Sun, Sand, and Secrets: My Summer ‘Beach Deal’ with a Charming English Gentleman; Part 3

November 23, 2025

Hi my dear friends of the group,

At the beginning of the previous post, Part 2, I already warned you about its transgressive nature, although in a rather unusual way: there was almost no actual sex involved. Instead, the focus was on a negotiation: an older man trying to persuade a 24-year-old girl (me) to let him fuck her, simply because he had seen me behaving like a textbook beach slut and an unrepentant exhibitionist.

All this happened when I was 24, on a summer holiday in July with my husband, with whom I had been married just over a year. We were staying in Calpe, a tourist town on the Costa Blanca in southeastern Spain. My husband was not a lover of the beach at all, so he would usually go out cycling for long rides and leave me “alone” from around ten in the morning until six in the afternoon, when he returned, joined me on the sand, and stayed until seven or eight, sometimes even nine, because in July daylight lingers and the sun never seems in a hurry to leave.

Now, I say “alone”… but in truth I was almost never alone. That simply wasn’t my nature. I always found myself talking, flirting, touching and being touched by both acquaintances and strangers. It could be anything from groping in the sea disguised as innocent beach games full of young hormones and overcharged sexual energy, to letting someone apply suntan lotion… meticulously… ‘all over’ my body. And of course, sometimes it was real sex: the explicit kind, deep and penetrating, in the sea, clinging to a buoy fifty meters from the shore, with the waves, the sun and the thrill wrapping around us. I don’t think I ever spent a full beach day completely by myself.

Tom, a mature Englishman staying alone in a nearby aparthotel, was one of those regulars who spent as many hours on the beach as I did. He noticed me, studied me with those English eyes that believe they’ve discovered “the real Spanish woman” so many of them fantasize about, and decided his vacation would not end without “fucking a Spanish girl”. I don’t know why, but that fantasy seems deeply ingrained in British male imagination: historically and especially now, when so many visit or move to Spain to work, sunbathe or enjoy their retirement around the Mediterranean.

I have to admit, I’ve taken advantage of that fantasy more than once. Throughout my life I’ve had full, proper sex with around twenty British men: yes, twenty, I’m not exaggerating, and in fact the second great love of my life, whom I met in Calpe in 2004, is Scottish (summary 21 in Post No. 5). We no longer feel romantic love for each other… but we still have sex when we meet, and he is the man who fucks me the best, always, no contest.

The previous post, which focused on the negotiation between a young woman and an older stranger to reach an agreement about having sex, was written full of euphemisms, metaphors, double meanings, hints and carefully placed insinuations. I tried to describe the situation in a way that didn’t feel too “raw” or brutal for readers who have never lived anything like it. In reality, there is nothing raw or violent about such an exchange when both people know exactly what they are talking about: and that was very much the case here.

What must always be avoided in these negotiations is letting the whole thing drag on into a prolonged haggling session. Once the atmosphere becomes tense or overly transactional, everything collapses. At least for me, it’s the ultimate mood killer. When that has happened: and it hasn’t been often, I have simply smiled, ended the conversation politely and walked away. I’ve only done this on rare occasions, but yes, I said goodbye mid-negotiation and left.

And to be perfectly honest, when a man couldn’t get me to agree to his terms and began pushing too hard, and I brought the conversation to an end, he didn’t always accept it with the elegance one might hope for. A couple of them walked off muttering the predictable, “classic” insult under their breath… you all know which one. Yes, that one. I have never lost my composure or my manners in any situation of that nature.

Anyway, in the previous post I intentionally omitted the more “material” part of the negotiation, although it had its interesting, even deliciously kinky and very erotic, moments. But the fact is that, naturally, politely and with a great deal of sexual tension, Tom and I reached a mutually beneficial agreement: three hours together, including nude photos on the beach and in his aparthotel room, and of course good, unrestricted sex at his discretion.

