The BLTS Archive - Skinny Dipping
by J.A. Toner (jamelia116@aol.com)

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Thanks to pjs for getting this started and the PTFever mail list for
the encouragement. For the sake of the fantasy lives of the lovers of
Tom Paris everywhere, however, his beloved is not named.

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You rather like the image of a Tom who is very wet. Wet all over.
Sparkling drops of water glinting in the sun, sprinkled all over his
back and chest.

The red gold hairs are stuck together from being soaked, but a
willing pair of hands rubs him down with a thirsty terry towel to
fluff up the hair again. But his chest is still damp when you lie down
next to him and lay your cheek against it to listen to the hammering
of his heart.

From being near you, his pulse is thrumming louder, while the sound
of the pounding surf in the background is a counterpoint to the
heartbeat.

His trunks are loose, the way he likes them. Lots of room to slip a
questing hand beneath. And, of course, there's even more room because
a certain part of the body has decided that the trunks would make a
perfect tent.

As your hands slip lower, he twists towards your body, his laughter
rumbling beneath your ear as he reacts to the tippy tapping fingers
encountering the rigidness beneath the blue shorts.

Is it getting warm on the beach? Is the sun pounding down harder on
your head? Or is it just that your breath begins to catch in your
throat as his hands begin to explore areas normally covered by a
swimsuit. Your own temperature is beginning to rise in time to the
tentpole of flesh.

His hands slip beneath a strap tied 'round your neck, holding two
strategically placed scraps of fabric in place. First one hand, then
the other, slips behind your neck to loosen the bow holding up the
top. The spaghetti-straps part and are pulled down, hard enough to
dislodge the two patches of fabric.

Your nipples are revealed, and his hands gently cup them as you
stretch in pleasure. A warm heaviness steals inside you, anticipating
a much warmer heaviness that will shortly invade you -- a most welcome
invasion.

He is leaning on his elbow now. The knee on the side of his body
facing the warm, sunfilled sky is pointed upwards. Your hand has full
access to where his trunks imperfectly cover his maleness. Now, your
hand moves to the waistband and slips underneath it.

His lips meet yours. You taste each other languidly. You know the
flavor of those lips well, yet it is one you never tire of.

His hands are more insistent. The top is pulled down to your waist
now, revealing your breasts to the sun and surf and wheeling seagulls
who screech above you. The only human eyes on this deserted stretch of
beach are closed, enjoying the touch of lips against lips, tongue
against tongue.

You open your eyes to gaze into his, which echo the color of the sea
and the sky.

His kisses gently adore your face as you throw your head back to
expose your neck.

He takes the hint. Unhurriedly, while his right hand begins to
massage your left breast until you are whimpering, his lips are
touching your jaw and neck as they descend. He shifts position just
enough to engulf your breast with his mouth for a moment, then he
pulls away again, blowing upon the moistened flesh. The chilled air
makes the peak of your nipple even harder than it was a moment ago.
His tongue circles it, several times, until he takes as much of your
breast in his mouth as he can. Suddenly, he sucks, hard. You gasp and
arch your back as he suckles again and then again.

He moves again, and your hand can no longer reach the waistband of
his shorts without moving.

You curl yourself up a bit so that both hands can slip beneath the
cloth, urging it to a lower position. What you want to feel inside you
is now exposed, bobbing in the warm air. His mouth has found your
other breast as your fingers tickle along his shaft.

He raises himself up until he is kneeling, letting you tug the cloth
off. The sight of him makes your own heart begin to pound so loudly in
your neck that you think the seagulls must surely hear.

Not that they would care, of course.

There is something about the pounding surf, however, and the stiff
breeze that eddies around your warm bodies that echoes the flooding
blood as it rushes throughout your bodies. You can feel yourself
becoming engorged as his hands untie the sides of the bikini bottom.

You moan again. You know what you want is so close, but you know how
he is. He will make you wait until you are screaming in impatience for
him to enter you. His smirking smile assures you that this is so.

His hands now are descending lazily along your rib cage and down to
the triangle of hair that grows between your thighs. There is nothing
to cover you there any more. He can easily part your legs, but he
doesn't even need to. You open them for him. You make it easy, because
now you are throbbing there. You are breathless, awaiting his touch.

