Kate goes Fuck Hunting

That got your attention didn’t it?

Would you have clicked on the story if it was called “Kate goes looking for a nice date”? Thought so.

But don’t worry, ‘fuck hunting’ is a fair description of what I was doing.

Really that’s what nature compels us to do – whether we be man or beast. The imperative to reproduce drives our behaviour even if a choosiness about mate selection is embedded in the hunting process. It’s just that humans usually like to dress it in a more gentle language and ceremony called romance.

I wish that more gentle, ceremonious process worked for me too; I really do. But the aversion to commitment my family background has left me with complicates the matter. Having some bloke spurt out the words “I love you” spoils it all. Then I have to break his heart and I really hate doing that; it taints all the pleasure that proceeded it.  Believe me; I know; it’s happened often enough. So instead I have to go fuck hunting.

Ah, I hear you guys say “you’re a girl and an attractive one at that; it’s easy for you”. How naive.

Maybe some girls might go out to bars or parties, write themselves off and go home with whatever guy the gin goggles and addled brain choses for the night. If you’re pretty enough you’re sure to score. But I don’t drink like that and I personally find the bar scene off-putting. So quite apart from the complete hollowness of just waking up in bed with some random the next morning knowing you’ve been fucked only to the extent his alcohol affected member was capable but not actually remembering anything, it’s not going to work for me.

Sure, at the crudest level if I just let myself get picked up by the first guy who chats me up or pin a post it note to my crutch saying “free hides; hop aboard” I’m going to get a lot more offers than even the best looking guy who does the same, but that’s to assume there’s nothing more to even merely fuck hunting than being penetrated by some random. It’s a lot more complicated than that.

Think about it.

First there’s the safety issue. As an iron woman competitor I’m no weakling; but – given my taste in men - he’s going to be stronger. Will I be safe with him when we get alone and intimate? Is that good body just from exercise or is the idiot on steroids and prone to rages? Will he comply with my requirement to use a condom? Is his crutch area some disease ridden, toxic breeding ground that even a condom won’t protect me against?

Then there’s the requirement for me – even as I go hunting – to think about the way the whole thing will end; because without a willingness to commit, end it must. If he’s a local then I need to suppress my personality; make sure we don’t have too much fun or connect at an intellectual level; just get a couple of roots from him and let him go before it gets too complicated. There’s not much fun for me in that and in a small town you quickly run out of potential roots and reputation all at the one time. Believe me, I tried it for a while.

The friends with benefits had more potential and before I went away to Uni I had two of them running. But I’ve come back to find my preferred one has a girlfriend who – for some inexplicable reason – isn’t keen on me continuing to use him for that and the other one is starting to show signs of wanting more; so has been relegated to an “emergencies only” status.

In a town like mine with a world famous surfing point break, I found it was better to prey on the visiting surfers. Pick them up, really let yourself go and have the best possible time with them knowing that they’ll be going home after a few weeks or a few days. Even if they get all lovey and fall for you, you can just decline to participate in any elaborate scheme for a long distance relationship and give them a tearful kiss goodbye as they drive out of town. Finito!

OK, I know what you guys are thinking now. So I’ve narrowed my market, what’s so hard about the process of picking them up. Surfers will root anything won’t they? Yea thanks. So now I’m just an “anything”.

That sort of ignores the fact I have some needs out of this thing too.

Good sex is one – if only one. But how do you tell from a brief conversation if a guy is one who’ll take the time to make sure you’re pleasured too or just shoot his bolt and go.

But there’s a lot more to it than that. I want someone to have some fun with for a while; and by that I mean more than just in bed. I want to be able to be myself; to flirt, giggle and play with a guy – the very sort of stuff that can make them fall in love – and have him flirt, giggle and play with me too. I want him to entertain me, make me feel good and make me laugh. I want him to let me know how lucky he feels to be with me.

I want him to look good; to satisfy my lust call, even if Karen does call it the Neanderthal look. I tend to think he just has to look “ovulation worthy” – the sort of guy ovulating women are notoriously supposed to go for, even if being on the pill sort of kills that. And if the trade-off for that is not having someone with brains, I might just accept it. Well actually I will. After all I’m not actually going to breed with the guy, I just want to have some fun. I can find my deeper intellectual conversations with Greg and Karen.

So like a lion picking out its prey from a heard, I need to circle my potential victims, study them, see who looks like a good choice, cut the one I’m targeting out from the pack, examine them more closely, make sure they’re not married or committed and then if they still measure up, take them down; all while letting them think they’re making the first move. And all of that for a fling that might last only a few days and never more than a few weeks. Does it still sound so easy?

It’s actually exhausting. And all the time I’ve got to maintain this front as a cool, self-confident, attractive woman with a happy disposition. Some of that may be natural, but in the end I’m only human and we all have our points of vulnerability.

“A sexual Amazon”. That’s how Karen describes me; meaning it entirely flatteringly in the sense of a girl who’s her own woman and knows how to get what she wants. And for the most part I am flattered and maybe it indicates that my external front is working. I’ve almost encouraged her to form that view of me. But still there’s a very fine line between that and being regarded by others as a slut.

And in a strange sort of way Karen has compounded my problems at the same time she has helped me with the process.

She’s compounded my problems because as much as I now love her as a friend, in a Star Wars sense, she’s caused a disturbance in the force.

When the force was at rest before she arrived I could take solace in the fact I am only 21 and really there is plenty of time ahead of me for an active sex life. With Greg as my best friend and he still a virgin I could even feel a sense of competitive complacency as I let my sex life slide and just relaxed back into finding my non-sexual, non-romantic needs in his company.

Her arrival has changed all that. Now I’m confronted by the fact that every single morning I catch up with them – whether singly or together – I know that they’ve already been rooting like rabbits after their morning run and swim. My competitive complacency is blown away and replaced by a feeling of inadequacy and missing out. This was compounded by the fact that for the first week and a half of their relationship I jealously stalked their love making hide outs and inflicted on myself multiple occasions when I listened into Karen’s noisy love making and screaming climaxes and Greg’s grunting thrusting and cumming. Plus, now our relationship is so close, Karen downloads on me all the intimate details of her sex life – largely because I keep asking her questions that encourages her to and she’s so drunk with love and sexual high that the discretion to hold back hasn’t yet cut in.

