But currently, Jonathon had another issue that had to be dealt with. Scanning the Charleston waterline out the window of his second story office on the wharf, he flipped the card in front of him between his fingers as if it was an actual menace. He had graduated to the leagues of Charleston’s elite gentlemen it seemed, and he wasn’t at all thrilled with the concept. The embossed invitation spoke of the great honor, the request of his presence at the Sand Dunes Club meeting this coming Sunday. The invitation had even been hand delivered by courier only a few minutes after he finally secured his date with Ellen.
In the past, the Club had only accepted married men of stature. Of late, they had been recruiting more and more single gentlemen, in ‘an effort to guide them appropriately into their futures.’ The Club was intensely secretive regarding its actual purpose. Not once had he seen their name sponsoring any sort of charity or community service. In fact, as he fingered the lettering on the invitation, he knew little about what they did at all. What was their purpose? This was clearly one of his father’s games; it had Dad written all over it. Jonathon didn’t like playing his father’s games, he always lost. But curiosity had the better hand in this game; Jonathon had sent the courier back with his gratitude and acceptance of the invitation immediately.
The Silas Pearman Bridge was a tinker toy creation of some masochistic inventor he thought, as he guided his Impala within its broad lanes. Because of it he tended to avoid anything East of the Cooper altogether, heights had never suited him. It covered the two mile stretch of water far below him, and was the longest bridge of their time. Impressive architecturally, but Jonathon despised the damn thing; it swayed in the wind and was a barrage of oncoming traffic and blaring car horns. He took his first breath when the bridge landed him in the tiny township of Mt. Pleasant. He followed the curving Ben Sawyer Boulevard, catching his first scent of the islands ahead at Shem Creek. The concrete construction of the small bridge over the Shem Creek inlet seemed out of place amongst the beauty of the trawlers and seagulls. Jonathon’s mouth watered at the sight of the red clapboard Trawler Restaurant on his right. Finest fish stew in the world they claimed, and in Jonathon’s opinion they had every right to make that statement. It was silly that every time he came towards the islands such romanticism took control of his mind. He thought of things like the scent of the marshes, the sunset over the strands of grasses bending in the winds, and floating seagulls. At the moment, his mind was slowly moving away from these things, the closer he drove towards Ellen Devereux, the harder his groin became.
He pulled the Impala into her graveled drive just before six. Jonathon smiled at the memories of the summers he had spent within the clapboard rambler, playing monopoly with the Devereux kids, chasing them through the dark forts on the island with only a flashlight as a weapon. The screen door was slightly ajar as he climbed the familiar steps to the back door. All island homes faced the ocean and had their own names, and the Devereux Island Retreat was no different. Anyone arriving at the home by car was forced to use the back door or else trudge through the sand and pesky, painful stickers to reach the front door. Jonathon was not interested in being that formal; he’d dressed in jeans and a loose white button down shirt, Docksiders on his feet, and no socks. He told himself it was appropriate attire for an evening on the beach. In truth, he was more interested in clothing that could be discarded without offending his sensitive apparel care issue. He smelled the seafood gumbo at the top of the steps. Lowcountry Boil was a mixture of fresh local shrimp, sausage, red potatoes, onions and old bay seasoning and it was Jonathon’s all time favorite. His jaws clenched and a pang of hunger shot saliva through his mouth as he reached the top step. Opening the door he called out to Ellen. “Ellen! Where are you? Damn that smells good!”