He does not disappoint. He pulls your right leg so that it is around
him. His shorts are down by his knees now.

He has changed the angle of you on the blanket. His fingers spread
you so that now your secret places are exposed to the sunlight. He
will not let the tender tissues be exposed to the harshness. He knows
how to protect you.

He leans up to your face again to kiss you. And then, a very little
way at a time, he descends your body.

Each kiss raises your fever to greater heights. You squirm and moan
as he descends.

Finally, his lips reach the destination you know they have been bound
for since this excursion began.

His tongue traces up and down, licking up the juices running out of
you. His lips and teeth tease your center as you cry out. A gush of
salty fluid, a mirror of the flavor of the pounding surf, floods out.
His hands are cupping your buttocks and lift you up as he tastes you
again and again.

You cry out with every taste. You ache. You want to feel him deeper
now, deeper than any tongue.

He answers you with his fingers. First one, then a second, finally a
third, pulsing inside of you, making your throbbing even more
agonizingly wonderful.

Now his own breath is coming in gasps. He cannot hold out. You push
yourself up on your hands, then free them so that you can capture his
head.

His eyes are smouldering cobalt as they meet yours. You urge him up
to kiss you again, bringing your own musky taste to your lips as he
complies.

Your hands caress his shoulders, then stroke his long, leanly muscled
back. You want to lie back with him on top of you, deep within you.

He knows.

First, however, you touch him. Silently, you brush his tip with your
fingers. Your eyes ask him, "Do you want me to take you now, taste the
moisture that is even now glistening on my fingertips?"

He shakes his head. Not this time. This time he wants to dive into
you. You nod ever so slightly, but he knows.

In one, powerful thrust he is inside you. You both cry out at the
contact of his flesh entering you, yours enclosing him.

You begin to move together. The surf gives you the tempo.

You think, perhaps, that it must be true that the sea was our
original home. The rhythm of the surf and the pounding of your pulse
and the rocking of him deep into your soul all is synchonized in
perfect harmony.

Your moans join in the rhythm as you wrap your legs around him,
urging him into you again and again. Deeper and deeper. Into the
depths of a salty sea, where life may begin, someday, as it already
has, so often in the past.

Now the heat of the sun and the sound of the surf and the feel of
your flesh as you pull and push in and out is taking away all of your
ability to think or reason.

There is only the warmth of sun on bodies and roar of salt surf on
sand and the feel of you glorying in each other as he thrusts again,
but this time, the roar is of your blood in your ears as you scream
out.

And he pounds in again once, twice more as your muscles clench
against him. He releases what he can no longer hold back, any more
than one can hold back the seatide, and he calls out. Your cries
mingle with the screech of the sea bird and the shout of the waves.
You murmur his name, a benediction, as he answers you with yours.

Spent, you lie together, with him stretched out over you, his weight
sagging down over you. You encircle his body with your arms as you
gently stroke his back in time to his gasps and your deep gulps of
air.

When he shifts his body, as if to arise off you, you shake your head
and cup the back of his head.

Wordlessly, you let him know. "Stay here with me, just for a while
yet." Joined together, you lie on the beach, on a blanket rumpled and
scattered now with sand.

With him above you, and you below, your heavy breathing and pounding
pulse settles down, until sighs of contentment escape from both of
you.

He moves again, and this time, you know, sadly, that you must
separate from this moment of bliss. There will be another moment of
joining, and equal bliss, you are sure. So, you let him rise up.

He pulls you to your feet. Both of you smile. His trunks are still
down around his knees. Your top is loosely belting your waist.

No mysteries are hidden from the prying eyes of the seagulls!

Nonchalantly, he allows the trunks to fall to his ankles and steps
out of them. With a smooth motion, he reaches around to finish untying
the top, to discard it on the blanket next to his trunks and your
already-shed bikini bottom.

When you are both standing there, naked as the day you were born, he
whispers softly in your ear, "Wanna take a swim?"

"Yes," you answer, barely audible above the sound of the stiff sea
breeze.

He takes your hand and you run side by side, splashing into the
water, burying your bodies together into the waiting arms of the
pounding, salty sea.

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The End