A sex story of voyeurism and hot stranger sex...
"The Golden Hour," erotica by Elizabeth Coldwell
The sun was already beginning to set as I drove along the winding road that led to the coast. I floored the accelerator of my elderly Mini, anxious to reach the beach before the light faded altogether. Barely a single car had passed me in the last ten minutes, and I was confident I could break the speed limit if I needed to without drawing the attention of a lurking police patrol. Although, I thought deviously, I wouldn’t mind being pulled over by a big, brawny policeman who would threaten to use the cuffs on me if I was cheeky to him. Maybe I would resist arrest, just a little, and he would be forced to bend me over the hood and–
I snapped my attention back to the road, though given the long day I’d had it was no surprise my mind was drifting towards more pleasurable fantasies. People tend to think of the film industry as being inherently glamorous, but there are plenty of jobs within the industry which are anything but.
Take my job for example, scouting locations for exterior shooting. This isn’t as straightforward as it sounds. The writer will have his own opinion on how the places he’s described in his script should look, while the director usually has the complete opposite in mind. Once they’ve finally resolved their creative differences, it’s my job to find the perfect location.
Outdoor shooting brings its own set of problems. The most idyllic stretches of woodland more often than not belong to the Ministry of Defense, who are highly reluctant to allow anyone to film there, while it’s almost impossible to find a picturesque country village where the cottages aren’t blighted with satellite dishes.
My current assignment was for The Pirate Bride, a relatively low-budget tale of the blossoming relationship between a naval officer, sent to catch a band of Eighteenth-century wreckers, and the daughter of the chief brigand. I had spent the day touring the stretch of coastline between Hunstanton and Sheringham in Norfolk, England, looking for everything the film needed. As I’d expected, it was taking a while. Finding a suitably rustic church and a half-timbered building which could double as the inn where the officer was staying had both been relatively easy. The sticking point was the beach where the film’s climax took place. It needed to have a flat, broad sweep of sand for the characters to ride their horses along and a brooding atmosphere which amplified the sexual tension between the lovers. However, everywhere I had seen so far had either been studded with beach huts or had such an obvious high water mark, indicated by a dirty outcropping of dried seaweed, empty plastic bottles and other litter, that it would allow very little room to film once the tide came in. I couldn’t think of a less suitable backdrop against which the romance could be played out.
Most importantly, it had to look good during what we knew in the business as ‘the golden hour’, the time just before twilight when the sun begins to sink and the light takes on a soft, almost magical quality. The beach I was driving towards was the last on my list of possibilities, and I was in danger of reaching it too late to see whether it was even vaguely suitable.
At last, I arrived at what passed for the car park. The fact it was a pothole-ridden stretch of asphalt only big enough to accommodate half-a-dozen cars seemed to indicate this place wasn’t on the regular tourist trail. It would make parking the film crew’s assorted trucks and trailers difficult, but if the beach ticked all the other boxes I was sure there would be a way round that.
I parked, switched off the radio and grabbed my shoulder bag. Having scribbled a quick comment in the exercise book where I made notes on all the locations I visited about the limited parking, I headed in the direction of the sea. There was a barely trodden path between the dunes and I scrambled down it, almost losing my footing in the loose sand. Even before I reached the sand, I knew I’d found my beach. The clouds were beginning to close in, diffuse bars of light peeping through to illuminate the almost motionless gray sea. The sand was flat, undisturbed by the constant procession of footsteps I’d seen elsewhere. It stretched almost as far as I could see in both directions before the coastline curved sharply, cutting it off almost completely from the next headland. Unlike everywhere else I’d visited in the last few hours, this place was serene and deserted.
Or maybe not totally deserted, I realized, as I saw a figure come jogging slowly along the sand. A man, dressed in a baggy dark tracksuit and carrying something rolled up under his arm. If this was his local beach, I envied him. Running along the seashore, even on a chilly October day like this one, was infinitely preferable to my own jogging circuit, which took in a main road thick with diesel fumes and a park where the dog walkers didn’t seem too bothered about making sure they cleaned up what their pooches left behind. If I hadn’t been on such a tight schedule, I would probably have taken a walk down to the water’s edge myself, relishing the wind in my hair and the tang of sea salt on my lips. As it was, I intended to be back in my North London flat by nine, writing up my report on everywhere I had visited today with the aid of a glass or two of crisp white wine.
I scribbled a couple of lines in my book about the suitability of the beach, and then reached for my digital camera. A few shots to back up my opinion of the location, and then I could be on my way. Distracted by the actions of the jogger, I halted in what I was doing. I realized what he had been carrying was a yoga mat, which he had unrolled and laid out on the sand. I should have recognized it for what it was as soon as I’d seen it – my old flatmate, Trudy, had decided to take up yoga when the likes of Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow had made it popular a couple of years earlier. Liking the idea of achieving a viciously toned body which would look good in her skimpy clubbing gear, Trudy had attended a handful of classes before getting bored and going back to her favorite form of exercise – energetic Sunday morning sex sessions with whichever bloke she’d pulled while out the night before. The discarded mat had ended up on the hall floor, where I’d tripped over it on a regular basis. Fortunately, Trudy had taken it with her when she’d moved out, or I would still be tripping over it now.
