The Summer I Fell Off a Log

The Summer I Fell Off a Log The Summer I Fell Off a Log

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


The story of a girl's discovery of love and sex over a summer holiday


The story of a girl's discovery of love and sex over a summer holiday

Chapter1 (v.1) - The Summer I Fell Off a Log

Author Chapter Note

The story of a girls discovery of love and sex over a summer holiday

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 05, 2014

Reads: 1876

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 05, 2014



The Summer I Fell Off a Log


Chapter 1 – A Long Holiday Ahead

Monday 12/11/07

I threw back the curtains and was almost blinded by the intensity of the light and colours that flooded in to my room. Deep blue skies and aqua blue seas speckled with shimmering flashes of reflected sunlight. Dominating it all was unfiltered dazzling orb of the sun still low in the morning sky casting its rays directly in to my East facing room.

Its warmth washed over my body caressing my skin where is fell on bare flesh and seductively warming the material of my bikini and the erogenous zones that lay beneath. I admired for the first time the view from my room. There were some advantages to being both the youngest child and only daughter. Daddies give you the best room in the holiday house.

Sitting below the expanse of blue hues in my field of vision, and standing just across the road from our cottage, was a line of low costal scrub which hid the yellow sands of the beach. To the right was a headland jutting aggressively out to sea giving the town the point surf break for which it was renowned.

As I moved down to the foot of the bed the window gave me an angle to the north. The road ended a couple of houses past us and from there stretched an endless forest of gums. From the maps I’d looked at before we came up I knew a Nature Reserve started from there and went for miles along the beach. Just across the road was a path through the scrub to the beach and from this particular point in the room I was able to get just a glimpse of the beach itself.

Picking up my beach bag I headed out to the living room

In the five minutes since I’d finished breakfast and gone back to my room to get ready, the older of my two brothers – Steve – had come out to the living room, turned on morning television and draped his tall lanky frame untidily over the lounge chair. He looked like a giant rag doll which had been thrown carelessly in the chair’s direction. Lanky might be a bit harsh. He had the tall slim athletic shape my parents genes had bequeathed to all their children, enhanced in this case by his devotion to surfing; a sport which if nothing else gives a guy a nice figure.

Still, dressed in a thread-bare old T-Shirt and an equally ancient faded pair of board shorts which together constituted his PJ’s and with his straw blonde hair showing a decided lack of either combing or a wash in anything other than salt water, the comparison was a valid one.

The doors to my parent’s room and that of my other brother Brad were still closed; the late night arrival up here still taking its toll.

From occasional glances in his direction following our exchange of good morning greetings I knew Steve’s eyes were following me as I packed my beach bag; first with a towel from the suitcase still sitting in the living room and then with a sun-dress retrieved from the suitcase in my room. Showing greater perception than I’d normally credit to a brother, he made a correct deduction from my packing of the sun-dress.

“Hay Sis, you’re not going out dressed like that are you?”

I turned towards him. My brain wracked itself in search of some witty put down reply to his tease, but it was too early in the morning, “Mum really liked it when she helped me buy it. Anyway, since when are you my protector”, was the best I could come up with.

Looking straight at him for the first time I noticed that the leg he had over the arm of the chair gave me a direct view up the leg of his shorts. Not only could I see that he had no undies on, but the eye of his one eyed trouser snake was looking straight back at me. While that was definitely more than a sister wants to see, I found the sight both repelling and distracting.

As a beach orientated family, none of us were shy about our bodies; but nor did we go around naked. It had been many years since I’d seen Steve exposed and I was barely old enough to remember when it last happened.

I was snapped back out of my distraction by Steve’s voice. “I’m not. I’m just worried about all the guys who are going to be arrested for jerking off as you walk along the beach”

“I’ll take that as a compliment then. I’m heading out for a jog on the beach”

“Don’t say you got a compliment from me or you’ll ruin my reputation as a brother”

I remembered I wanted to take the purse which was still on my dresser, so headed back in to my room. Dresser is a generous word for it. It was nothing more than a small chest of drawers with a tall mirror on top and apart from the double bed and a single bedside table was the only other piece of furniture in the room. Indeed it was probably the only other one that would fit. With my suitcase on the floor beside it just about all of the floor space was covered with only a narrow walkway around everything left.

When I picked up the purse I emptied out my credit and bank cards, just in case I lost it at the beach; leaving just enough cash for something to eat after my exercise.

As I did so I had another look at myself in the mirror. I was actually quite chuffed by Steve’s backhanded compliment. Mind you the bikini I had on was quite brief – what one would call Brazilian in style and one of two new similar ones I’d bought for the holiday. The triangles of the top barely covered half of the orbs of each breast and the pants were very low cut. With a simple design, no padding and skin tight fit, even in the warmth of my bedroom you could see a bit of nip pushing through. As I looked down at the pants I noticed my Brazilian wax job meant there was a very obvious hint of camel toe.

That only left the hair.

This jogging along the beach routine I’d promised myself I’d get in to was really just a response to the fact we were going to be in this holiday house for three months. As nice as it might sound, for me it was three long months.

My father had long service leave from his Accounting practice and my oldest brother was finishing Uni, so that would be the end of any extended holidays for him. We looked at overseas possibilities, but it was the Northern winter and nobody could agree with the options available. So in the end, we just rented the beach house in which I now found myself– from Mid-November until mid-February.

It was OK for my dad and brothers; they were mad surfers, so the attraction for them of this town with its world famous point break was obvious. I quite like the beach, but there’s a limit to everything. I’d be missing my tennis competition and dance classes and in the process most of the exercise I’d otherwise get. Socially and particularly in relation to boys I thought I’d had a pretty good idea of what these holiday towns are like; it’s only the bogans who don’t leave town to go to Uni and get a life after they finish school and if you meet someone else who’s also on holiday, they’re gone home at the end of the week. Finally, I normally spent a good part of the Christmas holidays working to save up enough to give me some measure of financial independence during the University terms, so I’d be missing that too.

Still, I liked my family and it was important to them. I was happy enough to fit in. Plus, without me even mentioning it, dad anticipated my concern about working and offered me a special allowance to make up for it; which I thought was extraordinarily generous.

