West

Then, after entering the first beach town the highway brought us to, Canon Beach, there it was: one could see where the street ended and met the sand, the grey and tumultuous ocean stretching on for infinity at the horizon.

I searched for a place to park, and we found a rather empty public lot behind a grocery store. Surely, in the summer, all this space would be filled; now, in the midst of winter, we had an almost unhindered choice of spots, with few pedestrians around. I chose the far side, of course.

We sat for a while in silence, kissing a bit, but neither of us wanted another unwelcome surprise.

"Want to smoke some pot?" I offered, having brought some along.

Molly hesitated. She had been arrested for possession before and was quite a bit more cautious than I was when it came to smoking herb in public. I managed to convince her that, with one of us keeping an eye out and nearly no one in sight, the risks would be minimal. She agreed with little need to be persuaded, wanting to get high as much as I did.

So I took out the weed and packed a bowl with it, and we smoked within the safety and comfort of my car, taking turns smoking and looking around. We paused a few times as cars and people came and went, but on the whole we were mostly undisturbed.

When we finished and had basked in the car's now smoky interior for a while, then stumbled out, hungry and high. We wanted to reach the sand eventually, but for now we had more pressing concerns, like lunch. We walked down the unbusy street of the empty beach town, looking for an appealing place to eat and anything else that caught our eye along the way, seeing shops through windows, window-shopping but not really, and some of them were closed but despite being the slow season most things still seemed to be functioning, restaurants, of course, included.

Molly and I stopped at the first restaurant we came across, or maybe not the first exactly, but the first that seemed reasonably priced; we were poor college students, after all, and could hardly afford to patronize establishment geared primarily toward middle-age execs visiting their beach houses. So we ended up stopping at a nice-looking grill, taking a look at the menu before entering.

We stood around for a while in order to get seated, although there was almost no one there. It had occurred to us to eat outside, but when we asked we were told that there was no service there, being winter and all, so we settled, quite happily, on a booth inside the restaurant. We were the only ones there, sitting comfortably on the side, save a family with a couple noisy young children.

Things went, well, normally, at least at first. We looked at the menus again demurely, our eyes on the dishes this time instead of the prices. I must've ordered something not-too-exciting, probably a burger; and Molly ordered a soup and a sandwich. I am sorry, reader, that I can't share little details like these adequately; but like I said, I don't remember, and it's unimportant. You're most likely not reading this story for our eating habits, anyway. So let's get on with it.

And so I did indeed get on with it; after we had ordered, while the children were screaming, I flipped on the vibrator on for a few seconds and watched Molly jerk in surprise. She had not been expecting me to do that, not here. She raised an eyebrow at me.

"What?" I asked, quite innocently.

"There are...people," she said in a hushed voice, not really a whisper but still not wanting to be heard by others.

"So?"

"They have kids."

I answered her by turning on the vibrator once for, leaving it one for maybe five seconds, then switching it off. It's buzz was low-pitched and hardly audible from where I was sitting; I doubted that the family, sitting nearly on the other side of the room, could hear anything.

"Mmm," she moaned despite herself. And then, when the toy was turned off: "Mark..." she said, almost whining.

"You don't like it?" I asked, rhetorically.

"I do but...the kids. They're right there."

I turned on the vibrator and left it on: "It's not like they know where that innocuously little buzzing comes from, even if they could hear it, which I doubt sincerely." I left it on for a few more seconds to drive home my point, watching her squirm and tremble.

"Mm that feels so good, baby, but their parents, Mark." She still looked slightly insecure. Perfect. I love torturing her.

"I'm sure they can't hear..."

Just then the waitress brought our food. We thanked her, and she added, "If you need anything, just come let me know, I have to tend the bar as well."

"Not much business this time of year, huh?"

"No, not much, especially now, it's after lunch but not quite dinnertime." I checked my watch; she was right, although it didn't seem so late. The town outside, however, had all the characteristics of a typical midweek lazy afternoon, and I should've known.

Just as the waitress was leaving, while she was still in earshot, I toggled the vibrator on and off rapidly, giving Molly just a short burst of sensation. She gasped. The waitress turned around. "Is everything all right, Miss?" She had not heard the toy but had heard its effects instead.

"Uh, yeah," Molly stammered. "The soups a little hot, that's all. Thank you though."

