The Beach House

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Angela White

Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to people living or dead is entirely coincidental. All characters are over the age of 18.

The Beach House

It was mid afternoon when I turned towards home. I’d been out in the boat for an hour or two but the fish weren’t biting and now I was on the way back, motoring slowly across the bay towards the little harbour hidden around the next headland.

I remember the day with extraordinary clarity, for reasons that will become obvious. I’d chugged out to Castle Rock and moored under its sombre shadow, dropping a line to try and lure one of the big groupers that I knew lived there… but today wasn’t my lucky day. And so I’d wound in the lines and climbed ashore, scrambling up the steep slope to the very top where the view stretched almost as far as Torbess. A mild southerly change had come through bringing clear air and a thin layer of cloud that obscured the sun without diminishing the clarity and brilliance of the light, and I was glad I’d brought my camera for the scenery was spectacular. The sea was a curious slate blue with none of the sparkle that direct sunlight usually brings and it contrasted nicely with the dark obsidian of the rocky shoreline and the reds and golds of the trees on the opposite headland. The fields up towards Murphy’s farm had been harvested and presented a patchwork of yellows and browns, each field a different shade separated by grey stone walls and the darker greens of the hedgerows. It was stunningly beautiful and I sat there for a while, just soaking it all in.

And now as I made my way back I was struck by the fact that there wasn’t another living soul in sight. No other boats disturbed the tranquil surface of the bay and the little country lane that threaded its way up over the hill towards Thirlemere was empty of cars. It was as if I was the only living person in the world… a single soul under the cathedral of that pale slate sky with all the colour and detail of that astonishing landscape etched out just for me. And as I watched, a single beam of sunlight pierced the cloud and painted the headland to my left in a soft gold, and I caught a glimpse of the old Beach House hidden behind the trees that grew down to the water’s edge.

We call it that, but it’s really nothing more than a half wrecked cottage towards the end of Brinsley’s Head, separated from the mainland by a narrow channel of turbulent water. It’s on our land, but we seldom come here. Rumour had it that a wealthy local landowner built it not long after the turn of the last century to escape from his shrill wife and eight kids, and if that is true he couldn’t have found a better spot. It’s hidden by a little fold in the coast and obscured from casual view by the weathered trees that cover that part of the island… a perfect little hideaway. I’d not been there in years but the shaft of sunlight seemed to beckon me and on the spur of the moment I swung the tiller over and headed towards the little spur of rock that serves as a natural harbour. I had my camera with me and I wanted to capture a little of what I could see.

As I turned behind the spur I saw an old wooden boat there, its paintwork faded and the wood dark with age, but the painter that secured it was bright and the outboard motor on the transom was almost new. I cut the engine and coasted towards it, tying up alongside and hopping over to the rocky outcrop ashore. It was quiet: not a sound other than the lap of the little waves from the wake of my boat and the occasional cry of a seagull from the bluff. I considered calling out, but something restrained me and so I set off towards the cottage quietly, moving carefully over the rough path and peering ahead. The stone walls of the little ruin gradually grew closer, stained by salt and bird droppings, with the empty window holes gaping like missing teeth in a derelict’s face.

The last time I’d seen the cottage it was uninhabitable as most of the roof had collapsed leaving the stone floor open to the weather. Someone had been here, though: one part of the roof had been patched and the windows at that end repaired – rough carpentry, to be sure, but enough to keep out the wind and rain. The door was secured, too, and the front step was clear of the debris that had cluttered it for so many years. It looked as if someone had decided to live here without our permission, and I resolved to find out who it was and what they thought they were doing.

The front door was shut and so I moved along the tumbledown fence overgrown with weeds and nettles to the back of the cottage, picking carefully through the shattered beams and blocks of stone scattered on the ground. The bushes were thicker here too, providing enough cover to allow me to approach the back wall undetected, and I stood for a moment listening. A low murmur came from within – too low to hear what was being said, but it was clear there was more than one person inside. For a moment I thought about leaving but my curiosity was aroused and so I stooped beside the shutters and peered inside.