Which is a long way of saying that just going for a jog is not something I was normally motivated to do. To help myself, I’d given myself a motivational image I was pursuing. Crass though it was, the image was of the bikini clad exercise bunny which is always part of the background to a beach set in any Californian movie or TV show.

You know the one…

Tall and athletically slim. Check

Pretty faced. Somewhat subjective, but I’ll give myself a check.

Clear skinned. Check

D cups bouncing gently in an undersized bikini top. Hmmm. No, don’t quite make that one. My perky B’s are going to have to do. I might console myself with the fact there’s only one reason those in the movie are bouncing gently rather than like tennis balls in a stocking – and we all know what that is and even with the fact the B’s balance the rest of my figure nicely. Still I had been a late developer. For many years at school I had nothing when all my class-mates seemed to show impressive bulges in their school uniform, so perhaps I have been left a little scarred and insecure in that area. Even now perhaps my one body image wish might at least to have been given a C.

Tight little glut muscles working teasingly inside her bikini bottoms. Check. I can make that happen.

Long blonde hair plaited seductively in a pony-tail and secured with a pink ribbon fastened in to the most perfect bow; swinging from side to side with every stride; which brings us back to the hair with which this mental diversion started. While I had the hair, there were two problems with this. The first was a lack of bother spending the time plaiting my hair this early in the morning. The second was the lack of a pink ribbon or indeed – due to a packing oversight - any hair tie to pull my hair back with. I cast through the hard drive of my brain for a movie cliché which I could substitute but for some strange reason ‘girl with long blonde hair blowing in her face when running with a following wind’ just wasn’t in there.

Modest and self-effacing. Of course that’s not part of the movie image, I just threw that in because by now you must be wondering what sort of person I am. If you have in mind one of the Plastics out of Mean Girls, nope. Not even close. Indeed, even at an all-girls school I was so far down the pecking order that the equivalents of the Plastics couldn’t be bothered picking on me. Maybe the answer is in the fact I actually wanted to follow my father and elected to study Accounting. Too boring to bother with and certainly not enough of a social wanna-be to care.

Plus as much as I think I’ve been blessed to date with good looks, sufficient brains and a happy family, I’ve always thought the Ancient Greeks knew what they were talking about when they said “never call a life lucky until it’s over” and spoke of the dangers of hubris. Luck can change at any time and you should never take what you have for granted nor disrespect those presently down on theirs.

Why did that crass movie image motivate me? In part boys might be the answer, so Steve’s comment had hit home. But it was more complex than that.

The beach was just across the road, so, asking Steve to let mum and dad know where I was I picked up my bag and headed to the door still clothed only in my bikini. I didn’t even bother with shoes – after all this was a holiday.

In a strange sort of way, the bikini, my motivation, Steve’s comment and the flash I had up his pants were all interconnected and now the thought process had been started my brain kept working on it as I crossed the road to the beach. Steve was a player. Girls threw themselves at him and he wasn’t rude enough to throw them back. I knew that eye I’d got a glimpse of had seen the inside of an awful lot of pussy (and I hope you’ll forgive me here if a lifetime of living with older brothers has let me pick up less decorous aspects of the way they talk). Me, I was a virgin. Nearly 21 and still a virgin.

Not for religious or moral reasons, not even because of any attitude of my parents – my brothers had girlfriends sleep over all the time and my mother had long ago insisted I carry a few condoms in my purse. She was far more concerned with me not getting pregnant or catching something than pretending she could stop her teenage children from experimenting.

Nor did I feel I was ‘saving it’ in the sense of doing that was something special. It’s just that, much as I yeaned for it, sex to me was part of a bigger package of love, companionship and desire and I’d never really got that far in a relationship.

I know these days a girl is allowed to want it nearly as much as a guy and there were certainly times I felt sexually deprived or yearned for something more. Maybe I am a little old-fashioned, but however driven the need for sex was, it wasn’t enough to lower my expectations; even masturbation didn’t seem to offer what I really was seeking and I’d never tried it.  I was an avid reader of Cleo magazine and read all the articles about sex and that sort of stuff, so considered myself as knowing about as much as you could know without ever having been there.

I’m happy to acknowledge I had a suite of sexual fantasies, and when the confusion of a young girl’s life made it hard to get to sleep, or when I was feeling deprived and wanted to indulge in that lovely feeling of strong hot arousal, I’d entertain myself with them as I dropped off to sleep.

My favourites all involved slow tactile romantic love making; his hands touching me, exploring me as I willingly surrendered to him. In my most used one our bodies were intertwined, our mouths engaged as with sensitive hands he pulled the string ties to strip a bikini off me and fingers me. But it says something about my love life that in all my fantasies, the males were faceless. Even when I had a boyfriend, he wasn’t the one in my imagination. It was like the right man to fill out those fantasies just hadn’t come along yet.

Just once a recognisable face popped up in one; and even then I didn’t knowingly put him there. I’d been entertaining myself with such thoughts and was slowly dropping off to sleep, when suddenly I realised my lover had morphed into a guy from my Accounting 1 course at Uni. Even though he sat opposite me in the class, I’d never spoken to him, never really focused very much on him. I’d been in class with him that day and he’d been an active – and I thought quite intelligent - participant in the class discussion; so maybe he’d imprinted himself on my sub-conscious. Because two of the guys from my friend group sat either side of me in the class, it more than most was one where I hadn’t really got to know the rest of my class-mates. And silly though it seems, I never really had followed up and made the guys acquaintance.

In some ways my favourite fantasy did disclose much about me. Notice it was not penetrative. I have to acknowledge it was more powerful for the fact it didn’t confront the fear I, and I’m sure every girl, feels about being penetrated for the first time. And probably that fear contributed to my virginal status. When a fantasy did involve penetrative sex, I was nearly always on top, in control.

Notice also the bikini. Embarrassing though it is to admit it, my one seriously erotic weakness is an attraction to – almost an obsession with - bikinis. I feel sexy in them. I don’t just mean I think I look sexy in them. I mean they activate feeling of sexuality and they trigger a sense of arousal in my erogenous zones. I like the way they fit my body like a glove. I like the way their soft silky material pushes against and rubs so very subtly on the most sensitive parts of my body.

