A Boardwalk Walk
by Emily Miller

A woman rekindles feelings by embracing exhibitionism

Growing up in Pennsylvania, I used to often vacation with my folks on The Jersey Shore. I spent one summer working as a lifeguard at a water park there. I even wrote a story with this milieu as the backdrop, though with a wholly fictitious plot. Recently I spent another vacation in this familiar locale, and visited the pier where I used to work. This is not the story of what happened next.

I was lying back, supported by a translucent Z-Pro tube, as the circulating blue water moved me forward and the sun warmed my body. The air was full of both the smell of chlorine and the squeals of kids splashing as they tried to overturn their sibling's rides.

I looked up at the lifeguards, standing at the edge of the channel, holding their floats, visors touching sunglasses, gray shirts covering red swimsuits. Well it was pretty much the female guards I looked at. The guys seemed like boys to me. They mostly sported sporadic facial hair, desperately claiming a maturity that was still some years off. They weren't so interesting to me.

But the girls? I'd been them. So long ago, over a decade now. They too looked impossibly young, then I'd shared the same attributes back then, and my desires and interests had been anything but childlike.

Some things had changed. While there were still blonde girls like me, many of these now seemed to have Asian heritage. I wasn't sure whether the dyed hair was an attempt to be different, or to fit in. And the cost of admission had skyrocketed. Still, the price didn't seem to keep the crowds away.

But the main thing that had changed was me. The neurotic, troubled girl from back then had become a relatively stable woman. Many people were to be thanked for this transformation. Both my therapist and my best friend, who had gently bullied me to see her. The new friends I had made: colleagues, neighbors, new relations.

But the biggest change was due to the person occupying the adjoining tube as we floated around the Lazy River. I reached over and took his hand, getting a smile that could light up a mid-sized town. The sort I had been born in. I knew I had a new best friend. That I was valued, safe, understood, tolerated, desired. And, most of all, loved.

We'd been here since ten o'clock, just thirty minutes after opening. It was now nearly four and I'd tried virtually every attraction at least once, and most twice or more. He'd been sensible enough to opt out of a couple - the crazier ones - waiting for me at the terminal splash pool. I was hell-bent on reliving my childhood. It was fun. It was also a distraction.

A distraction from what? Well we had problems. Maybe not the normal sort. We were well-suited. We enjoyed each other's company. We had a nice combination of shared and different interests. And it helped that we were kinda crazy about each other. And as for sexual compatibility? No man or woman had ever taken me to the places he had.

But that was then, before sex became something else. Not so much heart-stoppingly wonderful enjoyment, but an act with a purpose. A purpose that we seemed unable to fulfil, no matter how hard we tried. That brought stress into the equation. It didn't do anything as clichéd as drive us apart, if anything the opposite. But it made our love-making different.

No longer did it feature the easy, mutual arousal and ecstatic, shared fulfilment we had all but taken for granted. It was now something else. Something practical, involving calendars, and lying prone, legs elevated afterwards. It was still close and loving and wonderful, but - I reflected - it was undeniably less like free spirited fun. And I missed those simpler days.

But, for this vacation, we had both decided to take a break from trying. Or at least to drop our rather rigid routine. 'My protocol,' as he jokingly called it. It was nice to not have to think about things. To alleviate the self-imposed pressure - if only for a while.

*****

The water park closed at five o'clock and we - OK I - decided that it was time to head back. It was my tradition to get Curley's afterwards. As we waited for the temperature of our fries to reduce from volcanic to edible, another couple joined us at the same stand-up table. The woman appeared to have just come from the restrooms and was adjusting what barely passed for a dress.

I suppose I noticed them because of the contrast. His hair was clearly held in place with the aid of some product. His expensive-looking, tortoise shell glasses screamed investment banking to me. His face was otherwise unremarkable, save for what I read as being a petty streak, perhaps with the potential of escalating to meanness. It's maybe not so cool to judge a book by its cover, but it was hard not to in his case.

