Today, I’m fed up with winter, and stride boldly down the steps of my chic brownstone walk-up in new pink pumps, incongruous as they may seem under leaden grey skies.

The shoes hurry down the block with their determined cheer, and me with them, past the row of brownstones to where the shops begin, the pink patent leather almost glowing against the damp pavement and the overall gloom of the day, as if everything else had somehow been drained of colour. The shops provide slightly more shelter against the cold wind. My pace slows and my eyes dart from store to store, taking in and filing away the latest specials, the tomatoes and egg bread on sale. The buildings have seen better days, their edges grimed from passing traffic, yet it’s a pleasing jumble of irregular shapes and odd store-fronts, not exactly upscale, but not down-market either.

It’s an old trunk sitting on the sidewalk that catches my eye. It sits beside a set of concrete stairs that go down to a basement level store, an old metal trunk, dark blue with brass trim, and a lock that hangs a little askew, with a cardboard sign taped to it, an arrow pointing down. I slow down for a second to look closer. The concrete steps descend a bit farther, then pause at a landing where other items beckon in a group: an old wooden telephone table, a vase, a milk pitcher painted bright orange. The lower-level store has been empty for some time, so of course I glance in the window, which is a half circle that rests about street level, curving up to just under my chin. Half Moon Antiques & Curiosities crawls in spindly lettering around the curve.

And it’s one of those things, just circumstance; I look down just at the right moment as he’s looking up, cell phone in his hand, in mid conversation. But I can see him hesitate as he sees my pink shoes, and while I keep moving, pushing my legs forward, the lean angles of his face, the dark eyes, the platinum-tipped hair that springs in so many different directions from his head, are etched into my mind, where they brew all day at work as I make phone calls and fiddle with papers at my desk.

The next morning I try to assure myself that my interest is purely in antiques, try to stop my pace from quickening as I reach the row of shops and spot the trunk sitting there on the sidewalk again. He’s setting small glass pieces in the windowsill: blue and green, orange and yellow, birds and flowers and butterflies. They catch the sunlight prettily, but I find my gaze wandering away from them. From under unruly brows, his eyes rise up to my leather boots, then higher still to my tailored leather jacket, three-quarter length. Jet black, those eyes meet mine for a split second, but then drop down again just as quickly; down and down to the lower edge of my jacket, looking for the hem of my skirt. Without thinking I move a little closer to the window as my legs open in stride. I see his tongue, licking his lips. I turn my head again, just in time to see it again, just to be sure and feel a shiver just as if that tongue had snaked higher still, up between my thighs.

I’m at work, trying to answer phones and sift through papers with a warm glow between my legs. He’s invaded me that easily, from behind a glass and in a basement store. It’s animal and anti-intellectual, something that pulls at me from the inside and makes me wet just to think of it.

There are forms to print out here; the beige walls of my cubicle stare passively as I make my way to the end of the day, occupying myself with trivialities so most of my brain is free to run over his dark eyes, his pale face, and his tongue, over and over and over. The heat between my legs grows unbearable, and I run to the ladies’ room to stroke myself, oh so quietly, to a gushing orgasm, and still I can’t get his face out of my head.

The next morning, he’s not there. It stops me in my tracks. I look down into the store and there’s a blonde woman and what I imagine to be a teenage son, they unpack boxes and arrange shelves. I hesitate a second and she sees me, smiles and I smile back, pausing as if looking over the glass pieces. Disappointment seeps in, at first in the background and I try to contain it there. I straighten, I look around, suddenly aware this very first time that there are others on the street, people on their way to work, maybe even people who live above the stores; people who glance out their windows in the morning and see me looking in here, hesitating here like a fool. I’m stung and it follows me to work, the thought hovers like smoke curling around the corners of the room.

I hardly even slow down the next day, just barely, only long enough to see the back of her head – blonde – and hurry on. The day goes by in slow motion, excruciating, the minutes creeping by as they laugh at me, left feeling bereft at this, all those minutes yawning empty, sapped of any music.

