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The summer right after graduation and before college, the family trade, the reality of taking care of one’s self onward and forevermore. Seems like everyone remembers that summer. I got a little lucky myself, mostly because I didn’t have a plan in the first place.

I had been so glad to get out of school that I resolved to do nothing for the next three months, but a buddy of mine had moved out to the coast the day after the graduation ceremony, then had sent word that he needed a roomie to make ends meet. I had a bit saved up and decided that maybe I needed to spend some time thinking about my future on a beach.

Another bud drove me out as an excuse for a road trip. We found my friend’s place at the dark end of a dilapidated culdesac. It was three miles from any beach and littered with broken bottles and the occasional needle. My part of the rent was twice what I had expected, and I decided I better get a job as soon as someone would give me one.

The town’s economy seemed to be based entirely upon the seven almost-identical tourist shops that ran along the small strip of coastal highway, so I took a day to walk down and investigate. One shop had a sign in the window, and the woman running the place must have thought I looked trustworthy. I started a couple of days after, having invested in a parted bicycle that happened to be for sale by a man in the back alley.

The woman gave me an overview of running the shop with a mixture of broken English and pointing at various items. I was to spend most of my time behind a glass display case on top which lay the till. A cracked white plastic chair was crammed behind the case and the back wall. A yellowed scrap of paper was taped to the back of the till upon which was scrawled “Cash Only / No Return”.

From my vantage point behind the till I could watch the store window and entrance on my left, and the battered shelves supporting rows of beach-related plastic trinkets and piles of t-shirts. One row contained dozens of animals constructed with seashells and epoxy, and an enormous pig made out of shells had been suspended from the ceiling above the shelf as if in a place of honor. She handed me the keys, smiled, and left.

So I sat looking at the rows of decorated shot glasses and plastic crap until six, then shut the blinds that covered the store window, locked the door and went home. The next day I quickly realized that it was going to make for a long summer, but I felt responsible for the store and the kindly woman, and she had assured me that on Friday she would be back with a week’s wages.

She was true to her word, pointing at the envelope at her hand and repeating “every Friday pay”. She quickly cleaned out the register, counted the week total (around eighty dollars worth of coastal-related plasticware) then was gone. That no concern was made that they were paying me more than the till contained made me suspect that perhaps selling trinkets was not how the shop made money, so I decided to not worry about it and settle in for the summer.

I spent the days sitting in the cracked chair gazing out the shop window, either contemplating the seashell pig or watching the beachfront on the other side of the road. Most tourists pulled over onto the beachside, got out to take some pictures, then drove off to the next beach down the road. Only a few tourists made their way to our side, and I could sense all the other bored clerks watching through their store windows perk up.

But then there were the locals. I rarely saw the serious surfers since they were already done for the day by the time my 10 am opening time came around, but there were plenty of beach bums and the current generation of bored teens and college students. I got a hold of some discrete binoculars and would watch the beach come to life every day.

I was pleasantly surprised by the willingness of the local women to arrive at the beach already mostly stripped down. At first, my attention was focused on the wayward college students, their tits perked, puffy-nippled and pointed skyward, straining against their brightly patterned bikini tops.

One girl, in particular, reminded me of Angie Silverman, my unrequited crush of the previous two years. If her parents had known I’d spent time every night in bed furiously painting every square inch of Angie’s body with splashes of white, at least in my mind, they would have strung me up by my balls from the oversized cottonwood tree in their yard that frustratingly screened her bedroom window.

But I came to appreciate some of the older women as well. There were the young moms, harried and unorganized, their bikinis no longer bright and cheerful but darker as if their bodies no longer had time for frivolity. Some of the newer moms still burst with milk, breasts engorged, while others passed the nursing stage filled bahis firmaları their tops a bit less perkily, but more rounded now. They were sexy in a different way now, though of course, they’d never believe it if you told them.