He was slightly less than average height, with a fussy manner and a turn of phrase that suggested Ivy League and coming from money. But it was his clothes that really stood out. We were on a Jersey Shore pier in August, and yet he wore double pleated linen trousers, their cream color the only concession to the place and weather. His belt looked as if it had cost hundreds of dollars, if not thousands, and his shirt was pink and business-cut with long sleeves, and just the collar button undone. It's probably superfluous to mention the Rolex at this point.

His companion was complaining in a broad South Jersey accent, while pulling at her dress, "It's all tangled! Can you see my ass, Ambrose?"

She had big hair; of course she had big hair. Her tanned skin was marked with ink. Both biceps, and her lower back sported intricate designs, the definitions of which were beginning to blur with age. I wondered how old she had been when she had had them done.

The dress was more a short, flared skirt and crop-top combo, the two almost separate elements being linked by a one inch piece of fabric running up her stomach.

"It's fine," replied the guy, clearly uninterested in her wardrobe problems. But it really wasn't. Her butt crack was visible at the top, with enough of her ass-cheeks showing at the bottom to reveal that she wore no panties.

As if responding to my thoughts, the woman said, "It was you who insisted that I go commando."

"Hush!" he squeaked in reply, pulling at the recalcitrant dress, and only succeeding in exposing more of the poor woman's ass.

I put a hand to my mouth and tried not to laugh. Looking at my own companion, I was surprised to see a slight frown on his large features. As the other pair walked off bickering, and with her still showing way too much skin, I mused, "I wonder how much she charges per hour."

His frown had intensified. "I thought you said you were supportive of sex workers. And anyway, how do you know she's a professional?"

"Well the dress, and the tramp stamp, and well... just her."

"Ever think that people might say stuff about us?" he asked. "And 'tramp stamp?' You starting to slut shame as well now? I thought you knew better."

He had a point I guess. I was being mean spirited, then I had stuff on my mind, which also felt strangely clouded at present. "I'm sorry, I'm not normally so catty."

"I know." He smiled. "I wouldn't be with you otherwise." Then his features froze for a second, as if he had to devote all his efforts to processing a thought that had just occurred.

Then he grinned broadly, before adopting a stern tone. I knew him well enough to understand that it was artifice. "But I think you need to pay some sort of forfeit. And I have an idea..."

*****

There was something about how he said the words that sent a thrill through me. It wasn't exactly an unfamiliar feeling, but it had been absent for many months. As much my fault as his. No, if I was honest, it was more my fault. But I welcomed the sensation back, and I racked my brains as to what he might have in mind.

Silently, he led me back out onto the main boardwalk. He seemed to have some destination in mind. We passed cheesy stores selling everything from KPop Demon Hunters hoodies, to I ❤️MILFs Ts, to It Ain't Gonna Spank Itself shorts. We passed pierogi sellers, and funnel cake emporia. We passed tattoo and body piercing studios. We passed an almost infinite number of pizzerias and ice cream parlors. Still we marched on.

And we finally stopped in front of what might loosely be described as a dress store for loose women. He wanted to buy some skimpy playwear, was that it? I felt a little disappointed. Then he turned and looked at me, and the sparkle in his eye told me that there was more to it than just hooker chic.

"We're going to buy you the least appropriate dress that fits you..." he paused, and I felt my heart pound, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"We'll go home, wash, you can get dressed in it, and..."

I was holding my breath.

"...and then we come back here. And you walk the whole length of the boardwalk. Oh, and no underwear at all, OK?"

I was speechless. Obviously I wasn't going to do this crazy thing. I was thirty, not twenty. And, despite my highly checkered past, public nudity - or close to it - was so not my thing.

I gawked, eventually saying, "No." But I wasn't sure I really meant it. I was tingling. The gusset of my swimsuit was feeling damp, despite the summer Sun having dried out the pool water. And my heart was racing.

"No," I said again, but with a tremor of uncertainty in my voice.

He kept looking at me, an eyebrow raised, saying nothing.

"Well, which dress?" I eventually asked.