Click to View Show Anyway

[[ Image 1. A couple more photos Tom took of me shortly before we left the beach. As you can see, it was even emptier than in the shots I showed you in Part 2 of the post. ]]

I’ll just say that the negotiation of the “material” part was like a brief fencing match that I let Tom initiate. I “never” start that part myself; it’s not elegant. It comes off vulgar and classless if the girl launches the first thrust. So, I waited for Tom to make his move, and, as I had anticipated, his first thrust was low… figuratively aimed at my knees, but I was ready. I parried it smoothly and responded with a high thrust, straight to his face, which he parried in turn. We ended up crossing blades somewhere around the midpoint… more or less where the “real action” was going to happen… a little above, toward my belly button. “Touché!” The bout ended in a friendly draw, both opponents removing their masks, shaking hands, smiling, pleased with themselves and with each other. Perfect.

That’s how a negotiation of this kind should go: one, two… and by the third move, victory is secured. Any fight beyond that usually ends badly. Opponents turn into enemies, the game degenerates into war, and I always make sure to leave the battlefield before reaching that point.

And it is here, with that pact finally sealed, that the ‘core’ of the third post dedicated to Tom truly begins. And from this moment onward, the purely erotic part between Tom and me begins, and I no longer need to use euphemisms… well, not many.

Once we had settled the material side of things and agreed on three hours together for nude photos and unrestricted sex at his discretion, the conversation moved on to far more pleasurable territory. We began discussing the erotic and sexual details of the encounter: his desires, my boundaries, the fantasies that might unfold between us.

And of course, such conversations always start with the most basic and essential topic: condoms. Sometimes that subject is approached indirectly, wrapped in euphemisms and coy double meanings. But Tom chose the other path: clear, direct, straightforward, though never crude. He brought it up casually, naturally, as if mentioning something as ordinary as the time of day, without giving it excessive weight.

Tom asked me whether I had condoms, and I told him I did. From a very young age, until I stopped being fertile, I “always” carried a little three-pack in my handbag by default: back then the brand “Prime”. Even if I was just going to the supermarket or heading to work, they were always with me. You never know when or where an opportunity of having sex with an interesting man may appear, and missing it for something as simple as not having condoms on hand would be ridiculous.

That said, because I’ve always made a point of choosing clean, trustworthy men… and after we had reassured each other of being healthy, most of the time we ended up having sex without condoms, except during my fertile days, of course, since I didn’t take the pill.

And now I must go back to the origins: when I first learned how to focus properly on this delicate part of things before a sexual encounter with a stranger:

When I was young, living in the Guayana of Venezuela, I had sex with several men, but one of them was an older German guy who owned a motorcycle workshop… handsome and fit as you can’t imagine; he is Matthias, almost three times my age at the time (summary 2 in Post No. 2, and also summary 1 in the same post). Everything began when I posed nude for him as a… let us say, wannabe professional model, meaning: not for free, nine years before I met Tom. He taught me a great deal about how to evaluate the strangers with whom I might eventually end up having sex.

And just so no one thinks poorly of Matthias, because he is a man for whom I still hold enormous affection and gratitude, let me clarify that it was “I” who, at the end of the very first nude session, begged him to have sex with me. He gently and lovingly refused. But when I returned for the second session, I went fully determined not to fail. I put everything I had on the table: quite literally, and achieved exactly what I wanted, but it wasn’t easy to persuade him. And once the ice was broken… there were several more encounters.

Let me share a little secret: at that time I was devouring John Norman’s “Gor saga”, and those books were quietly helping me bring to the surface the submissive streak I carried within: especially toward mature, attractive men with a strong and commanding personality, as Matthias certainly was. For years, one of my most recurring erotic fantasies was imagining Matthias as a powerful warrior of Gor and myself as his sl+ve, his “kajira”.

I cannot tell you how many chapters of ‘Gor’ I wrote in my mind at night once I slipped into bed. I have not masturbated much in my life, because generally I have not needed to, as I was rarely short of men, but when I did as a young woman, it was almost always while imagining one of those adventures with Matthias the warrior on the Counter-Earth of Gor.

