From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Ryan's Landing (MF, romance)
Date: 27 May 1996 18:38:47 GMT

			    Ryan's Landing

	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 prominent 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 exalted
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 cliff top. 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.

	The first sign of my fate was when I heard her say "I need to
pee." Gentleman that I am, I even looked around for a bush for her to
retire behind. No bushes or modesty for Sarah. She stepped to one side
of the grass, stood there half facing me with her legs apart and knees
slightly crooked, and started pissing expertly on the grass between
her feet. Once she was sure of her aim, she looked up at me with her
eyes sparkling again, and grinned a cheeky "look how clever I am" look
at me.

	I stood there struck dumb; I must have looked quite a sight
with my jaw dragging on the ground. I don't think I had actually seen
a woman pissing before. Sure I had been in bathrooms when girlfriends
had used a toilet, but it was always a private thing covered with
skirts; never the camaraderie of men lined up and peeing together. In
fact I never even knew a woman could piss standing up. Sarah later
told me she learnt the technique in Bali; a story I never believed
until, years later, I read that Balinese women do urinate upright.

	Anyway, the second discovery of the moment was that the sight
of Sarah jauntily jetting away from her hairy little cunt was
extremely arousing. I later read that the early sexologists like
Havelock Ellis were right into the erotic effects of `female
micturition' and wrote glowingly of the beauties of the `golden
stream'. I discovered it all for myself. So did John Thomas, who
quickly rose to the occasion to show his appreciation of the
performance. It was no use on earth me turning away; we just had to
stand there and take what was coming to us. Sarah's grin became even
broader when she saw my erection.

	When she finished her performance she shook herself a little,
then stepped over to me, eyes shining, and said: "It's high time we
did something about this." There was no doubt about what "this" was,
because as she said the word she grasped my cock gently in her little
brown hand and expertly caressed it slowly up and down the shaft.
Believe it or not, that was the first time we had touched.

	Before I could make a move she placed her other hand on my
shoulder and firmly forced me first to sit and then lie on the grass.
Then she concentrated her attention on my cock, alternating between
agonizingly delicious strokes and cupping her hands gently around my
balls. I thought she was going to jerk me off, and indeed I was close
to it with my cock getting rock-hard and hot, and going that shiny red
colour and slightly curved shape that is a sure sign that an explosion
is near.

	Sarah had things well in hand (no pun intended) and when she
judged I was close enough, she daintily spat a mouthful of saliva on
her fingers, deftly lubricated the tip and shaft, stepped astride me,
parted the bush between her legs, carefully positioned the tip of my
cock in the opening to her vagina, and with a gentle "Mmmmmm... "
coming from deep in her throat, slid slowly down onto me. I suppose it
was the slim hips and plenty of exercise, but her cunt was
fantastically firm, with just the right combination of friction and
lubrication.

	She then set about demonstrating what a virtuoso she was by
sliding up and down my cock a few times until my breath became
laboured and loud, then sitting motionless while I recovered slightly,
all the time flexing her internal muscles to keep the tension rising.
As she repeated the cycle, I reached out to her breasts, thinking I
could at least contribute a little, but she pushed my hands away,
saying: "Uh, uh. This is my treat."

	There I lay, hanging on for dear life while Sarah slowly
brought me to a peak of pleasure. Once she thought I was close enough,
she reached behind her bottom, clasped my balls in her hand and gave
them a gentle squeeze. Of course, away I went like a mortar, bucking
with every squirt, with Sarah riding me all the way and giving a
little squeal with every spasm of my rigid cock.

	Once my explosions were over, she slipped forward on me and we
lay together, our breaths and pounding hearts slowing and that gentle
tranquility that follows a fuck creeping over us. I don't know how
long we lay there, but eventually she slipped off and sat beside me
looking at my battered form. She reached out to my cock, which was
lying there looking limp and bedraggled, flicked it from side to side
with her fingertips, and remarked: "Well, that's you kept out of
trouble for a while."

	Trouble? That was the pride of my manhood she was talking
about! It was high time I exerted myself. I pushed her down on the
grass, spread her legs so I could get a good handful of cunt, and at
the same time kissed her as hard and as long as I could. It's a
ridiculous understatement, but it was by far the best first kiss I
ever had. She drew my tongue into her mouth and caressed it with her
own, at the same time squirming her body as my fingers delved the warm
wet crevices of her cunt. It was obvious that she had not had a
complete orgasm, as she was still quite aroused.