He held an open palm toward the store and we walked in. He'd bought me many beautiful things over the years, conventional clothing, lingerie, and - with my guidance - fetishwear. But never anything like this. We walked down a row of tiny, stretchy garments. The ones with greater coverage tended to be semi-see through. And the more opaque dresses minimized on cloth, and maximized on spandex.

An assistant approached us. "Can I help you?"

I was about to answer when he interjected, "Something in extra small and extra short, if you have it."

The woman looked me up and down appraisingly. "Mmm-huh, and I'll get you some with clingy chest panels."

I blushed furiously. It didn't help my embarrassment that her breasts were large and fighting to escape from what looked like a dress bought in this very store.

As she disappeared into a back room, I elbowed my companion, only to get a slapped ass in return. Something which did little to calm my elevated pulse rate.

"You're not serious?" I hissed.

"Need another spank to show you just how serious?" he replied.

This was a trick question, of course. After a little thought I replied, "Yes," only to barely suppress a squeal as he landed a heavier blow on my other cheek. My ass was throbbing, but it wasn't the only thing. I fought the desire to rub my clit through my swimsuit.

In less than five minutes, the woman was back, a few scraps of material draped over her arm. "These any good?"

"You'd better try them on," he said to me. "I don't want you to fee... uncomfortable."

I gave him a glare and took the dresses from the assistant. "Where do I go?" I asked.

The woman pointed and he added, "Would you mind coming with us? You know, a second opinion?"

She looked at him a little strangely. "Would it be worth my while?"

He took his wallet from our backpack and handed her three twenties. "That enough?"

With a smile, the woman stowed the notes in her substantial cleavage. "Sure."

I was simply speechless at this point. Together we made for the fitting rooms.

*****

The cubicles were located in a room that had its own door. As we entered, he asked the woman, "Can you lock it please?"

She hesitated, but he held out another twenty and she pulled out a key. I was now trembling, filled with both trepidation and excitement in a way I hadn't felt since college. My face was flush, and my flesh fervid.

Again he addressed the woman, as if I wasn't there. "Would it be possible for you to help her?"

The woman's eyes widened. She was obviously struggling with the request. With astonishment, I realized that I desperately wanted her to agree.

Then she seemed to reach some decision. "Another hundred. And I'm calling the cops if you ask me to get naked, or try any crazy stuff with me."

"Agreed," he replied, handing over the notes. "And I assure you that help with dressing and undressing her is all I want."

"You do this shit regularly?" she asked.

"All the time," he lied.

My mouth was too dry to say a thing, but another part of my body was now dripping wet.

The woman approached me. "You OK?" she inquired. I nodded wordlessly, my cheeks glowing, my breath uneven.

She took the dresses from me and laid them on a chair. Looking back at him for approval to commence, she received a second nod. "OK," she said, perhaps trying to bolster her own confidence.

I looked at her uncertainly, but my arousal was still surging. What would she think about the state of my swimsuit crotch? Unbidden, I had an image of the two of us locked in mutual cunnilingus, and shivered. Then her hands were on the bottom of my T-shirt, and I sharply breathed in. I raised my arms, and she lifted it up and over my head, revealing the modesty of my slight curves.

I generally wore onepieces. I struggled to fill bikini tops and worried about inadvertently giving onlookers a flash of nipple. And yet, what was I doing now? She eased one strap off of my trembling shoulder, then the other.

Instinctively I wrapped my arms protectively across my chest. I looked at him in momentary panic, but his face was reassuring, albeit also a little tense with excitement. I took a deep breath and managed to speak one word. "OK."

By the way that the woman's substantial cleavage heaved, I could tell that she too was breathing deeply. We locked eyes and there was a moment of mutual checking, of shared sisterhood. Then she eased the material down and off of my breasts and there was no going back. The aircon wasn't high in the room, but my nipples were nevertheless standing to attention. They were the most prominent thing about my chest by some way.

Perhaps to alleviate the tension, she turned to him again and said, "And no fucking jerking off, OK?"

