The Elements

Tuesdays were special for Cassandra Priambani. She could either immerse herself in her financial research or, on a glorious September day like this one, set her portfolio aside and indulge herself. No appointments, no board meetings, and no engagements with special interest groups begging for money. Indeed, when she had heard the weather forecast the night before, she cancelled lunch with her daughter. Their regular mother-daughter bonding could take place on another day.

This would be Cassandra's time; an autumn day this magnificent was rare. The forecast called for clear skies with very little wind, and ninety-degree warmth. She would go where she could enjoy the sun and sea.

She set out early that morning to reach her destination not so much out of eagerness, but out of longing to enjoy it for as long as possible. She parked her steel grey convertible BMW at a trailhead. She was glad she had left the ostentatious red Lamborghini at home. The BMW had drawn its own share of admiring glances, or it might have been her long red hair snapping wildly in the breeze, a driving hazard remedied by her oversized Louis Vuitton sunglasses.

She paused to tame her hair, shouldered her bag, and set out for her destination. Soon she was gliding along a path lined by oleanders. From time to time she brushed a hand along their succulent emerald leaves, fingering their edges. It was a tactile urge, a need to reconnect to her favorite place. The path led to a deserted dune that Cassandra fancied her own. The real pleasure would come from relaxing there, but the two-hour walk gave her time to clear her head.

Yes, clear your head, Azizam Kasandra. Clear heads make smarter choices, her father's voice bubbled up unexpectedly. He was long gone, and that bit of advice had usually come from across the family chessboard.

"Yes, Baabaa joon," Cassandra murmured to herself, then glanced downward out of habit and saw her blood-red Gucci sandals accenting her long legs. She had assimilated wholly into American culture, both in behaviour and in dress, abandoning her Muslim upbringing. Would Dad approve of that choice?

Her parents were refugees from Iran. Cassandra hadn't grown up poor, but money had been a concern. As a child, she vowed that she would have money enough to do and buy the things she wanted. She had made good on that promise at least.

Other promises would take a little more time: a good husband, assuming there was such a thing. Her nose wrinkled on its own.

Yes, maybe the failure of her first marriage still bothered her a little. Cassandra usually sensed things coming, but she hadn't foreseen that particular crisis. Eight years into their marriage, she became convinced that Hector, her ex, was having an affair. No one believed her. Cassandra exacted her revenge by fucking, over the course of eighteen months, several of his close friends and a few of his co-workers for good measure. He had managed to be furious while lying through his teeth. Even her daughter didn't believe Cassandra's claims about her father's indiscretions.

With Cassandra's apparently one-sided adultery, the terms of their divorce settlement was harsh. Over half of her sizeable wealth was awarded to Hector. She was outraged at the time, but that was five years ago, when she was forty. Since the divorce, Cassandra had tripled her worth with some outright crazy―some would say psychic―stock market plays.

Cassandra had been visited by eerie premonitions all her life. When she turned eighteen, she had felt a strange urge to buy an obscure penny stock. She knew nothing of the stock market, and online trading was non-existent then, but she was determined to follow through, so she contacted a broker. The broker thought she was nuts—gorgeous, but nuts—and tried, to no avail, to convince the red-headed beauty to invest her hard-earned measly thousand dollars in something solid like IBM. But, within a week, the share price of the penny stock leapt up to thirty times its initial value. She sold the shares, collected her winnings, and promptly quit her waitressing job.

Over the years, her trading skills continued to sharpen. Cassandra quickly learned that the real money was made from scandals, frauds, and crises. She also became more sophisticated, making out like a bandit on a Canadian gold stock, Bre-X, that rose from a under a buck to more than $280 per share, at which point she sold. Bre-X then collapsed like a spent cock once the gold fraud became public knowledge, but not before Cassandra had bought a load of put options on it. The dot.com bubble of 2000? She rode it like a cowgirl, taking it long and deep, to the hilt, and then got off in time to suck it dry for a tidy profit, the proceeds of which she then cold-bloodedly spat out and used to short Cisco and Amazon for mind-boggling gains.

Cassandra no longer cared about Hector's settlement. She had recouped it with ease. She liked money, but money liked her more. It showed; Cassandra kept herself well.

