Every life has one magical event--one instant where everything changes forever. For some of us, the moment comes and goes invisibly, and we do not know its significance until years later, if ever. For others, the moment confronts us at its happening and we experience it with our full awareness.

Whichever the case, the magical event always happens.

I'll tell you about mine.

There's a small island called Green's Rock in the middle of Maine's Penobscot Bay. It's mostly granite, like the rest of the coast, with two small pebbled beaches.

When I was a little girl, no more than five or six, I would sail to that island with my parents and assorted aunts and uncles and cousins for picnics. I remember whole hordes of us invading that stern, yet tranquil space, grounding our dinghies against the gradual slope of the beach. Adults would jump into the chilly water to form a sort of fireman's brigade, handing picnic baskets, towels, sunshades and giggling children to the shore. They would organize the beachhead, spreading towels, erecting sunshades, dispensing suntan lotion and admonitions about sunburn to the children.

It would never be more than half an hour before all of the "littlies"--those of us under six--would shed our clothes, innocently cavorting naked around the beach, wearing only soggy Keds to protect our feet from the pebbles, shrieking and laughing as we scampered from cold water's edge to sunwarmed rocks.

We girls would point, giggling, at our boy cousins as they emerged naked from the water, their tiny penises and testicles shrunken by the cold. They would shrug off our ridicule and we would tire of the game, preferring to gather the little snails called periwinkles from the slick rocks.

Soon lunch would emerge from huge rattan baskets: overstuffed peanut butter sandwiches dripping with my grandmother's blueberry jam, green apples from the tree behind the boathouse, and raspberry Kool-Aid laden with white sugar. We would protest though chattering teeth that we weren't cold at ALL--did we REALLY have to get dressed again? After lunch we would lie prone on our towels, feeling the roughness of pebbles against our naked bodies. Some of us would doze in spite of ourselves, while others would stay awake, counting off the forty-five minutes until we could return to the water.

I've thought of those days often, longing to return to that time--a time of innocence, lying naked with cousins on that rocky Maine beach. I had been away from the islands for many years; school, career and a failed marriage had kept me on the West Coast. Now I was between projects and had some time for myself, so I canceled the newspapers, paid a neighborhood teenager to feed my cats, threw some clothes into a duffel, and caught the first flight I could get to Portland, Maine. As I drove my rented Escort up Route One I felt a growing excitement; there were more quaint tourist businesses along that coastal road than I had remembered, but the essential character of the place had not changed in my long absence. Lobstermen still set their pots along the rocky coast while gangs of seagulls followed, raucously demanding scraps of bait. Wooden gaff-rigged schooners bearing tourists still ghosted majestically over the rippled water of Rockland's harbor. Years ago we had contemptuously referred to these craft with their cargoes of tourists as "cattle boats;" now, watching these stately old boats, I felt a wave of affection. After a twenty year absence I could hardly consider myself anything other than a tourist, but I still had a powerful sense of homecoming.

The Island Ferry waited at the landing, its huge ramp shifting slightly as the boat's motors held it pressed against the dock. I parked in the line of waiting cars and bought a round trip ticket from a puffy-faced woman in the temporary building. Wasn't it a temporary building the last time I was here? I wondered. I took my small duffel from the car and headed for the ladies' room. I had made this trip many times before; I knew that it would be chilly, and that the restrooms on the boat were suitable only for cases of dire emergency.

First things first--I peed, wincing at the cold seat. I pulled a rough woolen sweater from the duffel then pulled my tee shirt over my head. I smiled as I caught a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror. I've never been a vain person, but every now and then I realize that I've been particularly blessed: as I looked at my reflection I saw a woman who might not be drop-dead gorgeous, but who sure as hell is in the top percentile. I'm a natural blonde through and through, thanks to some distant Teutonic ancestor. I wear my hair so it frames my face, and I keep it just long enough to reach my nipples. If I were a guy I'd be a boob man for sure, because I've always appreciated women with good tits--myself included. My breasts are not particularly big (I don't even own a bra), but they're just a perfect shape, with nipples that harden with almost no provocation. My mother used to get on me as I was a budding teenager, buying me lacy brassieres, begging me to "dress properly." I'd go to school wearing the hated garment, then take it off just as soon as I could get to the girls' room. Most days I'd remember to put it back on before I came home.

