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 ï>¿Self-Discovery by Caroline Covington I love being looked at; I
absolutely adore it when men look at my body with admiration and desire.  I
initially experienced this sensation about 20 years ago during my first
visit to a clothing optional beach.  My husband and I, early in our
marriage, discovered that there was a legal CO beach in the town in which
we were vacationing.  He immediately suggested that we go, and I readily
agreed, feeling comfort from his support.

   When we arrived, I noticed that the beach was quite crowded, with men
outnumbering women.  But I was reassured to know that not a soul would
recognise us.  So, with a deep breath, we entered the CO area, staked our
space, spread the blanket and -- stripped.  The effect was immediate: I was
exhilarated by my nakedness under the bright sun, fully illuminating my
body for an array of strangers' eyes.

   Shortly after shedding my clothes, I sensed that many of the men were
indeed glancing surreptitiously at me.  My husband also noticed this and
asked if I enjoyed the attention: I confessed some excitement to being the
focus of discreet voyeurism.  What an understatement!  I was on fire!  I
welcomed the looks, for I was fit and confident in my body.  My breasts are
small, but my nipples are responsive to the slightest arousal, and that day
I was in a constant state of perky titillation.  But the prime causes of
attention were likely my legs and their culmination.  According to my
husband, I have long, shapely stems that are capped by a dark bush with
inner lips that protrude even when not stimulated.

   Prior to going to the beach, I had shaved my legs and bikini line.  By
today's standards the pubic hair that remained was copious, but at that
time it was an adventuresome, eye-catching trim that left me feeling truly
exposed.  Given the blaze that had been kindled between my thighs by sun,
strangers' gazes, and naughty whispers from my lover, I dared not look at
myself.  The hot sun was unrelenting, its heat seemingly concentrating on
my clitoris; the numerous eyes that were at the ready to steal a peek
further served to multiply my arousal.  We lay there people-watching or,
more often than not, admiring each other and whispering about the
possibilities if the beach were deserted.  Both of us were highly charged,
and I revelled in the sun and occasional appreciative look.  I did not have
to touch myself: I knew that I was both very wet and very swollen.  My
blood, it seemed, had rushed to my pubic area, leaving me slightly dizzy
and giddy.  In addition, my husband would softly tell me, with great
frequency, that my lips were glistening beautifully and that I was
resplendent, redolent, and ripe.  His praise served to churn my juices all
the more.

   The day was so hot that it was impossible to stay on the beach without
going into the water.  Now, it was one thing to be spied upon by a small
number of men in the immediate area of where I was laying naked; the
possibility of easily covering myself always existed.  However, it was
quite another to actually get up and make the relatively long journey to
the water, without a stitch or cover, among an audience of observing men. I
realised that walking down to the water would be somewhat easy: the crowd
in front of us had their back to me, and once I passed by, my back would be
towards them.  On the other hand, the return trek would place me, wet from
ocean brine, on a veritable catwalk.  All of this flashed through my mind
in an instant as we got up to go into the water.

   It was so wonderful to swim and play in the waves in the nude!  To feel
the ocean caress me with open access to my most intimate place was truly
breathtaking.  My fingers, I recall, under the cover of water, couldn't
resist wandering to my nipples, squeezing, tugging, and rolling them.  Did
my hand wander down to fondle and explore my opening?  Perhaps briefly; I
feared losing control, for I was close to the edge.  Instinctively, both of
us kept our distance from each other, knowing that a simple touch from
either of us would have had cataclysmic effects.  Neither of us wanted to
waste an iota of this magical energy in such a mundane way.  We were
greedy; we wanted it all for later.  My husband left the water first and
headed back to the blanket; he later confessed that he wanted to witness
the eyes furtively following me as I walked back.  Unintentionally, it
turned out, I gave him and anyone else that was looking a risquÃ(C) sight
to see.