I have drawers full of bikinis. I often wear them as undies and a bikini top is virtually the only type of bra I wear. If I’m feeling vaguely randy, I sometimes wear one to bed because they seem to trigger erotic dreams and compliment the fantasy I usually indulge in. Maybe the closest I’ve come to feeling the need to masturbate was when I did wear one to bed.

But I do also know I look good in them in a way that is attractive to guys; which is what was so reaffirming about Steve’s comment. I am confident about my body – vague desires about a bigger cup size notwithstanding – and know its sexual power. They actually make me feel confident when I wear them. Whether it’s a skimpy bikini at the beach or appropriate displays of cleavage or leg and figure hugging clothing in other contexts, I use my figure to attract attention without – I hope – going so far as to look slutty in the process. But I think about how I dress. How I dress when I am safe and in control is different from my approach when I am in a less secure environment.

And to that extent it works. There’s been no shortage of guys who tried to chat me up. The hard part was to sift out those who just wanted sex from those offering something more; and even in the latter category working out which ones might really push the right buttons. Plus I know enough about myself to realise that some of the shy ones who might actually suit me might feel competed out, so I am always willing to make the first move on a good prospect who is hanging back.

So once I’ve got through all the angst of pissing off those disappointed by the refusal of a quickie, once I’ve as nicely as possible shaken free of those who clearly weren’t right for me, why haven’t I found myself a boyfriend? Why hasn’t there been someone my heart fell for and my body wanted?

I know some of the fault is mine. I am a little boring; probably more than a little in the eyes of some. I’m not a big party girl, I don’t really like to drink much and I’m not keen on bars and pubs. So without the social lubricant of alcohol and the venues designed for it, guys have to work a bit harder to keep my interest and they’re not going to get my body by getting me drunk enough. Somehow a relationship had never reached take-off point.

That was starting to bother me. I’d hoped that I might find the right guy during my first year at Uni. While I was part of a great mixed social group, the right guy wasn’t there. Then I’d hoped something might happen during the long summer break – which is why coming to this place for the whole break was not the joy for me it was for the rest of the family.

More recently that feeling of sexual deprivation had been growing. I still want the whole relationship package and I certainly wasn’t interested in just hooking -up; it’s just the desire for it was now made increasingly urgent by a more primitive urge. That’s where, in the most obtuse way, catching a glimpse of Steve’s trouser eye that morning had set the thought processes rolling. That eye might have seen the inside of a lot of pussy, but it made me think about the fact that somewhere out there was one that would be seeing mine. Where was it?

While completely distracted by these thoughts, I walked down the track to the beach and looked up and down it. To my right was the main part of the town and the flagged area about 400metres away a little beyond which was the headland which closed off that end of the beach and created the point break. To the left, the beach just seemed to go on forever as it ran alongside the bushland. Apart from someone in the water about 50 metres up the beach, it was deserted. It was time to put my motivational image into operation.

In the end I’ll admit my motivational image was not just crass. It was sexist, demeaning, inappropriate and any other adjective you want to attach to it. But I offer two defences. The first is that as much as the exercise bunny is there just to appeal to the baser elements of the male half of the audience, if there’s one thing my brothers and their friends had taught me it’s that every single male has that baser element within him however nice they might otherwise be. Beauty might be skin deep, but without that element of attraction nothing else happens. Perhaps the more important thing I had learnt is that beauty can take many forms and I was well aware I was offering only one; albeit a popular one.

The second was more practical. It was still the one that got me out here early on the first day of my holiday. So on that basis alone I’m sticking to it. In good time half my objective was to be seen by a beach full of guys as I exercised. But today I was just starting out. I wasn’t sure how far my fitness would carry me; for all I knew I’d spend most of my time walking. Since it would also give me a chance to explore the more natural side of things, I turned left and started jogging along the firm damp sand near the shoreline.

I soon decided the bag I was carrying was a mistake. It was a canvas satchel type with a long cloth shoulder strap. Unfortunately if I swung the bag around behind my back it constrained my movements; but if I left it at my side it swung back and forwards uncomfortably – the beading on it even threatening to catch the side ties of my bikini and pull the bow. Plus it somehow didn’t fit the picture of the cool sexy athlete exercising on the beach that was my motivational image. I was starting to think about ditching it and picking it up on the way back.

As a result of dealing with such a brain full of thoughts, I really didn’t pay any more attention to the person in the water until I had closed the gap on that 50 metres. Then as I jogged past the figure just now starting to emerge from the water I heard a vaguely familiar voice call out “Hello Karen”.

Chapter 2 – I Surrender to Lust and Love

I stopped and looked back in the direction of the voice. I hadn’t really believed in the concept of being instantly attracted to a stranger from across a room – let alone love at first sight - until this moment. I saw a tall slim athletic guy coming out of the surf dressed only in a pair of speedos in what looked like surf club colours. He was walking toward me in that male upright sort of way and he must have been swimming laps, because his muscles were all pumped.

It was a bit like that Craig Daniel moment in his James Bond movie, except this guy was taller and much slimmer and Craig Daniel would never have been seen in swimwear this brief, wet and clingy.  And yet, that’s a bad way to start describing the moment because it makes me sound all superficial, ready to fall in to the arms of some good looking guy just because he takes his shirt off. No, it was more chemical than that; as if a shot of hormones had jetted across from this guy and gone straight into my brain.

And for an uncomfortable moment that brain was racking itself to identify him. Clearly he knew me. Then the penny dropped. It was Greg, from my Accounting 1 tutorial. He generally sat roughly opposite me in the horseshoe shaped seating arrangement of the tutorial. There were maybe 30 people in the class, so you didn’t really get to meet everybody; even less in this class since two of the guys from my group of friends were in it and generally sat either side of me. I recalled in Greg’s case he usually sat next to a somewhat ordinary looking girl who I always thought might have been his girlfriend. From what he said publically in the tutorial, he’d always struck me as a nice intelligent sort of guy – someone I should get to know better. I should have recognised him sooner, but where he was and how he was dressed (or undressed) caught me off-guard.

