tagMatureLady on Beach

Lady on Beach

byMoondrift©

I was sitting somewhat gloomily under the beach umbrella idly listening to the ocean rollers pounding on the shore. It was a beautiful day with the bright sunlight heat tempered by the gentle breeze coming in from the sea.

Further along the beach I could see two stick like figures of children throwing something into the sea for an equally stick like dog to fetch.

Behind me where the beach ended there began the fringe of low trees and bushes that extended back some two hundred metres. On the edge of this fringe I could see another beach umbrella and sitting under it was someone who seemed to be painting. The artist was too distant for me to determine whether they were male or female.

Given the beauty and tranquility of the scene I suppose I should have been at peace myself, but I wasn't. I was suffering what might sound like a contradictory mixture of boredom and frustration.

My boredom arose from the fact that ever since Grant's retirement from work we had come to spend more and more time at our beach shack. That would have been fine if the location of the shack had not been so remote from others, and if Grant had taken the trouble to keep me company. Instead Grant went off in his boat almost everyday fishing with his mate from the other side of the bay.

My frustration was possibly the experience of many women my age. Despite all the information now readily available on the subject, there still seems to be a general view that once a woman enters her fifties, she loses all sexual interest.

If that idea makes you feel comfortable, then let me discomfort you by announcing that this woman when she was sixty-one was as hot for a man as ever she had been. My problem was that my man, Grant, wasn't hot for a female.

Of course, it was not Grant's fault that he developed prostate cancer and had to have the operation, but it was frustrating for me when he was no longer able to perform in bed.

I know there are many women who find themselves in this situation, and feel that they can do nothing about it. Matters of sexual morality, especially for women of my generation, tend to prevail, and so, no sex outside marriage.

The impotent husband also has his problem with this. Facing the truth of the situation he could say, "Darling, I can't do it any more, but if you need sexual satisfaction, why not take a lover."

That however, rarely happens I believe. There is the husband's ego that demands that although he can no longer sexually perform, he still expects the sexual fidelity of his wife. No doubt there is the fear that if his wife did take a lover she might leave him, the husband, for the lover, and I admit that there is always that possibility.

And as I was in misery mode, I can add that there was a frustration to add to my frustration. My mother had counselled, "Take care of your teeth and they'll take care of you." I had followed her advice and having no clacking false teeth and no hollow cheeks, I'd kept my face in fairly good condition.

Another dictum I had followed came from my own observation. "Take care of your breasts and they'll keep your man interested."

Add to these things the fact that I had produced no children, eaten a good diet and engaged in moderate exercise, and I considered that I was in pretty good shape for a sixty one year old.

On the beach that day among my other moans was the thought that I'd gone to all the trouble to keep myself looking good, and now Grant, even if he was interested, could do little to feast at the honey pot I had preserved for him.

So there I was, like a juicy plumb, ripe for plucking, and no one to pluck and taste me.

Talking of "juicy," that was just how I was as I lay there; apropos of no particular stimulation other than my own psycho-physical self. I was thoroughly wet between the legs and my nipples were standing out to announce my state of sexual arousal as they pressed against my bikini top.

The two stick children with the dog had left the beach, but the artist was still there, otherwise I would have relieved myself with a little masturbation. I had the choice of going back to the shack in order to unburden myself of my libidinous condition, or taking to the water for a little body surfing and hopefully, a little lust cooling.

I chose the latter and made my way down to the water and entered gasping as it crept up my body. I caught a few waves and rode in with them, but then was taken by surprise. I was standing with my back to the incoming rollers and therefore knew nothing about the particularly large one that suddenly picked me up and tumbled and turned me towards the beach. Completely in the power of the wave the last thing I remember is a sudden jolt, and the world went black.

How long I was out for I've never been really sure, but the first thing I became conscious of was a voice asking, "How are you feeling?"

At that stage as I struggled up out of the gloom, I wasn't sure how I was feeling so I made no effort to answer, but tried to gather my disordered wits. As my eyes came into focus I saw a face peering down at me and heard the voice ask again, "How do you feel?"