Then there’s the fact that with Karen dominating Greg’s time my chance to use Greg as a time passing boyfriend substitute is restricted, even if the three of us often hang out together.

Balancing that, she’s helped me with the process because she willingly acts as my wing-girl; something I’ve not really had before. After all, Greg could hardly fulfil that role.

My preferred hunting spot is under a Pandanus palm that sits along the path the surfers use when they’ve had a successful ride on the point break and have exited the water to walk back to the take-off point again.

The shade of the palm let me sit on the sand without risking turning my skin to the wrinkled mess my mother’s is in while making sure every surfer has to pass me by.

And so it is that as Karen turns up at my favourite stalking spot early on this morning shortly after Christmas, I’ve already decided today is a day for some serious focus on hunting. The point break is working and the ocean’s crowded with surfers. Greg’s gone to work early, so after meeting him for an early morning run, Karen’s now alone.

If I had any doubt about this being a hunting day they disappear with Karen’s arrival. As she stands over me chatting as she first arrives, legs slightly apart, I can’t help but notice a dampness forming in the crutch of her bikini. It’s too far back between her thighs and too localised to be anything other than sexual. As I watch, what started as a dampness turns into a wetness until a great glob of glistening sticky stuff has permeated down through the material and sits there. I can barely take my eyes off it and are trying desperately not to be caught staring at it.

Then I realise. OMG, it’s Greg’s cum oozing out of her. I don’t usually mentally undress women, but it’s impossible not to form a mental image of her naked sexual anatomy under that bikini crutch recently fucked and now discharging the result. It’s unsettling. I’m watching my best friend’s cum seeping out of my second best friend’s vagina.

I’ve only ever had sex with a condom, so can’t really be certain, but surely she can feel it. It mustn’t be very comfortable. I know Karen and Greg have only just stopped using condoms, so maybe she’s not yet adjusted to what happens after. That deletion of condoms of itself has further disturbed “the force”. I’ll swear that the combination of Greg’s cum and Karen’s juices when it’s still on their bodies when I see them somehow permeates my senses; there’s something about Greg that more attention grabbing and about Karen that just makes me feel restless.

My eyes, suddenly awakened to what I’m seeing, become more attuned to other evidence of their activities. Her bikini top- which seems to be a single layer of unlined lycra - is damp, stained and stretched around her nipples. I even look down the length of her leg for evidence of more cum drops.

Karen openly admits she has a bikini fetish which extends to them being part of sexual play. The detective in me decides that, given Greg’s early start at work, they’ve had a quickie after their run; standing up, the crutch of her bikini merely pulled aside and Greg sucking her nipples through her bikini top.

Between the knowledge my stalking gave me of their love making noises and the description Karen has given me of their love life my brain fills in the details and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a mental video of their love making. That now smoothly fitted bikini bottom dishevelled, the crutch pulled to one side as Greg’s shaft penetrates her, his hand down the front of her pants as he fingers her clit and her swollen nipples pulled into his mouth together with her bikini top, her body shaking as Greg pounds her, she groaning and squealing while Greg grunts away. All just a few moments ago.

It’s too much. I need a distraction; anyhow I can hardly sit next to Karen on the beach trying to pick up a guy if she’s leaking cum out of her crutch. “You look all hot and flustered after your run with Greg. Why don’t we go for a swim?” Fortunately she agrees.

While we frolic in the shallow, I start eyeing the surfers as they emerge from the water, making some initial judgments about the best prospects. After all this whole process relies on them successfully catching a number of rides on the point break that takes them to this exit point, so that I can size them up before giving them the sort of come talk to me (or as Karen calls it, “come fuck me”) look that encourages them to stop and chat; assuming they haven’t taken matters into their own hands before that.

As we settle back on our towels after the swim I’m reminded again that having Karen as my wing-girl is a two edged sword. On the one hand, having someone to talk to – or even just to act as company as we both sit and read a book – makes my actions less transparent and the time pass more pleasantly. I’d always considered myself lucky when another girl would sit with me through this process, even if she was making her own selection.

On the other, having Karen as the wing-girl has its own challenges. As you’ll know from reading Karen’s stories and a few of my own, nature has treated me fairly kindly in the looks department and I’m not afraid to use my assets in the chase. You’ll also know I’m not lacking in the brains area either and I’m confident I can turn on the charm if I want to. It sounds bitchy to actually type this sort of thing, but even if another girl I was sitting with was on the hunt too, I never felt intimated by whatever she thought she could throw at a guy. I always reckoned I could do better if it came to that. Mind you, that might be the reason other wing-girls never lasted long!

Karen’s a different proposition. She’s a different body shape to me; inherently slim to my more hour glass shape, but there’s just something about her that’s just stunning. A crystal clear lightly olive skin, long blonde hair, pert B cup breasts and a smile that just makes men go weak at the knees. Quite apart from her lovely disposition, it’s no wonder Greg has almost drowned in the love he feels for her. Plus like me she’s prone to wearing over brief-bikinis (and I’d have to say – again like me - over brief clothing generally).

If I’m man hunting on a hot day I rather like going for a swim; apart from anything else I like the way it gives my bikini a wet look that sticks temptingly to my body. With Karen in tow, the equation changes. There’s something about the way a bikini sits on her body – more so when it’s wet. As we sit back down this day I can’t help but notice she now has an obvious camel-toe in her bikini bottoms and her nipples are prominently raised, the wet material stuck so firmly to them that I can actually see the dark colour of the nipples through the material (it was only later I discovered that – as part of her fetish – she actually cuts the lining out of a lot of her bikini tops). Suddenly I find myself losing my confidence as the top dog (OK, maybe that should technically be ‘top bitch’, but you can see why I didn’t go there) in this hunting pack, even though Karen’s not actually hunting.

