The Sandman

Yeah, she was that kind of girl. The kind of girl who walked through the crowd with an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips just to see which of them would break away from their partners to offer her a light. And they always did, all but the most beaten of them.

They would smile the smile they practiced in the mirror. The one they found to be charming, and the flame was lifted to lick at the tip. They would speak words they thought impressive and she would turn and leave. She had no time for a soft man who found himself wonderful. They rarely offered anything to others. So she would turn and walk away, leaving them only a lingering moment of inexpensive perfume in her breeze as she retreated. So things had gone for her.

The less creative of those she shared a species with had called her a bitch and a tramp and a tease. Fortunately, the world was filled mostly with people who had very little capacity for thought. The lack of originality in those who insulted her did little to harm her. But there were others who were more creative. Those were the ones who had the power to hurt her. She would retaliate and things would get out of hand. She was the one who was always told to leave, who was walked to the door and courteously excused. That she was not behind bars was, she thought, privilege of being plaything to the wealthy.

There were those that had asked her why don't you settle down? Find a nice man and make a nice home and have nice children and do nice things for the community. As if she could. When you were bright enough to see that most men were selfish, that even the nicest of homes shone evil into the night through carefully scrubbed windows and that children were most often a burden, it was not to hard to see that to keep moving was best.

To keep things new and fresh and alive was the way to go. She imagined herself in the kitchen of some suburban hell. Cooking. Removing a Barney video from the VCR and replacing it with a Disney sing along for the kids. Waiting for a husband to come home.

She could see herself waiting for the look on his face, to know if he was satisfied. If he was, then she could feel like a good woman, like a good wife and mother. If she could read that he was not satisfied, then, damn it, she would try harder tomorrow. She would make her man happy. The thought always brought a secret smile to her face. More often, it brought a laugh. One of those laughs that makes others look around curiously, hoping to spot the source of the entertainment.

What would she do with a man? He couldn't run with her. Not for long, anyway.

Men got attached too easily and were more sentimental than they let on. They found a place or a thing or another of the silly creatures she shared a species with and decided it was time to stop running. She'd had them along before. For a while. She found that the road threw less burdens her way when she ran with a partner. But in the end, the burdens caught up with her. She left them with a smear of lipstick on their sleeping cheek as she kissed them one final time. Then she walked out on them forever. There was no need for a note. No need for long good-byes or explanations that were even longer. It was just a sad kiss on the cheek and a soft shutting of the door and she was on her way. It hurt sometimes. Hurt to go. The complacity that they would fall into always made her feel sad.

They were not like the other things she owned. She could not place them in her backpack and force them to continue. They would find happiness in the place she left them and she would find it where she could. And that was simply the way things had to be.

And she's here. With her backpack on her shoulders walking along the median again. She had been the attention of much obnoxious noise on her journey. Men showed their appreciation for her proportions by laying into the car horn. It was absurd. Or they would roll down the window to yell something at her. She puzzled at the point of it. Was it to confirm their manhood to their passengers? To herself? She was sure of only one thing, it was unnecessary. A person's character showed in their day-to-day behavior, not an occasional gesture of admiration or lust. Of course, this was another reason she kept running. If she stayed somewhere long enough, someone might discover what was behind the facade. Worse yet, they would show it to her, they would be her mirror, and she had no desire to see it. She had no interest in looking once again at the things she had blocked out for so long. She had no interest in crying those tears again. So she ran to where running would take her and she found herself here.

The structures were tall and modern, the new downtown of a very old city. The history of its coastline and ports disguised by a wall of business and neon lit restaurants.

She walked along the highway beside the end the earth. She looked out over the ocean and into the west to see the sun setting. Bright gold and amber shimmered on the surface of the waves. They carried the sparkles to the shore and abandoned them there. The next wave came and washed them back out again. The cycle went on and on, carrying the sparkles, leaving them on the sand to die, and then taking them by their golden arms and dragging them back to the ocean's unsteady dance floor to perform once again.

