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LAST COURSE

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by Stuart Dixon I had been walking the beach, inhaling that familiar combination of scents - drying kelp, cocoa butter and pheromones - that always makes the short hairs itch. The sand was littered with Nearly Naked Persons; girls in pairs, couples, a family or two, and retirees in straw hats, on aluminum-framed chairs under umbrellas. Single guys were looking at the girls out of the corners of their eyes, hoping for a glimpse of previously covered skin, trying to think of a line that didn't say, 'Hi, I'm horny as hell and would love to rip that lycra off and fuck you right here and now!' In twos and threes they sublimated their frustration by indulging in ritual behavior like throwing frisbees or footballs. The unescorted females were mainly trying to avoid the eyes of the guys. A strange irony - dressed deliberately to incite lust, laid out in the instinctive posture of submissiveness, yet totally unavailable. A nude beach is even funnier. Almost no unescorted women went to nude beaches. The guys either brought a girl, came to look at the girls, or came to pick up other guys. A girl who would go alone to a place like that, well, I'm getting ahead of my story. I had walked and run along this same patch of sand three weekends now, but this time I had skipped lunch and gotten overtaken by hunger. Having wondered before what was behind the reflective coating on the ocean-front windows of the Cliffedge Restaurant, I decided to check it out from the inside. So far I was not disappointed. They were used to the sandy footed clientele, so my running shorts and zories didn't put anybody off. Baskets of fruit were arranged tastefully on each table. The menu was varied and the execution belied a place that could have sold sauteed tongues of Reebok on the basis of the view. It was late afternoon by the time I felt satisfied. Sun streamed in the high windows at my back. There was one other patron in that dining room, and I admit that I had been having trouble keeping my eyes off of her. She was quite short, with an almost child-like oval face built around big, almond eyes. Her skin was deeply tanned or naturally dark, and she had long, straight black hair, lying loose along her back. Her build was muscular, rather than slender or zaftig. She was dressed in a long, flowing kind of wrap-skirt of flowered print, riding low on her hips, and a half-top with loose long sleeves, gathered at the cuffs and under her youthful and unrestrained bosom. Her perfect tummy held the cutest navel I had seen since June Cochran. She relaxed in her chair gazing out the window. A hint of a smile graced her full lips. I turned and followed her gaze to the beach below. A young man, wearing a pair of triathalon shorts, was just finishing applying sunscreen to a nicely shaped pair of buns split by a nearly skin colored thong bikini bottom. A beach umbrella pitched on its side hid them from the shoreline, but they did not realize that the reflection of the sun from our window literally spot-lit them, nor that there were people watching from behind its surface. Or did they? He moved to her back and untied the spaghetti strap of her top. As he applied the lotion, his hands roamed freely around to her chest. She rolled slightly to smile up at him, her lips mouthing some unfelt indignance, and we got a pleasant view of his fingers lightly stroking one exposed, light brown nipple in the center of a firm, creamy breast. I glanced at my companion just in time to catch a slight widening of her smile and a look at me. I raised an eyebrow and smiled. She peeked down at the sunbathers, then, quickly at the entrance to our dining room. Then she opened her top enough to give me a view of all but the tip of her lovely, pale, well-rounded left breast. There is something especially erotic about a sharp tan line, revealed under public circumstances. It's the sort of thing I fantasize about, but never expect to see. I thought quickly and responded by opening my own shirt, flexing a decidedly un-Schwartzenegger-like pectoral, shrugging, and flashing a sheepish grin. At that, she chuckled, and then began to part her skirt, revealing first a slender ankle, then a firmly muscled calf, then the most shapely of thighs, all beautifully and uniformly tanned. I thought that here was an event in which I could, ifg not compete, at least participate. I stretched out a well-cross-trained leg, albeit hairier, with the deeper tan changing to pinkish where my bike shorts would begin. I wondered to where this exchange would escalate next. As if in reply to my unspoken query, she pulled the skirt back still farther, uncovering an ass cheek that looked as though it might ring like a watermelon if you thumped it - with no visible tan lines! Grateful for the hours of hills on my bike, I peeled back the skirt of my nylon running shorts and exposed the vanilla butt in my confused Neapolitan ice cream tan. This was getting interesting! Now she gave a deliberate look back toward the door of the room. Some sounds of tinkling glasses came from the vicinity of the bar, but otherwise the place was quiet. Then she did the most extraordinary thing. She extended her right hand to the butter dish and opened a foil-wrapped pat. She took a corner of the square of butter between her thumb and finger, reached across her chest so that her right breast was cradled in the crook of her right arm, and carefully lifting her left breast free of her blouse, began to massage the slippery substance into her dark brown nipple. At the same time, she placed her left hand in the valley between her legs, and began a slow, rhythmic kneading. Then she turned her head and looked me squarely in my eyes. I got the idea that a challenge had been thrown down. I thought for an instant. I couldn't match the butter trick, but I could sure as hell return the volley. I moved to the edge of my chair and dropped my right leg. I pulled the front flap of my running shorts over, exposing the light, flimsy pouch within. It was undergoing a structural test of sorts at the moment, and the sun through the window made the thin white nylon about as opaque as our thoughts. I began to carress the rigid column