The Boy at the Beach

The Boy at the Beach - by Susan Selton

When I saw the boy at the beach remove the last of his clothing, a warm tingle mischievously built up in my womanly parts, slowly at first, but relentlessly, and I felt my nipples start to harden -- just as they did when I last watched the Boys Swim Meet at the Junior College. A floppy hat and oversized sunglasses go a long way toward hiding my voyeuristic tendencies. Oh, the things that I would do to that bevy of energetic lads whose skin-tight lycra suits leave little to this middle-age woman's naughty imagination.

The water playfully glides over those young bodies -- their shoulders, backs, buttocks, and legs. They kick, paddle, and flip-turn for my lascivious pleasure. Sexual arousal begins in the mind -- for women, that is.

I imagine them a pack of eager sperm cells swimming furiously toward one female egg, each hoping to be the first to pierce the alluring feminine prize. "Oh, to enter inside her," they must all be thinking. "Got to keep swimming, got to be the first."

Wankers all of them.

The lone female beckons the flagellating lads forward, ever striving, ever paddling. The lengths that boys will go through for the off chance of piercing a woman. I begin the process of uncrossing then crossing my legs while ogling the swimming pool full of wet boys -- every inch of skin a silky-smooth sexiness of boyish beauty -- young enough to be my own sons. Does any try to sneak a peek up my skirt? Do I need to raise the frilly hemline just a tad higher to capture their glances? My thighs rhythmically squeeze together as the wetness steadily builds.

Playing the public 'upskirt tease game' is empowering when the occasion strikes my fancy. 'I have it, you want it, but you can't get it.' In the meantime, I give you a momentary flash to remind you of your unmet sexual needs and my capricious decision NOT to reward them.

Colourful skirts that catch the breeze and pointy high heels draw in a young man's attention, but all they get today is a fleeting peek of my panties.

The indelible memory of a public panty peek will make these boys not only flagellate all night long but remain a treasured event for decades to come. They are young enough to be my own sons, I again reflect, which leaves me both moist and ashamed.

Perhaps that is part of the appeal. Ashamed that they are so young -- or that the unrestrained libido of my female maturity betrays me. So what if I am a middle-aged woman and that they just turned eighteen? How does the joke go: how many times does eighteen go into fifty-four?

The frilly hemline is now three-fourths the way up my thighs and it is all that I can do to keep from touching myself here in public. I take a big breath and notice my chest expanding as it rises. "Should I have worn a more risqué outfit?" I wonder, "a top that displays more cleavage -- not that this one does not adequately do the trick."

I am too bashful to approach boys myself, but rather rely upon their fortitude to make my acquaintance.

'Competition male swimwear,' as far as I am concerned, means scantily clothed boys -- in the very daintiest of wet clingy clothing, teasing 'warm-blooded' mature women like myself to the point of -- the next evening -- going pantyless to a pub frequented by testosterone-filled college boys. How often do I have to cross and uncross my legs at this dive bar before boys this age recognize that they turn me on sexually, and taking me home is as easy as saying hello?

It is convenient to blame it on the alcohol, and no one suspects an older woman of such lecherous thoughts -- except of course, other older women. (Because it takes one to know one.) Our dirty little secret is how sexually charged we grown women can become over the slightest provocations: boys with tight jeans, open shirts, and inviting smiles.

Heaven help us if a sexy boy were to brush up against us and give us a flirty wink. That evening the vibrator would get the workout of its life.

This boy at the beach was beautiful, perhaps nineteen, with long legs, broad shoulders, and an oh-so kissable face. His sandy hair was a bit long, and flew about haphazardly as he turned his head left and right. Apparently, he did not want anyone to see him naked, but somehow, he felt compelled to 'bare it all' in public -- or at least on a remote stretch of beach where ostensibly he could be seen, although somewhat confident that he was quite alone.

Maybe that is part of the exhibitionist's game: a secret desire to be seen but also a commensurate fear. But he was seen, notably by a pair of female eyes who relish the sight of good-looking boys his age. Ahem, young men, but given our age gap he is just a boy to me.

And submissively naked while I remain fully clothed -- although I might slide my panties down, for obvious reasons. 'Older Woman / Younger Man Romance Novels' fill my bookcase -- and how many wet dreams have I had on behalf of helpless, naked boys.

The first meeting usually begins as a chance encounter, perhaps by way of a mutual friend, like his unsuspecting mother, or it is a teacher / student relationship, or the proverbial pool boy. Maybe it is in a grocery store when he spies her fondling the zucchinis.

(Some women buy zucchinis far too often if you ask me.)

In my case the chance encounter took place at a secluded beach where boys routinely shed their clothing, freely displaying their bare asses for all the world to see. So tight, and so welcoming.

I had heard the fabled stories of this beach -- 'The Boys Nude Beach,' that women my age frequently chatter about. "Boys run around naked there all the time, with no thought about who might be watching or what might happen to their clothing should they leave it unattended."

Would I ever have the temerity to run off with a boy's clothing, while he is at the shoreline, leaving him stranded in such a vulnerable state? I like them young and helpless -- I admit it -- and especially when that irrepressible male body part favourably responds, particularly at the thought of a woman two or three times their age.

It is affirming to know that I can still sexually arouse a boy by merely displaying a fleeting glance of my panties, or an extended gaze at my womanly cleavage -- then adding prolonged eye contact and a playful jiggle.

