*Teri*

By noon, the sky is a clean slate in a color movie stars, myopic or not, would want to tint their contacts. Beyond the shore break's pearly grin, Dawn and I are frolicking like seals between gentle sapphire swells and a young summer sun that blazes without a care in the world.

I'm squinting against the sequinned glare when a tug at my hip whirls me around. Mischief glitters with ebony brilliance from my new friend's eyes. The water has slickened her blondeness mermaid-dark and glistens on her Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue tan. Even wet, she's stunning.

In retaliation for the attempted wedgie, I splash her, but my aim is off and we both shake our heads like retrievers fresh from the fetch. A juvenile cormorant bobs by, mohawked and mustard-eyed, unfazed by our escalating horseplay.

I've known Dawn for what, a few weeks? Long enough to have met her mom, a pleasant but tired-looking lady worn from pillaring the community while single parenting a handful of a daughter. Long enough for comfortable daily hangouts at the beach or in town. Except for Sundays, which is odd as she doesn't strike me as the church type. Grateful for a break from her intimidating beauty and repertoire of F-bombs, I've never asked.

If summer acquaintances are hothouses for instant intimacy, ours has sprouted a bumper crop of wild one-sided confessions. Dawn's not only doing the cheerleader's steady boyfriend but also seduced the married nebbish who runs the apothecary - and skilfully obliged another horndog schoolmate with a preference for naked handjobs. It wouldn't surprise me if those were the slow cockroaches in the kitchen, either.

Don't get me started on her sex-for-one habits, about which she's an open library. No, make that a tatted paperback, the kind you stuff under the mattress until your parents go out for the evening, whose chapters are adding titillating, if troubling, dimensions to my own lights-out time. Not that I'd ever breathe a word about it to the queen of loose lips, of course. I haven't even told her about Marc yet.

Uh-oh. Someone's bent on testing the boundaries of friendship.

“Cut it out, Dawn!” I slap at whatever body part of hers is burrowing under the cup of my bikini top.

It's not the first time she's gotten handsy. Last week while we browsed the swimsuit racks at Reny's, she pinched my butt during a discussion of sizes. I goosed her back, earning a stern harrumph from one of the cashiers, and forgot about it ten minutes later. But now?

Not even Marc had been so bold. On an unseasonably warm April evening, as we sat face-fused and necking on his Chevy's leather upholstery, his fingers undermined my blouse at the back and traced bare skin with soft shocking magic. My breathing went on strike when I felt his wanderings float beneath the bra strap at its hook. Would he? Should I stop it? Just as my silence beckoned nature to run its course, the gap between me and cotton gauze collapsed as its prowler whisked away to more chaste locations. Was it a sudden onset of self-control or because Vulture Vicki - speaking of sluts - was already flirting with him on the sly? In hindsight, probably the latter.

Likewise, Dawn calls off the gophers, but her arms steal around my waist instead. Through a skimpier bikini than usual, the voluptuous tits that turn mortals to marble are now burrowing into my back.

“Your Adonis is on the radar.” Her cherry cola tones jangle with the keys to my consent. “Play along. It’ll be fun.”

"Here?" I squeak, everything after 'Adonis' drowned out by adrenaline death metal. "Where?"

Sure enough, he breaks through the crowd's cloud, the sun amidst planets, spotlit and contoured by the crystal-hard midday light and wading into the frothy chill as if it were the Caribbean's caress. From the gilt-limned waves skimming his brow to the cuffs of his swim trunks, which soak up the sea with each stride and cling to his thighs like drunken groupies, there isn't an inch of him that doesn't merit a Hasselblad capture. Or a kiss.

I feel a rush of vindication along with the hummingbird wings beating where my heart should be. After not seeing a trace of him since he jogged past us nine days and seventeen and a half hours ago, I was starting to think I'd dreamed him up.

I'm also not imagining the cinch of cord at my ribs - or the suspicious slackening that follows.

"What do you think you're doing?" Before I can react, cool effervescence engulfs my chest, the bra having deserted its post. Undone straps tickle like seaweed as they spiral down my arms.

"You're overdressed for your dream date." Dawn yanks my top free and waves the waterlogged pennant.