She had dressed casually that morning, though her taste still showed in the easy way that money did. Her thin, white lace camisole did little to hide her bullet-like brown nipples shifting beneath. She had debated whether to wear anything underneath her short black sports skirt for the walk to the sand dune. Cassandra often loved the sensation of exposing her bare, hairless sex to the air—she treated herself with monthly wax sessions at an exclusive salon and had, in fact, endured a waxing just three days ago, so her pampered legs and pussy were freshly denuded. Today though, she had donned a white, French lace thong, one of her more recent, costly splurges.

The spring time of her youth may have slipped by, but Cassandra Priambani's summer was treating her well. She looked like, felt like, and was worth significantly more than a million bucks.

Take that, you cheating bastard. She indulged in a self-satisfied smile. Living well really was the best revenge. Well, that and fucking well.

That thought prompted a lewd memory from a hot summer night four years ago. A younger man in his twenties had chatted her up at one of the meat-market bars. He was attractive and she was horny, so they naturally went back to her penthouse condo. The sex was wild that night. The young man maintained his exuberance for prolonged periods and had remarkable powers of recovery.

Oh, why mince words: He fucked my brains out. She chuckled to herself, her cunt pulsing a little at the memories as she strolled towards her destination.

That all would have been sweet and dandy except for the fact that the young man ended up being the son of one of the board members of Agamemnon Resources. When Cassandra saw the young man—smirking from the back rows—at the annual general meeting later that fall, she was startled and momentarily embarrassed, but she maintained her aloof professional facade. However, the young man, it turned out, was not a gentleman—in other words, he bragged about his exploits to his father and other shareholders—so that within days the rumour mill was awhirl with whispers regarding 'Cougar' Priambani's cock sucking abilities and enthusiasm for anal sex with younger men.

And so what? Now everyone knows I enjoy sex—big fucking deal.

One of the many benefits of financial independence was that it allowed her to give a rat's ass about what others thought of her.

Besides, she honestly didn't understand what the fuss was about or why anyone concerned themselves with her bedroom tastes. Didn't they have better things to do?

A rustle to Cassandra's right brought her up short at the end of the path, where the trail disappeared into the sand that would lead to the dune. She turned and scanned but didn't see anything. She waited for several breaths but heard no further noise.

Why so jumpy? she chided herself. It was probably a rabbit or a squirrel. She re-shouldered her bag and resumed her brisk pace into the sand.

The ground rose steadily, becoming the steep lee of the dune. It was tough slogging, especially in the growing heat, but finally she reached its top. From there, Cassandra absorbed the vista. The sea appeared in all its beauty in front of her. She lost herself in the view. The peace she experienced here, her special place, always helped her re-center. She sighed, breathed the scent of the salt air, and then ambled down the hot sand of the dune.

Her favourite place was at the bottom of the dune, far enough away from the path to avoid other beachgoers. There, if the mood struck her, she could indulge in sun bathing au naturel. She had already decided, even before she set off from home, that today she was certainly going to enjoy the sun on her entire body.

Cassandra dropped her satchel, dug into it, and removed a large, colourful, hand-painted Yogyakarta batik fabric. She spread it on the sand, sat on it, kicked off her sandals, and absorbed the brilliant view.

"It is unusually hot for September, isn't it?" she said aloud, though she knew she was alone.

She was at ease here, confident in her solitude. Time spent at the dune, with only the sun, wind, sand, and water as the only audience was a treasure.

Cassandra had considered bringing her current lover to the dune, to her special place, but she was worldly enough to know that their lust would last another few months before it slipped into a routine. And she was wary; when the relationship ended, what then? The sand dune was her singular and private place, and she wanted to keep it that way.

The calm expanse of the sea and the pale blue dome of the sky glowed in front of her. Cassandra could stay like this for hours, staring at the vastness of the elements, losing herself in them. The tremulous shimmering of the light on the surface of the water was enchanting, making her feel as if she were a child watching a magic metamorphosis through a kaleidoscope. She lifted her eyes to the sky and followed the faint contours of some thin strips of white cloud scattered in a hazy pale blue. A seagull flew in slow circles, as if caught in the same lazy spell. Heat waves rose from the sand, distorting the landscape.

