It’s the last weekend of summer, the beach nearly empty except for a dying bonfire and a handful of stragglers. She’s there, sitting cross-legged on a driftwood log, bikini top untied and dangling from one wrist, the firelight painting her skin in flickering gold. You’ve seen her around the rental houses all week—the girl with the surfboard and the laugh that carries over the waves. The thoughts hit like a rogue wave.
You imagine the fire crackling louder as the last stragglers leave, the beach yours alone. She stands, lets the bikini top fall, and walks into the surf, the moon turning the water silver. You follow, the sand cold under your feet, the waves lapping at your ankles. She turns, backs into the shallows, chastity cage and pulls you down with her. The water is shockingly cold against your skin, but her mouth is warm, her tongue tasting of salt and smoke. The waves rock you gently as she wraps her legs around your waist, guiding you inside with a gasp that’s swallowed by the tide. The bonfire glows on the shore, a distant beacon, while you fuck her in the surf—slow, deliberate strokes that match the rhythm of the ocean.
The fantasy deepens. You carry her back to the fire, lay her on a blanket still warm from the day’s sun. The sand sticks to her wet skin as you spread her legs, the flames casting shadows that dance across her breasts. She rides you reverse, her silhouette against the fire, her moans mixing with the crackle of wood and the crash of waves. BBC lovers The climax is a double explosion—hers squirting into the sand, yours painting her stomach in the firelight. The embers pop like applause.
But the thoughts don’t end with the bonfire. They follow you to the boardwalk, where she’s waiting under the pier, bikini gone, the waves lapping at her thighs as she bends over a piling. They follow you to the lifeguard tower at dawn, where she’s perched on the railing, legs spread, the sun rising behind her as you take her from behind. They follow you home, where she’s in your bed, still smelling of salt and smoke, her body a map of the weekend’s adventures.
The beach becomes a canvas, every grain of sand a memory, every wave a promise. You start planning the next trip before the tan lines fade. The only way to keep the fire alive? To find more beaches, more bonfires, more girls who live to make summer last forever.