Pixie and the Whale

It was a family campsite, set around a cove on the Spanish Mediterranean, north of Barcelona. The pitches were under pine trees, essential shade against the hot mid-day sun.

There was a beach bar, restaurant, minimart and swimming pool, although why some campers chose the pool above the beach was far beyond me. I would rather have a towel on the sand than a plastic lounger by a man made pool on any sunny day, and sea water will always beat chlorine and the other 'ine' you always get in family pools.

Besides, the calm water around rocky outcrops on either side of the small bay was perfect for snorkeling. Nothing as colourful as on a coral reef, but still a good way to pass the time. You can snorkel in a pool, but it does not impress, could be misunderstood, and you just might get punched in the snorkel tube, or worse.

Taking the summer holiday as a single guy would not have been my choice, but my ex-girlfriend and I had broken up after a rocky patch. Well, not so much rocky as a grand canyon of a relationship breakdown. The sex had been superb, even during the grand canyon. Volatile women are great to fuck, but not so great to live with. The prospect of a holiday together accelerated the desire to go our separate ways, but left me without anyone to relieve my healthy libido with, and the memory of that superb sex did not help with my frustration.

In spite of that, a few weeks of sun and sea seemed like a good way to get over things. Being a teacher, I had a long summer holiday but not a lot of money. I also had a beat up but reliable old car, and a tent big enough for two to stand up in, although it was just myself to occupy the space. Now I had my pitch beneath the pines.

Any thoughts that I might find someone to take up with at the camp site soon evaporated. I rapidly realised that I was on the wrong camp site to be so lucky. There were families, and couples, and not much else. The first night at the beach bar, there was not a single women without a guy. Next morning, in the campsite minimart, the women shopping on their own all wore gold rings on that finger.

There were plenty of good looking women around, mind you, and they were exposing plenty of themselves. On the beach, most wore bikinis. Of those, most wore only the bikini bottom. Of those, around half wore only bikini strings, the hair trimmed from their pubic mound to all a small triangle to be sufficient, and then string ties around their waist and down between their buttocks. Maximum tan. Maximum frustration for the single guy. If a husband was not in sight, their kids were playing close. Making a move on any of these delicious women made no sense.

It was the fourth day of working on my own tan, that I noticed pixie and the whale. I had not seen them arrive, or noticed them around the campsite until then, but taking a look around me I saw them were lying on a large orange patterned sheet maybe twenty feet from my own blue and white vertically striped beach towel. Why pixie and the whale? Well, that is just what came to mind as soon as I saw them there.

Pixie looked good. When I say that she looked good, had I rated the women at the camp site she would have come out pretty much top, but then I prefer petite, and pixie was extreme petite, tanned to a stunning nutmeg brown, with jet black hair cut so short she could have passed for a boy, had it not been for the curves of her hips and the fullness of her breasts.

Pixie would have looked amazing in a string bikini bottom. She would have looked amazing in anything. She did look amazing in the one piece, black, cling tight swimming costume that she was actually wearing, helped by the high cut thighs and the way it molded itself to her breast, with no inner cups to conceal the outlines of her nipples.

The whale, by comparison, was enormous. Pixie did not need a beach umbrella. If she wanted shade, all she had to do was move to the other side of this guy's body. He was maybe a foot and a half taller than his wife, difficult to judge when they were lying down, but even horizontal, the top of his paunch was maybe a foot and a half higher than her concave stomach. Slight exaggeration for effect, but only slight. Heavily built, but with slack muscles and a stomach that strained both belief and his pale blue shorts, the whale was not as tanned as pixie, but still had Mediterranean colouring, olive skin, black unkempt hair and thick black stubble. Pixie was wasted on the guy.

Pixie saw me looking. She held my gaze. No smile. No frown. Just a gaze. Then, slowly, she looked away, leaving me to wonder what she saw in him. I still do.

From around eleven, until four, the sun is hot enough to make you sweat, and every so often getting in the water is essential. While I liked to snorkel, I also needed to just wade in one in a while, until I was chest deep, and stand, float, or swim as slowly as I could without actually sinking, just getting cool again, ready to laze in the sun until the next time.

