On the Beach Ch. 10

I step closer and, starting just above the top of her bikini bottom, I do a forearm stroke up the right side of her back. I don't press very hard. Folks who've never had a massage are often surprised at the amount of force used.

I repeat the motion, using a little more of my weight. My arm glides over her back, up and over her scapula. I raise my arm slightly and use the point of my elbow to work the muscles under her scapula. I do this again and again, each time using a little more pressure, each time asking her if she's okay and if I'm pressing too hard. After the fourth stroke, she tells me that is hard enough.

I continue the long, full strokes from her butt to her shoulder for several minutes until I feel some of the tension leave her body. I trail my fingers up her back and then begin to work the muscles under the scapula. This is a tricky spot. The muscles there are often full of knots but too much pressure can be painful. My fingers are well acquainted with their duties. They don't fail me. I feel the knots ease from her muscles and not once has she tensed or grunted in pain.

I use one hand to knead the side of her neck and the other the top of her shoulder. Keeping one hand on her body, I reach for the bottle of oil. The bottle is not a professional pump-action bottle. I hand it to Ben, who has been watching, barely blinking.

"Squirt some of this oil in my hand would you please, Mr. Casey."

"Ben," he corrects me automatically as he does as I ask.

"Ben, it is then. Thank you."

I smooth the sun-warmed oil over Meg's arm, then encircle it with both hands and pull. My hands glide over her arm, to her wrist, elbow, and then off her hand. I repeat the motion several times before beginning to work the individual muscles. I end by massaging her hand and then pulling at each finger.

"Shake your hand out, hon," I instruct. "Let all that tension and worry fall away from your body and onto the floor where the wind will scatter it over the dunes."

She does as I suggest.

"Mrs. Dyer," she says as she pushes herself up. "That was wonderful."

"I'm glad, Meg. It's Muriel, not Mrs. Dyer and, hon, I've only started. Lie back down."

"Oh, I can't keep you all day," she protests.

"My time is my own to spend as I wish. Unless you two have plans?"

She shakes her head "no".

"Alright then, that settles it. Unless you were fibbing to me about liking it?"

She raises her head and smiles. The second genuine smile she's given me today. We're on a roll here.

"No, Muriel. I'm not fibbing to you."

"Good. Lie down."

She does and I walk around the table, fingers always touching part of her body. I've left the bottle of oil by Ben.

"Ben, be a sweetheart and bring me the oil please."

As he brings it to me. I have an idea. I think it's a good one.

"Have you ever given your wife a massage?"

"Uh, no, not really. I mean, I rub her back and neck and feet but not a real massage."

"Well that's nothing but a damn shame. Take off your shirt, Ben. You need your arms free and you don't want to get oil on your shirt."

He looks at me for a second and then pulls his shirt off over his head. I try not to whistle but don't do a very good job at not staring. He is a good looking man. Damn.

"I put oil on her back earlier but a lot of it has been rubbed in. Oil up your hands and forearms." He does as I ask and starts to close the bottle. "Just leave it open," I tell him. "We'll need it."

I lean over Meg and put my forearm on her lower back. "Start here," I tell Ben. "Then slide your arm up her back. When you reach her shoulder blade, raise your arm up and finish by pressing under the edge of her shoulder blade with your elbow, not too hard though. Here watch."

I demonstrate the form of the stroke for him a few times then step aside. I keep my fingers on her shoulder. Ben steps to the table and without hesitation, executes a near perfect stroke.

"Are you left handed?" I ask.

"No," he answers without looking up. He swivels at the hips and repeats the stroke.

"Using your left arm like that is hard for most people. You're doing beautiful. You're a natural. How's he doing, Meg?" I squat down as I speak and peek under the table. Her face is squished into the rest but she smiles.

"Wonderful."

I stand back up. "There you have it, Ben. You're first satisfied customer. Do that a half a dozen more times and I'll show you the next step."

He does, his face frozen in concentration. When he finishes, I move back to the table, trailing my fingers over Meg's shoulder. I see goose bumps blossom on her skin.

"The muscles under the shoulder blade get tight and they're hard to get to," I tell him. "You have to be careful. Too much pressure and it hurts."

I demonstrate for him and once again he does an excellent job. We finish Meg's left arm. I've been debating how to proceed. I decide to play it straight. I'll ask her like I would any other client.