When Karen’s on display like that the guys seem distracted by her as they’re talking to me, even when she’s got her head down in a book and is paying them no attention.

Mind you, I’m offering my own share of distraction too, with D cup breasts barely contained in a bikini top no bigger than Karen’s and what I think’s not a bad little bikini bridge for someone only half reclining. I’ve always been amused, rather than offended, by the fact guys just seem to be transfixed by a good breast display; unable to look away even though they must know the average girl’s going to get offended if they can’t at least spend a few moments looking towards their eyes. For me it’s a point of vulnerability for them and a little bit of a test.

Maybe my tolerance has been increased by my conversations with Greg over the years as we’ve stood life saver duty alongside each other; often surrounded by a bevy of skimpily dressed girls. One I especially remember occurred soon after we’d left school, so we were about 18. It started when I’d noticed he’d been particularly distracted by a very attractive bikini breast display from a girl not far in front of us towards the water. Greg was halving a lot of trouble watching seaward instead of staring at her breasts and I teased him.

I would have liked to put the conversation in full here because Greg has an amusing and sometimes forthright way of expressing things; but It would have been too long and I realise at lot of readers are here for a quick read about sex. So for the benefit of girls who don’t have such an honest or talkative male friend and are actually interested in how guys think (and maybe for the benefit of the males who can agree or disagree with what Greg told me) I will just summarise it. If you’re a guy bored by this or a girl who feels it just encourages objectification, then by all means skip the next couple of paragraphs. Me; I found it instructive and helpful in understanding the opposite sex; if only to exploit them.

Let me help you skip over it if you want by starting and finishing it with a heading. Maybe we’ll call it “Not for reading by the objectification adverse” or NFROA

Start NFROA

Recognise Greg at this time was an 18 year old virgin who was (and still is) conservative and shy in his nature. He had the confidence to chat up and ask out a girl but not to bed her. Mind you I’ve come to suspect what I interpreted as the lack of confidence to bed her might actually have been partly a view you don’t bed a girl in the absence of some feeling of attachment to her and Greg was sufficiently choosy about that he never reached the threshold; at least until he met Karen at which time all inhibitions seem to have disappeared. You should also know Greg’s sense of beauty is likely to be influenced by his family’s skinny genes. His mother at near 50 still has a perfect size 8 body and is stunning enough in a bikini to send the average teenage girl into a jealous rage. And for all the nobleness described by both Karen and myself in connection with Greg I don’t doubt looks were reasonably important to him in his choice of a girlfriend. It was only when he found the combination of Karen’s incredible beauty and sparkling engaging personality that reminded him so much of his best, but romantically toxic, female friend (aka me) that he fell head over heels in love; so he falls somewhat short of being the perfect man. And don’t think I haven’t in the last couple of months sometimes reflected on what might have been except for my own limitations.

Also recognise this information was extracted from Greg by way of an unrelenting series of probing questions from me he was kind enough to answer honestly; rather than offered voluntarily as some sort of personal entitlement or judgement.

So Greg first of all admitted (or maybe just confirmed since I’d always suspected it) that there’s something in a guys make up that just compels him to stare at a good breast display. He couldn’t explain it. It’s just there; an automatic and barely controllable reaction. And there doesn’t seem to be a time limit on how long he can stare at one. As he admitted, he knows it can piss girls off, but he has to try really hard not to stare, and even then he constantly finds his eyes drifting back to it for another peak.

What really surprised me (and a large part of the reason this is part of my story) is the feeling stirred inside him by that staring; or really just by being in the presence of a girl with a good breast display. It makes him want to talk to her. So it didn’t make him think of sex with her, he isn’t undressing her with his eyes (although a nipple peak was always appreciated) and it didn’t arouse him nor - he says - objectify them. It just gives him this desire to engage her in conversation; or keep talking to her if he already was. And it always made the conversation seem a lot more interesting; whether that was because he put more effort into it or it just made her seem more interesting he couldn’t say.

As to what he thought was a good breast display, he thought you couldn’t go past a nice Brazilian style slide tri bikini top or a halter top on a dress or shirt that imitated one. It seems the most eye catching part is the way the inside hem of the top curves outward around the breast; preferable not excessively far from the nipple. That plus the way the material curves in around the underside of the breast as the bottom tie pulls it back to the chest. He was a bit dismissive of bandeau tops and what he called “American style” tri tops – those where a larger triangle fully covers the breast. He thought whatever they write about certain types of tops making girls look bigger or whatever, as far as guys were concerned they didn’t rate.

And not surprisingly, unpadded tops were preferred to padded ones because that displayed a more natural breast shape and the presence of a bit of nip push out. Mind you he’d always noticed padded tops offered more of a promise of a nipple peak as the moulded top fell away from the breast as the girl bent over (something you girls out there can bear in mind – if you care - next time you’re wearing one; personally I wear mine unpadded, but that doesn’t stop them being exposed often enough when I’m in the surf).

I couldn’t let him stop at that so covered off a few other areas.

For Greg breasts didn’t have to be large to be attractive. Just enough to provide that curve and a little bit of under-breast. I pointed out some examples and found a size B was more than enough, anything more than a size D too much (but here bear in mind Greg’s genetic background).

A nicely displayed bikini crutch is according to him distracting, but not as compelling to stare at and still doesn’t provoke thoughts of sex or mental undressing. Still I knew he’d spent way too long observing them when he drew a distinction between those where there was excessive crutch material causing a tenting between the legs and those where the material was only just enough to cover the area snuggly; but then nor did he like those which were so short of material they offered a more anatomical view.

He acknowledged an up-skirt view of panties was different simply because you were seeing something you weren’t supposed to. Its very hiddenness was what made it special; although if the panties were semi see-through that added a whole extra dimension.

