My Office Co-Worker Found Me Naked on the Beach

Nudism enthusiasts have a stock phrase: “September is the best month of the year.” A novice like me ought to take that at face value, because my experiences with this sort of thing can be counted on the fingers of one hand and I’d still have three left over. Even so, every time chance shoved a piece of evidence in my face in favor of that theory, it became harder to argue with. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

My name is Vera and I’m thirty-four years old. I moved to the coast almost a decade ago, for love, and back then I wasn’t imagining that I’d be married with two kids by now. I’m a bit on the curvy side but well proportioned, with an ass my husband likes to brag about and a chest that, despite two stints breastfeeding, held up better than anyone would have bet. I have a round face, honey-colored eyes, and a mole beside my lip that has been the stuff of fantasy for more than one man. I’m introverted, but warm with the few friendships I manage to establish. My husband’s name is Hugo, he’s thirty-eight, has a little happy-life belly, and broad shoulders that forgive everything.

That summer was especially hot and boring. On the coast there are plenty of free beaches, so you don’t even have to burn calories to keep yourself entertained, but doing the same thing over and over eventually makes it so bland you almost prefer to sweat at home. A couple of months earlier, Hugo and I had done something wildly out of character for us: spent the day at a nudist beach. What started as a laughing conversation became so real that that very night we left the car packed so we could set off early.

Out there, more than courage, it’s social pressure that pushes you to take the plunge. You put on your best poker face, pretend it’s the most normal thing in the world, and strip in a hurry so you can get onto your towel as fast as possible. The funny thing is that once you get past the initial panic, you realize you’re not the center of anyone’s attention, and then you start enjoying how absurd it is to be self-conscious. The sun warming every inch of skin, the breeze cooling the salty droplets. Heaven on earth. We went home feeling like we’d lived through a day worth repeating.

The opportunity came almost without looking for it at the start of the following month. On the first Saturday of September, Hugo had to cover a grueling thirteen-hour shift and left me alone until nightfall. It wasn’t the first time a day off had been ruined that way, but in these times it’s hard to say no to overtime.

It was a spectacular day and I had nothing better to do, so I was in the mood for the beach. I had breakfast at a leisurely pace, made myself a sandwich, and loaded the car with the umbrella, a towel, and my bag. My plan was to go to the cove where Hugo used to spend summers as a kid, but as the miles rolled under the wheels Bruno, a co-worker from the office, came to mind because of one of those lunches where you talk about everything and only listen to whoever you like best. So I told myself, “Why not?”

The first proof of the maxim didn’t take long to appear. The parking area, usually packed, was deserted. Not a single car, not a tourist, not a stray dog. Nothing. Even better for me. I took my things out of the trunk, locked up, and went down the path to the sea. The sand confirmed what the parking lot had already announced: a single pair of umbrellas in the distance, making the cove seem much bigger than it was. You could set yourself down wherever you wanted without getting near anyone. Second proof.

Near the shore I found my spot. I spread out the towel, put a book, my headphones, and the tanning oil on top of it, and opened the umbrella. With no reason for modesty, I stripped naked, stowed my clothes in the bag, and, dressed only in my sunglasses, lay down and closed my eyes. The silence was broken only by the roar of the waves. A soft breeze moved across my body and my mind surrendered to the most absolute relaxation. Third reason. Enough to make the law my own.

—Welcome to my beach.

My heart lurched, more because I heard something other than the tide than because I recognized the voice. I sat up in a flash, covered myself with my arms, and turned my head to locate the source of the greeting. And there he was, as if someone had led him straight to me just to make my afternoon more complicated. I crossed my legs and felt the blush burning my cheeks. My throat was so dry I couldn’t even manage a hello, and my complete lack of any intention of getting up to greet him properly made me feel even more ridiculous. So he ended up bending down himself to kiss me on both cheeks.

—I see you finally decided to check out my little Garden of Eden —he said with a calm that seemed meant to rub off on me.

—Yes... —I finally stammered, pushing my sunglasses back up on the bridge of my nose.

What were the odds we’d run into each other? Bruno is one of the few co-workers I consider a real friend. Our connection goes beyond work: we share similar hobbies and tastes. He’s a good-natured guy, a little younger than me, taller, not in shape but not fat either. He wears his hair short, the same brown as his beard and eyes. He’s quite handsome, but above all cheerful. The type of guy I’ve always gotten along with. And yet, this was completely unlike anything I could have been prepared for. I felt more naked and vulnerable than ever in my life.

