by David Cain

The sun was setting so I picked up my paints and went back to my canvas. I had a view of the beach that stretched on for miles. I had a telescope next to me, to help me pinpoint details. The diminishing light gave me about  an hour to work so I went at it.

The weather was good but it was the dinner hour and so the beaches were deserted. That wouldn’t last long. I painted studiously. A couple ran onto the beach and picked a secluded spot to lay out a picnic. I had an excellent view of them, just beyond a dune. I turned my telescope toward them. They unpacked a dinner and three bottles of something. Sake perhaps. They were eating sushi. They were probably eating sand too.

They kissed for a while after they finished their fish. It was too dark to work on my painting but I could see them clearly. They stripped down to shorts and a bikini top and ran into the water. He was still wearing his watch but I was too far away to be heard giving warning. I hoped it was waterproof.

They splashed around like young people do in the ocean. They weren’t that young, maybe thirty and change. I caught the gleam of a ring on her finger and found the band of gold. I’m betting they were married. I’m betting not to each other.

Call me cynical but I don’t believe married couples would have a sushi picnic on the beach while dozens of restaurants are beaming with neon a few hundred feet away. These were people with no where to go. Desperation bears discomfort.

They finally run back from the water to their blanket, a bit winded and wet and chilled as the sun is fading and the winds cool. A wrap does little to remedy the situation but they don’t seem to care as they sit staring. The kissing resumed and hands began to peel away wet cloth, his and hers. Sand had already stuck to patches of their bodies and as they bared more skin, more sand clung to them in weird patterns. I crossed myself and prayed they knew better than to do what they were doing.

He was shriveled from the cold but desperation lifted his spirit in defiance as she fondled and then suckled his dick. Every few moments was interrupted by a need to spit away the sand in her mouth but eventually the offending grains were gone and only the breeze contributed more.

The dinner lull was soon ending and people began to walk along the darkening beach, not far away from where the lovers cavorted nakedly. Before long, they took notice of the people wandering past them.

When a loud couple, arguing and gesturing to beat the band, came close to them, I thought the lovers were frightened, that they were going to grab their clothes, dress hurriedly and dash away into the night. But after an initial tremble of fear, they suddenly seemed spurred on by the presence of others, taking delight in the prospect of being watched or caught or witnessed or joined.

Now if, as I had by now assumed, they were adulterers, their reckless exhibitionism would border on the insane. A policeman routinely walked the beach with a big flash light and an inquisitive nature. I could see him now, just a bit further down the beach, headed their direction. Maybe he would notice them and maybe he wouldn’t, but given the multi-faceted consequences they would face as law breakers and publicly outed cheats, I would think they’d be shy of being exposed.

It wasn’t too long before they started doing what they shouldn’t, rubbing genitals vigorously with sand but I guess love and lust and excitement is enough to forget the scratches of pain and proceed with a right thorough banging. Which they did.

During the course of this bang session, they attracted the notice of a small crowd. Young people, old people, some yucking it up, some snarling in disgust. No one lingered for long to watch, their bodies strewn with sand and sea weed reduced a youthful attractiveness to a quest for fire ugliness. Finally they finished and began to adjust their accoutrements, pack up their bag and blanket and start a slow trudge, arms entwined, back to civilization.

Twenty yards away, the police officer darted his flash light here and there. Five minutes longer and they would have been caught. It was a romantic night for cheating.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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