Beach Baby

by Lynn Lake

  “Warm enough?” His voice was icy cool and deep. A confident man, I thought. I nodded. Soft jazz played on the stereo. I relaxed back into the seat. I could feel warm air circulate through the car. It had been a long day and I was tired. I closed my eyes, feeling myself drift towards sleep. I began to dream. Jake and I were kissing. His hands stroked my face. Then I woke with a start. It wasn’t Jake’s hands. It was his, the driver’s. I didn’t know his name. His fingers were tracing over my right cheek, down my neck, resting on my top. I looked round.

  “Sorry,” he said, not sounding it. “Your skin’s beautiful. I had to touch you.” Not the kind of man who asked permission.

  I stared at him. Eventually he pulled his hand away. There was silence for a few minutes as we drove. Then he pulled off the main road onto a rural lane. This wasn’t the right way. I knew that of course, but I said nothing. My stomach was full of tiny butterflies. I squirmed in my seat. But still I remained silent. He spoke first.

  “Okay if I pull over?”

  I nodded my assent. We glanced at each other. His gaze was appraising, his eyes roved over me. I felt naked and crossed my arms across my chest. I could hear my own breathing, shallow, quick, excited. Stop soon, I thought. I can’t bear the waiting. As if he’d heard me he pulled the car into a gap by a farm gate and switched off the engine. Without the powerful purr the silence felt tangible, like a wall between us. Until he reached over.

  “Take off your jacket,” he commanded, touching my shoulder. And I did, throwing it onto the back seat. His fingers were warm, his touch light. This time they traced down to the top of my arm, pulling my top away. He leant over and just barely kissed my exposed flesh, his lips skimming over my arm and shoulder, his tongue wetting my skin, his hot breath following on. My eyes were closed.

  “Turn to me,” he said. And I did. His hands cupped my face now and then I felt his lips on mine, insinuating a kiss from me, forcing my mouth open, his tongue pushing its way in, entwining with mine. Desire flooded through me. I responded, exploring his mouth in turn, pressing my lips against his, biting gently with my teeth, him reciprocating until my lips began to feel bruised, sore, but alive with tingling need. I shivered. My top was thin, fine cotton and a snug fit. It was one of Jake’s favourites. I wore no bra, one of the surprises I had ready for Jake. My nipples were erect, pressing against the fabric, clearly visible. He looked down at them.

  “I want your top off. Now. Over your head.”

  “It’s too tight,” I replied. “There are buttons at the back.”

  “I can’t fuck around with buttons.” The words sounded strange uttered in his cultured, cool tone. He reached round my back and pulled my top apart, buttons flew all over his car. He discarded the slip of fabric somewhere near my jacket. My breasts were exposed now.

  “Raise your arms.” I did what I was told. My breasts felt full, heavy with lust, needing to be touched.

  “Shame about your top,” he said. “It was pretty, but these are prettier.” His hands cupped my breasts, his fingers squeezing pleasure from my nipples. My body felt aflame now. There was no danger of the cold outside having any effect. I threw my head back, his lips grazed my nipples, licking softly at first, then biting, chewing, sucking. The wetness on my breasts, from his saliva, was echoed in my pussy. I squeezed my legs together, already feeling close to orgasm. Having my breasts caressed like this had that effect.

  “Over here. Come on.” With the push of a button his seat flew back and then reclined. The action was smooth. He helped me over the gear stick and handbrake, my breasts bouncing close to his face, and I straddled his legs, the suede of my boots brushing against the expensive denim of his jeans.

  “Knickers go next I think,” he said as he pushed his hands up my thighs and under my skirt. There was Jake’s second surprise. I wasn’t wearing any.

  “Fuck me, did I pick the right hitchhiker tonight.” He pushed my skirt up round my waist and cupped the cheeks of my arse, pulling me down his lap. Much as I was enjoying this, and I certainly was, the moist spot left on his jeans by my juices told us both that, I felt at a slight disadvantage. I was almost naked, he was still fully dressed. He had been in charge so far; it was time for me to take control and for him to see what I was made of. I placed my hands either side of his open-necked shirt and tugged. His buttons fell into his lap and he brushed them away.

