A twenty-year-old VW Thing pulled up on the sand, sending a spray of fine particles flying. The young surfer jacknifed out of the car and stripped off his shirt. He wore white denim cutoffs which glowed like a matyred saint's loincloth against his golden tan. His hair was bleached to the color of lemons, intertwined with streaks of tawny gold.
He rocked restlessly on his heels, judging the waves. Then he tugged his surfboard down and carried it to the beach.
A jetty tongued out into the sea, lapped hungrily by the breaking waves. He hadn't seen it from the car. Standing by it, on the sand, was the perfect California girl for the California boy, her ass thrust out invitingly as she bent forward to scan the waves, one hand charmingly shielding her eyes. A mixed-race beauty, black and white and Hispanic, with cafe au lait skin and a fog of dark, curly hair. She wore a chrome-yellow thong-backed bikini. For a second all he could see were those glistening buttocks mounded like two dollops of coffee sherbert in a bowl, cleft oh-so-gently by the little strip of spandex that parted them. The two delectable curves where ass met thigh looked like twin smiles greeting him side by side. He could almost imagine a cartoon balloon emerging from between them: CUM ON IN!
Too soon she turned, and too late he realized his hard-on was thrusting through his own spandex trunks and the denim that covered them. Her tits danced slightly like fruit bobbing on a tree, round yet firm. He was just able to see the outline of her nipples. Chocolate truffles, he thought in a daze. After that ass and those tits, he barely noted her face, but saw her lips part in a dentist's-dream smile. "Oh, hi there! I didn't hear you pull up."
Her IQ was as Californian as her polyglot ancestry. Californians liked strange mixtures: rhinestones on sweatshirts, sushi on pizza. Michael Jackson. They talked.
He had just graduated from Pepperdine and was taking some time off before starting a career. She was an aspiring model, dancer and actress. They both liked the musical Cats, kung pao pizza, and going to raves. "He's OK," she said offhandedly when he asked about the boyfriend on the jet ski. He then volunteered he was traveling alone.
The sand grew a little hotter before he put his hands on her hard, trim waist. The smell of salt, suntan lotion, and pussy was God's perfect aphrodisiac, spiced with the rotting-seaweed smell of the waves. She mmmed and darted her eyes toward the waves, but did not nothing to stop him. She parked her gum on a rock before they kissed, their tongues probing like the noses of tropical fish in the lagoons further down the coast. His cock bumped her thigh, and she obligingly pulled down his shorts, along with the skimpy little speedo.
"Christ, you're HUGE," she giggled. Her manicured fingernails, which were lacquered the color of Hawaiian Punch, dabbled invitingly in his bush, scraping his shaft lightly.
"What about your boyfriend?"
"Oh, he won't be back for a while."
"How about by those rocks?"
The male, surprisingly, was slower. Their sensors indicated he was in a state of duress that was somehow both painful and pleasurable. His reproductive organ was engorged with blood. The Watchers chitter-rasped in surprise. The female showed similar reactions. A copious flow of creamy liquid was slowly emerging from the reproductive canal between her legs, and the two appendages this species used to feed their young also experienced a state of arousal, contracting and becoming more sensitive.
The pair ran swiftly behind a rock where they were hidden from the beach, but not from the sun...or the ones who watched them.
Never had he had the chance to fuck a girl like this. Firm, ripe, very, very willing, with the body of sex goddess and the mind of a...flea. He hated to admit it, but it was the sexiest combination he knew.
She leaned into a smooth rock and he pressed up against her, pelvis to pelvis, his cock saying the first hellos to her snug little pussy. She wriggled. "Oh, let's take it slow. I like to kiss. Don't you want to kiss first?"
Shit, the inevitable demand for foreplay. He obliged her--she tasted odd, a little like stale bread--and massaged the truffle-colored, truffle-shaped nipples under the top of her swimsuit. He tweaked them with his fingers, plucking chocolates from a box. "Ow!" she squealed.
He gave them a twist, and they hardened like pebbles. Her hips thrust into his.
She'd forgotten about kissing as he nuzzled her ear, making her squeal and laugh again. Smoothly, with long practice from years of similar beach sex, he slipped his fingers into her stretchy thong. To his delight, her pussy was smooth as silk.
"I keep it shaved, baby," she said, and nipped his neck. "Do you like it?"
"Hell, I like it," he said, and let his thumbs strum her labia like the same way guitar virtuoso Dick Dale had banged his Stratocaster nearly forty years before, creating the surfing music sound. Da-da-DAH-da da-da-DAH-duh!
She ground her hips into his hand as he diddled. This was one of his favorite parts of fucking: hearing some chick's first, helpless moans and knowing they would only get louder when his cock came into play. Her breath came in little pants. "Fuck me, baby. Right now, I can't stand it!"
Her bikini was still in the way. Well, there was a way around that. He rooted in the pocket of his shorts, which he'd tossed beside him on the rock. He always carried a pair of sportsman's scissors with him when he surfed in case he got tangled in fishing lines. Now he would put them to a better use.
He touched the cool steel to the back of her waist and inserted the blade under the snugly nestled thong. Snip, and the damp flag of fabric slithered down her legs, with a slight tug to free it from the warm grip of her cheeks. Another snip, somewhat higher, and her tits burst free, bobbing globes that he immediately set his teeth to. She was far too aroused to complain.
The Watchers nodded to each other. They would do.
Not before me, he swore, and his own pressure came to overflowing, a sensation like a river undammed in his balls. Pre-come spirted playfully, then a rapid jet of thick come. It went on and on, like it was never going to end. Everything went golden-white in the sheer pleasure of orgasm. No boyfriend on jet-ski, no waiting career, no sand in the crack of his ass or the chick's bad breath. He last thought was, "Shit, why can't this last forever?"
She came too, her spasms and gasps coaxing him on, emptying him. Then time stopped.
If one were standing by the rocks at that particular time and place, one would see a cone of shimmering golden light cocooning the pair which only deepened their perfect tans. Both their backs were arched, their mouths open. Moisture could be seen at the junction of their organs. The woman's legs were straight out, toes pointed, one breast a squashed apricot squeezed by the man's hand.
If one looked up, one could see the ship descending. It would not be an impressive sight. The Watchers were a small race, so it was approximately the size and shape of a pizza delivery box.
Slowly the golden cone moves, shifting its frozen captives away from the rock. They rise into the air, rotating slowly, at once ridiculous and monumental. Smooth brown buttocks orbit out of sight, giving way to flat muscular ones and the line of a surfer's perfect calves. Then the soles of the feet, creamy white compared to the flesh at the ankles, toes clenched in passion.
Then the sight winks out as the ship cloaks itself and tows its specimans into orbit, and through the hypergate.
They will be there for a long, long time. In stasis, no time passes; they exist in a continual, unending orgasm.
Do they mind? Of course not. They're Californians.