And then there were the women who might have been moms but for whatever reason, weren’t. Their tits were perkier than the moms for sure, but they too were fuller and lower than the even the most developed of the college girls. In any case, I spent a lot of time studying the local fare. A couple of times I was caught unawares by the front door opening and rushed to retreat behind the display counter to hide the obvious erection bulging in my jeans.

Halfway through August, I was starting to get jumpy. As much as I appreciated the low-stress job and the hours of girl watching, the lack of anything to keep me occupied began to grind. I’d refined my breast identification skills to the point I could call out measurements after a momentary glance, but I couldn’t figure out a way to make that a paying position. Still haven’t.

One day, my dull gaze was broken by a couple quickly walking by outside. They were arguing, the woman gesturing angrily toward the man, the man stoically watching the ground ahead as they walked. The woman appeared to be in her late 30’s, the man a bit older.

I’d already placed her as a 36 C, based on the contours of the black sweater constraining her chest, and childless, based on the firm bounce that occurred with each step she took. Brunette hair tumbled down just past her shoulders, her eyes masked by fashionable sunglasses, and she carried a small clutch bag in her left hand.

As they passed, I lowered my gaze down a bit. Her ass was rounded and well maintained, wrapped in a flirty yet responsible floral-patterned skirt, the exact type of skirt a moneyed woman wears on vacation. I’m not much for noticing men, but her companion seemed particularly unmemorable, though to be fair, I was distracted.

Soon they were past the shop, and I was intrigued enough that I got up from the chair so that I could get a bit longer view of the woman’s hips as they rocked her skirt back and forth with her steps. She was still giving the man all that he could handle. I wondered what he might have done wrong. I wondered what their make-up sex would be like. Probably loud, based on her current behavior.

They disappeared down the way and I returned to my station behind the counter. I’d gone back to studying the pig when I noticed the woman was back, using her reflection in the window to check her lipstick. She raised her sunglasses to take a closer look and immediately caught me staring at her. I looked away and probably blushed, and then scrambled to attention when the door opened and she entered.

She had put her sunglasses up, nestled in her dark brown locks. Her eyes were green and a bit startling, the newly-applied maroon lipstick accentuating her plump lips. I don’t mind admitting she terrified me a bit; I could tell she’d put together my entire life story, my weaknesses and my perversions in that first split second she had stared right through me.

Then she was inside, the door closed behind her.

“Hi, welcome to the sea shack.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

She scanned the store, then began to browse a bit, making her way towards the seashell menagerie. She laughed a bit as she looked at a dog made of clamshells. “Does anybody ever buy these?”

“Not yet.”

I did my best to play it cool, but no doubt she could feel when I brushed my eyes across her chest. The fact that she was wearing a pullover sweater pointed to her as just passing through. If she was wearing a bra, it was failing her, as a hint of her nipples poked out the black fabric that wrapped her boobs.

She studied a sculpture of a beach bum built solely from a spray-painted starfish with a cone shell glued to it, positioned as if it were a giant penis. She tittered to herself a bit.

“Mind helping me over here?”

I extracted myself from behind the counter and swiftly made it over to where she stood. I felt her take in my frontside and suddenly felt self-conscious about my arms, my chest, the bulge (or lack of) between my legs. I guess it was only fair. It was payback for all the breasts I’d classified over the years.

“How can I help?”

She looked me over briefly again. “Close your eyes.”

I did as told. I could feel her move past me, then pivot behind me. Then she thrust her right hand down the front of my pants, down the front of my boxers, and suddenly her palm was wrapped around my balls, the tips of her manicured fingernails digging into the point I let out a gasp. My cock involuntarily erected, immediately rising only to be smashed against my pants that were now way too small.

“Mmm. I just needed to make kaçak iddaa sure your balls had dropped.” She withdrew her hand, then turned herself to face me. She gave a brief, wicked smile. “Not much going on here, I think it’s lunchtime.”

“I’m not sure that…”

She had returned to the front door, turning the lock and switching the neon “Open” sign off. She motioned to the blinds, and I scurried over to close them. When I had finished turning them down, she took my hand, then led me back towards the till, at which she twisted me around violently, my middle back grazing the top of the register.

