Beach Bitch to Beach Bunny

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Overzealous cop gets her just rewards.
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Back Cover: Marge Swanson, small-town cop from the dry side of the state, gets her new Mercedes stuck in soft beach sand just as the tide comes in. The only help within miles is Matt Jacobson, an unwitting traffic violator who a year ago Marge threw the book at for running an obscured stop sign in her home town. Now, she's on his turf and at his mercy. Once he recognizes who she is, how will he extract his revenge?

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Friday evening in early June:

I finished leveling my camper, put up a shade tarp to the west of everything, then rearranged my camp table and its two accompanying chairs. After that, I settled back with a cold, sixteen ounce can of 'my favorite beverage' to watch the sunset for the next hour. I loved the beach here because it was quiet, and nobody bothered me much.

They'd better not. That first spring, when I discovered a continuous stream of 'poachers' using my newly inherited five miles of near-barren beach-front without permission, I fenced, gated, signed, and locked the entrance off Highway 101. I also heavily signed both the north and south ends of my beachfront bordering the state land that went on for miles either way from there. When old Uncle Henry still owned the property, the government confiscated the beach between the high water mark and the ocean itself, claiming it was 'public wetland' and therefore theirs—although my family had paid taxes on that strip of sand for better than a hundred years.

But that was ancient history, now lost in the liberal courts. I'd gotten used to the idea that my family—meaning me, since I was now the sole remnant—had been screwed out of that strip of sand and the privacy that owning it provided. But my dune, and everything east from the high water mark to Route 101 was still mine. I could park my camper on the high dunes above the high water mark, and no one could run me out.

I'd done a few 'improvements' up there, like put down a concrete pad large enough I had a place to park my camper and kick the sand off my shoes, graveled the road up so I could get up the inland slope without getting stuck in the blown sand, and built a small shack that sheltered a water supply tank up under its roof, and a shower and a glorified porta-potti at ground level. All this was mine, and I relished the thought of a quiet weekend, walking the government's beach, wading in the government's sea water, dodging the government's bombarding seagulls, and sniffing the government's breeze as it lifted the government's ocean smells to my campsite. At least this much of my childhood remembrance I could still enjoy as mine.

But such was not to last. Here came one of them. Damn!

From the south roared one of those sports roadsters I couldn't begin to afford—maybe a Mercedes—looked like the model I'd heard cost of over a hundred grand. It looked new, too. Damned fool will saturate it with ocean salt and corrode its life away. Pity to do that to such a nice car.

Whoever it was sure liked spinning brodies and donuts in that salty sand (which was, and still is, illegal because it kills the razor clams), and even ran through the edge of the water occasionally. Good way to ensure corrosion. I took another swallow of my beer. I no longer controlled that strip of sand that stretched both north and south two and a half miles, so let the damned fools be fools.

The car went on north, chasing seagulls, stirring up the sand and throwing up rooster-tails in the shallows of salt water. Damned fools!

I'd just popped the top on my second sixteen ouncer when the car reappeared. Oh, this was going to be good!

You see, there was a spot just within my view to the north where an underground spring surfaced enough to keep the sand there in a semi-fluid state—like really stiff quicksand. You could walk on it if you were careful and walked fast, but even the birds' feet sunk into it some. The Mercedes dove into it unaware, and made it to the middle of the soft spot before it was belly-down. This spot wasn't that far inland from the tide's leading edge.

Next came the unproductive roaring of its little motor and spinning of its European-made wheels. But nothing moved. Soft sand and nothing solid under it. That's why I put those signs up at the north and south ends of my property. There were four or five of these spots along here. This driver apparently missed the others he passed. Well, I guessed I'd end up pulling out yet another idiot, but I'd let him sweat a little first. After all, the tide was coming in, and had a long way to come, but not all that far if it threatened your $100,000 car.

I went back to enjoying my sunset and my brew. I perused my tide table, which everyone on the coast keeps handy, and checked my watch. If I read everything right, the tide wouldn't come in quite far enough to get to the Mercedes, so I didn't sweat it. The high tide after next would put the idiot's car underwater, however, but that was nearly eighteen hours off, so there was lots of time yet.

