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Ryan's Landing


All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Archive-name: ryans landing

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The discerning reader will note that this tale is set in
Australia some time in the past (actually about 1970). For this reason
the language is a little old fashioned, and I have endeavoured to use
vocabulary which will be readily understood in most English-speaking
countries, and to avoid country-specific terms. For example, in Australia
in the 1960s the term "fanny" was used for the female pudenda, which
resulted in much mirth when an American talked of "pinching a girl's fanny
in the street". Similarly, Australians use the term "root" to mean
intercourse, hence the hilarity when an American lass says she "roots for
XYZ football team". Terms commonly used in American erotica, such as
"pussy" and "hard-on" were unknown, and even today are used little in
Australia.

Anyway, I hope cultural differences don't prevent your enjoyment of this
entirely fictitious "girl meets boy", or more accurately "girl sees boy
coming" story.

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 prominant 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 exaulted 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 clifftop. 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 irresistable 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 waterholes 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.

© Ryan's Landing Cooperative. 1991.


 
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