Seaside Romance: Chapter 1

Dawn came and with it, a new beginning, a fresh day, unsullied and full of promise. Sun rising, first light breaking through the clouds. Morning was always her favorite part of the day. She could see the first light through opaque shades on her windows, light, both direct and diffuse reflected off the Atlantic. Slipping into a thin cotton sundress, she rose and descended the steps from her second story porch, stepping onto the cool sands of the broad white beach as yet just barely touched by the rays and heat of daylight as the sun seemingly burst forth from the oceans' depths. She breathed deeply the clean ocean air as the sea breeze beckoned her down to the waters edge. Alone on the sand, except for a small tern searching for its morning meal, she walked down the beach, aware of the ripples of the water, erasing her footprints on the virgin sand.

She always wondered how far the waves had traveled to arrive here in front of her, at this particular place and this specific time. Energy from some great distance moving across the vastness of the seas only to expend itself on the beach right in front of her. She liked to think that each line of water cresting on the shore was a gift meant for her alone. She smiled at this momentary selfishness. Who could own the waters of the Earth? It offered a sense of the immensity of the ocean, the world. Her mind wandered as a single gull reeled high above, its lonely, plaintive cry resonating into her soul.

She walked a while as the sun fulfilled its destiny rising higher off the horizon painting the sky with reds and pinks. When she first saw him, she mistook him for some great sea animal, a large porpoise maybe, but what she thought were fins became arms rising rhythmically above the waves, effortlessly pulling him across the surface of the sea. She paused to look as he swam parallel to the shore, about fifty yards out, seemingly unaffected by the rolling of the water. Without wondering where his swim began or its purpose, she was content to simply watch as the figure plowed though the waves, his course straight as that of any ship, undaunted by swell or current.

When he finally came ashore she was able to make a full assessment of the swimmer. He stood about six feet. She could see deep muscular striations across his well-developed chest. Tanned and strong, he had the body of a barbarian with the eyes of a philosopher or a poet. She knew right at that moment what the Greek sculptors were trying to accomplish with their chisels and how limited their efforts truly were. For some reason, it seemed completely natural that the swimmer was naked and unashamed of this condition. He smiled as she approached him. Taking his hand she noticed he had the fingers of an artist; a firm, comfortable grip easily fitting into her own outstretched palm. She felt his grasp, strong but full of unspoken gentleness.

She led him to where the dunes formed powdery mounds topped by sea oats and panic grass. No eyes saw but his as she unbuttoned her dress casually letting it drop to the sand where she stepped out of it revealing herself in full. He started to speak but she put a finger to his lips. Sometimes words can say too much. Pulling him to her, he gently kissed her, full on the mouth. His lips were fresh as the ocean air. His skin tasted of salt, sweet, not dry. Carefully, he lowered her to the fine white sand, arranging her discarded dress as a makeshift bed beneath her supple body.

His hands gently explored her shape, lingering on the nape of her neck, stroking the small of her back. She felt his touch across her bare skin as he moved down the backs of her legs, up to the tops of her shoulders and around her hips. His breath was cool upon her skin where his lips paused. She shivered, toes curling, as he traced patterns across her breasts and down toward her center. Pulling him closer, she guided him into her. He was hardest where she was softest. She held him tight, hardly able to fully reach across his broad back.

His chest was firm as it pressed against hers, his arms enveloping her completely. His rhythm was slow at first, waves rolling slowly across the beach. Building in his pace, she looked in to his eyes, blue as the sea on a clear sunny day, a hint of laughter and of passion as their bodies merged into one. He began to quicken the pace until she felt as though nature itself was upon her, with the force of a hurricane his release came in a rush, arching his back, her heels digging into his legs as she felt him shudder, giving himself to her completely without reserve. She gradually felt a groundswell move through her body. From her hot center, it radiated outward to her fingers and the tips of her toes. Over and over, she felt breakers crashing on undulating sand, hot waves raced over her, through her. She had never felt so alive as he pressed into her. She thought she would lose herself to him and his passion. Gasping for breath, looking past his muscled shoulders, she could see white clouds racing across the sky. He kissed her softly, nearly spent; he slowed to a languid pace that only re-ignited the paroxysms of pleasure throughout her. She closed her eyes, smelling him. Tasting him. Feeling him at her very core.

She sat bolt upright. Alone. She opened her eyes, face flushed, a cool breeze blew in her hair. Above her is the familiar ceiling fan beneath which she has slept for the last ten years. Daylight streamed through the windows that overlooked the dunes on the beach. Her bed was empty. Cold. As usual. She feels the heat from this latest dream. So real. Each time she has this particular dream, or one of a couple like it, the line blurs between reality and that other, more perfect world. A world where she is free. And loved.

She hears the water running in the master bath. The television blares the latest news, finance and politics, the boredom of the world in which he exists but lives without her. Rising from her bed she stretches. Her husband of a dozen years was attending to his morning routines. Still feeling playful from her nocturnal sojourn; she tries to sneak up behind him while he shaves. Giving him a little playful squeeze, he dodged her deftly, absentmindedly, as he threw his towel down on the counter so he could hear the business news. She doesn't enter his world. Sadly, in some ways he is at the center of hers.

Alone. Wiping the steam off of the large bathroom mirror, she pauses to take a good look at herself. In her forties, she looked at least five years younger. When she walked in her office, her passing was not unnoticed by men, strangers in whose eyes she could see admiration. Not that she was interested, but at least somebody appreciated her looks. She had always taken care of herself, no plastic parts here. She smiled as she saw the firmness in her breasts. Gravity had taken its usual cruel effects upon her, but good genes and some exercises kept things pointed upward if not perfectly.

Smooth skin on her face accentuated by the occasional fine line gave her a look of timeless, almost classic, beauty. Anyone who took the time to look at her could see the inner glow of an untamed spirit, youthful, despite what the calendar may have said. The only concession to the passing years was a hint of color in her brown hair, lightening it a little and eliminating some of the gray streaks that had begun to show up in recent years. Turning, she could see the reflection of a very firm backside, not too big for her frame and in the right clothes, it was a strong physical asset, gained from years of hard workouts and running on her beloved beach. Her legs were shapely and strong, the results of walking and weight training. Her grandmother always told her to use it or lose it, good advice to which she religiously adhered. Her midsection wasn't perfect but a baby tends to stretch things out a lot. Hard to get back to flat even some twenty years later. The people who don't understand this fact are either very young women with no experience. Or men.

The man who seemed to understand her least was, unfortunately for her, the man she loved and shared her bed with for the last dozen years of marriage. Now that bed was empty just like every other morning as of late. He always had one more important document to read, or some meaningless report to watch on television. Always a deal of some kind that needed attending while the bed grew colder. As far as she could determine, everything came before her in her husband's world. He had erected some kind of invisible, impenetrable wall between them. The wall seemed impervious to her attempts to breach the barrier. She tried all the tricks that the cheap, checkout counter magazines suggested; sexy nightgowns, alluring clothing, surprise dinner reservations, the works. She decided two things; first the magazine writers didn't have a clue. Second, her marriage was in deep trouble. When communication ends, the downward spiral is not far behind. You end up becoming silent roommates in some kind of well-furnished Hell. This wasn't supposed to be the way her life was to be. Something had to change.