Chapter 2
It was a Sunday, one of those relaxing, sunny Sundays on the beach that had not only the singles but also the families out in droves to enjoy the sand, sea, sun ... and sex. A national pastime, certainly; but, on any beach near or adjacent to Los Angeles, a year-round celebration, considering the salubrious, sun-drenched climate for it.
Well ... not exactly making it behind every sand dune, or shacking up on a surfboard. But ... pretty close to it.
On this particular Sunday, Harry and Angela were simply wandering along the beach, looking for a private spot in which to have a private picnic.
Harry was wearing his bathing suit, and wearing a backpack. In his backpack were the following: portable grill, food, blanket, portable radio, and a cold jug of daiquiris. All told, the whole thing weighed more than 25 pounds, and Harry's body was sinking into the sand as he walked much harder, much slower than his woman.
For Angela was carrying only what she was wearing -- her bathing suit. A bikini, so brief that several square inches of cleavage -- tanned the same color as the rest of her skin -- showed through the top, and the bottom was worn so loosely or carelessly that a few strands of her omnipresent red-gold pubic hairs were peeping through.
Harry really didn't dig that bit at all.
But, that was the way Angela liked to wear her bikini, and she was a very determined girl at times. Harry tried to run the show, but, with Angela, there was a substantial price to pay, and this bit was apparently one of the instalments on that price.
Of course, when Angela walked, her hips would swivel like a matched pair of ball bearings, and her lovely ass would vibrate back and forth like two round mounds of dough ready to shake and bake. Her long hair hung down her back, and moved like a waterfall whenever she did. There was hardly a muscle in her body that wasn't in motion when she was -- and hardly a man (and often a woman, too) who didn't notice her swinging when she was at the beach.
On one hand, Harry liked the fact that he was living with, sleeping with such a young, beautiful woman. He could laugh, either to himself or out loud, thinking of how jealous all the horny guys around him must be, knowing that he and only he was fucking that stuff, exclusively.
But, on the other hand, the more she showed off her stuff and, in effect, "teased" the other guys by the way she walked, by the way she displayed as much of her physical charms as she could legally get away with, the better chance there was that some other guy, some day, sooner or later, was going to make a big play for Harry's one and only -- and, quite possibly, succeed.
That often worried Harry.
He was, in effect, paying the price for having such a sharp, sexy woman on constant, ubiquitous display. He was like a museum guard whose job it was to watch a set of crown jewels; there were always potential thieves around, and he could never tell which ones were which.
"Hey, that's a body and a half!"
"You can shake that thing at my place any time, baby!"
Oh, yes, the beach was crowded, and the guys weren't spending their time looking at the white-capped, blue-streamed Pacific and the huge breakers, nor were they really eyeing the surfers and swimmers. Their eyes were concentrated on Angela, who always said nothing to anyone as she ambled along, but whose soft smile and occasional twinkle -- if not an outright wink -- in the eyes might indicate that she didn't mind all the admiration one little bit.
However ...
This "running the gauntlet" of male admirers of-ten made Harry get a hardon.
Which, naturally, made his excursions with his sweet thing somewhat embarrassing from time to time.
As was happening now
Harry's prick was starting to stir.
He could feel the telltale bulge in his trunks getting bigger. The more he looked at Angela -- just to make sure things were all right -- the more his rod would stiffen.
She glanced at his crotch, and gave him her most sensuous smile, the one with her tongue quickly flicking across her lips. He grinned back, noticing that she seemed to be leading him -- she was now several feet ahead -- toward the most crowded section of the beach. Crowded with guys more than girls.
It seemed to Harry that all these guys were looking at his exclusive stuff with the horny, lustful leers of men who would fuck at the drop of a hat -- or drawers.
"Angela, it's too crowded here, let's find some-place with more space," he said.
She hesitated, then said, her words like liquid honey, "Well, Harry ... if you say so ..." Then, quickly glancing away from him, she spotted a different kind of guy, and cried out like a little girl, "Harry, please buy me one!"
This guy was standing behind a Good Humor ice cream cart. He was a tall blond with long, hairy sideburns, about 20, a college kid. To Harry, he looked like one of the Beach Boys, so much so that Harry wondered for a few seconds if the band had gone broke and lead singer Brian was trying to pick up some fast bread by pushing ice cream instead of pop songs.