Eventually, she shook herself out of her torpor. Perhaps it was the warm caress of the Sun on her limbs, or maybe, and more likely, it was the knowledge of how precious and fleeting a day such as today was, but the fact was that she suddenly yearned to strip off her light clothing and to sunbathe in the nude. Normally when she visited the dune, Cassandra's initial hour or two were spent reading and relaxing before giving in to the urge to lie naked in the sun. But today she wanted to waste no time in shedding her clothes, and with them, the conventions of society and even society itself. She wanted to integrate with nature as soon and as completely as possible.

Cassandra looked over her shoulders and scanned the area. Nobody, she decided, was about, and experience told her that it would stay that way. It was such a secluded place. Cassandra had tanned nude in this spot innumerable times in the past. And in all those times, only once—last summer—did an older gentleman stroll by while she was exposed.

Cassandra thought back to that day and recalled her unease and worry when, while sitting on her blanket, she had first seen him on the path heading towards the dune. She had made quick mental notes on the whereabouts of her cell phone and garments while slamming shut her thighs and covering her breasts with her arms and hands. However, the man had seemed embarrassed to stumble upon her and had kept his distance, making a wide detour when he walked by with no acknowledgement of her presence.

Upon realising that she was safe and that the man's intent was to ignore her and to respect her privacy, she had stopped covering her tits and had even relaxed her thighs so that they were even wider apart than when the man had first appeared. She remembered watching him walk away and wondering—now that he was leaving and that she was evidently out of danger—if he would at least glance back in her direction. Cassandra then imagined how daring and exciting it would have been if he had said hello and chatted to her for a moment before continuing on his journey.

Her fiction went so far as to picture herself remaining cool and unconcerned about her nudity while she conversed with the fully clothed stranger. In her imagination she sat with her thighs insouciantly apart, casually leaning back on her hands, facing him. And while they spoke about the weather or the latest current event, she would have watched with delight the darting of his eyes from her ample tits to her bare cunt.

But that was all fantasy. The reality was that today was a rare and good opportunity for Cassandra to relax in the pleasant warmth of the sun. Summer was at its end, and she was aware that it would be months before her body would experience the pleasure of being kissed and caressed by the sun again.

With those thoughts, Cassandra pulled her white camisole over her head. She was braless, so her sizeable tits jiggled loose, suddenly bare to the sun. She rubbed them a bit and then gave the fleshy orbs a light squeeze. Several twirls to her nipples with her thumbs and forefingers interspersed with several sharp tugs had the effect of fully rousing them. Her nipples, now awake and hard, sent throbbing, urgent signals to her cunt.

She stood, unzipped her black skirt and pulled it down, lazily folding and putting it aside on a corner of her batik, on top of her camisole. Still on her feet, she paused, as if adding a dramatic effect for her own benefit and for that of the elements, before putting her fingers under the hem of her white thong. She lingered again before dragging her underwear down her legs. Finally, with a fluid movement, she stepped out of the flimsy garment, tossed it on top of her skirt, and stood naked in front of the elements.

The simple sensation of the air on her bare skin thrilled her. She felt immersed in the surrounding nature, as if the sand, the sunlight, the warm air, and the ocean were embracing her from all sides and touching her everywhere.

She knelt down on the batik and lay on her belly, her back and bum exposed to the sun.

In her bag she had packed some food and drink—a banana, a bottle of Riesling, strawberries, and some dark chocolate, all insulated against the heat. She had also thrown in, at the last minute, a novel she had picked up in a second-hand bookstore. It was pulp, trashy, mindless, and explicit—perhaps too explicit. But she felt lazy today, so she chose it to indulge herself while enjoying its lustful descriptions.

The novel was a period piece, 17th or 18th century—Cassandra was not even sure since her attention centred on other, prurient details in the story. The book dealt with the wife of a baron, Lady Louisa, who falls spectacularly under the spell of a younger nobleman and becomes his mistress, pandering to all his needs, which become wilder and more outlandish with time.

