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It was a hot July day. The entire week was heavy with humidity. Lo, working from home, without any AC, had to, just had to, work in either only her panties and a bra or nothing at all. It made for very interesting Zoom calls.

Finally the weekend was here and we were going to get out of the sticky stale air of the city and cool off at the beach.

As usual, we got a late start due to Lo cycling through all of her various bikini tops and bottoms to find just the perfect match.

I loaded up the cooler, full of ice, beer, and snacks into the car.

I packed away the folding chairs.

I took nearly as much time picking just the right reading material as Lo took choosing her outfit.

But we were on the road by ten.

The beach is about an hour’s drive from our apartment, but when we got there, the parking lot was already overflowing. No more cars allowed. The line was a half mile long to get in.

We pulled up on the side of the road and just looked at the scene before us. Refreshing blue water on the horizon only a few hundred yards away. A yellow strip of soft sand filled with weekenders like ourselves. A narrow boardwalk. Then the steamy blacktop creating a wavelike transparent curtain between us, waiting and baking in the near noonday sun, and the inviting scene.

As we waited there, perspiring, at a loss for what to do, two young women in bikinis and thongs showing a lot of cheek walked past us.

“Don’t look!” commanded Lo.

How was I to avoid the sight. They were directly in front of where we were parked (illegally) and not going anywhere.

“Just don’t look,” she said.

The two women were at a watering stand where they washed the sand from their feet and sandals. They splashed about cheerfully. As I did my best to avoid looking at them, Lo reached down under her bikini bottom and began flicking the bean.

“Lo, what are you doing?”

“You can’t look, but I can.”

“Look all you want, but. . .”

“What? I’m not allowed to touch? You can look at me if you must look somewhere.”

That I did. I watched her watching the near naked nymphettes through the frame of the windshield.

Though Lo is significantly younger than I, she’s old enough to regard those two girls splashing around as mere “nymphettes,” as Vladimir would say. Yet she’s also still young enough herself to make the thirty-something year old moms jealous.

I was sweating, even with all the windows down. Lo, too, was perspiring. I could see the beads of perspiration collecting between her breasts. They grew into large dew drops and then collected together into a stream that ran down, under her bikini top, over her tum, and to the pool between her legs where her right hand was rapidly racing to the finish line.

“Hurry up, Lo, it’s hot,” I said.

“Shhhhhh,” she angrily responded.

I furtively looked up to see what the girls were doing. They were still splashing in the water. Minutes seemed like hours.

Lo’s hair was matting down with perspiration. Her brow was dripping. Her fingers still rapid-fire stroking.

I could see, as I looked at Lo in the passenger seat, two young men walking our way on the dirt path beside the road.

“Lo,” I said.

“I’m almost there.”

“Lo,” I repeated a little more urgently.

“I know, you’re hot, but just give me. . .” She was fixated on the vignette of vaginas dancing in the cool water.

“Lo!”

Too late, the boys were at her window.

“Um, excuse me, but you can’t park here,” one of them said. They were lifeguards and had the unfortunate job of patrolling the area.

As he gently spoke, Lo was startled and screamed, “WHAT?!” Her hand was still down her bikini bottom, grasping her hooch rather than stroking it now.

“I’m sorry,” said the young man, almost putting his head in the window, “but we can’t let you park here.”

Lo looked up at him. He was young, handsome, and fit. His partner’s crotch in the Speedo bathing suit was right at the same level as Lo’s face and she had a full-frontal view of his bulge.

Her fantasy, or whatever was happening in her head, had to make an abrupt change of course from the two girls to the two boys. If there were a soundtrack to our scenario, then you would hear the scratch of the needle as the music did a 180 from “Girl Crush” to Janet Jackson’s “All for You.”

Lo was simultaneously embarrassed and excited. It was one of the few times she didn’t have any words for the occasion. She just looked up, slack-jawed, panting in the heat.

Seeing the predicament unfold before me like a car wreck in slow motion, I took the initiative and leaned over and said, “She’s just getting off.”