She left the road and opted for the softer surface. She took her shoes off and let her toes run in the wet sand, the tumbling water working it's way up to her calves, then receding, only to return when the next wave broke gently and reached for her again. She walked in the golden sand and breaking waves until sunset, toasting the last of the sparkles with an imaginary pint. As day turned to night in the city that hid its history, the gold and amber were replaced by the dull glow of the petroleum industry and the simple orange of street lamps. All were reflected in the landscape before her, but none matched the majesty of eternal fire extinguishing itself in the waters, which expanded out to the farthest horizon.

She turned her head to observe the scene behind her. She had walked far, and the highway could be observed in the distance. Orange streetlights burned a crazy roller coaster on the sky as they followed the asphalt's twists and turns and the concrete's rise and fall. She could see small rainbow like halos surrounding each of them. She looked again to the water. The reflection in the water showed no halos. So, the ugly lights of the city had no halos. The mirror said so and the mirror never lies. She hated mirrors. They always dashed her hopes.

She turned to make her way to the highway once again. Her shoes and socks bounced in one hand as her free hand clung to the single strap of her backpack. The sand gushed between her toes as she walked, sucking her in, then unwillingly releasing as she moved on, repeating with every footstep. Looking out over the unnatural reflections in the water, she felt a little sad for the passing of the sun. It was unusual for her. She had always been one with the night, an angel whose halo she was sure reflected on the water. But seeing the sun this way, with it's dancing sparkles, she was unsure. It must be signaling a change for her, but change was nothing new and she was not too afraid. It had only been a sunset, and sunset was evening's introduction. She could handle a thin ribbon gold in her wrappings of black. In fact she quite fancied it. .

Nearing the highway, she noticed a new kind of sparkle. These grabbed at her ankles, not at her calves. She looked to the west and the moon was rising where the sun had sat. Its face was silent awe and it's silver arm reached across the water for her. Low tide, of course. She looked behind her and judged her footsteps. They dipped gradually away from the expanding sand. It suddenly amazed her how man ever felt a sense of control. The moon simply rose and the tides receded. With no divine intervention, with no prayer to let my people pass, the tides receded and the seas were parted.

She continued to move from the roller coaster of lights that signaled civilization. Ending up at the ocean had been a pleasant accident. She had simply run until she ran out of asphalt. The tall buildings, which hid the history of industry, also hid something else. Life was slower on the ocean. It was not something you could see or hear, but something you felt. She was not a complete stranger to the waterfront. Her parents had taken her to visit as a child. She had vague memories of her father, in his long trunks, riding the waves all the way to the shore. She abandoned the sand castle she had constructed with her mother and greeted him with a shrill cry of joy. A wave of nostalgia swept over her. The sea and the moon and the memory of her father. She knelt into the soft sand and dragged her hands through it. She played with it, molded its wet grittiness into a form and plopped it onto the shore. The shape held and she made another, plopping it beside the previous one. The construction had begun. She looked around. The beach was empty, save the little crabs, which ran sideways in the night. The highway was still distant. She walked to where the sand was dry and powdery, removed the backpack, placed her shoes and socks inside, and set it back down in the softness of the earth. She reached to the hem of her dress and tugged it over her head. She stood there in her panties. Her breasts had, thankfully, remained small and she had no need for a bra. They stood on her chest in the coastal breeze, silhouetted in a flattering moonlight. She grabbed at the waistband of her panties and slid those aside as well. Down her thighs, past her knees, over her ankles and across her toes. She was naked on the beach in the night and she could hardly recall feeling better. The dark nest of pubic hair would have looked like a hole straight through her, had it not been for the brief glimpses of the streetlights and the moon and the sunset passed that gave themselves there. Her skin reflected the water in its paleness, and she felt like a child again. She placed the dress and her panties into the pack, and then returned to the construction in progress at the water's edge. She knelt in her nakedness and continued. It was rough going, forming each section by hand. No buckets, no shovel. She forged her way through. Rolling sand into a tube in her palms for this, chasing down seaweed for that, searching for just the right shells to be as eyes. When she finally conceited defeat to her urges, she stood back to admire her handiwork.

