‘Yeah, OK. Just don’t stop.’
Then Suzie’s sexual worlds collided. Her eyes squeezed shut as the tidal wave of pleasure consumed her. She clinched her teeth as he’d instructed. ‘Oh, sheeeeiiiit!’ Her legs went as straight as a mannequin’s as she allowed her climax to run from her insides outward to her extremities.
Dwayne didn’t stop moving, but he slowed his stroke, bringing her down slowly. She liked that, glad for the continued feel of being filled up like a race car with the gas hose ready to pump her full of extra gas. She could take more. She wanted to be filled until semen splashed from her tank. His movements had tenderized her clit and labia masterfully like a lump of butter basting a fine cut of meat. She wanted his cock to love her until she melted around it. Wanted him to melt into her.
‘Way to go, honey,’ a female voice said.
Suzie’s eyes shot open. Andrea was standing with some guy next to her and Dwayne.
‘You were watching us?’ Suzie asked, a tad embarrassed.
‘Yeah. You put on quite a show. And you are hot, cous. Very hot.’
Suzie didn’t try to get up or get Dwayne off of her. His cock felt much too comfortable inside. As her eyesight adjusted, she noticed that Andrea and her friend wore nothing but their tops and a smile. She also noticed that Andrea’s pussy was shaved. Boy, her friend had changed from top to bottom since hitting the coast.
‘You have anything left in the tank, cowboy?’ Andrea asked Dwayne.
‘For you, Andrea, always.’ He pulled his pecker slowly from Suzie’s wet and still throbbing cunt. ‘You don’t mind do you, Suzie? Andrea and I go way back.’
‘Besides, it’s all between friends,’ Andrea giggled.
Dwayne’s hard-on was still impressive. How could Suzie say, “Yes, I mind. My steamy jaws of love want more, more, and more.”
Andrea also admired Dwayne’s erect dick. She slipped out of her bikini top, dropping it onto her shorts and a huge, folded beach blanket. Her new and improved bubble-tits burst forth proudly, the brown nipples as stiff as Suzie’s. ‘My tits are no match for yours, Suzie,’ Andrea declared, ‘but I’m willing to play seconds.’ She turned her back to the small gathering, placed her feet firmly in the sand and bent over, resting her hands on her knees. Her twin torpedoes pointed toward the earth and studied the sand as if someone might come along and want to milk them.
Dwayne walked up behind Andrea and slipped his dick inside her shaved pussy as easily as when Suzie’s twat had given it refuge. Suzie thought of the old saying, “any port in a storm.” Once again, she couldn’t take her eyes off two other people lustily going at it. She would never have guessed she had such a proclivity for voyeurism.
The guy who’d been standing next to Andrea walked up to Suzie without her even noticing. ‘They call me Johnny-boy,’ he said.
She looked at Johnny-boy for the first time. He wasn’t the same guy Andrea had left the party with. But again, she wasn’t going to try and decipher party etiquette. His cock drooped beneath the tail of his T-shirt. It was somewhat smaller than Dwayne’s, but just as pretty – perhaps even prettier. She wondered if each cock she ran into from now on would seem prettier than the last. She liked looking, but she liked fucking even more. Whatever Andrea had gotten her into she didn’t much care to get out of.
Suzie climbed to her knees and reached for Johnny-boy’s dick. She could smell pussy-juice on it and wondered if it belonged to Andrea or to some other beach-baby. She didn’t much care and knew there would be another new element of excitement this time. Johnny-boy could do her while she watched Andrea getting fucked. Where will these new desires lead? She thought she knew.
Andrea and Dwayne turned their heads to watch as Suzie stuck Johnny-boy’s cock in her mouth and face-fucked him. ‘Not bad for a couple of small-town girls, huh, Suzie?’ Andrea remarked.
Suzie couldn’t answer because her mouth was filled with tube-steak. The two bronzed young men reminded her of the football weightlifters back in school. But the rippled pecks, flat stomachs, and sun-kissed skin made these guys more appealing. If only the prudes back home could get a gander of their buxom little Suzie now? They probably wouldn’t let her back into town.
‘Jeez, can this dude fuck,’ Andrea announced. ‘Oh, fuck, Dwayne – I’m coming.’