“What?” asked the young man.

“I said, I’m just letting her off. She’s hopping out now as I go park the car in town. Right Lo?”

She looked at me. She didn’t want to stop diddling, but she had no choice. She pulled her hand out of her bikini bottom and smiled at the boys. “Right,” she said.

“Don’t forget your phone, your towel, and your sunscreen,” I said as she got out of the car.

“Oh, that’s ok,” said one of the two fellas by the car, giving permission for something that was going to happen anyway.

Lo slowly got out of the car. She opened up the rear passenger door to get the stuff and bent over to get it. The bottom half of her body was outside the car, the top inside. She looked at me and whispered, “I’m squirting!”

“Lucky boys,” I said.

She stood, frozen for a moment in the heat. I could see her chest getting flush, as were her cheeks. Probably her ass cheeks too.

She grabbed a few items and said, “Don’t be long.”

“Long and hard, Lo, I’ll be long and hard. I’ll see you later Ms. Soggy Bottom”

She got out of the car and walked across the street. I watched her, as did the boys. I could see her bikini bottoms were soaked. She got to the fountain where the girls had been and refreshed herself in it. The girls had since walked away.

Forty-five minutes later, drenched in sweat, exhausted, I returned by foot to the beach after driving over a mile away to find a legal parking spot.

I found Lo on the beach, lying out. “Hey Daddio,” she said to me, happy to see me, but with another request at the ready, “It’s pretty warm out here and I’m getting hungry. Do you think we could get some lunch?”

I couldn’t believe it. I thought I was going to pass out right there.

“Do you mind if I take a quick dip to cool off?” I asked, not about to wait for her reply.

I removed my shirt as she said, “If you must.” She was only partly joking.

The water revived me, but it felt so good that I could have stayed in all day.

“I’ll wait here. Call me when you get close,” she said as I began my walk to pick up the car. “Don’t be long!”

“Long and soft, long and soft,” I thought, as I grumbled walking away.

Thirty minutes later, I picked her up and we went to our favorite restaurant on the water. It has a roof deck bar.

Once we were seated and had ordered drinks, I asked Lo how her time on the beach (without me) was.

“It was ok. A lot of voyeurs.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“It’s different with me.”

“How exactly?”

“The female gaze.”

“The female gaze is no different from the male gaze, especially if the female who is gazing at other females is simultaneously fapping off in public to the sight. If I were to do that, I would have been arrested!”

“No, you’d be dead first because I would have killed you.”

“Yet you get away with it.”

“Exactly. Now you’re catching on. The female gaze, it’s just different from the male gaze.”

“Only because society treats it differently.”

“Well, there must be a reason for that.”

“There is. It’s called patriarchy. The laws are made, enforced, and interpreted by men. And men are perverts who find the thought of a woman flicking her bean fascinating and the thought of a man stroking his cock criminal.”

“There you have it.”

“So you’re buying into the patriarchy?”

“No. Never. I’m contributing to its eventual demise by exposing its internal contradictions.”

“You’re exposing something,” I said just as our waiter brought out our cool, tall drinks.

“Anyhow,” said Lo after a long sip, “the voyeurs were laser focused on me.”

“I bet you had to beat them off with a stick!”

“I like that idea,” she said, daydreaming, “but no. They all maintained a proper social distance.”

“Did you see the two guys who interrupted you?”

“No, I didn’t. Maybe they saw me, but I didn’t notice them.”

“You liked that, didn’t you?”

“What, Daddy?” she asked with a faux innocence.

“Getting caught.”

“No, I was right on the edge!”

“I know. And getting caught put you over the edge.”

“Well, I have the opposite problem from a lot of men.”

“How so?”

“I hear that men who masturbate too much. . .”

“What’s too much?” I interrupted her. “This should be good coming from you.”

“Well, very frequently, let’s say. Those men find it increasingly more difficult to climax. But with me, the more I do it, the easier I cum. It’s becoming a problem.”

“How so?”

“Remember the time in the gym?”