The only time a crutch view had really caused him sexual thoughts was when he was talking to a female friend of his as he stood in the water at the edge of a pool and she sat on a chair not far away facing him; the conversation going on for some time while her legs were spread more than far enough apart to offer an exceptionally clear, well lit, view up her mini skirt to the crutch of her bikini bottom underneath. It was compounded in this case by the fact the crutch material was quite narrow and showed a lot of crutch flesh (as Greg put it). I suggested to him it probably made him think of sex because that’s exactly what she was offering; girls don’t usually sit like that legs apart on a seat towards a guy; swimmers underneath or not. He hadn’t thought of it because she had a boyfriend at the time (and I’d add, that wasn’t Greg’s default view of relationships between the genders anyway).

Greg’s general view of the way guys (or at least he) was attracted to breasts and crutches is that at the deepest most sub-conscious level they were calling at him some obtuse message like “I’m a woman; I’m different. Pay attention. Treat me well”

But where things really got interesting was when a group of the girls got up and went down to the water and started frolicking; facing seaward in thigh to crutch deep water as they splashed each other and fooled around. What it meant was we got a pretty good display of their arses (my description, not his; he calls them bums) and I turned the conversation to those.

He admitted his favourite bikini bottoms were the string tie ones; especially those that came up to just over the top of the bum crack.

They were bending over as they played around; emphasising the arse view; the bikini bottoms, as they became wet, moulding themselves into their bum crack and slipping down just enough to expose the top of it. After a lot of hedging about and obtuse references he finally admitted that a nice arse – and especially a nice arse on a girl playing around like that - can may him think of a girl as having a (I had to supply this expression to see what he was really trying to say with all his hedging) “fuckable body”; that if she displays a nice arse, he then finds himself evaluating the rest of her - breasts, legs and smile particularly - and feeling a stirring of actual physical attraction and desire.

But he wasn’t willing to let that admission rest at that. The conclusion they had a fuckable body sort of stood alone. The ones that stirred up that feeling in him didn’t attract him as potential girlfriends and he wasn’t picturing actually having sex with them; it was just a conclusion about them. I made him analyse each of the girls in turn to see which ones the conclusion applied to (and which ones looked to him more like girlfriend material) and I think I worked out what was going on – even if Greg couldn’t.

I suspect Greg’s attracted to girls whose body shape suggests that – like his mother – they’re going to stay the same as they get older. On the other hand those with a fuckable body have a slightly higher BMI; not fat by any means, but something about their hips suggest things won’t stay the same with the accumulation of childbirths and years. Maybe the difference between Taylor Swift and Beyoncé. I put that to Greg and he agreed.

But after all that cross examination Greg still wasn’t willing to let me go away with the impression that guys just evaluated girls for their looks; as merely the sum of their body parts. Firstly when he looked at their face, even though he knew all the science about the attraction of symmetry, one of the most important things was their smile. And that was just a first introduction to the thing that he says changes everything; their personality. Essentially if they had a good personality then suddenly they looked a whole lot more attractive and even the prettiest girl who projected an unpleasant personality suddenly didn’t look so good any more.

I’d have to agree that my impression of Greg up to that time was that he went for ‘nice girls’; friendly, very likable ones. Still I suspected at the time there was still an underlying “attractiveness hurdle” that even the nicest girl was going to have to jump before they won Greg over; and the stunner sitting next to me who eventually got Greg as her prize is ample proof of that.

Greg also volunteered that magazines and videos are no substitute for the real thing. They might satisfy a certain curiosity, but real people are the essence of what it’s all about; which is why he thinks what’s often passed off as mere objectification is a lot more complex than that.

Finish NFROA

For all Karen’s impression of me as being self-assured and confident, I still needed others – and especially someone like Greg – to say nice things about me. And for all of my determination to maintain Greg as a friend without risking the complication of emotional attachment, I have consistently acted like I wanted him to be sexually attracted to me. So even though I knew it was foolish, I couldn’t help myself; I had to go fishing for compliments.

I had to go on and ask him –

“Do I have a cute ass and a fuckable body?”

“Yes”

“Yes what?”

Greg hesitated; unsure why the mere ‘yes’ didn’t get him out of trouble and what the safe answer was. “Yes you have a very cute ass and fuckable body”

“So you think I’m fat?”

“No I think you’re exactly on the point where fuckable body meets stunningly attractive.”

I knew Greg knew he was walking a fine line. Plus I suspected his overall judgement was affected by the fact my mother’s figure was not unlike mine and hadn’t really shown too much growth over the years; although Greg didn’t know she suffered from Bulimia.

I’m not sure why I’m compelled to do this to Greg, but I didn’t leave him alone at that. “And are you telling me you’re always perving at my breasts; I suppose you’re always trying to see down the front for a nipple peak too?” Actually Greg did better than most guys at maintaining eye contact, but I was well aware his eyes still often tended to drift down, especially if I was offering a good display. “And I suppose you just talk to me so you can stare at my breasts for longer?”

I remember this day so well because it was a rare occasion when, after a moment’s hesitation, Greg put an arm around my shoulder and kissed me gently on the side of my cheek. Normally the safety of our unresolved sexual tension was maintained by him being the one physically reserved; me being the one much more inclined to touching and being generally tactile. “I’d like to tease you by saying that it’s the only reason I talk to you but I can’t even say that in jest. Kate, you know I really value our friendship and every moment of the time we spend conversing, even if I value them more when you’re wearing a brief bikini. And yes, I like the nipple peeks too.”

The fellow lifesavers sitting behind us hadn’t heard our conversations, but certainly saw Greg kiss me. They were used to seeing me handle him, but knew he didn’t often reciprocate. They started catcalling and teasing us in that way that friends do. I just put a hand behind my back and flipped them a quick bird while otherwise ignoring them.

I think it was that moment I realised for the first time that what I felt for Greg was actually love; maybe the love of a friend, but it was real love just the same.

From the times in primary school when Greg had been my counsellor and helper when I was trying to run the household while my mother was out of it with depression to the times in late secondary school when Greg was my one constant reliable friend and supporter while I coped with bullying from other girls for a variety of reasons from declining to get drunk at parties, to trying to eat healthily to, for a short while, acting like a complete slut with the first division school football team, he was just always there. He was always on my side, offering advice when I asked for it and sometimes when I hadn’t but he knew I needed to hear something. He uncomplainingly got out of the way of my love life when I needed him to and was there waiting again when I needed him back. He even forgave me for what I did to him at the year 10 ball. I had always asked too much of Greg and he had always given.

