By Margo Perry  (margo707 AT rogers DOT com)
Copyright 2002 by Margo Perry, all rights reserved.

Alex lay on a lounge chair, drifting between sleep and wakefulness. Bursts of laughter, bits of conversations, the smell of steaks on a barbecue filtered through the salty air. Postcards of his disintegrating life back home, dinners on board, exotic land trips spread untidily across his mind’s eye.

He was almost dreaming: On the ship’s deck, dancing with Becky, her hands massaging the cheeks of his ass, her DD tits squeezed between them, her body grinding into his. His mouth saying, “No”. His rock-hard cock saying, “Yes, please”. Becky’s breasts resting on his shoulders, making him feel so good, so horny …

“Mmmm … dreamin’ about me?” Becky whispered, her hot breath tickling his ear, her breasts hugging his neck.

“Ohhhh,” Alex grunted, opening his eyes. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

“Move over.” Becky said, pushing herself onto his chair and casually, placing her hand high on his thigh, almost touching the bulge that tented his black cotton shorts. “Why don’t you give in? You know you want to,” Becky said, massaging Alex’s thigh.

Alex was relieved to see that there was nobody around. An exhibitionist he wasn’t. He removed her hand, placing it on her own lap.

“Lighten up, Alex, let’s grab a drink.”

Alex glanced toward his cruise-mates, plastic glasses in hand, crowding around a keg of rum punch.
“From ship to shore, one happy party,” smiled Alex. “I feel like a walk on the beach.”

“Want some company?”

“Nah, I’ll be okay. Keep the party going. I’ll be back soon.”

“Your loss,” Becky teased.

Alex stood up, chucked off his sneakers and, taking the deck steps two at a time, sprinted toward the beach and the setting sun.

It was Thursday, the fifth of a seven day cruise and ‘Hibiscus Island’, named for the brightly flowering bush that seemed to bloom everywhere, was the last Caribbean port of call before the ship returned home. Home with its crises seemed a lifetime away. His last project had been his greatest coup, the designing of a 64-floored condo that would soon rule the cityscape with its sleek good looks and environmental integrity. It had taken two years of meetings … while his wife waited dinner and then ate alone. Two years of drawing, poring over blueprints … while his wife waited in bed and then fell asleep alone. And as he watched his beloved plans grow, he felt his marriage crumbling under the weight. He’d begged for time, for understanding. He’d tried to compromise, dumping some of his responsibilities into his single partner’s lap. But his wife wasn’t the kind of woman to wait for anything and at some point, she moved out. Later, as glasses tinkled in celebration of a condo sold out even before they broke ground, he was served divorce papers. He shouldn’t have been surprised after months of loud arguing had been choked into silence by a strong and constant undercurrent of bitter resentment, after months of separation. But he was, because divorce, like the death of a loved one, could be contemplated, expected, even welcomed; but its full impact was experienced after the fact. And after the fact, Alex had been devastated.

“You’ve got to get away, buddy,” Alex’s partner had said, handing him a travel package.

“Okay,” Alex had said, too exhausted to be anything but grateful.

He was even more grateful now. The cruise had been good for him. The anonymity, the friendship of strangers, the shipboard activities had both soothed and energized him. And then there was Becky. They’d shared a dinner table the first night on board. She was the ship’s aerobic instructor, a charming and vivacious Renée Zellweger look alike, who’d set her seductive sights on Alex immediately. They’d chatted and danced the night away and she’d invited him to her cabin. Alex wanted desperately to accept, although he knew that he was far too damaged and vulnerable to get involved with anyone; that Becky, too young and too full of bubbles, was not his personality type. But he wanted to be with her because on first sight of her voluptuous breasts, the long line of her magnificent cleavage, beckoning out of her low-cut, shimmering gown, had reached into his groin. Had filled his cock with desire and his heart and soul with an unrestrained and uncontrollable love for huge breasts. She had re-awakened something in him, the obsessive need to see, feel, touch and love breasts, the bigger the better. That hunger had ruled his youth and he wondered at how harshly, how thoroughly he had stuffed it into his subconscious. He couldn’t imagine how or why he’d given up such pleasure and he promised himself that he’d never deny that part of himself again.

From that night on, the cruise had provided a smorgasbord of gorgeous feminine breast flesh. He felt young again, adolescent. Breasts. He gobbled them up along gangways, at poolside, along the T-shirted or summer dressed streets during land trips. He’d indulged himself shamelessly and everywhere, stopping just short of being disrespectful or arrested. At night he’d lie naked in his cabin, stroking, slapping, and fondling his precious cock until he wanked himself to orgasmic ecstasy … all the time dreaming of kissing, fondling and fucking his many breasts of the day. Alex felt more in touch with himself than he had for a long, long time.

He’d reached the water’s edge. He dropped onto the sand and hugged his knees. His breathing slowed, caressed by the rhythm of spent waves, lap-lap-lapping against the shore. He sat mesmerized by the sun’s fiery ball as it inched, dipped its way toward the horizon. Too soon, it was gone. He was left feeling lonely, vulnerable and uncertain, like a little boy facing a task that was way beyond him. What had happened to his life? When had he stopped being happy? And without warning, Alex Crowe, the award-winning golden boy of residential architecture, dropped his head into his hands and wept and wept and wept.