I did. She had had an accidental squirting orgasm while working out. “Has that happened again?”

“Not exactly, but it doesn’t take much. It’s like I’m becoming incontinent. Just walking down the street could result in a downpour. A hairpin trigger. And I’m not sure how to prevent it. What do you think?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“No, Depends, the adult diaper. That’s what I think.”

“Oh, Daddy. Don’t be silly.”

“I’m the silly one? Maybe you should stop your self-pleasure.”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“Then I have no solution for you. Carry a bottle of water everywhere you go just in case. You can always say you spilled.”

Our lunch was brought out and I continued the conversation, “Do you think you could make yourself accidentally squirt right now?”

“What about ‘accidental’ don’t you understand? It’s involuntary. If I try to do it, it’s not an accident. But, just so you know, if I wanted to, I certainly could cum and squirt right now. And I’m not talking some Meg Ryan fake orgasm. I’m talking gushing waterfalls from between my legs onto the wood floor beneath my chair.”

“Do it,” I dared her.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I don’t want to. I have agency, you know.”

“I thought that accidental squirting orgasms removed your agency.”

“Only in that one respect.”

“Well, I give you all due respect.”

“As you should.”

We ate our lunch and then, having properly patronized the restaurant and taking the receipt as proof, I chose to leave the car in the parking lot as Lo and I returned to the adjacent beach. I carried all the chairs, towels, and drinks. She walked like a goddess before me.

As we were walking to a secluded section of the strand, we happened across one of the lifeguards walking in front of us. He was, like most lifeguards, in very good shape. His bathing suit was nonchalantly drooping down, revealing a bit of his untanned rear.

“Mmmmmm,” Lo purred, audibly enough for me to hear her.

“Go after him, if that’s what you want,” I said.

“Oh Daddy,” she cried, putting her arm around me and squeezing my ass, “you’re the only one who gets my engine revving.”

“Really? I couldn’t get you to turn over this morning.”

“Well, my engine doesn’t start before eight.”

“Half the day is gone by then.”

We continued walking toward the cool shore and we passed four young women, two of whom were, as Lo loves to say, ‘stick-skinny-blondes.’ She has always and continues to believe, mistakenly, that I would run with abandon after an upside-down straw broom in a bikini, thinking it was a ‘stick-skinny-blonde’ woman.

“You must be enjoying the three B’s,” she said to me.

“Three B’s?”

“Blondes, Boobs, and Butts.”

“I appreciate the scenery,” I said, purposefully looking out at the horizon and not at the women. “I give thanks for beauty in all its manifold forms.”

“If you want them, have them. Be my guest. Go for it.”

“You propose to me one day and dispose of me the next.”

“Propose to you?!”

“Yes, you’re constantly asking me to marry you.”

“No. I’m asking why you won’t marry me.”

“I’ve told you so many times already, if we never marry, there’s a zero percent chance of our getting divorced.”

“The only isle you’ll walk down with me is the chips and snacks isle of the supermarket.”

“Oh, don’t say that. You know damn well that if I got down on one knee right here and proposed to you, you’d say no.”

“That’s true, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to try.”

I dropped everything I was carrying and got down on one knee in the sand and took her hand in mine. “Will you marry me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because, you’re not even looking in my eyes, you’re looking at my crotch.”

“That’s the part that I wish to enter into. . . holy matrimony.”

“Well, the clam shack is closed.”

I stood up again and we spread our towels and set up our chairs right on the spot that I proposed to her. How romantic! Finally, I was able to relax just a little bit.

She was still sore about the gaggle of girls we had passed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I just feel so fat compared to them,” she said, grabbing her tummy roll and squeezing it. “I feel like a Jell-O Jiggler.”

“Lo, please.”

I reached over and grabbed her tum.

“What are you doing?”

“Touching my favorite part of you.”

“My least favorite part.”

“Agree to agree with me.”

We at least let the matter drop.

