Chapter 3

The remainder of spring trickled away entirely and now a summer sun burned over head. The gulls soared above the gray beach, shrieked to one another, and then dipped and swooped one by one to land on a large rock some distance out into the Atlantic as Roger Johnston lay idly watching. He was stretched out on a pop-patterned beach blanket his daughters had given him on his forty-first birthday. There were other blankets and other people on the beach, all in a cluster near Roger, but beyond this small collection the beach was deserted; for the people were his family -- and the beach was his private property.

The beach was important to all the Johnstons because in the summer and sometimes in the late spring and also in the first few months of fall, he and his family made use of the beach -- together or singly -- every possible moment. While the Cape was swarming with tourists at the public beaches, and while most of the middle-class natives went to restricted beaches owned by -- and thus crowded with -- people from the local communities, Roger and his family had the luxury of their own beach.

It was not large since all Cape Cod beaches, as Roger well knew from his business, could scarcely be any higher priced than they were now, even if they had been plated with gold; and Roger was not a millionaire. Yet he had picked up this beach, which was at the end of the peninsula and separated from the nearby community beaches by two natural cliffs and a string of private piers. From his beach there were no other bathers, and scarcely any boats, to be seen. And as an additional indulgence he had built their private shelter high up onto the rise of one of the cliffs, where it sat, three-walled, the open side facing his stretch of water, like a makeshift castle or monument. It was a bit out of the way for them to traipse up there to change, but they did it, for the cliff was too spectacular not to be used in some way.

Cynthia -- Roger's wife -- came down from the cliff shelter clad now in her bathing suit. It was a one-piece outfit which did not facilitate his looking at her body. Pity, he thought, because he liked her body. She had kept a full trim figure, for a woman of forty the chief feature of which was her voluptuously rounded breasts, but she kept them fully covered by the prudish one-piece bathing suit, and at home when she undressed she always turned away so he could not see her naked curves, much as he loved every inch of them. He had only sucked her breasts half a dozen times in his twenty years of marriage.

He simply was not persistent enough in his physical desires, strongly as he felt them; and moreover, he was not experienced enough to know how to be persistent. Though he did not realize it, Cynthia had a latent hot streak which a skilled lover could have brought out and developed to a rich fruitation, but lacking such a lover, she made love only as a duty. She comported herself; she was so sexually frustrated that she was a virtual powder keg of inhibitions.

Her husband saw only the consequences -- her distant attitude toward him, her frustration -- and not the causes which he might have corrected if he had known them or been able.

Nor did Cynthia know the causes. The consequences, however, were so developed that she and Roger lived in separate world, worlds rushing daily farther apart.

Yet here she was bouncing along the beach -- her full, wide-set breasts heaving beneath the confining suit -- to lie on her blue blanket beside him, a soft curling tendril of wispy pubic hair escaping unnoticed from the tight leg band of her bathing suit. She began to apply her suntan lotion and, in the middle of the process, stopped to light a cigarette which she then allowed to dangle from her soft sensual lips.

She was not the only problem: The other was his business. He had begun as an insurance salesman and methodically over the years developed this modest start into an operation of his own, now employing well salaried people. That was the insurance end of the business, ever expanding, ever demanding more of his time. In addition, there was the other end of the business: Real estate. Combining insurance and real estate in one company was often seen on the Cape, but for Roger it had proven an unusually successful formula.

The real estate branch now sported several new offices and at the latest count he was paying the salaries and commissions of fourteen people to run them. Managing the brokers was not easy, and some were a bit excessive in the wheeling and dealing they did in Roger's name, bringing him a string of law suits. This was his alley -- he was a lawyer by training -- and he always did get through the suits unscathed or only lightly damaged. Yet they grated on his nerves just as the whole business enterprise grated on him.

It all took too much time and concern, and the result was that he had begun to drink. This problem was about a year old now and had steadily escalated as he sought to drown his troubles in booze -- the troubles, and more so, the sexual estrangement of his wife -- although he felt guilty at trying to escape from reality this way.

Today he had taken off from work to try to face his problems head- on, intending to relax on the beach and think out the entire business. He would be with his family, and above all -- what he repeated to himself over and over -- he would not touch a single drop of liquor.

School was out for the summer now and out of the corner of his eyes he could see his daughter Ellen and his older daughter Louise reach the rock where the sea gulls gathered and, clambering up on it, scaring the gulls away into shrieking flight. Ellen stood glistening on the rock, just out of the water, both parts of her tiny two-piece white bathing suit nearly falling off from the ripening curves of her body. He thought he could see the top of the triangle of her young blonde pubic hair -- but perhaps it was his imagination, and he felt relieved when Ellen tugged at her suit to pull it back up into place But even then it could not mask the tantalizing cleavage of her jutting young breasts and in the back it did not attempt to cover the top inch or so of the narrow crevice between her two smoothly curved buttocks. The wetly clinging suit indented at the thinly dividing slit of her pussy -- and he thought he could see the entire swollen length of it where the suit clung so lewdly.

