Sometimes Amanda and I like to look at sex pictures on the Internet. “Just to see what’s in fashion,” I tell her. “Yes, Mat, I understand,” Amanda says.

“Really, like this one,” I tell her, stopping at a photograph of a sultry nude half sitting on a wooden deck wearing nothing but a belt and an ankle bracelet. “Pretty nice belt, don’t you think?”

“She doesn’t look all that happy,” Amanda comments. “Like she’s snarly and roiled inside.”

A few days later I buy a similar belt and anklet for Amanda. “Oh, these are nice,” she says.

“They won’t make you snarly inside, will they?”

“Probably not,” she says, and she takes off her clothes to try them on.

“Perfect fit,” she says. “I love them.”

“But would you dare to wear them on the beach?”

“Sure,” she says. “If no one else was within a hundred miles except you and maybe a few stray seagulls.”

That afternoon we walk the two miles past the park. There’s an old abandoned pier used only by various gulls and pelicans. We chase them off, and Amanda slips out of her bikini and into the new belt. She was already wearing the ankle bracelet. She half-reclines at the edge of the pier. “Like this?” she asks.

“Perfect. I’m going to take a picture, okay?”

“Wait a second,” Amanda says. She traces her forefinger between her sex lips, opening them. “God, Mat, I’m so wet inside. Not the least bit snarly.” She slides her finger in and out a few times. “I’m just doing this for the fashion of it,” she says. Her inner lips glisten. “Okay, I’m ready, Mat, but after this you’re going to have to fuck me right here on the pier.”

Lickety-split I take the picture. I don’t really care if it comes out or not, though I’m sure it will, because it’s impossible to take a bad picture of Amanda.

“Do you think there might be splinters?” Amanda asks of the old wooden pier.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be your bed,” I tell Amanda, and I stretch out on my back.

“You’re so kind, sir,” Amanda says as she straddles me. She lowers herself slowly, until her sex barely touches the tip of my erect cock.

“This way I won’t get sunburn,” I joke. The sun is fairly low now, and mild though bright.

“Can you feel how wet I am?” Amanda asks. Her sex lips are barely kissing the crown of my cock.

“Yes,” I hiss, resisting the urge to thrust upward.

“My pussy’s drenched like a nearly drowned kitten,” she says. Her hands find mine for balance. Her little breasts quiver. My cock is nestled just below her clit.

“Do you know the nursery rhyme about that?” I ask.

“About what?”

I half sing it:

Ding dong bell
Pussy’s in the well
Who threw her in?
Little Ginny Quim.
Who pulled her out?
Long John Stout.

“Oh,” Amanda breathes. I’m not sure if that is a reaction to my horrible singing of the nursery rhyme or that my cock is now an inch inside her drenched little pussy.