"Meg, normally I sit down with a client and go over what to expect ahead of time, ask if there are any areas of the body not to touch, you know, ticklish feet, stuff like that." Meg raises her head enough to look at me. "I always ask about the butt. Your butt, your gluteal muscles, are some of the biggest muscles in the body. They should be massaged like any other muscle but some people are skittish about that. Is that okay? Rather skip that part? If you want to go on we can work around your bikini bottom."

"Would it be easier for you if I took them off?"

That is not one of the answers I'm expecting.

"Sure. Let me get a towel for a cover up."

"Uh, I'm okay without if you are. Ben's seen my bottom before."

The fork in the road has arrived sooner than I had anticipated. I always try to be as honest with myself as I am able. I'm not blind to Meg's attractiveness, far from it. I've wanted to ease the tension between us. I'd wanted to give her a massage, a therapeutic massage, like any I would have given her in one of my spas. The idea of turning it into something else hasn't been far from my mind but I've kept it under wraps. Now I'm face to face with it. I wonder, does she simply not know better? She said she'd never had a massage. Maybe she doesn't realize it's inappropriate for a therapist to expose a patient in that fashion, even if the patient asks, especially if the patient asks. Is she naïve or am I?

"Well, to be honest I wouldn't mind, speaking as your neighbor. Speaking as your massage therapist that wouldn't be the best idea."

"Are you going to charge me for the massage?"

"No, of course not. I told you that already."

"Then you aren't my therapist. You're my neighbor." She raised her bottom up. "Ben, would you help me?"

Ben doesn't speak. He hooks his fingers under the top of his wife's bikini and eases it off her legs. She has a lovely butt. Three kids and no stretch marks. The woman is one of the blessed of the Lord. I can feel my nipples crinkling under the thin cotton of my house coat. Part of me wishes I had the nerve to take it off. That's not true. I've got the nerve. I'm not sure now is the right time. Ben is looking a little dazed.

I step around the table trailing my fingers across her shoulders. "Hand me the oil please, Ben." He hands it to me and I let a trail of oil run over first her right cheek then the left. A little runs into her crack. It couldn't be avoided. "I'll start on this side and then you can start on your side." He nods. He pulls his eyes from his wife's body and watches my hands. "I don't use my elbow on the gluteals. My fingers give me a better sense of the pressure."

I show him were the bony prominences are. I use primarily a kneading motion on the gluteals. He follows my moves and then begins to ape them. Whether by accident or not is unclear, but our movements open Meg's crack enough I can see the pink pucker of her rosebud. It's slick with oil. I can see Ben has an erection.

"Okay, legs. With the legs we can use those long forearm strokes again."

I show him how to massage her legs. I check once more to make sure her feet aren't ticklish and we do her feet. No more stalling.

I trail my fingers up her body as I make my way to the head of the table.

"Time to roll over, Meg. You want a cover up?" She raises her head and I begin to reposition the cradle.

"No. I'm fine," she replies as she pushes up with her arms and rolls over. She sits up and stretches before lying back down. I try to maintain a professional demeanor, not because this was any longer a professional encounter but for my own benefit.

She has lovely full breasts, a C cup would be my guess. It's evident, from the way her breasts lie atop her chest, that they are natural. I wonder again if she breastfed her kids. If she did, I see no evidence of it. Her breasts are as free of stretch marks as the rest of her body.

I had already seen her flat tummy and womanly hips. I try hard not to stare at her pussy. The top and sides are shaved for her bikini. The rest looks as if it has been trimmed. Her hair glistens in the sun. How much of that is the oil that ran down the crack of her ass and how much is from her pussy is impossible to tell.

"Just as with the gluteal, but even more so, the pectoral muscles are an area that is usually ignored during a massage, especially on women," I inform them, trying to sound calm and clinical. "Pectoral massage is not breast massage. It just happens that part of the pectoral lies under the breast." I step forward and use my hands to demonstrate. "The pectoral muscles, there are two of them remember, attach to the collarbone, the sternum, your shoulder, and even your shoulder blade. You can massage those portions of the muscle without touching much of the actual breast at all. At least that's true for ladies with smaller breasts than yours, Meg."