I had been married for nearly five years and Mom and I had finally become good friends and confidantes, when I finally told her of my deception. I told her how much I liked the feel of fabric against my nipples, how it aroused me. I told her about glancing at boys' tented pants as I walked by, enjoying the effect I was having on them. She laughed so hard I thought she'd pee her pants. She said she'd always secretly admired me for what my father considered "brazenness," and was quite proud of that body she'd helped produce.

As I looked at my own reflection in the mirror I ran my hands over my breasts, lingering on the firm nipples. I felt them respond as though a lover were caressing them. I moved my hands down, tracing the swelling underside of my breasts, then down my ribs to my tummy. If a man is very attentive to me and pays very close attention, he'll discover that there's an almost invisible line of fine blonde hair running from my navel right down to my pussy. That's one of the most sensitive areas of my body--a guy who discovers the secret of plucking at those fine hairs with his lips will be rewarded with a wildly orgasmic woman who will do absolutely anything for him.

Unfortunately, those men seem to be scarce.

"This is silly," I clucked to myself, feeling momentarily foolish for admiring myself in this public restroom. I pulled on the rough sweater, enjoying the feel of the fabric on my bare skin. I closed the duffel, arranged my clothing and emerged into the sunlight.

The line of cars was beginning to move onto the ferry. A crewmember directed me to a spot on the deck, and I parked there. I got out and squeezed between station wagons full of families and vacation baggage and walked forward to lean against the heavy safety chain running across the bow. Twelve miles east, in the middle of Penobscot Bay, I could see the low green lines of the islands that had been my home so long ago. There was a clang of the heavy ramp, a vibration, then a small lurch as the ferry lumbered out into the harbor.

I stood there for all the hour's trip across the bay, savoring the dampness and the salty smell of the bay, watching the low green line grow, then separate into individual islands as our course snaked us through the buoy-marked channel between the islands. The brisk Maine air penetrated the coarse weave of my sweater and I could see the two points of my erect nipples.

We swung around a point of land and suddenly I could feel the vibration of the ferry's engines change as the captain began to prepare for docking in Carver's Harbor. I made my way back to my car, my heart beating a little faster as we neared the Ferry Landing. The captain expertly inserted the big boat into its berth and I had a sudden vision of the ferry as a huge steel cock sliding into a wide, wet vagina. "Where did THAT thought come from?" I asked myself aloud, smiling. It had been a long time since I'd had a serious relationship--I knew I missed the intimacy of a real lover, but this near hallucination was getting a little silly.

I started the car and when the heavy ramp hit the dock with a loud CLANG! I was already in gear and driving onto the island. I hadn't been here for over twenty years, but I was sure I'd be able to find my way to the cabin where I'd be spending the next two weeks. I drove out of town along the winding road for almost thirty minutes looking at old mailboxes and catching glimpses of the bay through the pines. Is that the turnoff? I wondered. No...it was a sharper turn. Drive another hundred yards. There! That's it! Damn! That's not it. I was about to admit temporary defeat and go back to town to ask for directions, when I came to another dirt road that emerged from the dense pine woods. Suddenly I could see in my mind's eye a rattling pickup truck full of laughing cousins, returning from The Village with brown paper bags full of root beer candies and stacks of comic books. The blonde gap-toothed six year old surrounded by pre-adolescent boys was me.

I drove down that dirt road slowly, feeling familiarity wash over me, feeling as though I were actually driving back through time. I rounded a last tight curve in the deeply rutted dirt road and suddenly before me was the white wood frame house of my childhood, overlooking a broad expanse of grass, the boathouse, the Cove.

I pulled my bags from the car, slung them over my shoulder and walked to the main house. The kitchen door was unlocked (some things never change!) and I went in.

The kitchen had the same smells I had loved as a child: the faint soot of the wood-burning stove, flour and yeast from the bread of my long-dead grandmother, the sherry she always used to drink when she was baking. I stood there for several moments, savoring these vivid memories, then carried my bags to the front bedroom; it was always my favorite room, because it had the best view of the Cove, and because it was the first room in the house to get the morning sun.

