Smut by the Sea Page 12

  “Lyme Regis is pretty far south for me, actually. I’ve never been before, but I’m glad I came. I can see why it inspires you.” She took the sponge and ran it along her neck and one shoulder, drizzling fragrant water over the pucker of her nipples. “I could never be far from the sea. I’d be lost without it. Would you wash my back?” She handed me the sponge and I completely forgot all the questions I was going to ask her. My mouth was dry again, however my pussy was anything but. I reached for the soap and brushed my arm against hers as she leaned forward exposing the exquisite curve of her back, delicate as an ivory carving and yet the muscles that spread outward from the undulations of the vertebrae in her spine were strong and deep. She was delicate of build, but clearly not weak.

  She sighed softly as I ran the soap down the length of her spine, stopping just where her buttocks flared and cushioned her pelvic girdle. Then I moved it upward in tight circles on either side of the vertebrae and out over the fan of her ribs below her arms almost to where the swell of her breasts began.

  “Mmm, that feels delicious,” she said. “I don’t want it ever to end.”

  I didn’t either. I had sloshed water down the front of my shirt, and my own nipples pressed out like they were desperate to get closer to her. It was then she cupped my hand where it rested on her shoulder and said, “you’re still in wet clothes.”

  In all honesty, I hadn’t even noticed until she mentioned it.

  “You must be freezing too. I saw you drawing the harbour seal on the beach when the storm hit.” She scooted down to one end of the tub. “Come on. There’s plenty of room.”

  Before I could ask how she’d seen me when I was sure I was alone, she grabbed the bottom of my t-shirt with wet hands and worried it off over my head, pulling me forward enough in the process that while I was temporarily blinded by my own top, she reached behind me and unhooked my bra. My much larger, heavier tits spilled forward into her hands as she slid the bra off, brushing her thumbs against my nipples in the process. “There, that’s better, isn’t it? Let’s get all those wet and clammy clothes away from your lovely skin. Now stand up.”

  I did as she asked, and she went to work on my walking trousers, then she slid her hands inside, hooked fingers into the elastic of my knickers and tugged both down. “Now step out of them. That’s right. Mmm, you smell delicious. You smell like the sea. Somehow I knew that you would.”

  As I lifted my leg to step out of the trousers and knickers now pooled around my ankles, Celia did not look away. I could feel her gaze on what nestled beneath my own tight curls. I would normally have been shy. I would normally have tried to preserve my modesty, but I wanted her to see my pussy. I wanted her to see what I looked like down there. She made room for me, and I stepped into the warm sudsy water. Then we manoeuvred for space and she, being much smaller than I, scooted closer, lifting her thighs over mine.

  That done she leaned up until she was practically in my lap and brushed a kiss against my lips. “Please, let me wash you. You have such beautiful skin.” She ran a finger along my collar bone and then brushed her palm over my left breast and I sucked in a tight breath. “You’re so soft and round and full. You look like a woman is supposed to look. I could never look like you.” Before I could tell her how beautiful I thought she was and how I admired her body, she took the sponge and squirted warm water across my breasts. “Please tell me it’s all right.”

  All I could do was whimper and nod, as the sponge moved down my sternum and under and around each of my heavy breasts in turn. Then she took up the soap. I sat hypnotised and wet in ways that had nothing to do with the bath as she lathered and cupped and kneaded my breasts until they looked like they were covered with a soapy white shirt. Then she pushed me back, until I lay with my head resting on the edge of the big tub, and she straddled me. Her soft curls brushed mine, as she sprinkled water over my breasts and down my belly. She sponged me in soft caressing motions, moving ever lower onto my tummy until I could no longer resist shifting and rocking my hips, grinding my arse into the unforgiving bottom of the tub. She was practically lying on top of me as she let go of the sponge and cupped my pubis with the palm of her hand.

  “Women smell of the sea as men never can,” she breathed against my face. “I love that about women. With women I’m always close to the sea.” Then she kissed me with just a touch of tongue, just as she wriggled a finger in between my labia and we both moaned into each other’s mouths. “You’re so creamy wet.” She pressed her pussy against my hip. “Do I make you that way?”