She returns my smile. Ben moves to the other side of the table and we work in tandem. I'm careful not to touch anywhere near her nipple. I don't see Ben touch her nipple either but it's clear he isn't being as careful about it as I am. I can feel my wetness on the inside of my thighs. I need to move this along while I still have some control over the situation.

I quickly show Ben how to massage the front of the legs and the feet. Once more, I don't go as high on the thigh as her husband does. I think the backs of his knuckles might have brushed her pussy. I keep my hands a little lower but it is clear her pussy is as wet as mine. I can smell her, a lovely smell.

I had skipped working on the hips. I usually do that before the legs but I had decided not to today. The scent of my renter's pussy changes my mind.

"One last area, Meg and Ben, the hip joint. Watch," I tell him.

I pick Meg's right leg up, bend it at the knee and press her knee toward her belly with my weight. She's completely exposed. Her pussy lips glisten hot pink and I long to run my tongue over them. I don't. Instead, I lower her leg slightly, unbend the knee slightly and then push it over to the side, away from her body. Her pussy opens wider. I can see a pool of liquid begging for my tongue, Ben's tongue, any tongue.

"You try it," I tell Ben. He shakes himself as if he'd been sleeping. His eyes never leave his wife's pussy. When he presses her left leg forward he leans over, his face only a foot or so above her pussy. He rotates her hip, then pushes it up again.

"Okay, that's a massage, or one type of massage. It includes aspects of Polynesian massage, sports massage, and others. Sit up slow. Your muscles are all relaxed and you're liable to feel woozy if you jump up too fast. Ben, run inside and get Meg a nice glass of water. Glasses are in the cupboard to the right of the sink. There's cold water in the fridge."

I offer Meg a hand as she sits up. I don't want to be too blunt but I feel like I should say something.

"Sweetie pie, I don't know what planet you've been living on but that man would no more leave you than chop off his own arm. I've never seen a man so enamored of a woman as that man is of you."

She blushes. "Oh, I, oh I don't, I mean I shouldn't..." Ben returns before she can finish. He hands her a glass of water. She takes a slow drink. Good girl. No brain freeze for Meg.

"Take your time. Finish your water. I don't mean to butt in on your vacation, so tell me to shut the hell up if you need to but would you two care to have supper with me? Tonight's fine, tomorrow? Whenever?"

"We'd love to," Meg answers. I don't think Ben has said six words. "However, we can't tonight. Ben is taking me to some fancy shmancy place up in Duck his boss told him about."

I name a restaurant everyone has been yammering about. Ben nods.

"You tell Nancy, the hostess, that you're friends of mine and they damn well better treat you like locals or I'll be on Walter, he's the owner, on Walter's ass like white on rice. Don't you let that out of town thief mark up your wine three hundred percent. You tell Walter to give you a bottle out of my locker, whatever he thinks will go best with your dinners." I wave off Ben as he opens his mouth to protest. "I'm not 'giving' you the wine. Walter will charge you the re-stock fee. Cool your jets, Ben."

I shoo them away with both hands. "Get out of here. I suspect you'll need a nap before dinner." I tip a wink at Meg as I say this and she giggles. Her cheeks are glowing and her thighs glisten. Ben's shorts are tented. He looks like he just woke up and is not quite sure where he is.

-----

Keeping my fingers off of, and out of, my cunt is damn near impossible. I struggle on and after a while I'm able to get my mind off Meg's beautiful breasts and pussy. I wonder if she'd accept an offer to go with me to one of my spas for a waxing. My mouth damn near waters at the thought of her pussy all smooth. Oh my, how it would shine then. Ben too, I decide. Shiny cunt, shiny cock. Glorious.

Housework is what does the trick. I clean almost the whole damn place. That isn't as impressive as it sounds. I hate clutter and mess. Even so, with the occasional break for a glass of iced tea or a bite to eat, by the time the two bathrooms are done and I'm placing the last well-scrubbed burner grate back on the stove, the light is fading and I'm tuckered out.

I look down and laugh at myself. I'm still wearing that old cotton house coat. I take it off and toss it in the basket in the laundry room and make my way to the master bath. It's a simple affair, plenty roomy for me but small by the new everything-must-be-huge standards. I refurbished an old claw foot tub that I'm sinfully proud off. I run it full, water as hot as I can stand it, tuck a towel behind my neck, and relax.

