Beach Reading

I read it again: the way he took his time and patted the bed for her to come and sit by him, and I imagined the scene unfolding in reality. I saw her as timid and shy, knowing what was going to happen, and the way she tried to avoid advancing to the next step; she stopped the forward motion for a moment by taking a moment to put on her bright red lipstick.

I read the way he ran his hands along her shoulders and caressed her arms; the way he kissed her neck and she slowly leaned into it and offered her mouth to his. I wondered if she was just a good actor, or responded out of a hidden desire for him that I didn't see at first. I read the way he unbuttoned her blouse slowly and with deliberation, looking at her with growing excitement as each button was undone and there was more of her to feast his eyes on. I wondered over little details: the way she moved her hand to her chest to either encourage him or protect herself out of modesty; the way she let her eyes watch him as he undid her bra and viewed her breasts. She sat there in a way that made it seem she took an abnormal pleasure in his enjoyment.

I wondered over my blonde mystery girl, who with every turned page of the book was now less and less of a mystery to me. I wanted to know what she thought -- how did she respond to the scene? I let my thoughts about her make a leap: I knew she loved the ambiguity of it all... She could put her own self into Pandora's character and just enjoy the story, innocent or troubled, as well as the sex.

By the third time I had re-read the scene, it unfolded in a new way to me; it was simply carnal: He took her, and she let him without a whimper of protest. The red lipstick she put on was not to buy herself a few more seconds of escape, but to urge him towards her mouth. I filled in the blanks and looked between the lines for more meaning, but it was the last little XXX-rated detail that got me. A small dot of his cum had fallen near her mouth; he dabbed it with his finger and ran it along her lips. That too, I decided, meant something beyond sheer physicality.

I needed to know if she turned away -- or if she happily accepted it. I wanted to be there, and see everything. And yet, to my complete frustration, the words on the page simply did not answer my question.

Hours later, and the book was finished.

I sat in my room thinking, wanting my blonde girl more than I could imagine; I wanted to knock on every door to every room and find her, and then...

I wanted to sit on the bed, pat my hand on the sheets as an invitation and have her join me. I wanted to deliberately but slowly undo each of the buttons on her blouse, remove her bra with a painfully slow motion and just lap-up the sight of her. I wanted to position her hips over my face and sink my mouth into her delicious folds and creases. I wanted to taste her and make her mine.

In the background the air-conditioning whirred away. I heard the sound of the surf breaking gently on the beach. It was close to evening -- I could go out for one more swim -- I could let the exercise and exhaustion take the sting out of needing her, if only for a short while. My book was done. I had nothing but reality to hold me.

I again donned my swim trunks, ran my hands through my hair, checked myself in the mirror and was soon walking down to the beach. The book and the Good Girls echoed in my mind. I thought about their stories, wanting to jump into their life, with or without a fedora on my head. The air was soft and humid and nearly to twilight. All but a few beach-goers had taken leave and were no doubt flopped on their beds and thinking about dinner.

Later, I would wonder if my thoughts pulled her to me. Was there something in my mind that reached out for her and brought us together? I was given some sort of answer, suddenly... I heard that accented voice.

She called my name. It was half with a laugh and a smile, as if she didn't want to break the silence that descended on this island at the end of the day.

I turned around and saw her standing alone, not far away, and after a few dozen leaps and steps I was there. I grabbed her hand and wordlessly led her back to my room. It was something I would never have done otherwise. I felt I knew her, if only because I imagined that she too had just finished our book.

I knew it affected her too... It was the reason I was so bold. It was the reason she wore her lipstick that way, and the reason she had high heels on - or so I thought.

****************************

I sat on the bed. I patted the corner of it with my hand, urging her to sit next to me. I wondered: did she remember that little gesture from the book? I lapped her up with my eyes; I was mere inches away from her and the details I had only imagined were now becoming clear. I could smell her leftover sunscreen -- it had the scent of a tropical fruit. I could see the color of her eyes in their entirety -- they seemed to have a green base surrounded by a blue ring. I brought all of my senses to her, and they painted a picture of a woman I only half knew. The other half I drew with guesses and ideas grabbed by proxy from the Good Girls; I hoped she did her own version of the same for me...