I got to test out Greg’s capacity to stare at breasts a few months later when we went on a summer overnight hiking trip. These sort of trips are something we do a couple of times a year and we’ve kitted ourselves for the purpose with a cheap two man hiking tent and equally cheap lightweight sleeping bags. Inevitably the sleeping bags are too cold in winter and too hot in summer, but our budgets don’t extent to having a selection of gear.

This was definitely one of the too hot nights. As we’d settled I had, with ostentatious modesty, tucked myself deep into my sleeping bag before removing my bra. Then, once the torch had been extinguished, I’d thrown the top of my unzipped sleeping bag completely aside, leaving my modesty protected only by a tiny g string and the darkness of a night lit by the light of a ¾ moon filtered through the tent material – which in reality was not at all.

As I lay on my back or on my side facing him in the tight confines of the tiny tent, I know that for at least the next hour an equally uncovered Greg did little but lie on his side facing me, staring at my breasts – and possibly other things, but mainly my breasts. I know because as I lay facing him I was watching him through hooded eyes; slit open just enough to see his eyes and the spear head of his erection poking out through the open fly of his boxer shorts and pointing directly up at me. After that I fell asleep, happily leaving Greg to stare at whatever he wanted unobserved and untimed.

Mind you the whole episode say more about me than it does about Greg. I deliberately didn’t turn away from him or put my arms across my breasts. Quite the opposite; I left them in clear view. I wanted to expose myself to him as much as when the weather was cold I’d spooned hard against him until I could feel his erection in my back even through two thicknesses of sleeping bag and all the clothes we had on.

If you’ve read my earlier stories then you’ll know that from my early teenage years I’ve prick-teased Greg by exposing myself to him; always innocently. Always with good reason like needing to get changed. Always as if I was doing something entirely natural. The thing was it’s only recently that I’ve recognised it for the prick teasing it was; because that was never my intent. In a way I was too innocent to even understand that was what I was doing; and that applies even to the things I did – like this camping trip - after I was well and truly sexually active with other guys.

As I thought about what I did and why – especially after Karen came along and changed the nature of our relationship - I’ve come to realise I did it to satisfy my own needs; not sexual, but rather for intimacy.

As much as I might fear commitment, I’ve never really lost the need for the intimacy – in the widest, and maybe weirdest possible sense of that word – that my family background seems to have deprived me of. Greg’s friendship did much to fill that gap. I suspect my teasing of him in the way I did might have started as a testing out of my sexual sense of self, but it also was just a way of inching closer to a more complete intimacy with Greg without it being the sexual or romantic relationship that would have crossed the line and destroyed it. Crazy, in that give girls a reputation for craziness sort of way, I know. But we all have a need to be close and this is one part of how I found my closeness with Greg.

It’s to Greg’s credit he understood where the limits of our relationship were and valued it enough he didn’t take advantage of me or even complain about what I was doing to him. But then I think he’s actually enjoyed it. Even so I still wish he’d had the courage to have exposed himself to me too; I always wanted that extra little degree of closeness that such exposure would have given me. That one single exposure of the tip of his erection was probably accidental.

But maybe you now also get some insight into just why Karen’s arrival was originally such a challenge to me and why I reacted to her in the way I described in my “Dealing with the City Girl” Story.

So what does all this have to do with my fuck hunting?

A lot actually. It’s the insights I gained from those conversations with Greg I’ve always put to good use. Maybe I would have been inclined to brief bikinis and showy clothing anyway – look at Karen – but I’ve fine-tuned it with what Greg told me.

Even when I was in swimming with Karen before we settled down I was playing the game. Yes, I was checking them out. But I was putting on a show for them too; being playful and girlie, splashing around with Karen, wiggling my wet bum around in their direction (knowing full well the waist hem of my string tie bottoms had slipped down just enough to teasingly expose the top of my bum crack) and generally doing everything I could to give them an interest in me. Plus I gave the briefest, most ambiguous smile to a couple of nice looking prosects

I know some girls often – or sometimes always – want to achieve just the opposite; to be invisible; pandering to a guy’s eye is the last thing they think is appropriate. Me; I turn it up or down depending on my intentions. But even if they’re not as carnal as they are today, I still tend to keep it at least on simmer; the only exceptions being where I can’t have reasonable control over my safety; because I know not all guys are as benign as Greg. But it wasn’t my intention to be invisible today.

By the time I got back and sat on my towel, I’d picked out a few; including a favourite.

Then comes the all-important book. Talking to Karen’s nice and a great way to pass the time. But when I attract the attention of the wrong person you need a good reason to give them the flick while still allowing them their dignity. Saying “excuse me now I’d like to talk to my friend” normally just doesn’t cut it.

But the right book offers a different possibility; because the right book has to be a text book. “I really better get back to my study” allows no arguments. Of course most text books are as boring as bat shit and it is actually better to have something you don’t mind reading. In my school years I took an ancient history text; or at least an ancient history book, since I actually enjoyed the topic.

First year law is pretty basic, but a second year student I knew recommended “Jacob’s Law of Trusts” since it actually offered a coherent read and, as he said “good Equity lawyers are always in demand”.

Now I’m hoping to convert to Medicine I’ve brought along the Anatomy text. Dry, but there’s a lot to absorb.

OK, so now I’m all set up it’s time to go hunting.

Normally I want to size them up a bit before encouraging them, but I’d come out of the water with a favourite already picked out. That’s not to say I hadn’t been keeping a surreptitious eye on others as they passed to let me evaluate them, but I was keeping a special watch for this guy to come back through.

I first noticed him as he was leaving the water, which was good as it let me be tactical about the look I gave him. As he got closer I looked up from my book, captured his eye and gave him the briefest of smiles; but a generous one in terms of it being a full width one – not something that could just as easily be a grimace.

