The beach breathes with the lazy music of waves and bodies, bellies oiled, thighs salted, a cock swaying easy as its owner strolls past, freckles bright across breasts slack in the sand, rising and falling with sun-drugged breath. I lie among them, skin surrendered to heat, the sand clinging, the air thick with brine and coconut pressing me open. It should feel ordinary; we are all the same here. Still, I catch the angle of his shoulder, the slow lift of his chest, details I should not be watching, yet my eyes return as if they’ve never left.

He is naked too, face veiled beneath a broad hat, chest rising slowly in the sun. His stillness is louder than the waves, as though the whole beach exists only to cradle his rest.

The sun beats harder. My skin throbs, remembering a touch it hasn’t had.

Movement. A shiver. His slackened cock stirs. Another beat, stronger. Flesh thickening in sunlight, lifting as if called by some unseen hand.

I freeze. Around me, a ball arcs high, cocks and breasts bouncing as bodies chase it; a woman sprawls in the sand, nipples dark in the sun as she flips a page; a dog splashes, spraying salt across bare thighs. Waves still sigh, a gull cries, and when I look back, his cock is swelling, heavy, rising slowly until it arches skyward, the curve of it catching the glare. No hand. No shame. Sunlight setting the stage, and I the only audience.

Heat pools in my core, thick and aching, tugging at my pussy until my thighs press tight, slickness spreading, and still I cannot look away. His chest stutters, breath caught. I feel it strike me like a blow, my pulse stumbling to match his.

His body seizes, cock jerking as it erupts. Thick strands streak his stomach, glistening in the sun. No touch. No guidance. As though a dream reached through him and tore him open.

Impossible.

My breath stutters, sharp and thin. Shame and hunger knot inside me, so fierce I wonder if he feels them too. Heat gathers low, cresting until it shudders through me, thighs quaking, belly drawn tight. I come with him, silent and searing, my release folding into his. And I am wrecked all over again, salt and ruin and sunlight etched into me, to carry long after the tide has taken the day.

His cock is slack again. But I cannot unclench around the ghost of him. Undone by a stranger’s pleasure, shattered by a climax that may not even be mine.

Then, slow, deliberate, his hand lifts. Fingers pinch the brim of the hat. He tilts it—just enough. The curve of his mouth revealed.

Not a smile. Not yet. Only the suggestion of one.