Talk to Mike Grotsky on the Fictionville blog
To go to town for supplies you take the launch that follows the coast and acts as water taxi for various beaches. Ten or so people per boat. I got high on the pleasure of watching the coast go by, seeing the next village come around the bend, then grow more distinct as we approached its beach. Each place loaded people in for the ride: tourists young old fat, children, aged agile women . . .
But when we came around this particular bend there was a young woman waiting on the beach. What was striking about her figure at a distance was the cleanness of the form, there was nothing wasted in the lines. A slim waist, an hour-glass figure that was enhanced by the fit of her blouse and short charcoal gray skirt. Even her hair was piled carefully on her head. Her legs were beautifully tanned and there was character in her face under the creamy skin.
All this I glimpsed at a shrinking distance. What a delight to slowly ride in on the sea towards a beautiful woman on the shore. To gaze at her leisurely and with increasing proximity. How classic. (I flashed on the delights of the sailor’s life, coming like this into beaches and ports. But then of course there was tragic Jason and his Argonauts, hypnotized by the beauty of the Sirens.)
She approached the boat with a shy swagger, hiking her short skirt slowly and steadily over full creamy thighs, till she was able to swing her legs into the boat and roll herself in, giving us a delightful view of her exquisite ass. Black panties tight over the full, firm, fresh flesh. Indeed.
She sat in front of me and as we glided back out to sea I gazed at the graceful line of her neck, her shoulders. Her ears and the side of her face when she turned her head were so tempting I leaned towards her before I even realized it. It was all I could do to not slide my tongue slowly across her ear lobe and lick in and around and again. I could imagine the smell of her hair, the softness between her legs. Just then the boat hit a swell and a sharp little shower of cold water slapped me out of my reverie
with a saltiness that was all too ironic.