   As I emerged from the cool water, my breasts were covered in droplets,
and my nipples, not surprisingly, were extremely erect and hard.  Mindful
of my attentive state, I prepared for my upcoming display of nakedness. 
With nervous anticipation and excitement, yet with as much calm as I could
muster, I walked past numerous men who, from behind their sunglasses, were
in all likelihood greedily examining my body.  I also imagined that they
were focussing on either my breasts or pubic area, most likely scanning
both.  I admit that this thought electrified me.  However, unknown to me,
perhaps from the last wave or perhaps from briefly stroking myself while in
the water, my pubic hair had been pasted backed to either side, providing
an unsheltered view of my inner labia.  Only upon my return to the blanket
did I find out about my earthy exposure from my husband, telling me in fine
detail that my inner lips were completely visible, swollen, fat, and openly
prominent -"perhaps even gaping -"and that my clitoris, or at least its
hood, was clearly obvious.  I'd like to say that I was overcome by
embarrassment, but, truthfully, I could feel myself becoming more moistened
than I had been all day.  I was literally flowing.  The fact that my lips
and opening, my most secret and intimate parts, had been on widespread
display gave me an enormous tingling sensation.

   We whispered about this and other things the rest of the day.  Many more
saunters were taken to the water.  As the day progressed, I became more and
more at ease with my public nudity, enjoying the power of my sexuality,
real or imagined.

   Once, on getting out of the water, I feigned innocence and bent
-"supposedly to examine some shells  -"giving a few select men a brief but
very revealing view.

   The border between tasteful nonchalance and shameless display may have
been crossed in that instant: I'd like to think not, but at that point I
didn't care.

   My husband was clearly turned on by my displays and delighted with my
freedom and coy exhibitionism.  The sexual energy between us was palpable,
yet we prolonged our stay at the beach, using it as foreplay.  That evening
our lovemaking was intense, with plenty of sizzling graphic talk.  We woke
often during night to touch each other gently, initiate, and build to yet
another round of wonderfully wanton sex.

   Every few years we will visit a nude beach.  The water feels just as
intimate; some men still look, some even with approval; and I always get
that damp, glowing sensation.  The thrill is still very much there but
never like that first glorious day.  I'd love to receive your feedback on
this story.



   The Gentle Breaking of the Waves by Caroline Covington My exhibitionist
experience at a nude beach ignited a collection of intense erotic
fantasies, the most vivid being my yearning to make love on a deserted
beach.  Despite its clichÃ(C) nature, my husband needed very little
persuading to help me live out my fantasy.  Fortunately, at that time we
were living in a country virtually ringed by beaches, so we were confident
that we'd find a private strand of sand.  We plotted our little adventure
by looking at maps, considering population densities, and keeping an eye on
weather forecasts.  We also discussed timing, realising that a weekday
would be best for our purposes.  With our plans laid, we picked a day.  The
weather held, so we prepared for our outing.  That morning both of us
phoned our respective workplaces to report illness and regrets.  We packed
our car with a blanket, towels, beach umbrella, books, and a cooler of food
and drink; we intended to stay the entire day.  A swimsuit each was also
included in case we failed to find a private enough beach.  We set out
early, around 8 a.m., in hope and anticipation.  The drive itself was
uneventful.  Conversation was muted, with both of us lost in our own
thoughts.

   The general location we chose was about a 90-minute drive -"too far to
scout for a specific spot.  We were to rely on chance.  In the event of
failure, we'd console ourselves with at least a pleasant drive in the
country and some sedate tanning on a public beach.  The area we picked was
on a sparsely populated peninsula, with cliffs on its west coast.  The plan
was to descend the cliffs and hopefully find an isolated stretch of sand.

   We arrived at a promising area and parked the car.  After briefly
looking in the woods, we found a trail, which we concluded lead to the
cliff's edge.  Returning to our vehicle to collect our belongings, we set
off down the trail.  Each had a backpack; I carried the umbrella, and he
the heavier cooler.  After a short walk, we came to a set of wooden stairs
that descended the cliff, depositing us onto the seashore.

