Fantasy Turned Real On the Pier

Noise, thoughts, sounds, color, voices, touches, yelling, crying, laughing, talking, arguing, jostling, trapped, suffocating, drowning, panicking. I am in a crowd. So so many people. And I can hear them all at once, feel them all at once, so perceptive is my brain that I feel as if their thoughts are flooding my mind. I can't escape, can't get out of the throng, can't breathe. And then, she's there. All tall and dark and strong. She pushes my back up against the lighthouse wall on the pier and presses her body against mine, pulling my head against her chest and covering my ears with her hands. She holds me like that till I stop gasping. Then she lifts one hand and puts her mouth directly over my ear and says, I am the only voice you can hear. Focus on this only. You do not need to read my thoughts, do not need to infer them, I am going to tell them to you I know the crowd is still there but I also know she's not leaving till they do. And her deep luscious warm voice grabs my attention as she begins.. We are on a beach in the Mediterranean staring out onto the bluest greenest water you've ever seen. Long lazy waves are loping into white sun washed sand. Seabirds call overhead and beach grasses whisper and sigh behind us. My hands are rubbing suntan lotion into your skin. I begin with your feet, teasing every single toe while you giggle, then wrap my hands around your ankles, pushing them back, bending your knees to separate your legs. I use both hands to massage the lotion into each of your calves and I feel your body relax. But relaxed isn't what I really want. My hands are greedy, and I have to work to control them, to remain s-l-o-w Using my fingers now to kneed the outside of your perfect thighs before smoothing my hands silkily over the insides, stretching my thumb from my fingers and pressing the arch of each hand into the split off your legs and sinking the fingers into your vagina. I pull them out slowly and drag them up to your stomach where I drizzle a new string of lotion and begin to trace letters onto your pelvis: je taime. Someone bumps into us and the fear suddenly grips me again and I stiffen on the verge of screaming. No. She commands me. You are in the Mediterranean with me. Nowhere else. I let her silk voice fill my head. I listen. Fingers swirl around the words and trace the insides of your creases and just brush the places you want me to touch. The noise threatening to overtake me fades again and I forget there was ever any moment, anything, anyone, but her. But we can't only suntan half of you, her voice smiles, so I have to move on. your hips and buttocks fascinate me, so different from my own. They curve so much more narrowly then mine, and I have to touch them, feel them, try to understand how they can look that way and meet your waist in a perfect connection of smooth clean lines. I have obsessed about it. Even now I feel you against my much more buxom proportions and I cannot resist running my hands up and down, up and down over you again and again. But you are arching into me now, and I am, begging me to touch your chest. To rub that slippery potion into your breasts, and I want to do it right. I use the flat of my hand to circle each just once to coat them, and then begin with one finger. I draw hieroglyphs on your soft flesh of the right side and astrological signs on the left. She knows this will distract my brain even further from the crowd, which beyond my comprehension is slowly moving away. Soon we'll be alone on this pier facing out to endless water on the other side of the world from where she has me now. But you need more and I center them over your nipples, using them as the brightest star in each constellation. I have practiced and I am doing both breasts at once, each with a different constellation. It's a game, Shell stop and move away if I can't name them. I rarely lose. I put my lips to yours and kiss you deeply almost till you can't breathe, but not quite. The crowd has gone and the kiss is real. I slip my own fingers into my self under the guidance of her hand, letting my skirt blow back against my legs and hand in the wind. Good. Now touch yourself or I'll stop, she whispers, no longer needing to cover my ears. Only wind and gulls remain. And perhaps a lucky sailor with a telescope. And not all of it is only fantasy now. I am kissing rings around your neck and down between your breasts, she says breathily, between kisses, popping one more button open to get just to my bellybutton which she is sucking on. My fingers are swirling and digging into my vagina, rubbing my clit. Now you sit up in the sand,one arm behind you holding you up, and with one arm around your waist I steady you against me watching you drive yourself mad, eyes locked on mine. I wait. And she does, knowing. In that last moment she lifts my skirt and a gust of wind rushes over my body whipping across my already exposed incredibly hard nipples, and up between my legs sending a rush of cool air against my wet agony. Just at that moment she nips my earlobe and commands me: come. I do. Riding on a gust of wind,the adrenaline of relief and lust, and her authority, I let all of it leave me in a rush and she catches me as my legs give out, turning my back against her stomach, facing me out to the biggest lake in the world, and teases my cum making it last and last till I can't stand and we sink down onto the concrete and watch the perfect sun set into a perfect sky in near silence. I turn to kiss her as she begins to touch herself, knowing I'll watch because she loves it. Knowing I have the same obsession she does: those gorgeous full hips of hers, marveling at the variety of proportion in the world. In our world.