So much so, that on one occasion I asked Matthias to tie me naked to a wall in his workshop and whip me mercilessly with his belt and then just fuck me without letting go, but he begged me not to insist, not to tempt him, because he was afraid he wouldn't know when to stop.
Matthias was also the first man who penetrated me anally really well: patiently, arousing me to the limit, opening my tightest entrance little by little with his fingers, with sweet words, with plenty of lubricant, so that when he slowly entered me from behind, bareback, all the way to the hilt I only felt pleasure, a wave of pleasure, plus devotion and submission: he waited for my orgasm to start and then he came inside grabbing my buttocks with an incredible force and shouting a roar like a lion. He then gave me an important advice of the many he gave me: to never let me being anally fucked by a man who wasn't physically gifted and skilled at that, or I could be seriously hurt.

.… Yes: definitely I have to talk a lot more about Matthias in a post.

I must also say in Matthias’s favor that when he had sex with me, he did nothing illegal at all, as I was already above the legal “age of consent” in Venezuela. The age of consent is a legal concept that seems often forgotten, though it exists in most countries, and it is different from the so-called “age of majority”, which itself varies across countries. As I mentioned in the previous post, the laws that matter are the ones in effect in each country, and those are the ones to follow, not the laws of another country, however influential it may be in global politics.

Anyway, apart from the obvious fact that Matthias desired me very much… and I desired him even more (I openly admit I became sexually infatuated with him), he genuinely cared about me. He made the effort to teach me things about life, about men, and about relationships, and I was eager, almost hungry, to learn from him.

Usually these conversations, these lessons, came after sex, when we lay together naked, resting in each other’s arms. Other times, if the “masterclass” was a long one, we were on the terrace of his house: he dressed, and I completely naked, sitting on his lap while he stroked me affectionately, slowly, confidently, like a man who knows exactly what he is doing with a girl, with both his hands and his mind.

And if you want to understand those moments, imagine the scene not through my eyes, but through his.

Let’s do an experiment… Imagine you are Matthias:

You are a mature man that have just made love to a slutty young woman who wanted you desperately, who gave herself to you without hesitation, who is now warm, relaxed, naked, and curled in your lap in the heat of a tropical evening. The light is soft, golden, melting down the walls as the sun sinks. The air smells of jasmine, humidity, distant sea salt and the faint musk of sex still clinging to both of your skins.

The cicadas are singing, a ceiling fan turns lazily above your heads, and she is looking at you with admiration, with the eyes of someone who wants to absorb every word you say, to learn from you, as if your experience were a treasure map she is determined to follow. Her skin is still flushed from pleasure, her breathing calm, her hair sticking slightly to the sweat on her neck.

You need to put on Matthias shoes, but I don’t need to imagine that girl, for she wasn’t a dream or a metaphor. She was me… and I am still her, still me.

I can see it now in my mind as I write: that young girl I was eager, curious, thirsty for life, sitting naked in Matthias’ arms while he whispered truths into my ear. I can feel the warm tiles under my feet, the scent of tropical dusk, the distant noises blending with his voice and the gentle touch of his fingers.

My friends: writing this blog does something beautiful for my soul: it brings back moments that were exceptional, defining, unforgettable. Moments like those with Matthias, seared into my memory.

I see it today as clearly as a movie in full color…

No! clearer.

Because it’s not only the images and the sounds. It’s also the smells, and the heat, and the touch of a mature man I had just satisfied sexually, who moments earlier had satisfied me even more, stroking me lovingly and speaking softly in my ear. Helping me to discover the real, adult world whose door I had just begun to peek through.

I’d better stop here or tears will start to fall.