He signed a cross over his heart, but the front of his board shorts was telling a different story. Seemingly satisfied, the woman knelt down. She wasn't small and the movement took some effort. I offered her my hand, which she gratefully took. I could feel her quivering, and we simultaneously squeezed. I wanted to tell her it was all OK, but no words would come out.

Then her fingers were between the elasticated fabric and my skin, and her touch had me shaking. She looked up at me, once more seeking approval. I bit my bottom lip, and that signal seemed to be enough for her.

As she eased the swimsuit down and over my hips, I wriggled; partly to help her, partly as the sensation of being undressed by a total stranger was so deliciously wrong. My legs are skinny and, once past the minor swell of my thighs, the garment fell to the floor. I squeezed my limbs together, then crossed my legs and clasped my hands to my flesh, feeling as if every square inch of skin was glowing red. I was also acutely aware of my aroma, emanating from both the swimsuit and its ultimate source. It's ultimate source which was now aching needily, as my heart also thumped.

For a moment her eyes traversed my tiny body, I couldn't help but think she must be judging my less than pulchritudinous appearance. She was all swelling softness and sensual voluptuousness. I was all awkward boniness and angular tautness. And yet she smiled at me, and I saw something beyond sorority in her gaze. "Nice abs," she breathed, at a volume only audible to me.

She looked back at him and asked, "Which one first?" her voice warbling noticeably.

"The black one maybe?" he replied.

She stood and retrieved the garment. It was backless, with a halter, and made of mesh all over. I was actually glad to have some assistance with putting it on. I'd have stepped into it, but the woman put the dress over my head and pulled it down. When I say down, maybe that wasn't the right word. Even on my short frame, it didn't descend very far, and at least half of my butt was hanging out.

"Maybe the next size up," he suggested.

"The front will hang off of her," the saleswoman replied. "It needs a bigger bust." It was as if I couldn't hear the conversation.

"OK," he said, "let's try another; the peach maybe."

She stripped me again and I suppose I was a little less embarrassed, going so far as not trying to cover myself. It did seem to me that the assistant's gaze was once more flitting over my body. I began to glow, not so much with humiliation, but growing titillation. I moved my feet two inches further apart.

I also found my hand had subconsciously migrated to my smooth mound. I would have intentionally moved it lower, but for a look of clear admonition from my companion. He was right of course, the 'No Masturbation' clause applied equally to me. But I so craved him bending me over and fucking me senseless, ideally with my face buried between the assistant's thighs. Pulling myself together, I tried to focus.

The peach dress was great lengthwise, its clingy material hugging my butt cheeks and extending maybe two inches below. I might have considered wearing something that length on a more normal occasion. But its neckline plunged and you really needed to be at least a B cup to make the look work.

"The red, then," he said, acknowledging my mammary limitations for once.

Once more I was naked. Though my head was spinning and my circulatory system was on overdrive, I now stood hands on hips and feet planted a foot apart. I began to embrace my allotted role.

The material of the next dress was close to opaque, though it was so thin and stretchy that you could probably count my ribs through it. But the sides? It basically didn't have any. The front and back of the dress were laced together. It was clearly designed to be worn with neither bra nor panties. And anyone viewing me from the right angle would immediately note my lack of any underwear.

But it fit, albeit after the woman had spent some time adjusting the laces. Looking in the mirror, I did appear as if I was intending to sell my body. But... I kinda liked the look. For playwear at home, it would have been a nice choice. But in public...? I gulped.

"It needs shoes," he observed.

"What size?" she inquired.

"Five and a half," he replied. He may not have let me speak much, but at least he had gotten it right.

"I don't know, we might have a six," she said doubtfully. I had doll feet, it was true.

"Six will be fine. I just want to see the effect with shoes."

The woman departed, locking us in the room, which gave me a momentary frisson. Then he was by my side and kissing me. But he pulled back, leaving me yearning even more. "Let's see what it's like when you touch your toes," he said, his meaning all too clear.