She had to admit, the sand sculpture wasn't bad. But still, it was lacking something. She returned once again to her backpack and unzipped it. She withdrew from it the crown. Letting the pack fall to the ground, she stepped again to her creation and placed the object in its proper place. Once again she turned to observe her work from a distance. The sweat of her effort glistened on her nude form in the moonlight as she viewed with pride what she had made. Before her, crafted with sand and completed with objects of the ocean, was a man. Easily seven feet tall, his arms were thick and his belly was potted. His hair was seaweed and his seashell eyes reflected the glow of the moon.

His legs descended into the shore, and between them, standing proud, was a huge dildo. It had been her friend for a long time and she was happy to see it connected to someone who, while less than handsome, was of her own creation.

She turned to face the moon over the water. Its look of awe had changed to a grin, a sly one at that. The thought of the moon looking over her nudity with that smile on its face while her man lay sleeping behind her made her feel sinful. She was overcome with a sense of freedom she had never felt before. She ran straight into the sea. It's icy cold was incredible. Her nipples grew hard. She went in to her hips, then to her breasts, then stretched her arms before her like a sacrifice and dived into the darkness. Her face penetrated the salty sea and she submerged herself in the ocean. The sense of weightlessness would have taken her breath away, had she not been holding it deep in her lungs. Holding your breath was a crazy idea. What was it worth? Only the dead would want to buy it and they weren't buried without their wallets. But she figured it must make sense while swimming. So she surfaced and exchanged the carbon dioxide in her lungs for the oxygen the night sky offered and she laughed. Waves were breaking around her neck. She watched as the night sea curled and churned, and waited for the right one to come along. She finally spotted a wave rolling in that looked just right for her frame, and caught it. She pushed off with her feet from the sandbar and launched herself into its power, a little late, but momentum catching her up. The wave took over where momentum left off, and she surfed along its crest all the way to the shore. It left her there like another dancing sparkle, and she scrambled up the shore on all fours before another wave could pull her back to the dance floor again.

She fell onto the soft sand smiling. The breezes blowing over her made her wet body tingle. She giggled remembering at the man she had made. He lay there solemnly.

She pulled herself up into a sitting position and looked out over the moon on the waves. Then, there was a hand on her shoulder.

She jumped with a startled cry. She was alone on the beach, she was sure of it. She turned to face whoever had touched her and there stood her sandman before her. The face was as she had crafted it, and the obscenely large dildo dangled in front of her face. But it was no longer a piece of latex with pre-formed veins. It was real. Phallic as any man. She reached out with both hands to explore its surface better. The sandman let out a soft moan as her hands, small in comparison to it's length and girth, wrapped themselves around it. It was real, or unreal. She jacked slowly at the foreskin. It slid naturally, but the surface beneath was gritty. Wet sand in cellophane, and not at all unpleasant. It was truly a beautiful cock. Somewhere beneath the seaweed pubic hair, the thing became sand again.

She reached for the underside of the cock to explore the balls, wondering what she would find there. He groaned again as she touched him. She sucked in a shallow breath of surprise. The large nuts she had carved for him hung there, wrapped in the kelp of the sea.