Click to View Show Anyway

[[ Image 2. Matthias took quite a few photos of me, and very good ones, because besides being an exceptional mechanic, he also had remarkable artistic talent as a photographer. Yet he was always reluctant to give me copies of the nude… and porn… photos he took when we were alone, afraid he might get into trouble with my sweetheart Andy (summary 1 in Post No. 1), or should I be careless enough to let one of those photos fall into the wrong hands.
In the end, after much insistence, pleading, and a few frustrated little pouts: the kind girls learn to deploy with frightening precision, he gave me a handful of prints… but in a tiny format, something like 5×7 cm, with those serrated white borders so common up until the late 70s. One day I’ll scan and retouch some of them, because despite what I keep saying, I don’t entirely rule out writing an specific full post about Matthias. It would be only fair that I did.
But today, instead of one of those photos that would require hours of work to reach the minimum quality needed to publish: not because the originals were bad, but because the copies I have are so small and low-resolution, I’ve chosen an artistic photo taken by Carlos (summary 3 in Post No. 1), just a few months before I had sex with Matthias for the first time.
Isn’t the sweet, innocent expression on my face adorable? Well, appearances deceive: by then I was already a full-fledged slut who had had complete sex with five men, and lighter adventures with three more… if sucking cock can be considered light sex. Yes… looks can be terribly misleading, can’t they?.
Yes, that was the girl Matthias was photographing nude, making love, teaching about sex and life, and stroking when she was sitting in his lap eager to learn from him. ]]

Now that I’m feeling more open and sensitive than usual, I want to pause for a moment and reflect on the deeper purpose behind my posts, and the life story I share with you: especially here in our private group, where there are fewer filters than in my blog.

My intention is that my blog is not just a collection of “spicy” experiences; although it is that too, and I don’t think that diminishes its value in the slightest. But I want it to be something much more profound:

I am an adult woman, a very mature one, looking directly at my own life without shame, without regret, without apologizing for wanting, for choosing, for having lived instead of just watching life pass by.

In posts like today’s, I am trying to do three things at once, and I think they are powerful:

. To rescue the young woman I once was, to bring her back to life even if only in my own mind.

. To honor that inexperienced, impulsive, but good‑hearted girl by giving her an adult voice.

. And to allow myself to feel again: to relive, without censoring or judging myself, but analyzing and savoring each memory.

That is why I get emotional. Because what I write is not pornography: it is a human life lived with teeth and nails and told with almost no filters. And to me, that is the difference between writing merely to arouse… and writing to transcend. I aim for the latter, and as a side effect, often the former happens too.

Anyway, I’d better stop here… as you can see, when I get carried away with my amateur psychology and philosophy (or wannabe, to use my beloved word from my early modeling days), I could go on forever. 😊

Forgive the emotional rant…

but honestly, what is life without emotion?

Without a tear, without nostalgia…

Returning to Matthias, he trained me to pay attention to the small but revealing details in a man: his clothing, his accessories, his cleanliness, and, above all, his character, his manners, his way of speaking, and his attitude, long before even considering whether to go any further with him.

It was the year 1976, and Matthias, who was German and had even, he was too young to take part in that horrendous fratricidal war in Europe that ended twenty years before, but enough old to understand all the horror of the war and its aftermath, he was only a young innocent victim of the evil of others. He never spoke to me about his life in Germany, and I never asked. He was a humble yet remarkable and very intelligent and sensitive man who had suffered greatly, who had witnessed horrors beyond anything I could imagine. And as soon as he could, he escaped that Europe: a continent that had become nothing but smoldering ruins, smelling of tears and death, where hatred, fear, pain, and resentment were the most common emotions, and where the threat of an even more horrifying new war among former allies seemed very real.

Matthias went to the tropics, to Venezuela, in the late 1940s, alone, leaving behind those ruins, both material and psychological, and began an entirely new life, a life full of joy, running his motorcycle workshop. Yet countless times, I noticed that distant look in his eyes… or rather, that gaze into the infinite, his mind traveling twenty years back in time and across the ocean thousands of kilometers east in space, momentarily returning to the horrors he had endured: survived, but not forgotten.

And now, today, 80 years after that horror ended, there are psychopaths followed by hordes of retarded people who think a great war is the solution to the economic problems the Western world has knowingly created… Can one be more evil, and their followers more foolish? I’ll leave that to your imagination.

Dear friends, you cannot imagine how many exceptional men I have met simply by being who I am, and always have been. Call me a slut if you want: I admit it, I accept it, I even like it. You may even imagine harsher words, but if you do, please keep them to yourself… because you are completely mistaken.

Yes, I have lived and savored life as fully as I could, perhaps far more than most women, and I say it not to boast, but simply to tell it as it is. I have dared to live, to feel my body, to explore, to experiment… without ever harming myself, in body or in mind. Sex has been my only true addiction, my sweetest drug… well, and a touch of alcohol on the side, now and then. And orgasms… oh, orgasms… my sole ecstasy, my little pieces of heaven.