Obediently I did as he asked, feeling the aircon on my naked vulva. I was fully expecting the slap, I was looking forward to its impact, but still it took my breath away. I reached between my legs tor comfort. "Bad girl!" he scolded, giving me two more spanks, one on either cheek.

Then the lock turned and the woman was back. I tried to adjust my hem, but was pretty sure that she got more than a glimpse of my reddening ass. The heat was close to unbearable and I so craved sweet, orgiastic release.

"Only a six, and they are white," she said.

"I could wear my black ones," I said, finally finding my voice.

"Yeah," he agreed, "but let's see what the dress looks like with heels."

They were really too big, but he made me walk around nevertheless. I felt like ten year old me wearing Mom's shoes. Though - as far as I knew - she owned nothing with this level of elevation.

"We'll buy the dress, thank you. Maybe if you could take it off her?"

The woman unzipped the rear panel, advising, "I've gotten the laces just right, don't try to adjust them."

I was now nude yet again, it was becoming my customary state. The woman walked between me and my companion. As she did, I got a wink, and her hand briefly between my legs. But long enough that her fingers were now glistening. I almost had a heart attack as - still visible to only me - she licked them clean.

Breaking my thoughts of helping the saleswoman out of her dress, he said, "You can get dressed, I'll go and pay."

And so they left me, naked, standing in ill-fitting stilettos, my libido raging, and suddenly conscious that someone else could enter the fitting room any time. Rapidly, I got back into my swimsuit and pulled on my T. Even being alone, I was too flustered, and too scared about discovery, to contemplate fingering myself, no matter how fiercely I desired this.

Instead, I put on my flip-flops and hurriedly went back to the main part of the store. He was paying, including a final extra twenty for the woman. Then we left. I wondered whether we might visit the store again before our vacation ended.

In the car back to the AirBnB, I began to masturbate in the passenger seat - I might be shy in public, never with him - but he told me to stop, and I meekly obeyed.

It was strange. If anything, I was often the dominant party. But today I knew I would do anything he instructed me to do. And the feeling was making me so tremorous and, frankly, horny.

It was about six thirty when we got back. He said that we should leave in an hour, around sunset.

"Time to fuck then?" I asked hopefully, knowing full well that he was going to keep me waiting.

"A relaxing bath for you and maybe a snack, OK? Fuck later, after your boardwalk walk."

I had an idea, not a very respectable idea admittedly. "My snack... am I allowed one of your special protein shakes?"

I got an eye roll, but it didn't stop him dropping his pants as I knelt before him.

Twenty minutes later, I lay on the bed, listening to the bath fill, licking my lips, and appreciating his salty-sour taste as if it had been a fine Meursault. Some vicarious release at least, I thought.

*****

"It's ready," he called.

I was still in my swimsuit, and quickly wriggled out of it, padding to the bathroom nude and with anticipatory tingles running through me.

He was kneeling by the tub, also naked, and also clearly aroused. His short refractory period was one of many reasons I loved him so much. I yearned for him inside me, his hardness penetrating my softness. Thrilling me, completing me, his yang to my yin. Waiting was driving me crazy, but it was also weirdly and excruciatingly pleasant.

He held out a hand and I took it, stepping into the warm water. I sat and lay back. Him bathing me was a common ritual, but thinking about what was going to come next added a new layer of excitement. His large hands were as incongruously gentle as ever. His ablutionary caresses were soft and soothing, and yet still electric. As he washed my breasts, each nipple received a pinch in the way he knew I adored.

He made me stand to clean my legs, working his way up from my calves. But he stopped before reaching the top of my left leg and started at the bottom of my right. I was trembling when he finally reached his destination. His finger-tips on my most intimate regions felt like a symphony of stimulation. And yet he knew me well and ceased his vulval massages before my feelings could reach a peak.

I couldn't help myself and breathed, "Please fuck me, I want you so bad."

Rather than an admonishing ass slap, he enfolded me in his arms, my head still at the level of his chest, despite the elevation of the tub. He held me and kissed the top of my head. "Soon, angel. I'll try to make the wait worth it." Then, in his single concession to my agency, he asked, "Are you OK with this?"