There’s a trick to the smile. It has to encourage them to come up and talk, but it also has to have an element of plausible deniability; to let me brush it off as “just being friendly” if a prospect turns out to be unsatisfactory.

Of course a guy’s reaction to any sort of smile is going to vary a lot depending on his own personality. The confident or (sometimes) arrogant ones are happy to take advantage of any opening to make a move. But not all guys are like that; some are shy and need more encouragement – perhaps more than I can achieve while just sitting down in sight of their walking path while still leaving myself that element of plausible deniability. It’s a pity, because I suspect I can miss attracting the attention of the shy ones altogether; and as Greg proves, they can often be the better overall prospects.

This guy is clearly not shy. He hones straight in on me in response to the smile.

“Hello gorgeous” said with a difficult to place middle European accent. I know it’s hard for a guy to find an opening line; but that’s not one I like. It’s a little too presumptuous. Still I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt; even though that doubt grows stronger when I see him staring across at Karen’s body sprawled out next to me.

Karen at this stage is lying flat on her back, a hand holding a book over her face and thus completely tuned out to the conversation. I quickly follow his eyes and find Karen’s nipples are still raised like volcanic cones out of the mounds of her breasts; the wet material still hinting at their darker colour through its slight translucence.

OK; I’ll forgive him that too. But only just. He focuses back on me and his eyes immediately drift down to my cleavage and stay there. Given my deliberate display I completely accept an element of that, but he’s not even trying to do better.

I figure I might as well do my own evaluation. Up close he looks as good as he did from a distance. Nice body, chiselled face. Yep; classic Neanderthal.

I suppose I’d better define what I (or really Karen, since it’s her term) means by Neanderthal. It’s certainly not a body builder’s body. Personally I think they’re gross; even more so because I tend to associate them with bullies, thugs, steroid users and drug dealers. I know you shouldn’t generalise, but it’s my own safety at risk here. If that’s what my senses tell me, then I’m not going to ignore them. It’s up to the guy to prove me wrong if he gets a chance. Karen uses the term Neanderthal because she doesn’t think I consider brains or personality enough. On the former she’s probably right; on the latter, too judgemental (although understandable on some of the samples she’s met; we all make mistakes).

No, I say it’s more a surfer’s body; strong but lean. Like Greg, but not as skinny as him. Plus the chiselled jaw of course!

It’s a pity this guy had a pair of cotton bonds underwear rising above the waist of his boardies. I’ve always found that a bit of a turn-off; a bit like I would imagine is the effect of a stunning girl in drop dead sexy clothes who has the hem of her skirt blown up to reveal a pair of full on granny undies. Speedos underneath are OK and nothing is fine – indeed given the light material some of the modern boardies are made out of, nothing can be quite interesting – but bonds undies are a let-down. Still I’m not going to write him off for that.

“Would you like to come back to my place for a bit of fun?” Buzz; fail. I might be fuck hunting and he might be a bit of alright body wise, but as I said I’m looking for more than that. Maybe once I might have gone for it, but not anymore.

“No thanks. I need to study.”

Had he taken a step back and come back in with a more measured approach, he still might have succeeded, but he was deep in a minefield. Instead the best he can do is ….“Are you sure?”

Kaboom. He just blew himself up. “Quite.” My eyes focus on my book and stay there. He wanders away.

Another guy I had an eye on comes up out of the water towards me. I’ve already given him a bit of a smile when I notice he’s got a wedding ring on. That’s where the plausible deniability comes in. I look back down at my book as if I’d just momentarily raised my head to give my eyes a rest. He walks on past us.

A third of my likely prospects emerges from the water and comes towards us. I can see he’s eyeing me off. This time I check out the left hand. All clear. I flash a big smile. He smiles back but then looks shyly downwards, as if he’s been caught doing something naughty. I recognise his reaction for the shyness it is. That doesn’t disqualify him, but he’ll have to take his chance on me still being available by the next time he comes past. Still, I have a good perve at him as he goes past and actually feel a stirring in my own loin; the start of a lady boner. He looks more age appropriate to me then the first guy and even better close up than he did at a distance; and he clearly isn’t wearing anything under his boardies – the wet material making that very obvious. Indeed, either he’s well hung or the brief interaction with me has had something of the same effect on him as it had with me.

He’s lucky. By the time he comes back around I’m still free; buy maybe that’s not accidental. I flash another smile and he smiles back. He keeps coming along the path, clearly making an effort not to just stare at me while not breaking off completely the visual interaction with me. I decide to throw him a lifeline. As he comes within talking distance I smile and again and ask “What’s the surf like today?”

“Pretty good; probably too good for me. I’m not that great a surfer. I suspect the other guys think I’m wasting the waves.” The statement is delivered with enough confidence it doesn’t come across as an attempt at pathos; more an honest modesty. I like it and him more for it. “That’s an impressive book you’re reading. What are you studying for?”

I’m surprised he’s noticed it so quickly. He must have got a peek when he was walking past head down last time. Given some of the topics and pictures, I’m just glad he didn’t think it was some sort of porn. “I’m hoping to get into medicine this year and I hear it’s one of the hardest subject, so I thought I’d do some pre-study.”

“I’m impressed. Beauty and brains. Are you a surfer too?”

“No I’m more into the lifesaver side of things with a bit of iron woman thrown in. I’m Kate”

“Hi, I’m John. I was just about to duck across the road and get myself a drink. Can I interest you in joining me or bring something back for you and your friend?” For the first time his eyes have darted momentarily across to Karen. My eyes follow to see that even though her bikini has mostly dried, her nipples are still fairly prominent; as is the camel toe in her bottoms.

“I’ll come for a walk with you. What about you Karen?”

“No thanks. I have to go soon. If you’re not back in fifteen I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.” Bless her heart. The perfect wing-girl. I’ve got a leave pass to not come back and a promise of continued support if it all goes pear shaped quickly. But at this stage it going pear shaped is the last thing on my mind. He’s still having a strange effect on me; something of a lady boner and all. I hope it’s more than just the fact his own dripping wet pants are moulded around a significant bulge.