Instead of answering the question I managed to ask, "What...happened?"

"You were riding the waves in and a big one caught you and threw you up onto the beach," the voice said. "I saw you tumbling over and then the undertow began to drag you out. I ran down and pulled you up here. I've done a bit of first aid so I had a feel around. I don't think anything's broken."

I was beginning to be aware of the world around me and in particular the face hovering over me. It seemed to be a young male face.

Nothing was said for a while, and then the face asked, "Do you think you can sit up?"

"I'll try," I murmured.

"I'll help you," the voice said, and I felt an arm under my shoulder.

With the aid of the arm I got into a sitting position, and apart from still feeling a bit fuzzy, I seemed to be okay.

I now saw that the face did indeed belong to a young man who was kneeling beside me.

"Look," he said, "I'm afraid you've lost the top of your bikini. It must have been dragged off while you were getting thrown about. I did take a quick look for it, but it must have been taken right out by the undertow."

I glanced down and saw that my breasts were indeed exposed. I raised my hands to cup them and the young man went on, "I've got a beach robe over there with my gear, I'll get it."

"Beach robe!" I thought, and then said aloud, "I've got one under my umbrella."

"I'll get it."

Striving for independence I said, "It's all right, I think I can stand."

Playing the heroine I strove to get to my feet, and having got to a standing position the world suddenly began to spin. I felt myself caught, held and then lifted off my feet. The young man had swept up all sixty kilos of me as if I was feather and began to carry me up the beach.

Independence was flung to the four corners. "This is nice I thought; I haven't been picked up like this since the first night with Grant when he carried me to the bed. Even so I only weighed fifty five kilos in those days and he hadn't needed to plod through sand.

I was lowered on to the blanket under the beach umbrella and the robe was draped round my shoulders. I pulled it round me and at least partially was able to conceal my breasts, although why I should have bothered I don't know, since the young man had seen plenty of them already.

I was now able to take in my rescuer. He was kneeling beside me so I couldn't determine whether he was short of tall. He wasn't exactly handsome, but had a pleasant round face with one of those cleft chins that have always set my heart pounding. His shoulders were broad and he was well muscled.

"Lay back for a while," he said, smiling at me. "By the way, my name's Hartley. People call me Hart."

"Hannah," I responded, "and thank you very much Hart for my rescue from a watery grave."

"S'okay," he muttered, and seemed to blush. Then he grinned and said, "Any time."

Now able to respond more fluently I smiled and said, "I'll bear that in mind."

He stood up and said, "If you're sure your feeling okay, I'd better get back to work."

I hardly heard what he said because my eyes had become riveted on what was before me. Tall he was, but that was for the moment of little interest since he was wearing bathers that in the days of my youth would have got him arrested for indecency. I had of course observed these sorts of bathers before, but it was what Hart's bathers were trying to conceal, or more accurately, revealing that had me mesmerized.

Fans of the ballet will know what I mean when I say that what Hart had by way of manhood was like looking at one of those male ballet dancers who pad themselves to give the impression they are well endowed. Clearly what Hart had was not padding. I was looking at the real thing, and my God, what a size it was.

I think he was half way towards a full erection. The source of his arousal, I conjectured, was probably the same as mine, plain old fashioned sexual frustration brought on by nothing in particular except, in his case, over full testes.

He stood waiting for me to say I was fine so he could leave me. Short of company as I had been for some time and certainly having little hope of such attractive male company again, I sought to delay his departure.

"Er...you're an artist? I noticed you with your easel."

He grinned; "I like to think I'm an artist. I finished Art School a couple of years ago and I'm what is generally known as a 'Struggling artist'. I'm hoping that when I'm dead I'll be 'discovered' and people will pay fortunes for my work."

We both laughed at this, and I asked, "You paint seascapes?"

"I try lots of things, but what I really want to do is paint portraits."

"And do you paint them?"

"I've done a few, mostly paid models, but if I'm going to make a living at it, I need clients who can pay me. That's not so easy when you're an unknown. What I need is a portrait that can really grab the public eye, especially the rich public eye."

"Well, as my rescuer I can only wish you the best of luck."

