Dunes

The upside to the downside is simple sharing. Plus, a good night's sleep and a new day.

The early sun beat against the thick drapes of a hotel room where Jenny and I had stayed overnight. A shard of sunlight hit my face through a gap in the curtains. I rose, the double bed soft and comfy. Checking my watch, I realised we had slept in. Jenny snoozed, stirring to wake. I dressed in yesterday's shorts and shirt and freshened at the sink in the room.

Jenny yawned, half-naked above the sheets. She spread her hands and bounced as she enjoyed the sizeable plush bed. My amber lass invited me to open the curtains. She perked as the sunlight hit her breasts, stretching and greeting the day.

"Are you hungry," I questioned as she dressed.

"Yes," she stopped; she gazed through the window at the local town, "let's find a café, not here."

She washed her face and ran her wet hands through her hair. I registered we lacked toothbrushes, combs, and a change of clothes. We used the bathroom, in turn, along the corridor.

Our aim became a quiet, fast exit—soft-footed descending the stairs, light steps to avoid the creaks. Jenny dropped the room key in the hotel return box.

A stunning combination of smells filled our noses, drifting along the hallway and stalling us. We mutually shook heads. Regardless of the temptation, we preferred to leave this hotel.

A head popped around a doorway farther along the hallway—a plump, middle-aged woman who wore a polka-dot kitchen apron.

Kindly, she cajoled, waving a square hand with squat fingers, "Come this way, you good-looking pair, eat breakfast before you get out and about."

Led by our noses and a warm invite, Jenny and I accepted. The breakfast area was empty; we chose a corner table. The cook left us alone, no prying into our separate or joined lives.

She saw two youngsters needing a feed on a Saturday morning. The plates arrived piled, a mountain of scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms and baked beans. We ate lashings of fragrant fatty bacon. Jenny and I enjoyed two extra slices of crisp, crunchy toast and indulged in a second cup of coffee.

I settled the account with our hostess while Jenny went to the ladies.

After I paid, the cook coaxed, "Off you go and be good, but not too good."

And she shuffled to her kitchen.

Jenny and I left the hotel and started the drive to Melbourne. My hand covered my mouth as I gave a soft burp. Jenny released a playful smile. Her 'ready to do' self embraced a new day.

I pondered the lady who offered us breakfast. She left the relationship between Jenny and me to us.

I wondered: What word described 'we', and where were we headed?

However, I preferred to watch Jenny as she concentrated on the road ahead. An uneventful drive to Melbourne, unlikely with Jenny. After cruising miles of bitumen, she turned off the main highway. She gave me a quick smile, indicating a fun plan.

The road narrowed, and at a fork, it became gravel. I sensed Jenny knew her location. I relaxed and enjoyed the scenery as it changed from beef cattle farmland to coastal tussocks. Finally, Jenny turned off the unsealed road into an empty car park behind rolling dunes.

Leaving her car, we greeted a summer blue sky doming beach dunes, which nestled into each other. A sole gap, I assumed, led to the beach.

Lucky, I thought, I wore shorts and a shirt, partially beach-prepared.

Jenny, this morning, had re-dressed in her jeans and blouse.

I thought maybe a beach walk.

She guided, in a matter-of-fact way, "Take your top off."

I assumed a secluded beach. I thought, sunbathing.

Yes, the raven-haired cutie premeditated this; right next to her car, off came her blouse and jeans. I took in an eye-pleasing watermelon-coloured bikini. I surmised that she used the ladies' room at the hotel to put it on before we left. Jenny folded her jeans in the boot of her car and grabbed a small beach bag.

We steered hand in hand into the gap between the rolling dunes—a grainy sandy track, pliant soft underfoot and easy to negotiate. It swept to a rise without being steep. I expected it to peak, and we would stroll to the Ocean. Instead, more dunes curved and hid the horizon. They were undulating and offered secluded spots for couples. Sidelined, the beach, the sea and swimming, Jenny selected a private dune niche. Down to a pair of dark shorts, I stretched. Jenny rested on her elbows, cute, in her bikini.

Leaning forward, she removed her bikini top. Her bottom piece stayed in place, shaped like a slice of watermelon.

Watermelon on a beach—cool, sexy, inviting.

Jenny laid back, receiving a light tan: her nipples, pretty pink dots on her soft dunes.

Heat defined the afternoon, the light unclouded, no breeze. She raised one leg, her inner thighs smooth. After a short lie, Jenny stretched up. She mused aloud under the high sun.

"At a beach, someone carped to me once; my breasts looked like fried eggs."

She glanced at her chest, a self-disparaged peep. I gazed at her breasts side-on.

"It stuck; what do you think?"

I could tell she sought an honest answer.

"No," I managed.

I thought but left it unsaid; I'd like my eggs served this way anytime; thank you.

Jenny lay back, her breasts classy, sleek, sun-seeking objects of desire. Her head rested low on her beach bag, her stretched body slinky and inviting. I sought to explore her body in the dunes. My fingers ambled to her groin and her bikini's elastic edge. A watermelon membrane stretched the face of her sex. I desired to see her pussy at rest.

Jenny purred, "The sand will chafe."

I withdrew my twitchy fingers.

I wonder what she thought I planned – public yet concealed dune sex?

No, Jenny, I wished to behold your pussy, rekindle, and re-experience the butterfly moment.

In hindsight, where would this have led?

Jenny made the right call, halting possible dune sex, which wasn't us. Her relaxed body invited — Jenny, so purry when inclined.

My fingers meandered again.

"Luke, it will chafe," Jenny repeated, emphasising every word.

A girl firmly restraining her boy at the beach, in the dunes. Resolute because between her pussy and the sand, only her bikini bottom. And her breasts' intention was seeking the sun.

I don't remember where I put my hands; I know they weren't where I hoped, massaging Jenny's flesh. I know I evaded chewing my fingernails, my youthful habit.

Drawing my eyes, an attractive bleached scalloped shell, its appeal unable to match a cowrie picked up at a beach years ago. The shell lay beyond my reach, and Jenny's watermelon bathers presented a tempting prize.

She opened her beach bag. Like a penitent puppy, I waited, watching her eyes. She clutched a small bottle of sunscreen.

I heard Jenny's sultry voice, "Apply some sunscreen to my breasts."

She passed me the plastic container. Job description: apply sunscreen to your woman's breasts. Job satisfaction rating: unmatched. I spied a petite mole under her left breast.

The hidden personal revealed is genuinely defining.

Jenny shut her eyes. Her head tilted back. Her mind and body enjoyed the touch. Then her breasts lay, glistening, content under the sun, and my fingers roamed happily over her tummy. Jenny opened her eyes.

She remembered, " Luke, sunscreen."

Bending her knees, she applied the cream to my chest and back.

"There's a cluster of moles above your shorts. They look like a cross," she stated.

She dropped the bottle in her bag. Her stretch as she lay displayed languor. It belied the familiar charged sexual woman of a bedroom.

I used Jenny's most descriptive word.

'Bugger,' sand, to myself.

The sound of the waves in the distance calmed me. I gazed at Jenny's rib cage, rising and falling gradually beside me. We leisurely spent an afternoon in perfect seaside weather.