Why hadn’t he had that effect on me before? As I walked towards him I felt something between a sense of anxiety and a flush of pleasure extend all the way from my brain to the pit of my stomach. It was like some new hormone receptor in my brain had opened for business that hadn’t been there before, or maybe I was being just as superficial as a guy and it was his semi-nakedness. With mild alarm, there was a feeling in my crutch that told me that wasn’t the only part of me opening in response to his presence. I was glad these things aren’t as obvious for a girl as they are for a guy.

“Greg”. In an unusual stroke of boldness for me I took both his hands, leaned in and gave him a greeting kiss on the cheek. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my home town. What about you?”

So there goes my general theory on country towns and bogans. “I’m up here on holidays with my parents. We’ve rented a house just across the road from the beach for the whole summer. I’ve just come down to get some exercise on the beach and explore a bit. It’s nice to know I’ll know at least one other person in town” It instantly occurred to me I might have given too much away too quickly. Clearly the hormone shot was still affecting my thinking, because I was usually more cautious than that in presenting information in a way that inferred a commitment from me. Still, it might just have been my partial arousal talking, but I did feel a genuine sense of happiness that this guy would be in town.

Greg gestured in the general direction of the endless beach as it stretched out along the National Park. “I usually go for a bit of a run up to the other end of the beach after my swim. Would you like to join me? We’re an accommodating lot toward visitors in this town, for the pleasure of your company I’m happy to go at your pace even if it’s just a walk”

Flattery will get him everywhere! “How can I refuse an offer like that?” So Greg directed me to where he’d left his gear hidden up among the dunes and scrub least I wanted to unburden myself from my bag; something I was more than happy to do. Greg had already passed one test. He stood taller than me, so had to tilt his glance downward to talk to me. His gaze held my eyes in a most engaging manner. He avoided staring at them by occasionally glancing down toward my mouth. Only once or twice did I see him take a short peek south of that; a pretty good effort I thought considering how I was dressed.

Indeed, I hoped he didn’t apply a similar test to me, because I wasn’t doing so well. His pumped up chest muscles were a constant distraction; I actually wanted to reach out and feel them. I have always been neutral on the question of speedos. They can be good or bad depending on the body and the occasion. With his slim washboard stomach and pumped abbs, in Greg’s case it was unambiguously fantastic. But right here and now, they were also an enormous distraction to me. Really for the first time I felt what it must be like to be a guy and fight the urge to stare where you were not supposed to.

“Karen, you set the pace and I’ll follow; don’t feel you have to go faster than you’re comfortable with on my account”

As we headed up the beach Greg captivated me in pleasant conversation. We started with the usual things like family backgrounds, where we’d gone to school and our sporting interests. It was interesting how many parallels there were in our lives. But each of those topics led off in fascinating directions. He was really insightful in the way he asked about me and I found myself revealing all sorts of things about myself and my attitude to things that I wouldn’t normally open up on and Greg responded with an honesty and an openness I had previously found rare in guys. What’s more, he had a view of the world that matched mine.

It was particularly interesting how much our approach to sport aligned. My main sport was tennis; although I was a keen horse rider until the pressures of my last year at school and was heavily involved in dance – ballet when I was younger and modern dance more recently. Greg’s was mainly the iron man event through his surf lifesaving; although ironically he’d had a few years of riding instruction when his family had first bought horses for his mother and younger sister and had six months ballroom and latin dance lessons under the influence of a former girlfriend. He’d also been a keen sailor until the demands of the final years of school got in the way. Plus we both dabbled in a bit of surfing; me with my family and he just through his association with the beach.

Where the real alignment took place was in our general attitude to sport. We both saw sport as a community building activity; we competed and wanted to do well, but winning wasn’t everything and sometimes not important at all. But we both strongly believed in ‘giving back’ to our communities by getting heavily involved on the organisational side as well as, in Greg’s case, in the volunteer surf patrols he undertook with his club.

Probably predictably with our attitudes, we each only did fairly at our sports, Greg could win at club level in the iron man but was well off the pace at State level and I was only a medium grade tennis player and rider. But because of our common approach I found I could talk to him about my interests with more passion and at greater length than I’d ever have been game to with anyone else.

We’d been going for maybe 40 minutes – alternating between a fast walk and a slow jog as the mood took me – but never fast enough to prevent an easy conversation, when we came to a place where the beach had been cut away by storm waters rushing out of the hinterland. The result was something like a creek, several meters wide and about one and a half deep; except unlike most creeks, this one had deep vertical sides where the storm water had carved out a trough. There was still some run off flowing along the bottom too, so the prospect of walking across it didn’t look inviting. Fortunately a tree had fallen across it and even though the trunk was narrow and slippery, it looked like a better approach. In a gentleman like manner, Greg stepped back to let me go first, offering me a hand to balance myself against while I stepped on the log and took the first few steps across the void; suggesting helpfully that if I had to fall or slip, make sure I fell to the side rather than ended up straddling it. Even though I managed to banter back that was his problem more than mine, I was at the same time strangely thrilled by the contact with his hand and was reluctant to release the grip as I moved beyond his reach. He waited until I had finished crossing before starting across himself. As he came to the end, I offered up my hand in a reciprocal gesture of balance, which he took.

After he stepped off the log, he made no effort to retrieve the hand now firmly captured by mine and I certainly didn’t offer it back. But even that level of contact with him was arousing me again. Of necessity, our pace was now restricted to a fast walk.

Ten minutes later we had come to a sort of point. Greg came to a stop and half turned toward me. “This is usually as far as I go”, adding as he waived his arm in the general direction of the way forward “I’m happy to go further, or we could go back for a swim – whichever suits you.” As he finished his sentence, he completed his turn toward me, so we were now facing each other directly, picking up my other hand in his as he did so.

Frankly, I was happy to do whatever let me spend more time with him. To open up other possibilities I proffered “I’m a bit of a morning tea person, what say we go back for a swim and then think about eating”.

“Swim and food it is than”

We were still standing facing each other, both hands joined. As he finished speaking, he hesitated and just for a moment I thought something might happen. While we’d been talking – making decisions about what to do – it had been easy enough to retain my composure.