I shove my towel and book to join my shirt already in my bag and wrap a scarf around my hips to act as a skirt as we walk towards the back of the beach and the line of shops there; detouring just a little to let him dump his board at his car and collect a singlet and wallet. All the time we’re walking he’s asking me about my studies and by the time we’re at the shop he’s smoothly extracted from me just about all there is worth knowing about my law course last year and my desire to convert to medicine in the coming one.

As he interposes his questions with praise and wonder at my abilities and determination to follow my dreams, barely stopping to insist on paying, by the time we sit down at the café with my iced coffee and his milkshake he has me glowing with confidence. I don’t feel cross examined so much as understood.

Taking my cue, I find he’s from Sydney and in town for a couple of weeks (yippee; I was scared it might be just a day or two); a tradie – electrician to be specific. He’s happy to tell me about the comedy of errors that comes with going through an apprenticeship and of the practical jokes he was the butt of during his training and at times has me in stiches of laughter.

What can I say? The conversation flows freely with just the occasional hint of sexual innuendo. The quick drink lasted so long it morphed into an early lunch without me even noticing the passing of time. Somewhere along the line I’d had to disclose that I start work at 2 and finish at 10. He offered to take me to dinner after work and – with a warm night forecast - I counter offered to prepare us a picnic dinner to have on the beach. Drunk with my own feeling of sexual attraction, by then I’d even stopped taking notice of whether he’s looking at my eyes or my breasts; even if I haven’t stopped glancing down at his crutch.

And so at 10.15 my heart was racing as I pulled up at the beach, my picnic hamper packed with a dinner consisting of a plate of anti-pasto ingredients for entree, half a roasted chicken and salad for the main and two bowls of somewhat runny chocolate mousse for dessert; together with a bottle of white wine and some beers. The moonlight was bright enough to light the way and make it romantic, without being intrusive or taking away the sense of privacy.

I was dressed in a fresh bikini under a very loose, drop shoulder crop top and lightweight flared mini to meet John still in boardies and a singlet.

It’s not by accident that Greg knows every sand dune along this length of the beach; he and I have been exploring them for years, even if we didn’t then put them to the use he and Karen have. The one I direct us to is the one Greg and Karen used to bonk in the New Year while watching the fireworks; close to town but private, the lower seaward face of it is covered in a thick tangle of dune grass – discouraging access from that direction. Instead the top is accessed through a narrow gully that leads to the sandy rear of the dune.

Karen had told me what they got up to that night and I must say I haven’t visited this dune in the week since. As I spread the picnic rug out I found myself just a little creeped out that I’m likely spreading it over globs of Greg’s cum mingled with Karen’s juices sprinkled over the sand.

The entrée and main was quite deliberately finger food; messy finger food admittedly, but finger food just the same. As he sat on the sand, I straddled his thighs facing him; holding the plate of food between our bodies. There we fed each other; alternatively nominating morsels of food to be put into our mouths by the other; occasionally licking the other’s fingers clean of the greasy mess. I serve out the drink generously enough to satisfy thirst and loosen inhibitions just a little without taking any risk it might inhibit performance

Between courses I decided it was too warm and stripped off my crop top leaving just my bikini top. Mid-way through the main course I leant in and stole my first kiss as he was licking chicken grease off my fingers. By then I’d also readjusted my straddle of his thighs so my clit was resting lightly on one of them; being stimulated every time he or I moved.

Normally I like to try and hold out until at least the second day before we have sex. There was something about John that had affected me from the outset. There was no way that was going to happen this time and I wasn’t even going to try.

Not infrequently as we’d shared the food I’d moved the plate slightly to the side as I was supposedly picking my next choice; letting me ensure I had his full attention. There was a good size boner always evident as it tented up the thin material of his pants.

For dessert I readjusted my position, lying perpendicular to him and putting my head on his lap; lifting my knees up, I knew my skirt had folded down exposing by bikini bottoms underneath plus some of the stomach flesh that lay between the waist bands of the skirt and the bottoms. My legs were none too close together either.

Then I ate my mousse with a spoon as I held the bowl with one hand above my chest as the side of my head pressed his erection against his stomach. He in turned rested his bowl on my upper chest; bringing the hand with the spoon down to meet it there.

This wasn’t a very good way to attack a runny mousse and by the time we’d each had a few spoonful’s there were dollops of the stuff all over my upper chest, with a particularly large dollop – actually a full spoon slide –on my bikini top near a nipple. Impressing me with his flexibility, John bent over and licked a couple of the dollops off my skin before attacking the one on my bikini top; sucking the material into his mouth together with the nipple underneath and attacking it with his tongue.

Then with a “nope, can’t get it that way”, he straightened up, undid the ties on my bikini top and brought the top up to his face to lick it clean; paying it the sort of attention a kid does to eating an ice cream cone on a hot day without dripping any. Holding the now sucked clean top over my face he continued “here, I’ll tie it back on for you” before the hand holding his bowl of mouse ‘inadvertently’ upended itself over my breast. “Opps. How clumsy of me”. Yea I replied, “how clumsy of me too” as I upended my bowl over the point where the tip of his erection was tenting up his pants.

Before I knew it, John was leaning over again sucking and licking my breast clean while I held the boardie encased erection in my mouth sucking my mousse off the material; both of us giggling away while we did it.

John’s hand with the empty bowl had come back to rest on my bare stomach between the waists of my skirt and swimmers. Even as he kept licking my breast, the bowl and hand now separated as the former stayed resting on my stomach while the latter slid slowly down to the top of my bikini pants. This was no fast action; he was allowing plenty of time for me to object to the move, more so as his fingers slid along under the hem from hip to hip. He was making his intentions clear as much as my silence and continued attention to his pants made my consent equally clear.

Satisfied his hand went deeper, played over the smooth skin of my mons for a few moments before finding my already engorged clit and gently fingering it.

When properly done there is perhaps no moment more exquisite than that first touch of your clit. Its sensitivity, heightened by anticipation and by the preceding caresses of his fingers across your skin, seems at its greatest; complemented by the nipple stimulation, a burst of pleasure permeates your whole body in a way that makes you want to just curl up and coo. A sigh of pleasure and release escaped me as I squeezed his erection tighter.

