Ryan’s Landing · Part 1 (1/2)
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: The discerning reader will note that this tale is set in Australia some time in the past (actually about 1970). For this reason the language is a little old fashioned, and I have endeavoured to use vocabulary which will be readily understood in most English-speaking countries, and to avoid country-specific terms. For example, in Australia in the 1960s the term "fanny" was used for the female pudenda, which resulted in much mirth when an American talked of "pinching a girl's fanny in the street". Similarly, Australians use the term "root" to mean intercourse, hence the hilarity when an American lass says she "roots for XYZ football team". Terms commonly used in American erotica, such as "pussy" and "hard-on" were unknown, and even today are used little in Australia.
Anyway, I hope cultural differences don't prevent your enjoyment of this entirely fictitious "girl meets boy", or more accurately "girl sees boy coming" story.
It was one of those warm, sleepy, late-summer days, when the sky seems to have been a deep blue forever, and such thing as clouds and rain are faint and distant memories. I had set off in the old Beetle quite early, driven from the city by boredom, lack of work (the show I had been playing in had folded early, probably from too much ennui) and a vague footloose feeling which always seemed to hit me when the college year was not far from resuming.
A couple of hours of coaxing the old wreck up the north coast road had just about cured any lingering passion I had for rambling, when the inevitable sign announcing my arrival at yet-another coastal hamlet, drowsing in the sun along with its miniscule population of retired farmers and failed fishermen, caught my bored attention. "RYAN'S LANDING" was the black-on-white legend which drifted, or rather lurched past. I was already past the town, mulling over the vague familiarity of the name, when I finally remembered why it was pricking my memory. Pulling over onto the roadside grass I rummaged in the heap of clothes, books, sleeping bag, etc. I had hurled into the back seat that morning until I finally turned up my copy of "The Australian Naturist".
At this stage I must point out that I was not, as the old joke has it, a hardened nudist. I had twice been to a "free beach" with Carolyn, my former girlfriend, and had found somewhat to my surprise that it had been a quite enjoyable experience. The feeling of freedom and abandoned inhibitions had been quite exhilarating, as was sight of the other people showing themselves as they were, even Carolyn whose rather pneumatic charms were not at their best totally unleashed. What's more, I hadn't disgraced myself by having an unwanted erection, something that I had almost expected to happen. Well, Carolyn had gone, examinations had come and gone, and I had not thought much about attempting any more nudism until the day before, when an impulse made me buy a copy of the "Naturist" I had chanced on in a bookstore.
The reference to Ryan's Landing had been in an article labelled Northern Nude Beaches. I quickly turned to it and found that it described a small secluded beach to the north of the town as "possibly the finest free area on the north coast". There were also the directions, including a turn-off to a rural lane, a drive through the land of a sympathetic farmer (be sure to close the gate after you), and a short path over the dunes. "Why not", I thought as I spluttered off in old Nelly towards the turn-off. I had been celibate since the torrid break with Carolyn, and while I knew nude beaches were notoriously slim pickings in this respect, it would at least relieve the boredom.
The dozen or so cars scattered around near the start of the path were a sure sign that I had correctly followed the directions, and also indicated that I would not be alone. I picked out a towel, hat, book and sunburn lotion and started off up the sandy track. As I emerged from the scrub I stopped to admire the view. It was indeed a gem of a beach. Enclosed at each end by a jumble of large granite boulders, it was only a couple of hundred metres long, a beautiful crescent of white sand. The occupants were the typical free beach crew: a couple of family groups; some well-scattered couples of all genders; the occasional solitary male; and even the compulsory impromptu game of volleyball at one end in the shade of some towering rocks.
I ambled to the volley ball end of the beach and found a spot that was close enough to other people to dissuade any predatory males, yet not so close as to bring accusations of staring. There I stripped, coated my tender parts with sunblock, and settled down with my book. Books are very useful on a nude beach. The art is to hold them so that you appear nonchalantly studious when in fact what you are studying is the passing talent over the top of the book. On this occasion the was not very much talent, either passing or stationary, so I was driven to reading. In fact I was quite deep in the book when a voice next to me said: "Mark! You are Mark, aren't you?".
Yes, my name is Mark.
I put down, or practically dropped, my book and squinted up at the figure who stood beside me. It was a woman, or a young girl, I wasn't too sure at first which. Her face, tanned to a nut-brown like the rest of her, seemed familiar; rather round with a short slightly up-turned nose. Her hair was a medium-length dark thatch, and her brown eyes along with her thick dark eyebrows were the dominant feature of her face. If her face was a little familiar, the rest of her was quite new to me, in fact I had great difficulty in stopping my gaze from straying too blatantly over her. She was quite slim, with slender, almost boyish hips.
What was not in the slightest boyish were her breasts: well-formed small brown cones which jutted from her chest and capped with prominant nipples as dark brown as her eyes, and her pubic hair: another thick dark thatch, no `neat trim triangle', but a defiant luxuriant swathe which quite obscured her cunt from view.
As I struggled to summon up a name to go with her face, and at the same time trying to take in as much as possible of her striking nakedness with my peripheral vision, she tipped her head on one side, put her hands on her hips, and sighed a "hurry up" sort of sigh. It was then the name and person finally struggled to my consciousness.
"Sarah, Sarah Brown", I blurted.
"About time", she said as she dropped onto her knees on the sand beside me, "although I admit it is hard sometimes to recognize people naked, don't you think?"
At this stage I should explain a little more of my background, and how I came to be acquainted with Miss Sarah Brown. I was a student at the music college in the city, where my principal study was the oboe. I was in the final year of the course, and from my exaulted position of first oboe in the college orchestra I had ample opportunity to examine the talents, musical and other, of the mostly female string section seated in front of me. Sarah was one of the violin students; I think she had just finished the first year. Of course I knew her by name, but I must admit I had scarcely given her a second thought, after all we had no classes in common, moreover she seemed a quiet type with a penchant for rather obscuring caftans. Apart from the face, it was hard to relate the girl scraping along in the back desk of the second fiddles with the brazenly nude figure on the sand beside me.