Part of me wanted release now. Not just wanted, needed. But part of me adored this super elongated arousal and wanted it to continue. And I knew my eventual, inevitable orgasm would be volcanic.

The thought of parading in public, my tiny, skinny body on full display, was horrifying. But I knew I also wanted to. And I knew these were the feelings I had been missing. It was fun to be a bad girl again, his bad girl. And the thought of strangers' eyes on me? As someone who tended to slip into the background, it was alarming, but also exhilarating.

I raised my eyes to look at him. "I'm good, let's do it."

*****

Getting into the car had been something of a challenge, but at least the house we were staying at had a driveway. Now, he paid the parking lot guy the fifteen dollar fee, and I tried to get out without either being arrested, or attracting too much attention. A considerate partner would surely have tried to help, but instead he just looked on, clearly enjoying the view. I guess that I had better just get used to the vibe of the evening.

We walked up a ramp to the boardwalk. Music from a tiki bar was blaring behind us. I could already see people milling around, and hear the sound of voices. I had feared that he wanted me to walk by myself, with him following at some distance behind to observe. But when I raised the subject en route, he'd pulled the car over, kissed me, and said, "Don't be so silly, I'll be by your side the whole time. Don't you know that I want to show off my arm candy?" He received a punch to the bicep for that and roared with glee at my frowning face.

The Summer evening was warm, a blessing given my minimalist clothing. The clouds were still glowing orange, illuminated by a sun that had only just dipped below the horizon. It was a time for rollercoasters and bumper cars, not for displaying way too much of my unwomanly body.

Now, as we turned right onto the actual boardwalk, my stomach was executing a series of triple lutzes. Having his substantial form close made me feel less worried about safety, but my embarrassment was acute. I teetered along, feeling fake and inadequate and foolish.

There were a few other women around in comparable attire, but they weren't me. They were young, or tall, or curvy, or pretty, or just apparently super comfortable in their own skin, and with others seeing a lot of it. I was none of those things. What the fuck was I doing?

Then my horror was complete. Two cops were walking toward us. A man and a woman, both in regulation baseball caps. Shit! I could be arrested for indecent exposure. They were nearer now, and I felt like throwing off my shoes and running. I was still quick, they might not catch me.

"Good evening, officers," he said, in the measured tone he often used at work.

The male cop put an index finger to his temple in a pastiche of a salute. The female one simply smiled and replied, "Good evening." And they were gone.

I was wearing my Apple Watch and flicked open the Heart Rate app. One hundred and five beats per minute. I only ever got that high when trail running. My average resting heart rate was sixty. But we had at least survived. I squeezed his hand and we walked on.

I'd been staring at the wooden ground. The planks were fitted close enough that it was unlikely that I'd trap a heel, but I was being cautious, and had other reasons to avert my eyes from people.

He leaned sideways and down, whispering, "Guys are checking you out. Some women too."

I imagined it was folk who couldn't believe the boyish waif was trying to look like a grown up. But I nevertheless lifted my head. As we walked, I saw some women with widened eyes and raised eyebrows. I saw some men actively staring at me, and - most surprisingly - not in a way that suggested utter disgust. But most people ignored me, too busy with their own affairs to worry about some woman and what she was almost wearing.

I didn't exactly relax, but I was able to breathe more regularly. And the ebbing of my initial discomfort left room for other feelings to seep in. Talking of seeping, the insides of my thighs were now wet and slid over each other as I walked. Glancing down, my nipples were bullet-like straining against the stretchy dress fabric, and very, very obvious. I felt a sticky droplet run agonisingly slowly down my leg, feeling sure everyone could see.

I looked at him, and got an encouraging smile in return. "You're the sexiest woman here, and it's not even close," he said. It was kinda sweet how good he had gotten at lying.

Many people were still in swimsuits, and some women wore just bikinis. Was my attire so very different? Then I told myself that while bikinis might be sexy, their central purpose wasn't sex.