"No problem." She walked away.

"Mark!" Molly reprimanded me, hushed again.

"Sorry baby," I said with a sheepish grin. "I just couldn't help myself."

Molly blushed. "That was really hot."

"I thought you would enjoy it," I said, and bit into a french fry.

We ate for a little while, and the family that occupied the room with us soon left. We were alone. We looked at each other simultaneously. Oh, yes.

"So," Molly said.

"So."

"Well, now that..." I didn't let her finish. I turned on the vibrator and she finished the sentence with a suppressed "oh shit." I slipped off my shoe and placed my foot gently in her crotch, putting some pressure on the toy, pressing it more closely against her clit.

"How do you like that, you slut?"

"Oh fuck...mm baby that feels ohhh..."

I think she liked it. A little too much, so I stopped soon enough. She looked disappointed, but had been expecting as much.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

"Mm-hm."

"So when will you let me cum?"

"Oh, I don't know. When I feel like it. When I decide you've earned it."

She paused for a second, and smiled. Now I was confused. What was going on in that dirty little mind of hers?

She immediately put her foot over my cock, rubbing slowly, trying to get a feel for things. It felt sexy as hell, but didn't really do much for me, admittedly, although I still got rock-hard, knowing I had this slut wrapped around my pinky.

She sensed as much; doing anything of the sort with one's foot is far from easy. But after looking around the room, and seeing no one there, she took a bolder move: she darted under the table. Oh shit, I thought, just as her hands reached my zipper. She had my cock out and in her mouth within a heartbeat, sucking wildly. I could not see her, and could only imagine what she was doing. All I knew was that this was the second time she had attacked my cock today, and it felt even better now than it had before. Maybe it was the distant possibility of being caught; even though the waitress had told us she would not come by unless we sought her out, even though it was a slow time of day during the off-season, we were nonetheless in a fairly public place, and the possibility of being caught with a hot slut underneath the table only excited me more. Call me immature, but it felt naughty as hell.

Molly did not hold back. She sucked away with even more energy, it seemed, than she had in the car. No doubt our precarious situation had aroused her as well; I could hear her slurping and the sound of her breathing heavily. It was the best blowjob of my life.

Soon enough, I was cumming again, fisting clenching, eyes closed, "Oh fuck," I said, unable to restrain myself, "fuck, FUCK! I'm cumming you dirty slut I'm cumming!" I felt my jism shoot deep into her throat as she kept sucking, playing with my tightening balls and making sure she had gotten every last drop.

She cleaned me off and tucked my cock back in, and reemerged on the other side of the table.

"So?" she asked, feigning innocence.

Still catching my breath, I managed to utter, "Oh God, Molly, that was the best blowjob of my life."

She beamed proudly. "Well thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself." She licked her lips. "As you can guess, I got a little something I wanted, also."

"And what's that?" I asked, knowing but wanting to hear it once again.

"Well, you know..."

"No, I don't. What was it you got?"

"Your hot cum, silly," and she licked her lips.

This 'cum-hungry slut' motif is one any writer or reader alike could get used to. I don't know. I don't mean to impose my opinion but I'm sure you'll at least agree, to a certain extent, that this was a pretty good deal, yes, and pretty hott (with two t's and three unspoken x's) to imagine, not to mention remember. I am left trembling and wondering if it actually happened -- but yes, dear reader, it did, this is one of those bits of truth scattered haphazardly around this narrative, I can still smell the faint odor of a half-consumed hamburger growing cold, the forgotten steam of soup from across the table, the intruding saltiness of sea-air, etc., I can still feel the compromising and tender wood of the booth-seat I sat on and, most poignantly, Molly's mouth and tongue, working it's wonders (can it be that I write these very words alongside more of Molly's oral accompaniment? can it really be that I'm getting my cock sucked at the very instant of weaving some erotic story, & doesn't that just break all the rules? I leave you to imagine the answer).

I pay the bill and leave a generous tip because I'm overjoyed and still stoned and eager to see the ocean up close at last. That's where we're headed, hand-in-hand like two archetypal lovers, but we're still grinning, keeping a few secrets to ourselves, obviously. We turn left and face west on the first street we come across, walk a few more blocks, slowly -- you might imagine why I was so relaxed, but Molly, I'm sure, was dripping wet and still unfulfilled.