Looking back now, at my age, I sometimes wish I had seized even more from my youth, embraced it even more wildly. Yet still, I have had a life, and I continue to enjoy deeply it as much as I can. I have dared to be entirely, unapologetically myself, never caring too much about what others might think of the choices I’ve made in my private world. I am, and will always be, a free woman, and I will never, ever relinquish that freedom.

As for Matthias… I fear he may have already embarked on the journey to where the rainbow begins. If not, and I hope he hasn’t, for he will be a centenarian in just a couple of years.

Well… my little tears are dried. Let’s return to the more mundane matters: flirting, condoms, Tom, and all those worldly concerns.

Of course, while flirting or hooking up, whenever I sensed even the slightest hint of aggressiveness, lies beyond a reasonable threshold, cynicism, arrogance, or any sign of mental instability, I would walk away from the man as fast as if he were the plague, but always politely and with tact; after all, consent and mutual respect are non negotiable.

Over the years I refined those techniques: experience helped me to polish them in my own way, and thanks to that I have very, very rarely found myself in situations that could turn dangerous when alone with a horny man. And the two times it ‘did’ happen, I mean when the situation turned into something non-consensual, despite my earlier instincts warning me, it was because my lust got the better of me and made me ignore signs I should not have overlooked. But that is a story for another day… or perhaps one I will never tell in full detail. We shall see.

So, what does everything Matthias taught me have to do with what I was negotiating with Tom eight years later? First of all, how to judge whether I could trust a man I didn’t know well enough to go off and have sex with him alone, or in other words: how to “filter.” Secondly, not letting myself be undervalued and making sure that what I was offering was rewarded fairly… and preferably with a little extra. And then, as a smaller but still necessary point, there was the matter of how to deal with anal sex if the man wanted it… and Tom did.

During our negotiation, I told Tom that I would give him oral sex without a condom and swallow every drop. That was something Francis had taught me less than a year earlier, because until then I didn’t swallow… and neither did men in Spain normally ask for it back then. I honestly believe it was the rise of 1980s porn that made it popular and men started requesting it. Tom was very pleased to hear it.

But then there was the matter of anal sex. Following Matthias’s advice, I was not going to let anyone inexperienced do it to me. So I directly asked Tom about his experience, and he told me that he and his previous partner had relied on anal sex for years as their contraceptive method during her fertile days. For me, that was clear and sufficient proof that I could let him do it safely.

However, that first day he didn’t, because he had another, more welcoming hole to discover and enjoy. But in our second meeting a few days later, he did… though we shouldn’t get ahead of the story.

Anyway, that quick “go/no-go” filter I learned back being very young has served me well ever since, in all kinds of encounters. Surely, I’ve discarded some men who didn’t deserve it, but caution is better than regret.

But Tom easily passed that initial filter, and there was no doubt he was a good guy, eager for fun and for sex with a girl he saw as both accessible and exotic, and nothing more. I wasn’t wrong: I judged him by the way he spoke to me: educated, confident, subtly seductive… and that little flourish of slowing down his English, choosing cultured, precise words so I could follow him effortlessly, made my pulse quicken. All of it whispered that he must have been a highly trained professional from a prestigious British university… a lawyer, perhaps, or an economist. My instincts ruled out doctors, scientists, or engineers, though of course I could be wrong.

And, as a secondary, but still deliciously telling, factor, the sporty TAG Heuer on his wrist, the branded clothes, the compact Nikon with its fixed 35mm luminous lens: the kind serious amateurs coveted in the 80s -at a small fortune-, and the immaculate state of his teeth… all of it spoke of a man who lived well. A man who could afford to enjoy life, to savor it. And let’s be honest, knowing he had that level of sophistication and taste made me even more curious… and, I confess, a little hungry for the adventure that awaited. That fact certainly played a part in the negotiation we had, but it also made the prospect far more enticing.