Her eyes interrogated mine, and without looking down she had quickly unbuttoned the fly of my jeans, ripped the zipper down, hooked her thumbs on each side of the jeans and the waistband of my boxers and with one practiced move, my pants were around my ankles.

My cock flailed upwards, suddenly unburdened. Still keeping her eyes locked with mine, she stepped forward and firmly grabbed my balls and the base of my shaft with her right hand, and clenched my shaft right behind the head of my cock with her left. Then she began to clutch my balls with her nails. She smiled as I flinched, trying to keep my composure.

“The great thing about young men is that they stand on command.” She slowly dragged her nails up alongside the underside of my shaft, then repeated the action, this time her nails all around. Finally, she looked downward at my cock and smiled. “Nice salute.”

She briefly looked around to make sure no one was trying to look in past the shuttered blinds, then squatted down. She grabbed back of my right thigh, her nails jabbing me a bit, and firmly grasped my cock at the base of my shaft with her left hand. She briefly looked up at me, then led the tip of my cock into her mouth.

Her lips wrapped around my tip, and she explored it slowly with her tongue, then took more of my shaft into her mouth. I had thought I’d been fully erect before, but she coaxed my dick into a fuller diameter than it had ever been, and been since, I’m sad to say. She moved her left hand down and again gently crushed my balls, playfully moving between pleasure and pain.

She fed me even deeper into her throat, pulling me inwards with her tongue on the underside of my shaft, then she gave a satisfied murmur as my cock swelled against her teeth. It is amazing how quickly a man can trust a stranger when his dick gets into perilous situations.

Sensing that I could easily blow at any time, she slowly withdrew until my cock was free of her mouth, a large drop of her saliva dripping off the tip. Then she stood up. “Your turn. Get down on your knees.”

I did as told, and suddenly my head was up inside her skirt, my nose smashed up against the bulge that plumped outwards beneath silken blue panties. She was pressing the back of my head hard from outside her skirt, so I gained my bearings, then wrapped my hands up around her hips, right along the hem of the panties. I pushed my head back to give myself some room and grab a breath, then I brought the panties down slowly.

She was nicely trimmed, a well-maintained pelt, and as I pulled the panties down further, they temporarily stuck to the plump lips that began to be exposed, the sticky juice of her snatch beginning to flow.

She again indicated that I wasn’t there to window-shop, and I was able to grab half a breath before my mouth was surrounded with her sex, my tongue somehow already deep within her. If I was going to suffocate, this was the way to do it. But she gave me a bit of relief, drawing me back from under her skirt. She located a small cooler with a seagull wearing sunglasses logo, then placed one foot onto the cooler before drawing me beneath her skirt.

The change in position seemed to work for both of us. Her twat was fully bloomed, and the new angle allowed me access to both her blossomed lips and into her hole. I clutched her ass and fed on her, wanting to give her some kind of release. And whether it was my youthful stamina and eagerness, or my fear of being sacrificed if I didn’t manage the deed, I pulled through, and the lucky grazing of her clit with my teeth led to an explosion. She uttered the deep kind of groan that can’t be faked and crushed my mouth tight against her box, my saliva mixing with the sticky white mix of her wetness, and I felt as if she was going to inhale me as she climaxed.

After a bit, her grip on the back of my head loosened, and then she brought her skirt back over me. I took a moment to breathe in the air, as her juices began to chill around my lips. She smiled. “You did well. We’ll do your favorite too.”

She again looked around to make sure we were alone. “Think anybody heard?”

“Uh, hope not.”

She laughed. “Me too.” She grabbed my hands and placed one on each breast. kaçak bahis “Do you like?”

“Of course! 36-C’s?”

She laughed again. “Well, that’s the size I have to buy. More like a 36-C plus.”

