising and falling with each controlled breath. My attention ultimately settles on the now undeniable erection creating an impressive, colorful peak in the terry cloth terrain of his lap.
"Here, baby," his lips purr, and he beckons me with a few taps of a hand against his thigh. "Come here and taste Daddy." He maintains his relaxed repose, speaking the words to the wall of rock that shelters us between the outside world and the shoreline.
I don't need any more of a lure, and dive forward to bury my head under the draped towel. I show great care and practice in doing this exactly how he taught me so patiently - letting only my generous tongue and impractically thin lips caress the hot, hard flesh. The thorough coating of sweet syrup is the first attraction, but I'm secure I'll also be rewarded eventually with a warm and salty delicacy that is so addictive. After years of befriending this man so intimately, I have developed a craving for his taste.
My mouth expertly elicits muffled moans from outside the dark covering, my tongue cleans off every trace of sticky substance. I can sense more than feel his body moving in passion and shifting to allow me access as I plumb each hidden crease and orifice that might hold a bit more nectar.
My tongue has learned to appreciate the unique texture of the long, coarse hair above and around his prick and balls; my nose now seeks out the unique scent and warmth of his anus as I search as deeply as I can for any possible refuge the substance might have taken.
I've delighted in this banquet, and soon I see the dessert cart arrive; saltiness replaces the sweet as I bathe his shaft. My timing is perfect, and my tongue comes to lap beside the erect head when my final course erupts violently from him. I manage to catch most of the saline ambrosia in my still greedy mouth, and quickly busy myself with retrieving the excess, hungrily sucking and lapping at his groin, balls, and emptied scrotum until there is not a trace of it left.
Before long we both lay at rest on the beach; I loyally place my head on his abdomen to lovingly gaze up at his passive and peaceful face. Before I could drift off to doze in my satisfaction, he moves to arise from the blanket and collects our possessions - including Mr. Plastic Bear. Lazily lifting the blanket to sling over his arm, he begins to walk toward the rock wall and the zig-zag staircase that always takes us out of this private paradise.
For a moment I stand in fear that he has forgotten me once again, and the memory of my earlier resentment returns. Then he turns his head to look over his shoulder, smile, and call to me.
"C'mon, Blue Baby, time to go home. I'll give you a special treat when we get back."
If I could laugh at him, I would. His words sound absurd, because I could not possibly have earned more of a treat than I have just received. Still, I run happily to his side, barking and jumping and nipping at his elbows, teasing him mercilessly as he laughs at my antics.
We reach the staircase, still lazily playing our private game of tag. I think of how nice it will be to get home...and to that special treat he promised me.
Quiz time! Now, how long did it take you to figure out who the "Other" was
in this? Or are you still kind of wondering? ;^)
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