And what do I want, exactly? What was I hoping for – some silly movie ending, with him, a dark-eyed man –angel, standing shyly one morning, offering a bouquet of flowers? But no. That’s not what I wanted at all.

After a weekend of mundane chores, I set out for work with a curious mixture of apprehension and excitement roiling in my middle. I try to walk casually by, just stroll down the street looking in the shops, but have to stifle the disappointment when he’s still not there, no sign of him at all as the blonde woman greets customers and stocks shelves, not as Monday bleeds into Tuesday and the sweet flurry of hopeful excitement dissipates. Wednesday, it rains, gathering in cold grey puddles on the sidewalk. I’m looking down at my basic black shoes dodging the puddles, honestly not looking for him any more, but there, out of the corner of my eye, it’s unmistakable – his blond spikes, the back of his head. I stop abruptly, breathless in an instant, but he doesn’t see me. I’m jolted but try to reason my way out of it. I force myself to keep going. Just because he’s there… I don’t have to look or react… But all day at work, it buzzes in the background noise inside my head, the sight of those platinum spikes, the memory of his dark eyes and red tongue, no matter how much I reason against it.

Coming home I start to feel my pulse quicken and my steps slow down as I turn the corner – that corner, that block – and I don’t fight it this time. He’s there. Is he looking for me, too? He comes to the window as I pass, slower, slower, he’s watching as my long jacket flies open in the damp wind.
His eyes are hungry, my skirt is short. His tongue, just the end of it, wet and red, runs over his lower lip again and again, back and forth, as I walk by, slowing down. I take a long stride for a good look. His lips purse, he stares intently, then kisses his palm and blows it up to me, and it follows me all the way back home, licking its way up between my legs. I have to rush to the bathroom, leave my cat yowling for dinner, stroke myself to orgasm as bath water runs, thinking of the rosy red tip of his tongue.

There’s no rain in the morning, though the sidewalk is splotchy, still mostly damp. A stiff wind separates the gloomy clouds and whips the surface of the puddles into urgent patterns. We have a meeting early at work, it’s still half dark as I scurry along and none of the shops are open. During the meeting – boring, but the pastries are good, coffee decent – I’m looking out of the window as the darker clouds thin out, finally pull apart altogether to reveal satiny blue high above. And why shouldn’t there be magic present? A ghost has entered the machine, an email virus that cripples our server just as the meeting ends, leaving the office in confusion. The system down, we can take some of our ‘personal time’ and leave the office early if we like. Not gratis, understand, especially when I have only one personal day left. But I take it as an omen. And there’s magic of an older, earthier kind – fertility goddesses and phallic symbols. I feel that too. The weather cooperates, it’s dry but still cool, so I walk home with my coat on, but open, flipping here and there in the breeze.

The elevator takes for ever, then the blocks seem unbearably long as I make my way back towards home, my shoes pinching in the conspiracy to slow me down. Finally, I reach the last block, covered by a thin sheen of sweat from the exertion that I only now acknowledge, huffing slightly, and approach from the opposite side of the street and yes, it’s to throw him off a bit, but more so to look into the store and, yes, it’s empty, except for him. I can’t contain the smile that tugs eagerly at the corners of my mouth as I step off the sidewalk. He’s all in black today, his face almost ghostly, hair glowing, he comes into full view as I reach about three- quarters of the way across the street. His eyes take their usual trajectory, flitting up to my face, then quickly much lower down, and as they watch, as I draw closer, my fingers reach for the hem of my skirt and pull it up slowly, using my nails to crawl it up little by little and reveal the laced edges of my stockings as I continue to walk. His eyes widen.

I glance around – there are a few people about a block away, and only two cars even farther away – then back to him. He fingers an orange glass butterfly, fiddling with it absently, his mouth slightly open. I pull a small notepad from the pocket of my coat, I pull it out as he watches intently, and as I reach the sidewalk on his side, I toss it on to the pavement.

