Shelter
by C.J. LazarettiThe moonlight frames her hair in white neon. It’s all messy and tangled. When the wind rattles the loose planks of the lifeguard shelter, rebellious strands whip her in the face, scatter sand over us both and I hear its distant whistle brushing the trees, mocking the waves. She blinks repeatedly, but keeps gazing absently at my dick, running cold fingers through my pubes.
A lonely gap in the ceiling, wide enough to put three fingers through, shows four stars, lined up almost perfectly. Painted silver, the goosebumps on her forearm project a landscape of small shadows. With a short, blunt thumbnail she starts to rim the crease at the end of the foreskin. The fleshy part of her thumb feels good against the taut skin.
“This is how she used to do it, isn’t it?”
I realize she’s been doing this for a long time now, and all the while I’ve been leaning my head against the peeling paint of the boards, picturing Laura’s long fingers running up my groin, tracing imaginary arabesques around my balls and moving on up as she used to do in the morning.
“Aren’t you tired of being ignored yet?” I say. “You’re probably wondering where I’ve drifted off to.”
“You’re still here with me. Definitely an improvement.”
I look at her. I want to say this Walter guy is an asshole, that she’s better off without him, but her gaze cuts me short. She sees right through my phony attempt at consolation, then smiles disdainfully. And that glimmer of victory in her eyes. Figured me out before I said a single word, the sassy bitch. But she doesn’t savour it longer than a second before she lowers her gaze back towards my dick and the slow thing she’s still doing with her thumb.
“She didn’t do it to wake me up,” I say. “That was the trick. Opening your eyes in the morning and seeing, and feeling, this girl exploring her way around you, completely absorbed, practically unaware that you’re there at all. For one second, it seems it’s not she who’s invading your intimacy, taking advantage of you as you slept. It’s you who’s catching a glimpse of her intimacy, her playtime with this cock she found lying around.”
By now she’s squeezing the tip and watching my pee hole change shapes.
“And then it’s not just for one second.”
She nods as I speak, still looking down. She keeps nodding after I stop talking. Her nails are so even and delicate it takes me a while to realize she’s not wearing any polish. I think I see a smirk at the corner of her mouth, very briefly, as the skin of my dick assumes a rubbery texture and yields less and less to the pressure from her fingers. But it’s only an impression.
She learns fast.
We stay there for who knows how long. All that matters is that nothing must disrupt what she’s doing. If the wind blew a little stronger it would distract her fatally; a hint of a sunbeam across the sea would ruin everything. I watch her shift her weight and drag herself closer. I want to know what she’s going to do next. Her shoulders are rough with sand as she leans against my chest and envelops herself in my arms. Her hard nipples feel prickly against the soft skin on the insides of my elbows. The wind moans lower and the waves thrash louder. She smells just like Laura. Like home.
Image by ZeTorres
