Portraits at the Beach

by EgmontOriginals©

Ivy stood at the top of the incline leading to the beach. The wrinkled-faced Maori woman with teeth missing smiled an eye-twinkling smile at her.

"He's down there in that shed he calls home," the woman pointed.

Rangi began thinking about the days seventy and more years ago when her grandfather and his men used to take the wool out through the surf in a long and heavily-built eight-oar rowboat called a lighter to a waiting coastal freighter.

The steamer would then proceed to the next bay, then the next bay until there were no more lighters waiting with bales of wool. Then the SS Miranda would back-track heavy-bellied with thousands of baled sheep fleeces to the port at Gisborne for shipping to England or France or Germany.

Young Ivy was on the East Coast of the North Island of New Zealand for a month attempting to have a culturally rewarding vacation.

The 22-year-old was in her final year studying for a master's degree for a career in anthropology.

Her aim was to pull aside the curtain of distrust the proud indigenous people had of the Pakeha (the Maori name for later-arrivals of European stock) and learn about their thoughts and aspirations and their history through intimate conversations.

So far the mission had been virtually fruitless.

She'd decided on New Zealand after looking at the summer temperatures (it was winter in Chicago) of the South Sea Islands, choosing the cooler country of Aotearoa which is the Maori name for New Zealand.

These days of course Maori did not live in their traditional fortified villages and they were so European in their ways that it disappointed her bitterly. She'd come prepared knowing that no full-blood Maori people were left.

She found some Maori people willing to speak to her projected the feeling in general of being down-trodden and even they really didn't know who they were as they had no concept of feeling they belonged despite being the descendants of the indigenous people.

Ivy thought at least they had not been banished to reservations.

In contrast, some of the contemporaries of those unfortunates who had the feeling of being adrift in society, had obtained university degrees or tertiary education and held top jobs in New Zealand and overseas;

Further it appeared most of the nation seemed to be proud of men and women of Maori descent who were household names in sport, particularly of games midway between gridiron and soccer called rugby and a variation called rugby league, while the women starred in a game called netball which was much like basketball.

Disappointed that she'd not found a pa (Maori village) permanently inhabited by Maori and finding that conversation with groups in bars and on the beaches would begin about things Maori but would soon drift into modern day topics ranging from politics to fashion. She'd been surprised to have being questioned about American politics and overseas military policy and even stock market performance as all this was taking her away from her desired study focus,

Ivy decided to go 'bush'. That's local idiom to go out into the wilds.

She headed for a tiny coastal settlement where sitting on a seat outside tearooms in a building formerly a Post Office, she found Rangi.

Rangi was a mine of information and they had a rewarding conversation. Ivy wondered if she could talk to some young people and that request was met by Rangi with tears in her eyes, saying, "All the young people have gone to the cities or gone overseas."

Then her eyes brightened and she said, "Oh, there's Peter, down on the beach in that shed."

Ivy now approached the tin shed to visit a Maori lad with the Anglicised name of Peter.

The long rusty building running lengthways in the direction of the beach just below it.

Ivy called out 'Hi' and gasped as she came to the front of the shed, which was open.

Under the shade of some thin-trunked trees lay a well-built young man, aged maybe twenty-five, with his hands behind his head. He was nude, completely. His penis actually lay on his lower belly, stiff!

Ivy turned to retreat in embarrassment when a voice called, "We're not open."

Halting nervously, Ivy half-turned to attempt to give him some privacy. He'd said 'we' and so where was the other person or persons? She failed to see anyone else.

In a bound the fellow was on his feet and Ivy coloured as the penis approached her, now jutting upwards about sixty degrees and bobbing about.

Ivy occasionally bobbed her head on male erection but this really was the first time she's seen one bobbing unaided – certainly outside of a bedroom.

With utter embarrassment she heard the fellow say – "Hello there, my face is up here."

Ivy's eyes flicked up from six and a half inches of thick, bobbing meat to a bearded face and merry and absolutely blue eyes like Rangi whereas weren't Maori supposed to have brown eyes?

Yes, merry; he was laughing at her.

If this guy was Maori she was...was...a lesbian!

"I am a researcher for my university studies. Rangi suggested I should visit you. I think she knows you."