He was answered with silence. Feeling at home in the kitchen of his childhood summers, Jonathon stepped to the stove, lifted the lid, and moved his face over the boiling pot. “Hmmm...” he said to the absent room. He replaced the lid and saw that saltines and raw oysters had been prepared for snacking. Jonathon snatched one of the saltines and scooped an oyster from its shucked shell. The salty luxury filled his mouth and he let it linger there for a moment before reluctantly swallowing. He opened the icebox and retrieved a cold beer, using the wine bottle opener left on the kitchen table to open it. Stepping into the dimly lit living room, he again called for Ellen. Then he caught sight of a foot. The naked, pink toenail painted foot, slithered past the length of a lounger on the front porch. Jonathon heard her moans before he could take his first step towards the double glassed, open front doors facing the ocean. His heart raced and pounded in his chest, had she forgotten their date? First instinct told him to run. Avoid this awkward moment at all costs, and beat his trek back downtown as fast as he could. For the second time today his curious nature took control, stepping as silently as he could across the creaking wooden floors, he edged towards the doorway. With one eye closed, he peered between the door and the jam to try to catch sight of Ellen and her alternate guest. He held his breath until he saw the truth of the matter, only Ellen resided in the lounger along the wall on the screened porch. She was lying on the cushioned cast iron beach lounge with her blue dress above her waist. Her hands caught in the wetness between her legs, her face turned upwards towards the fan that beat noisily on the ceiling. No wonder she hadn’t heard him come in. Jonathon watched as the fingers of her left hand pinched, tugged and pressed against her rosebud. The fingers of her right hand were delicately forcing themselves inside her. A gust of wind from the ocean shot the scent of her lust through the crack in the doorway. Jonathon’s jeans suddenly tightened their fit; his own hand desperate to adjust his balls as they now became too cumbersome for the cloth that bound them.
Her fingers felt the bumpy texture of her insides, and he imaged them as his own. He’d touch her, finding the single spot she was searching for and pamper it. Other fingers pressed hard on her clitoris, pressing it hard into the bone below, he could see the muscles in her forearms ripple. The deep sensations caused her legs to shiver and he battled the urge to rush to her, hold her, and soothe her need.
His hand pressed tightly against the front of his jeans, the pressure was unbearable, and his cock pushed against the fabric in desperation. His hips bucked against the force of his hand. He humped his hand with fury and his prick responded with dampness that marked his palm through the jeans. His motions were urgent, crucial. Sweat dripped down the center of his spine and he felt it slide under the waist of his jeans and trickle into his ass cheeks below. There was no pretention of holding back; it was a race to the finish. If Ellen finished before him, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back from taking her. It would ruin the gentleman persona he intended to use to win her over; he would appear as a childish boy unable to control his desires. He saw Ellen’s hand tighten between her thighs, her muscles tensed, her back arched, she moaned loudly as her hand slammed inside her to release her orgasm. Jonathon let out an audible groan; he didn’t see Ellen smile as his juices flooded. The spasms of his orgasm shook him to his core and left a wet spot on the front of his jeans.
Suddenly aware of his crisis, he skirted the couches in the living room and quietly latched the bathroom door behind him. Hands went to the white pedestal sink in front of him, the porcelain cold against his hot hands. His sweating beer bottle clanked noisy onto the sink. Leaning his head downward, he sucked air into his lungs trying to assess his plight. The sooner he got his soaked underwear from his body, the less damage would be noticeable. There was no way he could walk out with a big wet spot on the front of his jeans. He reached for his belt buckle and unlatched it. Pulling the zipper down he heard her, “Jonathon is that you?”
“Uh… yeah Ellen… too many cokes at work today. I’ll be out in a sec.”
He stripped as quickly as he could, removing his sticky cotton boxers and setting them on the sink. The front of the jeans had absorbed very little of his come, and he let out a sigh of relief to see that only
a small spot was visible. Pulling them back up his thighs and sliding into his Docksiders, he examined the damage done in the mirror. This was passable, he thought as his hands absently buckled his canvas belt. With horror, it occurred to him that he couldn’t walk out with his come covered boxers in his hand. He spotted the silver trashcan in the corner, on the tiny black and white tiles of the floor. Stepping on its lever, the lid opened. He tossed his boxers in without a thought and let the lid slam closed. Adjusting his unruly curls, he unlatched the door and stepped into the living room.
Hearing his exit, she called out, “I’m in the kitchen, Jonathon!”
From the doorway he saw her struggling to lift the heavy pot of steaming boil. “Here let me do that.” He stepped forward to lift the load from the stove. Steam rushed towards his face as he laid the pot onto the wooden table.
“So… how is work?” she asked, making polite conversation.
“Work is fine, not exactly what I would term ‘challenging,’ but its work.”
“Does your Dad intend to retire anytime soon?” Rumors had been flying.