I heard the car's door slam, and it sounded abrupt enough to shake the door loose on the opposite side. Somebody was pissed off. A dark shadow large enough to be a person headed my way, struggling in the uneasy sand. The spot grew a head, then legs, then arms. When close enough, I saw from its manner it was either a 'sissy boy' or a woman, and before long narrowed it down to 'woman.' A rather shapely one, and far as I could tell, brunette, tall and slim.

From the bottom of my dune, she headed up the lower slope, struggling in the loose sand and grasping at the wind-blown bushes and grass in order to gain altitude faster than she slid back. I figured she'd get where she was going just as quick, no matter if I helped or not.

When she cleared the last of the bush on the slope and stood with her head and upper body visible, she said, "Let me use you phone." No hi, pardon me, how are you, may I please use your phone, or promise of thank-you if I did, or anything like that.

"Use yours. Most kinds work out here."

"Fuckin' thing slid out of my pocket into the water, and now it won't work at all."

"That happens. Salt eats 'em real quick."

She held out her hand to me. That was a demand motion if I'd ever seen one. I decided I could be a shithead, too, just like she seemed inclined to be. After all, she was trespassing, had demonstrated her poor judgement, and would likely screw up my phone if I loaned it to her.

"Sorry. I come out here to get away from people, not bring them with me."

"Then, come down and get my car out."

No please come down and help me get my car out. And sounded as if I did, there probably wouldn't be much in the way of thanks, either.

So I stood where I was, at least long enough to make it obvious her demand hadn't worked. Truthfully, there was no way I was going to see a Mercedes ruined; that idea was ethically indefensible to a mechanical guy like me. So eventually I'd go down and help, but not just yet. Serve the demanding bitch right! When I did pull her out—and my 4x4 camper truck would certainly do that—I'd pry a few bucks gratitude from her to help defray my weekend's expenses—maybe $50.

That woman was uncommonly clumsy, I'll say that about her. She tripped, slipped, slid, stumbled, and rolled most of the way back down the dune, over clumps of sand and bush, and when we reached the bottom, the look on her face said, 'You could have been a gentleman and helped more.' Yes, I could have. But you know how your dander gets up when folks start telling you what to do for them, and demanding you do it?

Her car definitely was down on the sand, and every time we took steps around it, we stumbled, getting our feet unstuck from the wet sand's suction.

"Well," I said. "You got a mess here."

"They should put signs up. People should be warned about things like this."

"There are signs. I know because I put them up. Didn't have to, but got tired of saving people from their stupidities. Can't you read? You had to trespass on my land to get to the beach here, past Private Property signs, No Trespassing signs, and right past Soft Sand warning signs."

Well, you can bet I got a glower for that comment.

"Didn't see them."

"So you're blind as well as stupid?"

"You can't say that to me."

"I just did, and you can find your own way out of this." With that, I turned and headed back toward my camper up on the dune. I looked back over my shoulder somewhat, but tried not to let it show. She shook her fist at me, yelled some derogatives concerning my intellectual level, my manhood and the marital relationship of my mother to my father, but I kept going.

"You prick! You going to leave me here like this?" she screamed while I was still close enough to hear. I turned and walked back.

When I reached a point where I knew she'd hear me loud and clear, I said, "It'll cost you three thousand ... to tear down my camp, bring my truck down here, risk getting stuck myself, and hopefully get us both back out."

That set about as well with her as whatever had set her crosswise at the start.

"I won't pay it!"

I shrugged. "Have it your way. But remember, the tide is coming in, and before long it'll be high tide. You're fancy little car will be on its way to becoming a corroding, rust bucket from the salt."

"I'll get somebody else."

"Go ahead. It's three miles either way to the closest place to phone ... if you get lucky and there is someone home to let you in to use their phone." I pointed up and down the beach. "Then how long will it take to get a tow-truck out here fifteen miles from town and rescue your little car, huh? The tide keeps coming in, you know. If that car of yours gets full of water, it'll be a corroded piece of electronic junk in a few hours—just like your cell phone."

"The insurance company will pay for it. I have flood insurance."

"Insurance companies don't pay for stupidity. They'll figure you out, real quick. So there goes your hundred thousand dollars. How much you still owe on it, anyway?"

"None of your fuckin' business. Besides, they'll never know about this."

"They sure will. They're not stupid. And I've got your license number; I'll send them a little note just to make sure their other customers don't get stuck paying for your stupidity. So have it your way." I turned and headed back toward my camp.