He looks at the notepad. I look at him. I get closer, kneel to the ground to pick it up, there right in front of the window, I kneel at the same time my fingernails reach the bottom edge of my hem, pulling it up under my coat. His eyes are wide and unblinking, the notebook has landed just in front of the glass and we’re only inches apart now as I reach for it, I look like I’m reaching for it, but drop my hand between my legs, his eyes following, pulling my panties aside so he can really see me, spreading my pink petals so he can see them shiny wet inside. Wet for him. Wet for you, I whisper it to him through the glass, slipping my two fingers inside as he smiles a thin, tight smile and the rosy tongue appears, runs over his lips, back and forth. He raises his eyes to mine after a few moments. I close my legs, begin to rise again. Thank you, he mouths the words back, reaches up to touch the window with his hand. I kiss my own fingers and touch him from the other side, leaving a slight smear of my juice on the glass. Just like a movie ending, after all. Just like a goddamn movie.

The post Window Dressing appeared first on sexstories.org.

Swimming always gets me going. Blood pumping through these sluggish old veins after being holed up in the holiday cottage with a load of rutting couples. I love it when the water’s cold and rough. Far out there a couple of surfers are wrestling with the waves. Here the beach is deserted.

And now I’ve earned a kip. The sun’s really warm after the cold water. I whip my bathing suit off and flop down onto my towel but my heart’s still drumming, my body still buzzing. I turn on my back, stretch my legs out, point my toes to make them look longer. Hmm, still pretty good.

A breath of air tickles my slightly parted fanny. I open my legs a little more. I grope about in the sand to find my oil, but I can’t find it. My hand flops back onto my bare stomach and the touch electrifies me. I move my fingertips down to the hairless groove running along the top of my thigh and that makes me jump, too. The skin is the largest organ of the human body, and boy is it the most sensitive.

There’s another place, though. So sensitive it could make me come with a butterfly kiss. My hand wanders back up to my breast, just brushes the top, avoiding the nipples. They swell out luxuriantly. My stomach flutters.

I drop my hands. Is it possible to tease yourself? The sun rests on my eyelids while my hand drags back to my stomach. I move it in circles, frantic messages puckering up my nipples. My stomach tightens. My thighs fidget on the towel, open up wider. I fan my fingers, catching at a hardening nipple, and sidle the other hand downwards to the warm nest of hair. My fingers tangle in the wet curls, pulling strands, feeling each hair tug on the tender skin.

My middle finger extends down the crack and I half gasp, half giggle at the moist blood-heat warmth just inside the lips. That’s not just damp from the sea although I wonder what it would taste like now. I wiggle my finger, feeling the sliver of sensitive flesh. I shock it into tingling response. I moan softly, sure that the sound is only in my ears.

A shadow crosses my face and I swear, thinking a cloud is obscuring the sun. But it’s too solid for that. There’s a tall shape a couple of feet away. Surely not the others, come to spy on me from the cottage? I raise myself up on my elbow, ready to give them hell. My breast bounces against my arm. I raise one knee to get myself upright and a droplet of juice runs out of my crack and across my thigh.

It’s not my friends. It’s one of the surfers. His short wetsuit is rolled down his torso and he has his back to the sea. He can see me clearly, but I’m half blinded by the glare. I raise one hand to shield my eyes and take a good look at him. Sex on legs. Like something out of a beer advert. He’s lithe and tanned. His face is young. So young. Tiny gold prickles of barely shaved stubble speckle his brown cheeks. Hectic flushes of blood are just visible under the skin. Is he blushing?

I try to remember myself at his age. It wasn’t so long ago, for God’s sake. He’s seventeen, eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Definitely a boy and yet his body has been worked on. Hard. No ounce of puppy fat. His arms are big with muscle.
I let my eyes flutter back to his face. I open my mouth to speak, but he’s not about to make small talk. His bright blue eyes are fixed on my big breasts, hanging there in the sunshine. I must look like some kind of nude sculpture there on the towel. I suppose I could always pretend I’m one of those naturists.