The hesitation threw me. Now a door had time to open on another more primitive part of me; one I’d never experienced before. The mere possibility that he might make a move on me sent a jet of excitement and arousal through me. I couldn’t help myself. I glanced down. He was somewhat aroused himself; not massively, but whatever was there before was now bigger and firmer.

Even as I stood there I knew that something more than a physical reaction was happening to me. There was something emotional. There was a strange disturbance of my body. There was a feeling of emptiness in my stomach. Above all there was a flood of pleasure in my brain. It was all a new sensation to me; I was falling in love. A part of me was dismissing the idea. I’d just meet him; I barely knew him. It just wasn’t my style to flip out like this. But those doubts were just background noise. The reality was overwhelming my senses.

Something communicated to me that Greg was about to let the second hand go and continue our walk. Instinctively for just another moment I held it a bit tighter, unwilling to release it. The hesitation continued – more than was decent or proper. Like a fast playing video thoughts started flashing through my mind. Erotic lust filled thoughts; a mental picture of me throwing myself at him and taking him then and there; of intensely physical love making. The vividness of the thoughts scared me. When those flashes reminded me Greg had been the stranger from class who was the only guy ever identifiable in my sexual fantasies, I felt I had to mentally nail my feet to the sand to stop me acting on them. Like someone getting a shot of static electricity as you touch a car on a dry windy day, I let the second hand go

It all happened so quickly. Did he notice me holding him tighter? Did he notice my panicked release of his hand? Like a householder frantically running around locking external doors after seeing a threatening stranger outside, my brain was going around trying to close out the primitive thoughts threatening its control over me. It was too late. From that point on the cautious rational side had lost its usually iron clad control over my actions.

We headed back.

In my study of History and in watching documentaries on TV it’s always struck me that the most dangerous moment for a soldier is the moment when he comes out of hiding, puts up his hands and surrenders. Will his surrender be accepted or will it be rejected and he’ll find himself shot down. I felt I was struggling with all the gut wrenching fear that goes with that moment. I just wanted to put up my hands and say “I love you. I surrender. Take me – take my virginity – fuck me right now”. The emotional attachment I already felt towards him was indescribable. Did I really have to play the game? Did we really have to go on weeks, maybe months of dates before I could admit what I already knew? I was cursing to myself this modern world of hook-ups and non-commitment where love was something to avoid and be frightened of.

But the physical need I had for him was even more frightening. That bulge in his swimmers was no longer a distraction. It was now an obsession. Even as we held hands, Greg was walking half a step behind me probably trying to make his own state of semi arousal less obvious. Poor boy, he clearly had not the slightest idea of the state of mind of the woman he was dealing with. Inside me it felt like there was a cavernous space ready for him to fill. I was so hyper aware of that bulge that I could even detect the tiny dimple in his swimmers indicating where that eye at the top of his penis was. That careless glimpse of his that Steve had given me this morning seemed to have a lot to answer for.

Control yourself I kept repeating internally. Wait. The game has to be played; he might even reject any premature surrender. My hand squeezed his tighter.

Back at the log crossing, Greg again let me go first, following just a step behind this time. I’m not sure whether my loss of balance was entirely accidental or premeditated. What was certain was that, once I knew I was going, he was also. As I fell I half turned so that my outstretched arm was now across the line of his body. As I went down, it swept him off too.  Greg fell on his side in the deepest part of the gutter, facing me. I landed on my back on the upward slope of the far side, so as I landed, I just rolled on my side bringing myself hard up against the full length of Greg’s body, my arm falling over his waist with the rotational momentum of the turn. The creek bed was a slushy quicksand like material. So it made for a very soft landing. We were soon half buried in the stuff.

When I looked at Greg he was a mess, completely covered in sticky sand – right up through his hair and everything. I could only imagine that I looked the same. I burst in to a fit of laughter, my body shaking with amusement. Although it was entirely real, there was still a part of my brain functioning under sufficient control to register the feeling of his penis pushed against my crutch and I was naughty enough to ensure the convulsions of laughter were magnified in that area. It was strongly arousing me and as I felt his cock push further between my legs and harder up against my crutch, there was no doubt it was having the same effect on him. I actually wanted to go beyond what I could achieve with a laughter convulsion and rub myself up and down on it; let’s be honest, I probably did do that as much as I thought I could get away with it. Trouble is, what I was really starting to want is just to come. I was a long way from that yet, but if in some parallel universe I had been given a no consequence, no obligation and no explanation possibility of doing so, I might just have lay there and rubbed myself up and down until I had.

Of course in this universe there were several consequences. Firstly, what sort of tease was I being with this guy? Secondly, we were sinking in the quicksand and there was only a 50:50 chance I get to have my first ever climax before we both drowned. Greg was obviously in no hurry to move either, but as the pretext of shock and laughter at the fall and our state couldn’t be maintained any longer, he started to extract himself from both the mess and my grasp with a “I think we’d better get ourselves out of this mess before we drown”.

Standing up wasn’t that easy and it took a while for Greg to get in to a reasonably upright position; albeit knee deep in the goo. I was still on all fours, so he was standing over me offering me an assisting hand. That of course put my head pretty well in line with his crutch and so unavoidably in my line of vision as I took his hand. That thermometer of his was now getting up toward very warm. It was still sticking outward and downward within his swimmers, but it definitely projected much further out than before and had an evident degree of rigidity that was previously absent. My own was well in the hot range, but unless he could hear my heart pounding in my chest, he wouldn’t have known that. I thought he was very brave standing over me like that so much on display to a relatively stranger. Still, he must have known I’d felt the contact, may have even sensed my rubbing movement - so the jig was already up for both of us.

Our state as we stood up was even more amusing than what we could see lying down. The sand clung to everything in a thick sticky layer. We had another giggle. Sensibly, Greg suggested we work ourselves along the creek down to toward the water and have a good rinse off. “It’s that or go home looking like sand monsters” I sniggered lamely in response.