Unpacking can wait, I said to myself. I changed into tee shirt and cutoffs--I left my panties on a heap on the floor. I love the feel of rough denim against the sensitive skin of my pussy. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm constantly getting orgasms from my pants, but I do enjoy that sensation. These were the kind of pants that used to give my mother fits: they're cut so short the cheeks of my ass can peek out from under the frayed legs. I walked out the kitchen door, being careful not to let the screen door slam (one of my grandmother's favorite complaints about us kids) and down the long grassy path to the pier. I had this side of the Cove to myself, and the solitude was an unaccustomed treat. The white dinghy I'd learned to sail as a child was tied to the float, bobbing gently. On impulse I pulled it in and climbed aboard. The boat had to be over a hundred years old, and showed the best of the Maine boatbuilding tradition. She had been lovingly cared for, and she seemed to speak to me, begging me to hoist her gaff-rigged sail, to venture out into the Bay again. The soft westerly breeze put in its two cents' worth, so I fitted the big wood rudder to the transom, dropped the centerboard, hoisted the sail and cast off.

The boat heeled slightly and picked up speed; the pressure on the tiller was familiar and comforting, and I pointed the boat towards the mouth of the Cove and headed out into Penobscot Bay, tacking around Dogfish Ledge within ten minutes. The breeze was warm on my skin and the lovely old boat spoke to me through the creaking of her oak and cedar, the gentle vibration of the water on her hull, the smell of many layers of varnish and paint. I eased the sail and headed off towards Green's Rock. Somehow I knew that I would be able to find my way to the small island; each new landmark I saw found a response in long-dormant memories and the boat and I seemed to know just where we were going. We sailed on for nearly an hour, passing lobstermen sweating in the sun, watching ungainly cormorants spread wide wings to dry in the sun as their seagull cousins taunted them from above.

At last I found the island. I could see the small beach on the south end where we had played as naked children. I brought the dinghy into the wind close to the beach and when I could see the rocky bottom three feet below me I dropped the sail, grabbed the bow line and jumped over the side of the boat.

The water was colder than I had remembered, and I wondered how I could have spent so many hours splashing in it as a child. I waded ashore, and tied the bow line to a large rock on the beach. The boat bobbed contentedly in the gentle swell.

Years ago I had explored every inch of the island. No one lived there--I'm not even sure if anyone owns it. I began to pick my way over the rocky perimeter of the island, playing tag with the rising tide as it pushed waves against the rocks. My tight cutoffs were still wet from wading ashore, and they clung to my body. As I jumped from rock to rock, the rough denim creased itself into the folds of my pussy and I could feel my clitoris respond ever so slightly to the friction. I feel sorry for all those women who complain in all those women's magazines about how they can't have an orgasm; sometimes I feel as though I could have a beaut just walking around and thinking the right thoughts!

There's a beach on the north side of the island, too. It's a bit smaller than the south beach, but it faces out to the Bay and it's much more private. I walked gingerly across the rocky beach, half wishing I'd brought sneakers, half enjoying the feel of the rocks on my bare feet. I followed the line of the shore on huge rocks worn smooth by millions of years of pounding surf. As I approached the north beach I could see that there was dinghy like mine anchored near the shore. I've been a city girl long enough to have a sense of caution when it comes to strangers--even on a small island in Maine. I stepped silently from rock to rock, wondering if I'd come upon a picnicking family or a pair of lovers enjoying a few stolen moments alone. I was rather hoping it might be the latter, and my heartbeat quickened at the possibility.

I continued carefully along the rocks, almost to the edge of the north beach. I could see most of the beach and I have to admit that I was disappointed to find it empty; I really had hoped to see a couple of lovers rutting on the beach with animalistic abandon. As I was about to cross the pebbled beach, though, I saw shorts and a tee-shirt spread neatly on the rocks. There was a large rocky dome on the opposite end of the beach, about twenty yards away, and on it lay a nude figure. From that distance I could see that he was male, and he was alternately lying inert, then slowly stroking his cock to erectness. He would stop stroking and his erection would subside, then he would resume his slow stroking. Fascinated, I crept closer, hidden by the low bushes bordering the beach. He seemed to be so intent on pleasuring himself that I moved boldly closer, shielded by the bushes.