He pulled his eyes forcibly away... he would have to get a grip on himself!

His older daughter Louise was totally a different creature, seventeen, and thus more fully developed than thirteen-year-old Ellen, with full beautifully rounded buttocks and firm voluptuous breasts just as developed as Roger's wife's. He stared at his older daughter as she smoothed her short dark hair while standing on the rock. He had not seen her naked since she was ten, and he couldn't help wondering what that ample, classically formed body would look like without clothes. He guessed her pubic curls would be dark brown like the rest of her hair, totally different from that of his fair blonde daughter, just as her dark complexion -- fully tanned already by the first few beach outings -- was also a sharp contrast to Ellen's. In height and build Louise was nearly the equivalent of two Ellens, and he momentarily studied her statuesque body outlined enticingly by the wet black bathing suit. This was the result of his vowing not to drink today and to be with his family: It only increased his frustration, only incited his slowly building sexual arousal.

The older brunette daughter was clowning around on the rock with Ellen, trying to push the smaller but stronger girl into the water, and the two of them flexed back and forth, climbing around the rock for new footings. Jesus Christ, the ass on Louise! -- he had never really noticed until today. Her tight black bathing suit was also a bikini, but in keeping with his older daughter's more prudent character, it was not quite as brief as Ellen's, and it showed none of the crevice between her generously molded ass-cheeks but only the two saucy dimples on her back just above where the narrow crevice would begin.

Louise was like syrup: Thick, flowing, moody and rich, tending sometimes towards lethargy, but it was an elegant and fluid, womanly sort of lethargy. She would make someone a good wife. She would make someone a good fuck too!

He heard her laugh as Ellen succeeded in pushing her loose from her footing, then he saw her thrash wildly in the water before clambering up onto the rock, and as she climbed up on all fours he saw from behind the tantalizing swell of her pubic mound and a few curly wisps of black pubic hair which escaped from the leg band of her black bikini panties as she struggled, laughing, back up onto the rock. As she jumped upright, her breasts, full and ripely matured, nearly tumbled out of the overflowing cups of her swim suit brassiere. She must have been a forty -- God would he like to feel those twin mountains of soft flesh into throbbing passion! And those tiny nipples which he could see thrusting out against the thin material of her wetly clinging suit -- how he could fondle and rub them into fleshy stiffness, how he could run his mouth and tongue moistly over them, how he could take the small sensitive tips of her breasts into his mouth and try to swallow them.

Christ, what was he thinking, what sort of a degenerate was he becoming, lying here on the beach and mentally seducing his own daughters? This was what not drinking led to!

Louise's personality fit with her body like a glove. She was smart but no genius like Ellen, enjoying heavier music of the romantic period and dating boys on the intellectual side -- indeed, he wondered if she even kissed them, for always when he saw Louise and a boy friend they were involved in heated, hand-gesturing discussions. Her temperament was slow to react and, once reacting, was slow to stop reacting. All of this fitted with her slow, voluptuous movements, the extreme ripeness of her seventeen-year-old body, the womanly maturity she had required which was more than that of the ordinary seventeen-year-old girl.

She was steady and trustworthy and, unlike Ellen, was allowed to date freely, had in fact been doing so since Ellen's age. God, he wished she would spread her long shapely legs a bit more -- she was sprawled back down on the rock and he could see the long narrow indentation of her cuntal slit where the black swim suit fitted snugly over the intriguing mystery of her covered mound. He put himself mentally into the scene; he was on top of her with his fingers creeping up inside the tight elastic leg band of her suit; he was teasing her softly curling pubic hair; he was separating the hot wet lips of her pussy and he was calling out to her:

"Louise! Louise! Louise!"

Holy Christ, this he had not imagined -- he had actually called out! She lifted her knee in surprise, giving a beautiful view of her large rounded buttocks peeking tantalizingly out of her suit, and then she came to her feet. She dived off the rock and then surfaced -- head, arms, and firmly rounded buttocks -- swimming towards him while his younger daughter Ellen and his wife on the blue blanket next to him paid no attention. Now she was on the beach walking towards him -- dark, mysterious, jiggling succulently, dripping wet, her ripe voluptuous breasts swaying from side to side as she moved. She came up beside him and kneeled down at his side on the blanket, an innocent, inquiring look, on her cleanly sculpted face, Roger's eyes riveting guiltily on her fully hanging breasts, and the outline of her nipples while he counted, out of the corner of his eye, the wisps of soft black pubic hair curling from under the leg bands of her suit as she kneeled: One, two, three, four, five. Good God, how would he ever get himself out of this?