As I continued to watch, the stranger began to peel out of his tracksuit. My first thought was to wonder how he could bear to take anything off on such a cold afternoon. My second, as the shapeless top was thrown to the floor to reveal a smooth, bare chest, was what an incredible body he had. I focused on him through my viewfinder, zooming in to take a closer look. I wouldn’t exactly have described him as handsome – his features were a little too sharp for that, and he had a scruffy growth of stubble on his chin. Most definitely not the skinny, pretty boy type who usually attracted me. But the muscles in his arms and chest were perfectly defined and, given the opportunity, I could happily have run my tongue along the ridges of his abs.
He reached for the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms. That was the moment at which I should have walked back to the car and gone on my way. But a voyeuristic streak, that I hadn’t even known I possessed until now, had kicked in hard. I was suddenly anxious to discover what – if anything – he was wearing beneath them. It wasn’t long before I had my answer: a tightly fitting pair of white trunk-style underwear. Even at this distance, I could see how the fabric clung to the outline of what appeared to be a fairly hefty cock. Forget the beach: this was the perfect view I’d searched all day to find.
I stuffed my camera back in my bag and, as quietly as I could, I crept closer to him. Though I couldn’t help feeling it was wrong to spy on this man, by now my pussy was ruling my head. I crouched down in the scrubby grass which bordered the sand, and waited to see what he would do next. He turned to face the water, giving me a mouthwatering view of his hard, round ass cheeks and firm thighs. Then he bowed at the waist, as though saluting the god of the sea, and started to work through his routine.
If Trudy had been with me, she would have been able to give me the name for each of the poses he struck – or at least the two or three she had mastered before her yoga classes lost their appeal. What really interested me was the way his muscles moved as he turned and stretched, and just how flexible he appeared to be. He was clearly lost in his own world, his face a perfect mask of concentration; though in truth, aside from me, there was nothing to distract him apart from the odd seagull wheeling overhead.
When he came to the end of his sequence of moves, I thought the show was over for the day. And then he caught hold of the waistband of those tight white trunks. Surely he wasn’t going to..? For a moment, I seemed to forget to breathe, and then I gave a great exhalation of surprise and pleasure as he stripped out of his underwear. The absence of a tan line suggested this was not the first time he had performed his yoga in the nude, but that wasn’t my primary concern. I was more interested in the fact his cock was more than a little excited, jutting out slightly from the closely-cropped mat of hair at his crotch. It was easily as big as I’d hoped, and my pussy gave a greedy little twitch as I gazed at it.
Now he began his routine again, but this time the poses seemed to have been deliberately chosen for their resemblance to the way a man moves during sex. Low-skimming push-ups made him appear to be humping the sand, and offered me cheeky glimpses of the dark cleft between his buttocks. If he’d been aware he had an audience, I was sure he would have behaved far more discreetly, but I was happy for him to believe he was alone so he could keep putting on this dirty little show for me.
Fragile 11 by Joerg Ward available at ObsessionArt.com
Almost without realizing what I was doing, I lifted my skirt and rubbed myself through my thin lacy knickers. Even with the thin barrier of cloth between my finger and my clit, I was creating the most delicious friction. With a shock, I realized how long it had been since I’d last taken the opportunity to masturbate. I might have been far too wrapped up in my work to find the space for a man in my life, but how could I have forgotten the need to give myself pleasure?
The stranger had rolled over, and brought himself up into a cross-legged position. His cock was well on the way to being hard by now, and as he bent forward, the rudest of possibilities occurred to me. I’d heard of men who were both supple enough and well endowed enough to be able to suck their own cock, but till now I had never been in the presence of one. Could he actually manage it? Was this what all this performance had been leading up to, the moment when his spine curled far enough that he could take the fat, blushing head of his dick between his own lips and..?
My fingers had slipped under the edge of my knickers, touching almost indecently wet, hot flesh. I closed my eyes, gave a little squeak of unadulterated bliss – and heard a voice say, “Okay, out you come from there.”
I looked round, wondering who had caught me. I’d thought there was no one here but the two of us. Had I been wrong? While I’d been spying on this naked and incredibly flexible stranger, had someone else been spying on me?
Popping my head above the covering of grass, I realized while I had been preoccupied the man had approached me. It was he who I found staring at me, arms crossed and wearing a more indulgent expression than I would have expected. Shamefaced, I rose to my feet.
“I’m sorry, I was just–” I stammered. I couldn’t believe how ridiculous I felt, given the man confronting me was stark naked and still sporting an erection which hadn’t diminished in the slightest.
