The Sunday We Played at Being Two Strangers on the Beach
The last day of the weekend dawned with that sweet lethargy the body is left with when there’s nothing left to prove. Marina and I had spent three days deliberately letting ourselves go, and by then shame was a distant memory. What had started as a shy little game had become a silent competition to see who would dare more.
—Today there’s no commanding and no obeying —she said, stretching out on the bed—. Today we provoke.
We accepted the change of rules without arguing. We abandoned the domination game of the previous days and moved on to something subtler and, at the same time, more dangerous: pure provocation. Each of us would choose our own clothes, without consulting the other, with a single implicit rule: push the other to the brink of exposing themselves in public.
The plan for the day was to spend the morning at the beach, eat something light and, since it was close by, head over to the Valdrío Springs, which brought back such good memories from other summers. I opted for comfort and chose a pair of tight leggings and a thin, almost transparent T-shirt. The leggings did their part: they outlined everything and left nothing to the imagination. The T-shirt did the rest, sketching the shape of my nipples against the fabric every time the air brushed me. I didn’t forget the metal ring that had been so well received the previous days.
Marina surprised me with a knitted short so tight it was more of a statement than a garment, and a loose T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. We looked at ourselves in the mirror and both knew the day was going to get complicated.
—One more thing —she added, grabbing the keys—. At the beach we stay apart. As if we didn’t know each other at all.
As if that was going to make it easier.
***
I went ahead and picked a spot at one end of the sandy beach, sparsely populated, not far from the shore. I used the wait to settle in and change into a tiny swimsuit that outlined everything with surgical precision, with the obvious risk of spilling out at the slightest carelessness. I lay face down, put on my mirrored sunglasses and waited.
She wasn’t long. She appeared walking slowly across the sand, her hips swaying with every step inside that impossible short. She stopped about five meters away, spread out her towel and, without looking at me once, stripped until she was left in a black thong tied with two bows at the sides. Above one hip a temporary tattoo peeked out, one she had painted on herself that morning. She kept to the pact to the letter: for anyone watching, I did not exist.
The midday sun was blazing hard. I didn’t miss a thing through the mirrored lenses. Marina had taken off her top and was lying on her back, the triangle of the thong barely covering what was needed. A spectacle, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
It was the third time a dark-haired guy had walked by her, each time closer, with no attempt to hide where he was looking. She had noticed too. This time she motioned for him to come over and asked him something I couldn’t hear. The boy nodded, delighted, and she handed him a bottle of tanning oil.
From my position I had a privileged seat. He started on her back, spreading the oil with both hands, and slowly worked his way down. Marina responded by opening her legs a little more, an invitation he did not pass up. When he reached her ass, he used the excuse of not staining the fabric to slip one of the bows loose. She herself finished pulling it aside, leaving everything exposed. The boy gave himself over to it fully, until she, with a sharp gesture of her hand, told him to stop. Obediently, he stood up and walked away along the shoreline, visibly affected.
I was just as affected, and far less discreet.
***
She had achieved exactly what she wanted: to push me to the limit without touching me. She sat up, and instead of going back to the black thong she rummaged through her bag and pulled out a blue bikini I had given her months earlier, one she swore she would never wear because it was so provocative. The fabric was paper-thin, almost translucent. I didn’t even want to imagine what it would look like when wet.
I decided it was my turn to make a move. I got up trying to adjust myself inside the swimsuit, aware that she was following every movement I made, and walked slowly toward the shore. The Atlantic water was freezing. I stopped at the edge, absorbed in the line of the horizon, and I didn’t hear her come up behind me until I felt the heat of her body pressed to mine and the tips of her nipples jabbing through the wet fabric.
—This game is turning me on so much —she whispered in my ear.
Her hands slid up from my hip to my nipples and started playing with them. Pretending was impossible. About ten meters away, two women were strolling along the shore, their eyes fixed on the bulge that no longer fit inside the swimsuit. Marina noticed, and just as they passed in front of us she gave me a squeeze that sent everything jumping into the public eye. I froze, and not because of the water.
I took advantage of the dip to hide beneath the surface. Once the pair of spectators had moved away, I loosened the swimsuit under the water and waved it above me like a lure to get her to come closer. Instead of coming over, she motioned for me to throw it to her. I don’t know when it seemed like a good idea, but I threw it hard and she caught it on the fly, went back to her towel and left it there, smiling.
Still dazed, I watched her return to the water and not stop until she reached where I was, naked and half frozen. She wrapped her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist, sitting on me, and gave me a long kiss that made me forget where I was and in what state.
—The price of being horny —she said, pulling away— is going back naked to the towel.
I waited a while to regain some composure before emerging and walking back with the little dignity I had left, passing very close to her, and in the process confirming that the wet blue bikini had become completely transparent. Between her towel and mine, a mature woman followed my entire route with a slow turn of her head.