Even the walk was difficult. Climbing out of the creek was impossible because any attempt to climb the bank simply caused it to collapse. So walking the length of it to the water was the only option. But with every step, your leg sank to the knee and so it was a continual exercise in foot extraction and re-immersion. Because the slightest misstep in pulling your foot out of the quicksand resulted in you falling flat on your face again, the best approach – to my considerable joy – was one that relied on close mutual support. We quickly learned the easiest way was to walk with shoulders locked, each with an arm around the back of the other.

Sometimes I needed help getting my foot out of the sand, so Greg stood in front and perpendicular to me – pulling against my shoulders so he could leverage me out until my foot came clear and my crutch moved forward to become wedged against his hip. And I made sure I extracted as much sexual pleasure as I thought I could get away with each time he helped me. If my thigh accidently brushed him up to a greater level of arousal as I moved my leg forward to the next foot position, so much the better. Even my breasts were deployed to my purpose, as each time he leveraged me my cleavage was of necessity straddling the side of his chest, each movement threatening to dislodge the bikini top’s precarious coverage of my nipples.  Somehow keeping him at some state of arousal became part of the game; not a fair one on my part because mine was hidden, but I just couldn’t help myself. The physical contact with him brought back again those vivid mental flashes of us making love.

What was invading my brain was in an entirely different genre from the slow romantic love making of my fantasies; it wasn’t sourced in those fantasies. I was naked on my back, legs apart but raised at the knee. Greg was on top, inside me. My bikini was discarded untidily next to me; every string untied. There is no word I can think of that describes the love making that was invading my brain. “Passionate” doesn’t convey the real sense of it. “Violent” has a connotation that’s not appropriate. I’ve heard my brothers use the word “pounded”. Does it have an adjectival form? If it means something mutual rather than imposed, then maybe it’s getting close. The woman – me – was clearly an equal participant. My hands were on his bum encouraging him; my legs tensed as they raised and turned my hips to a more advantageous angle.

It was like some primeval part of my brain was trying to take over. It was like “I’ve found you a mate, now mate with him. Take him into your body and accept his seed”. It scared me witless and excited me all at once. No longer taking me by surprise as it had the first time, I accepted the flashes, toyed with them, enjoyed them; while still being anxious least I somehow lost control and gave action to them.

Maybe too soon we reached the water and moved out in to where it was chest deep to give ourselves a good scrub down; because a scrub was what it required to get the stuff off.

Greg took the lead in peeling his swimmers down to his thighs and giving them and the area they covered a good clean too. He was courteous enough to move about 2 metres away and turn side on before he did so (although frankly I might have preferred he was closer). I followed suit without being so careful about turning side on, much appreciating the fact my wax job made the task easier. I tried not to look, but couldn’t help sneaking a peak at that the thing which his partial arousal gave the form of an eel seemingly emerging from between his legs. To clean it he had to wrap his hand around it and slide along its length a few time; using the action I assume a guy uses too jerk himself off – before using his fingers to clean out any crevasses. It may have just been a blurry shape in the water, but the fact I could see an outline of it while I was standing also exposed so close to him gave me a bit of a thrill.

The hormonal forces controlling me did more than just give me lust filled mental flashes. They did more than just cause me to be aroused by his mere presence – let alone what even the most insignificant contact with him brought about. They caused me to become outrageously physically flirtatious. Not calculatingly; more completely intuitively. It was as if I was trying to induce in him the sort of arousal he was causing me. I was emboldened to flaunt myself in ways that I wouldn’t have thought was part of my normal makeup.

When it came time to rinse out under my bikini top I just bent my knees barely immersing my breasts in the water before pulling the triangle of the top aside and brushing under them. There was no sense of modesty; it was almost as if I wanted him to get a good look at my tits. Then when I covered back up again I didn’t give the triangles the usual hoist up one would give them to centre the nipples in the triangles. Instead the triangle sat low; the nipples sitting in the narrow topmost part of each triangle – the areola barely fully covered. Plus after cleaning out under my bikini bottoms I hoisted them up far enough to get the camel-toe effect; just waiting until I emerged from the water and flaunted myself at Greg.

I’m not sure what I hoped to achieve by this. I wasn’t intentionally planning to seduce him and was far too innocent to actually think that the day might end in sex, whatever thoughts were flashing through my brain. It was just something my hormones seemed to set me on auto-pilot to do.

Cleaning wise, we were fortunate in that the stuff was thick enough not to have penetrated too badly under the swimmers, so you weren’t left with that nasty gritty feeling that tends to be associated with being dumped by a shore break. We were both starting to look pretty good again except for our hair. I’d only managed a fairly superficial washing of mine. It required a lot more rinsing to get the stuff out.

When I mentioned that to him, Greg asked if I’d like a hand. I wasn’t going to refuse an offer like that. Putting a supporting arm across my back, just below the line of my bikini top tie, he guided me as I lay back in a floating position. That left us with my left arm around his back – my armpit tucked closely up against the side of his chest. His left arm was underneath my back; supporting me and capturing my right arm on the other side of my body as his fingers curled around it.

There was a gentle strength to his hold over me; one that gave me security and a promise I would be kept safe. He lowered his stance in the water to immerse his lower chest – turning the top of my head towards the occasional gentle swells that rolled under my prone body and lifting my head over them while letting the water wash over the length of my body. Then he started brushing my hair through the water with the fingers of his right hand.

Brushed is not the right word. Seduced is more like it. He spread his fingers apart and ran them gently through my hair; first from the forehead down, then from the base of my neck upward and then from every other angle imaginable. He glided his fingers around the back of each ear, fondling the ear itself as he dislodged any sand stuck in the crevasse there.

The first stroke of my hair had a massive effect on my state of arousal. It seemed every erotic zone in my body lit up; became achingly, demandingly engorged. This was unlike anything I’d experienced before. No guy pashing me with a hand down my shirt - even the one who’s insistent stroking of my lower stomach was trying to get his hands an access all areas pass – had ever had this effect on me. I closed my eyes and soaked it in; feeling how my body responded to his touch and imagining so much more.

As I lay their floating I inflated my body; throwing at Greg every visual distraction in my armoury. My breasts were thrust above the waterline. I could feel my nipples – even the breasts themselves - fully engorged and swollen; pushing up into the material of my bikini top. There was no padding or inserts in the thin material. I had what you might call reactive extended nipples at the best of times. I knew they would now be standing proud. I could feel the wet material plastered to them.