Time came for a cool down. I got up. I walked to where the water lapped on the sand. There was a sudden drop of two feet just after it was calf deep, and suddenly you were in to your thigh. Then it leveled out, and you had to walk thirty feet before the water reached your chest. I handled the drop, walked on, and stood, looking out to sea at the horizon.

I heard her before I knew it was her. The steady rhythmic sounds of arms cleaving sea water, feet kicking. She went past a few feet from me, a perfect front crawl, recognisable by the size of her body, the colour of her limbs, and the black one piece costume.

Dead centre of the cove there was a stand where you could hire windsurf boards, sea kayaks, or water skis. To make sure swimmers and motor boats did not get mixed together, a set of red buoys bobbed in the water, tied to create a channel from the hire centre, out a couple of hundred yards, and then across the beach on both sides, parallel with the water's edge. That was where she stopped, at one of the red buoys, two hundred yards out, her pixie black hair visible over the calm water.

I just watched. I can enjoy hard exercise, and I can enjoy watching other people exercise, especially if their figure is as good as hers. So I watched as she hung around the buoy for a minute or so, and as she disappeared beneath the surface, for a good thirty seconds, before her dark head reappeared.

I turned, starting to wade back to the beach. I glanced back, and she was swimming, the same strong front crawl. Some people like to laze in the water to get cool. Others like to exercise their bodies hard. Pixie was a swimmer. Except that the sound, as she got closer, changed, and when I glanced back again I saw her swimming slowly, an easy breast stroke, head and tanned shoulders breaking surface.

It was a slow, casual stroke, designed to allow her to look around as much as to move through the water. She was on course to pass me by again, and was looking directly at me as she approached. I should have noticed straight away, even in that half second glance back at her, but I failed to pick upon the obvious. Something about her was mesmerising. The pixie, street urchin hair, ski slope nose, full lips, bare shoulders just above the water, hands thrusting out in front, then sweeping wide as she glided towards me.

The tanned, bare shoulders should have told me. I could still picture them as I turned back, not wanting to stare, and still wading towards the beach. But it was not until she was overtaking me, passing me five feet on my right, and I saw not just her bare shoulders above the water, but her bare back and naked buttocks just below the surface, that I realised what I had failed to until then. There was no black one piece. That was why her shoulder had been bare above the water. Pixie was swimming stark staring naked.

As she passed, she looked straight ahead. She had to know that I could see that she was naked. She could have swum anywhere, but she had chosen to come that close. Pixie was streaking. I was being flashed. Pixie was a tantalising, teasing little exhibitionist.

She stopped swimming, ten feet in front of me. She stood. Where I was the water was still at mid chest. Where she was, her shoulder blades were clear of the water. When she turned, the water skimmed the dark brown, cherry sized nipples that set off her full, malleable breasts.

They were luscious. She had virtually no areoles, just these thick, wet, ever so suckable nipples that were facing me, and that kept my attention from her mischievous pixie grin longer than I should have allowed.

My reciprocating smile was intended to convey that I was impressed, amused and flattered that she had decided I was worth exposing herself to, all in one probably far too lame expression. Maybe I should have held her eyes for longer than I did, but inevitably I dropped my gaze, past the jutting nipples, trying to see what I could see through the uneven surface of the water.

Her body was slender. A small copse of black was just discernable. I prefer shaved. My ex-girlfriend had even taken up shaving at my request. She was not all bad. I missed her body, fucking her. I still liked what I saw through the water right in front of me. Pixie was as fuckable a woman as I had seen. Why on earth was pixie with the whale?

Right then, the assumptions of four days at the camp site held sway. I had come to terms with the reality that, in a world of married women, I would not get anywhere with anyone. It was nice to be granted this display, but with the whale on the beach, there was nothing much that I could do to move things any further.

I used one of the few Spanish words I knew, without really stopping as I walked.

"Hola."