A shaft of pale sunshine penetrated the room and illuminated pendik escort a scene that I’ll never forget. A naked woman was kneeling on the floor, her buttocks toward me. Her face was turned away but I could tell she was young by the shape of her body and the lustre of her skin: not a sag or a wrinkle marred its glossy perfection. Her elbows were on the floor and her breasts were hanging down – full and ripe, the dark nipples just touching the rug on which she knelt. Her ass was elevated, suspended by the delicious curve of her hips and the long, golden thighs were set apart. Her legs were askew like the awkward stance of a young foal: and between them her sex peeped out, gleaming in the soft light like a piece of luscious fruit – pink and moist and open, begging to be devoured.

All that took a second to register, and I was so astonished that I took a step back. It was like discovering a cache of gold bullion under your bed, something so completely unexpected that my mind recoiled and the breath caught in my chest. I remember standing there with my mind whirling, the image of her kneeling figure stamped on my brain like the vivid imprint of a strobe in a dark room. Part of me wanted to leave, to turn away and afford this mysterious young woman the privacy she had come to find, but the other was compelled to watch: to discover who was with her and to crouch in the shadows to see what she was doing.

And as I stood there I heard the voices again – a murmur of conversation, pitched low and full of longing and desire, and I stooped again to the chink in the shutters and watched. A second figure appeared in my view – another woman. She was petite, perhaps no more than five two, and was slender and blonde. Her hair curled around her ears to leave her long, graceful neck exposed. Her face was turned away, but I saw the curve of her waist and the swell of her little tight buttocks as she moved toward the figure crouching at her feet, and I heard the words between them.

‘Hurry Baby! Do it!’

‘I will, I will.’

The kneeling woman turned her face toward the approaching figure and her voice was husky with passion ‘Stretch open my pussy. Fuck me with it.’

‘I will. I’ll open you wide.’

‘Hurry. I need you inside me.’

The blonde crouched beside the kneeling woman close to the satin orbs of her buttocks and rested one hand on the small of her back. She drew the other between the woman’s legs, her small fingers brushing over the glistening wet flesh, and I heard a low groan of pleasure.

‘Ah…ah. Inside…ah, push inside.’

In the soft light I saw the blonde’s fingers on the other’s labia, her nail varnish a brief splash of vivid colour against the swollen pink flesh; and then they disappeared as she pressed her hand forward. I watched the woman’s vulva stretch open to allow all four fingers to enter and I heard her low gasp of pleasure as her back arched with the delicious sensation of being filled.

‘God, yes. Ah, yes…that’s good! Deeper. Burrow deeper.’

The blond bent her head forward to closely observe as she applied more pressure. Her face was close to the woman’s vulva, watching as her fingers slid into the warm oily flesh past the first knuckles. She teased her exposed thumb over the puckered anus and wriggled her hand. Little bubbles of juice oozed around her buried fingers and the kneeling woman groaned again.

‘More, Baby.’ She shifted her knees apart, exposing herself more. ‘Go deeper.’

The girl withdrew her fingers a little and I watched her curl her thumb across her palm before she slid her hand forward again. The woman’s vulva expanded around her knuckles, seizing the invading hand tightly to stop further progress. ‘It won’t go, Lucy,’ the girl whispered.

‘Push. Push hard.’

I watched with baited breath as she pushed, her fingers jammed in Lucy’s sex. For a few moments nothing happened and I heard her grunting softly – and then the resistance suddenly melted and her whole hand sank into the woman’s body. I could see her wrist encircled by the thick, wet lips of the woman’s vulva and I heard her panting softly from arousal.

‘I’m inside you, Luce,’ she whispered. ‘My whole hand is in your pussy.’

‘Ah, God, yes. I feel it. Fuck, that’s tight!’

‘Do you want me to take it out?’

The woman shook her head, her body prostrate. ‘No, no. Move your hand – ah! Gently. Fuck me gently.’

I watched as she began to flex her arm, moving it slowly inside the kneeling figure. The movement broke the tight seal around her wrist and a few strands of silver fluid escaped and trickled down her forearm. Above her wrist the puckered hole of Lucy’s anus flexed too, giving glimpses of the firm pink flesh of her bowels.

‘Harder now…go deeper.’

The blonde pushed again and her arm sank into the woman’s body a little more. From where I stood Lucy’s vulva seemed almost half way up her forearm and the girl rested her forehead on Lucy’s buttocks, her eyes fastened on the flexing anus and the fleshy ring of her vulva only a few inches away.

‘Now…fuck me. Fuck me deep.’

