that she might not be lying out, all naked and pretty, just for him stare at and jack off. There was a good chance that she might be in genuine trouble.
His dead dad could have lit a fire under Buster’s ass and he wouldn’t have moved much quicker. Buster hightailed it from the scene as fast as his oars could carry him, lest he be associated with the possible crime. The fishing line was still in the water when he started rowing for the southern shore, but he let his best rod drop into the murky depths rather than hang around to cut the thing free. Buster arrived back at the dock in record time and was huffing and chuffing as he dragged the little boat back onto the trailer. His heart was still jack-hammering when he fired up the truck and sped away. He didn’t really calm down, didn’t really draw a deep clean breath until he was back at his farm, miles away from the lake. That night he swore off both the despicable act of fishing and the peeping that went with it.
His resolution lasted a week. Buster checked the papers every day, just to make sure that no one saw him leave, and in the hope of finding out who the hell the poor girl was. There was nothing, not a peep in the papers about him or the woman. Maybe she was just out… what was it Carla used to call it? Moonbathing. That was it. Carla liked to moonbathe. Buster always thought it was weird, but Carla wasn’t his wife, so what did he care? Carla was Dale’s problem, but the woman on the lake was Buster’s dream. He decided it was safe enough to chase that dream all the way back to the lake.
Three weeks came and went with Buster spending every free night at the lake. And there she would be, spread out across the rocky ground, as if she were waiting for nothing more than him to come and spend his seed at the sight of her. More than one night, he had trouble finding the woman, as well as the island. He supposed he must have gotten turned around; it was easy to do on such a big lake. He would just row and row until either he got tired of rowing or she all at once appeared, island and all, like a ship parting the fog. Buster always left his lady fair just before sunrise, worried that the sunlight would give away his shameful deed.
Over this time, he developed an idea of who she was. It was obvious when one thought about it for more than a few moments. She must have been the daughter of one of the lake folks. The debutante of some rich family who snuck out each night, stripped on her private shore and swam all the way out to the island, where she would rest for the night, drying out before her swim home again. Sure. That explained it all. The lack of boat. The lack of clothes. Her incredible figure. Sure. That was a reasonable explanation. Wasn’t it?
Buster also fished between peeping sessions. He refused to go to the lake with the sole purpose of leering at some naked chick, so he always packed his usual fishing fare. Sometimes he fished before he sought her, sometimes after. Sometimes he would jerk off, fish a bit, then come back for another turn. He even made a game of it, refusing himself the sight of her body or the pleasure of an orgasm until he caught a decent-sized bass, or a catfish, or a perch. His freezer was full before the first week was out. Which was kind of a shame, because not only did he hate to fish for fish, but he hated to eat them, too.
At the end of three weeks, on another lonely Friday night, Buster decided he was tired of just watching. The woman was everything he had ever wanted in a mate. Sure, there were other beautiful women in the world, but none as fine as his mysterious moonbathing beauty. Sure, he didn’t know much about her personality, but he didn’t really want to know anyway. Personality equaled nagging, and he didn’t want a nag. He wanted a shag. Now. Tonight. It was time to call off his pussy ban. Five years of pulling his pud by his one-some had finally gotten old.
Buster found the island early that evening, and the mystery woman was there as always, the steady object of his oversexed desires. At first he panicked, rowing his little boat to his usual hidey hole where he could hyperventilate in peace. But as he looked to her resting in the distance, the need to meet her rose up in him like the swelling tide. He longed for her, much more than just to touch or taste or even sink himself deep inside of her. He just wanted to be near her. He craved her proximity. He was drawn to her, the moth of his desire pulled to the glow of her skin, the sheen of her sex, the sight of her perfect body shining like a white flame under the light of the full moon.
Plus, he was kind of hoping, if everything worked out, he would get to fuck her.
God, did he ever want to fuck her!
Buster closed his eyes as he whispered his well-practiced lines again. “Ahoy there. I saw you while I was fishing and wondered if you needed any help. Would you like a ride back to the shore?”
