The Wicked Wednesday prompt this time is a challenge to see if we can take a “bad sex” episode and make it erotic. What follows wasn’t an actual scene…well, it was (sex on the beach in Eleuthera) but as you can see from the image, W was careful about sand getting in the girlie bits. There was a time though, long ago and far away, when a boy did try the “romantic sex on the beach” thing, without considering what happens when you lay a naked girl down in the sand…
This is how it might have gone if it happened now instead of then…
There’s no faster way to cool my ardor than to grind a cupful of sand into the cracks and crevices of my body that are supposed to be filled with fingers and a cock. How Matthew had ever thought this would be “romantic” was beyond me.
But he seemed to be enjoying himself, there between my legs, thrusting and grunting and panting, apparently oblivious to the grating of sand inside the tender skin of my cunt. Could he not feel it abrading his cock? It was beginning to feel like shards of glass to me as he pounded away, eyes closed, lost in whatever fantasy he was conjuring.
I whimpered and tried to shift positions. Maybe if he pounded at me just a hair to the left his cock wouldn’t be sawing at my insides in that one raw spot?
Matthew paused midthrust and opened his eyes to look down into mine. “Hey,” he said, “is that hurting you?”
I grimaced slightly. “A bit, yes,” I said.
He reached a hand up and brushed a stray hair from my eyes. Then, slowly, inch by inch, he pushed himself deeper into me, finishing the thrust he’d aborted in agonizing slowness. And I do mean “agonizing.” It felt like he was slowly scouring a sheet of sandpaper over my already-tender insides.
His mouth came close to mine as he did it, his eyes never leaving mine. “Is that better?” he whispered against my lips.
“No,” I panted, squirming against him. “That’s worse!”
Slowly he pulled out, and then, with one quick thrust sheathed himself deeply inside me again. I let out a howl of pain – I couldn’t help myself – and tried to twist away. Matthew grabbed a fistful of my hair and forced me to stillness. I subsided, panting, tears in my eyes, staring up at him, the submissive in me responding instantly to this show of dominance, of control. What had started out as – I thought – a rather boring “romantic” sex romp (you know, the kind everyone imagines having on a moonlit night on the beach with their lover) was rapidly turning into something else. Something infinitely hotter. Fuck vanilla romance – this was Matthew’s and my kind of romance.
“Don’t fucking move,” he growled down at me. “I’m going to fuck you right here, and I don’t care if the sand rubs your poor little pussy raw.” He began fucking me again, faster now, harder, and his eyes closed again.
And suddenly I knew he wasn’t seeing me anymore. I remembered a story he had told me about a girl he had dated, and the awful night she had broken up with him. He’d seen her having sex with someone else behind a sand dune at a party. “All I could think about,” he’d told me, “was that the sand must have been abrasive, and how could she be enjoying it? I’d never have done that to her…”
I wriggled again, but not to escape the abrasion of the sand. The sand in my cunt and the folds of my skin didn’t matter anymore. I was wet, excited suddenly, certainly no longer bored. And the pain – as it almost always was – was welcome.