At the end, what mattered was that everything in him: his manners, his care, his calm assurance… told me I could safely follow him up to his apartment, trust him, and not feel even a trace of fear. Once those first natural precautions faded, I could finally relax… and let the arousal grow at the thought of what was about to happen next.

Regarding Tom’s question about condoms, I told him I carried three in my bag… but I let him know that their use could be negotiable, as long as we spoke openly and honestly first. I told him I was healthy and had my STD tests every year, but that after that year’s tests, I had had protected sex with two men and bareback sex with six. Four of them were long-time friends (including, tacitly, my husband Dan, whom Tom assumed fell into that category), whom I completely trusted. The other two were men I had met during that same holiday: good, decent men I already regarded as friends, and whose word I trusted completely regarding their health.

Yes, my dear reader, at 24, between the medical tests I took in May and that hot July afternoon, I had already welcomed eight lovers into my pussy… and Tom was only moments away from becoming the ninth.

I wanted Tom to see that I was being completely honest: confessing that I had shared my body bareback with a few men after my tests, but also to feel that I wasn’t reckless. I wasn’t just some wild girl who would do it raw with anyone. By being open about this, I invited him into my world of pleasure, trust, and play… letting him know that the thrill we were about to share would be both safe and utterly, deliciously exhilarating.

Regarding the men I told him I had had bareback sex with, I wasn’t lying; but really, it shouldn’t surprise you at all. They were my husband Dan, Francis, Olaso, and Paco… all old friends you know well, right?

After listening to me very carefully, Tom, for his part, told me that he hadn’t had sex with any woman for three years and that he could guarantee he was healthy. I replied that I believed him, that I trusted he was telling the truth, and that I would leave the decision about using condoms in his hands, since I wasn’t in my fertile days. He looked at me intently, as if evaluating everything I had just said, and simply answered, “All right, we’ll see…”

Then, after a few seconds looking at me in silence, as if to lighten the seriousness of the moment, he added with a broad smile and a playful wink: “Hmmm… Though I’m not sure if three condoms will be enough!”

We both laughed with a warm, complicit laugh… while his hand had already slid higher along my inner thigh, his thumb pressing softly over the front of my bikini bottoms, rubbing my pussy with slow, deliberate strokes as he looked me in the eyes with a sensual smile.

I, for my part, parted my legs a little wider, inviting him not to stop touching me, looking at him with that languid, half-open mouth that meant total surrender: I was already his… for the next three hours, perhaps more.

Tom made sure no one was nearby, then looked back into my eyes as he slipped his thumb inside the edge of my swimsuit, touching my bare pussy for the first time. I twisted and gasped in pleasure, moaned, and his voice came out low, trembling slightly with excitement as he kept rubbing my clit, located with expert precision, while whispering: “Aura, you’re delicious… I love your silky little bush. And I can feel how wet you already are, ready to receive me inside you”.

I could only answer in Spanish, breathlessly: “¡Poséeme! Tom… te deseo” (in English is: Possess me, Tom… I want you).

By the way, the bulge in his swim shorts: which I stared at quite shamelessly, already showed a solid, very encouraging erection. And that little dark spot at the peak of that inner volcano told me his precum was sending the same message as my own wetness: we were both dying to fuck.

And just like that, this always somewhat delicate subject was settled. We were going to have sex, in whatever ways he desired, and he would consider the question of condoms, yes… but after how ridiculously horny we both were, I couldn’t help feeling he had already made up his mind: bareback… and I wasn’t wrong.

I could feel the tension simmering between us, a delicious heat that made every glance, every touch, charged with promise. But for now, we had to temper it… after all, there were other eyes around, and the real fun was still to come, just a little out of reach.

I was completely surrendered to Tom, not just because of our agreement, but because, honestly, I already felt wholly his. It wasn’t a pose; it’s simply who I am. Once my passion awakens for a man, I am truly his, and from that moment, anyone watching us wouldn’t have seen a beach slut and a hook up: they would have seen a couple, fiancés, lovers perhaps, or at least a pair bound by desire, despite the obvious age difference.