   The beach wasn't crowded, but we needed an expanse of sand with no one
on it but ourselves.  Although the cooler was heavy, my husband suggested
that we head to the left along the beach toward the visible headland.  At
the outcrop, we scrambled over rocks to find a deserted cove of sand. 
Instead of stopping, he wanted to keep going to see what was beyond the
next jut of land.  I didn't protest, as I wanted to be as far away from the
other beach-goers as possible.  So, we traversed to yet another headland,
hoping that beyond it lay our beach.

   Luck was truly on our side, presenting us with a beach that we thought
existed only in our minds.  In front of us lay a wide, long, empty stretch
of sand that was protected on all sides.  For my own peace of mind, we went
to the far end of the beach.  If someone were to stray onto our private
cove, we would have enough time to dress and feign innocence.

   It was hard to believe that I was there, a place previously visited only
in my imagination.  With sensual anticipation, we set up our love nest,
spreading the blanket, opening the umbrella, and shedding our clothes. 
Contrary to what I expected, there was no hesitation on my part; I
immediately began a leisurely carnal quest that would last the whole day.

   Standing naked and facing each other, we began with soft kisses, our
tongues darting back and forth.  Almost immediately, his hands reached for
my breasts, cupping them softly and gently tugging at my nipples.  The
delightful pulls were directly sensed by my pubic region, initiating a
flood that remained between my legs for the rest of the day. 
Instinctively, his hands began a slow tour to my crotch, detouring to my
buttocks to squeeze them and then pulling me next to his erection, which I
squirmed against with pleasure.

   Finally, after an agonizing amount of time, his hand found my vulva; I
braced myself against his chest -"the waves that washed through me came
close to knocking me over.  I recovered and found myself standing with my
feet wider apart than before.  With one of his fingers, he began a stroking
motion that parted my labia and ran up and down the length of my lips
without entering me, pausing periodically on my clitoris.  I shuddered as
he did this and gingerly bit down on his shoulder as I held him.  Soon,
random downward strokes would enter me; eventually they penetrated me with
a luxurious consistency.  I abandoned any pretence of modesty and lifted a
foot onto his knee, splaying my elevated leg to the side to open myself and
allow his probing to go deeper.  My hands were around his neck as I stood
leaning backwards, balanced with one foot on the ground, all while his
fingers explored my opening.

   The position, while enchanting, was tiring, so I released him and lay on
the blanket on my back with my knees to my chest and apart, playing with my
swollen petals and entrance.  My impish behaviour excited him -"he was
slowly stroking himself as he watched me.  But before long, he couldn't
resist, so he lowered his face into my slit -"a misnomer, for it had
blossomed into a fully opened, edible flower.  His tongue played on my
clitoris, but mostly he sucked on it while his chin pushed apart my lips
and tempted my entrance.  The sensations steadily drove me to ecstasy and
caused me to thrust my pelvis into his face and spread myself even wider
with my hands.  In turn, he filled me with his fingers, pumping at my
cavity, while continuing the suction on my clitoris.

   The heavenly action of his fingers had stretched me, making my entrance
wide and pliant.  He angled me so that the sun could shine and beat into my
insides.  With the sun's spotlight, he'd peer into my opening and then bury
his face in me, only to lift his head -"his chin and mouth shining from my
wetness -"to stare into my cavity again, then resume his greedy
consumption. He varied from this cycle by mounting and penetrating me,
alternately sucking at my puckered nipples or kissing me deeply and sweetly
as I bucked beneath him, only to slide back down to renew his detailed
examination and tasting of my vagina.  At last, my orgasm came with a rush,
and I arched my back as tremors reverberated throughout me and left my legs
open to absorb some more fulfilling strokes from his fingers, until,
finally, the sensations were too much to take.

   We carried on this way, basking in the sun.  I constantly asked him if
we were really there, on the beach, enjoying ourselves so freely.  We were
energised to a high degree, requiring only modest amounts of rest before
one of us would spur the other.  Every act, no matter how innocuous, became
a celebration of our bodies, done to arouse the other, creating a rising
spiral of erotic energy.