But the naturists always claim there’s nothing sexual about nakedness, don’t they? What bollocks. I reckon this boy’s nakedness would be a blatant invitation to a shag-fest. His eyes are burning on me and my nipples harden as if agreeing with my assessment. They shrink into tight little arrowheads. Pointing directly at my young stranger.

The young man/boy swallows, getting the message. He scuffles his bare feet in the sand. Shit. He’s trying to get away. I want to stretch out and stop him. But no. He’s just planting them more firmly in that kind of swaggering stance young men have. Through his tight wet suit I can see his groin bulging against the black cloth. I want to rip it off here and now. I want to know what’s going on underneath.

‘Surf up today?’ I suddenly ask into the sizzling silence. I can imagine my mates up at the cottage giggling at my lousy attempt at surf-speak. ‘I thought there were two of you out there.’

He nods, and tosses his head back towards the waves. His hair is beginning to dry into bleached strands.

‘My brother’s still out there. I got a cramp.’ ‘I can see that.’

The fluttering in my stomach is back with a vengeance. No, forget fluttering. Nothing lady-like about this sensation. It’s twisting and tightening with total lust. I can’t believe I’m still sprawled here like some kind of centrefold. Usually I would have lifted the towel by now to cover myself up. I’d have made some shy, dismissive remark to send him on his way, but right now his glowing stare and his unmistakeable hard-on are just too good to waste. I’m not letting this opportunity pass. Apart from anything else, I intend to dine out on it tonight. The others will never believe me.

‘Want some lemonade?’ God, I sound like his aunt.

‘My dad says you should never accept drinks from strangers,’ he croaks with a lopsided grin, and I laugh. How sexy is that grin? How sexy is it that we’re strangers? I take the bottle from the cool bag and wave it at him.

‘I say you’re big enough to look after yourself.’ I’m still laughing. I pat the towel beside me. He steps closer. I’m making him feel safe. He leans across me, and swigs from the bottle. ‘So,’ I go on, my voice husky with laughter and desire. ‘Do you know this part of Devon?’

‘No. It’s my first time.’

Colour floods his cheeks even more as he says it, and this time I rein in my dirty chuckle. I quietly take the lemonade from him, keeping my green eyes calmly on his burning blue ones, and without wiping his spittle off the neck of the bottle I flick my tongue round the wet rim before tilting my head back to take a deep swallow. Now his eyes are on my throat as the cold liquid swishes down. This is like something out of a movie.

‘I mean, it’s the first time we’ve been down to this coast,’ he stammers. ‘Dad’s rented a place for the summer. He insisted we come here this year. Normally we go to Constantine Bay, in Cornwall. The surf’s miles better over there. So’s the surfing crowd. I mean, it’s just dead round here, isn’t it?’

‘That depends what you’re after,’ I remark lazily. The bottle is still hovering above my open mouth as if I’m about to give it head. I lick it again, turning myself on with the suggestive swipe of my tongue. Then I wrap my lips round the long cool shape and swallow a little more. His Adam’s apple jumps. I screw the top back on. On an impulse I put the bottle not back in the cool bag but between my legs, resting it up against my pussy. I can’t stifle a gasp as the cold plastic meets the sensitive, warm flesh. I lean back, letting it rest there, restraining myself from grabbing it and rubbing it up and down my hot slit like a sex toy. The urge won’t go away. But then, nor will the boy. My voice comes out in a low moan. ‘There’s plenty to entertain you if you know where to look.’

‘I’m beginning to realise that–’ Without the bottle the boy doesn’t know what to do with his hands. So he starts rolling the wetsuit back up his stomach.

‘It’s too nice out here today to cover yourself up. It may not be the Med, but this lovely weather has got to be a record for Devon. Sit down for a moment. Like you said, there’s nothing to do round here. So there’s no rush, is there?’