	I slipped down between her legs and applied my lips and tongue
to her sweet wet cunt, alternating thrusts of my tongue with gentle
nibbles of her erect clitoris. She began breathing faster and sighing
a little, and the sight of her pointed tits rising up and down
reminded me that I had not yet paid them their due attention. Not
stopping my ministrations between her legs, I reached up with both
hands and began giving them slow caresses which moved up the slopes
inexorably until they reached her hard erect nipples, then slid down
again. At this her sighing became louder and faster, and she began
stroking my ears and rubbing her hands in my hair.

	I was all set to make her come that way, but it was not to be.
She suddenly sat up, tugged at my shoulders, and demanded: "Get in,
now, oh now!" John Thomas had been taking quite an interest in
proceedings, and was in adequate shape to resume his chosen role.
Within seconds he was plunged deep into her cunt, and Sarah had a firm
grip of my bum and was trying to force him even further in. By this
time she was fully aroused; her lips were even darker and pulled back
from her teeth, and the skin of her shoulders and chest were looking
blotched with her rising passion, even beneath her deep tan. Her cunt
was moving continually, tugging and squeezing and stroking at my
straining cock, while her slender legs wrapped around me and stroked
up and down my back, legs and bum.

	I finally had a chance to get my mouth onto her tits. I have
said before that my preference for breasts had been the large two-hand
variety. No longer. Nothing beats a small brown tit that can be drawn
right into my mouth and held there while my tongue works over a big
sensitive nipple.

	Sarah seemed to think so too for her sighs turned to groans
and the mauling she was giving my cock became even more violent. Time
for the coup de grace. I moistened my fingertips and perilously
slipped my hand between our heaving groins until I reached her
clitoris, standing eagerly out from under its little hood.

	That did it. She was away, her body racked with several great
spasms as she climbed onto the plateau of the long female orgasm. So
soon after the previous effort it had been no trouble keeping John
Thomas from going off prematurely. Now I let him have his head, and
from some hidden reserve of semen he summoned up another painfully
delicious orgasm, the sort where every squirt is irresistible agony,
and which leaves you with numb balls and an aching anus.

	There we lay, Sarah keening away softly, her eyes tightly shut
and the occasional shudder passing through her body. At one stage she
lifted my hand to her left breast, and as I squeezed it she began
another series of spasms, each one accompanied by a hungry squeeze of
her cunt on my cock.

	Finally it was over. The roaring in our ears died down, our
breaths slowed, and the breeze finally began to make inroads on the
sweat that spangled our bodies and made little puddles between her
tits and in the small of my back. A little voice in my ear said
"You're squashing me," so I rolled off her to lie exhausted on the
grass. We lay there, I guess, for about half an hour in a wordless
communion, our eyes drinking in each other.

	Sarah made the first move, getting to her feet with a small
groan. "Are you all right?" I asked hurriedly. "Sure," she said, "I
just always ache a bit after a really good fuck." Some of my previous
lovers have insisted on chattering about `the earth moving' and `you
sent me to paradise', but I must admit no other post-coital comments
lit such a warm fire in my belly as Sarah's nonchalant "really good
fuck." It was at that moment I realized that I wanted to see and have
a lot, lot more of Miss Sarah Brown. I didn't care a damn that there
had been others before me. What mattered was that we had just shared a
"really good fuck," and I was going to make sure there were plenty
more.

	"I guess we'd better head back," she said, yawning and
stretching so that her ribs were visible. "Yeah," I agreed, reluctant
to leave this place that had served us so well. She stepped to the
edge, but before beginning the climb down spread her legs a little and
neatly ejected from her cunt everything that I had laboured long and
hard to put there. She caught the amazed expression on my face, and
laughed. "Loves Labours Lost" she recited, and scrambled over the
edge before I could think of a rejoinder, leaving me shaking my head,
convinced she was the most uninhibited person I had ever met.

