Along the Foamy Strand

Amy showed Sarah so much about herself, that windy, cool day, while their house mates were out shopping. Sarah became aware of her ability to truly love another female, and she knew immediately that her love would go only to one other, returning Amy's ardor with enthusiasm.

Amy had begun their intimacy by suggesting that Sarah might enjoy a massage, as she'd been rather tense and abrupt with the others, but not Amy, for some reason...

"I give a pretty mean back rub, Sarah," Amy had said. "I had a pretty good trainer on my high school swim team, and she showed me a few things. It's really good for relieving tension, " she finished with no hint of any but innocent intentions.

"Um, I guess it couldn't hurt," Sarah said, her green eyes pure and free of guile. Amy had Sarah sit backwards on a straight backed, wooden kitchen chair, so that Amy could reach all of her back easily.

"Hold onto the chair back, and rest your head in your arms," Amy suggested. "If you close your eyes, it's even better," she said. Sarah did as Amy suggested.

"I'm going to massage you through your tee shirt, okay," Amy asked. Sarah nodded her assent. Amy's hands were indeed gifted, and the trainer had taught her well. As Amy's fingers glided over Sarah's stiff back, she could feel the tension flowing out of Sarah and into her fingers. A simple shake of her hands freshened them, but Amy knew that touching Sarah's slim build was having an effect on Amy herself, and she could feel her pussy wetting. It was no surprise to Amy, as she had set out to seduce the beautiful, young freshman. She'd been infatuated with her the moment she first saw her.

Sarah groaned with pleasure as Amy's fingers traced their way along her muscle groups. Amy took her fingers off Sarah's back after a few minutes. Then she leaned forward, her lips inches from Sarah's ear, golden hair curled around it. "I could massage deeper, if you like," she hissed, "But it's better if your top is off."

Sarah didn't reply, but languorously reached up, pulling her Boston Pops tee shirt up, over her head, her tanned back revealing itself to Amy's hungry eyes, light red marks tracing where Amy had pressed harder as she increased the depth of her massage. With a sigh, the shirt scraped over Sarah's neck, then her long hair fell back on her naked shoulders and back. Certainly the girls had seen each other naked before, and so both were at ease.

Amy applied herself again, her magical fingers repairing Amy's psyche, but also stirring in Sarah, thoughts and feelings she had never consciously considered before, though Amy surmised they had been there, beneath Sarah's prim and proper patina. Sarah's sounds, and body movements, became more and more sensual as she came to the slow realization that Amy's touch was reaching her soul.

Somewhere in the massage, the simple act of friendship became the sealing act of courtship, and when Amy leaned forward to whisper, "How does it feel?", instead of responding in words, Sarah leaned back, her head resting on Amy's shoulder, her response evident on her two, soft and glistening lips, slightly parted, and her shallow breathing. It was the most natural thing then, for Amy to lean forward and bring her lips to Sarah's, and from there it was a wondrous day and night of discovery for the two women.

Returning to the present, back in their family home of the last ten years, as each experiences the pleasure of memory, they hug strongly, Sarah whispering fiercely in Amy's ear, "Please, I want you to make me cum tonight." Amy nods, then stands, looking down into the glowing beauty of Sarah, and offering her hand. Sarah takes it, compliant and submitting herself to Amy's need and strength, and Amy leads her to their bed, the soft yellow pastel bed sheets warmly feminine, and of a pale, almost imperceptible shade, counterpointed by a small, bright yellow pillow that looks like a small, blazing sun in the center of their larger, more subtly colored matched pillows.

Betraying her almost primordial lust, wild and savage, Amy throws the pillows down off the bed, the small, bright yellow pillow flying across the room and crashing into a bust of Gaia that they had purchased at a street fair in Houston. Sarah giggles - she loves teasing Amy, knowing the reward for her wife's temporary sexual frustration will be memorable orgasms for them both.

She lies back, her arms up by her head, her long blonde hair cast carelessly in a cloud of honey-ash around her face. Amy looks down at her, and instantaneously fixes the picture in her mind, her woman's beautiful face surrounded by ashen blonde hair, like a cloud of smoke, free and wild. Amy doubts that it could ever be possible for a woman to look more beautiful. Sarah smiles up at her wife and lover.

"Don't you want me?" Sarah teases, then coos with delight as Amy lowers herself onto Sarah's warm and willing body.