My yelp goes unheard thanks to the Harley-decibel snarl blasting from a lobster boat a hundred yards offshore. Underwater, two hands slide over my modest moguls, which causes the kind of shivers that have nothing to do with the cold.

"See? Your nips have a hard-on already.” Fingertips sift them as if unwrapping a pair of Hershey's kisses without the starter tab.

"Those are frost heaves." My teeth might be chattering Morse code, but a more sordid reflex starts scribbling its own unspoken language elsewhere. I twist in a half-hearted attempt to shake her bounteous embrace, uneasy about the fact that part of me enjoys the renegade touches, wants to find out where they lead.

“Struggle all you like," she coos. "Just be sure to let me win.”

I forget about fighting back when a deep breath hefts Adonis' chest. His outstretched arms spearhead a clean dive, and the breaker swallows him with a rumble of contentment.

“He can't be a local. I would've nailed him instead of Mr. Danforth any day."

“He probably likes guys." When something's too good to be true, invoke Aesop. That's my motto, anyway.

"As if that would stop me," she retorts.

He surfaces, a spilling Roman fountain. Impervious to northern seas, he calmly flattens both hands to press the salt from his eyes and facial planes. His shoulders shine wedding band platinum until the sluice dwindles to droplets and reveals gold, and the current's greedy momentum has sucked his waistband out of sight, exposing the grassy flats south of his navel.

How I wish he were the one snuggling me from behind - or from any angle.

Yeah, right. He'd really choose you over Miss Thunder Tits.

Onshore, a long-stemmed redhead about our age rears like a cobra from its basket, slithers after our mutual charmer and mimics his dive. Not nearly as striking as Dawn but attractive enough to sink my nonexistent chance like the stone it is.

To my amazement, the sea regurgitates the influx. Arms flail; expletives fly from the foam.

“Shit! It’s freezing!” Sinuous Ginger bellows our way in a 'Strine brogue before stumbling onto the sand, a heat-seeking hermit crab just this side of rigor mortis. “How can you two just float there?”

"Flatlander,” Dawn sneers under her breath. “Bigger tits might help.”

“Be nice. You're holding the proverbial glass house, y' know."

“Aw, yours are cute.” Her lingering caress expands on the compliment and bestows such womanly gravitas on my little cups, I'm almost disappointed when the compression eases.

Adonis reclines on an incoming swell and slices seaward with a powerful backstroke.

I expect Dawn to let me go, but the upslope retreat takes its time, blazes ten virgin trails across gooseflesh. Has she done this before? It sure feels it.

What should I do? My body is casting biological ballots for 'keep going.' Anticipation stiffens the besieged pinnacles.

My conscience says I should push her away, but the jangle between my legs is sapping all self-respect.

The troops consolidate, overtake.

Each flick of her fingertips scatters sparks far beyond their contact points. Below deck, corresponding frequencies hum through newly wired circuitry. Something that I'd rather not say aloud is glowing without even being touched.

Geez, why doesn't it feel like this whenever I try it? Sure, I've teased them, played with them. Porn says I'm not a real woman if I don't. But after all the 'so what?' blah-ness from those experiments, I concluded nipples were strictly ornamental. Maybe even vestigial.

She's always ribbed me about being a virgin. Is she taking it upon herself to do something about it? Or am I reading her wrong?

"You like?" Her huskiness scorches my ear lobe. One of her legs rubs mine.

Nope, definitely not reading her wrong.

Adonis reverses course, strokes milling soundlessly, and his approach shatters Dawn's spell. I want to hold out for a more meaningful taking of my maiden state than a cheap grope from a bored thrill-seeker. And I sure don't want him to see my shortcomings in all their shame, let alone next to the Pornhub-endowed.

"Lemme go!" I squirm like a banded lobster, and this time I mean it.

"If you say so."

With that, her arms capsize me and just as quickly abandon ship. The momentum spins my girls - frost-capped nips and all - topside to breach the surface like a miniature pair of ice floes.

As soon as I blink the world clear again, my stomach lurches. I dive but can't sink fast enough.

Guess who saw the whole thing. Hint: he's not a cormorant.