Harry dug into his backpack for some change, and bought Angela a strawberry shortcake. For himself, a plain Good Humor would do -- though, at the moment, his humor was anything but that.
The boy who served them seemed nervous, as he handed over the ice cream. Angela gave him one of her lip-licking smiles. He smiled back somewhat sheepishly, mostly to try and conceal the burgeoning hardon he was getting; luckily, he could still stand behind the cart, while Harry was stuck out front, his backpack feeling like a hunchback's hump and his prick getting about as stiff as a cop's club.
"Thank you, Harry," Angela said, biting into her ice cream with the same type of lip and mouth movement that he knew she used when sucking him off.
The Good Humor kid was really getting nervous now. Sweat was dripping from his forehead like an open faucet, and one hand was behind the cart, clutching at his cock.
Then ... they heard the sound of drums ...
There was a bongo player near the surf, surrounded by an admiring crowd. He was a Mexican-looking guy, short and dark, with thick curly hair and a very Latin smile. His dark brown eyes seemed almost recessed in his sockets as his lean, nimble fingers caressed his drums like a pair of breasts, massaging and coaxing complex Latin rhythms that had apparently caught Angela's -- and the crowd's -- fancy.
"Oh, Harry!" she squealed excitedly. "I just adore bongo drums, don't you? They make me feel like dancing!"
Translated, that meant that she wanted to strip.
Sighing, he put down the backpack, and sat down by the ice cream cart. Munching his ice cream, feeling the cold stuff drip down his throat, he figured: let her get it out of her system, then we'll move on, to a quieter spot, for sure.
The bongo player, catching sight of Angela's interest, started to turn out some intricate tempos that got her swaying right in time to the beat. As she started swaying, she could feel her pussy responding, with the dripping of some juice beneath her bikini bottoms. Music, of course, always made her feel sexy; and moving her body as she was now doing to the music, even more so.
Harry wondered whether he should deck her -- or dick her. He was starting to get pissed off, but good.
He glanced around for lifeguards, or cops, or both. No sign of either.
Angela was whipping her hair around her shoulders as if caught in a tropical tornado, her limpid muscles loose and supple, her entire body pivoting on the point in the sand where she was twirling. She was doing her thing without moving her feet, a Hawaiian-influenced technique, in which the rest of her. long, beautiful body, especially her crazy-shaking ass, was really swinging while her legs remained stationary.
Her ass was like a gyroscope pinning on it axis, her pelvic muscles leading a life of their own. Her back was bent in the shape of a provocative question mark, her arms flailing wildly at her side. From the look on her face -- eyes opaque, nostrils flaring, mouth opening and closing as if gulping air -- Harry could tell that she was really getting turned on by the music.
As, among others, the ice cream boy was getting turned on by Angela.
"Fuck it!" the kid shouted, stripping off his shirt and throwing his hat in the sand.
Barefoot, he came barrelling out from behind the ice cream cart like a fast driver on the L.A. freeway. He stopped, on his way, just long enough to dig out a couple handfuls of vanilla ice cream, holding them in his fists like snowballs, He raced straight toward Angela, his erect member ready to burst through his pants, and, reaching her before either she or anyone in the crowd could object, he flipped the ice cream and two white blobs splashed against her bobbing breasts, looking like patches of snow against her light-bronze body.
She stopped dancing.
The bongo player stopped making music.
Everybody in the crowd stared at him. He'd stopped, too, and was just standing there, staring at Angela, as his fingers hastily tugged at the zipper of his pants.
Angela looked inquiringly at her breasts, noticing, beneath the mounds of ice cream, that her nipples were taut and erect. She touched her finger to the ice cream, rubbing her nipple at the same time. She raised her finger to her mouth, stuck out her tongue, and licked the melting ice cream off her finger.
Some of the ice cream was also melting off her boobs, sending white, wet rivulets dripping down her belly, some of which was almost leaking into her crotch and whitening her dark, damp pubic hairs.
When she noticed that, she laughed, stuck her finger inside the tops of her bikini bottoms, and started to rub the melting ice cream right into her cunt.
Some of the crowd broke into sporadic applause, while the bongo player, apparently inspired, started up a different tempo, a more languid beat with contrapuntal rhythms, on his drums.