We still had a long way to go. But having someone the size and shape of a tight end next to me - albeit maybe a retired tight end who had gained a few pounds, and whom I knew to be the gentlest of men - led to some tentative experimentation. I stuck my tongue out at the next woman to look at me askance. She dissolved in laughter. I guess she took it as being self-deprecating.

And now there were two guys both obviously ogling me. I gave them a theatrical wink. They stared at me open mouthed. As we passed them, one said, "You're a lucky guy, bro."

"Thanks," my companion replied, "and she gives the best head." Thankfully the two startled men were swallowed by the milling throng before they could say anything else.

I guess we were both beginning to feel a little drunk, such was the intensity of the experience. He had always been the perfect gentleman toward me, considerate, kind, thoughtful. Now he was pimping out his harlot to strangers. And it felt... deliciously wicked.

I breathed in his ear, "You are so bad."

He shrugged. "Well your blow jobs are legendary. I tell everyone that."

For a moment we hugged, both silently laughing. Then we pulled ourselves together. As I was adjusting my dress, which was riding up, an electronic voice rang out, "Mind the tram car! Mind the tram car!"

The yellow train passed close by and I had a rapid succession of people looking my way. The expressions ranged from indifference to shock to leers. And then the tram was gone and I took a deep breath. Another hurdle overcome.

The longer we went without negative incidents, the braver I became. Where I might normally have viewed the gaze of male strangers as intrusive, it began to feel somehow validating. It was weird and I didn't quite understand what was going on in my head. Maybe I was just so turned on that nothing else mattered to me.

I started to hold my head high. Daring people to disapprove. We had been holding hands, but now, maybe sensing my new attitude, he cupped one of my ass-cheeks, giving me the occasional squeeze. I wanted to fuck him there and then, in front of everyone. But I guess the periodic pairs of patrolling cops might not be so relaxed about that escalation as the first ones had been with my provocative attire.

We were maybe half way now. I was glad not so many kids were around. I'd probably scare them, or hear, "Mommy, why is that woman wearing hardly any clothes?"

Now we were approaching a gaggle of young guys. The boardwalk was mostly dry, with only a few restaurants and the piers having liquor licenses. But the group seemed to have been enjoying a few drinks at one of the many bars just a few hundred yards further inland. I began to feel nervous again. My protector might be less effective against so many.

I got looks. Lingering looks. One guy licked his lips. As we were passing through their midst, another said, "Nice tits, but I like 'em bigger." Yet another crowed, "You lost, little girl? Why not come home with me?" And then they were gone, their laughter and shouting receding.

"Just dumb young guys," he said. "You OK?"

I nodded, pulling my dress hem down again.

"Leave it will you?" he remonstrated. "You have great legs."

"And a nice ass too." This was from a middle aged woman passing by, who was now furiously blushing. I blew her a kiss and got an embarrassed smile in return, then she hurried away.

"You do have a great ass," he affirmed with a light tap.

"Yeah, I know," I replied. It was about the only part of my anatomy that I was truly happy with.

We were now maybe three quarters of the way there - though there was also the small matter of retracing our steps after that. I felt I needed some sort of boost. Spying another side ramp, I noticed its two street lamps were out, and that it was pretty dark. I pulled him into the shadows.

As soon as we were covered by shade, I kissed him, taking his hand and putting it firmly between my legs. The touch of his fingers was so electrifying. I moaned and went limp, clinging to him. And when he slipped a digit inside me, I almost screamed.

I broke from him, turned to the wall, and hiked up my dress. "Fuck me, fuck me here, please!"

I could feel the conflict in him. His breath was hot on my neck, and his hands were around my waist. I knew him and I doubted he could resist. Then one of the lamps sputtered noisily into life in a Lynchian manner. And it broke my spell on him. "Almost there, angel. Not long now, I promise."

He led me back to the main drag. I was in a dreamlike state. If he had told me to remove my dress and walk naked, I probably would have. I was buoyed on a sea of libidinous fervor. I was giving in to how the swells were buffeting me. Everything felt unreal. My only certainty was that I needed to be fucked, and it was an urgent, primordial need.