The maltepe escort blonde began to pump her arm forward and back. With each withdrawal her knuckles were revealed, wet and shining with the woman’s juices, and then her hand slid back into the deep cavity eliciting a little grunt from the prostrate, wriggling figure. Every thrust forward seemed to bury her arm deeper.

I was pressed to the wall, my eye glued to the little chink in the shutters as I watched the action before me. The two women were joined together, one inside the other and both of them grunting and moaning. Long streaks of Lucy’s juice dripped from her friend’s arm to lie in glistening drops on the rumpled rug beneath her, and I could hear her sighs as she buried her arm inside Lucy’s snatch and the soft wet slurping of her vulva as it stretched and slackened. God it was hot! My cock was like a log in my pants and my breath panted in my chest as I watched the two girls fucking, their pale bodies swaying in a bizarre choreographed dance. I remembered my camera and raised it to the window, watching the two through the viewfinder, zooming in to fill the image with the blonde girl’s head. Her face was still obscured but I could see it in quarter profile: the curve of one cheek and a little button nose and the swell of her soft lips. Her mouth was close to Lucy and I watched as her tongue darted out, brushing against the cleft between the woman’s trembling buttocks, dabbing against the soft white skin and then sliding down to flicker briefly over the tight, puckered ring of her anus.

With fumbling fingers I zoomed in further until the pale alabaster shape of Lucy’s buttocks filled the screen: and the blonde’s head too – left hand drawing aside the left buttock as she serviced her wriggling friend, her mouth busy. Her little pink tongue dabbing, dabbing against the brown puckered flesh – thrusting like a little pointed arrow, the tip teasing the twitching orifice, easing the tight ring of her sphincter until it expanded to accommodate this new assault. Bubbles of spit trickled down Lucy’s crack to where they were joined, mixing with the strands of silver love juice streaming out of her body, churning to a soft wet froth at the rim of her cunt.

And as I watched Lucy reached the pinnacle. Her body tensed and her hands grasped the blanket, the knuckles white in a paroxysm of pleasure. For a moment she was rigid, every muscle in her body locked as she teetered on the edge of her ecstasy, her cunt bulging with he friend’s fist and her asshole grasping and quivering like a little mouth around the invading tongue – and then with a scream of pleasure she came. A a sudden spray of juice burst from the quivering lips of her cunt to splatter over the blonde’s arm in a fine silver mist, and her voice rose in a shriek of ecstasy.

‘Ah, God, Baby, I’m coming, I’m coming! Aarrgh, fuck, fuck! Fuck me deeper…ah, Christ!’ Her body writhing around the thick arm of her friend, her tits crushed against the rug and her head thrashing from side to side. “Oh, Jesus! Oh, fuck – yes, oh yes.”

The blonde’s hand was deeper than ever before, and her mouth slid over the quivering, twitching flesh. She was riding out the storm, listening to the cries and shrieks of her friend. From my vantage point it looked as if her whole arm was thrust inside the writhing woman and the strands of silver juice dripped and dribbled from her elbow. I’d never thought an orgasm could last that long – it just seemed to go on and on with her body jerking and the screams and moans bursting from her lips as she gyrated around the living flesh embedded deep inside her. And then at last it diminished and I watched as her body gradually relaxed and she was still.

For a long moment the two figures were frozen in that extraordinary pose. I could see the muscles in the blonde’s arm moving, almost as if she were struggling to release herself, and I imagined that Lucy’s vaginal muscles had seized her friend and they were irrevocably joined together. But at last the blonde withdrew, her body rotating slightly as she retrieved her arm. Lucy’s vulva gripped her hand tightly still – almost as if it were clinging to it. I could see the ring bulging as the heel of the girl’s hand reached it, and hear the wet suck of her flesh; and as she turned, her face was revealed to me for the first time.

In that moment I pressed the shutter and took the photographs that would change everything. I’d forgotten I’d set the camera to motor drive and instead of a single frame it took a string of them: the blonde’s hand breaking free from her friend, the vulva still open and the last dribbles of her juice oozing free; the blonde girl’s face turning towards the window, alerted by the sound of the camera; her image filling the viewfinder, her eyes wide with curiosity and her mouth open. A face of extraordinary beauty: framed by a curtain of ash blonde hair with grey wide-set eyes and a little button nose and soft, luscious lips.

A face that I knew so well.

My sister’s face.