We chatted for a while; I explained how I came to be at this beach, she announced to my surprise that she was really a local as she stayed at Ryan's Landing with her retired grandparents during the college vacations. We gossiped a little about the college and mutual acquaintances. It was quite an effort for me to keep my eyes on her face, because I must admit the sight of her lithe brown figure had given me a jolt. I had always regarded myself as an admirer of well-built women, preferably blondes with good-sized backsides and tits that needed at least two hands to manage. Clearly the squirming feeling in the pit of my stomach and that slight premonitionary ache in my balls meant I would have to reconsider my position on this.
Perhaps it was just as well for my peace of mind that after a few minutes of idle conversation, Sarah scrambled to her feet with a "Oh well, I'd better leave you to your book now", and trotted off to join a group of friends she had indicated further down the beach. I let out a slow breath, and took the chance for a good hard stare at the slender back and the little round bum with a tuft of dark hair showing clearly below as she walked.
I had barely settled back into my book when she was back, this time calling to me to join in a game of volleyball. "Come on", she said, "we need one more to make even teams." Who could refuse, so I gathered my things and moved with the others to the now-deserted area around the net. Introductions, the names I have long forgotten but one couple was fortyish, skinny and rather weathered looking, and the other younger and plumper. The woman I particularly recall as her breasts were rather large and bounced alarmingly during the game, in fact one caught me a pillowy slap in the eye to the amusement of all.
I later read a sociologist's article about why nudists seem to play a lot of volleyball. His theory was that they have established a culture in which body-contact and flaunting one's nakedness was frowned upon, however games like volleyball give a legitimate avenue for both. I think he was right. We flaunted and we body-contacted, the men with their cocks jiggling and the women with their breasts making amazing curves as they jumped and ran. Sarah, who was on the opposite team to me, was into everything; her tits alone were taut enough not to bounce while she played. She looked better than ever, in fact the sight of her brushing the sand from her rump after a tumble brought me close to disgracing myself.
The game finished when the older couple had to leave. I had raised a good sweat and was pleased when Sarah came over and said, "Come on, you need a swim". She led the way into the water, which felt deliciously cool after the game, and set off with a fast free-style straight out to sea. About a hundred metres out, with me slowly gaining on her, she stopped and stood up in water up to her shoulders on a large sand-bar. There we dived and swam around underwater for a few minutes in a sort of free-form ballet, lazily circling and never touching. (I was annoyed I was not wearing goggles as I was sure the underwater view of Sarah swimming would be most pleasant.) Finally, thoroughly cooled, we swam back to the shore, ran to our towels and began drying.
Disaster struck. I was feeling decidedly warm towards Sarah; after all we were fellow students, and she has shown more than a passing interest in me. With some effort I had kept my body from reacting obviously to her charms. However the sight of her sleek from the water, the mound of her cunt clearly visible though the wet hair, and her large brown nipples puckered from the cold water and standing out a good two centimetres was too much for the old John Thomas. Without notice he decided it was high time he stood up and had a good hard look.
Now if the First Law of Nudism is "Thou shalt not have erections", the Second Law is surely "Thou shalt not stare at and comment on breakers of the First Law". No-one had explained this Law to Sarah. She stared. Worse, she laughed with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. And she commented. She paused in her towelling, shook her head slowly and with mock disapproval said "Tt, tt, tt. You are disgusting".
Embarrassed and annoyed, I turned my back on her and finished drying, at the same time driving John Thomas into submission by forcing myself to think about modal scales. I had barely succeeded when a rolled-up towel hit me on the head. I looked up to see Sarah standing between two boulders. She flicked her head, called "There's a place I want to show you", turned and vanished. I dropped my towel and followed her through a maze of sandy tracks among the jumble of vast lumps of granite. I had barely begun to ponder her possible real attitude to this naked male who only seconds before had been visibly lusting at her, when she dived under a low rock and led me on hands and knees through a short natural tunnel which ended in a small clear patch of sand at the foot of a medium-sized cliff-face.
"Do you think you can climb this?" she asked, and without waiting for a reply began to scale the rock, clinging to crevices in the rock with her hands and toes. I paused a moment to enjoy the views provided by her outstretched legs; now her bottom was parted revealing her little brown anus surrounded by her only patch of untanned skin, now a good look at her cunt with some tantalizing pink showing through the hair. All too soon she vanished over the top and I set off in pursuit, for me a brute force effort which was no match for her agile performance.
I pulled myself over the top and found myself in a small grassy basin cut out of the clifftop. It was a few metres square, and obviously watered by a spring, because despite the long hot summer the grass was green and soft. It was surrounded by thick scrub and as I turned to scan the view, I realized it was invisible from the beach, in fact it could not be seen by anyone except a passing seagull.
"Do you like it?", Sarah asked. "It's my secret spot; I think I'm probably the only person who knows about it."
We stood on the edge of the cliff for a time, Sarah pointing out and naming the offshore islands. Although we were not that far above the sea, the view was beautiful. With the grass soft underfoot, the sky and sea both a deep blue, and a breeze keeping the temperature to a pleasant warmth, it seemed the most idyllic place on earth.
As I looked at the landmarks along her outstretched finger, I kept remembering the sparkle in Sarah's eyes as she laughed at my erection, and decided the time had come to test her real intentions for inviting me to her `secret spot'.
I needn't have bothered deciding anything; Sarah had plans of her own.
Ryan’s Landing · Part 1 (1/2)
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