He was a boy of no more than sixteen or seventeen. He was very slender, and his short hair had been bleached almost blond by the sun. The rest of his body was nearly hairless; the sparse pubic hair over his cock was darker than his hair. His cock was quite long when erect, yet thin. His fingers easily encircled it as he grasped himself.

He lay naked on the domed rock, small waves lapping at his feet. I could see from the tan lines on his belly and legs that he was not one to run around naked in the sun: his chest and legs were nut-brown, but the skin on his belly and around his cock was pale white. His erection had subsided again and his flaccid organ was quite small, but as he slowly stroked it, it grew to a very respectable size.

He would stroke his penis for a minute of so, raising his head off the rock as the pleasurable sensations began to wash over him. I caught my ex-husband jacking off once; it was all very businesslike and efficient. He'd smear some of my Oil of Olay on the head of his cock (Hey! That stuff's expensive, pal!) then pound away as though he was trying to set some kind of speed record. He'd come in a few strokes, wipe himself off with a couple of tissues, then zip himself up and go on about his business as though nothing had happened. That's when I figured out what was wrong with our whole relationship; everything was so efficient, so...let's-get-the-job-done.

I tried to explain to him about my G-Spot once. I even offered to show him exactly where it was--right behind my clit. Easy to find, if you're paying the slightest bit of attention. Once I tried to guide his finger to the spot so he'd be able to find it later with his cock. I know now that I fell in love with his cock; it was just the right size and shape to hit the Spot. I think the one time he got to it was an accident, never to be repeated. I used to give him the best head of his life, hoping against hope that he'd take up the Quest for the Spot again, but it never happened. I'd try dropping hints, then asking him nicely, then telling him graphically, finally trying to position my body to push the head of his perfect cock into just the right place, but he'd fight me. I'd give up then; he'd keep thrusting deeply into my pussy, grunting as he shot his load into me, then giving me a perfunctory kiss as he rolled off me into deep post-coital sleep. Sometimes I'd stroke my own clit afterwards, bringing myself to a desperate, needed orgasm, muffling involuntary cries into my pillow in the darkness.

I kept watching this beautiful young man from behind my concealing shrub. Fascinated, I watched him repeatedly bring himself just to the point of orgasm, then stop, allowing his erection to subside again. He seemed to have all the time in the world. As he was lost in his own pleasure, I dared to move even closer, slipping quietly from bush to bush. At last I was close enough to him that I could have reached out to touch him; I could even hear his breathing if I held my own breath. His eyes were closed as he lay on the rock. His hand still encircled his cock, which was beginning to soften again. I crouched directly behind him, and I knew the only way he would be able to see me would be to raise himself up and turn around. That didn't seem likely, given his total absorption in his pleasure. His legs were spread wide; I could see a light sheen of sweat around his pale tummy. I imagined what the cool breeze must feel like as it caressed his body, drying the sweat around his young balls, cooling the sensitive skin between his scrotum and his asshole.

I could see a tiny drop of liquid emerge from the tip of his cock. I imagined myself licking it, savoring the salty, musky taste. To my surprise, he looked at the droplet, then carried it to his own lips with a finger. I thought back to my ex-husband, whose come I'd swallowed with such abandon. I remembered pulling his head down to my pussy after he'd shot a copious load into me, begging him to bring me to orgasm with his mouth. He had reacted with disgust, rolling over and going to sleep. Yet here was this...child...sampling his own essence, tasting himself without hesitation or reservation.

I watched this process for several minutes, or maybe it was an hour--time seemed to be suspended. My nipples were fully erect now, and the blood that fed them also engorged my breasts, which swell perceptibly when I am aroused. My short cutoffs were still wet, but I could feel my juices flowing liberally. My clit was hardening, emerging from its fleshy sheath and each small movement I made rubbed it against the rough denim of my damp cutoffs. If ever there was a time when I was ready for a good orgasm, it was then! I kept quiet behind my bush, though, afraid of revealing my presence and ruining everything.