“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just that your time will become much more limited when you take over the helm.”
Did she want to spend more time with him? She hadn’t agreed to even see him for four months, so who was she to criticize his schedule? He studied her blandly, “It’s not as if I’ll be taking over the helm, your brothers are there after all.”
Ellen giggled, “You have got to be kidding me!”
“What?”
“Come on Jonathon, you’ve been groomed since the day you were born to take over the company. The only reason working there isn’t a challenge for you, is because you’ve understood the business since you were building lego ships on your Dad’s desk!”
She scooped heaping spoonfuls of boil into bowls bearing a fancy pink floral design. Jonathon gazed in thought as she sat the bountiful feast in the prissy bowl in front of him. Popping a shrimp in his mouth, he spoke as he chewed, “I don’t know Ellen. It isn’t like I grew up planning to take over the company; it’s just sort of turned out this way.
“Oh don’t get me wrong Jonathon! Nothing would impress me more than you taking over and guaranteeing my healthy trust fund stays viable through the years!” She waved her arm in the air as if that would be a travesty.
Jonathon choked a little on a bite of sausage as laughter spurt from his lungs. “Dear sweet Ellen, always so pragmatic, no worries my precious. I will personally make sure that your checks arrive on time each month!”
Ellen grinned as she poured them each a glass of merlot and twisted the thoughts in her mind, “Jonathon, at my father’s funeral there was a group of men. I saw you watching them, blue blazers with crests on the pockets. Do you know what club they’re in?”
Jonathon almost choked again; this was not his night. One awkward situation after another seemed to be presenting itself via the charmingly elusive Ellen Deveraux. “Ellen, I know who they are as well as you do, but if you’re fishing for a story then you’re out of luck. I have no idea what those pricks at the Sand Dunes Club do.”
“Wonder what their purpose is?” Ellen chewed on a piece of potato but didn’t deny that she’d indeed been researching them to no avail.
“Of that I am not as clear. The invitation says ‘in an effort to guide them appropriately into their futures,’” he repeated the embossed lettering from the envelope he’d read earlier in the day.
Ellen slugged down her mouthful of merlot, “What? You’ve been invited to join them?”
Jonathon was unsure of her meaning. Did it mean that she didn’t think him adequate of such an honor, or did she think men’s fraternities imbecile and childlike? “The invitation came by courier today. I’m going Sunday night to find out what they want with me.” He said with obvious lack of intrigue, tipping the wine bottle remains into her empty glass.
Ellen Devereux was intrigued enough for the both of them, a hidden Charleston society club! He couldn’t know it, but the last four months had been hell on her. With her father’s death she’d gone into a depression that could only be caused by the acute, sudden awareness of adulthood. The death of a parent can do that; force you to grow up before you had any intention of doing so. But Ellen perked with the thought of the club. That could make for fascinating writing and add much more weight to her investigative reputation. She had no interest in sleeping her way to the top of the Post and Courier, but she was certainly not beyond sleeping her way into some useful information. Jonathon Galloway had suddenly become much more interesting to her. As if he hadn’t been before; but his insight in the club might come in handy. As she slammed another glass of merlot, she became more and more interested. She rose from her chair letting her breasts sway as she bent to remove his bowl. Bending low into the refrigerator she pulled out another cold beer for Jonathon. “Come on my sweet; let’s take a walk in the moonlight.” Her sun tanned hand reached out for his.
Jonathon hadn’t missed the sway of her breasts or the shape of her ass as it bent before him. In fact, his jeans were bulging with proof that he had witnessed all of her enticing movements. He took the hand offered to him, the same one that had pressed her swollen clit only an hour earlier and followed her onto the beach. The warm Atlantic breezes surrounded them, pressing the blue dress against Ellen’s form. She was shaped like a damn hourglass, and he anticipated turning her over and over. Ellen pressed her body to his side, holding his hand with fingers curled between his. From time to time she would bend in front of him to pick up a shell, an angel wing, or sand dollar for her vast collection.