We're at the beach before long, a few blocks, passing hotels with bright Vacancy signs and no trace of their skeleton winter-time crews. I cursed my poverty: I would give my kingdom for a night of privacy in a room with a view of the waves. Dorm rooms, with their paper-thin walls and unpredictable roommates, could simply not provide the space and isolation for some of the things we enjoyed doing. Oh well, we worked around it: we weren't too fazed by the possibility of a public, as you can probably tell.

Our feet reached the sand and we began walking in slow-motion, sort of slogging through the shifting surface, but where the sand is moist and hard we walk pretty effortlessly. Isn't this a sight? The sun will be setting soon, we're walking just beyond the reach of the water, enjoying silence, the unpeaceful roar of the Pacific, each other's company. Let me not lie to you: we love each other. We delight ecstatically in sex and even more euphorically in passion of a different sort. Excuse the excess sentiment here: I wonder if our shared sensualism owes something to the fact that we are intimate enough to know the other's body as well as our own. So if some hint of archaic Romance accidentally slips in here, don't blame me, dear reader, for it is because of this old Eros and his flesh-penetrating arrows that these erotic moans may flourish.

And it is as we're embracing, foam lapping coyly at my shoelaces, that I reach into my coat pocket and activate the vibrator again. I can't help myself for too long, you know, and I think it's time for Molly to coo with another pleasure besides our own quaint in-loveness. Coo she does, and holds me closer, oh yes, and that's exactly what I want as we grind a bit discretely in plain sight of others.

"I'm so wet," she whispers.

"Oh yeah? How wet?"

"Wetter than the ocean!" Still whispering but it's clear it's intended to be a shout, also, albeit not louder and emanating centimeters from my ear.

"And I'm harder than that huge phallic rock we're walking to," I retorted, taking hold of the nearest Freudian shout-out. I had my hands dangerously at her sides; she had closed the light jacket she had worn over her lingerie-top but her tits were still pressed against me and so I received a nice shot of her supple cleavage as well. What can I say, I embody the Male Gaze and I think she likes it. Her short breaths -- yes, holy shit, she's actually panting -- ooze out lubriciously. She hides a hand between us and grasps my cock, unseen (mostly). She's toying with me also, she knows what I like as she strokes the head through the stiff denim and I can barely feel it but it's enough -- enough to get hard again and want lift up her skirt & fuck her right then, there, on the pliant sand. Mm. I dream of it but don't want to get arrested :::: so I dream of it some more while I kiss her neck and she begins stroking me softly. I grasp her ass to give her some encouragement and notice that she's trembling, so very close to coming. I experience a moral dilemma in the flash of a few thoughts: should I let her come already? she's aching for it. But this moment will not do. I switch it off without really knowing what I'm waiting for. (Oh, I know now what I waited for, and am glad I had the patience or the hesitation -- but you'll just have to wait. Or skip forward. Whatever.)

Molly shoots me a familiar frown, as if to say, "Mark, this is getting tiresome," but there's still sexiness in her pouting. What to say? I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders ambiguously. Molly is patient; she takes my hand and we keep walking.

We were on the beach for the next few hours, I suppose, with occasional repetitions of the aforementioned incident. Suffice it to say I managed to keep her appetite whetted and her pussy continuously wet and aching for release. It was not easy; I had to suppress myself, as well. The horizon was overcast when the sun set but we were treated to a few traces of scarlet and tangerine anyway. Soon we found ourselves in the semi-darkness of a young, cloudy night, and left the beach, taking only-once-before seen streets to the parking lot where our trusty & rusty steed awaited.

We stumbled and slouched into the familiarity of the car, adjusted seats, slid on seat belts, wriggled around a bit to get comfortable etc. and with a rumbled we were ready: reverse, all right, I'm checking my mirrors.

Forward and we fly onto the freeway, the same curvy asphalt we had followed on our way over. After a while I see we're not so graceful as we had been during the day: what I thought at first was smoke leftover from the afternoon's hotboxing did not dissipate when I rolled down a window and instead it grew thicker. It was outside; it was fog. Oops.