  “Oh God yes,” I breathed, pulling her closer, taking her mouth as though I would eat her up.

  “Then let me taste you. I want to taste you, please.”

  In a wave of water that splashed out over the top of the tub, I pushed my way out until I was seated on the edge with my back pressed hard against the tiles of the wall. She sat between my open thighs. There was no preamble, no teasing. She just began with the point of her tongue pressed up against my perineum, then licked and nibbled and sucked her way upward until her lips pursed tightly around my clit. By that time I could no longer hold still. I curled my fingers into her wet hair and bore down, feeling like all of my weight was now concentrated at the apex of my pussy where she licked and suckled, none too neatly. My juices glistened on her face and ran down her chin mixed with her saliva. “You’re almost there, aren’t you?” She whispered against my clit. “I can feel your orgasm gathering, pressing, waiting to happen all right here.” Then she nipped my distended clit and shoved two fingers up hard into my gape and I exploded, jerking and spasming. I would have slipped back into the tub, but she held me fast with her strong arms, held me open wide and watched me come.

  “There’s nothing quite as beautiful as watching a woman’s cunt when she’s coming,” she said. I could feel her hot breath against my trembling pout as she spoke. “The skin around it is dark and glistening bright and stretched so tight from desire, and it ripples and flows like the sea is just beneath the surface.” She gave the swell of me a gentle stroke. “Have you ever watched a woman come?”

  “I’ve never looked,” I said when I could finally get enough breath to speak.

  “What? And you, an artist? Come on. You have to see what happens.” She hopped from the tub and grabbed the towel, drying herself as she headed into the lounge, grabbing her wine glass as an afterthought. “Where do you draw?” She called over her shoulder.

  As quickly as I could, I wrapped myself in one of the big towels, drying as I went, following her wet footprints across the wooden floor into the lounge which I had turned into a makeshift studio.

  When I caught up with her, she had shed her towel and thrown a clean cotton drop cloth across the leather sofa. “This is perfect. This is a wonderful place to be creative.” She nodded out the large picture window to the panorama of sea and cloud and storm. “And it’s a great place to masturbate. I bet you masturbate here, don’t you?” she asked.

  I blushed hard and nodded. “Sometimes I do.”

  “Masturbation and creativity go hand in hand,” she said. Then she nodded to my pad and charcoal tossed carelessly across the coffee table and settled onto the sofa in a reclining position. “How do you want me?”

  Wrapped tightly in the towel, I awkwardly took up the pad and charcoal and moved a chair to sit near the sofa, waiting expectantly.

  She giggled. “You’re not a secretary waiting to take dictation. You’re an artist here to do a study on womanly pleasure. I’m your subject. You have to tell me what to do.” She giggled again, and the sound was almost playful, childlike. “Are you blushing, Tess? You are, aren’t you? Oh darling, you have to relax and enjoy your pussy, enjoy all of your lovely skin. Look at you, all wrapped up in a towel like you’re trying to hide something, something you should never hide.”

  She took a large sip of wine then motioned me to her.

  Cautiously I put down the pad and came closer.

  With one hand she shoved the towel off my breas
ts and onto the floor. As I yelped my protest, she pulled me down on top of her, took my face in her hands and with an open mouthed kiss, drizzled the body temperature red wine into my mouth. I started, but she held me and trickled a little more, pushing it forward with thrusts of her tongue almost like she was fucking my mouth with it, drizzling wine-come between pursed lips. My pussy gushed with empathy as I suckled the rest from her, one hand cupped behind her head, the other splayed over one of her perfect breasts, stroking an impossibly erect nipple.

  At last she pulled away and smiled up at me. “Now, I’m going to play with my pussy and make myself come.” She held my gaze. “I’ll do whatever you want me to from any position you’d like to draw. All you have to do is say.”

  I dropped onto the floor next to the sofa, and she draped one leg so that her foot rested on the coffee table and I was settled in between her thighs at eye level with her cunt. I fumbled for the pad and charcoal, nearly ripping the paper as I shuffled for a blank page.

  “Okay,” I murmured, nearly dropping the charcoal. “I want to see.”