Somehow, I managed to make it to the end of the boardwalk, I'm not sure how I did it. I was no longer aware of the looks of passers-by, be they lustful or dismissive. It was like my whole body had become an erogenous zone, every part of me trembling in anticipation of release.

I looked toward the sea and I knew what I had to do.

*****

I couldn't wait until we got back to the house, it was a physical impossibility. I'd been denied and denied and denied. No more denial.

This end of the boardwalk was more secluded. A flight of wooden stairs led down to the darkened beach below. A chain bearing the word 'Closed' was our only obstacle. Fuck that!

Sand and sex are linked in popular culture, but less so in reality. Here, under the shadow of the boardwalk, the grains were coarse and damp. And I really could care less. The tables had now fully turned.

"What if the police see us?" he asked nervously, but I could also hear the raging excitement bubbling behind his words.

"Then we give them a show!" I replied, dead-pan. As I spoke, I pulled the hem of the dress up to my midriff, then got down on all fours. I knew that his knees were going to get shredded, but he had it coming for edging me for so long. "Fuck me now," I demanded, "unless you want a divorce."

I heard a slight grunt as he settled in behind me. "You OK?" I asked, suppressing a giggle, despite my almost fugue state horniness.

"Yeah, knelt on a clam shell, I'll live," he replied.

"I won't, unless you fuck me right now that is!" I wasn't play-acting, I knew I needed him deep in me right now. I needed it more than anything.

When he thrust into me in one smooth remorseless movement, familiarity blended with the danger of the situation. With the hours I had spent waiting for this moment. With the eyes that had lasciviously followed me as I paraded the length of the boardwalk. My first orgasm was close to instantaneous. The dam - which had held back the pent waters of my desire for so long - crumbled, and roiling fluid crashed through the breach.

Then he started to fuck me, and everything else became a blur.

This wasn't grown-up, outcome driven intercourse. This was me being wantonly pounded, my dripping, throbbing vagina being used by a man I adored and trusted like no other.

It was exquisite and primal and all I could ever want. And when my second orgasm flooded over me, it wasn't a slowly rising tide, it was a hammering tsunami. I screamed, unrestrained, as the hot waves smashed into my frail body. And yet tears filled my eyes, tears of joy and release and deep contentment.

I was allowed no recovery and he pushed me to my third mountain top relentlessly. I was sobbing as I moaned. The intensity of my commingled and complex emotions was too much for either my brain or body to fully understand, let alone deal with. And as I hurtled down from the peak, every nerve alive, his roars filled my ears and his seed filled my pulsating body, bathing my insides in his warmth.

Later, as we clung to each other, chests heaving, heart rates still crazy, I whispered, "I love you so much. Let's do that again sometime."

Only as we clambered back to the boardwalk, his knees bloodied, me picking grit out of my palms, did we see her. An elderly lady, standing just above where we had been. Shit!

We walked by her, heads bowed shamefacedly, but she grabbed my arm as we passed. I was expecting a tongue-lashing at the very least, then I saw she had tears in her eyes.

"Thank you dear," she said, her voice full of emotion. "I fucked my late husband there once. Seeing you two, so obviously in love, brought back some precious memories."

With that, she turned and shuffled away in the opposite direction to our car. I held my husband's hand, and said, "Let's promise each other to grow old together."

"Anthing you want, angel," was his reply. Then he folded me up in his arms and held me to his large body, and I knew I was the luckiest woman alive.

*****

Epilogue

Two weeks later, and back home from our vacation, we were again sharing a bathroom, but for a very different purpose. The incredulous thrill, mixed with towering trepidation, that was coursing through me was reminiscent of our Jersey Shore adventure, but the context could not have been more divergent. We both looked at the blue cross, knowing our lives were going to change out of all recognition.

He squeezed me tight and we kissed. And I went on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, "We did it. We fucking did it."

When I had my first ultrasound, the conception date they gave us was familiar. It was the one on which I had taken a boardwalk walk.

THE END