‘No rush,’ he echoes, and his young voice dips violently into a deep manly timbre, at odds with his adolescent face. My cunt gives a couple of uncontrollably cheeky twitches, practically nudging the bottle away as I watch him wrestle with the twin urges to come and sit near me or to stand there and remain cool.

Time to be a little less obvious. I relent and draw my legs up, so that my pussy is temporarily hidden from his confused, hungry gaze, but the movement brings the bottle harder against me, its long shape pushing between my sex lips and nudging the tiny bud of my clit. I grip it with my legs and feel the droplets of condensation mingling with my own sweat and moisture.

I’m getting breathless again, as if I was still swimming. I want to show the boy what I can do with the bottle, but it’s too soon. I hitch myself up the towel, pulling my shoulders back in an effort to look more sophisticated, but that just thrusts my breasts out so that his baby-blue eyes, which are still struggling to remain politely focused on my face, swivel back to watch the tightening of my red nipples.

‘It may be a bit quiet, but where else can you get quite so close to nature, after the city smoke? I expect that’s what your dad was after,’ I whisper, trying not to giggle out loud with delight. Something is still warning me to act very calm, sit very still so as not to alarm him. ‘That’s why I’m stretched out here, starkers. Never do that in London, do you? Hope you don’t mind me being topless like this?’

He shakes his head violently, like a little boy trying not to tell a lie, and at last, like an animal tempted in from the wild, he squats down, just by my feet. He rubs the salty strands of yellow hair off his hot face.

‘So. You here on holiday, or what?’

He’s giving in. He can’t take his eyes off my tits, even though he’s attempting to make conversation. I know my nipples are harder and darker now and impossible to ignore. Neither of us really wants to talk, do we? It’s as if he’s in a sweet shop with no pocket money. His tongue slides across his white teeth and he gulps. I keep my smile faint but encouraging.

‘It’s a mixture,’ I answer. ‘Work, and play.’ ‘So which is this bit? Work, or play?’

A soft wind comes off the sea and ruffles his hair. He swipes it impatiently out of his eyes. My own hair tickles my face, and the wind caresses my bare skin like delicate fingers.

‘Oh, that’s easy. Play,’ I whisper, not sure if he can hear. ‘This bit is definitely play.’

I tilt forwards on to my knees, the bottle still clamped there. I pause for a moment as he blinks, focusing on the big tits bouncing right there in front of him as if they were ice creams on offer. Then I pick up one of his large hands from where it’s digging frantically about in the sand. I lift it like it’s a warm animal and place it on one swollen breast. My nipple spikes against his palm. His mouth drops open. My head falls back as his fingers close harder, making it ache. I spread my knees a little to balance more comfortably in front of him, dislodging the bottle. I lean back on the towel so that my spine is arched and my breasts are pushing at him, jumping up with each heartbeat.

The dry grass rustles in the slight breeze, and far away the waves curl with a collective sigh onto the beach. Both the boy and me are panting. My tits disappear into his hesitant fingers. His blue eyes blaze with a crazy request. Christ, it’s enough to make me melt. Of course you have permission, my precious. I’m practically begging you!

My head feels heavy. The only energy is fizzing between my legs. I’m ready to let him take and thrust and pummel. I want to make him into a man. I have privacy, sunshine, a boy with the body of a god waiting for me to show him the way. And all the time in the world.

Lust is eating me up. His fingers dig into my breasts, wander across them and squeeze them, push them together, letting them fall, playing with them, staring at the rigid raspberry nipples. Then I kneel up and place my hands on his shoulders and push my tits into his eager face. I want him to nuzzle in, I want him to lick, suck, bite. Yes. I can tell he’s never seen anyone as luscious as me. A real woman. I want this to be what he’ll write home about, remember for ever. I want to smother him. He buries his face between my breasts, pressing them into his cheeks. Then he draws back. I cup one breast and offer it. I rub its taut dark nipple across his mouth. His tongue flicks out tentatively. My knees wobble and I clutch more firmly to his shoulders. My tit is angled right into his mouth.