Would it work? Probably not, but Buster would never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try. He looked to her again, or rather her pert tits and velvet puss, then swallowed hard as he put his back to his dream and rowed into the moonlight toward her shore.
The oars cut the water with expert hush. Buster had spent so long trying not to alert her to his presence that he almost forgot to make noise on purpose. As he drew his vessel closer to her, it dawned on him that he was, in all essence, sneaking up on her. A few yards from the shore, he slapped the water with his oars, relishing the ensuing splashes for the freedom they gave him. He was here, damn it! He was here and she was going to see him for the first time, and hopefully not the last.
The splashing oars didn’t faze her. Buster turned in place to see his buxom beauty ignoring his watery pleas, remaining her usual stoic self. He hit the water harder, doing his best to splash and make all manner of noise as he rowed to her. But no, she didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did. Maybe she noticed, but was just too cool to care. Maybe she knew a man was approaching her by boat but wasn’t willing to interrupt her moonbathing long enough to see if she knew him. A woman who was so comfortable in her own skin that she didn’t mind showing off her body to a total stranger? It was possible. Especially a woman as beautiful as her.
This last thought hit him with the realization of a thousand little ugly truths. She was beautiful. Much too beautiful for the likes of him, an underpaid textile worker with the IQ of a loaf of bread and all the charm of a rabid weasel. What was he thinking? She would never, ever go for a man like him. No way. No how. Buster wasn’t an ugly man, but he was by no means a handsome one. At best he was average. Well, he used to be average before the split jaw left him with a scar across his face as long as his prick.
Buster centered himself and reminded his bruised ego that this was the right thing to do. He also convinced himself that this was what she wanted. Surely she wouldn’t just lay about in her altogether if she didn’t want someone to look. She had to be a… what was it Carla called ‘em? An exhibitionist. That was it. She was an exhibitionist, and he was a voyeur. It was a match made in heaven.
He drew upon this idea, steeling his nerve as he called out, “Ahoy there! I was fishing and I saw you and I wondered if you needed me?” Buster winced at his words. What was the use of practicing them for days on end if you were just gonna flub them when that special moment came at last?
The blonde didn’t respond. In fact, when he turned to look, she hadn’t moved at all. She still lay there in silence, eyes closed, as if he hadn’t said a thing. Maybe he wasn’t loud enough? Or close enough? Nonsense! He was practically on top of her. Well, he wished he were on top of her. And inside of her. God, he wanted to be inside of her so bad!
Buster took her non-response as a good sign. Not saying ‘go away’ was just as good as saying ‘come closer, you hunk of a stud.’ Wasn’t it? Sure! In Buster’s hormone-fueled mind, anything was possible.
He rowed his boat right up to her island and called out, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you might need a ride back to shore.”
No answer. A normal man might have taken this as an insult, but not Buster. He smiled wide at her lack of refusal as he rowed the last few feet to land his boat right on her shore. Shaking with excitement, Buster stepped out of the boat, over the small row of jagged rocks that lined the shore. His sneaker sank with ease into the wet sand, lending him little footing as he clambered out of the craft.
Giving her one more chance to say no, Buster asked, “Ma’am? Can I help you? I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t have a boat. I have a boat. Can I give you a lift?”
Two things occurred to him at her lack of refusal.
One, she was even more beautiful up close. Her hair was waist length, and spread in a fan around her head. Her face was a delicate ensemble of features, and her skin was pale to the point of being translucent. But he didn’t care about her hair or face or skin. His gaze flicked back and forth between those big boobies and that thatch of curl down below. Her breasts were stunning, but her pussy was even better. It pouted at him, begging to be stroked, petted and, most of all, fucked.
The second thing that came to him was the fact that she was out like a light. Buster thought carefully about this. What kept her from responding? Was she on drugs? Could be. Or maybe she was just so exhausted from the long swim, she was in the deepest sleep he had ever seen. Whatever it was, Buster had a choice to make.
