On the Beach Ch. 02

"No," I whispered through clenched teeth. "I'm fine. Just hold your dick there. Let me."

Jim didn't reply but he didn't pull away either. I pushed against his dick. The first half of the crown penetrated me easily but the wider flange and top of his shaft felt like they were too much. My pussy could never stretch that wide. It hurt. I pushed harder. I gritted my teeth as the pain in my pussy flared. I pushed harder and, just like that, he was inside me. I held still, giving my pussy time to adjust. After a few seconds, Jim began to push deeper in me.

The pain was gone. It had been replaced by the most delicious feeling of fullness I had ever felt. He was inside my body. We were as close physically as two people can ever be. I wanted to sing.

Soon both of his hands were on my hips. For the first time in my life I was being fucked. For the first time I understood the difference between "fucking" and "making love". They're not as different as some maintain. I didn't feel violated or taken advantage of. I wanted to be "fucked" as much as Jim wanted to "fuck" me. Our desires did not lessen our emotional connection. The fact that we had an emotional connection made it easier to let go and immerse ourselves in the experience. Or so it seemed to me, I shouldn't presume to speak for Jim.

Anyone can fuck. It's perfectly possible to fuck a stranger and to enjoy it, but strangers cannot make love. To me that is the primary difference. Maybe we need another category. "Hook-up fucks" are entirely about the physical release. "Couple fucks" are primarily physical release and "making love" is as much about the emotion as the physical.

I wasn't thinking about any of that at the time. My only goal then had been to time my pushes with Jim's thrust. I lost myself in the sensation of being stretched and filled by his dick. I held onto to the post with one hand. With the other, I began to play with my pussy.

We seemed to have fallen into a competition with Mark and Muriel and my parents. Who could fuck the hardest? Who could fuck the fastest? The darkening air echoed with grunts, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, and finally the moans of satisfaction.

I felt the same sensation of compression of my body. This time I held on to it. I kept the lid screwed on tight and let it build and build. When Jim drove deep in my pussy and tensed, I pulled the cork. I jerked away from him while he was still cumming, while I was still cumming, spun around and took his dick in my mouth. My fingers left my clit and pushed their way into my pussy, trying to fill the vacuum left by Jim's cock. I tasted my pussy on his cock as the last of his cum filled my mouth.

I had forgotten about Bill. He stood to one side. His penis was rock hard, nearly flat against his belly. The look on his face confirmed what I had been suspecting for months now. For the first time I worried he might grow to hate me.

Now, staring at him I was afraid my fears were proving all too true.

--

I picked up the SPF 45. Before Jill could speak, I beat her to the punch. "The amount of UV light blocked by a particular SPF is not linear. Above 45, probably above 30, the incremental benefit is minimal." I squirted some into my hand. "I read," I added as I began to rub the lotion over my cock and balls. I was in an ugly mood but she was right. Getting a sunburned and blistered dick was not on my list of things to do today.

Her fingers brushed the hair on my chest. "You have dried cum on your chest, big brother." There was a sadness in her voice that made me want to cry. I didn't need my sister to worry about me and I didn't want to worry her.

"Do my back?" I asked, hoping that would signal her not to worry.

I didn't wait for her to answer. I turned, knowing she'd take care of my back.

When she was done, I finished the rest of my body. Jill had brought me a towel as well. I picked it up and turned toward the door.

"Aren't you going to keep me company?" There was that sadness again.

I was getting ready to give her the excuse I'd been working on as I applied the sunscreen when a voice floated across the yard. It was Muriel.

We both looked over at her house. She was in her yard, peering over the fence, nude.

"Bill, honey? I hate to bother you so early but could you give me a hand for a sec? I have some garden stuff I'd like to move before it gets hot. I'll feed you breakfast."

I wanted to tell her to fuck off.

"Sure, Ms. Dyer. Be there is a sec."

"Just come through the garden gate. It's not locked." She turned and walked toward the side of her house.

As I pulled my shorts on, Jill smiled and whispered, "Don't bother. She's just going to take them off."

I scowled again by way of saying good-bye. A horny MILF was the last thing I wanted to deal with.

I pushed open the gate and Muriel was waiting. She held out a large glass of orange juice. It would have been rude to refuse so I took it from her and took a sip. I had to admit it tasted better than the beer.

"Over here, hon. It shouldn't take long."

She led me to two twenty-five pound bags of mulch.

"Would you mind putting those over by that bed by the back fence honey?"

I shrugged my assent. There wasn't enough space on the beach for a real backyard. You were lucky if you could squeeze in a pool. I could have tossed the bags over to the bed. It took less than a minute to move the bags.

"Anything else, ma'am?"

"No, honey. Thank you, but I promised you breakfast."

I open my mouth to beg off but she was not to be deterred.

"No excuse, mister. Come along. I don't bite." She giggled. "Not unless you ask me to."

I groaned inside. How the fuck was I going to get out of this?

"Don't mind the mess. I haven't had time to clean up. You'd better like buttermilk biscuits, Bill, 'cause that's what you're smelling."

My stomached growled. For the first time that morning I smiled.

"Scrambled okay?"

"A biscuit will be..."

"Honey, that's not what I asked. Scrambled okay?"

I might as well be arguing with my mom.

"Yes, ma'am."

"One of the things that bothers me about the world today is the decided lack of courtesy but, Bill, you're all grown up and I'm not a grandmother. Muriel will do. Not only will it do, I insist.'

I nodded. She nodded back.