He licks the nipple again, and his hands squeeze my breasts until they sing with delicious pain. Hands that a few minutes ago had been wrestling with a surfboard. Then his soft lips nibble up the little nub of the nipple, the tongue laps round it. He draws the burning bud into his mouth, pulling hard on it, and begins to suck. I cradle his bleached blond head, the salt water dried in granules and flecked white across his cheek bones. I could stay like this forever. His sucking makes my whole body ripple with desire.

I look away over his head, across the dunes and over the ocean, distancing myself, seeing us like a movie or a photograph, but his mouth, his teeth, keep pulling at the aching nipple and pulling me back. Electrical currents streak from my nipples to my empty, waiting cunt.

He has the other breast up by his face now. He’s turning from one to the other, lapping and sucking, snuffling through his nose to breathe, groaning, biting and kneading harder and harder as if he owns my breasts. It’s never enough to suck just one. They both have to be stimulated, and, boy, is he getting the hang of it. God, it’s going to be earth-shattering when I get him inside me.

He’s rougher, more ferocious, already more confident. I grind against him, daring him, searching for more pain to communicate more pleasure. I plant my knees on either side of his so that I’m straddling him, and still have his head crushed between my tits. I push him backwards so that, still sucking on my nipples, he’s lowered onto the sand. Now I’m on top of him, my tits dangling down like heavy fruit dented by his brown fingers. I tilt my pussy towards his groin and rub against his wet suit. The rough material is glorious, grating on my skin.

And I can feel the length of his dick. Still pushing my tits in his face, don’t ever want him to stop, I grab at the wet suit and start to roll it off him like a second skin. He raises his hips obligingly. So sweet. He does that so eagerly and readily. Does he realise how big his fucking gorgeous erection is? I yank everything down and his cock thumps free, juddering out from the rough tangle of blond curls, pulsating golden brown like the rest of him. God, it’s a work of art. Its surface is smooth like velvet, the mauve plum emerging from the soft foreskin which wrinkles back to show itself all gleaming. This gorgeous cock thumps into my hand. Now it’s my turn to fold my fingers round something, and as I do it he bites my nipple so hard that I scream out with delight. I lean over him.

‘Just take a little break. Try something new,’ I whisper, both to myself and to him. I start to wriggle back down his body so that his head follows for a moment, still attached to my nipples. Then he falls back as I slither down towards his groin and he can only grab at my wet hair. I reach his dick, standing up like a beacon. The tip is already beading in anticipation. A fresh stick of rock.

I open my mouth and draw his cock into it, using my teeth as well as my tongue, draw it all in until the boy’s knob knocks at the back of my throat.

He makes a sound, exquisitely shocked. His buttocks clench as I suck on him, nibbling down to the base of his shaft and licking and sucking the sweet length of it. He starts to buck about, groaning in amazement. I wonder if any of his pert little girlfriends give head like this. I doubt it. After all, I didn’t have much of a clue at this age. I want him to think he’s died and gone to heaven. Any minute now I’m going to heaven, too.

As I suck, I rub my tits and pussy up and down his legs. He pulls at my hair. I have to slow myself down, because we’ll both come too soon. I don’t want to waste this golden moment by coming all over his shinbone. My pussy is clenching frantically now. I’m leaving slicks of juice all over him.

I give his dick one last, long suck, pulling it towards my throat and nipping it with my teeth, then I let it slide along my tongue, out through my nipping teeth. Greedily I clamber back on top of him as he struggles up, seeking out my tits. I press him down on his back, tilting myself over him. We’ve moved some way from the towel now.

‘See how beautiful it is,’ I croon at him, showing him the length of his shaft encircled by my fingers. ‘See how well it’s going to fit.’