The young man began his slow stroking again. The head of his cock was beginning to redden, and I knew how tender it must be. To my relief he reached down into the cold water and splashed handfuls of the salt water onto his tender young flesh. I sensed that he was very close to orgasm now, and wondered for a moment if his first spurt of semen could reach me. He would stroke his cock several times, then carry the small drops of clear liquid to his lips. I was so close that I could see a gossamer bridge of pre-come spanning the short distance between the head of his cock and his lips.

I knew he was going to come this time; he continued his rhythmic stroking--up, down, up, down, up, down--I imagined how it would feel to have that young staff deep in my body--up, down, up, down, in, out... I saw the first spurt of milky semen. It reached over his hairless chest and landed on his cheek. I licked my lips as though it had reached me. He kept stroking himself, and as his orgasm controlled him, he began moaning low in his chest, then uttered mindless, guttural cries. The white come kept emerging from his cock, pooling on his belly, gathering in the hollow of his navel. I knew it would taste sweet, and I wanted to pounce onto him, devouring every precious drop.

To my surprise he scooped the fluid from his belly and brought it to his lips, licking it from his hands, smearing it on his face. After a long while his hand stopped its stroking and he lay back and closed his eyes, apparently spent. His glistening young cock jerked slightly with his slowing pulse, and softened gradually, finally coming to rest on his hairless thigh. I realized that I had been holding my breath and let it out slowly, relaxing my body.

I had been so wrapped up in this erotic drama that all the muscles in my body had tensed. As I relaxed, my feet settled into the pebbles and shells of under me, causing just the slightest sound. I was so close to him that he heard it; he raised his head, straining to hear. He looked to each side, then lay back, satisfied that he had imagined the sound. We were both motionless for perhaps five minutes, and I wondered if he had fallen asleep. Finally he raised himself to his elbows, then sat up, looking around. I held my breath again, sure that the increasing sound of the surf would not be enough to mask the sound of my breathing. As he rolled himself from the rock, he froze. I had concealed myself behind my bush, but my long blonde hair was not so easily concealed. He stared at me, his eyes wide. I rose silently to my feet and faced him.

"Aw, jeez...shit...oh, man," he stammered. "How long have you been here?" I think I know what he was feeling at being discovered in such a private moment, and I wanted nothing more than to ease his embarrassment. He stood before me naked, his face and chest flushed with mortification. I realized that I didn't have the slightest idea how to behave. I was at least fifteen years older than this beautiful young man, and I was sure he saw me as an adult who would judge him harshly because of his self-abuse. Or worse: I might tell someone what I had seen.

I had not said a word; I stood there looking into his eyes, hoping to ease his anxiety and to decide what I should do. Without making a conscious decision I reached down to the bottom of my tee shirt and in one smooth motion I slid it over my head and stood there before him bare-breasted. At least we were on more equal terms now.

He stared at me; his eyes darting from my eyes to my breasts, then back to my eyes. I would have to be the one to break the silence.

"Please believe me--I didn't mean to be spying on you; I was just walking around the island...I sailed over to the South Beach from Long Cove...I hadn't been here since I was a little girl, and we used to swim here, and we had a lot of cousins here, and we used to have picnics, and I'm just here for a couple of weeks, and..." I trailed off, realizing that I was babbling. The young man's embarrassment seemed to subside slightly when he realized that I was at least as ill at ease as he was. I still was in a considerable state of arousal, and my nipples showed it; they felt as though they were protruding nearly an inch from my breasts. My breathing was shallow and rapid, and I was beginning to feel light headed.

"It's not like it's that big a deal," he said. "Everyone jacks off--EVERYONE does it." He looked at me defiantly, as though expecting an argument. I smiled at him.

"You're right," I said. "I've always thought if more people spent more time having orgasms, we'd all be a lot better off." He laughed in spite of himself. He looked toward his clothes spread out on the beach. "Well, I've enjoyed this and all, but I gotta get back." He gathered his shorts, shirt and sneakers and started toward his boat. My heart was pounding and I took a deep breath.

"Wait," I called. "I'm Ann. What's your name?"

"Edward. Eddie. "He kept walking to the water's edge. I dropped my tee shirt and walked after him.