***
We barely had half an hour left to dry off before lunch. I fished a blue thong from the bag to match her little number and put it on. A while later I saw her pass by me, wearing a pleated black miniskirt that accentuated her figure, and she gave me a wicked smile that took me a couple of minutes to decipher. She had taken advantage of my trip to the shore to steal my leggings. I had to cross the entire beach in a thong, through all those people, all the way to the car.
—And here I was thinking today was going to be a quiet day —I muttered.
However I could, and pretty aroused, I reached the parking lot. There she was, applauding my arrival. I changed into tight gray pants and a perforated polo shirt, with no underwear, of course. We ate at an Italian place: pizzas washed down with a rosé Lambrusco, and afterward we took a walk with our arms linked around each other’s waists, going over the best plays of the morning.
***
On the way to the springs, I asked Marina to drive. As a statement of intent, I began stroking myself over my pants until I set the prisoner free, commenting on how heated the beach game had left me. She answered the provocation by grabbing me firmly while opening her legs so I could see she wasn’t wearing anything under the skirt. I stroked her and found her just as wet as I was hard. Between games, we arrived.
We composed ourselves a little before going in. We bought our tickets, split up toward the changing rooms and agreed to meet up by the pool. I left the towel on a lounger at the back and waited for her. I had chosen a white boxer-style swimsuit, lined in the front, although I had my doubts about how much transparency it would withstand once wet.
Marina appeared in a high-waisted green swimsuit that suited her wonderfully. She came with the towel tied at her hip, dropped it on the lounger next to mine and invited me into the pool. First came the obligatory shower, which made the fabric stick to her body like a second skin. The water made my swimsuit practically transparent; luckily, the front lining and the lack of neighbors turned the display into a private show, just for her.
We played for a while under the hot jets, taking advantage of the chance to rub against each other without much disguise. Then a young couple arrived, just over twenty, with good bodies: she in a tiny bikini, him in thin Bermuda shorts. Marina looked at me with that spark I already knew.
—Turkish bath —she said—. But you go out first, I want to see how the wet swimsuit fits you.
I climbed the ladder slowly and, when I reached the top, turned so the silhouette against the lining could be seen clearly. She winked at me and followed, letting the fabric at the back press between her wet ass cheeks. She quickened her pace to pinch me and, once inside, sheltered by the fog in the room, we melted into an embrace that was anything but innocent. While she ran her tongue over my mouth, she grabbed my nipples and twisted them slowly, fully aware of the effect that had on me.
I held her neck with one hand and a breast with the other, turned her until her back was pressed against my chest and pulled her tight against me. We were so lost in it that we didn’t hear the young couple come in until it was too late. Mortified, we left almost running, laughing, and went straight into the water to hide our arousal, which by then had already drawn more people in.
When we regained our composure, we went out to collect the towels and get changed. I told her to go on ahead, that I’d meet her in the lobby. Before leaving, I thought it only fair to give something to three mature women sunbathing at the edge of the pool: I went over to the adjacent shower, let the water do its work and, as a farewell, bent down to pick up the towel, showing them my rear end in all its splendor.
***
After a full day on the edge, my body felt ready to explode. It was time to go home, and I wasn’t at all sure I’d make it through the trip without throwing myself on her.
During the drive we kept replaying the whole weekend. Marina, almost without realizing it, was stroking herself beneath the miniskirt while remembering the first day, when she made me drive half naked, or the look on my face when I came back in a thong across the beach. I gave her back the memory of her expression of pleasure on the massage table, or when we crossed the hotel hallway half undressed. With every memory, the temperature in the car went up another degree.
At one point, gripping what was poking out through the zipper of my pants, she lifted her legs and rested her feet on the dashboard, showing everything just as we slowly overtook a truck whose driver received the courtesy show.
—Look at what you do to me —she said.
We were fifteen kilometers from home, on the highway, and night had already fallen. I decided to pull off into a rest area with a certain reputation for furtive hookups. I parked to the side, switched off the engine and didn’t even have time to finish the sentence.
—I can’t take it anymore —I began, and she had already thrown herself at me.
I pushed the seat back to give her room and switched on the interior light so I wouldn’t miss a thing. The windows began to fog up, so I lowered hers a little. Meanwhile, I was caressing the ass she offered me beneath the skirt. Barely a few minutes had passed when I realized we had company: a man, standing beside the car, was stroking himself while staring at us without any shame.
Now we couldn’t stop. I slid a finger inside her and she responded with a shiver and a soft bite. I lowered the window a little more, and the stranger slipped his hand through the opening and started stroking her hip. Marina, absorbed in what she was doing, noticed nothing. A final pinch on my nipple took me to the most intense orgasm of the entire weekend. The spectator finished against the car door and withdrew in silence.
We sat up and melted into a long kiss that tasted like sex. I raised the window, started the car, and ahead of us we had an entire week to rest.
Though we both knew we were going to have to do it again.