	We wandered aimlessly hand in hand for a time among the rocks.
Once we were forced to retreat hurriedly when we nearly tripped over
the legs of a couple hard at it in a sandy cul-de-sac. Sarah tip-toed
back for a peek, and returned shaking her head in mock disapproval.

	"It's disgusting, I know those two; they are cousins, and
can't be more than twelve."

	I took up the mockery. "Well what do you expect from little
kids," I said, looking her up and down, "whose parents let them run
around in the nuddy," then ducked to avoid a handful of thrown sand.

	"By the way," I went on, emboldened by this event, "when did
you decide today that you were going to fuck me?"

	"Today?" Sarah cocked an eyebrow at me. "My dear Mark, half
the girls in the orchestra are dying to get you into their pants,
except me of course `cause I don't wear any." This last phrase was
said on the run to avoid the sand I threw at her.

	"Anyway," she continued, "when I saw you alone and nude on the
beach, I knew it was my Big Chance. Once I saw the way you were
staring at my tits, I knew you were mine for the asking. I was feeling
a bit horny already so it was only a matter of timing."

	"You randy scheming little bitch," I said through gritted
teeth.

	"Well, you should talk!" This was with her hands on her hips.
"Don't tell me you came to the beach just for the sun. You were a
danger to the peace of everyone, strutting around with your prick
half-mast. I was just doing a public service."

	I was both taller and stronger, and a flat rock nearby was
just right to sit on while administering corporal punishment. For the
remainder of our walk back to the beach I enjoyed the sight of my
hand-marks on each of her slim little buttocks.

	We finally emerged onto the beach proper, where a few people
still lay in the afternoon sun. Our volleyball companions were nearby;
the woman looked up, smiled and waved, and spoke to her man who also
smiled and gave me a `thumbs up'. I guess our return hand in hand
after such an absence was pretty obvious, and when I noticed both of
our pubic hair was matted and my cock was dangling in an exhausted
fashion, I realised we might as well have had "F.U.C.K." tattooed on
our foreheads.

	We headed into the water to wash and refresh. It was quite a
different swim from the last; this time we were `together' and could
and did touch as much as we like. We stood for a while on the sandbar
watching a passing yacht. I held Sarah with her back to me, savouring
the feeling of her puckered nipples under my cupped hands. She felt so
good that my cock even began to rouse itself from slumber again. "Oh
stop it, you sex maniac," she muttered, but then showed her true
feelings by wriggling her bum until she was able to squeeze my cock
between her buttocks.

	When we returned to the beach to dry, she gave my cock a
suspicious glance.

	"Is it going to behave this time?"

	"Oh come off it, all it wants now is a sleep."

	"Sleep!... Hey, where are you going stay tonight?"

	To be frank I hadn't even thought about it since setting off
early that morning. "Well, I, er... "

	"That's settled," said Sarah briskly. "You're coming to our
place. My grandparents will be glad to put you up."

	We dressed, which in Sarah's case consisted of just slipping
on a longish muslin shift which left nothing to the imagination, and
headed to my car. "Er, how did you get here?" I asked, half expecting
an irate boyfriend to erupt from the bushes. "Oh, I walked," she said,
simply. "That's my grandparents house there." She pointed to a house
mostly obscured by gum trees on a rise on the far side of the paddock.
"You drive across their land to get to the beach." "Ah, they must be
the `sympathetic farmer'," and I explained the article in the
"Naturist."

	And that's how I came to Ryan's Landing, and how that sleepy
place, and more particularly Miss Sarah Brown, became such a part of
my life. As Sarah predicted, her grandparents made me welcome, as
though her bringing home a strange male from from the beach was an
everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was. They were retired university
types, and it turned out they were out and out liberals in practically
everything, which explained why they never even raised an eyebrow when
she carried my things straight into her bedroom, and announced I was
staying for a few weeks.

	Some day I might write about the following two weeks at Ryan's
Landing before we pointed the Beetle south and returned to the city,
first to rearrange our student accommodation to reflect our new sinful
status, and then to resume our studies. My memories of those weeks
were of long, hot days and nights; of many returns to the beach (and
the grassy basin) and of trips to quiet river water holes and noisy
waterfalls in the coastal ranges; and, of course, utter sexual
exhaustion from my efforts to match and satisfy Sarah's healthy young
appetite.