As Andrea shivered with pleasure, Suzie squeezed Johnny-boy’s bare cheeks and pulled them toward her face swallowing most of his cock in the process. She wanted her partner’s load down her throat while Andrea was getting her lower tank filled.
Dwayne and Andrea separated and approached Suzie and Johnny-boy. Andrea positioned herself behind Suzie and practically laid her tits on Suzie’s head. She asked Dwayne to stick his dick back inside her while she observed Suzie’s continuing blow-job. Johnny-boy seemed to know what Andrea wanted.
Suzie knew she was about to get her wish. Johnny-boy was close. Then suddenly he pulled free of her hungry mouth and pointed his dick at Andrea, who opened her pie-hole and waited.
‘Come on, boys. Come to momma,’ Andrea said to both men.
Soon Johnny-boy volleyed his hot, squirting stream of come into Andrea’s waiting orifice, past the lips and down the hatch. Not fair, Suzie thought, but she was new to these hedonistic sex games.
‘I’m looking at a four-tittied sea-maiden,’ Johnny-boy quipped, as his spent, but still pretty cock danced in front of Suzie’s unhappy mouth.
Andrea smacked her lips, wiped the excess come from her chin and boobs, and pinched some stray semen out of Suzie’s hair with her fingers. ‘You are what you eat, cous, and these guys are ummm, ummm good,’ she told Suzie. ‘I’ve had enough for now, Dwayne, so you can liberate your one-eyed rascal from my joy-box.’
Andrea stood beside Suzie. She tilted Suzie’s face up toward hers and smiled. ‘I like it in both ends at once, but don’t worry, baby, you’ll get plenty. You’ve passed the sucking and fucking tests. I know about 20 good-looking guys that would love to fuck you. We’ll see how many we can work our way through while you’re here. Come on –upsy-daisy.’
Suzie got to her feet. The beachfront lights twinkled while the group’s eight groping hands began to fondle each other’s bodies. Reserves of passion were still in evidence. An older couple strolled along the beach. Andrea grabbed her towel. The foursome wrapped themselves inside it, el buffo, with body parts rubbing against other body parts. They tried not to laugh too loudly. The couple eyeballed them curiously, but walked on.
After the strangers were down the beach a ways, Andrea said, ‘Let’s get wet.’
All four of them ran into the water and frolicked. While in the surf, Suzie let Andrea suck her titties. She returned the favour while the two guys played with themselves for a change. She had certainly entered a brave new world. When they climbed out of the water, they dried each other with the towel, slipped into their skimpy duds, and returned to the party, which had thinned out a bit.
Suzie didn’t see the bar-fuckers, but another couple was screwing each other’s brains out in the bathroom. This particular guy had the object of his affection bent over the edge of the bathtub, leaving the toilet free to those that had other business to attend to. Suzie watched them for a while before putting one of her feet on the toilet seat and finger-banging her pussy. By now she knew exactly what had gotten into her: cocks and come and an insatiable taste for sex. The scent of sweaty bodies in rut came off the couple, and she liked that too. Living on the beach could be awfully handy. A quick dip to wash off the smell of sex and you could go at it again.
Before the night ended, Johnny-boy promised Suzie that he would come over to Andrea’s later in the week and bring a friend. He knew that he owed Suzie a clit-lick, or maybe two.
And, for Suzie, the rest is beach-blanket history, because she got a job where Andrea worked and started rollerblading with dozens of other bikini babes. She didn’t go back home except for a quick vis
it during the holidays, when everyone marvelled at her tan.
Burano Lace
by Giselle Renarde
From Milan to Venezia, Polo and I spent most of our honeymoon flitting about Northern Italy. It was a lovely time. Polo was born in Italia, so he was already familiar with the country’s conventions. Wonderful to have a husband who could serve as translator as well. My own attempt to learn the language seemed a success until we arrived in Italy. Everybody spoke a mile a minute. I was able to catch the odd word, but never keep up with a conversation. Thank God for my Polo!