I smile as I raise myself on my knees and aim the tip of his cock towards the warm hole hidden in my soft bush. I let it rest there, at the opening, just like I did with the lemonade bottle, just nudging it past my wet sex lips. I wait. I smile again, lowering myself a little more, gasping as each inch goes in. I reach under him to cup his balls in one hand and he groans again.

This tension is ecstasy, but I can’t hold on to it for much longer, and slowly, luxuriously, I let the boy’s knob slide up inside, all the way to the hilt. It’s so tempting to ram it, let our hips start jerking, but once it’s right in I force myself to pull away again. He frowns, perhaps thinking I’m rejecting him, but I just ease myself down again, moaning and tossing my head back, and the next time I do that he’s with me, learning fast, pulling his own hips back, waiting when I wait.

I sigh out with the joy of being fucked by something so big and hard after months of sitting on the sidelines. As I bend over to let my tits swing across his mouth again, his eyes flip sideways and his face freezes. His hands jam onto my hips and hold me still. I don’t move. I don’t want to. But I see another shadow falling across his face.

‘Oh, piss off, guys!’ I shout, without looking round. ‘Go back to your poker game!’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it! This looks like a hell of a lot more fun than poker!’

A male voice, very similar to my boy’s, speaks from somewhere above and behind us. I go hot and cold. I try to read the boy’s expression. Then there’s the unzipping sound of another wet suit, and the boy’s eyes widen. First he shakes his head furiously, and then a filthy grin spreads across his face. Not a grin I’ve seen before. He looks at me in a different way. Kind of domineering. I’m thrown off balance. Already he’s learning. Glancing at the newcomer, the boy knocks my breasts from side to side.

‘My older brother,’ he croaks. ‘Back from the surf.’

He pulls me forwards, jamming my tits into his mouth again, and now my backside is up in the air. I want to protest but I can’t move. My butt is all exposed, bouncing in front of his brother, but so gorgeous is the feel of my boy’s almost aggressive mouth sucking on my sore nipples that I can’t stop him. As first one nipple then the other grinds into his mouth I automatically start up the rhythm again. I’m acutely aware of my new audience. It’s unutterably sexy to be watched.

I slide up and down his cock, showing off now. My muscles tighten each time to grab hold and keep him inside, and his cock is hardening even more with each thrust.

I’m just poised to ram down onto him harder than ever when my butt cheeks are pulled apart and another male body presses up against my back.

‘Can’t let you have all the fun, bruv,’ says the voice. ‘Reckon I want a go.’

‘You’ve got some catching up to do, mate. Bloody well wait your turn.’

The first boy pulls me harder down on top of him, ramming me right up inside.

‘You don’t mind me watching, do you?’ his brother murmurs in my ear, still fondling my buttocks.

‘No,’ I puff, barely able to speak. ‘Don’t mind.’

There’s something else going on here, too. I can recognize sibling rivalry when I see it, or rather sense it. It’s not that different from the ‘friendly’ rivalry between me and my mates up at the cottage. Our parlour games are never going to be the same after this.

I’m dizzy now, knowing I’m being watched. Who knows? Maybe the crowd up at the cottage will be down any minute, join the audience. See me in a whole new light. I gyrate as if dancing on the boy’s pole, flinging myself wildly about. The urge for satisfaction and the loss of control starts to overwhelm me.

The invisible brother is right behind me, touching me everywhere. I fall onto the rigid cock inside me and the orgasm is gathering. My moans are snatched into the sea air as I rock frantically. My boy can’t hold back and it’s spurting out of him and I’m bucking in my own orgasm.

‘Can’t let you corrupt my little brother and get away with it,’ the older brother says, pulling us apart. ‘Reckon you need teaching, too.’

He parts my legs, gets his own cock out. I try not to smile too greedily as we all lie on the sand while the tide encroaches up the beach and the seagulls wonder what the fuck these tourists are up to.

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