I open a button of my blouse, then another, myself remaining safely hidden in the recesses of the rocky crags of the cliff. The boy at the beach has no idea that I am ogling every inch of his sexy boyish body.

He first removed his shoes and shirt, then his shorts -- leaving nothing on other than a floral 'Rio suit' that thankfully creeps up the contour of his pert boyish backside, little by little exposing more and more of that glorious derriere, a sight that would make every grown woman horny as hell -- not that any other than myself would ever admit it.

His buns are nearly fully uncovered and that there is no tanline, I surmise that it is all coming off.

"I would make love to that boy all night," I freely admit, albeit tacitly, "and pick every flower of that tight-fitting bouquet." In response to him flaunting 'his assets,' I display a little more of my cleavage.

"If he were looking this direction, I bet that little pecker would be as hard as a rock."

Boys this age are biologically programmed to salivate over a woman's well-developed 'rack,' as they call it. Their eyes practically pop out of their sockets -- and how those adolescent wieners struggle to escape the constrictions of their tight-waisted pants! Shelf bras were made for open tops, you know, just as energetic lads were made for bosomy women.

The boy's tight ass sends shock waves to my womanly netherworld. "Take it off," I silently obsess, "but not yet. Tease me some more, little boy." Nothing left to cover that boyish ass but a mischievously rising floral Rio swimsuit -- and oh that growing bulge!

Is the boy imagining that he is being watched, and consequently, is turned on at the thought? In vain I fight to keep from squeezing my thighs together, rhythmically, responding to that 'naughty tickle' that women frequently experience, often when in public. But this is my private show, I muse, somewhat whimsically, as my pleasure deepens. Another cautious swivel of the boy's head and off come the last of the goodies.

That delicious adolescent boner makes its first uncovered appearance and my mouth waters. The ass, the boner, the welcoming kissable face. What is there not to like? The boy steps off his towel and strolls toward the water.

It is a leisurely gait.

The boy is entirely naked, and completely helpless. Are other women also watching him right now? Do boy's cocks throb at the thought - that their nakedness could be on display in front of so many fully clothed women?

He is as naked as a jaybird, as the expression goes.

As the boy turns back to shore, I notice that his erection has hardened, now pointing fully upward, as if striving toward some unreachable goal. Oh yes - the boy is helpless; his throbbing cock is his vulnerability. It begs for release.

Any woman could have him, but right now he's all mine.

The rush of power is intoxicating. I watch him tip toe at the water's edge, against the backdrop of long rushes of waves. They break and roll, one after another.

Yes, the boy would be submissive to a mature woman like me, I conclude. His upwardly pointing boner is proof of that. It projects effortlessly and bounces as he walks. My plaything. I focus on how erect it has become, so natural for a boy this age, and I realize that I am pursing my lips. I would kiss this boy everywhere -- and kisses are just the warmup!

Do boys this age realize the effect they have on women two or three times their age? The boy is ankle deep in the oncoming surf and the splashes of water sprinkle droplets over his naked body. How I envy those watery droplets. They lick his taut abdomen -- their drips roll over his engorged penis and balls, which now glisten under the relentless rays of the midday sun.

He is staring out at sea, perhaps fixated on the horizon, and I suppose that now would be the moment when I could descend from my perch, swoop in, and steal his towel and clothing. The boy at the beach would do whatever I ask in order to get his clothes returned to him.

But no, he quickly scampers back to the safety of his towel, lays on his stomach and I am treated to an unobstructed view of his bare buttocks. I should say 'uncovered ankles to shoulders,' but I focus on his buttocks, because honestly, it is the boy's buttocks that capture my attention.

He is perfectly submissive.

I imagine that I am kneeling at his side, rubbing oil over and between the contours and crevices of his glorious backside -- repeatedly drawing my hands up and down his naked body, over his shoulders, back, buttocks and legs. I further imagine dragging my fingernails across his exposed ass. (Silly me, did I leave open yet another couple buttons of my blouse and jiggle my three-quarters exposed breasts?)

Best to make it look accidental, and to remain clothed, keeping the power imbalance working in my favor.

"Roll over, young man, and I'll rub oil on your front side -- everywhere," I consider saying, with a muted giggle. This is our chance encounter, you naked and helpless, and me eager to exploit your weakness. "Is that erection for me, and what would you like me to do about it, little boy?"

I would drench my hands in baby oil and eagerly eye his shaft. Oh yes - a boy's throbbing cock IS his vulnerability. At that moment he would promise me anything.

My daydream ends suddenly when I spot the naked boy humping his towel, and in turn, I begin pleasuring myself. Careful not to climax too soon, I think, "One day I'll do it with a boy this age -- when the time is right." But why not right now? Why can't this be our Older Woman / Younger Man chance encounter? We both obviously want sex.

Look at him flagellate.

His buns continue to contract and relax, over and over -- then suddenly, he is finished. In his climax the boy seductively arches his back, folding his legs at the knees. He draws his knees as far apart as possible.

Seeing his toes pointed like those of competition swimmers paddling through churning water, induces another wave of shameful womanly tingles in me, and I find myself getting closer. "Any moment now," I think.

Then the boy humps some more, his back fully arched.

'Keep swimming, naked boy -- pierce the awaiting feminine prize,' as I find myself closer to my own sexual climax.