I shook my head to myself and cocked my brow. That demanding bitch seemed distantly familiar, but was it merely random familiarity? Or had I run into her before?

I was halfway back to my camp when it dawned on me! Could it be? Really? No, far too coincidental. Forget it. I climbed the dune, took up my chair and went back to worshiping my can of beer and enjoying the sunset. Meanwhile, as they say, 'time and tide wait for no man,'—nor woman, either. But I waited to see what she'd try next.

She set off down the beach south like someone on a mission. Well, maybe she'd get lucky and run across another trespasser, badger him to use his phone, and get a tow truck out here that way. Good. That way she wouldn't disturb my weekend any longer. I looked toward her car to see the tide was still doing its inevitable.

This time, an hour later, she approached my camp from the inland side of my row of dunes, and started right in like before.

"Okay, get your stuff and go pull my car out. I'll pay your three thousand." Her tone of voice added, 'You bastard.'

"Sorry. Price went up. Five thousand now. I'm tired of you, don't need you, and I need something to make your bitchiness worth my while."

"Oh, fuck you!" With that she turned, and would have stomped away, had that been possible in the loose sand.

"Does that mean you're turning down my offer?

"You're fucking right!"

"Have it your way."

"I will, you cock sucking parasite bastard."

Ten minutes later, she was back again, ready to pay the five grand.

"You have cash, of course," I said. I wasn't so stupid I'd accept a check or payment promise from her at this stage of the game.

"Why the hell would I have that much cash on me?"

"Because you were heading out to do something really stupid and might need it to bail yourself out."

I almost got another 'fuck you' for that, but she checked herself this time.

"Okay, I'll give you a check, if that's okay." This, too, she said in a manner that didn't inspire confidence I'd ever see the money.

"Sorry, cash only."

"Oh, you prick!"

"You're repeating yourself. Is that the best you can do for vocabulary?"

"Asshole!"

Well, at least she hadn't used that description previously.

"Tell you what. You keep the cash you don't have and let me have your ass instead. How about that? Right here in my camper. Quick, cozy, and private."

"Fuck no!"

"Okay then, we're back again to cash only."

She started to walk away again, but then turned. "My ass? You'll screw my ass, then go pull my car out so I can get the fuck out of here?"

"Nope. You refused that offer, so the price went up. Now it's your ass plus your mouth—or seventy-five hundred dollars. And the mouth part better be good. Are you a good cocksucker? I really like deep throat."

"Fuck no! I'm not about to do that!"

"I sure hate to see you ruin your cute little car just to save your ass and mouth, but that deal's off the table now, anyway. See, in commercial law whenever an offer is made, once it's refused, it is automatically rescinded unless the offeror sees fit to extend it. And I don't."

With another 'fuck you' she walked away, only to return.

"So, you'll do it for poking my ass and a deep-throat blowjob? I'll do that. I guess I got no choice."

"Nope. The price is now your ass, your mouth, lots of great fucks in your pussy, and after I pull your car out, I get to play with your tits and clit all I want until tomorrow noon."

"Christ no! What kind of a man are you?"

"One who wants to fuck your ass, stick his dick down your throat, screw your pussy 'til you think it's worn out, and play with your tits and clit. Just an ordinary man." I shrugged to show I thought it obvious.

"Fuck you again, you parasite prick. I wouldn't do that for a boyfriend!"

"If you ever have one! Why would any worthwhile guy put up with the sort of shit you've heaped on me so far today?"

She stomped off in the direction of her car. I went back to my beer and enjoying the sunset.

She made it to my estimate of halfway before she turned around and headed back. As she crawled up my dune's windward face, I stood and climbed into my camper to see what I had on hand to assist in the collection of her payment. 'Be prepared.' Isn't that the Boy Scout motto? Where was I going to extract my pre-payment?

"Okay," she said as she stomped the sand mud off her shoes onto my freshly swept concrete pad.

"Sweep your sand off my floor here, then take your clothes off. All of them. After that, bend over this camp table, here."

I swear she almost said 'fuck you' again out of reflex but caught herself just in time. She wasn't much of a stripper, but the more naked she got, the better the show got.

"Everything. Take it all off."

"What if somebody sees me?"