As I lay back with my eyes closed I now imagined the material surrounding them as Greg’s lips, stimulating my nipples and drawing them in to his mouth. As each wavelet passed over my breasts, I imagined my top slowly slipping down; being pulled down by his lips to gradually expose me.

My pubis was also thrust above the waterline, my legs wide apart, the material of my bikini bottom following every contour of my crutch; my stomach was sucked in until I could feel the waist band separate from my stomach – creating a gap between the two.

I deliberately floated my body so my clit sat on the waterline; the gentle rise and fall of the water across its surface stimulating it. As the water washed over me I imagined the water rushing over my stomach and down through my crutch as a stroke of Greg’s fingers – touching, exploring and stimulating my most private parts.

I was imagining myself toward an orgasm. It was working too. I was becoming more and more aroused; breathing heavier and moving beyond a mere desperate yearning for contact to the feeling I was travelling along the path to orgasm. Given time, I think I might have got there too. As you may by now have guessed, I wanted Greg to be aroused too. Why, I’m not sure. I’m not really sure I knew how I intended the day to pan out. Had you asked me at that moment, I might just have said I’d go home and need to teach myself to masturbate. But I certainly wanted him to be attracted to me; for me to trigger a strong physical reaction from him.

Of course, he didn’t actually know any of this or of what my imagination was doing to my body. Too early I heard the words “I think you might be finished”. Just for a moment I was tempted to answer “not yet, but keep going and I might!” But I felt his body pull away a little from me – preparing to bring me back upright. I had one more thing I wanted to achieve. I wanted to feel his reaction to me. The arm around his back held him tightly enough to me that he couldn’t pull away. As I brought my feet down I slid my thigh down the length of his body. The rigid shaft sticking out perpendicular to his body that I brushed past as I did so brought me an enormous sense of satisfaction and pleasure.

I wasn’t finished with him yet. As soon as my feet were on the ground, my arm was over his shoulder pushing him back down on the water – suggesting I do the same for him. Initially he resisted; both in words and body. I knew why – he didn’t want me to see what I had just felt – but I wasn’t letting him get away with that. I insisted; engaging him in a little bit of a light-hearted physical wrestle as I pushed him back into the water - bring myself face to face with him and feeling his erection dancing around on my stomach in the process and only just resisting the temptation to straddle the erection and bring it up to my crutch.

Eventually he relented and let me push him back in to a floating position; although unlike the hold Greg used on me, my arm ended up over the top of his body, grasping his far shoulder in a manner that actually offered him minimal support while pinning both his arms within my grip. But he didn’t float properly. For obvious reasons, he tried to keep his waist deep; his erection barely breaking the surface. Now everyone knows if you don’t bring your hips up to the surface when you try and float then your body acts something like the Titanic after its accident. Your feet keep sinking, your body rotates in the water somewhere around your neck so that your head rises and finally you slide under the surface. However good Greg was in the water, he couldn’t fight the basic science of floating.

As he felt himself submerge, his arm looked for something to support himself; breaking free from its position between our bodies and moving down my body looking for something to grab for leverage. It all happened in an instant and for Greg the action was entirely instinctive, but it still gave me quite a thrill when just for an instant I even thought I might lose the side knot on my bikini bottoms to his grab for security or he might grope my crutch. But in the end, all I got was his hand on my thigh.

Bringing my hand under the small of his back, I helped him refloat himself properly. In all the hold we ended up with was neither secure nor one that offered Greg much support. Essentially he was floating himself and exposed to being washed over by waves or drifting away from me.

But to float himself, he had to bring his hip to the surface and thus his erect shaft above the water. As it broke the surface I could see him embarrassed by his situation. “I’m sorry, you seem to have a rather strong effect on me. Some things you can’t control”.

“Relax, I’m flattered; and anyway, you have a strong effect on me too”. I was surprised by how much I’d just revealed, but I suppose Greg’s statement had paved the way for my own.

The hand I had in the small of his back provided little leverage, either in supporting him in his float or stopping him from drifting away. What it did do however is give me some control over the float position of his hips. I wasn’t going to let him sink those hips again. The hand he had down on my thigh was an equally poor supporting mechanism – but since his shoulder was buried under my breasts, he couldn’t get his arm around my back.

As Greg stabilised in his float position, I got my first clear look at what was happening down there. He was massively, and I do mean massively, aroused. It was a large completely rigid shaft stretching the fabric of his swimmers to the point I thought the stitching would give. Now I could see why it was sitting out perpendicular instead of laying along his body. The top third of it was sheathed by his swimmers; they wrapped it up like a sausage wrapped in cling wrap; a little dimple in the material even revealing the location of the eye at the top. I could see the friction of his wet clingy swimmers wasn’t too easily going to release its grip. The bottom two thirds tented up his swimmers unbelievably into a sort of straight sided pyramid. I could see the elastic around his legs had been pulled a long way from his skin. The waist band had been drawn right down to the base of his shaft so that the material coming down from the tip was stretched along the gently curving line of the shaft. Through the shallow water layer still covering his waist I could see his exposed pubic hair and I was fairly certain I could see the waist band lifted away from his skin creating a gap underneath where I would be able to see the base of his shaft.

As I started stroking his hair, I also experimented with what the arm under his back could achieve. As each wavelet passed I gave a slight lift on the arm – magnifying its rise and fall effect. As I noted he too had now closed his eyes, I could let me gaze go where it would. And it wanted to go down there.

With each wavelet I lifted his pubis above the water level, revealing to me where the waist band of his swimmers had been drawn up and the base of his shaft was exposed to my eyes. A thick rigid shaft growing up out of his pubic hair with the bulging line of blood vessels marked out upon it. I could even glimpse the balls sitting either side of it.

I knew at that moment that the thoughts I’d had this morning and the glimpse of Steve’s trouser eye were prophetic. This shaft was the one I was going to lose my virginity on; the eye at the top of it would be the one to first see inside me. It wasn’t a statement of determination or intent; simply of premonition. I didn’t know when and I didn’t know where, but I knew that before the holidays were out that shaft would be inside my body. It gave me a strange proprietary interest in it; I almost felt as though I already had an entitlement to play with it.