  “I like a woman with spirit,” he whispered as I ran my hands over his smooth, muscular chest, tearing his shirt from him and added it to the pile of discarded clothes. Though it was dark I could clearly see the bulge of his erection pushing against his jeans. That could wait, I thought. There was more I wanted him to do to me first. And at that moment I could tell he was feeling the same. With one hand he raised me slightly from his lap, whilst he pulled the other forwards down the crack of my arse and thrust his fingers deep into my dripping cunt.

  “Fuck me,” I cried, surprised at the suddenness of his movement.

  “I intend to,” he replied. “But not just yet.” I opened my legs and rocked backwards slightly, allowing him as much access as possible. My pussy clenched around his pumping fingers and I could feel cool air around my clit. He allowed me to fall to his lap and twisted the fingers of his other hand into the curls of my mound, searching for my clit, which was begging for his attention. Parting my lips he caressed and rubbed until I felt my orgasm almost overwhelm me, my pussy tightening around his fingers. He’d done this before. He was good. I drew back from him, pulling his fingers out of me. I wasn’t ready just yet.

  He looked up at me, as if to say, what now? But remained silent. With little room to manoeuvre I got onto my knees, placing my pussy at the same height as his face.

  “Lick me,” I commanded, feeling in control now, pushing my mound against his lips. And he did. And the sensation was the sweetest thing. I felt the moistness of his lips and tongue blend with the wetness of my cunt. I felt his tongue work right into me, more nimble still than his fingers, lapping at me, sucking my juices from me. I was in ecstasy, moaning with pleasure and delight, not caring where I was, who might see me, no longer afraid. If this was danger then I wanted it to the max. His hands kneaded both breasts as I grinded away against his tongue. I could feel my release was close now, and I was ready. His tongue could fuck me into oblivion for all I cared, but then, suddenly he stopped.

  “No, please, you must finish,” I begged.

  “What, and let you have all the pleasure. Dream on, woman. I picked you up. I’m giving you the lift. Time for you to return the favour.”

  I dropped onto his lap, keeping myself aroused by rubbing against the denim of his jeans. Pushing my arse back I leant forwards and opened his belt, pulling it through the belt loops. Then I started on the buttons. His cock was straining for release. He could hardly say there was no pleasure for him in pleasing me. Not if the size of his erection was anything to go by. I opened the buttons slowly, looking up at his face. His eyes were closed, he was biting his lip. He was enjoying this. I put my face down, ready to take his cock into my mouth as soon as it was released from his boxers. First I licked the tip, tasting the tiny droplets of come that rested there, both sweet and salty. He shivered, I assume with pleasure. Then I took the length of him into my mouth. He raised his arse, both to push himself deeper into me, and to pull his jeans and boxers down. Now I could cup his balls as he had my breasts. I felt them tighten in my hand. His orgasm was close too. He groaned. I moved my head back, then down again, increasing my speed, and, judging by the noises he made, his pleasure. Then I felt his hand run along my slit again, his fingers first inside me, then rubbing my clit. I pressed against him and our rhythms soon matched. This was so fucking good. It didn’t matter to me where we were, or even who he was. He was giving me so much pleasure I didn’t care. Together we pulled away from each other, just in time.

  “I’m going to fuck you properly now,” he said, pulling a condom over his throbbing cock.

  “Good,” I replied as I lowered
myself onto him slowly, feeling his cock fill me more satisfyingly than his fingers had. Again we moved together, immediately in stride with each other. He held and rocked my hips, my clit rubbed against him. I was going to come now, this time it would be unstoppable. My body began trembling with pleasure. He took my right breast between his teeth, intensifying the moment, that beautiful moment just before the orgasm exploded through me, sending ripples of pleasure first through my cunt, spreading soon throughout my whole body. Just as I felt my release I felt him increase his thrusts. He was close too now, I could tell. I looked down at his face; he was at that moment of surrender. There was no going back for him either. He plunged into me, increasing his rhythm, his cock spurting his seed as his orgasm overwhelmed him. He came to rest on my breasts. I laid my head against his shoulder, as though we were lovers, familiar with each other, not strangers, not even knowing each other’s names. My orgasm, though fading now, still pulsed through me, those ebbing shudders extending my pleasure.