That, of course, got Angela thinking about dancing again.
As her body began to move and groove to the music, she reached behind her and snapped off her bra, waving it at the ice cream boy, much as she'd waved it at Harry many times during their evening sex sessions.
That seemed to set the kid off.
He jumped out of his pants -- which he'd already unzipped and dropped to the sand-and, still wearing a pair of boxer shorts, leaped upon the girl, knocking both of them to the sand and kicking up a sort of sandstorm where they fell.
"Hey, the party's getting rough!" someone shouted.
Harry, who had cracked the jug of diaquiris and was slowly sipping a long, cool drink of same, didn't like what he had just seen one goddam bit. Nobody was going to lay hands on his woman -- especially like that.
Grabbing the jug of diaquiris, he started moving toward Angela, who was grappling with the ice cream boy, spraying sand everywhere every time they turned. The bongo player was still beating out his rhythms, and no one in the crowd was even going to help out. It seemed they'd rather watch her get it than stop it.
Well, Angela wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. Not from the way she was running her fingers through his thick blond hair, as he, finally having to rip off his shorts from his body, was trying to get his thickened prick inside her. And he had a pretty good sized one, too. Its veins almost strained as blue as the sky as he pushed it against her pussy lips, trying to gain entrance.
They were both covered with sand, the gritty stuff sticking to their perspiring bodies as, feeling her cunt good and wet now, he managed to thrust him-self halfway inside. As soon as she felt his quivering member, her membranes responded, further liquifying herself, and allowing him, with another good thrust, total entrance.
She gave a squeal of delight as she felt his iron striking fire. Her pussy lips clamped tight around his instrument like a flesh-covered pair of pliers, and his scrotum was jammed up tight against her crotch as he started to pump her.
She got her arms around his back, her fingernails digging into his flesh as he half-lifted her off the sand while he started to come.
Like a string of firecrackers, he fired off inside her, and her thirsty pussy muscles twitched in ecstasy, coaxing more blasting sperm from him and more foaming, waterfalling outbursts from herself. 'She had her legs around him now, too, in a scissors -- grip, and he felt as if his entire body, as well a his prick, was caught in some kind of sexual vise. He slammed his mouth against hers, his lips crushing against hers, his tongue trying to get past her teeth.
And, all the while, all the time he and she were screwing each other, their sexual juices mixing and intermingling, the bongo player kept on beating time and the crowd kept on applauding, as if they were seeing a Sunset Strip sex show.
Then Harry finally got close enough to change things.
Just as the kid felt his cock going limp with his frenzied sexual outburst, Harry clobbered him be-hind the right ear with the diaquiri jug.
Stunned, the young guy slowly rolled off Angela, as she, feeling him suddenly go limp, released her arms and legs from around him.
"Hey, man, you shouldn't have done that," some-one from the crowd said, with implied menace in his voice.
"This is my woman, in case you didn't know!" Harry replied, as he pulled the cork from the daiquiri jug and poured the rum-based drink over Angela's face and front, covering her mouth and breasts with the stuff.
She gasped, then started to lick the daiquiri juice from her mouth, her tongue slowly licking from side to side, as Harry, like a bomb, dropped right on her and, one hand pulling his own trunks loose, tried to pull her bikini bottoms off. As his hands were thus occupied, his mouth clamped over her right breast, and he started to lick at the mixture of sand, sweat, and daiquiris, his lips squeezing her full breast and his teeth carefully giving her nipple love bites.
She began to whimper with lust, opening her legs and squirming in the sand. She could feel her pussy juice dripping out from between her legs, staining the sand with the color of come.
Harry, the more he licked and sucked, the more his pecker throbbed with erectness and his balls felt like bursting through the scrotom sack. Oh, yes, he was ready to really make it with her ... then he was suddenly yanked loose from his woman.
Someone grabbed him by his curly hair, pulling him a couple of feet away, dumping him in the sand and leaving him there to see if all his hair was still there and wonder exactly what had happened.
What had happened was this.
A tall, muscular guy with balding, receding hair and chin-length sideburns and droopy mustache had pulled Harry loose. Now, as if he was the self-appointed King of the Mountain -- in this case, the Sand -- he strode over to Angela, still twitching in the sand with unsatisfied lust, and he regally removed his swim trunks and casually tossed them over his shoulder, he squatted next to her in the sand.