—Can I sit with you? —he asked while already spreading his towel next to mine.

—Yes... Hi... Fuck. —“Well, something is something,” I thought.

—What a beautifully constructed sentence —he teased.

I laughed, nervous, keeping my legs crossed in a really uncomfortable position I had no intention of abandoning. He, seated on his towel, performed the ritual of emptying out his beach bag. He pulled off his tank top by crossing his arms and yanking upward, then left it in a crumpled heap beside him.

—Tell me, how did you end up here, and alone? —he said as he settled in.

Since my only alternative was to run without looking back, I decided to relax and speak like a sane adult.

—A couple of months ago I went to another nudist beach with Hugo and we liked it so much that we said we’d do it again. Today was a bit underhanded, because this morning he left early for an endless shift and I came here like a hermit.

—I can see you’ve already got the hang of these places —he smiled.

—Yeah... Well. —I blushed again.

—If I’m bothering you, tell me and I’ll go sit over there at the far end, where I usually am. I was glad to see you, but maybe I’ve invaded your privacy too much.

—Don’t worry. I just don’t get along very well with these emotions, but it’s passing.

—Really? —he asked, bringing his hands to the knot on his shorts.

—Cross my heart —I said, laughing.

At that moment he untied his pants and let them fall the way buildings fall when they’re blown up with dynamite. I didn’t know whether to look or not, whether I should. I didn’t want to seem shameless, but it was impossible not to look, so I took advantage of my sunglasses to do it a little discreetly.

I couldn’t tell if he was big or small, because he was completely relaxed. The hair was neatly trimmed, a sign of his familiarity with the place, though not fully shaved. What caught my eye was the glans, half exposed and coppery from the sun. With no wide database to compare it against, I wouldn’t have said there was anything wrong with it at all. I couldn’t suppress a little guilt and a tingle of excitement that was born in my spine and ran through my whole body. To understand how absurd the situation was, it’s enough to say that coming to the office naked was not customary.

He took the tanning oil and started smearing it on, first his face, then his arms and chest. I couldn’t explain why I kept watching—whether it was inertia, hypnosis, or pure lust. The truth is I never stopped.

—You should pay a little more attention to yourself —he said, alternating his gaze between my eyes and the cream.

—Sorry —I answered, almost stammering, clumsily holding the bottle.

—No problem. But if you burn, you’re going to wish you’d spent your time differently —he added with amusement.

I really had been far too obvious, that much was to be expected. In a situation like that it’s hard to control even your heartbeat, pounding in your ears. I spread cream over my shoulders and chest and worked it in with my hands. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him stroking his genitals, which reacted to the contrast of the cold lotion just like my nipples. My abdomen and legs were my next target. I started feeling very hot and a tingling between my thighs that I could no longer blame solely on the sun.

At last he seemed to be done, and I took advantage of him lying face down to do the same, settling my head between my arms and thanking heaven for the pause the new position gave me. Or not.

—What, you’re not going to put cream on my back?

I swallowed, trying to stretch out a fake state of deafness in which I hadn’t heard anything. After three seconds I checked that his gaze was directed to the opposite end of the beach, exactly away from mine.

—I see you don’t mind if by Monday I’m aching even from the brush of the air-conditioning —he said, pretending to be hurt.

—Fine —I replied, feigning annoyance. At that point, what did it matter.

I made sure he was still looking the other way before sitting up. I settled sideways on the edge of his towel, almost leaning on his hip, using my left hand to keep my balance. The good thing about it was that it gave me an excuse to feast my eyes without pretending otherwise. The bad thing was that I didn’t know how much longer I should stay there. But there I was.

A thin line of cream from one shoulder to the other served as a moral boundary. And blurring it with the tip of my fingers was the confirmation that I’d decided to cross it, with all the consequences. His skin was soft and warm, and the oil made it easy to travel along the winding path my hand had begun beside his spine. I spread the lotion over his whole back, from the nape of his neck to his lower back. His ass, round and firm, had that golden nudist-beach tone, and the complete lack of tan lines made it even more sensual.

—Are you sure it wouldn’t be easier if you used both hands? —he suggested in a worried tone.

It was obvious that the position was starting to hurt me and wasn’t the most practical. I didn’t answer, as usual, but I took the advice and lifted myself up to kneel on my heels. I rested my weight on both hands and leaned over his shoulders. It was beginning to feel more like a massage than rubbing on burn lotion. He let out a deep breath and I got bolder, pressing a little harder.