   In the open air with the sun as voyeur, we lost ourselves in each other:
I rode him while on my knees yet other times while squatting, the latter
spreading me wide and providing him with a view of his intrusion into my
labia.  When I squeezed his erection with my pelvic muscles, I could feel
it twitch and convulse inside of me.  I nipped and pulled at my breasts as
I repeatedly slid and impaled myself on his cock.  With great difficulty,
I'd remove myself from him, move up to his face, and grind myself into his
nose, mouth, and chin, relishing the suction on my clitoris.  I sucked on
his erection, hard yet warm, taking him as deep as I could, milking him
with my mouth to a shuddering climax, and lustily swallowing every drop he
expelled.  He filled and stretched my core as I opened myself for him and
urged him to ejaculate into my depths.  Under the glorious sun he watched
me as I deftly masturbated to an orgasm.  I craved his erection, rubbing it
all over my body and face, and coaxed him to spray his semen over my chest
and rub the fluid into my breasts, impregnating them with his scent.

   Time passed with our lovemaking, so eventually we decided to have some
food.  The lunch that I had packed included some meats, cheeses, and fruit
-"specifically, strawberries and pears.  Famished from our lovemaking, we
ate the meats and cheese with gusto, slaked our thirst, and rested. 
Drinking a cool, crisp, white wine, I sat on the blanket with my legs
casually spread, my opening clearly visible and still vibrating from our
last round of sex.  My enlarged labia were attracting his gaze, so,
wordlessly, I positioned myself to allow him a more explicit view.  I
watched him work in silence, slicing the pears into wedges with great
deliberation.  His next move caught me pleasantly by surprise.

   Carefully, pieces of fruit were placed into my cavity, withdrawn,
sometimes reinserted, and finally eaten, both of us feeding each other the
ripe slices that we coated with my juices.  We would kiss with both
fondness and lust, exchanging the fruit between our mouths.  I was
transfixed watching each morsel enter and disappear between my labia, only
to see my glossy lips lengthen, sucked outwards by the removal of the now
shiny fruit.  Each successive penetration by a strawberry or pear wedge
resulted in yet a higher lift of my pelvis and a further spreading of my
legs.  I ached to baste every portion and revelled in the subtle sensations
stirring in my vagina.  We ate slowly, savouring every sinful insertion of
fruit.

   We began taking turns, using each other as a platter with which to
consume our food.  With gentleness he'd lay me on my back, marinate a
morsel between my spread lips, and place the food on my breasts, nibbling
them along with the dampened fruit.  Each touch of his lips on my nipples
sent currents shooting to my pelvis, further augmenting my wetness.  He'd
then slide to my opening and drink deeply, lapping and poking between my
lips and teasing my clitoris; sometimes he'd deposit another piece of fruit
to consume directly from my slit.  In return, I'd immerse a slice into my
split opening, letting it linger to absorb my essence, and, placing it on
his penis, ingest the fruit while I sucked his erection.

   Eventually, after several such Epicurean exchanges, I continued sucking
him, sometimes running my tongue along the length of his shaft.  His pelvis
soon began its beautiful rhythm and pumped at my mouth, gently at first. 
As he increased the speed, I felt him hold me by my hair, keeping my head
still.  He continued building the intensity, soon thrusting his cock
rapidly into my mouth.  I felt him tense before he splashed his warm sperm
into my throat.  Intentionally, I removed him from my mouth before he
completely finished, allowing his final streams to shower my lips, cheek,
and chin.  Without hesitation, he took me in his arms, licking my face,
collecting and feeding his semen to me with his tongue and lips.  I can't
describe the eagerness with which I devoured the orgasmic fluid from his
mouth.

   This was how our day progressed, from one sensual high to another.  Even
our rests were a delight: we'd gently stroke each other while we read or
absorbed the view or, more often than not, we'd simply admire each other in
the all-revealing sun.

   The superb, cloudless day was ending.  It was past 5 p.m.  We were lying
on our sides facing each other, our feet toward the other's head, relaxing,
reading, and recovering from yet our latest escapade.  Believing that we
were done with our adventure, I playfully called to give him one last look.
Slowly, keeping my upper leg straight, I raised it as high as it could go
and then rolled onto my back, fully extending both legs as wide as I could.
The effect was unexpected.