"More than you could ever know!" Amy whispers, bringing her lips to Sarah's once again, but fiercely this time. Both women writhe, the pleasure of feeling the other's heat and moistness so close. Amy's hand slips down Sarah's body, under her blouse so briefly, brushing against her supple skin to return to the fabric-covered waist of her dark blue skirt. Her nimble fingers, urged on by need, slip under it and along the outside of Sarah's cotton panties, her blonde bush billowing out the thin cloth, like a tiny, soft pillow above her sex.

Amy's knowing fingers linger at Sarah's bush, then through it, tracing the nub of Sarah's clitoris lightly, causing the blonde to lift her hips upward with desire and need. Avoiding giving Sarah anything more than a fleeting thrill of pleasure, her finger continues downward, tracing through the thin fabric the wet surface of Sarah's labia, her touch bringing cotton and feminine moisture together, as Sarah moans with pleasure, her hips again, vainly lifting upward in search of complete ecstasy. Amy continues kissing Sarah, her lover's thoughts increasingly distracted, as might be expected. Their tongues lave each other lightly, not aggressively, merely one more point of contact these two women share in the spectrum of experience that is their love.

"Please", Sarah begs. She knows that their communication need not occur through words.

Amy's fingers slip under the thin elastic strip that follows the crease of Sarah's groin on the left side, and presses the swollen bulge that is her outer labia on that side.

"Yes," Sarah sighs. She nods, unnecessary as that is, hoping that it will somehow hasten her orgasm.

Amy's finger traces over the heat of Sarah's lips as they swell with her life fluid, and finds her moist and fragrant center. Beyond all words now, Sarah wriggles her hips and smiles with pleasure as she feels Amy's finger slip inside her. Their dance is a familiar one, each knowing her role. Sarah returns her consciousness and awareness to her wife's mouth, returning Amy's soft kisses with increasing passion, even as her own hand slips inside of Amy's shorts, loving the tactile sensation of her fingertips slipping over silky smooth flesh, while the back of her hand is pressed and scraped harshly by the rough fabric of the shorts.

Eschewing subtlety for immediacy, Sarah slips her fingers under Amy's silken panties, the fabric of her intimate covering so feminine, and the flesh at Amy's lower belly equally feminine. Racing her fingers through Amy's thick pubic bush, they dive, without waiting, into Amy's molten pool, two fingers slipping inside her liquid silkiness, Sarah feeling the grasping heat of her lover's pussy, both women writhing now in ecstasy and passion.

Together, they both cum, simultaneous explosions of delight, stars exploding in their brains, worlds dissolving in pleasure as they share their passion, and completeness. The electrical sensations trailing throughout their beings only decrease gradually, each and both content to feel the other inside her, and to be inside her, and they drift off to sleep in each other's arms. Before they drift away, each murmurs, "I love you', completing their oneness. Somehow during the night, they cover themselves with the warm yellow sheet, and dream countless, small, pleasant dreams.

The next morning, though, reality intrudes. The matter of Katy's watch must be considered, and solved.

"Amy, what we were talking about, before..." Sarah begins, somewhat timorously, standing by Amy, who's seated at their white maple kitchen table, toying with her lunch-time strawberry yogurt. After Amy has spent the morning and part of her Saturday afternoon working on some business-related paperwork, in spite of her vacation, Sarah's not sure if the magical, sensual spell she wove the night before, still enraptures Amy. A small quiet creeps stealthily through the room, like a cat hunting a small bird.

"I thought about what you said," Amy fills the quiet space. "I'm going to go back and look for the watch. It's the least we can do for Katy."

Sarah smiles gratefully, and leans down to give Amy a lingering kiss.

"Thank you," Sarah says, and nothing more. Amy gathers a few things, then heads out to the car, Sarah following, as Katy plays with her doll house in the sunroom. Her slight voice pipes up as she talks to her dolls.

"Now Ernestine, you behave yourself, and apologize to Donna," she says in a scolding voice. Amy smiles as she pictures Katy reprimanding a miniature floppy-eared stuffed grey terrycloth elephant.

Amy starts up their SUV, the radio momentarily blaring with static. She turns it down as she looks over at Sarah, standing next to the red car door.