“I know exactly what you were doing,” he replied. “Do you really think I couldn’t see you hiding over there?”
“So how long did you know I was here?” I asked.
“Pretty much as soon as I worked out it was your camera lens glinting in the grass.” He grinned, and I noticed how incredibly blue his eyes were, like the sea on a glorious summer’s day. The fine lines around them deepened as he smiled. They were the kind of eyes which could make me forget all about young pretty boys and remind me of the joys of an experienced thirtysomething man.
“And yet you did all that? Stripped naked and did all those really filthy poses, knowing I was watching?”
“Maybe I like to be watched.” He’d been walking towards me as he spoke, and now he was so close that I could have reached out and taken hold of that enticingly hard cock of his. My fingers itched to touch it, almost as much as my pussy itched to be touched. “I’m Tom, by the way.”
“Jodie.” I almost offered him my hand to shake, and then I realized he would more than likely be able to smell my juices on it. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something else, and I blurted out, “Just before you stopped what you were doing, it looked like you were about to put your own cock in your mouth. Can you – can you really do that?”
He burst out laughing. “I might be able to, and then again I might not. But what I’d much rather prefer is to put it in yours.” It was a line which would have sounded unbelievably sleazy in other circumstances, but the longer we’d stood there, Tom so confident in his own nakedness, me still tingling from bringing myself to the brink of orgasm in the grass, the more obvious it had become that all this was leading up to our having sex.
I almost threw myself into his arms. The fact he was a good foot taller than me didn’t matter as he hoisted me up so my legs could wrap around his waist and we were able to share hot, greedy kisses. Not only was he supple, he was strong, too. His hands cupped the cheeks of my ass, kneading them through my clothes as I nibbled on his lips.
“You know,” he murmured, “I should spank your ass for being so rude as to spy on me.”
I shivered in his grasp, imagining how it would feel to have his strong hand slapping against my bare backside, spanking me until I was writhing and begging for mercy. And all the time the wetness in my pussy would be letting him know that the pain was spiced with pure pleasure.
“Well, I do deserve it,” I told him.
“I know,” he said, “but I just can’t wait any longer to fuck you.” With that, he reached up under my skirt and tugged at my knickers so hard the elastic snapped. The ruined underwear fluttered to the sand and I felt the cool fingers of the sea breeze on my overheated sex.
Tom lowered me on to the yoga mat, pushing my top up towards my neck and snapping open the front fastening of my bra so he could admire my tits. Admiration turned to kisses and nibbles, his mouth bringing my nipples to tight, hard points in almost no time. I spread my legs in unmistakable invitation, needing to have that gorgeous cock of his inside me.
As he nudged the lips of my cunt apart, easing his way into me, I let out a gasp, almost unable to believe how widely I was being stretched. He paused for a moment, letting me accustom myself to his more than generous proportions, and then his pelvis began to move in the same patterns I’d watched so recently. Only now I was experiencing how it felt to have that powerful body working on top of me, Tom’s hips gyrating so his cock touched places within me I’d barely known I had. His suppleness and strength I was already aware of; now his stamina came into play as he thrust effortlessly into me.
After a few moments, he rolled me over, our bodies never breaking contact. Now I was the one on top, Tom’s hands reaching up to cup and squeeze my tits, my bare bottom exposed to the chilly evening air. I didn’t feel the cold, though; I was enjoying our hot, glorious, filthy fucking far too much for that.
All the rubbing and touching and squeezing worked their magic. Orgasmic feelings soared up and up within me, crashing and breaking like surf against the beach, and I screamed out in pleasure. Tom was muttering that he was close, getting closer, and then with a triumphant roar he shot his load deep into my welcoming cunt.
“That was amazing,” I murmured, climbing a little reluctantly off Tom’s slowly shrinking cock.
“So, Jodie, I never asked what you were doing here,” Tom said, as he pulled his tracksuit back on. “This place isn’t exactly popular with tourists.”
“Oh, I’m not a tourist. I was looking for the perfect beach,” I told him. “We’re going to be shooting a film here.” As I spoke, I thought of what the appearance of the crew would mean to Tom, disrupting his routine – as well as his peace and serenity – for as long as it took to get the necessary scenes in the can. “I’m really tempted not to tell them about it now.”
Tom smiled. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’m sure I could find something else to keep me occupied while they’re here.” He pulled me into his arms again, and I began to imagine what a few of those things might be. After all, I hadn’t even begun to explore the true extent of his flexibility.
Suddenly, my job seemed much more rewarding than it had when I’d set out this morning. Not only had I found all the locations I needed, I’d met a man with whom I would be able to spend a very private golden hour or two. I took one last look at the sea, gray and silent in the dusk, and let Tom lead me out of the dunes and off to his bed.
Originally published August 2010