When I give myself to a man, no matter the circumstances that brought us there, I am his. I belong to him without pretense, as if we were a real couple. This openness, this total surrender, has amazed many men positively throughout my life. Even during a threesome with another man and my husband, anyone watching wouldn’t know which was my husband and which was the “special friend”.

It’s simply who I am, natural and spontaneous. Perhaps that’s why, even after more than forty years of relationships, I still have a small circle of friends who remain drawn to me intimately: Néstor, Olaso, José Manuel, and of course my husband Dan, and since 2004, Dean. All of them are familiar to you, and there’s no need to point out where to find their “summaries” on my blog.

Every glance, every touch, every shared laugh had always been real and unpretentious. And with Tom, that feeling of belonging and intimacy was immediate, undeniable, like a current running just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

But now that everything was clear between us, it was time to take action. And, of course, Tom couldn’t exactly hide that impressive bulge in his Bermuda-style swim shorts. So I pointed at it with a mischievous look and a playful laugh: “Well, Tom, now you’ll have to tell me: what do we do with that marvelous thing in your shorts so the whole beach doesn’t faint?”

We both burst out laughing, and the moment’s sexual tension eased slightly. Then he reminded me that he wanted to take some nude photos of me right there on the beach, if I dared to pull down the bottom of my bikini. I told him that wasn’t a problem; after all, he’d seen me sunbathe naked there many afternoons around the same hour, but I warned him that if I went fully bare while he still had his hand between my legs, his trouble with the ‘thing’ in his shorts might get worse.

He laughed again, then withdrew his hand from my thigh and moved slightly away from me. Grabbing my towel, he held it in front of him, cleverly covering the bulge, and headed toward his things to fetch the camera. During that short interval, I slipped off the bottom of my bikini and stood there completely naked, just like any ordinary sunbathing afternoon.

As you could see in the photos from Part 2, and some of the ones here in this post, the beach was nearly empty at that hour, though a group of three or four men weren’t too far away. They’d seen me naked before, and while they enjoyed looking, it wasn’t unusual for them. Tom spent a few moments fiddling with the camera, probably adjusting the settings, and when he returned, his erection had softened somewhat… but had by no means disappeared. He still kept the towel in front of him to keep up appearances.

Even so, when he got closer, he couldn’t help raising his eyebrows and letting out a genuine, “Wow!” at the sight of me naked and smiling looking at him. I suspect the bulge in his shorts might have grown just a little.

Note
If you want to get a pretty accurate idea of how I looked on the beach during those afternoons… almost as if you were seeing me through Tom’s own eyes, I strongly recommend taking a look at the following posts
Topless in the beach
Sex in the beach with a summer fling
And especially
Short Post 3: Chronicle of a Summer Beach Fling at Age 27.
which includes a few photos beyond the cover one and whose text, I believe, is worth reading. It’s not very long and it tells another sexual adventure with a man I met on that same beach three years after Tom. The key difference is that this time the guy was my age, and there was no “mutually beneficial agreement” involved, just a classic beach hookup, straight out of the textbook.*

Without further ado: Tom told me the kind of photos he wanted to take; no surprises there: the usual, expected shots. A few standing, but mostly seated or squatting, more discreet for anyone who might be watching from a distance. And me? I slipped into my element like it was second nature: posing naked anywhere, anytime, feeling completely in my own skin. I transformed into the top model I had always dreamed of being, syncing with the camera, connecting with the photographer… or at least trying my very best.

Posing naked always makes me feel a delicious heat, a quiet, simmering excitement; but as a woman, it’s not always obvious on the outside. Tom, on the other hand, was experiencing this for the first time: photographing a naked woman, eager and almost breathless to get every shot just right. He concentrated so hard on focus, exposure, and composition: compacted cameras of the 80s required full attention, that the bulge in his trunks finally simmered down to a socially acceptable level for a nearly empty beach.

I couldn’t help but smirk to myself. The tension hadn’t disappeared: it had simply gone undercover, like a mischievous secret between us, waiting to spark back to life the moment the camera rested. And oh, the thought that he was still very aware of me, even while pretending to be all business, added a thrill I could feel running like electricity under my skin. Damn it! I love posing naked!