Extracting his hand from my pants, he started pulling my skirt down, waiting while I lifted my hips to let it pass under my bum. Then he was back down my pants again, fingering my tunnel to extract lubricating juices and smear them excitingly across the surface of my clit.

A moment had been reached. I loved what he was doing down there, but either I had to pull his erection from his pants and start giving him a blow job or it was time to get serious. Frankly I’m not that keen on giving full on blow jobs.

I sat up while maintaining as much contact with him as I could; trying to discourage him from withdrawing his hand for as long as possible. Then straddling his thighs again I started undressing him; pulling his singlet over his head and pulling apart the Velcro of his fly; exposing his rampant manhood.

Lifting my hips off him, I tugged at his pants while he lifted himself off the ground, pulling them the length of his legs before pushing him flat on his back to leave him naked under me. Only my bikini pants remained and as I leant over to kiss him while holding his erection firmly in a hand I felt the ties simultaneously pulled to release it from my body.

There was one more step. One I insisted on however much my passion was up. It could be easy or awkward depending on the guy, but from the outset I’d tried to set it up to make it smooth. Next to us was my open beach bag; easily accessible inside it was a condom. With my free hand I reached in and grabbed it, opened the packet, lifted his erection up and rolled it on. He watch silently, just playing with my nipples as I sheathed him; good for him; that was normal.

For a time our passions had reduced us to silence; now he broke it. In the moment before I lifted myself up to insert him, he stroked my hair and asked “are you happy to be on top?”

“It works best for me, is that OK with you”

“I only want what you want.”

He went in easily; not because he was small – because I was ready. Ready for him, ready just to be with a man again. It had been two weeks. Often that’s nothing – the smallest of interludes; barely a break at all, but sometimes it can be an eternity. With Karen and Greg unknowingly flaunting their sex life under my nose, frustrating me to the core of my existence and with me being somewhat deprived of the soothing qualities of Greg’s platonic company, this time it was an eternity.

At first I just wanted to take in again all the sense of being with a man; the feeling of him inside me; the scent of his skin; the sensation of lying on his chest. Clamping him tightly inside me I bent down into his face; nuzzling him and kissing him, letting him play with my hair and stroke my face. John seemed to be willing to allow me some time and I wanted to take advantage of that. But too soon his needs were stirred up. He started thrusting from below, gently but with meaning, making it clear his cock was wanting more attention. If I didn’t listen to that need and attend to it in a way that satisfied mine too he might find his climax before me.

I rose off his chest, supporting myself at an angle to his body; lifting my hips up and down while tilting them forward to bring my clit into contact with his pubis. Moving slowly at first I increased the tempo, feeling my breasts starting to sway to the movement. The swaying attracted his attention to them; it always does – at least men are predictable. Like nearly every other man before him, he played with one with his hands while curling his body up to take the other in his mouth. At least his technique for stimulating my nipples was good; not too hard with the fingers, mainly moving his tongue against the one in his mouth, no teeth but with just a bit of sucking between his lips; all while alternating a bit in how he worked them. All girls might be different and like different things, but I just don’t know why so many guys go at them like a blemish needing to be removed.

As I became more excited I – as I so often felt compelled to do - straightened up my stance, bringing my knees up under me and sitting more upright until I was bouncing up and down on him in full cow girl style; still with my hips angled forward for the contact that gave me. Eventually my breasts moved out of reach of John’s ability to flex his head up and he settled for a hand over each one; skilfully stimulating my nipples.

I could feel my climax building. Becoming more confident in getting there I started to risk intensifying his pleasure in pursuit of mine; pulsing my pussy on his cock. The little groan of joy he let out as I started doing that let me know it was working for him as much as it was for me.

And then, almost catching me off guard, my climax came and filled my body with its ecstasy. Intensifying my efforts to prolong my own experience, clamping him tightly inside me, I brought him to orgasm too; feeling him trying to push himself up hard into me as his cries of ejaculative bliss indicated my success.

Lying back down upon him; I again enjoyed the sexual embrace of a man until, cursing the need for condoms, I slid off him as I felt his cock going flaccid inside me.

There John lay beside me a hand over my hip; maybe waiting my next move. I brought my body up against his and as we lay there side by side, kissed him; the latex of the condom, most of its volume now vacated by his shrunken manhood, swinging like a pendulum weighted by the bubble of his cum and feeling strange as it brushed against the skin of my thigh.

With the hot flush of sexual need temporally satisfied, I was starting to feel more playful again. I rolled him on top of me as I kissed him and pushed my hips hard against his; rolled him again to put me on top and, running out of picnic rug, his back on the sand. Then then with another kiss I rolled him again – putting my back on the sand and warning me by the lack of any support for my right shoulder that we were on the cusp of the dune.

For a while I loitered there in his embrace, enjoying the weight of his naked body on mine. Another roll and we’d passed the point of no return. Bound tightly together we rolled down the side of the dune; getting ourselves completely covered in sand.

Stories from Karen and my observation of the sex romps of Karen and Greg had raised my concept of sexual playfulness. Most often in the past I might have slunk back to his place or mine – because yes, my mother was well used to strange males in the house in the morning - for after dinner sex. I’d had sex on the beach or in other places in the great outdoors. But it was something stolen, needy and quick; the equivalent of the stand-up quickie I’d imagined Karen and Greg as having shared this morning.

Rarely – in fact probably never – had it been deliberately set outdoors to enhance its romance or fantasy. Maybe once when a surfer had taken me on his board when I swam out to him while he was waiting out the back you might have counted it as pandering to a fantasy – but that was more his than mine.

The choice of a beach picnic was a break for me from the usual pattern. John was always going to get screwed tonight on the top of the dune. And after what sneakily watching Greg screw Karen on the edge of the surf on the day they met did to my brain, John was also going to get screwed tonight on the water’s edge. He just didn’t really know it yet.

“Let’s