"Maybe the lifeguards found it, or somebody turned it in. But please prepare Katy for the likelihood that I'm not going to find it, okay? I don't mind making this trip, but I can't bear to see Katy sad, too, if I don't find it," Amy says, her smile fleeting and not entirely hopeful.

Sarah puts on a big smile, happy that Amy will at least make the effort.

"Thanks, sweetheart! I love you, and I know you'll find it. Don't forget to ask the lifeguards. I thought I'd make a carrot souffle for dinner. Does that sound alright?" Segues aren't really her strong suit, but Sarah figures that Amy's favorite dinner might at least keep her from being too grumpy. Sarah throws her arms around Amy's neck. Amy can see that Sarah's nipples are erect, and realizes that her own nipples are just as hard, and aching just a little bit.

Amy reflects that maybe it's not so bad being a kept woman. She visualizes Sarah, naked in their bed, her body lush and welcoming, her openings deliciously moist and sweet, and Amy mentally savors the luscious and tantalizing tongue bath she'll give Sarah, on her return.

She calls out, "Love you!" as Sarah waves goodbye. Amy pulls the red Ford Explorer out of the sloping driveway, onto the street of their small Victoria subdivision. Sarah turns and walks back to the house on the red brick paver walk, lined with zinnias in brilliant shades of primary colors. She spies their neighbor three houses down mowing his postage stamp front lawn.

Through the open window, she can hear Katy now advising an imaginary next door neighbor to her dollhouse, about her favorite cake recipe, and she, too, smiles. Amy and Katy are everything to Sarah. She doesn't know what she'd do if anything ever happened to them. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a presentiment of disaster claws silently, imperceptibly, at her, a small rodent burrowing.

Amy negotiates her way out of their subdivision, and south onto State Rt 87. From there, it's a straight 45 minute drive past farm fields and pastures into Port Lavaca, a small commercial fishing and recreational town on the Gulf of Mexico. Unlike most Gulf Coast shore property in Florida, the Texas coast is still little-developed, outside of Galveston, Corpus Christi and South Padre Island. Few man-made structures pass her view, the landscape ornamentations still natural and wild.

As the scattered oak trees flash by, she considers the changes that Sarah and Katy brought into her life. "Slow motion changes," she muses, but considerable for all that. "Never thought I'd be a family woman and a mother," she remarks, as an Aerosmith song about elevators as locations for lovemaking ends. Steven Tyler doesn't respond, so Amy returns to silence.

The Saturday traffic on Rte 87 is moderately heavy, returning north from the shore, as Amy heads south into Port Lavaca. She pulls into the paved section of the public parking lot by the beach, the oleanders at the entrance flashing alternately red and white, and tries to remember where they'd parked the day before. "Might as well backtrack as much as possible," she thinks to herself, "even though it's a waste of time."

She scouts out the area where they'd parked, recalling that they were next to a 6-pack of empty beer bottles inside a brown paper bag. Unsurprisingly, the paper bag is still there, and it's now accompanied by a flattened but apparently full, disposable diaper. A dun-colored slime oozes out of it. Ignoring the fragrant bouquet of the diaper, which has become robust during the sunny day, she searches gingerly in 'their' parking space, and those around it, with no immediate results.

"That would have been way too much to expect," she thinks. She walks through the lot, approximately retracing their route as best she can, looking at the ground all the way, then steps over the concrete parking lot divider, and steps onto the beach, slip-sliding over the nearly liquid white sand, to the approximate area their blanket had been.

"Goodness, I'll never find it here. I can't be sure I'm in the right place, and they clean the beach every night, anyway," she mutters to herself. The smells of beach food, rich in grease, are stronger here, as are the calliope sounds of the carousel on the weathered grey dock, elevated 8' above the beach and extending approximately 300 feet into the Gulf.

The hot, white sand slipping under her feet, she crabwalks off to the white-painted lifeguard's shack to see if it had been turned in there. Amy sees a rugged-looking 20-something dark haired lifeguard at the elevated chair next to the station, wearing the distinctive red and blue suit of Coastal Bend Gulf Water Rescue, along with the universal zinc oxide white nose, worn by lifeguards everywhere. She asks him if anyone had turned in a watch, and describes it to the lifeguard. Beginning to speak, he stops and moves aside quickly, as a painter slopping fresh white paint on the guard chair splashes some near him.