As the final days of our perfect vacation approached, we decided to take a little excursion out to Burano. I’d seen a brief snippet about the island on a travel programme, and I couldn’t believe it was as quaint as the travel guide claimed. Burano eradicated my scepticism. The car-free island just North of Venice took me back in time. Without cars to contend with, the atmosphere seemed more human than in big cities. The houses were tremendous. Though tightly packed into narrow streets, all were painted in cheery shades of blue, green, yellow, red, and on and on. I’d never seen such brightly-coloured homes. The residents had a brightness about them, too. Their eyes sparkled with old world knowledge. They exuded pride in their preserved culture.
As I walked hand-in-hand with Polo beside one of the island’s canals, I realised his gaze had fallen on a pretty young thing sitting with three older women outside a peach-coloured house. A surge of jealousy ran through my veins that my newlywed husband would spend our honeymoon looking at other women. I squeezed his hand.
Pulling away from me, he cried, ‘What was that for?’
‘You think I didn’t notice you ogling that girl over there?’ I asked, setting my closed fists against my hips. It was our honeymoon! He should have been looking at me.
Polo threw his head back in a fit of laughter. ‘You have the wrong end of the stick, my love. They’re lacemakers, all those women over there. Look at that. They’re busy making authentic Burano lace.’
So they were. And just the artisans I’d come to the island to see. I took Polo’s hand in mine, feeling rather sheepish as we wandered toward the women.
‘Buon giorno,’ Polo greeted them as we approached. He said something else too, but I didn’t follow. The three older women chuckled. The youngest of the four carried on with her weaving without looking up. The two women sitting between the oldest and youngest spoke at me, smiling and fast. Of course, I hadn’t a clue what they were saying.
‘Mia bella moglie è inglese,’ Polo told them. His lovely wife was English. He’d gone all over Italy apologizing for me.
‘Ah,’ one of the middle-aged women said with a nod. ‘You see, we make the lace. My daughter and me, my mother and her mother. We all make Burano lace.’
The white haired woman at the end of the line tugged at Polo’s shirtsleeve, babbling away at him. ‘She’s asking if we’ve heard the legend of how Burano lace was first made.’
I reflected. ‘I think I read it in the museum’s pamphlet. Something about seaweed.’
The elderly woman said, ‘Bah!’ and continued talking my husband’s ear off. He was such an attractive man; old ladies fawned over him wherever we went. It was rather a nuisance.
‘She says the museum will give you a polite version of how their lace was invented,’ Polo told me. ‘But that is all lies. She and her daughters here know better.’
The old woman nodded, resolute. She was on the inside track, as far as she was concerned.
‘Many, many years ago …’ Polo began. He stopped translating for a moment to share a chuckle with the old woman.
‘What?’ I asked, weaving my arm around his waist. I smiled along. ‘What has she said, darling?’
Polo turned to me and explained, ‘She says it happened even before she was born, and she was born a very, very long time ago.’
‘Ah,’ I replied, with the requisite chuckle. Nuisance or not, the old woman was rather adorable with her perfectly coifed white curls and generous smile.
‘She says long, long ago, there was a Burano maiden called Dolfina,’ Polo went on translating. Being in his country of origin seemed to accentuate his luscious Italian accent. Back home, it was barely noticeable. ‘Dolfina fell deeply in love with a young fisher with the name of Polo, like me. This Polo loved the girl too, but he felt inadequate. How could he, with so little money, give his beautiful Dolfina the life she deserved?’
The old woman took Polo’s hand as she chattered away. I admit, I felt jealous of her grasp on my lover’s firm fingers. She wouldn’t know what to do with him!
‘Polo wanted to give Dolfina a token of his affection, but he could not afford to buy her jewels. This made him very anxious. He was afraid he would lose his love to a rich suitor.’ Polo paused to give the old woman a gracious chuckle. ‘She says he was so distraught he went out in his fishing boat one evening in hopes of finding a pearl for Dolfina. Instead, he found a sirena.’
I laughed at the implausibility of coming face to face with a mermaid in the waters outside Venice. ‘A sirena, did he?’
The old woman scowled at me and kept on with her tale. Polo translated, ‘Like all water nymphs, she had only one thing on the mind. Of course, Polo couldn’t resist her charms. Out on that tiny island between here and isola di San Fancesco del Deserto, the sirena seduced the young man. He felt so guilty about the encounter he rowed back to Burano as fast as his arms would take him. When he found his fair maiden, he told her all that had happened. Well, Dolfina was so upset with this sirena, she cast off her clothes and swam naked all the way out to the nameless island. She collapsed there on its beach. Panting and exhausted, she waited for any sign of the sirena. “Sirena,” she called out into the waters. “You have seduced my lover Polo. I would like to have a word with you.” And forthwith, the sirena emerged on a wave, her body draped in shimmering sea foam.’
