Quickies

My cock knows it, can almost taste the yielding of her flesh, how moist and velvety and smooth she would be. Desire doesn't want exposure, the light or the sun.

Lust seeks darkness, a deep, secret heat, something buried, a treasure to find. And I want the rush of plundering that sweet booty, all of them, the blonde, hairless gem, the trimmed brunette with the rounded behind, the roll and swell of the red-haired mama and the incredible heat of her riches-I want every slope and mound of flesh scattered down the beach.

I can see them all now, spread out on their towels and blankets, my cock eager to find the swollen flesh at the apex of their thighs. I can only satisfy my lust with my eyes, my hips moving every so slightly, imperceptible, rubbing my cock between my belly and the towel. It isn't anywhere near what I want to do, the thrusting frenzy and grind that I long for, to part thighs and cunts with the heat of my lust, the fat, thick head of my aching cock-but it's enough. Just barely enough.

I have been feasting for hours and my cock can't stand it anymore. I watch through half-closed eyes, feigning disinterest, even a doze, but my nostrils flare and my ass twitches and beneath me, I am rubbing the head of my cock in the sticky pre-cum dampness, pressing it between my belly and the sand. It's a slow grind, but deliberate, sneaking up on my climax by degrees.

The big mama puts her knees up, letting me see the soft swell of her ass, how the slit extends downward, her flesh thick and doughy, her pubes like fire in the sun. My cock aches to find its way through, seeking her center. The couple with the dog walks back by again and I stop, realizing how gradual but effective my movements have been now that I have ceased. My cock is aching for release.

When they've passed, I begin again, shifting, a slow rub, my eyes moving to the girls, the brunette on her back, the blonde on her belly. I am lost in the smooth, oiled flesh of their tawny thighs, the bend in a leg, the way the brunette's hair there glistens and shines in the light. I watch her belly rise and fall, see the blonde swing her legs, her feet crossing, uncrossing.

They are talking together, laughing, and my cock is twitching and throbbing beneath me. It's hard to control my breathing now, the longing I have to fuck, to keep fucking, to fuck the whole world wide open and reveal it all.

Two things send me over-the breeze that catches the edge of my towel, blowing it against my leg, and seeing the red-haired mama, my eyes drawn back to her as she rolls to her belly, laying her head in her hands, her thighs spreading out over her blanket, giving me just a peek of her cunt, lost in the roomy, dimpled swell of her flesh.

And then I'm coming, closing my eyes, clenching my jaw, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from growling and thrusting and grinding into the sand, a sticky wetness flooding beneath me in hot, fast spurts, dampening my towel and sending me reeling. I bury my head in my arms, breathing hard, and when I look up, the two girls are standing, running off toward the surf.

My lust is spent, but my desire is not. I can still feel the craving, my predilection for more in the swell and sway of the flesh on the sand. When I'm sure that my cock has waned, I stand, flip my towel over, and lie back down on the sand. My eyes are hunting again, I can't help it. The wolf is always there-whether I have reined him in or not.

"Hey, Dad!" I look up, shading my eyes, seeing my daughter and her mother coming toward me across the beach. I smile, wave them over, pat the sand. My daughter is going on about shopping, my wife is talking about lunch, and I take a deep breath, turning my eyes back out to the beckoning world, doing my best to take it all in.

Hush Little Baby

Molly was always losing things-the car keys she locked in the car that ended up stolen, the ATM card she loaned to an ex-boyfriend, the savings she had invested in the bogus mining stock. It took her years to admit they weren't just accidents, acts of God, the world setting itself against her.

She hadn't admitted it after she lost that first wayward child to a car coming a little too fast down a residential street. She hadn't admitted it after Leslie-the one she had tried to atone for her mistakes with-gone at the age of fifteen for three years before surfacing again with a newborn.

She had spent years believing in bad luck, that these things just happened to her. Now she found herself crying alone in her bed and listening to the sound of her granddaughter in her crib-never crying, this one, just singing to herself, playing with her fingers until someone thought to come get her-and wondering how her own little girl could possibly have made such a mess of her life.

Like mother, like daughter.