"They won't, that is unless some trespassers come by."

"Will they ...?"

"Never can tell. Some people just got no respect for other people's property."

I almost got another 'fuck you' for that, but again she resisted. The less she had on, the better she looked, and I looked a lot. I did have to remind her that 'everything off' meant that thong and her almost nothing bra.

"Please? Don't make me do this? People might see me!"

"You fucking, stupid broad! Nobody's likely to see you but me, and by the time I get done with you, I'll have done a lot more than just seen you naked. So now, off—everything—or the deal's off and your little car becomes so much junk." The look she gave me was the strangest combination of pissed-off belligerence, and unreasoned denial I'd ever seen.

"Good. Now bend over the table, there at that end, so I can watch the sunset while I pork your ass."

"Please, Mister? No?"

"Please, Mister, yes. After the way you've insulted me, you should be begging my forgiveness as well as giving me your ass. You got no cards to play, lady. Now bend your scrawny ass over that table."

With that, I slacked my belt in a way she could no longer delude herself.

"You like lots of lube on your ass?"

"Don't know. Never did this before."

"Then I hope I've got some. I'm too much a gentleman to give your ass friction burns."

"You're really going to screw my ass?"

"Sure am. So, you want lube or not?"

"Lube."

I knew I had a small jar of Vaseline somewhere. I kept it in case I cut myself out here and needed it to temporarily keep sand-salt and saltwater out of the wound. I reached inside the camper's door, retrieved it, and popped the lid off. The sound raised her eyebrows.

"There now. Spread your feet and turn your heels out. That'll spread your cheeks and give me a better target."

"Please, Mister?"

"Now don't get in a rush. I'll shove my dick into your ass soon enough. Here, get some of this on your fingertips and rub it all over your ass crack. I want to slip into you so smooth it feels like a mink coat. You ever feel a mink coat? They feel as smooth as they look."

She nodded.

"You got one?"

She shook her head.

"Just wish you did, right?"

To that she nodded.

"Well, by the time I get done with your ass, you'll never wish for mink again. You'll be wishing my dick was up your ass instead."

"I doubt it."

"Well, let's not call the game before mid-fourth quarter, shall we?"

By now her fingers were coated and she began rubbing them over her buttocks and into her ass cleavage.

"Get lots on your fingers and then stick them up your ass. Gotta get that real slippery in there or you might get dick burn. Don't want that, now do we?"

"Oh, you!"

"Just looking out for your best interests."

"Uh."

"Just about ready, it looks."

"No."

"Yes. Now, just look at that sunset out there, and think about how calm and peaceful it looks. Don't think about anything but peace and quiet and pleasure and how wonderful this is going to feel.

"Oh, just get it over with, okay? Stick it into me so I don't have to put up with this indignity forever."

"Patience, young lady. Patience."

"Please?"

"Okay, here it comes. Just relax and let me in. I'll be real gentlemanly. Take it slow and easy. Just relax and let this man do for you what men have been doing for women for thousands of years."

"Not their asses!"

"Yes, their asses, one of nature's own family planning methods. Now here it comes. Just let me in, easy, gentle, smooth, and considerate." The tip of my dick pushed into her cleavage and pressed against her anus.

"How's that?"

"Feels awful full."

"It'll feel a lot fuller once I start in."

I reached up and grasped her pelvic corners so if she chickened out on me, she wouldn't pull away and make us have to start all over again.

"Easy, now."

I gave her a gentle nudge. She took a huge gasp.

"Hurt?"

"Almost."

"So ease up more." I gave her another gentle jab just as soon as her muscles allowed me some slack.

"Ooh!"

"Easy. Let me give you a little more."

"Oh!"

"Easy, now."

"Ahh!"

"You like that?"

"Not quite."

"Relax a little more, then." My next shove, no more abrupt that before, went in.

"Aahh, ah, ah," she moaned.

"Okay that's the big part."

"Feels huge."

"But good, right?"

She shook her head.

"A little too much yet?"

She nodded.

"Then just let me rest in you awhile. You'll get used to it, and when you do, remember what I said about mink coats."

***

I rested in her portal for about five minutes. Every time she moved a little, her moans changed some, from mild agony toward mild enjoyment. Then it was my turn. I gave her a gentle thrust to get things going again.

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