She bent her head down to kiss one. With the large cock flopped across her forehead, she licked at those giant balls. The taste of the kelp was incredible. Fresh and natural and arousing. Was it an aphrodisiac? She decided it should be. The sandman's rough hands were on her head, pulling at it. Encouraging her. She was happy to oblige. Taking the shaft again in both hands, she positioned the cock in front of her face. She ran her tongue along its underside, savoring the salty moistness there. She swirled it around the head of the giant sandman's cock, much to his pleasure. His hands on the back of her head, she took him slowly. The cock was large and stretched at the corners of her mouth. She appreciated a big man though, and the effort and concentration the act of fellatio took with one only served to make her that much hotter. She felt it swell in her mouth, growing large then larger. She looked up into his seashell eyes as she took more of it in, inch by inch. Her mouth stretched and expanded, like a snake swallowing its prey. She worked the base with both of her hands as her head descended. He was truly huge. She finally reached the point where it would go no further. She kept her eyes on his as she sucked her cheeks in to form a vacuum and began to bob her head, moaning in effort and pleasure. She could feel the thick spit in the depth of her throat as it coated the tip of his cock, and then pulled slowly away, watching as her drool dripped from his cock and onto her breasts. She jacked it furiously from base to tip with both hands. The liquid spit wildly out from between her fingers as her hands moved blindingly up and down the piston. The sandman moaned loudly, his seashell eyes on her, watching as she pleasured him.

She was surprised by the force of his orgasm, there in the moonlight on the beach.

He screamed as he came for her. The hot jism sprayed from the tip of his obscenely large cock and coated her in wave after wave of the salty cum. Her hands directed it to her face and mouth and breasts. The sandman rode upon the waves of pleasure that ran through his body like the wave this goddess before him rode to the shore for their rendezvous. His breath was short and hot. When the flow finally slowed to a leak, and the cock began to lose a little of it's hardness, she took him back into her mouth. She sucked at the remaining contents. With her excitement level finally calming, she could taste the cum that now coated her inside and out. She was no stranger to that taste, but the sandman's was different. She had always encountered the overwhelming taste of ammonia in a man's excretion, which she tolerated, but found unpleasant. It was not so with the sandman. His semen tasted of the ocean, of saltwater and raw fish, and the closest comparison she could draw was sushi. She loved it. She formed a cup with her hands and drug them up from her stomach and across her breasts, pooling the precious substance into her palms. She drank it loudly, slurped it as she looked into those shiny eyes. It turned her on to no end to have the sandman see her as she drank his seed. Her hands returned to her body again and again to collect what he had deposited there. Over and over she raised the offering to her mouth, like a thirsty explorer who had discovered a spring, and drank it down. When she was finished and her body was clean, she smacked her lips in satisfaction and the sandman collapsed on the beach. The night was still young, and she had no intention of calling an end to the event. She could see in the moonlight that his cock was growing hard again.

She knew she could take care of that. She knew exactly where to put it.

But he would have to wait. She waded into the salty, white crested waves to dive and float and dance once more in the ocean. When she was done, she rode the waves back to solidity.

Crawling across the shore to him, she giggled. Her youth occupied her thoughts again. The mischievous actions of a woman were the mischievous actions of a little girl.

Both were filled with secrets shared only with your best friend if you shared them at all.

She looked into the eyes of her sandy lover on the beach. He lay there reclined, his arms crossed casually behind him and his hands cradling his head. He teased her with his cock, making it cavort upon his hips in the moonlight. She continued her crawl towards him, but with an intentional slowness. Her breasts dangling below her, silhouetted by the sea. Her hair was wet and tossed and curly, her body was covered with tiny pieces of him. She covered the few feet between them, letting her eyes wander from that magnificent cock to those mysterious eyes and then back again, finally allowing herself to reach him. There was a silent look of sure satisfaction on his face. She reached out and took that dick in her hand. It went from firm flesh to steel in her grasp. He pulled his elbows to his sides and used them support himself, his torso an extension of the sandy soil, and he watched in expectation. Instead, she released her grasp. He found her finding her feet, then she stood above him. She looked down at his brow furrowed with confusion and a slight disappointment. That was his problem. She created him from her own two hands and she'd be damned if he had any expectations of her. She smiled at him and circled his frame on the beach. She sat down between his splayed legs, lifting her own legs into the air and spreading them wide to expose her womanhood for him. The darkness that lay between her pale thighs was punctuated only by the thin exclamation of pink that ran through the center. The black mane of pubic hair ran high, slowly dissolving like a sunset into her hips.