She must be a tourist; it’s almost impossible for her not to be. I’ve lived here for over twenty years and know practically everyone on this small island. That’s why everyone knows me too, and in the past, that’s caused me too much trouble. That’s why I only sleep with people off the island. Except for tourists, of course, and that’s why I hope she’s one. I saw her for the first time last week at the Spar in the village, where she was paying for a meal salad and a couple of rolls. She was wearing a white flannel dress, her smooth, tanned legs peeking out beautifully from underneath. On her feet, she wore white sneakers, with a silver anklet tinkling above her left one. She had medium-length, dark blonde hair with a slight wave, and though I guessed from a distance that she was somewhere in her forties, there was a striking youthfulness in her face. I feigned interest in the rack of beach items near the exit so I could discreetly watch her walk out of the shop, passing less than a meter from me, before disappearing around the corner toward the campsite, away from me.
Since then, I’ve wanted her. It’s as simple as that. Well, simple might not be the word: I may talk a big game on shady websites, but that’s no great feat. The women there are after just one thing—the same as me. In real life, I’m hardly a hero. The single meal salad and those two rolls give me some hope, though. That suggests I’m not lusting after a mom with a husband and a couple of kids who’s brought the monotony of home along with her. If she’s really on vacation, she could leave any moment, so a bit of haste isn’t a luxury.
The sultry breeze plays with her hair as she, unaware of my presence, gazes out over the sea
It’s unbelievable that I’d see her again right here, of all places. I come here often to avoid the tourists. This stretch of beach on the far northeast side of the island is hard to reach and far from the village. If I don’t seize this opportunity, I’m not worth a damn.
The white dress has been swapped for a light pink T-shirt and jeans with the legs cut off. A knit cardigan hangs loosely over her shoulders, hinting she must have set out early. Her shoes dangle from her left hand, and the sultry breeze plays with her hair as she, unaware of my presence, gazes out over the sea. A flutter stirs in my lower belly, and my heart rate picks up. I climb a bit higher up the dune and scan the area for a companion, but she seems truly alone. Good. But how do I approach her without startling her?
She turns around and seems to start heading back, but after a few steps, she spots me. She waves. That’s the nice thing about remote places: even strangers greet each other. I wave back, and as I do, an opening line pops into my head.
“Watch where you step! There’s quicksand in the low spots between the dunes!” It’s an instant tourist test—no islander would fall for that nonsense.
Her face falls, the fear in her eyes as real as the Van Gogh in my mom’s hallway. “Are you serious?” She bursts out laughing and glances down at her own feet, the bottoms of which have turned to sandpaper from the dry sand.
“Well, in winter, maybe. Sometimes,” I scoff back. “On vacation?”
She takes a few steps down toward me. With each step, her foot sinks a few centimeters, and she balances with her arms outstretched. I climb toward her and offer my hand, which she takes. I support her for the last few steps, and then she’s standing beside me in the dune hollow.
“Were you spying on me?” She flashes me a fraction of a smile, pulls the cardigan off her shoulders, spreads it out on the sand, and sits down on it. I plop down next to her, a peachy whiff of her perfume enveloping me.
“It’s fine, you know. My mom always says, ‘As long as they’re still spying on you, there’s hope.’ Not that anyone’s spying on her anymore.” She lets out a cute little laugh.
I throw my hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, you win. And if you really want to know, I was already spying on you last week when you were shopping.”
She laughs again, this time a hearty cackle.
Before long, I feel the warmth of her skin against my forearm, despite the summer heat
Her name is Corrine, she tells me, and she’s here for two weeks on vacation to find herself after a failed relationship. The oppressive summer heat of Amsterdam was more than she could handle. As her words caress my eardrums and slip out just as silkily on the other side, she draws little figures in the sand between us. With each sentence, her hand inches a tiny bit closer to my thigh. Before long, I feel the warmth of her skin against my forearm, despite the summer heat.
I “accidentally” brush my forearm against hers, and to my surprise, she doesn’t pull away. Her skin feels sultry and slightly slick from our sweat mingling into a smooth film. I shift a little, letting our arms slide along each other. Again, she shows no hint of hesitation, which emboldens me to take a chance. I place my hand on hers, and her drawing stops abruptly. I brush the sand off her knuckles and fingers with my fingertips. She lets me for a moment before turning her hand over and lacing her fingers with mine. The wind plays with Corrine’s blonde hair, our fingers play with each other, and something starts to glow deep in my belly.
Up until then, we’d both been staring ahead, but when I glance sideways, Corrine does the same. The tension hovers between us for a moment, our entwined fingers tighten, and our lips find each other.
The first kiss is soft and tender, almost like a mother with her baby. I lean a little closer to her, my grip on her hand tightening further. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her dig her feet deeper into the sand. She exhales, drowning out the sound of the waves crashing on the other side of the dune. I breathe in the air she lets out, our noses touch for a brief moment, and then we press our lips together again, harder this time. I part my mouth slightly and let the tip of my tongue taste her upper lip. The salt of her sweat and the warmth of her breath blend on my tongue into a heavenly bouquet that seeps into the depths of my pores. Now it’s Corrine who edges closer; I release her hand and use my newfound freedom to wrap my arm around her.
With my fingers, I press into the soft flesh just below her armpit
She rests her head on my shoulder, her lips part, and our tongues meet. I explore her teeth—smooth and warm—the inside of her mouth, pulling her torso closer as she digs her left foot out of the sand and crosses one leg over the other, bringing us even nearer. With my fingers, I press into the soft flesh just below her armpit; Corrine moans and throws her free arm around my neck.
My free hand finds her foot, kneads it, then slides up her calf and the back of her knee to her thigh. First the outside, but if she didn’t want it, she’d have clamped her thighs shut. The opposite happens, so I inch my way, centimeter by centimeter, to the warm, soft inside of her thighs. The frayed edges of her cut-off jeans tickle the back of my hand; my thumb presses into her soft skin and slips under the fabric.
Corrine leans back and settles into the warm sand. I follow, my arm under her head, find her mouth again, and kiss her once more. My thumb has reached her groin by now, pulsing in circles. I feel wetness in the crease between her thigh and pubic bone—probably sweat, but I fantasize it’s coming from her, and that makes something grow in my pants.
She digs her nails into my back as I feel her hot breath quickening against my neck. I pull my hand back, reach for the buttons of her shorts, and undo them. Then I grab her by the small of her back and pull her pelvis against mine. Corrine’s mouth finds my earlobe and starts nibbling; my erection nearly explodes.
I press my erection against her belly, the tip at her navel
Somewhere in all this, I’ve kicked off my shoe, but I didn’t even notice. Now it’s time to free my erection. I unbuckle my belt, yank down the zipper, and pull my jeans and boxers down in one go. They bunch around my ankles, just like Corrine’s shorts. I press my erection against her belly, the tip at her navel. The fabric of her panties is so soaked it can’t just be sweat anymore. I tug the slippery triangle aside and thrust into her.
Corrine throws her arms back; her blonde hair mixes with the sand as I kiss her cheekbones while she bucks her hips against me. She pulls her legs up higher, scratches my back until it bleeds, and just as I’m starting to despair about how to make this last, she tenses, I feel her whole body tremble beneath me, she headbutts me, and she screams. My restraint can’t hold against that; I sink my teeth into her shoulder, give one final thrust, and with the force of a breached dam, I finish inside her, my release flooding into her warm, contracting core.
