Two hours later, Carrie found herself sitting on the ocean-side balcony of her hotel suite, attempting to read a book. Attempting was the key word, though, because she was failing miserably. She had to reread entire paragraphs because her mind had drifted—her eyes passed over the words, but her brain didn’t absorb them.
Finally, she set the book aside, reached for the cold drink on the table next to her, and peered off into the distance where blue sky met bluer sea. A gorgeous view, but her thoughts remained back at the kiosk with her beach god.
She could scarcely understand her reaction to the guy, but she’d been thinking about him ever since their brief meeting. She kept seeing his eyes—the way his gaze had seemed to trickle all through her. She’d loved the way his deep tan had seemed to say he was one with the tropical environment, and she wondered if his tattoo signified anything special or if it was simply a design he’d picked from a book. She also wondered how big he was, at rest and when erect. She wished she could see him that way—naked and ready.
Taking a sip from her soda, she lowered the glass back to the table, shook her head, and let out a sigh. Get hold of yourself. Given what had happened yesterday—her so-called wedding day—she couldn’t believe she even wanted to look at a guy, any guy, erect or not.
But maybe, she reasoned, this was her way of rebelling. Maybe lusting for a guy she didn’t know would actually be good for her. And the surroundings probably didn’t hurt, either. Something about the combination of sun, sand, and water always turned Carrie on a little—it was a fact that the best sex she’d ever had with Jon had been on beach excursions. That combination of elements felt so sensual to her; such climes tended to release her inhibitions.
So when the mere act of lowering her hand to her leg made a ripple rush through her crotch, she didn’t work very hard to fight it. And when she felt the urge to slide her hand slowly up under her short skirt to the apex of her thighs, she didn’t fight that, either. Instead, she bit her lip, gazed out on the blue expanse of ocean that stretched endlessly before her eyes, and raked her middle finger over her clit, through her panties. Mmm, yes—that felt good. Just what she needed. Except she needed more, of course. So she rubbed it again, up and down, up and down, letting the pleasure sweep upward through her breasts, down through her thighs.
Following her instincts, she eased down in the chair until her butt sat on the edge, and she lifted her feet to the railing directly in front of her, tilting her pelvis. She raised her skirt to her hips and used one hand to pull the crotch of her cotton panties aside, exposing herself to the ocean breeze.
She hissed in her breath at the sensation the cool wind delivered to her aching pink vagina, which her new position allowed her to see. She continued stroking the nub protruding from her folds, sighing as the blissful vibrations echoed through her.
Good thing her balcony faced the ocean, or someone might see. A glance away from her crotch out over the water made her focus on the sailboats and schooners floating past. What if someone on board had binoculars and decided to explore the hotel balconies? What would they think when they saw her, panties pulled aside, touching herself? Another rush of heat rolled out from her crotch. Would it be so horrible if someone saw her masturbating from a distance?
In her thoughts, it was a guy, of course, holding the binoculars. He took on a shape, a face, in her mind, and even though it was probably impossible, the voyeur became her hot, tan beach guy. Watching her. Watching her finger her pink, wet folds for him. On impulse, she eased her middle finger into her passage.
God, she never did this. Never. At home, alone, late at night in her bed—maybe. But a blatant act of masturbation where it was possible some unknown person could see? Not her style.
And yet, she couldn’t stop now. She could only let her eyes fall closed as she gently slid her finger in and out, pressing her palm rhythmically over her neediest spot. She could only see him in her mind, pretend he was out there watching her—she let his imagined lust drive her own.
Reaching her free hand into her soda glass, she extracted an ice cube and drew it down to her crotch. While one finger continued to move inside the warm little passage below, she used her other hand to rub the ice over her clit.
Mmm—oh God, yes. So good and cold. The stimulation rushed through her body ten times faster now. She lifted her pelvis, pushing against the small cube as it rubbed over and around her swollen nub, the melting wetness streaming through her gaping opening.
That’s when she saw—oh no! How had she not seen it before? Another balcony set perpendicular to hers. No one was on it, but if someone was inside the room, standing at just the right place, they could be watching her right now and she’d never know. Oh, please be at the pool, or shopping, or anywhere else.
In one way, this new element made her want to stop, but in another more powerful way, it made her even hotter. So not like her, so contrary to her normal self. Who was this masked woman?
But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the rush of cold liquid gushing through her warm folds. All that mattered was the melting chunk of ice still delivering pangs of freezing pleasure to her aching clit. All that mattered was the image still planted squarely in Carrie’s mind—her beach man with binoculars, watching her touch herself…and maybe opening his pants and reaching inside to draw