At that moment I heard the distant buzz of an outboard motor.

"Good God is it that time already," I exclaimed, "That's my husband's boat coming in and I haven't even started to get a meal ready."

I started to get to my feet and felt Hart's arm round me, lifting.

"I'll help you with your things," he offered.

It was nice to have a young man offering to carry for you, so I accepted, and after folding up the umbrella and gathering my bits and pieces, we made our way up the track to the shack. On the way he pointed into the bushes and said, "My camp is over there." I took his word for it because it wasn't visible from where we were.

On reaching the shack Hart put down the gear he was carrying for me and said, "Perhaps we'll see each other again," and began to make his way down the track to the beach.

He had gone a few paces when a thought occurred to me. "Hart, how would you like to eat with us this evening? I'm sure my husband would want to thank you for saving me."

He turned and came back a couple of paces. "I'd like that," he said, "thank you. I'll go and get changed. What time?"

"Come back as soon as you've changed," I replied, taking one last look at his fascinating male organ.

Hart left and I hustled into preparing a meal. Grant came in bearing his trophies for the day; two whiting. I've often wondered why people bother to spend a fortune on boats and the fuel to run them, to catch fish that you'd get in a shop for a tiny fraction of the money expended on the boat and other gear.

Hart arrived soon after Grant and so we were able to regale Grant with our accounts of my rescue. We both omitted to mention the bare breast part of the story.

Grant, all bonhomie, produced a bottle of his best whisky and poured us all a glass. He then made what you might call a "thank you toast" to Hart, for rescuing his "dear Hannah".

Hart and I stayed at one glass of fire water, but Grant proceeded to pour himself successive glasses. With each glass his affability increased to the point of drooling embarrassment as he constantly informed Hart he would be "welcome anytime." It mercifully ended when he staggered off to bed.

It was late, but Hart showed no desire to leave, so we sat talking for a while. We got around to some personal aspects of his life, and I learned that his parents were both dead; that he and his sister had inherited some money from them, and his sister was a business go-getter who viewed Hart's way of life as unprofitable.

Eventually Hart rose to leave, but as he stood he said to me, "Hannah, would you allow me to paint your portrait?"

I laughed and said, "For heaven's sake, why would you want to paint me? You need to paint some beautiful young woman...or at least, an ugly rich woman."

"Perhaps you underestimate yourself, Hannah," he said quietly. "I think you would make a very lovely model. Think about it, will you?"

"I'll think about it; good night Hart."

I did think about it. Grant and I slept in the same room but in different beds. We had come to this arrangement because Grant said he couldn't sleep when I was restless. Since I was often restless because of my sexual needs, the arrangement suited me because I could masturbate without self-consciousness.

I thought about having my portrait painted and other things as well. I kept getting flashbacks to my first sight of Hart's robust manly equipment. I masturbated and fantasized that lovely phallus finding its home, specifically, in my vagina.

I awoke with a sticky wetness between my thighs and an overwhelming feeling of discontent.

Fortunately Grant had, as usual, left for the fishing grounds before I got up, otherwise I'd probably have snapped the poor guys head off. I showered and prepared myself for the beach. Fortunately I had several pairs of bikinis so I didn't need to go topless. I slipped on the beach robe and picking up my beach umbrella, I made my way down the track.

As I approached the beach my earlier gloom began to dissipate to be replaced by a feeling of anticipation; Hart would be there.

He wasn't there. The mood of dejection washed over me again. I set up my umbrella, spread the blanket and taking off my robe lay down to watch the waves breaking on the shore and the gulls weeping and moaning.

"Yes," I thought, "it's all right for you to moan, but what about me?" Self pity is not a very attractive emotion, but lately I seemed to have been indulging in it rather frequently.

Having had a bad night's sleep I must have dozed off, and was awakened by a voice saying, "Hello Hannah, you're down here early."

I came to and looked up. It was Hart. Foolish old woman that I was, I felt my heart leap.

He was wearing a beach robe that was covered in streaks of paint. He'd obviously been using it to wipe his brushes.