"She ought to, she'd my grandmother."

"Grandmother?

If Rangi was his blood grandmother rather and had acquired the relationship through tribal adoption, which was practised by some, then he had Maori ancestry.

Ivy was delighted and she smile showed it.

"That's better, you're smiling. I thought you were shocked and about to faint, not having seen a big and powerful bared dick before."

Big?

Ivy could tell him about big, but wisely she diverted.

"Good afternoon, I am Ivy Klein." She held out her hand, eyeing him.

Peter grinned and said, "You can touch my dick, you don't have to wait for permission."

Ivy hastily withdrew her hand and looked at his penis, which by now was hanging almost normally.

"I apologise Ivy. Down here alone I have my humorous thoughts and playing with my dick to keep me focused."

Ivy coloured again.

The guy was openly admitting he masturbated. Ivy thought OMG if only Maori elders had been this forthcoming in talking to her about history and customs. Forthcoming or forth-Cumming as the case might be. She began to giggle at the implied pun.

"Is there something funny?" asked Peter, glancing down at his flaccid penis and then wiping a hand through his beard. "Have I got some of my lunch caught in my bush?"

Peter was referring to his short-cropped beard of course, but Ivy had never heard a beard called a bush. She had a bush, and the thought sent her into laughter.

His blue eyes were enquiring so Ivy just had to explain herself: "You have a beard, I have a bush," she choked.

Peter bellowed a deep laugh and took her hand and led her toward the side lean-to which comprised and extension of the main roofline but the material was clear plastic.

This extension was supported a couple of metres beyond, attached to a beam made of a log weathered bone-white by sea, sand, surf and sun before being salvaged from the beach and resting on two sturdy posts of recent origin of sawn posts.

"Do you want coffee, tea, fruit juice or a beer, Yank?"

"A larger please. How did you guess I was from the States?"

Peter just grinned and said he only one type of beer because this was not a hotel – bitter beer. But he could lighten it with lemonade.

"Whatever," called Ivy to his retreating back, wishing he'd put some clothes on.

Peter returned with a pint receptacle he called 'a handle' containing his dark beer and another with a lightened version and two huge pieces of dark fruit cake on a plate. He was wearing a pair of tattered shorts.

"Dick show is over," he grinned, and catching her grin he added, "For now."

Rather than feel uneasy, Ivy allowed the thought of what he'd just said to drift a message languidly towards her lower belly. Her first impressions were favourable: he was quite a character, actually not at all threatening.

The next remark almost blew her away.

"This is the first time grandma has sent me down a fuckable woman. Usually they are Tiki Tour people, mostly old dames but invariably wanting to fuck me through hard horse-trading."

Ivy buried her mouth into her beer and was amazed how refreshed and zizzy it tasted.

She rarely drank beer, aware that its legacy would ring around tummy, hips and ass. Why was he talking like this: no one had ever described her as being fuckable – how on earth could he tell that? Millions of other women were blue eyed with blonde hair and firm breasts, even much larger than hers. And boasting about elderly women interested in him sexually?

"Through hard horse-trading?"

"I have prices, which of course are negotiable, but these dried up bitches think they can beat me down for a pittance."

"You mean undercut your price."

"Yeah, rip me off."

"But what prices are you talking about?"

"Didn't grandma tell you?"

Ivy shook her head and was told Peter painted.

"You mean you're an artist?" she said in astonishment.

Peter looked at her sympathetically and held back his retort.

"Come."

Or did he mean cum? Ivy giggled.

"You giggle a lot," said Peter, this time putting his arm around her waist, with the fingers stretching up a little to obviously check out what kind of bra was under her shirt.

A burst of excitement swept through her and she was glad she was wearing her beautiful new lilac half-bra she'd purchased in Auckland. It showed her flesh to great advantage.

They walked into the shed and the walls were lined with paintings, incredibly good paintings.

One side the line-up was beach scenes, the other wall were modernistic paintings and for a moment Ivy thought they represented the female vulva until realising some were abstracts of shells, seaweed and actual molluscs which in real life actually have a vulva look to them, didn't they?

"Where are the portraits?"

"I don't do portraits."