Then, still squatting on his haunches, he reached down and pulled her toward him by her hair. She could feel the pressure of his strong, yet gentle, hands as he yanked her, as gently as he could, into a sort of sitting position in front of him.
These actions of his had so subdued the crowd that even the bongo player had stopped beating his drums -- and, judging from the ever-growing erection he too was getting and the way his hand was covering his crotch, he was now beating his meat.
The balding guy had a hardon, too. His prick was plenty long, the foreskin pulled back so taut >iit looked like it might snap loose and shrivel right off. The tip of his prick was like a baby's fist, dark pink and ready to strike like a snake, as he slowly and carefully manipulated Angela so that, the way he held her, she was facing him from a 45° angle, her cunt poised just a few inches away from his cock.
As the crowd continued to watch in wild-eyed wonder, he drew her toward him, until the tip of his cock was just touching the outer edge of her cunt lips.
She was still feeling very sexy from her previous encounter. In that sort of mood, she was somewhat unfocused, as far as knowing exactly who was holding her. She could feel the guy's presence, sexually speaking, more than she could actually see who it was. And, she didn't really care; she liked fucking, and it wasn't just with Harry, either.
He slid into her like a knife into soft cheese.
A great collective "Aaaahhhh!" came from the crowd as he started to rock and sock her, his cock slipping all the way inside her cunt, his hairy chest flattening itself against her bounteous breasts.
She started to tongue him, her tongue darting out from between her teeth and slipping inside his open mouth. His lips clamped tight against hers as their tongues tangled, and he could feel his prick really getting ready to burst with sperm, as he massaged every square inch of her pussy membranes, rubbing against her trembling clit whenever he could, feeling the taut nipples trying to pierce his chest like needles.
She started to come, and her vaginal muscles grabbed his instrument and held on tight, twisting and tugging at his manhood.
Suddenly ... he came ...
Like a riveting gun letting loose on a skyscraper under construction, he came, rat-a-tat-tat, one burst of steaming sperm after the other. She felt the impact of each explosion, and she buckled and arched her back, screaming and sighing, her fists pounding at his back, not in anger but in joy.
The bongo player couldn't take it any more.
He'd dropped his drums long ago, but his erection hadn't gone down one eight-of-an-inch. Yanking off his trunks, he came heading straight for Angela and the balding guy, his cock, lean and taut as he was, sticking straight out front.
As the balding guy was still holding Angela, like a piece of meat on a fork, the Mexican bongo player got up behind her and, half-standing and half-crouching, rammed his prick against her asshole.
She let out a startled scream; but, again, this one was from both surprise and pleasure as she felt an-other penis entering her from another orifice. Her sphincter muscles began to expand, to allow him passage, and he could feel her asshole opening as he kept driving his dick hard against her back door.
She began coming some more, which also served to inspire the balding guy, whose own prick was going limp. He got another rise out of his own instrument -- and started coming all over again.
The Mexican let loose one long blast of juice, splattering her sphincter with sticky, steaming liquid joy juice. Her sphincter muscles acted just the way her pussy membranes were doing, and she was sweating and sighing with lust as she felt both men coming, almost simultaneously, inside her.
She opened her mouth to scream with joy some more ..
And got a big fat cock inside her lips.
An older, white-haired fellow pushing sixty, it seemed, had become so stimulated he couldn't hold out any longer, either. He'd just unzipped his pants, walked over to the carousing, vibrating bodies and found the only other orifice of Angela's that was presently unoccupied.
For an old guy, he could still fire off a few rounds, though they were more like .22 than .45 caliber. Still, she could feel his juice pouring into her mouth and down her throat -- and she gulped it greedily enough as he came.
And Harry?
He'd almost been struck dumb by what he was seeing. It was taking him a long time to get back to reality.
But, while Angela was being fucked three ways, Harry finally got himself together, and joined them.
In one hand, he had a frozen banana from the Good Humor cart. This, he stuck in her right ear, and she could feel it starting to melt. Then, he got his cock right up against her left ear, and came like a fire hose, his sperm gushing into her eardrums as the banana melted in her right ear.
And Angela ... was thus part ... of a five-part fuck ...