  “You’re good,” he said. Then there was silence. We pulled on our discarded clothes as best we could. My jacket just held my top on, and I tugged my skirt over my still throbbing mound, exploring with my fingers that place that had so recently received a good fucking. Taking a sideways glance at him I could see he was doing the same to his cock, obviously reluctant to leave the memory of a good time behind.

  We didn’t speak on the drive into town. He dropped me by the train station. Just as I was about to get out of the car he pushed his hands between my thighs and thrust one finger deep inside me.

  “Still wet, good. Now get out.”

  I ran my hand over the bulge in his jeans. The bulge that I could see harden and grow.

  “Don’t worry, I’m going. Thank you for the lift.” I slammed the door and he roared away from me.

  Five minutes later I opened our front door.

  “You’re late,” accused Jake.

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “Come here. Let me look at you.”

  I stood in front of him. He was certain to see. Even if my clothes weren’t dishevelled and torn he would read the look on my face, spot my bruised, reddened lips. He looked me up and down.

  “Was he good?”

  I nodded. He pulled me down to straddle his lap.

  “Tell me about it, slut, I want every detail,” he demanded as he pushed my skirt round my waist, parting my legs further. I tugged at the buttons on his jeans, and dropped my head down. Actions speak louder than words.

  Mushroom Strudel

  by Astrid L

  Simone left her Renault behind Steven’s Jeep and ran to the front door of the cottage. She pulled the fur-trim of her hooded parka close about her cheeks, then she thumped the brass horse-head knocker and waited. She thumped again. Wiggling the round knob Simone found the door unlocked. She pushed it open. A slapping sound came from the kitchen. She edged closer.

  A young woman in an oversized sweatshirt and large woollen socks stood with her back to Simone. The girl was engrossed in slapping a white mass onto a marble slab and kneading it. Dark red curls tumbled over her shoulders. Her hips rolled as she dipped to her knees, baring a decollete of buttocks beneath French silk panties.

  Simone cleared her throat. The girl spun around. Green eyes looked Simone up and down. Simone felt a prickly warmth creep up her neck. Who was this girl? Where was Steven? What was she doing here in Steven’s clothes?

  “Bonjour,” said Lucia.

  “I was looking for Steven, the Englishman. Are you ... a friend?”

  “You could say that. My name’s Lucia. You must be Simone.”

  Simone froze. “How do you know? Where is he?”

  Lucia turned back to the table, took up the white mass of dough and slapped it once again onto the marble slab. “He went to chop wood,” she said. “He was out all morning ... picking mushrooms.”

  Simone’s eyes fell on the rough wicker basket heaped with autumn’s spoils: yolk-yellow chanterelle; translucent grey oyster mushrooms; black, wizened morels; and the creamy-white king bolete with its brown, fleshy ridges on the underside.

  “You have to be careful,” she said. Lucia kept kneading. “I told Steven which ones were poisonous. There were some he didn’t know.”

  There was something disturbing about the young woman. Simone felt her cheeks warm like a pre-heating oven, mixing emotions of jealousy, sadness and seduction like forest scents or fresh, yeasty dough. Simone slipped off her parka and hung it over the back of a chair.

  “I’m making strudel,” Lucia said. “Mushrooms. Wild ones. Although I shall mix in the shiitake.” She turned her green eyes on Simone. “Don’t you think they’d give it an exotic touch?”

  Simone fingered the mushrooms in the basket. She glanced at Lucia bearing down on the dough. “Do you want me to help? Clean them?”

  Lucia nodded. “Take that apron over there.” She stopped, both hands resting on the dough. “The oven’s heating. Don’t you want to take off your pullover?” she said, her eyes travelling over Simone’s ochre mohair.