  Her slender hand lay cupped protectively over her vulva, hiding everything from her clit all the way down to where her bottom settled onto the couch. It took me a breathless second to realise that she was gently, carefully palming herself, pressing the flat of her hand against her slit, then shifting and rubbing her sex against it. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned softly pressing upward into her hand.

  I couldn’t help myself. Even as I drew furiously and quickly trying to capture every nuance of her pleasure, I dropped a kiss high onto her thigh, smelling the sea on her, smelling the tide pool rising beneath her palm.

  “I want to see,” I whispered. “I want to see your pussy. I want to watch you touch yourself.” My face burned like fire as I said it, but oh God it was true. I’d never wanted anything so badly in my whole life.

  She slipped her hand up slowly, parting the engorged butterfly wings of her labia. Then she dipped her middle finger, at first, and then her index finger next to it, into the milky thick moisture of her arousal, which seeped down over her perineum and onto the drop cloth beneath. She raised herself on one elbow and looked down the flat of her belly at her fingers splaying and shoving into her vulva. “I’m already almost there.” Her words were breathless and her abdomen rose and fell with her growing need for oxygen. “I could have almost come just eating your pussy, touching your beautiful pillowy breasts.” She raked her thumb against the hard knot of her clit, and she jerked beneath her touch and bit her lip with a sob of pleasure. “Oh so close. So very close. But I like to make it last, don’t you?”

  I nodded dumbly, the sight of her touching herself in such an intimate way had shut down the speech centre of my brain.

  “My nipples ache,” she said. “My tits always feel so heavy and swollen when I’m about to come.” With the hand not busy fingering her cunt, she tugged at her nipples and kneaded her breasts until I feared she would hurt them. Beneath me was the uncomfortable heap of the towel I had shed, which was just as well because I would have made a wet spot on the floor from my own flood. I managed to wriggle and move until it was wadded so that it rubbed and stroked up between my own folds and raked at my clit as I shifted, closer to the push and thrust of pleasuring going on between Celia’s legs.

  Celia missed nothing. “God, it makes me hot to think of you rubbing your wet cunt against that towel. Your clit must be the size of a great pearl in a succulent oyster, and you must be so slippery.”

  I didn’t respond. I kept drawing like a crazy woman, all the while my hips were rocking back and forth against the towel and Celia’s fingers were dancing and thrusting up inside her pussy, first two then three, deep into the grip and squelch of her creamy wet spot. And I drew and watched and held my breath, anticipating her orgasm, anticipating my own, that I didn’t figure could be too far behind.

  She writhed and arched and ground against the drop cloth offering me flashes of her back hole and the rounded clench of her buttocks, offering me the bounce and sway of her cupcake breasts, offering me grunts and whimpers and little animal sounds that I couldn’t capture on paper, but wished I could. At some point I realised not all of those sounds were coming from Celia. And the smell. It was as though I had opened the windows and the scent of the sea had washed in over us, but it was a female sea awash with the earthy wet smell of ripe, needy womanhood.

  She looked like she might shatter into pieces as she drew nearer and nearer her climax. Her movements and thrusts became tight and stiff, and every muscle in her body was tensed. My own body was more than empathetic. I had found a rhythm on the towel, a rhythm that matched Celia’s. My gaze was so tightly focused on her cunt that my eyes burned like fire from not blinking, and yet I watched.

  And then it happened. “Oh my god,” she gasped. “I have to come, Tess. I have to come now.”

  She arched up off the sofa and roared like a lioness. Her pussy drenched her hand and her buttocks clenched and released around her tight back hole then she collapsed onto the sofa. “Look,” she gasped. “Look now, watch my orgasm.”

  And sure enough it was as though an earthquake were happening just below the surface of her vulva. All the tiny muscles trembled and squeezed and gripped. Her cunt spasmed and relaxed and spasmed again and again, pushing out its little rivulet of girly juices.