Cassandra felt so sensual now that she was naked under the sun, so she resumed her reading of the lusty tale. She went from page to page with eager attention, for the story had now become more and more erotic. She was intrigued by the psychology of the heroine. In her public life the Baroness is a mature and respectable noblewoman, and she shows an arrogant attitude and an aristocratic aloofness. However, when her husband is away for his frequent engagements in the capital, she is free to pay visit to her current lover, who is younger than her and so haughty and roguish in his manners. And when she is with him, she loves to play an entirely different role. A week ago, at the apex of ecstasy, Baroness Louisa had said, "Yes," promising to entertain her lover and his friends by assuming the role of a maid at their disposal.

And Louisa is revelling in this position, craving to be used by them as they desire. But what particularly excites Lady Louisa is the fact that all of them—not only her lover but also his friends—know who she really is and how she has accepted for that weekend to be at their service. It was likely that in the future she would meet them again at some formal reception in one of the country manors at which she would attend as the Baron's wife. She would be superbly detached and would show no sign of recognizing any of them. But they would remember—and she would remember too—how they took liberties with her body when she served their dinner, and what happened later in the billiard room when her young lover had the sudden whim of ordering her to bare her breasts so that they could pour drops of brandy on her nipples, tasting it from her exposed, burning flesh. And more and more outrageous memories of the following night when she had to satisfy all their needs and desires in a wild orgy in which she behaved as the most accomplished Venetian courtesan.

Oooh, this is so hot, Cassandra murmured.

Her mind was feverish, and for a moment—perhaps longer—she wondered how much she identified with Baroness Louisa, and as she read, Cassandra envisioned herself in the same wicked predicament, satisfying the needs and desires of four young men in a wild orgy.

Cassandra took a deep breath, put the book aside, and stretched languorously. Her pretty, brown nipples had risen erect and dew now seeped from her bare womanhood.

God, I'm so horny.

Indeed, Baroness Louisa and her adventures had ignited a maddening itch between Cassandra's thighs, so much so that the urge to touch herself—in the open, in front of the elements—was enormous. Oddly, even though she had frequently sunbathed in the nude in this special place, never before had she masturbated in front of the elements at her sand dune. She tried to ignore the throbbing and lay on her back while struggling to empty her mind.

But the Sun seemed intent on kissing her entire body; yet he focussed his energy on her swollen sex, which he considered beautiful, pushing her closer to the edge.

Cassandra's thoughts wandered back to the Baroness and her delightful dilemma, of how the Baroness let her body be used by the four young men over and over again. She was now openly imagining herself as Lady Louisa.

The oozing from Cassandra's cunt was now a flood, which did not go unnoticed by the Sun. The Wind, too, could smell her arousal, so he encouraged Cassandra by lapping her body with a warm, gentle breeze.

Cassandra's fingers drifted to her rock-hard nipples with the intent of gently rolling them, but instead she found herself tugging, squeezing, and pulling them. The sensations travelled directly to her vulva, redoubling the wetness and heat escaping from her cunt, coating her in slick fluids. She wanted nothing more than to vigorously touch herself to fulfilment.

God, I have to stop, she lied to herself.

She sat up with her thighs splayed, allowing the fire and dampness to pour from her core, all while the Sun kept his eye and focus on her glistening folds. Cassandra sought to ignore her body, so she retrieved the food from her bag in the hopes of diverting her attention. She instinctively reached for the banana, her hand, with brightly manicured fingernails, grasping the curved yellow rod.

Oh, I think that would lead to trouble, she moaned to herself and quickly released the phallic fruit. Deep down, she knew why she had packed a banana, but she continued with her charade of resistance.

Cassandra then turned her attention to the wine. The bottle, still cold, was plastered by beads of sweat. The elongated shape of the Riesling bottle distressed her further, prompting her to remember a kinky episode with a friend of her ex-husband. Cassandra nestled the icy bottle against her waxed vulva hoping the coolness would dull her lust. But she did this against her better judgment. She knew that on a hot day such as this that the chill of the bottle against her bare cunt would feel wonderful, and, unsurprisingly, soon found herself ever so slightly moving her hips against it so that her rifted lips lovingly cradled the bottle.