   His eyes widened, even bulged, as he wordlessly stared at my exposure.
He described it to me later; I blushed then as I do now in its retelling:
The entrance to my vagina was enlarged and awash in saliva, semen, and my
own secretions.  Strands of this earthy concoction were strung across my
opening like a fine, delicate lace -"linking my widely parted lips -"in a
forlorn attempt to hide the extended stretching, filling, and widening of
my hole.  To add to the effect, the pearly threads shifted and shimmered in
the light of the sun.  He was entranced, later claiming that it was one of
the most erotic sights he ever saw.

   Without a word and in a single smooth motion, he jumped to his feet,
grabbed my arm, dragged me to the water's edge, and flung me onto the sand,
falling on me like a madman.  He entered me easily; the copious amounts of
sex rendered me loose and lubricated, the latter evidenced by the cocktail
of juices that I had so lewdly placed on show.  To say that we made love is
a mistruth; it was, on both our parts, a pure joyous Fuck.  It began
immediately with an intensity that was hard, fast, and unwavering to the
very end.  While on my back I'd thrust my pelvis upwards in desperate
attempts to match his cadence, each well-timed lunge a delicious reward for
my clitoris and insides.  My hands alternated between tugging my nipples,
masturbating, and feeling his cock continuously plunge into my cunt: Yes,
my cunt, my cock-tunnel, my fuck-hole; it was all of these things and more.


   When he'd tire of fucking me in this position, he'd turn me onto my
hands and knees and pummel me from behind.  His hands gripped my hips and
controlled the furious motion that simultaneously slapped my ass and
unceasingly filled and stretched my more than willing cunt.  Supporting
myself on one arm, I watched through my legs the rhythm of his balls as his
pelvis smacked into me, increasing my excitement and causing me,
impossibly, to open myself yet wider.  With my free hand, forming a "V"
with two fingers, I'd feel his cock thrust repeatedly into me while I
maddeningly tried to touch my clitoris with the remaining fingers.  The
pace was insane, punctuated with frequent changes in position, but it
barely kept up with my base cravings.

   Finally, while on my back, he pinned me by trussing my legs apart, his
arms behind my knees.  He leaned into me with his arms, pushing my legs
toward me and to the sides of my chest, and causing my pelvis to elevate. I
was completely and utterly split, supplying him unbridled access to my
expanded hole.  Delirious with lust, I craned my neck to catch glimpses of
the persistent penetration of my widened pink flesh.  With each withdrawal
I saw my cunt lips extend and cling to his cock, gleaming from my insides,
only to watch it disappear and then feel it inside.  I absorbed the
delicious slamming of our pelvises, welcoming each blow.  My cunt was
voracious, gobbling with savage gluttony the endless and rapid ploughing.
One of my hands was engrossed with my nipples, intensely plucking at them,
while the other attacked my clitoris, all as I was relentlessly fucked into
sweet, luscious incoherence -- In this position did we gain tempo, force,
and urgency and climb to our final orgasm.

   How do I end this?  How do I avoid the tired, hackneyed, overused line:
" --and then I exploded as he spurted his hot cum deep inside of my love
box"?  How do I convince you, Reader, that at that climactic instant we
truly saw the face of God while in a communion of cosmic copulation?  Is it
at all possible to persuade you that the spirits of Henry Miller, Anais
Nin, Don Juan and his reckless daughter, and Casanova did visit and bestow
their blessings and collective libidos upon us at the anointed second of
our shared ecstasy?  How can I describe the culmination of the Super Fuck,
in whose presence Nietzsche's penis shrivels from envy?  Can I define the
moment of shared immaculate bliss that bellowed to us the meaning of our
existence, causing Descartes to masturbate and scream at the top of his
lungs, "We fuck, therefore we are"?  Would you believe me if I said that I
cried tears of rapture and exhilaration?  Can I sell to you the notion that
we collapsed into the sand and each other's arms, laughing in disbelief and
incapable of speech, eventually quietening to listen to the gentle breaking
of the waves and the beating of each other's hearts?