Once we were comfortable, Lo took out her phone, I took out my book. She was lying on her tum, her feet dangling in the air, as she scrolled through whatever it was that had her attention. A few moments later she turned to me and said, “Do you mind if Kaylee and her new boyfriend join us?”

“What?”

“Kaylee, remember Kaylee?”

Oh yes, I remembered Kaylee alright. Lo had had a fling with her and her previous boyfriend. I just didn’t understand how or why they would be joining us.

“She’s here! On this beach,” Lo added.

“How do you know?”

“She just posted a pic of herself here and I reached out to her.”

“Oh, so you had already invited them to join us before asking me?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said in her conciliatory little girl voice. “I thought you’d enjoy seeing her in what she’s wearing.”

“And what is she wearing?” I asked.

“Not much,” she said, showing me the image on her phone.

Kaylee was only in a very skimpy blue bikini.

“Well, I guess they can swing by,” I conceded reluctantly. “But they need to be six feet away. COVID Times, you know.”

“I know.”

As we waited for them to arrive, I taunted Lo with, “So, will Kaylee also come under your ‘female gaze’?”

“I don’t know if she’ll cum, but I might,” she retorted.

“Funny.”

“You know,” she said, schooling me, “the ‘female gaze’ isn’t simply when a woman oogles a man or a woman as an object the way men oogle women as objects.”

“Oh no? What is it professor?”

“It’s a term of art to describe the point of view of a woman that gets at the interior life, thoughts, feelings, emotions of the woman.”

“That’s what the male gaze is too,” I said. “However, it just so happens that men are simply one-dimensional, shallow, and single-mindedly focused on sex.”

“Does that include you?”

“Oh no.”

“No?”

“No, I am multi-dimensionally, deeply, and many-mindedly focused on sex.”

“That is true. But how can you be ‘many-mindedly’?”

“It’s an expression, like, when one says, ‘I’m of two minds about such-and-such.’ I am of many-minds about sex. All of them for it.”

“If only you had as many cocks for sex as you have minds for sex, I might be satisfied with only you.”

“I would look like some sort of Hindu god with that many cocks!”

“And I could be your consort.”

Kaylee and her new boyfriend, Keith, arrived. You might remember both Kaylee and Keith from “The Love Elite,” the culminating story of the “Lust in the Dunes” series. Well, since then, Kaylee broke up with Corey and started up with Keith. Lo had been with all three of them, as you no doubt recall.

The two of them set up a pandemically prudent distance away from us, but not too far that we couldn’t talk. They brought with them a cooler of beers that they willingly shared with us.

We caught up with each other, for it had been a long time since we had last seen them in person.

After about an hour of chit-chat, Lo and Kaylee were lying out. Lo was reading a book and Kaylee said she didn’t have anything to read. Lo reached into her bag and, to my great surprise, she pulled out the prototype of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume II: MORE! that she had been reading and lent it to her.

“What’s this?” asked Kaylee.

“I know you liked 50 Shades,” said Lo. “This is way better. Let me know what you think of it when you’re done.”

A couple of hours passed as the sun descended in the sky, decreasing in intensity, mellowing to a warm, gentle ruddy hue. We had swam and laughed, but now Lo said she had to pee. Due to COVID, she was hesitant to use a public restroom. And besides, the facilities were way down on the other end of the beach.

There was always the restaurant we had lunched in, but that wasn’t too close and the urge had snuck up on her.

“Go in the ocean,” coaxed Kaylee.

Lo shook her head ‘no.’

I knew what was in her mind. She always likes to be sensational and provoke a reaction. She’s secretly competitive and likes the partners of her friends to know that she is the most slutty, dirty, and depraved so that they secretly (or not-so-secretly) fantasize about her while with her friends.

“Does anyone mind if I, uh, you know, here?”
“Pee?” asked Kaylee with a laugh.

“Yeah.”

“In the sand?”

“Yeah.”

“You want us to go away?”

“Nah. You can watch if you want.”

“Do it!” she said.