"Wait a minute," I said abruptly. He turned to face me; the sun behind him lit up the golden fuzz on his cheeks. "I did watch you. I did. I didn't mean to, but I did. I couldn't help it. You were just so *good*to yourself; I've never seen that before. It was like you had all the time in the world." I wanted to tell him about my ex-husband and past lovers who just wanted to get their rocks off and go to sleep, how I'd wished for more time in stroking and pleasuring, kissing, sucking, probing gently. Does this feel good? How about this? How about here? Here? Yes. There. Yes. Yes. Oh, yes.

I didn't tell him, though. Instead, I took his hand, guiding it to my breast, hoping he'd understand. We stood there for a long moment. His hand rested gently on top of my breast as we looked into each other's eyes. I moved his fingers to my nipple and he began to trace the aureole. I could feel the blood rushing to the spot as his fingers moved so lightly over my skin. I grasped his hand and led him away from the water's edge. As we reached the top of the beach I dropped to my knees, pulling him down with me. I took his hand and placed it back on my tit, showing him how I liked to have my nipples pinched and kneaded. Without being asked he bent his lips to my breast and began to suck gently.

"Harder," I breathed, and he sucked harder, flicking my erect, sensitive nipple with the tip of his tongue. What a talent, I thought to myself. As he sucked on first one tit, then the other, I could feel the small contractions in my pussy they say are reserved for nursing mothers. As he obediently sucked my nipples I put my mouth to his neck, tasting the saltiness of dried sweat mixed with his semen. I lifted his face from my breast and kissed him: slowly at first, my lips closed, then slowly opening my mouth. He followed my lead perfectly, mirroring my actions. I probed the inside of his mouth with my tongue, felt his tongue in my mouth. I planted messy, wet kisses all over his young face licking off the drying come. I marveled at how sensitive he was: he seemed to respond intuitively to my every action.

I looked down between us and saw that his beautiful young cock was already beginning to respond, rising to horizontal. Ah, youth! I kissed a path down his smooth chest, lingering over the small brown nipples, showing him that a man's breasts have every bit the erotic potential of a woman's. He drew in his breath sharply as I took each small bud into my mouth, squeezing it between my lips, flicking it with my pointed tongue. I licked and kissed down his chest following the salty-sweet track of his dried semen. I could hear his heartbeat increasing as I put my lips and tongue to the smooth skin. I reached his navel, probing and caressing it with my tongue, smelling his scent most strongly there, tasting the concentration of his seed where it had pooled there.

He had stopped fondling my breasts; he didn't seem to know what he should do with his hands. I guided them to the top of my cutoffs. "Would you help me get out of these wet things?" I asked. He fumbled the brass snap open, then pulled the zipper down, revealing the top few hairs over my pussy. I got to my feet, holding him down with a hand on his shoulder. He pulled my damp cutoffs down and I stepped out of them, standing before him nude. My pussy was exactly at his eye level. I spread my legs just a bit to open my outer lips. He stared, and I knew it was the first good close-up he'd ever had. Gingerly he stroked the long blonde hairs there. I enjoyed the sensation, but became impatient. I put my hands behind his head, burying his mouth against my cunt. I lifted one leg and wrapped it around his head, spreading my outer lips and allowing his mouth freer access to my sensitive inner lips and growing clitoris. I stood there for a long moment like a naked blonde stork pulling Eddie's face to me. I had hoped that the musky smell of my juices would give him the idea, but I realized that however talented, my young pupil would need more coaching. I uncoiled my leg from his neck and dropped to my knees again.

I embraced him, cupping his firm young ass cheeks, then drew away from him, looking into his eyes. Slowly I reclined onto my elbow before him. "I'm going to tell you exactly what I want you to do for me. Just trust me, and do what I ask. Okay?" He nodded, wide eyed. I raised my right leg to open the outer lips of my pussy. I knew my clit was beginning to extend from its hood, and the blood was flowing to my inner lips as well, turning them a deep purple. I guided Eddie's hand to my waiting cunt, showing him how I liked to have the sides of my clit stroked. He seemed to know how sensitive it would be, and he dipped fingers into the juices flowing copiously from my pussy for lubrication. He put two fingers into my cunt and I knew he was close to discovering my G-Spot on his own. My breath was faster and shallower now, as Eddie's leisurely discovery of my willing body had its effect.