It was quite challenging to drive. It was so foggy that I could often not see the side of the road, the road was twisty, hilly, and I kept my speed low. Every time I stared at an approaching car's headlights I was convinced we would perish in a head-on collision. I had to pull over; this was driving me crazy and slightly epileptic.

I remembered I rest stop we had seen on the drive over, so I set my mind on that and asked Molly to keep a look out for the sign. I felt it must be close, this submarine excursion had been going on for far too long.

Molly spots the sign fairly soon, which gave a half mile warning that the stop was coming up. I scanned what little street I could see furiously; my only hope to find it would be to keep an eye on the street markings and hope they were accurate. I would not be able to see the rest stop or its exit otherwise.

And in another half mile I saw it, a subtle left turn lane, I pull into it and come to a stop, preparing to turn. I look where I'm supposedly heading, and I see nothing but the mocking whiteness of my headlights reflected by the fog. I inferred the intended road's existence and stepped on the gas cautiously, uncertain if i would be sent careening over the side of a misplaced cliff.

Obviously I wasn't, the asphalt appeared once I was on it, and I followed a gently downward-sloping curb into the rest area. I parked fairly soon, in an oversized space intended for trucks and RVs. Cars were supposed to park in a different lot around a bend, but I did not feel like driving any further, and there were no big-rigs around to speak of.

Ratcheting of the parking break, engine off, the rest is silence. There were a few other cars in the same lot we were in, short and long distances away, scattered station wagons, SUVs, sedans, etc. Molly and I weren't entirely alone, but the fog and the night gave a sense of security, despite the occasional slicings of headlights when new cars would pull in, passing by us headed toward the proper lot or sometimes stopping nearby. Our plan was to wait out the fog for a bit, so it didn't take long for us to begin kissing and groping passionate, as well as the bucket seats would allow.

A few minutes later, however, taking a look around, I saw that the fog had mostly lifted. That, however, changed nothing, except for perhaps making us somewhat more visible to our fellow motorists. The kissing continued, tongues flickering electrically, and before long I was reaching for the remote -- as well as between Molly's legs.

"Oh, Mark," she moaned, then, looking around: "Mark, they'll see us."

"See what? A couple of teenagers innocently making out?"

Molly might have been about to utter some reply, but was silenced when I turned on her toy, and she whimpered instead. I traced my fingertips over the impossibly soft skin of her inner thigh, starting at her knee and creeping up slowly like tantalizing five-tendriled tarantula. I kissed her neck and she moaned into my ear.

"You like that, baby?" I asked.

"Mm, yes, I love it," she cooed.

"Are you worried about getting caught, Molly?"

"Maybe just a little..." she said with a mischievous grin. By now my hand had advanced quite a bit further toward her sweet snatch, which was, if I stretched my thumb out, just within tickling distance.

"Worried that maybe some suburban family will see us with my hand up your skirt while you're trembling uncontrollably?" I grazed her labia and could feel the wetness and the inexorable pulsations of the vibrator.

"Oh God yes..."

I moved my hand up further and cupped it over her yearning cunt.

"Worried that maybe some guy is spying on us from an unseen vantage point, jerking off to the sight of your sexy body amidst the throes of pleasure?"

"Fuck, yes, Mark, more!"

I began slowly prodding at her moist entrance with the tip of my middle finger, sliding it up and down the length of her slit.

"Worried that maybe some cop might see the fogged-up windows and approach us, and put his long...hard...nightstick to work on this cunt of yours, to teach you a bit of a lesson?" I asked mockingly, thrusting the length of my finger deep into her pussy the moment I said the word "cunt."

"Oh God, mm, oh God Mark, yes baby I'm gonna cum..." she gasped as I kept finger-fucking her, pressing with my palm against the toy so as to put more pressure on her clit as well.

"Cum, then, you little slut, cum all over my hand like you've wanted to do all day, you dirty, nasty cock-whore."

And cum she did. "FUCK!" she screamed loudly (making me afraid of us being overheard) and began shuddering and thrashing. I kept thrusting my finger in and out of her as she came, which must have lasted for at least a full minute.

I turned off the toy removed my hand slowly, kissing her slowly and wiping some sweat from her forehead. I the finger I had used to pleasure her up to her lips; she took it into her mouth and licked it clean, slowly and suggestively and lethargically in post-orgasmic bliss.