Lo sat on the edge of her folding chair, spread her legs wide, pulled her skimpy bikini bottoms slightly askew, exposing her silky-smooth pussy, and she let the stream pour into the fine golden sand.

A few seconds into her stream, I could detect that something was amiss. I saw her fingers clench the edge of the chair, her legs begin to tremble, her breasts begin to heave. And then, there it was, a seamless transition from micturition to hysterical paroxysm, complete with an uncontrollable emanation of fluid. Unlike the first flow, this one was powerful and had an ascending trajectory.

Lo just bore down and said, “Fuck!” as she experienced the waves of unanticipated pleasure ripple through her flesh.

She was literally gushing with contradictory feelings: embarrassment, excitement, shame, pride, disgrace, abandon, power. The complete loss of control of her bodily functions made her feel infantile, yet her almost superhuman ability to achieve an orgasm that spouts with greater force, volume, distance, and longevity than any man’s ejaculation filled her with a sense of superiority to both men and women. All of her emotions occurred simultaneously and were expressed through her facial contortions, as though she were being deliciously tortured.

“Holy shit!” cried out Keith, for he had never seen anything like that in person before.

He got up and measured the distance from Lo to the end of the wet trail she left in the sand and calculated it to be about six feet.

“What just happened?” he asked.

“I’ve been having spontaneous squirting orgasms lately. I don’t know why or what’s going on,” said Lo, blushing as red as the setting sun. “I probably should see a doctor.” Her pussy was still dripping like a leaky faucet.

“Or stop masturbating so much,” I added, almost under my breath, but not quite.

“Feel better?” asked Kaylee.

“No, that’s the thing. It just makes me more horny for an intentional orgasm.”

There was an uncomfortable silence while we all contemplated what might happen next. Then suddenly there was a strong, cool wind from the south that blew everything all over the place and kicked sand up in our faces. We scrambled to collect our stuff and then we said a hasty goodbye as it looked like rain.

Back in the car, I looked at Lo.

“What?” she asked.

“You know what.”

“It was out of my control.”

“Not that.”

“Then what?”

“You gave her the book.”

“So?”

“So?! I’ve written about her. She’s in it!”

“Not in that volume.”
“Don’t you think that she can find the blog and quickly see that it’s you. . . and me?”

“So what? I’m done with having to apologize for who I am.”

“If you’re fine with it, then so am I,” I said.

We were on the road for a bit. The rain was thrashing against the windshield. We sat, exhausted from a full day in the hot sun. Silently we listened to the rhythm of the wipers and the crackle of the raindrops. It was relaxing.

“What are you thinking about, Little Miss Puddle Pants?” I asked.

“Stop it.”

“Well?”

“I was thinking about the female gaze again.”

“Oh, reminiscing about the girls you jilled to?”

“No,” she said defensively. “I was thinking how I like to be the object of the male gaze.”

“No kidding.”

“But that the way you write me, the way I am in the books, is much more of the female gaze.”

“How so?” I asked, glad to be talking of my writing.

“Well, yes, you portray me as a sex-starved, dirty, nasty, little nympho slut.”

“I. . .” I tried to protest.

“Don’t interrupt. But, you also get me from the inside. You see into me and portray how I see things.”

“A lot of people see into you,” I said, making a bad pun. It took her a moment to get it.

“Not like that! I’m serious. You don’t write about me as one-dimensional. You might depict one side of me more than the others.”

“And which side would that be?” I again quipped.

“But you portray me as who I am, who I really am. And if Kaylee doesn’t appreciate that, then too bad for her.”

“And what happens when I, inevitably, write about today and she sees it on the blog?”

“Well, you wouldn’t write anything untrue about her, would you?”

“No.”

“So, she has nothing to get upset about.”

“Fair.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Will you fuck me when we get home?” she asked as she began to doze off in the car.

“You’ll be asleep when we get home, dear.”

“Fuck me anyway. You must be in so much pain after all that today,” she said as she reached down between my legs. “I’d blow you now, but I think I need a nap.”

Written by

Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail: downloladown@gmail.com

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