Afterwards I wondered how I hadn’t recognised her. Sarah, kartal escort my little sister. Nineteen years old and as pretty as a picture. I’d known her all my life and yet I hadn’t comprehended that it was the back of her head in the viewfinder, and her voice whispering, whispering as she burrowed her whole fucking arm into her friend’s body. But then again, why should I have? I’d not seen her face until the very end, and the last thing I’d imagined was that my baby sister was a lesbian. She’d had girlfriends, to be sure, but I’d thought they were just mates…and besides, she’d had boyfriends, too. So what did that make her? Bi? Sex crazy?

All this passed through my mind as I ran back to the boat and headed home. A jumble of images and thoughts – the juxtaposition of what I’d seen and what I now knew. Little Sarah, quiet and shy – virginal was a word that came to mind. Happier staying in her room to read a book than to go out on the town. Sarah, sweet as honey pie with seldom a bad word to say to anyone. How the hell did that equate to the Sarah I’d just seen with her arm in someone’s cunt, scooping the spit and juice from the crinkled little anus with her little wriggling tongue and whispering words of lust as she fucked another woman? Christ! If someone had told me Mother Teresa was a hooker I would have believed it before I believed what I’d just seen.

And had she seen me? I remembered her face in the camera’s lens, turning towards me as she heard the clash of the shutter’s mirror and the whine of the drive. Grey eyes, seeking me out, holding my gaze for a single horrified moment before I staggered back from the window and ran. Had she followed me? Had she watched as I flung myself into the boat and fled? Had she recognised it? And why had I taken the photographs, anyway? It was bad enough spying on her, but to take pictures for fuck’s sake!

It took me forty minutes to get back. I half expected to see her boat behind me, but the bay remained empty and at last I turned the final headland and entered the little harbour. I secured the painter and drove home, determined to delete the photographs and think no more about it. I guess I was embarrassed and ashamed – but I was aroused too, and that disturbed me. I’d never thought of Sarah in that way and the image of her pale, naked body as she bent over her friend had not only shown me what she had, but given me a whole new perspective on her sexuality as well. There was no doubt that it was her who had fixed up the Beach House, and for one purpose only. So how many times had she been up there, fucking? I wondered if it was always the same girl, too – or whether she’d taken others to lie on that same rug. Did they do to her what she’d done to Lucy, or was it more conventional? And was it only girls?

As I rounded the drive into the house I found myself wondering what it would be like to be with her, to lie next to that amazing body and touch it: to hear her soft voice urging me on, to feel her responding as my fingers moved over her skin – touching, touching. Dipping into the tight wet crease of her pussy. My prick swelled up again at the image, and that made me ashamed too — God, she was my sister! But I couldn’t help myself, and I went to my room with a cock like a logjam in my pants and the image of her body in my mind.

I plugged the camera into my computer waited for the images to load. It didn’t take long. There were half a dozen – most of them grainy from the lack of light, but clear enough to see. Sarah, bent over the girl’s back with her hand still buried inside the tight, stretched vagina; Sarah’s arm coming free, shining wet. Sarah turning with an expression of surprise on her beautiful face and then a close up of the window-sill as I turned to run.

But it was the last one that was truly amazing, and I studied it closely. The background to the shabby little room was indistinct – a patchwork of grey and black shadow but that only served to highlight the two central figures. The kneeling woman had her hands on her buttocks to draw them apart, her fingers pressed hard against the warm plasticity of her flesh. She too had turned: but not towards the window as Sarah had: rather, she was looking back, gazing up at Sarah’s face. Her soft, wet lips were slightly apart with a glimpse of her little white teeth behind them, and her dark hair tumbled around her face in disarray, damp with sweat and tangled in passion. But it was the expression in her eyes that was arresting – a mixture of pain and pleasure, which would be expected… but also one of triumph that left no doubt who the dominant partner was.

Sarah was behind her and to one side. She had turned her head and was regarding the lens with an expression of surprise on her face. One shoulder was towards the camera and her arm was stretched out, her hand buried in the woman’s body. A single breast was visible in profile, creamy white and surprisingly large, capped with a nipple dark with the hue of arousal, and below it the soft curve of her hip and the satin columns of her thighs folded beneath her as she crouched. The camera had captured the instant that her knuckles emerged from her lover’s vulva, and the smear of juices on her hand gleamed wetly in the light: and above it was the crinkled portal of Lucy’s anus, still dribbling saliva and slightly open, as if Sarah’s tongue had only just emerged.

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