through the material, and returned her gaze steadily. It occurred to me that there was not much further we could go from there, at least in the present venue, but what ground there was we covered with all deliberate speed. She continued her oleaginous manipulations with her right hand while she drew back the left side of her skirt and parted her legs in the sun. She was not wearing underwear. Her charming little belly swelled over a neatly trimmed pubis whose appearance lowered her apparent age beneath the Mann Act minimum. Here, at last were the vestiges of a tan line. Now she took another corner off the pat of butter with her left hand and began to massage it into the bright pink folds of her now fully-exposed vulva. She zeroed in on the little knob that was gleaming and sparkling in the sunlight. I hooked a finger under the elastic of my pouch and freed my throbbing cock. >From the caddy on the table, I retrieved the salad oil cruet. I formed a ring around the head of my cock with my right hand and poured about a teaspoon of fragrant oil into it. As I began to smooth the slick, tenacious liquid around the round knob atop the hard shaft, it shone in the sun like varnished redwood, and delicious sensations played along the sensitive skin. I kneeded the slick oil into my bone hard shaft and pulled my balls out so that the scrotum stretched around them. When she saw this, she closed her eyes momentarily and seemed to shudder. I was so close to ejaculation myself that I had to stop stroking my rigid tool and give the head a hard squeeze. Then, for a few moments I held it at the base, stretching the skin back and letting it swell and the head bulge even further, veins standing out like whipcords. She stared at it fixedly. Then as I continued gently coaxing delicious sensations from the stiff shaft and sensitive crown, she reached into a basket on her table, pulled out a banana and began to carress it, dipping a corner of a napkin in her water glass and wiping it down. Then, to my everlasting wonder, astonishment, and erotic delight, she slowly greased it up with butter and began inexorably insinuating it into her pulsating cunt. In it went, deeper and deeper. I was having a bit of control trouble at this display! At last the phalic phruit bottomed out, with just a little tail protruding. Then she began to pump it in and out. Slowly at first, then with more insistent rhythm. She was rolling her joy button with grease as she slid the yellow phalus in and out of her slick twat. Her head began to loll. She slowed her pumping, then stopped with most of the long slick fruit curving up from her crotch like a yellow cock. Just then a noise came from the direction of the bar. She barely had time to close up her blouse and skirt and I to pull the draped table cloth over my lap as the waiter slouched into the room. He approached me first, asking if there would be anything else. I withstood the temptation to make a smart-ass reply. He left the check and turned to the woman. I wanted to laugh. She had crossed her legs and assumed an indifferent pose, but her skirt had a little tent where the banana protruded. It was impossible not to notice. Professionalism in the service trades was no less a rare commodity in those days, but the waiter showed his quality and merely went through his routine, not batting an eyelash. Then, turning to address us both, he announced; "this dining room will be closed until dinner. I will be locking the door. You may stay as long as you like and leave when you will, but the busboy will be here in fifteen minutes to set up for this evening. Thank you. Good day." After he left, neither of us wasted time continuing. Soon the sexual flush had spread down her chest clear across her breasts. I was there at the same time she arrived. I grabbed the empty wine glass from the table and held it in front of the gapping slit at the tip of my pulsating cockhead. As she began shuddering from the orgiastic waves that possessed her, my own sensations went into overload. I struggled to keep my eyes open, not wanting to miss any of the incredible sights before me. I ceased manipulation as the first spasm rocked me hard, and the second. When the first shot of semen exploded from my cock, it rang on the side of the glass with a force that I thought might break it. As the intensity tapered, I resumed stroking and the second wave of higher intensity spasms sent surge after delicious surge through my burning urethra. My cock shaft pulsed and jerked powerfully in my hand, adding to the growing mass of gray liquid in the goblet. Long after the last dribble ran down the side of the glass, the sensations finally tapered off. I placed the glass shakily on the table and leaned back, exhausted, my cock settling slowly into bloated half mast, still tingling. She continued to stare at it, pulling the abused fruit from its warm, wet sheath. Then she began to peel it. Slowly and sensually, she began to suck and nibble on it, then faster, until she devoured the remainder in a ravenous rush. Then we both made judicious use of the napkins, adjusted our clothing, and paid our checks. I don't know about her, but I left a very hefty tip. Before she got up she scribbled something on a business card. Then she brazenly walked the two steps to my table. After what had just happened, I had no idea what surprise to expect next, but she did not disappoint me. She looked me straight in the eye, smiled conspiratorially, then reached for my wine glass. About a teaspoon of gelatinous semen lay in the bottom of the gray-streaked goblet. She swirled the viscous liquid around a few times, lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply, like a wine connoisseur savoring the bouquet. Then she tilted it and slowly, noisily sucked the stuff into her mouth. She turned to look at me again, a drop of semen sparkling at the corner of her mouth, raised her chin, and swallowed noisily. Then she licked her lips, set her card on the table with the now empty glass on top of it and slowly undulated toward the door. My reaction was not what you would call cool. I grabbed the glass, picked up the card and turned it over. "Call me," is all it said. Someday I'll tell you about the call.

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