The Beach House Ch. 02


Chapter 2. Helen

Eight years into home ownership, my wife and I decided to finally tend to some long-neglected remodelling. Summers without air conditioning had lost their rustic charm, and the daily complaints of two kids now too old to be sharing a room were becoming unbearable. After a few weeks of asking recommendations from our neighbors, we hired a young architect who had recently relocated to the area, and set about planning our renovation.

Step one involved making a plan of the house, for which our architect sent over a number of his young assistants in a seemingly endless rotation. Two guys who I mistook for twins measured the basement; a guy who seemed too young to have a job showed up with a woman old enough to be his mother, and the two spent an afternoon outside with surveyor’s equipment. The final day of measurements took place on a wintry Saturday afternoon, when my wife and the kids were having an extended visit with her parents. I grumbled about having to drive out from the city the night before just to turn on the heat, and was decidedly unthrilled at the prospect of spending a cold night alone in the house, just to be able to answer the door for some flunkie the next morning. But that was the morning I met Helen.

The doorbell rang just after 11:00 in the morning, and before me stood the latest of our architect’s minions. Years later, the actress Kate Hudson would make her screen debut, and my heart would stop: she looked exactly like Helen did all those years ago, all curly blond tresses and a smile that her face could barely contain. That morning Helen wore a white wool coat and a red scarf, and her face was framed by falling snowflakes and the steam rising from a cup of hot chocolate. The tiny pink tips of her fingers protruded from yellow and red gloves, her hands clasped around the paper cup in an almost penitent way. She introduced herself, and I welcomed her in.

Hanging up her coat, my eyes took in her lovely body, decked out in an ivory turtleneck and black designer jeans. She thoughtfully took off her snowboots as she came in, and spent the day walking around in pink wool socks. Inexplicably, I found myself thinking what sexy feet she had — I who have never had any special interest in a woman’s foot, and could easily have dwelt on her sexy face, eyes, lips, hair, and figure. But the feet got me. The feet, the woolly gloves around her fingertips, and that smile.

We spent a lot of time talking about the house, her studies (fourth year architecture, a prominent apprenticeship already lined up for next year), and architecture in general — conversations I hadn’t had with any of my other visitors. We talked about art, and books, and gardening, and culture, and gradually it seemed as if her notes and measurements were going to wait. I made us lunch, and poured us two glasses of white wine, and when she said that the Chardonnay was going to taste strange with her hot chocolate, I opened a bottle of Cabernet just for her. She liked it with the hot chocolate a lot: she had two full glasses before I offered her a piece of dark chocolate to try it with, and then she had a glass and a half more.

Finally she set about measuring the bedrooms, while I made a fire. The fire was blazing when she asked from the bedroom if I had a shirt she could borrow — this seemed like an odd request until I walked in, and found that she’d discarded her turtleneck (from the fireplace, or the wine, I wondered?) Underneath was an overwashed white T-shirt which clearly wasn’t enough defense against the drafty corners of the house, so I offered her a flannel workshirt to wear over it. Helping her into the shirt, I couldn’t help but stare at her tits while she tucked her tiny arms into the sleeves. They were delightful, tiny mouthfuls, each crowned in a pyramid that I could almost make out through the material: dark pink? Orange? I watched intently as she unsteadily rolled the long sleeves up onto her tiny arms. I saw on the mantlepiece her empty glass, from which she’d finished a fourth glass of wine.

Helen resumed measuring while I returned to the living room, ostensibly to tend the fireplace and read, though instead I spent the hour idly fondling myself while imagining her breasts in bayan escort seks hikayeleri greater detail. I wondered whether her nipples hardened into little rubbery nubs that I could graze with my teeth, or whether they became hard points that I might lick with the flat of my tongue. I imagined them soft and pink, or hard and brown, and whatever delicious shape they took seemed to invite my fingers, my palms, my tongue. I wondered if there was enough there to squeeze together while I licked between them, or whether they would fold into themselves as I cupped them from behind. Was she a girl who liked a cock between her tits, revelling in the naughtiness of a hard titfuck? I frittered most of the afternoon away in my musings, because by the time Helen came back in, the sun had set. She deposited a sheaf of papers triumphantly onto the table, and folded herself into my easy chair. Her head leaned straight back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, she announced that her work was done, and with it, all the plans for the house, which called for a toast. As I went for a second bottle of wine, my eyes never left her exquisite throat, or her perfect lips, glistening beautifully before the fire. The subtlest application of her tongue sent urgent and fiery thoughts racing through my mind.