At first I tried to concentrate on giving Greg as sensuous a hair wash as he’d given me; duplicating his technique of running my hands through his hair. It must have worked too as I occasionally watched his shaft surge in response – the tip of it swelling and the shaft extending even more as it pulled powerfully against the restraining tug of his swimmers, stretching the material even further as it attempted to lay itself parallel to his body, only to be tugged back as the pulse passed.

But I became distracted. With every rise and fall of his hips, I watched the circle of water surrounding his shaft move up and down it. When the waist band disappeared under the water, I could still imagine that circle as it continued up his shaft. In my imagination, that circle of water became the opening to my body; his shaft was making love to me. In and out – I transferred what my eyes could see down to my crutch where I was standing, slightly squatting to lower myself in the water and legs wide apart feeling it pump in and out of my body. One of my breasts rested on the side of his face and with every moment I was inducing in his body, the nipple was rubbing against his cheek. Once again I was bringing myself to orgasm with my imagination – helped along this time by a little physical contact.

In my passion I got a little ambitious. The rise and fall of his hips no longer had anything to do with passing waves. I was now lifting it up and down to my own rising tempo; exaggerating the effect. I had to remember to actually keep stroking Greg’s hair to maintain the pretence that is what it was really all about.

In all of this, I hadn’t been keeping an eye seaward for those occasional larger waves one gets even on calm days. A wave broke just seaward of us. It wasn’t really that large. Had we been standing up we could have turned our back to it and stood our ground. But I was squatting down relying on the floatation of the water to balance me and Greg was trying to maintain his precarious floating position within the constraints of the grip I had on him.

I heard the break, which gave me just an instant to hold my breath, but the broken water slapped me in the back, knocked me off balance and pushed me over Greg’s prone body. As I tumbled forward, my face ran in to Greg’s upright shaft. As I was thrown shoreward, I then slid across the top of Greg, his shaft drawing a line down the centre of my body until it hooked the tie string of my bikini top between my breasts and dislodged the triangles; threatening to pull the top off altogether. With his initial tumble the hand Greg had on my thigh was thrown up in to my crutch. I felt him instinctively grab the material of my bikini bottom and then almost immediately release it as his mind registered what he was doing.

Locked momentarily together by the shaft caught in my bikini top we were washed towards the beach, our bodies intertwined in an untidy jumble. Because I’d managed to hold my breath, there was nothing causing me to panic and I had time to savour the interaction of our bodies as they tumbled together – even enhancing the contact and just for a moment wrapping my hand around his shaft as I groped for some footing or stability in the washing machine action of the wave. Even after my top managed to free itself from its hooked position our bodies didn’t really separate as they travelled shoreward.

Because it wasn’t a big wave, we managed to stop ourselves short of where the sand was churned up by its action. Greg ended up on his back, his bum on the bottom, his head lifted above the water by his elbows under his shoulders. I was face down, my body across his, my arms holding my face above the water while his still erect shaft tucked itself into the arch of my hip.

As I folded my knees under myself and rose on to all fours, I could feel my breasts were exposed. I was probably lucky the top was still attached to me at all, but it certainly wasn’t covering what it was intended to. The wet clammy feeling on one side hinted I might at least have some Lady Godiva like protection there as my hair draped over it; although as wet as it was there was a good chance the nipple poked through even that. I was fairly sure the other side was as exposed as the day I was born. I chose not to look. As I backed off Greg and came upright on my knees alongside him I looked him in the eyes. He wasn’t spluttering or gasping for breath, which was a good sign. “Sorry about that, I forgot to keep an eye out for waves”.

“I seemed to have survived, so I think we can put it down to experience”. I could see his eyes were having trouble not looking down at my exposed breasts.

“That’s good, I hate to have drowned you on the first day of my holidays” With that I bent over and gave him a kiss. I’d intended it to be a sort of peck on the cheek, like I did when I greeted him. But instead I planted a full contact lip kiss on him. Lustful thoughts exploded into my brain; tempting me to throw him on his back and lose my virginity to him there and then. Just in time the control side fought back limiting the kiss to something within acceptable pecking limits. It’d been so good that as I pulled away I decided I could go in for another; and again toyed with the mental images it generated.

Frankly I would have liked to push him back and explore his tonsils with my tongue, but that was beyond what I had the confidence to initiate. With his arms under him and supporting him, Greg couldn’t grab my head and pull me in either.

The moment slipped away from me. All I could do was come back to my kneeling posture and finish my second kiss with a “sorry”

With that I theatrically looked down and pretended to notice for the first time my exposed breasts. With an “oops” I returned them to the position of minimal coverage.

In the momentary battle between my controlled side and the hormone driven side, the control side had won the first round. I surrendered to the fact the moment was over. I might have wanted to have embraced him, pash him and take him right there and then, but I was too shy to instigate something more here. What had started out as a sort of sneaky exploitation of the effect Greg was having on me had got a little out of control. In many ways I’d just had more intimate contact with a guy than I had ever had before, but I didn’t have the confidence to just take him; and if I read Greg correctly, he wasn’t the sort of guy to assume he could get away with a premature move on me either.

As I stood up, it was my turn to offer Greg a helping hand to recover his feet. He took my hand, but loitered a moment before putting any pressure on it to help himself up. I knew it was to give his erection time to subside a little; even though it was plainly visible in the clear water.

We still had a fairly long walk, so that by the time we had got back to our clothes the now warm morning breeze had completely dried us. It had also set my skin in a tingle; or maybe I’m kidding myself and it was actually Greg’s presence and the contact of our hands doing that. As we first stood over our clothes, Greg took my other hand; faced square on to me hesitated for just a moment and said “I think I owe you a kiss”.

Chapter 3 – My First Time 

As he faced me, I glanced down for long enough to see that his cock was starting to extend again. As before, his swimmers held it; stopped it from pointing up and instead made it point straight at me – straight at my crutch

When he pulled me in to kiss me, he leaned forward just enough to bring his lips down to mine; the curve of his body forming a zone of separation between us. Our lips meet, tasted and explored the others. Our tongues t

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