I play with my cunt, teasing myself. When the water grows cool I get down to business and wash up quick. I pull the curtain around me and use the antique looking but brand new shower head to rinse off. I towel off just enough to not trail water through the house, wrap a towel around my head and go back to the kitchen.

I pour myself a glass of a new chardonnay I've become fond of. I drink one glass as I cut a pear and some cheese. I pour a second and head for the deck. The air has cooled but is far from chilled. My nipples don't care. They harden as the ocean breeze caresses them. My belly aches. I try to recall when I've been this horny for this long without cumming. It's been awhile. I decide I like the feeling. I'll need to give self-denial a go, in small doses of course.

I set the plate and glass down on the small table and walk to the railing, inhaling deeply. I close my eyes and let the eternal roar of the surf soothe my body and my soul, assuming there is such a thing. I open my eyes and watch the waves roll ashore, waiting for the moon to rise.

I'd read in one the hundreds of magazines needed to keep my spa customers happy, that scientist think the water I'm staring at came from asteroids crashing into the earth when it was still a young planet. Isn't that amazing? And the iron in my blood, the calcium in my bones, that came from deep inside stars that exploded when they died and seeded space with the atoms needed for life. That's pretty amazing, too.

I've been sipping wine and drinking iced tea that may have atoms that came halfway across the galaxy. Who knows how many time that water's been drunk, pissed out, evaporated, and rained back to earth. There might be a molecule of water in that glass that was exhaled by the last breath of the last dinosaur on earth. And I'm alive to wonder about it because of atoms that are billions of years old. I might have an iron atom in my blood shed by a knight, the Virgin Mary, or Christ himself.

To me that's more amazing than any God I can imagine. Does there have to be a God to have a soul? That's the question that's been gnawing at me of late.

My contemplation of the glory of nature ends when I hear the patio door sliding open next door. I'd turned off my lights before coming out, not to spy, but so I could see the moon and the stars and flash of the surf in the moonlight better. The new moon was only a few days past and it's a slender crescent that doesn't provide much illumination. If they look close enough they can see me but only if they look close.

I hear a soft giggle from Meg. Ben's voice is lower, barely audible. I can't hear what he says. Meg flips the switch by the patio door that turns on the pool lights. The water in the pool glows blue, looking both lovely and dangerous, like the glow of the water in pictures of a nuclear reactor. I hear more murmurs. Then, "Come on, it'll be fun," from Meg.

She walks to one of the chairs by the pool and pulls her evening dress off over her head. She is braless. She drapes the dress carefully over the back of the chair, stoops and takes off her shoes. She's not wearing stockings. She stumbles a little and I'm pretty sure that she has taken me up on the offer of the wine. She steadies herself and I hold my breath, afraid to even think what I'm hoping will happen for fear I'll jinx it. I let my breath go softly into the night when she steps out of her panties.

She's back lit by the pool. I can see the blue glow between her legs. I try convince myself I can even see the slit of her pussy.

"Come on," she says to Ben, beckoning with one finger. "Don't be a fraidy cat."

"Yes, Ben," I think to myself. "Go on. Don't be a fraidy cat."

He's wearing a tie; he must have left the jacket inside but he's still wearing the tie. He loosens it as he walks toward the pool. Meg watches. When he reaches her she doesn't offer to help. He pulls the tie free of his shirt collar and lays it atop her dress. He unbuttons the top button of his shirt, then the cuffs, and then returns to the front buttons. I don't know if he's trying to do a striptease for Meg or not but whatever his intentions, he's making my cunt wet.

The shirt joins his tie. He's wearing a tee shirt, not a wife beater, a regular V neck tee shirt. He leaves it on as he bends to untie his shoes. He takes them off and lines them up tidily beneath the chair. His socks follow, also tucked tidily into the shoes. When he stands, he turns enough that I can see his pants are as tented as his shorts had been earlier. He pulls the tail of the tee shirt free and pulls it off over his head.

Meg has stood silently watching. The tee shirt joins the growing pile of clothes on the back of the pool chair. He unbuckles his belt and very slowly pulls it free, in what is clearly a teasing fashion. He lays the belt atop the chair.

He grabs the top of his pants and pauses.

"You sure?"

It's the first words he's spoken tonight that I can hear. Meg doesn't answer except with a nod.

Ben unfastens his pants and unzips them. He slips them off and it's clear he's not wearing underwear.