"You do so, I sense that you do. I've seen you glance at my breasts, several times in fact, but much longer you look at my face and I've followed your eyes."

"Amazingly astute, and here was I believing what they say about dumb blondes."

That amazed Ivy. How on earth could that idiotic putdown have penetrated to this remote corner of civilisation?

"I haven't done a portrait for a long time."

He was stalling for some reason. Why? She knew where they were, or at least some of them, as she'd seen him look quickly at the curtained-off area up ahead.

"Take me too them," she said, softly, aware that she was bordering on becoming intrusive.

Peter strode ahead purposefully as if almost pleased his privacy (if that's what they were) was about to be breached.

Pulling Ivy by the hand in an almost bruising grip he slid the curtains apart and they entered a cooking area with a table and two chairs, clean and remarkably tidy for a male living alone.

Ivy's eyes had merely pulled in a quick overall impression; her eyes were now sweeping one wall lined with portraits, mostly of elderly Maori males.

He grunted, "Relatives, from old photographs.

Ivy's gaze became fixed on the opposite wall. There was a painting of a beautiful young Maori women being escorted along a track through bush (forest). She looked very submissive.

"Grandma's mother being taken into tribal slavery. I did it for her last year for her eightieth birthday. She keeps it here as she wants no one else to see it."

Ivy had seen the centrepiece on the wall, but diverted almost immediately with a feeling of dread.

She pointed to the portrait on the other side of it – "That's Rangi, as a younger woman. It's beautiful, and you've painted in moko (facial carving)."

"Yes, it represents her about the age of twenty-five. She always wanted moko on her chin, but her mother forbade it as did her successive three husbands. All were fearful of the derision she may receive from the Pakeha. So I granted her wish, the moko is of her design."

"How beautiful. What a lovely story."

"And now, this beautiful woman: it's a shrine I believe."

Ivy turned and saw Peter's sad expression fixed on the partly completely painting. He'd attached a shelf below it, now holding a small vase containing dried flowers flanked by two unlit candles.

"Her name is Francine, and I met her in Australia (Ivy noted he said 'is'). She came and visited me here for a week, and I began painting her to remember her face forever. The day before she was due to leave she went for a walk and never came back.

"We mounted a big search and within half an hour she was found. Francine must have walked along the cliff and apparently went too near the edge, probably looking back at the shed. The ground gave way and she ended up on the rocks below, fracturing her skull. Her parents came and took Francine home after the enquiry. The coroner found her death was accidental."

Ivy touched his arm and the gesture was returned with a thin smile. "When did this happen?"

"March last year, it was a very sad time. Come on, you've seen enough. Let's finish our beer and then go for a swim. I'll then go up and bring grandma down – she enjoys having her evening meal on the beach here surrounded by carnivorous flying insects."

"I don't have..."

"Everyone, including grandma swims nude on this beach. It's a house rule."

Peter didn't ask, he just moved in and began undressing her for the swim. He came in close and Ivy smelled a mixture of male and what she'd call 'beachy', not unpleasant in fact it made her press her legs together, realising she'd not been with a man for almost three weeks which in recent years must be some sort of a record for her.

The shirt buttons were undone by long, slender fingers. He was very tanned and looked more European than Maori. He might have little Maori blood in him.

She co-operated but did not lift her hands to help. Their gazes kept locking, and sexual tension began building. There was no conversation so Ivy wondered where the act would take place – not on the sand, surely. The sand was bone white, probably contained silicone as well as the obvious ground-up pieces of shell – combined it was not the ideal medium to have between penis and vagina.

The shirt was pushed off her shoulders and he whistled at the sight of her cute bra and mounding white flesh being pushed out subtly by Ivy arching her back.

He spoke at last.

"Front fastening, you are increasing your fuckability."

"You've made me wet my panties," she sighed, feeling the small release, and not wanting him to find her pants wet and thinking it was urine."

The stiff nipples awaited his mouth, but Peter just stood admiring them as he unbuckled her shorts and then undid the buttons. Ivy stepped out of them.

Peter squatted in front of her and attempted to remove her panties with his teeth. Ivy eased the elastic tops of her hips, but still they refused to slide.

"You're at the wrong angle, you're pulling away and making them tighter against me," she whispered.