She said "Hola" back, adding something more that I could not follow. I knew hello, please and thank you, beer, and can I have the bill. I was still carrying a Spanish phrase book to help interpret the restaurant menu. There was one other phrase I had, the one of last resort.

"Yo no hablo Espanol."

I gave a kind of shrug as I said it.

She answered, almost giggling.

"Yo no hablo Ingles."

She still added a lot more in Spanish. All I could do was shrug some more, try to look apologetic, and head on. What exactly was I supposed to do with a naked Spanish pixie on a family beach while her whale of a Spanish husband was not a hundred yards away? I waded to the drop, climbed up, out of the water, and went to my towel.

I was lying down, and pixie was swimming out to the same buoy. She ducked under the surface again. A couple of minutes later she swam back, stopping at the drop, climbing it, and walking back to her husband, a sideways glance to me, the one piece costume back in place.

Thinking about it, and lying there I had not much else to think about, she had to have taken off the costume at the buoy, somehow tied it there, maybe to the rope that joined the buoys, and left it when she swam back, baring her delicious naked pixie body. It was pretty daring.

I glanced left. She was lying on her front. Her wet hair was clinging close to her head. She looked my way again, dark Spanish eyes flashing something at me. Was it a challenge, or just a little pride that she had been as daring as she had. Whichever, it was mischievous. I grinned back, and a smile formed on her lips, before she turned away, resting her head on the crook of her arm.

An hour or so later, the beach was empting. Whether it was the heat of the sun, or the Mediterranean preference for a long lazy lunch back at their caravans and tents, I was not sure, but it happened every day. Pixie and the whale had gone. I cooled down again in the sea, remembering those delectable breasts and the cherry nipples. Then I lay out some more, picturing them.

People started coming back, amongst them pixie and the whale. This time I saw them coming, walking side by side. She still looked good. More than good. Still in her black one piece. He shuffled, having to lean his body from side to side as he walked. He was still in his blue shorts, but with a bright yellow tee shirt on top. A family of four could have used that tee shirt for their tent.

He must have been ten or fifteen years older than her. Yet again I wondered why she was with the guy. He did not look like he had an amazing personality. He was unlikely to be rich, since not that many people with money use camp sites for their holidays. But for whatever reason, they were together.

She caught me looking as they reached the orange sheet that they had left stretched out on the beach, marking their spot, weighted by a few rocks. She even pouted, her soft lips puckering. A pixie cock tease. I grinned.

A little later, I picked up my snorkel mask, went back in the water, and headed to the rocks on the left. There were some fish there. Nothing dramatic. No stunning colours. Some might have been a foot long, but most were smaller. The larger were black and brown and speckled. Some smaller fish, in little shoals, were silver in the sunlight, the entire shoal darting and turning en masse. Amusing to watch, but nothing startling.

I surfaced. I raised the snorkel mask onto my forehead and looked around. No one was close. I was part way round the rocks, and they went on as far as I could see. The camp site people had set up in the only cove on a stretch of rocky shoreline, with jagged cliffs fifty feet above the water and outcrops of rugged rocks. In heavy sea, you would not want to be in that water, but on a calm, summer's day, it was glorious.

I rinsed the mask to stop it steaming up and put it back in place. I followed the lazy movements of an eighteen inch, fat, black and brown fish that was going nowhere very much. Then I watched another shoal. Then I saw five feet of naked, tanned perfection swimming right beneath me, and would have laughed at her daring, if the need to keep breathing through my snorkel tube had not prevented it. Pixie looked incredible.

She surfaced in front of me, turning. With my face and mask still below the surface, I could not see her head, but her body and legs were in perfect under water focus. She was treading water. The black copse was actually just a narrow triangle, but then it had to be, given the cut of the swimsuit that was now, presumably, tied to a red bouy. She had thickly protruding labia that the trimmed hair left exposed. Better than any mermaid.

Then she performed a star. She just stopped treading water, opened her legs wide, and her arms, and slowly descended, her head and face coming into view under the water. For a moment she was suspended there, right in front of me. Then she used her arms, an underwater breast stroke, pulling herself towards me, closing her legs and kicking as she did so, propelling herself right under my body, passing inches from me, so that as she opened her legs to kick again, the thick lips between her legs were right there, the prettiest underwater flower I have ever set my eyes on.