*Dawn*

While the virgin's guarding our spot, huddled under a hat and towel and convinced the entire beach is smirking behind her back, I've given her a little privacy while seeking some of my own in one of the changing cubicles. Legs frogged, ankles Spandex-cuffed, one fingertip spinning atop my little troublemaker and another squeezed high and tight inside, I'm trying to get off and be quiet at the same time. Not an easy feat in a bathhouse constructed to resonate like the Grand Canyon.

Hey, the opportunity was there. I couldn't resist a grope of Snow White's tits a minute longer and wasn't disappointed. They remind me of Marla's bubbly muffins - just enough to fill up a squeeze. Have to say they felt amazing, too. Supple, not like Natalee Blount's silicone boulders. And those sugar cone nips! Okay, so the water's like fucking Greenland, but even so. Taking a nibble is next on the bucket list.

Leaning against the wall, I stare overhead and thrust out my cleavage for any pervs' lenses that might be peeping between the ceiling boards. As it is, I've lost count of how many times Maintenance has had to patch a recurring mystery hole in one of the shower walls. Each time it reopens, I make sure to face it and strip off the bikini before turning on the spray.

The thought of a hidden camera demands a firmer pressing.

Go ahead. Watch this, whoever you are, you sick fucks.

Just as I'm about to slide in the second finger and give them something more to wank about, a passing lime-green pedicure pauses in front of the door gap.

Hey, this space is taken, bitch.

The slender calves shift, brush each other the way you'd see pantyhose models pose in Vogue or something.

Focus. Don't let it throw you.

Her toes pivot. Periscopes, drawing a bead on my dropped drawers.

Shit!

"Need some help with that?" Their owner chants through the door.

Well, if it isn't the Brisbane Bombshell. The one who couldn't handle the cold.

Curious and turned-on as fuck, I stumble to my feet and leave the briefs in a heap. My fingers, rendered impotent at the sound of her, make up for it with their speed in popping the door hook from its eyelet. I'm so horny I'd let in the bumbling Mr. Danforth, so the perky Sheila who steps into the stall is a bonus.

Her copper hair is still damp and slightly frizzed over her shoulders; I'm tempted to check the basement to find out if the color is authentic. The eyes challenge me to help her peel away the thin bra. 

Nope, not Marla-muffins, but her tits are fuller up close. My twat is humming praises to their mocha-studded symmetry; it's only natural that my hands greet them with a hug. A few freckles add sexy waypoints over both sides of her tan lines, and I can smell Hawaiian Tropic mingled with Juicy Fruit fresh from the wrapper.

She looks me up and down from haltered tits to waxed mound and draws a curious finger through the tattletale pooling between my pussy lips. I move one leg a little more, but she takes her hand away.

Her tongue flutters to taste the juice. "Thought so."

A clamor of incoming chit-chat echoes through the building. The stranger latches the panel behind her.

Let's see if she can handle the heat. I perch on the bench, unfasten my top, and flip on the headlights before showing her the wide-open road.

She kneels dead center and studies the swollen ripple I've been buffing to a high-gloss finish.

Dispensing with preliminaries, her tongue probes for the recess where my fingers had burrowed, dips daintily, then zigzags up to my pinpoint and settles there with gentle but mindblowing push-pull strokes. Her eyes - jade and hypnotic - laugh at my undoing.

From outside our cocoon, I hear the Jones twins and some unfamiliar voices burbling in the shower. What would their squeaky out-of-town visitors say if they knew Erin and Eva had taken turns upskirt flashing Reid from the bleachers at football practice? Eva had left her panties on; Erin had not.

Erin and Eva prattle on, ignorant of the debaucheries going on just a few feet from them.

Every flick of the redhead's tongue delivers increasing doses of heaven and frustration alike. Caked bench sand grinds my bare bum as I arch into the pleasure source.

Reid must have Smurf-blue balls after not being able to come near me in over a week. Ever since Lissa Brewer got back from Cape Breton, she's been mantling him like a feeding hawk. If only we had working internet in the village, I could live-stream this private meeting to torment his two-timing ass. Imagine the explosion in his pants if he could see me spread-eagled with an almost-naked hottie in between and lapping me into a chest-heaving, ab-clenching trance.