More glasses went down easy. I was still staring at her when she unfolded her legs from the chair and propped one up on each arm. Still staring at the ceiling, and casually swirling a goblet in one hand, she sighed deeply: “the fireplace, a bottle of wine, a winter’s night out there… What could be better than this?” Tipsy myself, I took the opening: “oral sex?” I’d said it casually, and she laughed so hard that wine came out her nose. Holding her hand over her face and still laughing, she set down the wine glass and teetered into the master bathroom; I heard more laughing, some coughing, and the rasping of Kleenex against the tissue box. I liked that I could make her laugh, and that I could look her in the eyes, smiling, while thinking about her tiny ankles locked behind my shoulders.

I heard more tissues, some nose blowing, and then silence. For a while there were shuffling sounds coming out of the bathroom, and the door opening and closing, and then nothing. Suddenly I heard her voice from an unexpected corner, asking, “aren’t you going to come in?” I took some tentative steps into the master bedroom, and found her nestled among the pillows at the head of the bed, wearing my white terrycloth bathrobe. It was open far enough in the front that I could tell she was naked inside.

I walked over and stood in front of her, her smiling face level with my crotch. She looked so eager to please and so preternaturally happy, so emboldened by the wine, I decided to push my luck: I smiled into her eyes as I unzipped my pants, matter-of-factly presenting her with my stiff cock. She gave me a smile that I couldn’t quite understand, and for a moment I thought I’d really blown it. She reached up, past my cock, towards my face (I felt her lithe arm brush my cock and it throbbed for her) — she gently but firmly grabbed the top of my shirt, and brought me down into the bed. First I was kneeling next to her, then my head was pulled down into the crevices of her robe, and then she took both my cheeks in her hands and lifted my head to face me. “Aren’t you going to make good on your offer?” she asked. I wasn’t putting the pieces together fast enough, so her hands slipped from my face and fell between us, where they undid the robe and brought my face straight down between her legs.

As I gazed at her pussy, she widened her legs (I hadn’t noticed they were so toned), and I suddenly realized that in all my years, I’d never slept with a blonde. It took some quick mental math to confirm this, and indeed: brunettes, a redhead, an asian girl, but never a blonde. Her curly blond hairs were a new experience for me, and for a moment I felt like a teenager again, nervously exploring this new terrain for the first time. But undaunted, I dove in, and the moment my tongue touched the inside of her thigh she moaned, relaxing into the pleasure.

I licked her thighs, getting closer and closer to her lips, and then stroked her whole pussy with my flattened tongue. I licked up the lips to her clit, spreading the skin around it while I nuzzled its insistent head, and she moaned deeply. I tried to keep track of what was pushing her the farthest — licking around her clit, rubbing her pussy from the inside, or stroking her ass with my fingertip. Everything seemed to do it, so I kept everything up. It surprised me when she pushed her ass down further on my finger (I felt my own eyebrows register the shock), but I loved it — I loved the idea of her grooving on the finger in her ass. We went deeper and deeper, lost in the rhythm of this total, focussed rapture.

Looking up from between her legs, I saw her as two women at once. First was the pretty young thing that she was, with a tight body and downy blond hair on her mound, but the amused detachment with which she cradled a glass of wine as she watched me go down on her gave her the look of a more experienced lover. She’d lose herself to the younger girl in her moments of pleasure, when I’d lick her clit a certain way or gently withdraw my moist finger from her tight asshole, and in those moments when she rolled her eyes and whimpered it only furthered my desire to see her this way more. I wondered what her face would look like when my cock was buried in her: would she fix me with the sultry gaze of a woman who’s getting what she wants, or give herself up to passions she couldn’t control? I was determined to find out.

Nibbling back up from her pussy to her breasts, I took her face in both hands as I kissed her hard on the lips, wanting her to taste herself on me. She threw a thigh over me and rolled us both onto our sides, and then she was on top of me: when she sat up I got a magnificent view of her tiny tits, my mysteries resolved (hardened pink erasers — perfect!) and I thought of nothing more than suckling her hard nipples for the rest of my life. She leaned down until her entire body was against mine, and I felt my cock throbbing hard against her skin. I reached down to position myself against her pussy, but her hand moved me away: she left my cock where it was, pulsating against her tight belly, and moved my groping hand to her ass. She gave me a wicked smile that suggested that she wasn’t just brushing my hands aside, and when she took my other wrist and planted my other hand on her ass as well, it was obvious what she wanted. I kneaded her tiny cheeks hungrily, then allowed a finger to graze her tight hole: she gasped as she pressed her hips into me, and grabbed at my finger with her tight muscle. I pushed deeper in, and she gasped more, so I pushed deeper and deeper still until I was buried in her ass up to the knuckle. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was hard, and I was riveted by her sexy throat and parted lips as she worked her ass against my finger in a rhythm — this was the face I’d wanted to see, contorted with lust. If she felt even the slightest discomfort it was lost in a deep blush of lusty shame — she had the look of a bad girl who couldn’t help herself. So I gambled, dangerously: fucking her hard with my finger, I whispered into her ear, “you like me fucking your ass, don’t you?” Her eyes closed hard, she answered without hesitation: “yes.”