She surfaced behind me, at least I guessed she did, since she needed to get her breath, but she reappeared a moment or so later, diving down, then coming up right below me, leading with her hands.

What happened next defied belief. She came up straight towards my midriff. Both hands reached for my swimming shorts, taking hold on the waist band on either side, and she pulled them down. I had been floating, my legs hanging loose but straight, so when she flipped under me in the water she was able to drag my shorts all the way down my legs and off before I even realised what she was doing.

Still under the surface, she swam past my feet as I turned, not knowing how to react to what had happened, but very aware that I was now naked, and she had not only my shorts, but my dignity as well.

I ripped off the snorkel mask. She surfaced, ten feet away. She grinned. She took a couple of breaths, then raised both hands in the air and went back under. In that moment I realised that my shorts were in neither hand. I had a picture of them floating away, half submerged, and have to admit that I began to panic.

This time she surfaced on my left, changing fluidly from breast stroke to front crawl. I caught a glimpse of my shorts. She was wearing them. But she was not stopping. She was swimming past me, towards the rocks.

I checked that my snorkel mask was tight on my forehead, pushed the tube back, and swam after her. She could swim well. I had seen that already, and chasing her I was catching her only slowly. Her head start meant that she was far enough in front that it would take a couple of minutes to catch her up, except that she had not that far to go before reaching the rocks themselves.

She rounded an outcrop, disappeared from sight, and then I reached it and saw her walking the last few steps from the water onto a hidden patch of sand no more than ten feet wide, that backed into an overhang of rock. My shorts were hanging low on her buttocks, and dragged around her knees. She walked a few steps further, turned, sat on the sand, and waited.

If this was a dare, I did not hang back. I swam until it was too shallow, and then I stood, already only thigh deep in the water. She had pulled off my shorts, so I was not going to worry about her seeing my cock, and no one else was near. I waded to the sand and walked to where she was sitting, laughing.

I stood for a second, conscious that my cock was hardening.

She cocked her head back, saying something I did not understand, but the look in her eyes was daring me to get my shorts back.

Describing exactly what happened then is difficult, it was all so fast. I was on my knees beside her, trying to get my shorts down her legs and off, while she was on her back, laughing, holding the waist band with both hands, her legs wide so that the shorts could not come off. Then I was forcing open her hands, holding her wrists together with one hand, and I managed with the other hand to get the shorts down to her thighs, baring her buttocks and her pubic mound with the black trimmed triangle and thick fleshy labia, but she still had her legs apart and the shorts were not going any further.

Next, I had thrown one leg over her, and was kneeling with my legs on either side of her body, facing her legs, my buttocks on her stomach. I had let go of her wrists, but she could not reach around me to hold the shorts. I still could not get them off her flailing legs. I paused for breath, while she was kicking the air, and her body squirming underneath me.

Those labia, right there, between my own legs, were delectable. With her legs thrashing they were being squeezed closed and opened wide, a shade darker than her body on the outside, with a hint of pink on the inside edges, and glistening wet from the sea. At least I assumed the glistening was from the sea.

I refocused on the task and grabbed her legs. Holding her knees together, her legs in the air, I easing my shorts off of her, and when they were off, and I had thrown them far enough for her not to reach them, I was just holding her like that, getting back my breath, left arm still holding her at the knees, and my right hand now cupping her buttocks.

She stopped resisting.

I relaxed my hold.

She lowered her legs. My cock was stiff, resting on the short black hair of her pubis, the head just above her thick labia.

I used the index finger of my right hand to part her labia, finding it moist between them, and not from the sea. She parted her legs a little, drawing up her knees, her feet flat on the sand. I found the tight opening, and my finger slid inside her, helped by her own slick lubrication. I curled my finger round the soft inner flesh, stroking her there. My body was immediately above her flat stomach, but my weight was on my legs, not on her, and she moved enough to meet my finger as it went deeper into her.