When the photo shoot ended, Tom leaned close, whispering in my ear, asking me to go with him, completely naked, to the beach showers just twenty meters away. He wanted me to let the water run over me just enough to wash off the salt and sand, but, as he said with a mischievous glint in his eye, he wanted to feel “my natural scent and taste… of a woman ripe with desire”.

The showers are near the promenade that runs along the beach, so normally, even if I had been sunbathing naked in my usual spot, I would put on the bottom of my bikini to go to the shower. But, well: the client rules, and the truth is that at that hour there was no one strolling nearby.

The showers were the typical beach kind, two streams of water on a single post. We showered side by side, facing each other, eyes locked, smiles teasing. I was completely exposed, my skin glistening under the sun and water, and of course he wore his swim shorts, though his erection was now again very difficult to hide.

The close quarters, the trickle of water over my body, the stolen glances, it all sent delicious shivers down my spine. My body responded immediately, warmth pooling between my legs, and I caught him stealing glances that left no doubt he felt the same. The promenade was nearby, yes, but at that hour was almost empty, leaving us to our private little dance of heat, water, and desire, just twenty meters from the world but in a world entirely our own.

After the shower, we walked back arm in arm to where each of us had our things. He covered himself with his towel to slip out of his swim shorts and into a pair of street shorts: stiffer and structured, hiding almost entirely his stubborn erection (I wondered just how he managed to tuck that impressive “flagpole” inside&hellip. He pulled on his T-shirt, gathered up his beach setup: chair, umbrella, and all, and came over to where I was.
I didn’t have much to do myself: just dried off with my towel and wrapped the usual semi-transparent ‘pareo’ around me, and my flip-flops, carrying only my bag with my wallet… and the little box of three condoms. The rest: umbrella, hemp mat, towel, and the beach bag with my tanning creams and little extras, were left behind.

Tom looked at me curiously and asked if I really planned to leave all that, and I said yes. I had arranged to meet my friend Dan (in reality, my husband) later, and he would wait for me on the beach until I returned. Perhaps that brought him a little back to reality: what we had was a fleeting sexual adventure under a mutually beneficial agreement. And, just as importantly, I had someone waiting and caring for me… it never hurts for a stranger who’s about to have you naked and at his disposal in a rented apartment to know someone is expecting you.

Not that Tom scared me, not at all, but I was telling the truth, and omitting that Dan was my husband wasn’t a lie, just an unnecessary detail. Obviously, I suppose Tom continued believing: mistakenly, that Dan and I were just two friends, perhaps friends with benefits, running a small and discreet summer “erotic venture” for visiting gentlemen eager to enjoy the company of an ‘open-minded’ Spanish girl.

We left the beach together, smiling, and I already had those butterflies fluttering in my stomach: the same sensation I always get when I’m about to have sex with a man for the first time, and I love it! I noticed that Tom was a little nervous, but that was perfectly normal.

During our short walk from the beach to his apartment, I held onto his arm like a couple in love… which, for all practical purposes at that moment, we were, and also to subtly disguise my slight limp at the time. Tom noticed it, of course, since on the sand it had been barely visible, but walking on the smooth promenade made it more apparent.

Tom had obviously seen my “comb-shaped” scar on my knee before, but in itself, it wasn’t a big deal. Seeing me limp a bit, he asked, casually and with a playful smile, if I’d hurt myself “messing around on the beach with some little friend”. I replied in the same lighthearted tone that it was the result of an old knee surgery that hadn’t gone perfectly. He connected the scar with the slight limp and didn’t think much of it.
I didn’t mention: and really, there was no need, that the surgery had been to stabilize my right knee and leg, weakened by a poorly administered injection when I was just a few months old. What relevance did that level of detail really have to what Tom and I were about to get up to?
As we approached the apartment building, a delicious anticipation thrummed between us… an unspoken promise of the hours of pleasure and mischief that awaited behind the door, making my pulse race and Tom’s eyes darken with intent.
But once again, this post has grown far too long, and although I had originally thought this would be the last one dedicated to Tom, there will indeed be one more: very soon.
Wishing you all an absolutely wonderful day.
A kiss,
Aura