Of course, I didn’t believe a word of it, but the image of a dripping-wet mermaid and a naked maiden forced a smile upon my lips. ‘What next?’ I asked my husband.
He continued his translation of the old woman’s tale. ‘Dolfina was in awe of the sirena’s beauty, but chastised her all the same. The mermaid was distraught that she’d caused Dolfina such despair. She promised to never again seduce any woman’s lover. To seal her pledge, she taught Dolfina to weave the sea foam as she did in her solitary hours. Of course, the maiden didn’t live in water and had no easy access to sea foam, so when she arrived at home she took up a needle and thread. She wove them as the sirena had taught her until she had created the finest of laces. All the women of the island asked her to teach them, and demand for her lace grew and grew. Soon, she was a very rich woman.’
‘Let me guess,’ I chuckled. ‘Polo ran away with his tail between his legs because he was so intimidated by Dolfina’s personal wealth.’
Polo gave me an obliging smile, but he didn’t seem to pass on my comment to the kind women. He’d obviously forgotten one of the four women spoke English. ‘Polo married Dolfina,’ she said. ‘He fished while she wove her lace, and when they had children there was always food on the table.’
I gave her an obliging nod. ‘That’s a fun little story, isn’t it?’
The youngest of the women rolled her eyes as the other three quarrelled amongst themselves. ‘The old lady says the legend is true,’ Polo whispered to me. ‘Her daughter is telling her she’s gone senile if she believes that, but the granddaughter agrees there’s truth in the story.’
‘She thinks a mermaid invented their lace?’ I chuckled – a little too loudly, as it turned out.
The English-speaking woman turned to me with a rabid glare in her eye.
‘Forgive my wife,’ Polo intervened. With a congenial laugh he explained, ‘Inglese – no faith.’
It irked me that my dear husband would talk about me as though I weren’t standing directly beside him. ‘I have fait
h where faith is due,’ I countered, folding my arms in front of my chest. Of course, I didn’t want these women to find me impolite, but their claim was preposterous. ‘I simply find it hard to believe there were mermaids out in your lagoon.’
‘Le sirene, they live there still, out in the open water,’ the English-speaker replied. In a huff, she got up from her chair and marched to the canal. ‘You take my husband’s boat. Go straight that way until you reach la isola piccola. You wait there and you will meet one.’
Polo jumped right on board as the middle-aged woman removed the boat’s padlock. ‘Come on, Lainey,’ he called, waving me aboard. ‘It’ll be fun. When in Burano…’
‘Take a rowboat out into the middle of the sea and wait for mermaids?’ I chuckled. Polo had a marvellous way of turning every day into a series of ridiculous escapades. It’s one of the many reasons I married the dolt.
As I climbed down into the rickety boat, the lacemaker said to us, ‘Bring the boat back or my husband will slaughter me! And if you meet la sirena, you must promise to buy my daughter’s lace!’
Her pretty daughter, still weaving in front of the house, scowled behind heavy black bangs. It was sweet, that the woman would promote the girl’s work over her own. ‘We shall indeed,’ I agreed. ‘If we see your sirena.’
The white-haired woman waved as we set off, rowing side-by-side in the summer heat. We were near exhaustion by the time we caught sight of a tiny island consisting of beach sand, scrub brush and a handful of indigenous trees. ‘Is that the isola she meant, do you think?’
‘Must be,’ Polo replied. He’d taken off his shirt, and his strong arms glistened with sweat in the hot sun. I hated to think what I must look like. Men always looked so wonderfully masculine dripping with sweat. Women simply looked like roasted hogs.
‘I’m going to swim for it,’ I said, peeling off my white blouse and khaki capris. What the hell? I thought. Nobody around. I stripped naked and leapt from the boat. The moment my skin met the cool water, I felt playful and refreshed. Popping my wet head above water as I trod, I called out, ‘Sirena! Sirena, I wish to speak with you!’
Alfresco Loving Page 3