I added more cream and the tips of all ten fingers began a choreography over his skin. I traced and retraced the route several times, from his neck to the base of his back, passing over his collarbones and arms. In the absence of any sign of discomfort, I ventured farther. I slid down his side until I touched the towel, massaged his waist and the start of his hips, and squeezed the bottle again, this time over the swell of his buttocks. My hands adapted to the curve and lingered in the dimples of Venus before settling fully on his ass.

—You’re not bad at this. For someone who complains so much about writing reports, maybe your professional future is closer than you think —he said, earning himself a pinch.

His breathing, now completely audible, remained calm and deep. Nothing told me I was stepping onto forbidden ground, so with more resolve than courage I included that territory in my itinerary. I went over it all again, from the nape of his neck to the base of his thighs. It was obvious the scene had long since become more pleasurable than necessary, but neither of us seemed to mind.

I spread more cream, now on my hands, and moved down to his legs. I grasped his left knee crease as a starting point and worked up and down with a motion firm enough to make his whole body jolt. I switched legs and took the chance to reposition myself: I knelt facing him from below, at the end of the towel, where I could revel in all his vertical length. That was when I noticed a small compass tattooed on his right side, and his testicles peeking timidly between his legs.

I gripped his buttock with both hands, more intensely than before. My pinky brushed the crease between them and, little by little, almost as if it were unintentional, I began to spread his legs so my fingers could slide more easily. I took a deep breath. The inside of his thighs now demanded all my attention, so I straddled his waist, letting our heat and moisture intertwine. I placed my hands on his back and climbed up to his shoulders, stretching forward under the pretext of brushing his skin with my breasts. My nipples were so hard they hurt as they slid over the oil. He began moving his hips almost imperceptibly, but enough to bury his arousal in the towel.

—Do you want to turn over? —I whispered in his ear.

And, anticipating his answer, I straightened up a little to give him freedom of movement.

He turned over and tucked the bag beneath his head. I, in front of him, waited for him to finish before sitting on his thighs. His eyes were fixed on my breasts, so much so that he didn’t notice the moisture on his own stomach. I ran my eyes the full length of his torso to the swelling of the glans. I shot him a naughty look, like a bad girl waiting for her scolding, bit my lower lip, and without taking my eyes off his, wrapped both hands around his erection.

A gasp escaped him and a jolt arched his spine. I stroked him slowly, learning his rhythm, attentive to every expression on his face so I’d know when to tighten and when to ease up. I went down unhurriedly, kissed his still-salty belly, and when I took him into my mouth I heard him curse under his breath and clutch the towel with both hands. I didn’t want it to end that quickly, so I stopped when I felt he was getting too close and climbed back up onto him.

—Vera —he said, in a tone that was no longer joking—. If we keep going, there’s no going back.

I thought about Hugo for a whole second. I thought about Monday, about the office, about looking him in the face next to the coffee machine. And even so I lowered myself slowly, feeling him enter me while a sigh slipped out against his neck. I rode him with the sun beating on my back and the sand burning under my knees, no longer caring who might appear on the path. His hands held my hips, setting the rhythm, and I braced mine on his chest to bring him to my pace. Pleasure climbed slowly up from my thighs until it became something I couldn’t hold in; I bit my lip to keep from crying out and he came soon after, pulling me down against him with a rough groan the wind carried out toward the sea.

We stayed still for a long while, my cheek on his heaving chest, saying nothing. Guilt, which had all morning been only a distant tingle, finally arrived, though much warmer than it deserved to be. I moved away carefully and let myself fall beside him on the towel, staring up at the cloudless sky.

—September is the best month of the year —he said with a smile, repeating the nudists’ mantra.

Despite myself, I burst out laughing. We bathed together, let the water wash away the salt and oil, and on the way out we gathered our things in near silence, each of us aware that something had just opened a door that would be hard to close again.

On the way to the car, now dressed, I checked my phone. A message from Hugo: “This is dragging on forever, I miss you.” I read it twice before replying that I missed him too, that I’d spent the day peacefully at the beach. It wasn’t entirely a lie. I drove home with the window down and my hair still damp, replaying every minute of the afternoon and knowing, without needing to admit it out loud, that on Monday I’d be looking for Bruno in the common room long before lunchtime.