For the Waves Between [Story] by Peter Baltensperger

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The night was black over the ocean, no stars anywhere, no moon, just a mass of clouds hiding the sky. An icy wind blew down from the north, whipping the clouds from horizon to horizon. The fishing village hugging the shore looked deserted in the darkness, no lights, no sounds except for the howling of the wind among the houses. Braxton Hollinger waited impatiently in his darkened room, his flaccid penis in his hand. He listened halfheartedly to the vicious wind. It might have been a sign, for all he knew.

A woman came hurrying along a dark street, ghost-like in a long black gown with her hood shielding her face against the cold. She was out of her gown and in his arms before he was completely aware of her presence, giving herself over to her passion, her need. Braxton took her white breasts into his hands to alleviate the darkness, began to stroke them and knead them until she moaned with the pleasure of his caresses. She had the most beautiful breasts, round and full, firm yet soft and smooth to his touch. They smelled of the night, a hint of vanilla, a touch of fresh flowers in an open field.

She gasped when he took her prominent nipple into his mouth, tasted the slightly salty, slightly musky flavor emanating from her areolas. He took as much of her quivering breast into his mouth as he could, circled her nipple with his tongue, suckled her as if he had been starving all day. He marveled, as he always did, how well her breasts fit into his hands and into his mouth, how easily they quivered from his touch, how quickly she moaned her pleasure against his neck.

Somewhere out in the country, a night train rattled through the darkness, sending shivers through their trembling bed, messages they didn’t hear and wouldn’t have understood. Far out on the open sea, a brightly-lit ocean liner plied the waves through the darkness, perhaps another sign. They were in their luxury cabin, rocking back and forth with the slow undulations of the ship. They had the port holes shuttered to keep out the light, keep in their darkness.

Braxton let go of her breasts, slid one hand under her buttocks, the other between her thighs, took a nipple back into his mouth. She opened her legs wide and shuddered with delight when he ran his fingers over her dripping labia, grazed her clit, sought out her cave. He slid a finger into her opening, and she squirmed against his hand, moaned deep inside herself to the passion of his explorations. The wind was howling even way out there, but they were too busy to listen, too unconcerned to care. It could have meant anything, yet his searching fingers in her soft secrets meant everything. They shuddered with the knowledge of his discoveries.

They swam in their favorite lagoon, fused together, her floating breasts glistening in the sun. They felt excitingly warm, their skin taught to his touch, their nipples large and firm. A pod of dolphins traveled past, arc after arc, as if trying to tell them something but unable to reach into the lagoon. They waded out of the water and tumbled into the warm sand, wrapped their arms around each other, for comfort and for warmth. Braxton treated his hands to her breasts for a while, rolling them back and forth, rubbing and stroking their luscious fullness. He kissed the salt water off her smooth skin, felt the shivers of delight course through her body.

As the waves lapped gently up on the shore, he detached himself from her and slid down along her body to her open thighs. She groaned with pleasure when he buried his head between her legs and licked her salty labia with his skilled tongue. She smelled of the ocean, of the dolphins, tasted of seaweed and swiftly traveling fish. He burrowed deeper until he could taste her own emanations, her aromas of delicious arousal, her scents of pure femininity. His head swam from the onslaught of sensory impressions, his mind delirious with the multitude of delicious fragrances.

In the darkness of his room, the wind still howling mercilessly through the night, he tore himself loose from the smorgasbord of sensory delights. He let his fingers glide over her trembling labia once more, rubbed her protruding clit, climbed on top of her. She opened her legs as wide as she could, pulled up her knees to ready herself, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down on her. He slid his hands between them to reclaim her breasts, then let his erection glide slowly into her receptacle. She gyrated her hips against him, dug her fingernails into his back with the full passion of her arousal, and he thrust into her with all his pent-up energy.

It was still dark when they began to thrust against each other, he with her trembling breasts in his hands, she nuzzling against his neck, whispering. Her hair still smelled of the ocean, her lips of the salty waves, her whole body of the excitement of her final arousal. They moaned and groaned in unison, clung to each other with all their passion, rocked through the volcanic upheaval of their mutual orgasms, fireworks in the sky, meteorites, claps of thunder, the wind. It wasn’t until towards morning that the clamor of their excitement subsided, the creaking of their bed. The wind died down, and the clouds dissipated over the still-sleeping village. There would, once again, be a moon.

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