With athletic finesse, Peter dropped both hands to his side and propelled himself through her legs which Ivy only just managed to open widely when realising his attention. He finished the movement by clamping his mouth, gently, around her mons. She squirted a little more although being unable to feel a flicking tongue at work.

Peter slid his mouth on to her panties which was embarrassing for Ivy as that was the wet spot – correction, the now soaking spot – and began gently pulling them down. Ivy winced as s few strands of her blonde curls were removed in the process and that really increased her breathing rate: she was about to be fucked.

Basking in pleasure Ivy felt weak at the knees.

But no. The callous sod simply whacked her on her naked butt and said, "Race you into the water."

Squealing with a mixture of frustration and excitement she went after him and caught and passed him just at the water's edge.

"Jesus you can run," he said in awe.

"That's one of the reasons why I was born with these long legs," Ivy grinned, now facing him and leaning back from the hips to show him what he was missing. "I've run track since the age of fourteen and still run at university."

"I like your curls," Peter said, waving his tongue at her obscenely while eyeing her midriff. His penis was only at half-mast, which was perhaps a little disappointing for Ivy.

"Let's go," he said. "Race you to reef."

The reef was some three hundred yards out, with surf breaking over it.

Ivy, who was also on the university women's top swim team, allowed Peter to get going them took after him.

In astonishment she realised that rather than gaining on him, he was actually pulling away from her. She soon saw why – his action was powerful and fluid, his body remaining fairly steady like a well-oiled machine, the turbulence it created was minimal.

The young man, probably untrained, was born to swim. She was glad that he was trouncing her as his inflated ego would almost certainly energise his cock. Ivy then began to worry about sharks, rips and other saltwater nasties.

She was right! He was standing on the half-exposed reef with a full boner. He leant down, grabbed her arms and pulled her up without scraping her against the rough rock-face. She tried, but failed to land on his boner.

"Steady on," he grinned. "Grandma will be up there with her afternoon cronies on the seats on the clifftop. They'll have a pair of binoculars with them, hoping to catch me masturbating. To see you fucking me would make their day."

Ivy turned crimson.

"Nice colour pink," he winked. "It suits you."

Ivy felt dangerously close to releasing a full-throttle orgasm.

"We must fuck," she pleaded.

"Right, back on the beach where those old ducks can't see us. It gives me the horrors thinking of them dipping their fingers into their..."

"Yuk, I get the picture. Don't go on."

Ivy dived gracefully into the water, turning to watch his dive. Instead he did a one-and-a-half somersault, landing and sending a wave of water into her open-mouth. He came up grinning and she wiped that off his face by reaching down and squeezing his balls not too gently.

"Naughty boy," she purred, and was delighted to feel the shaft against her arm transform into steel.

Under the tree, Ivy slipped down on to her front, opening her legs and pushing her ass into the air, spreading herself with her fingers.

"What, no foreplay?"

"Slip it in buster; I've been subjected to your foreplay since arriving here almost two hours ago."

"Right ma'am. The big gash or the puckered little one?"

"Oh you romantic sod. Give it here and I'll make the decision for you."

The shaft gained full-length entry, despite their outer areas being moist with salt water.

"Oh yummy," she said, feeling her channel accommodating the friendly invasion.

"Yum?" he asked, pulling her back by her ass cheeks.

"It's like being eaten by your favourite food."

"You Yanks, you can be too much at times."

"Start pumping your insolent Kiwi," Ivy sighed, reaching for her clit.

"Get your hand away," he growled. "This one's on me."

With a feeling that the long wait was almost over, Ivy reached for her left nipple and stretched it almost double normal erect size.

"Is that you cumming already?" he asked, sounding a little disappointed.

"Keep pumping the well rarely runs dry," Ivy moaned, knowing that if he was going to continue to talk to her (most of her lovers didn't when in action) he'd be washed right out of her by an unseasonal flood.

"There goes another one, bigger one this time," he chuckled, breathing heavily and almost triggering the big flood. "Your pussy seems made for my tool."

That did it. Ivy shrieked and bucked.

"Jesus," said the astounded Peter, realising he was awash.

Ivy collapsed flat, almost popping out his hard-working cock.