Turning to him, her upturned head beckoned his lips; Jonathon’s heart skipped many beats as he saw the heat in her eyes. Bending low he caught her puckering blossoms within his lips, no pretense was given to the pressing of a friendly kiss, he sought her tongue. Masterfully he intertwined it with his own. It was time to show this woman that he was truly a man and not the little boy she remembered. He pulled her tight against his chest feeling her breasts full against him, hard nipples pointing to the stars. His hand reached beneath her windblown locks and up to the base of her neck. Pulling her face deeper into his own, he could no longer hide his arousal. He let her feel his girth against her belly.
Jonathon kneeled and sat next to her. Reaching for her lips again he drew her close, feeling her cool cheeks, her forehead, and even her nose with his tongue. He wanted to taste every inch of her and was starting at the top. Her neck was scented by lavender; he sucked its narrow front and licked its short length before moving his hand under her breast and giving it freedom. The lolling cantaloupe sized breast peered upwards, aching for his tongue. Licking the nipple, seeing it pucker beneath his eyes was awe inspiring. Shots fired on Fort Sumter couldn’t compare to the blaring message her nipples were sending his cock. Pulling the other breast free of the cottony dress, he graced it with the same appreciation he’d just awarded its twin. He felt her hips move involuntarily beside his leg as her silent signal.
Jonathon’s massive hand slid under the dress slowly. He took his time feeling the sleekness of her thighs, spreading them with his fingertips to gain entry. Ellen moaned with anticipation as his first two fingers sought her clit. When they pressed the button hard against her pubic bone she shuddered.
He felt the slippery slopes of her inner walls contracting against his fingers. Her rose pressed against his palm begged to be touched. He reached down and unzipped his jeans. She moaned in disapproval when he removed his hand. Smiling, he quickly slid his jeans down and the Docksider’s on his feet flew to the wayside. With his naked ass in the chilling air of the beach, he moved atop her. His cock felt as though it was carrying a load of iron as it fell onto her thigh. His lips sought hers; she answered with a groan of desire. Reaching between them he guided the heavy member towards its new home. Pressing it against her, his hand clenched his shaft so that he could control its every shutter; there was no time
for an awkward mistake now. He slid it downward, against her waiting lips. He heard her gasp in delight as it touched her opening; fluids dripping from her moistened him as he moved even further downward, massaging her from the crack of her ass to her clit with his manhood. The beast was now covered in her sensual smelling liquids. He pressed her opening with question, and his eyes met hers for a brief second asking permission to enter.
Jonathon felt the water touch his feet, but Ellen’s throbbing clamped onto his cock in such delirious rhythm that he could have been going down with the Hunley and not cared. The instant groan from her throat, and the fist like grip of her sent him over the edge. He felt her nectar flooding her cave just before his own explosion began. Red flared behind his eyeballs as he shot deep inside her. He held his position until the last shudder rippled past him. Then she loosened her vice-like grip, and he was able to slide himself from their meeting place. Rolling onto his back on the sand, Jonathon took a huge gulp of the fresh salt laden air. “Ellen.” He whispered, “You are amazing.”
Ellen smiled into the deep blue star encrusted sky, “Jonathon, my sweet, you are simply lovely.”
Hand in hand they climbed the water worn wobbly steps to the Island Retreat. “Jonathon would you like to stay for breakfast?”
“I’ll do whatever you say.” Jonathon replied.
We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.
Walt Disney
~Tara Townsend
My Path to the Pole
Shake, Rattle and Roll with it.
I wake up Saturday morning consumed by regret. I’d tossed and turned throughout the night laden, with guilt and misgivings. The desire to run over to the Church and confess my sins is beginning to look like a viable solution. Guilt does nothing to assuage the fact that I feel more alive than I have in years. I shrink into my bed, overwhelmingly confused by emotions that don’t seem rational or healthy. There’s some imaginary sexual line that I’ve stepped over, and disgrace swims over me like thick mist. Maybe a pot of that Hawaiian coffee I’ve been saving for a rainy day will perk me up. It can’t hurt. I climb from my misery and head to the kitchen intent on rearranging my remorse. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and my deep-seated guilt for all things has been carefully incorporated by too many years of hard Catholic paddles. At this moment I’m fairly positive that the tectonic plates of the earth itself are quaking, and it’s entirely my fault.
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