A fit of Reid-like impatience drives my fingers toward her mouth, intent on supplemental rubs, but Sadistic Sheila intercepts and pins my wrists to the wood with a force that belies her oral delicacy.

And oh fuck, the restless tongue keeps swiveling en pointe over the perfect spot, the puff of her breath a tantalizing orbit. If this is a typical Down Under kiss, I'm springing for the Qantas ticket yesterday.

She pulls away achingly too soon and motions for me to sit on my hands. My abandoned slit throbs as if lunging to pull her back, but I obey.

"Good girl," she mouths.

Her free hand wriggles below her belly button and into the hip band of her Cult Gaia Zoeys. There's a moment of adjustment before the sheathed digits begin to undulate like a racing filly's forelegs where her cameltoe had winked before.

"Take 'em off," I whimper.

Her non-occupied hand scoops up the orphaned briefs, pushes my head against the wall, and crams them between my teeth, grit and all. I try to spit it out, but the tightly packed mass immobilizes my tongue. My pussy expels a syrupy surge onto the bench.

"Shhh." She leans in close enough for her whisper to stroke me, feather-light. I bite into the wad, tasting kelp and Coppertone, as soon as I feel the slippery tickle resume - and imagine in glistening detail what this scene would do to the cocks behind the hidden cameras. Poor, deprived garden club widower Mr. Danforth; he would've shot his load the second I wedged my fingers in the seam.

Shit, hope Teri doesn't take it into her head to check if I fell in.

Wonder if the virgin would go for it? Sure, she will. Who wouldn't give in to a treatment like this? You couldn't miss her thousand-yard come-stare when I told her about catching Mr. Danforth red-cocked and jerking behind the shed. And about Marla.

Marla. Time to summon the goddess of getting-off. As always, she's posed to open with the centerfold page, tits bubbling demurely, innocent eyes unaware of the sticky cum from a previous admirer dried into her groove for who knew how long. The shy curve of her mouth makes her post-publishing defilement that much hotter...

Defile the virgin. Oh, you bet I will. Yes, keep going so I can get back out there and loosen things up some more. I might even invite you to join in the fun, whatever your name is. But I get her cherry; remember that.

Push-pull. Push-pull. Marla's cum-splattered slit freeze-frames and blots out the rest. I'm so out of control I want to lick the page without stopping in the hope of tasting the creamy caramel center.

Push-pull. Push-pull.

Holy fuck.

My fingers and gluteus muscles clamp the bench edge against the mile-high surge about to crash and destroy me in the way I want most.

Fuuuck! Faster, bitch!

Dirty, filthy seconds quake my thighs and clench my cunt when her tongue breaks its disciplined march to cuff, lash and wrestle my screaming clit. Inside me, the sun boils, splits in half. The ceiling planks and their peeping eyes vanish behind flashing green clouds. I bite harder and practically gulp sand.

Unnnhhh!

Mrs. Mathers is shouting an endless anecdote to the hard-of-hearing Mrs. Tennant. Annoying as fuck, but it's also enough to camouflage the grunts that filter through the gag.

Fuhhhrrrnnnhhh!

The necessary convulsions are finally subsiding, and the talented tongue takes an extended bow before its exit. A hush fills the bathhouse. My feet slide from their braced position on the parallel panels. Reluctantly, I pull my bikini over the sopping, somewhat mollified split.

Her top is already masking the tan lines again; a wicked shine sparkles her lips. She pauses at the door and smirks.

"Get back to your friend. Take care of me later?"

Would I ever, but even though I saw the way she ogled Teri's Adonis, I have to ask.

"You this good with dick?"

She smiles. "Like to see for yourself?"

Impulsively I rush to kiss her and unhook her top again, tasting brine, our tits a pussy-melting collision. Pinning her against the graffiti, I tug away our scant coverings.

Her coarse kitty catches me off guard, but it pets me dizzy as I ride and slide. We grind together until her feet spurn the floor to fling themselves onto my calves.

Just feeling the sustained warning growl in her throat sets me off again. Her heels dig in almost as hard as her panting peak. Hips thrash; gasps escape our best intentions.

Neither one of us wants to stop.

Fuck the virgin. She can wait a little longer.



To be continued...