I tried to sound casual saying, "Oh, I like to get here while it's still quiet." A rather foolish remark since this particular beach is nearly always quiet.

"Did you think about my painting your portrait?"

"Yes, but why would you want to paint an old woman like me?"

He looked at me curiously for a moment as if trying to work out how he should respond, and then said,"Perhaps because an 'old woman' like you has a beauty that youth needs to understand."

I was nonplussed by this reply. My attempt at self negation, insincere though it was, had been exposed. Not only that, Hart had stroked my female ego at just the point it needed stroking.

"If you really want to paint my portrait Hart, I'm happy for you to do so, but I'm not a rich old lady."

He laughed and said, "I thought I might have to pay you, Hannah."

"All right," I said, "we've got a bargain." You can paint me for free and I don't have to pay you."

"Great," he responded, sounding as if he was relieved.

"Where and when?"

"Right here, but there's one thing I'd like to ask you..."

"What?"

"Would you mind if I painted you nude?"

"Good God, Hart, I'm not one of your young models. Who'd want to look at a painting of a nude old woman?"

I had not anticipated this. A nice painting of me sitting virtuously in a chair, with my eyes scanning a book; maybe the bible, fine; but naked for all to see!

"No," I protested. "I'm past the time when my body can interest people, even artistically."

"Trust me, Hannah. You denigrate yourself too much."

"No."

"Okay, if that's the way you feel; will you take your top off then?"

Hart had already seen me topless and if he thought my exposed breasts worth painting, then why not?

"All right," I said, and proceeded to take the top off.

Hart set up his umbrella and equipment a little distance from me, and then proceeded to pose me. I was to sit angled slightly away from him, my upper legs pointing towards him and knees bent and one hand on the sand supporting me.

"I want to take some photographs first," Hart said. "That way I can still keep on working if you're not here or are having a break from the pose."

His camera was one of those that produced instant pictures and he proceeded to click it at me from several angles.

I could see why he would need them because my pose, while looking relaxed, was in fact very difficult to hold for long. I rested while Hart looked at the photographs, and then he said, "Right, we can get started."

He came to me to adjust my position and the touch of his hands on my body was very gentle, in fact, quite soothing. I felt a lightening spear of excitement thrill through me, and there was a ticking sensation in my clitoris. I was disappointed when, satisfied with my pose, he stopped touching me.

He made his way to the easel, and after looking at me for a minute of two, he began a flurry of activity with a pencil. He would draw away for a while, then stop to look at me, then on with the drawing again. To my delight he would occasionally come and adjust my position.

He worked for about half and hour and then said, "Okay, have a break."

I got up and moved about for a bit, trying to ease my stiff joints. I heard the distant barking of a dog, and saw that the stick children were back on the beach. They were some distance off, but I grabbed my robe and covered my naked breasts.

Hart said, "We'll wait until they've gone. I can work with the photos for a while."

I lay down under the umbrella and watched him work. I wanted him to take his robe off so that I could indulge myself in looking at his bulging genitals. I tried to encourage him to divest himself, but he looked discomfited and said, "I'd rather keep it on, it's handy for wiping the brushes on."

The children left after about half and hour so we worked on until lunch time. I invited Hart to come back to the shack for lunch, and he readily accepted. I asked how the picture was going and he said, "Early stages yet, and anyway, you can't see it until I've finished."

"How long will that be?"

"Depends on how it goes, some portraits take weeks." He gave me a mischievous grin.

I was about to register my protest at this suggestion of "weeks", but then it occurred to me that should it take that long I would have his company for that time.

I immediately mentally chastised myself; "Silly woman, you've become enamored of this boy simply because he's taken sufficient interest in you to want to paint your portrait." I tried not to add that the interest also included the considerable sexual organ that was now lurking beneath that paint smeared beach robe.

We ate our lunch and then returned to the beach and my pose. I decided on a new maneuver.

"Hart, if you'd really like me naked, I don't see why not."

"Wonderful" he said. Did I hear a note of fervor in his voice?

I took off my bikini bottoms and enjoyed his manipulations as he moved me into a modified pose.

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