He didn’t know how long he sat there but when he got up, the seats of his pants were damp and the sand cool under his feet. From the distance he could still hear music and laughter. He could see their ship offshore, her graceful body outlined by a string of tiny twinkling lights. A symphony of night sounds, whistling frogs and crickets chirped into the quiet night. It was all so beautiful and he was so alone! Alex thought of Becky and her breasts. Not now, he thought, tonight had reached too deeply inside him. He still needed to be alone. A short distance away, a naturally terraced rock jutted out of the ocean. He’d sit there for awhile and then go back to the barbecue. Alex started toward it, kicking the sand before him, watching it land … he noticed footprints. Strange, he hadn’t noticed anyone on the beach. Intrigued, he followed its meandering path until it disappeared into the sea.

Alex was almost there when he noticed movement, a figure climbing out of the sea onto the rock. A goddess, thought Alex, stopping in his tracks. She was the color of caramel. Long rope-like braids dripped over her shoulders, cascading along the sides of her pendulous breasts that too, draped all the way to her tiny waist. She stretched her arms, lifting her face to the sky and then ran her hands slowly, sensuously over her breasts. She massaged them lovingly, she lifted them, squeezing them together to create a breathtakingly beautiful line of cleavage. Alex felt like a voyeur, but there was no force on earth that could tear his eyes away. She let her breasts drop. They fell heavily against her body, rocking and rolling.

“Oh my God,” Alex gasped, as he watched one tiny hand disappear between her legs.

She stood astride, moving her weight from one hip into the other, rubbing her pussy with one hand, twisting her huge nipple with the other. She moved like she was the only person in the world, with total erotic abandon.

“Oh my,” Alex groaned, his hand moving helplessly to his demanding cock, his knees buckling.

“She has to see me,” Alex thought. He was no more than ten feet away! He felt like he was caught up in an intensely magnetic field, one from which hopefully, there was no escape. He stood there relishing the building rush of erotic pleasure as he groped himself, rubbing, clutching his swollen dick that was now peeping below the cut of his shorts. He watched her bend over, her breasts swaying in the dusky light, almost touching the rock.

She picked up a length of white diaphanous material and slowly and efficiently wound it sarong-like about her body.

She looked toward Alex. She crooked her finger, beckoning him.

Hypnotized, Alex began walking toward her.

Deliberately, she began walking toward him.

It was a mating dance.

Up close, she was even more beautiful. Her huge cat-gray eyes bored into his, her full lips pouted. Her finger touched his lips, stopping words before he could even form them. She took his hand, leading him through the shallow water, around the rock and into a tiny tree sheltered cove.

She pulled his shirt over his head slowly and proudly, as if he were her favorite toy, or something she loved to eat. She caressed his chest, bent her head to suck and nibble his nipples. Alex was lost in the sway of her tits that floated, swayed and bounced under the scrim of material. She reached around him, pulling his shorts down over his ass, pressing herself, the moving mass of her breasts along his belly, over his cock and down over his thighs.

“I mustn’t cum,” Alex thought. “I want more,” Alex struggled.

She placed her hand on his chest, pressuring him. Alex lay down. She lowered herself, unwinding the material from her body as she went. She moved over him, her naked flesh covering him in warm softness; juxtaposing the cool grainy scratching of sand on his back. She moved relentlessly over him; feet against feet, cunt against cock, breast over his chest and then shoulders. She moved further upward, smothering his face between her cleavage. She moved up, smothering his face with the bristling hair, the dripping wet of her pussy. Alex licked and nibbled and drank. Alex struggled for breath and drank some more, as if his life depended on it. She twisted and moved to his cock, her mouth hot, wet and generous. They groaned and moaned, sighed and gasped together.

Finally, she climbed off him and lay arms above her head, legs spread, waiting. Alex positioned himself, holding his long, thick cock, the ultimate ready weapon of lust. He nudged through her pussy lips to tease her clit, staring into her moist eyes. He watched her squirm. He waited for the begging thrusting of her hips. And when she began, he entered her slowly, marveling at her wetness, drowning in the pleasure of cunt walls that massaged, released, made perfect love to him. And when his plunging became mindless, she matched him in kind. And it began … the sweet fucking that babies are made of; the reckless fucking of teenagers in the back seats of cars; punishment and reward. Until finally, with her hand pleasuring his balls and his hand pleasing her clit they came, screaming into the still night air.

They lay spent for a while and then, in concert, moved onto their sides to gaze into each other’s eyes.
“I don’t even know your name,” Alex whispered.

She took Alex in her arms and kissed him, outlining his lips with her tongue, licking his teeth and moving in to make passionate sweet love to every part of his mouth. She held him tightly against her breasts for a long time.

Gathering her material around her, she stood up, picked up a stick and wrote in the sand. She smiled down at Alex, “It’s time for you to get back,” and without another word disappeared into the bush.

Alex read by moonlight: Cassie. 809-555-2022.

Alex put on his clothes, his face one big goofy smile. Life can be a wonderful adventure, he thought, pledging to treasure this happiness, to carry it home. He walked back along the beach, humming and reciting 809-555-2022, 809-555-2022, 809-555-2022 …