I drank my orange juice while she donned an apron and began to worked at the stove. She turned a low flame on under a skillet on the back burner. She scrambled two eggs, adding a good dollop of cream to them, dropped some butter in a second skillet and poured the mixture in.

When she sat the plate in front of me, my mouth watered. The eggs were perfect, not a streak of white. White streaks in scrambled eggs are a sure sign the cook doesn't know how to beat eggs. A perfectly brown biscuit perched on the edge of the plate and a second one was forked open and covered in sausage gravy.

"You want some Tabasco? Chula?"

"Chula, please."

She returned to the counter by the stove. Returned with a bottle and sat down across the small table from me.

"Aren't you going to eat ma'...Muriel?"

She snorted and tossed her head. "Don't tease me, Bill. I love cooking it but if I eat it I'll weigh three hundred pounds by Christmas. I ate earlier. Dig in. You worked hard. You can handle it."

She stood again and returned with two mugs of coffee.

"Black okay?"

I nodded.

"Good for you. Drink it like a man."

I ate in silence after that while Muriel sipped her coffee. The food was so good I forgot to be pissed off. I saved the biscuit for last, spreading it with butter and strawberry jam that had to be homemade. I didn't bother to suppress a sigh of satisfaction when I finished.

I'd barely touched my coffee. I picked it up and took a sip.

"Thank you. That was the best breakfast I've had in years."

"You are most welcome, Bill. It was a pleasure having someone to cook for again."

She took a sip of her coffee and sat the mug down. Her fingers rested on the rim.

"Bill, I know it's hard but not as hard as you think. Honey, you need to tell your family."

I just stared at her as my stomach turned to stone.

"Huh? Tell them what?"

Muriel just gazed at me with her blue eyes. I noticed she was already wearing make-up. Her fingers circled her coffee cup.

"Thanks again for breakfast," I said as I stood.

"Sit down, Bill, please?" There was that damn word again and spoken in nearly the same tone of voice that Jill had used. I sat back down and Muriel began to speak. Her soft deep Southern drawl soothed my nerves but my mind was still racing.

"I got nothing to do all day, or almost nothing to do. The business runs itself, more or less. I need to remind my people I'm keeping an eye on things but that's about it. I'm not some snoopy old lady. Y'all live not twenty feet away for two weeks every summer since you were in diapers. I've known your folks for almost as long as you've been alive. I see things, sitting up here, reading my books and watching for dolphins.

"I'd be surprised if Jill doesn't know. She'd see all of it, if she weren't so busy thinking about that fella you hang out with, Jim. He seems like a nice young man. The fact he's your friend tells me most of what I need to know about him. I don't expect your folks will be very surprised, least ways not your momma. You need to tell them. All this squashed down mess you're keeping bottled up inside ain't good for you. You must know that."

She sighed, looking down at her coffee cup. She raised her eyes to mine.

"World's different now, Bill. It's a damn sight from being perfect but it's better, a lot better."

I shook my head. "Muriel, I appreciate your concern but I'm fine. I still don't know what you're talking about."

She nodded, look of resignation on her face.

"Okay, Bill." She stood up. "You come over anytime you need a breather from the crowd, hear me?

I nodded. Instead of heading toward the door I turned toward the sink.

"You don't need to do that."

"No, I don't. But you didn't need to fix me a Sunday breakfast on, what is today? Tuesday?"

"Monday."

We fell in the comforting routine of doing the dishes. I feel a little sorry for people who live in houses with dishwashers. Our rental had one. We never used it. It didn't appear that Muriel even had one. She scraped. I washed. She moved to my right and began to dry. We fell into a rhythm. I'd wash, rinse, and then hand whatever it was to Muriel to dry, the dish rack no longer necessary.

The skillet that had held the gravy took a little longer. I was methodically scrubbing away, wondering where she still found steel wool pot scrubbers, before I spoke again. Muriel stood, dishtowel draped across one hand, momentarily without a task to perform. I kept my attention on the skillet.

"How did you know?"

"I've been around the block a few more times than your momma or daddy. I have a knack for reading people. It's the main reason I've been able to make something of myself. Most times I can spot bullshit a mile away.

"If it bothers you, somebody not close to you would never wonder. Mark, he's a nice young man, top-notch but he's a man and, more importantly, he's your brother. Men, no offense honey, aren't given to deep pondering, certainly not about family and friends. To a man, if you're his friend that's pretty much all he needs, or cares, to know. Like I said earlier, I'd not be too surprised if Jill and your momma had an inkling, though. Sometimes folks are too close to a thing. It's all blurry and foggy. Don't you go around imagining because they've never said anything it's because they're upset or disappointed or angry.

"No, hon. My guess is they don't want to pry or come off as all nosy. You have to know, it won't make a hill of beans worth of difference to them don't you, Bill?"

"Really? You don't think they'll mind me being a faggot?"

My voice was bitter, harsher than I had expected.

"Bill, that's my favorite skillet, hon. You're about to scour a hole right through the bottom."

I rinsed the skillet and handed it to her. She took it, dried it, and hung it on its hook near the stove. When she turned back to face me, her eyes were hard.

"Bill, I wasn't brought up to believe that hitting a child was always wrong, that it only teaches him to hit. I'm not in favor of beating a child, not even of really hurting a child, but a swat once in a while does wonders for focusing the attention. I also don't believe in hitting for anger's sake alone. So, I won't." Her eyes grew colder still. "But if I hear you refer to yourself or to anyone else using that word again I'll fetch you one right up the side of your head. You understand me, honey?"

"Yes, ma'am."