She brought the bottom of her sweater slowly upward against her boobs, knowing I would appreciate what was to come. As the sweater pushed up past her nipples, my dick surged stiffly upwards again as I watched her tits bounce as they became free, finally settling, Her nipples were dark red like the lipstick she wore, puffed and prominent like her clit. She left her sweater on, now pushed high up her back and above her breasts.

Then she turned and walked over to the end of the display counter. She pushed hard against the end of the counter, but the glass held firm.

“This will work. Come over here.”

I followed her over and watched as she braced her hands against the front edge of the display counter, then keeping her hands in place, she backed up until she was bent at the waist. I stood to the side, admiring the teardrop breasts as they swung a bit. I wanted to grab them, take them into my mouth, but knew they were most likely not for touching. She looked at me.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

I positioned myself behind her, then raised her skirt past her ass and around her belly. Stroking her hips with my hands, I took a moment to take in the view. Her pussy glistened with her juices and my spit, fully dilated. She spread her legs a bit more and presented herself to me, and I slid my cock into her slowly, then grabbed her hips tightly.

“How did you know this was what I wanted?”

“Educated guess.” She gave out a slight giggle. I was about to begin thrusting when I felt her snatch clamp my cock in place, immobilizing me. She turned her head back to look at me.

“If you come inside me, I will twist your dick off.”

Then she smiled and faced forward once again. Her twat loosened, allowing me to begin pumping her. I’d like to say I tore into her like a porn star, but my waves of absolute horniness kept washing away with the panic of ending up dead at the hands of the woman, her husband, or both. But I was able to back my dick off a bit, not running her fast, and fell into a slow rhythm. My tip explored her depths, and she took me in up to my balls, which slapped against her open labia slowly as I carefully pumped her.

I began to feel my shaft start to swell alarmingly as her pussy contracted around me, my shape another imprint in her collection. “I’m pulling out now.”

I withdrew from her, then grabbed my pulsating shaft with my right hand, ready to blow. “Can I come on your face?”

She pushed herself up and away from the display case and turned to face me, her skirt falling to cover her front. She gave me a quick smile, then spat in her hand. She yanked my cock upwards with her right hand, brushing my grip on myself away, and grabbed my sack with her left, then with an expertly timed squeeze, she popped me as if a rifle had gone off, most of my load splashing the glass of the display case. After I had convulsed out what felt like a gallon of the stuff, I began to soften. She rubbed the sticky nub of my tip as I began to retreat, then wiped the come back onto my balls.

She let me go then and grabbed a folded t-shirt from the self behind us, emblazoned with a large logo of a seagull wearing sunglasses. She unfolded it, then used it to wipe her hands clean of my come. Then she tossed the shirt at me.

“Of course you can’t come on my face, don’t be an idiot.”

She retrieved her lipstick from her bag, and turned to the little mirror mounted above the sunglass display, reshaping her lips with the maroon color. I looked down at the ring of maroon that now encircled the base of my shaft.

“You think life is a porn movie. I’m married, due to be back to my husband ten minutes ago, and spend a lot of time and money on makeup. Think with your big head. I know it’s hard when the little one is in charge.”

She paused a moment. “How much for the shirt?”

“Uh, don’t worry about it.”

“I insist. You can use it to clean up the rest of your mess.”

“Ten for one, twenty for three.”

She picked up another shirt and checked the tag, then unfolded it. “What is the deal with the seagull wearing sunglasses?”

“Yeah, I’ve been wondering that myself.”

She put the shirt down on the case, then raised her sweater over her head. I watched her breasts rise upward with the movement, and then they dropped again, and I got one final peek before they were covered over by cheap white fabric and a large cartoon seagull. Her nipples, still hard, pushed out from either side of the logo.

She quickly selected another t-shirt (large, dark grey, no seagull), gave me twenty dollars, retrieved her panties and scaled them back up her legs.

“Thank you. That was just what I needed. I knew a visit to the beach was just the thing.”

She winked, unlocked the door, and let herself out. I didn’t think about Angie Silverman too much after that.

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