  I tossed aside the drawing pad and pulled her to me, hands cupped beneath her bottom. I pulled her to me until I could lick and slurp and relish the taste of her. I used the advantage of my extra weight to hold her as she squirmed against me, making incoherent sounds as I nibbled at her clit and tugged at her labia with my lips. Then she spasmed again so violently that she tumbled onto the floor and I engulfed her. I slid up her body, kissing her beautiful breasts, nursing on her nipples, nipping the tender nape of her neck. I longed to explore every centimetre of her delicate strength. I ached to lick and touch and taste every inch of her translucent soft skin. I longed to drown myself in her female sea. As I slid up her body, her hand found its way between my legs and tweaked my clit and I came, rubbing my body against hers, wrapping myself around her kissing, tasting, fondling, caressing.

  I don’t know what time it was when I threw together a fry-up between kisses and gropes and giggles in the kitchen. I’d never cooked naked before. I would have been embarrassed to do anything beyond bathe naked up until now, but Celia made me feel at home in my own skin. She touched me everywhere. No part of me was too embarrassing or too secret for her to love. We fed each other bacon and egg and chocolate éclairs I’d bought from one of the bakeries on Broad Street. We bathed again and made love again, this time in my bed.

  It was long toward morning when I woke to find her missing. I grabbed for the robe, then changed my mind and went looking for her naked. I found her in the lounge sitting on the floor looking through my sketch pads. “You know the sea,” she said when I settled next to her, dropping a kiss onto her shoulder. “You feel it inside you like I do. I can tell.” When she looked up at me there were tears in her eyes. “That’s what drew me to you. That’s what I love about you. Most people don’t feel it that way, and even if they did, they could never make anyone else feel it that way.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You move me, Tess. You move me deeply.” She kissed me and when she pulled away I looked down at the charcoal she had been admiring. It was the last drawing I’d done of the little harbour seal before the storm broke and we went our separate ways.

  “I draw a lot of seals,” I said. “They fascinate me, and they seem to be comfortable around me. I don’t know why. Sadly there aren’t a lot around here anymore, so it was a special treat to find this one, who let me draw her for two days.”

  “It’s lonely for them here now,” she whispered. “This one surely appreciated your company.” Then she lay the open pad aside and came into my arms, feeling tiny and delicate in my embrace.

  “Come back to bed, Celia.” I kissed her ear and cupped a wonderful breast.
“I’ll show you all of my drawings in the morning.” I helped her to her feet and by the time we were back in bed our thoughts had turned to things other than seals. Our thoughts had turned back to the taste of the sea on a woman, the soft round places to cup and caress, the silky wet depths and the hard engorged heights and every inch of skin in which we were comfortable, and every inch of each other’s skin we seemed to be trying to get inside of.

  When we were wet with each other, wet with the heat of our desire, wet with the scent of the female sea, Celia pulled me to her and lay with her head resting on the rise and fall of my belly. “I can’t stay.” She guided my hand down to cup her breast. “This is not the skin I’m comfortable in. I have to go back. You know that in your heart of hearts.”

  I wanted to ask her what she meant. She couldn’t be meaning what I thought she meant. Surely I must have been confused, but I was drowsy with lovemaking and intoxicated with the feel of her, the scent of her, and I slept instead.

  The sun woke me in the late morning, streaming in the window with a vengeance. It was August after all, and the storm had passed. Once again, Celia wasn’t in the bed. I expected to find her perusing my drawings, maybe sipping tea and gazing out the window, naked and uncaring if the neighbours saw her. But she wasn’t there. She was nowhere to be found. Her clothes were gone. All that remained was the scent of the sea in my bed, in my cottage, on my skin. I hurried back to my room to dress. It was then that I noticed the sketch pad lying on my bedside table open to the last drawing I had done of the harbour seal.

  In a near panic I threw on clothes, grabbed my sketch pad and raced down to the sea, feeling as though my heart would burst from my chest. Sure enough, basking on the rocks in the sunlight was the harbour seal.

  I sketched wildly, with trembling hands, sketched every nuance of her, every dark straining muscle that rippled beneath the sleek sun-drenched skin, every arch of her neck, every blink of her dark eyes, all the while easing myself closer and closer until I could almost touch her. And I could definitely smell the scent of the sea, the scent of a woman, the scent of Celia. I wiped frantically at the tears that threatened to spill onto the sketch pad. The seal watched me for an endless moment, then gave a bark and shuffled off into the surf, where she turned for one last look then disappeared beneath the waves.