My cock was standing straight up, leaking against her furry bush as she pistoned her ass down against me. I took her hip in my hand, my fingers spread out against one ass cheek, and rocked her steadily into my finger. “Do you like feeling me in your ass?” I asked. “Yes,” she replied again. “Do you want me in your ass?” “Yes,” she replied yet again. I was going to take her.

I’d never had a particular interest in anal sex. I wasn’t averse to it, it just never really struck me as interesting — I figured it was like hockey, or classic cars, the kind of thing that some men are into and some aren’t. But at this moment I was seized by the desire to lustily take her in that way. I had to be behind her: I wanted to see myself forcing a hard cock into her tiny pink hole. I was going to fuck her in the ass, and she was going to take it. I couldn’t contain the thrill.

I rolled her off of me for a moment, and maneuvered myself behind her so she was on her hands and knees. Really she was more on her shoulders and knees: her ass was in the air, her head and shoulders down on the pillow, her eyes closed as her fingers played crazily over her lips. I looked down at that tight, winking asshole, its perfect pink pucker inviting the forced entry of my throbbing red cock, and I pressed my thumb into her. She breathed in hard and inhaled three fingers into her mouth, sucking on her knuckles while I massaged her unbelievably tight ass. In a moment I’d opened the lubricant I kept in the top drawer, drizzled it down into the valley of her cheeks, and worked as much as possible into her ass. With my other hand I was stroking my cock, and when I rubbed the tip of my cock against her ass to get it slippery she inhaled so sharply that I thought she might be coming. I watched her face, her lovely, tender young face, as I brought the tip of my cock to her ass. And then I put it in.

Her eyes opened for the first time as I entered her — they opened wide. She let out an “oh god” while I pushed it in, and then she closed her eyes, lost in sucking her fingers. I wasn’t more than an inch in when she picked up a rhythm, not so much pushing back against my cock as somehow sucking it into her, each time taking me a little deeper inside. The sight of it was totally arousing. Part of me wanted to wait this out until I was all the way inside, a little bit at a time; part of me wanted to fuck her HARD, and push it all the way into that tight little ass, even if it made her scream. It must have been a little of both, since before I knew it I was all the way inside, watching her tight ring expand around my invading cock. It was the sexiest sight I’d ever seen: that tight pink ass stretched around my insistent cock, her creamy flawless cheeks spread out before me as my dark cock invaded her. She started to whelp uncontrollably, her face no longer the experienced lover, now just a young girl consumed by lust. She whelped louder when I uttered filthy things to her — my thoughts were many, and each was dirtier than the last. I don’t remember my words, but I remember all the thoughts I shared with her.

I wondered how many other men she’d taken up the ass, and how long she’d been doing it. I imagined her as a college freshman letting fumbling boys take her back there, and wondered if she’d gotten a reputation, or a filthy nickname. I imagined her fully dressed in her uniform, discovering the very first time how much she liked it back there, her face beet red with embarrassment but glowing in anticipation of a lifetime of secret assfucking ahead of her. I wondered if she ever told her girlfriends that she liked being taken back there, and which reaction turned her on more — when they judged her with disgust, or when they secretly acknowledged a similar interest. I wondered what her father’s face might look like if I told him that I’d sodomized his little daughter — oh God, that was the thought that got me, and I came. I grabbed her hips and pulled her hard into me as I drove my cock all the way into her tight ass, and she howled “yes” as I unloaded myself into her.

In a split-second my brain shifted from lust to acknowledgement (“I did it,” I thought, “Oh God, I fucked this young thing in her tight ass”), and suddenly I was aware of the things I was saying to her. My ears were full of her own filthy utterances and my own replies, and though my cock was starting to soften, I tried my best to keep up the pace. Seeing her tiny hands working so hard to spread her asscheeks apart for me, I thought I was going to get fully hard again. The last thing I said before she came was “tell me you like taking cocks in the ass,” and she screamed “YES!” as she came, her eyes opening all the way, her ass clenching and quivering so tight around my cock.

It was either the wine or the intensity of the orgasm, but I remember little else of the weekend — not even how she left. I remember waking up alone to the sound of a shower running in the next room, and I think I remember her earnest expression on her face when she sucked me to hardness in the morning. Maybe I imagined the morning-after blowjob — going a second round would have suggested some continuing interest, which never came to pass. My plans were completed by the architect, and despite a handful of conspicuous trips to his office, I never saw Helen again.

It was only a few months later that I met Lila. I’ll tell you about her next time.

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir