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Confusion. It might have been the shifting sunlight that woke me, as I startled at the sights in an unfamiliar room. That vase. Kitsch candelabra. Through the window a beach receding in the sun swept view. My head strained to take it all in.

Memory returns in layers. The first cue comes not from the room, with its nicknacks and gaudy curtaining. But the lingering pressure on my rosebud. I’m reminded of his tongue. A glance at the clock says its two hours since he lathered my butthole with his rabid drool, lovingly probing my portal as I clenched — helplessly — at his cock.

I feel the wet aftermath of his rimming on my delicate behind. His half-dried slobber cools the air over my exposed butt-crack, and I’m surprised by a jolt of excitement. It were as if those hungry hands clutched my butt cheeks mere minutes ago. But now is not a time for nostalgia. I rise on the bed and straighten my crumpled clothes.

My hair feels a gentle mess. I scan the floor for my panties, but they’re gone. All I see is a letter hastily penned in his signature scrawl. He left it for me on the right side of the bed, where 100 minutes ago he sprawled beside me. Enne had wedged himself between me and the door. My back to the cool wall. That bedtime story drawl. his mouth switching seamless from reading to rimming. I reach for his bullshit.

Sweet Hache

You haven’t lost your hold on me, and it seems you never will. Our attempt at a final farewell didn’t play as expected, and I apologize for my part in that.

It seems we’ll never find the closure that we seek. Perhaps it’s best to part. Forever.

Not what we want, but perhaps what we need.

Yours (always)

Enne

There’s no hot water in the shower. (An extra, I learn, that must be paid for. And Enne, being Enne, skipped that frill). I guess I’ll have to wait until I’m home to finally wash him off me. Patting down my hair and clothes, I hope that the lobby is half empty as I step into it. Only the waitress. The lunchtime rush receded she lounges tiplessly at the counter. As if I’d asked, she volunteers “I think I saw him take a stroll”.

Stepping out of the hotel lobby, the glare strikes my eye. I wince at the sunshine and rue my hatlessness. Also, my lack of panties, as a gentle breeze laps at the hem of my dress. By the time I reach the beach sand bağcılar escort a bellowing gust balloons the back of my dress. I turn, embarrassed, to see if any saw my exposed cheeks. But only an elderly couple pass behind. Her lips purse sternly. He feigns exaggerated aversion of his gaze, and I sense renewed spring in his geriatric step. Scanning the sand, I see a familiar form loping languidly away.

I clutch my dress and run towards Enne. A comic absence has always attended his stride. As if a half-dozen alternating distractions mask the urgency of his steps. In short time I’ve caught up with him, and I slow down. Turning to the sound of my footfall his gaze meets my eye. And won’t detach.

“I can explain.” And instantly I know that he won’t. He stammers incoherently. “Well, I’m not here for your ‘explanations’, you’ve stolen my underwear.” He’s stunned into sheeply silence. “Uhhm… I’m just walking to the dune. Have a drink in the lobby, I’ll be only twenty minutes or so.” “I’m not being fobbed a second time,” I say, following him to the sand hill at the bend of the beach.

A few stragglers pass us as we walk. Enne shrugs off the tension and natters about something. He makes a show of keeping his eyes ahead, sneaking only occasional glances at my body. He, in turn, has never been much to look at. I punctuate his monologue: “In your story, why does she leave?”

“Oh, I thought you’d fallen asleep by that part. Your chest heaved rhythmically.” “So you were staring at my chest!” As we walk, we discuss the turns in his twisted tale. (“Our story,” he corrects me. The dune draws nearer as we cross the sand. Listening to him intently, my hand involuntarily reaches for his, as an old habit resurges. I catch myself and let go.

“Time to turn,” he says, as he pivots back at the foot of the dune. “Time to return what’s rightfully yours.” “I’ve always wondered what’s behind that,” I reply, stretching slightly the meaning of “always”. Yet the looming hill, peppered in green shrubbery, thrusts its enigma in our faces. When I snap out of marvelling at its mystery, I find my hand in Enne’s, as our feet trudge up the loose sand.

Sitting atop the forty-foot hill, we take in the panoramic splendour of the sea. We catch our breath after the steep climb. Enne has never stopped bahçelievler escort his animated discussion of the story. It becomes clearer that he’s poured all his unspent desire into it. “If you could read it all over again, I bet you would?” “Only one hundred times,” came the unspoken response from his stricken face. Still clutching his palm, I rise and lead him over the dunetop.

The air feels cool on my skin. The dune sand beds my back in natural comfort, and I gaze up at the sky. Wont to sunbath, I’ve pulled my dress up to my crotch, exposing my caramel thighs. Freeing the shoulders, my cleaved orbs stretch to just before the nipples. My feet unshod, I feel the sun’s magnificence radiating deep within.

He has not let go of my hand. We turned our backs to the glorious panorama afforded by our perch at the dunetop. Stepping five feet down we lay among small thickets on a patch of loose white sand. A gentle wind laps at our prone flanks. The mood between us has shifted. What began as a tetchy confrontation has morphed into Enne waxing philosophic about this and the other meaning in his tale. And me dreaming wakefully of the sun on my thighs.

He’s done it again. That mono-drone drags me out of wakefulness, as he lies nattering by my side. I marvel at the ease of this — after long separation I still feel calmly cosied by his side. A sudden upturn in the breeze jolts me back. The wind has blown my dress further up than I’d intended.

Ever the gentleman (and the pervert — for noticing so quickly) Enne reaches a corrective hand. He tugs my dress back in place, taking care to rake (“accidentally”) his fingernails through my pubic mangle. I thank him with a silent smile. He takes my hand again. “I can’t think this is all about a pair of stolen nickers.” “I can’t think,” my honest reply.

In fact, I lie. My vulva thinks for me. She directs my gaze to Enne who, understanding, meets my hungry gaze. With age he’s grown less impulsive. And I, perhaps, less sure. The narrowing of space is a slow exhilaration. By the time that our lips touch, I close my eyes. Control slips away, and I express myself gingerly with my tongue, which snakes slowly, probingly around his, which mimics in slow-mo the thrusting sure to come.

A knot tangles my stomach. As if intuiting, şirinevler escort Enne’s palm soothes circles around my navel. I draw deep breaths as their ambit widens until again he’s brushing my excited fur. First through the dress, and then in direct contact as the fabric yields.

One’s breath betrays. Shorter and shallower I devour his lips as his deft hand circles my labia. He will manage the moisture I secrete over his skilled fingers. His free arm cradles me, and I feel loved, even as he paws lustfully at my ample bum — an asset I once considered a love rival, given his incessant fawning over it.

The years have settled him. Enne mounts me casually. My body has wedged itself a shallow depression in the loose beach sand. I take the salty breeze as it drifts across the head of the dune. I would have loved to taste him. Savouring his penis as it twitches in the moisture of my mouth. Nourishing the ooze of his lustful incontinence, its sticky saline seasoning surely supplementing the salty smell of the sea.

We skipped that part. Enne has his needs. My voluptuous behind is what first caught his attention, and long years later it still dictates the tempo. Hungrily clutching two handfuls of butt cheek, Enne withdraws his tongue from my mouth, whispering delicately into my ear. “I love you.” This may or may not be directed at me.

As his head moves across my chest, I revel in the tingle as my right breast inches into his mouth, an erect nipple leading the way. As he slobbers circles over my pent tit, I feel the tip of him nuzzling at my arse, where a mere two hours earlier his tongue had worked its charm.

My vagina will have its day. For now, I throw my arms around Enne as he thrusts gently but resolutely into, and then out of, my bum. I have grown tight down there. But like a Spring flower I open, tentatively, to his pulsing penis. Closure has led to reopening. Reflexively (though vainly) my cunt moistens, and I’m grateful that his missionary thrusts brush against my clit.

There’s a scurry in the brush behind. Perhaps a dog has strayed off course. Will its owner follow? These are questions that I, pinned to the sand, cannot answer. They are questions that I will not answer, with the pressing urgency of a looming orgasm.

I feel at peace as I lie beneath the blue. Rocked by the ambient music of the crashing sea swells. My inner tranquillity is shattered by waves of orgasm that roll over me without relent. Clutching my vibrating chest ever tighter to his, Enne’s loving penis tops my cumming, as he empties two long-deprived nuts deep into my bowels. I feel his heavy heartbeats as we lie unmoving. Sticky, pulsing bodies joined. On a dune. At the side of the sea.

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