Some time ago, @DomSigns cried out a challenge on twitter that someone write a story about “real” people. He appeared to be tired of the cookie-cutter perfection that is often presented in erotic fiction…
For some reason, that night, just a first line came to me, and I kept it for a few weeks until the story began to grow a bit on its own.
This is what came of that little sprout of a first line.
He sat in the beach chair beside her, naked from the waist up. His wet hair shone in the sun, like strands of silk and silver, and his belly, rounded by time and indulgence hung slightly over the elastic of his swim trunks. His skin had lately begun its slow decent downward, but his lips curved up at the edges with the ever-present promise of some humorous retort.
She reached across the arm of her own chair and placed her hand over his. Each wrinkle beneath her fingers was a year of their lives, each visible, pulsing blue vein, a river of memories.
Looking down at her own sagging breasts beneath the loose spandex of her plain navy bathing suit, and then glacing out at the beach at the young, scantily clad women bouncing, she almost forgot what he saw in her. But the thing was, he loved her. And she knew it. She felt it. She felt it so deeply that, like static electricity, her thoughts drew his in.
He turned to look at her, smiling, his eyes narrowing in on hers and then dropping, momentarily to the same place she had just been looking herself…her breasts.
Her cleavage resembled cracked porcelain, broken lines on translucent skin. And the small mounds of her nipples fell low on her torso, pointing downward, like arrows, toward her knees. These were things she could see as faults, but had chosen to accept as facts of life. He didn’t seem to mind which direction her nipples pointed, as long as he could still touch them.
He pulled his hand out from under hers and flicked one, burgeoning it to life. He loved that he could still make her blush and smile with such a simple gesture. Forty years left him little in the way of surprise moves, so it was comforting to know that his tried and trues still elicited this reaction.
He, too, looked out at the young women on the beach. He watched them, with the same interest one might afford a trendy piece of art. He found them lovely to look at. In fact, he would not refuse one a bit of space on his wall from time to time. But they were flotsam and jetsam in comparison to the fine art beside him. He had studied his wife’s composition over the years and made a history of knowing her strengths and weaknesses and moods. He had rearanged his whole life to suit her colors. She was the centerpiece of his existence.
She took his hand and guided it inside her suit. The suggestion was all he needed to take the lead. He took her breast in his hand, comforted and aroused by the weight and softness of a thing he knew so well. Even covered, he knew every freckle and line, each divet and bump…where the white ended and the pink began. And the knowing made him swell.
She could see his cock twitching to life beneath the Hawaiian print of his swim trunks. It surprised her a bit to feel a need grow within her to touch it, feel it, see it…taste it. Licking her lips and breathing in sharply, she mustered her courage and choked back her inhibitions.
The sun was setting, and from this distance, the young people on the beach would think nothing of it. She gripped the arms of her chair and hoisted herself forward onto her protesting knees, inching herself to face him. His features showed a multitude of emotions, but mainly surprise and curiosity. Wedging herself between his thighs, she slipped her hands beneath the band of his suit and pulled it down to expose his still mostly flaccid cock.
It had been some years since she had taken him between her lips, but as the sun began to hug the horizon, so too did her arms wrap around his waist as they both…slowly…went…down…
Like this story?
Subscribe to this blog and
consider buying me a coffee.
(see links in sidebar)
(Visited 22 times, 1 visits today)