"Sorry, dude," the lanky, almost emaciated looking college-age painter grins in his direction. "It's a summer job. I'm no expert, although I AM an art history major. Rembrandt once said-"

As Amy stands by, looking on at the small drama, the lifeguard frowns at the painter, and interrupts, "Just get it finished, okay? That paint you guys are using doesn't seem to hold up very long any more. I swear these were painted a month ago."

The painter says, "Whatever, man. It's supposed to hold up for at least a year, but I can use the extra pay. It'll be all dry by tomorrow morning."

His forehead furrowed, the handsome life guard turns his face to Amy. "I'm really sorry, ma'am. No one turned in anything like that, and to be honest with you, I'd be surprised if they did," he says. "A lot of people think that anything they find at the beach is theirs, even if it's sitting on someone else's blanket when they find it," he finishes, shaking his head slowly. "But we'll keep a lookout for it, if you'll leave your name and number." Amy thanks him, and leaves the requested information.

As he stands by his elevated wooden lifeguard chair, his radio loudly crackling with static, Amy turns to walk back to the car, when she remembers what Sarah had said about the piece of Barbieana specifically being under the dock. She does remember Sarah and Katy walking over there shortly before they left, when Katy had gotten a little over-tired and bored, to check for any shells that might have washed up. She decides to give it a look, and hopes she won't run into any vagrants while she's there.

The dock had originally been an extension of a structure built during World War II, to fuel small coastal defense craft. When it was deeded to the State of Texas after the war, the state in turn handed it over to the City of Port Lavaca, which let it rot for a few years. Finally, after receiving a grant from the federal government, the city demolished most of the structure, but renovated the dock out into Lavaca Bay, widening and extending it, and leasing out space on it for retail businesses. The usual sunglasses-fast food-arcade crowd had moved in, and populated the strip along part of the beachfront, as well as the original buildings on the dock.

Now the beach had become a magnet for day-tripper families from the Victoria area, but it would likely never be confused with Galveston or Corpus Christi, which is fine with Amy. Like Amy and her family, the beach in Port Lavaca is middle class and quiet.

As Amy walks along the water line, approaching the dock, in the shade of the overhanging wood and concrete structure the temperature cools dramatically, and the lighting worsens significantly. Amy feels a chill, unusual in the midst of a midsummer warm spell, and squints into the deep shade under the dock.

She wonders if she'll be able to see much of anything there, and thinks about the old joke about the drunk looking for his lost wallet a block from where he lost it, because 'the light is better over here.'

She can hear the susurrant whisper of the surf gently rising up on the packed wet sand, the faint music of the carousel running riderless overhead, and the distant, isolated cries of the seagulls and terns swooping over each roll of the surf, as they wait for the water to inevitably turn over a treat, whether dead fish or hot dog remnant. The sea foam makes a garland along the strand, stretching into infinity, with here and there a pendant of seaweed or broken shell to ornament itself.

Since Amy hadn't walked under the dock with Sarah and Katy yesterday, she really has no idea where to look, but figures her best bet would be somewhere within the area bounded by the cool, green surf on one side, and probably no more than five feet or so up beach, since Katy was fascinated by the gentle surf. She would have stayed right at the surf line, unless ordered otherwise by Sarah. Amy realizes that the surf might have been at a higher or lower level yesterday, but since there's nothing she can do about that, she decides to just disregard that variable and do the best she can.

She's gotten about thirty feet in under the dock, halfway in, when she hears a woman's voice gasp. Amy lifts up her head, looking around, to identify where it came from, but she can't make out the source. She pauses to see if there's more, but hears nothing. She continues on searching, finding nothing but stray pieces of cloudy sea glass, and hasn't gone more than 10 feet along the beach, when she hears another gasp, followed by a faint voice whispering, "-light-".

"Who's that?" Amy calls. "Are you hurt?" Amy hears no reply, but thinks that someone might be hurt, the voice is so strained. She starts up towards where the sound came from, kicking up small sheets of sand with her sneakers as she goes. She knows that she should be careful in this area hidden from the lifeguards, and the others on the beach. "Hey, who's there? Where are you?" She hears a kind of whimpering sound, and a woman's voice, saying, "...the light...watch...the light."

Amy is stunned. The words, much clearer this time, are coming from directly in front of her, no more than five feet away. Yet there is nothing at all there, not a body, not a pillar, or piece of trash that might conceal someone, not even a speaker that might be casting the sound. Only rumpled and tossed sand.