She sat there, letting me take her in, and taking me in as well; I wondered over our unrehearsed closeness. I wanted to kiss her; I wanted to show her just how I felt about her. But instead wordlessly, I began to undo the buttons on her blouse. It was slow and deliberate. It was an overt gesture that might only be shared on occasion by perfectly paired couples, and yet she let me, and even moved closer on the bed so that our legs touched and my hands could clasp on her breasts. I wondered if she could hear that echo from the book reverberating in the room?

Our kiss was delayed, and all the better for it. It was our lusty touches and our eyes speaking first, thrilling with the contact of another who asked for more -- and who gave more than was asked. And yet our kisses broke into a different rhythm. I suddenly wondered if we might recline back in bed and spend the night with our lips locked and our breath feeding into each other over and over. It was gentle; it was about caring for another person and wanting to let them feel the warmth of your affection.

But then her hands traveled over my stomach, and my need rose to new heights and gathered itself. ****************************

Hours later and we had missed dinner. The bedroom told its own story now. The sheets were flung about and the pillows were at the opposite end of the bed. I pictured the way she playfully kicked her legs in the air, and the way she untangled herself from my arms and legs and found the thermostat on the wall and turned up the air-conditioning before returning to the same spot and pulling my body around her again. She let me take all of her in with my eyes, hands, and mouth. And when I greedily asked for more and more, she was right there offering up everything I could ask.

Time after time there was the obvious and unashamed sound of our bodies moving together -- if there was an outsider, perhaps listening through the door, there was no mistaking it -- we were having sex. My phone sat nearby and I grabbed it and pushed the buttons, setting it on the nightstand and recording our partnering for who knows what reason.

And then suddenly there was a pause. I stopped and straddled her. I needed to simply show her the size of my cock -- it felt titanic because of what she did to me -- and so I drew myself from her and arranged our bodies so she had no choice but to look and see.

There she was. And there I was. I was hovering over her, naked and lusting; she was gorgeous and used, and more beautiful because of it. I was just like the book... her hair, eyes, and expressions were unmistakable.

Her hand reached out for me and caressed my cock as I studied her gaze. She wanted to see as well, and the mere thought of that -- she wants to see what she does to me - was the nudge I needed to jump over the edge.

With a burning wave there was my orgasm, rolling over and out of me as if I had no control over my own body; just the barest touch from her and my cum erupted and fell on her naked body - between her breasts, on her neck and dotted around her mouth and lips. I was stunned and provoked. I didn't expect it to look so brazen or so right. I locked the image of her in that pose into my brain -- I saw her as an accomplice in some larger design I didn't fully understand, and between sighs and nearly collapsing in ecstasy I did something I had never done before: I dabbed a bit on my finger and brushed it along her lips for her to taste - and hopefully adore.

Later I would learn: It was immediately after the recording stopped.

There was no record on my phone of the sound when she stirred differently: No sound of her head turning that slight bit, nor of the change in the shape her lips -- and certainly no sound of me nuzzling into her side, nor the thoughts in my brain wondering if I had asked too much.

The next day, as I sat around my hotel room and replayed those three minutes and listened to the recording for perhaps the twentieth time, I knew why I did it, and why I needed that mysterious thing with her. And although my interpretation of her response kept changing, I knew what that book did to my desires, and how they were changing me into something I wasn't before.

I wondered too, if she was sitting on the bed in her own hotel room, so nearby on the next floor and a few dozen steps away, pushing the buttons on her phone, holding it close to her ear and listening to it the same way I was. I wondered if she re-lived that moment as well, and if its hidden significance would occur to her. I suddenly had all the answer I would ever need when I heard a knock on my door -- she stood there with heels on her feet, lipstick on her smiling lips, and a copy of 'The Good Girls Club' in her hand.