The siren of a ship wakes me up. Actually, I open an eye only to close it back immediately. That’s because I’d rather manage the orange behind my eyelids than the intense brightness of the sun. Kind of aching. Too early to deal with my senses, it seems.
“Oh well, good morning to you, darling. And to your lovely elbow,” yawns my man. “Can you feel my morning wood, eh?”
Of course I can. Spoon sleeping has its ups and downs. I love to rest in his arms, to sense his warmth on my back and allow my shoulder being stroked by his breath. Hours later, I may get a numb arm or the aforementioned wood poking between my thighs. Biological reflexes and automations. Until it sticks closer and closer to my rosebud. Pressing against the sphincter with a determination to enter. Which, I can tell, is the most conscious movement he pretends to ‘not’ do. Time to wake up and move my cute butt out of the car.
We decided to park our Sharan late at night, close enough to hear the sea. We’ve left early after noon for the weekend. I wished to stop often, to photograph the flowers, to catch a butterfly or just to dare him for a moment of lovemaking in the middle of those amazing alfalfa carpets, sprinkled with the crisp red of blooming poppies. So romantic. So seductive. So poetic. The night was already upon the road before we could make it near the coast. It happens to be late, especially when you don’t hurry.
“Hey Doris,” shouts he as his legs take over the entire mattress, “you do realize that you’re standing out, completely naked, on the side of a public road, don’t you?”
Um, I try to embrace my shirt, which is not on me because, as I look back, I can see it hanging from the door of the car. This brings up the matter to my mind: I am naked, exposed, next to a ... But wait a minute. No public road. I turn around. Twice. Two trails on the red soil, pebbles spread in a semblance of a country path - that should be the way up to the road. But I am not interested. I need to pee. Now! After a couple of steps to the left, I squat and pee. Oh my, what a relief!
“Don dear, come out and enjoy the morning sun!” I shout his way, confident that we should be all by ourselves, surrounded by nature, on this lost road to the beach, I think. Yes! I can see the sycamores. A hundred meters ahead of our car, or less. There has to be the sea. Our destination!
“Don, move your lazy ass out, will ya?”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say. I still don’t know how to handle my morning wood. Would you?”
What I would is noticing the matinal glory being walked to me like a trophy. I can also understand that, at his age, this is the best he can do, mainly involuntary. “Hold on, Don, I’m coming!”
I seize the moment. Grabbing my shirt and spreading it on a patch of grass, I push him on his backside before I begin to ride him. “Oh Don, I love you inside me. Just do not move. Allow me all the control. Will you?”
He loves hearing my words and I know this too well because my muscles and all my nerves surrounding my vagina have a tune to dance to and a symphony to flood my brains with. Words wane to gasps, which grow into roars.
Suddenly, I stop breathing and look around as to sniff something, or someone. Nothing and no one. Stop being so scared, says the mind to my inner self. Let go, Doris. Let it go! And this is what I do, roaring my lungs out, breaking the air, chasing silence away.
“My adorable cougar bunny,” says the little man beneath me (yes, I can feel his retreat), “now that you had it, I really need to pee. May I?”
Pivoting on my right knee, I give him space. As he walks toward the nearest sycamore, I press my buttocks right in the middle of the shirt. Ouch, it stings. One or more blades of grass have gone through the fabric. I do hate the bites on my wet and swollen labia. Let me stand then.
“Doris,” yells hubby at me on his way back, “how about we stroll to the shore?”
“What you’re gonna do about the car?”
“Nothing. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The beach is in sight from here, so will be the car from there. Come on. Follow me!” He actually takes my hand into his while not even stopping to close the doors to the car.
Hand in hand, we go past the oblong shadows of the tree line.
“I hear noises. And laughter, it seems to me. Don, do you?”
“Hm. Maybe. Dunno. Wherefrom?”
“Not sure. There, it’s getting louder, and closer.” I point at nine o’clock. “Can you see?”
“Must be a few joggers.”
“Right. I can see them. Look, they are naked. All four of them. Wow!”
Wow, indeed. Young muscular men in their late twenties. Gamboling around like a bunch of stallions. Two brown haired, one blonde and a redhead. Speaking at the same time, in short syllables, Italian, English and Dutch - I suppose.
I throw a sideways glance at hubby. By the motion of his head, by the grin on his face, by the tongue wetting his upper lip, I take notice of his accord. We walk again. Aiming at the four young men but pretending not to.
A minute later, we stop where the waves kiss the sands, short of dipping our toes into the sea. We both breathe and stretch our arms, as in calisthenics. Still simulating no interest in whomever might have happened to be on the beach at the same time with us.
After hearing this, I start counting: Mississippi one, Mississippi two, Mississippi three. Then I turn and smile. Discretely nodding. “Good morning to you.”
“English?” Asks the Italian stallion.
“American.” Say I.
“Doris. Glad to meet you.”
As they come closer, I can better observe their athletic bodies and, naturally, their dicks. My eyes instinctively slip to glimpse at their manhood. I’ve gotta make efforts to compose myself, to look detached, absorbed by nature, by the sea.
A litany of presentations ensues. With names and howdoyoudo’s.