  Simone pulled off the mohair and attached the apron, slipping the fastened bib over her head. The apron skirt dipped down to protect her front.

  “Perhaps knead the dough. It’s quite tiring,” Lucia said and sprinkled more flour on the counter. “So that it won’t slip,” she added and pushed a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand causing tiny speckles of flour to trace her jawbone.

  Simone wiped her hands on her apron and plunged both hands into the dough.

  “Push down, Simone. Push with both heels of your hands. Draw the dough back with your fingers. Keep the rhythm.”

  Simone pulled and pushed, and pulled and pushed. Her whole body was moving in harmony. As she leant forward to push with the heels of her hands across the counter, her knees bent so slightly in a rolling motion that swelled through to her shoulders bearing down on the dough.

  Lucia took a step back to gaze at the hypnotic movement. The only sound was the cool flap-flap against the marble and the sound of rhythmic breathing. Simone kept on kneading, eyes half closed.

  “That’s good,” Lucia said and began cutting earth and rough edges from the mushrooms.

  The pearly dough felt like silk in Simone’s hands. She bore down, kneading, building up a gentle rhythm. It had a strangely calming effect, yet gave way to a prickling about her chest. As she loosened the buttons of her moss green silk blouse, her eyes met Lucia’s.

  The younger woman held the creamy crown of the king bolete and was plucking away the fleshy stem. She ran her fingers over the inside ridges almost as if in a caress. “It’s so soft, so fragile,” she murmured. “Yet so resistant.”

  Simone felt a triggering in her core and lowered her eyes to concentrate on the dough.

  “Ever done this before?” Lucia asked.

  Simone looked at Lucia. Her throat blocked the sound of her voice as she slowly shook her head.

  “Mushroom strudel... I mean,” Lucia said. Her green eyes laughed.

  So she’s calling my bluff, Simone thought. The strange thing was that it had become a game, and each layer of apprehension was slowly being stripped away. No longer jealous, Simone found she was becoming the object of Lucia’s desire. It was an unusual and new feeling, even if it felt like being equated to the insides of a mushroom. Simone laughed.

  Lucia looked up, puzzled. “May I share?” she asked.

  “Seems to be what it’s all about,” she said. “The king bolete certainly is a magnificent specimen.”

  Lucia pulled off her sweatshirt and stretched her arms. “It’s getting hot,” she said.

  “Indeed,” Simone said with a smile.

  Lucia looked down at her oversized socks and giggled. Her silk camisole top barely hid the tautness of her nipples. Simone felt a gentle wave push through her at the sight of Lucia’s arousal. How was this game to be played? she thought. Just let the wave carry you, a voice inside her whispered.

  Then Luc
ia came round to Simone’s side of the table. “Aren’t you hot? We’re all alone here, you know. Just us girls.” She smiled as she slipped the tape of the apron over Simone’s neck and let the bib dip down to her knees. Simone closed her eyes as Lucia’s fingers slipped each pearly button of her blouse through each snug buttonhole. Her breasts ached for attention as tiny ripples ran within her.

  “You’re lovely, Simone,” Lucia whispered behind her ear and gently teased a finger about one nipple. It hardened instantly.

  Simone’s pulse raced. She didn’t move, almost swaying in a trance to the stroking of Lucia’s finger.

  “There, that’s better,” Lucia said as she slipped the blouse from Simone’s arms. Then she brought the bib back over Simone’s head. “Want me to handle the dough a while?”

  Simone nodded. She glided to the other side of the table. The mushrooms were soft and pliant under her fingers. She cut through them easily with the sharp knife, like cutting through room-warm butter.

  “I’ve already chopped the leeks, the shiitake and the walnuts,” Lucia said. “Just mix them in and add the oregano, sesame seeds and pepper ... as you would in your own kitchen,” she added with the hint of a smile.

  Simone’s fingers sifted through the browns and beiges and ambers, revelling in the change of textures from the soft and moist of the mushrooms and leeks to the hard, smooth feel of the walnuts. She added a generous dollop of soy sauce and mixed in some cooked rice, breathing in the precious aromas released by her ministrations.