The ocean sounded like a living, sentient being. It was the voice of the giant Sea God Poseidon breathing audible winds upon the coast upon which we lay. Inspired by that divine breath, we met in kisses and thrusts that tingled within our spirits.
The little white foamy and windy remnants of the larger waves that arrived close to our presence travelled up toward our hips and tickled our skin. Each “whoosh” became an aquatic whisper, each wave sending salty air into our warm nostrils.
We breathed in unison, her forefront and my back fanned by a wind-breathing palmtree, airing a subtle whiff into my pores and sending oceanic refreshment into warm and sensual nostrils. It smelled like passion, looked like the Polynesian summer we had dreamed of experiencing when we booked this vacation.
Our bodies unclad, our spirits filled inspired by that sweet Pacific, vacational air, adding a certain moist honeysuckle sensation to our existance. Not a soul resided in our bungalow or here on our beach. We did, no one else, we resided here. We amorous tranquils, serviced by a team of waiters and cooks just a five minute walk away, sharing four meals a day with five other parties from other parts of the island. We were told that this beach was ours to keep for three full weeks.
Our waves. Our ocean. Our sand. Our palmtrees. Our sky. Our bodies. Our spirits. Our sex. My cock. Her pussy. My tongue. Her nipples. Her breasts. Our time away from stressy filmsets and, in my case, constant business flights to tennis tournaments.
The “whoosh” of the waves felt like home away from home, like a dry Rioja gave us the feeling of being in Spain, even if we were in Wisconsin or in Vegas or in Hollywood. And so it came to pass that Susannah and I lay on hot and soft Polynesian sand, naked, willing, in symbiosis, our entire beings fulfilled with our tropical island shag, together in beautiful sexual harmony, my erect gender sliding into her warm and wet vagina in rhythmic unison with the oceanic waves. I felt it getting harder and harder with every shove, my testicles slapping elegantly against her ass with every thrust into her moist glory.
She moaned, I groaned. I licked her nipples while she caressed my muscular buttocks. I watched her body wobble while making love to her, her body a beautiful Boucher painting, maybe Venus in her seashell getting banged. Her looks made the warmth I sensed residing inside her feel like shagging the Mona Lisa. God bless Leonardo.
So, in order to fully experience perfection, I withdrew my mouth from her big tits just to watch them swing to and fro with every fuck, her boobs wobbling like bouncing waterbaloons on her chest. That swing and her natural inner heat made me feel like a king.
Funnily enough, the kind king I felt like also felt like her proud and willing servant, serving her my physical and very faithful love like a contientious butler would serve a woman a lucious entrecote brought to a countess on precious porcellain. My long and erect dick aimed, more than anything, to give her pleasure, because she certainly gave me my pleasure willingly and sweetly.
I withdrew my gender, grabbing her by her hips and turning her over on her stomach, lifting her by the buttocks and sliding in my dick into her pussy from behind.
“Thank you, my darling, you read my mind. Your timing is impeccable,” I heard her croon in a husky mezzo, although her gorgeous pear-looking bottom attracted my full attention. “That makes me feel like we’re one.”
Wasn’t that what sex was about? Built into the human body, an integral part of the existance of being human, the symbiosis of sex dependant on the urge to have it. Why? To experience the nude unity of bodies, feelings and soul, an act that also created the fertile fruit of a baby.
Unity, passion, a complete surrendering to the emotion of making love to each other.
I grabbed her by the hips, banging my steelsome prick into her magnifiscent looking derriere, a wobbling wonder of wonderfully female nature.
“You’re welcome, honey,” I answered faithfully, enjoying the feeling of her wet clit.
“Be my stallion,” she moaned. “Let me be your horny cowgirl.”
Willingly and faithfully, I lay down on my back with my penis sticking up like a flagpole in the wind.
“Oh, man,” my wife mused, rubbing her hands together. “I love a good ride.”
In fact, laying there on the sandy beach, being ridden by my wife on a remote Polynesian island named Yutepow, wind in my hair and warmth on my skin, literally made me feel her soul embracing my being like her clit now embraced my cock.
Could a thing like that be a sin? No. Impossible. Having sex with Susannah was like praying to God: creative, loving, kind, unified, bodies and souls meeting in glorious ecstacy. In fact, I found so much truth in our copulation. Emotionally, it felt like climbing a high mountain – or simply flying.
The lust of animals had never been considered a sin, so why should our lust be a sin, espcially when sex was a necessary thing? In Genesis, in the Bible, it was never said that Adam and Eve’s original sin was sex, but the awareness or shame about being naked.
Nudity was the natural human condition and the urge to have sex a cornerstone of the human experience. If God had meant for sex to be a sin, he would not have had us be born naked. The truth remained but this: for every time I shoved my happy cock inside my wife’s pussy there on the island, I comprehended that the current pornographic excess of modern society only was due to the fact that people thought it was a sin to have sex.
Nothing could be further from the truth. God resided inside me, my eternal soul always connected to God.
Furthermore, God was not religious. He needed not be religious. We needed pay him no taxes. We had created religion only to find a way to obey him. Sex was not unclean or it shouldn’t have been regarded as such. Perversions came only from shame.
Reincarnation made sense, the soul made sense. All you had to do was think for yourself. Confusing God with Religion, along with religious bickering and indoctrinization that sex was a sin, had given people the wrong selfproclaimed right to commit real sins like murdering and stealing just in order to prevent eternal souls created by God from doing what had been built into them in the first place: making love.
Damn it, the word said it all, didn’t it? Making love. Love. Neither physical nor spiritual love could be a sin. If it was used as a power tool or an outlet for frustration, that eliminated its beauty. Pure and faithful, shameless, passionate and reciprocally humane sex, though, was indeed like a divine prayer.
Neither spiritual nor physical love need shame no one, I thought to myself as I repeatedly stuck my hard clitpleaser in my loved one’s cunt. Sex, I added in my head, should not be a thing to laugh at, but a thing to respect. Respectfully dealt with responsibility. Faithfully. Anything less would be immature. No one, however, said that this was all someone was about, just because you liked having sex with them.
Looking at my wife ride my cock, rubbing her big jugs and looking heavenward toward the tropical sky, though, was a revelation. I saw God in that love.
I just loved it when she gave me blowjobs. I just loved giving her cumshots, squirting on her face, licking her pussy and I just loved fucking her. I just adored her pussy, fucking her from behind, seeing that beautiful butt wobble in my grasp. I also respected her as emotionally way stronger than me, though, a wonderful professional in her field with a superior intellect. Respecting her soul made me horny and all that made fucking her even better. So here was the equation:
+ nuptial copulation
That unity unified me.
I could feel my balls pull together and my rod tingle with electricity. So now I begged her to lie down on her back again. I went at it faster now, literally riding her like a maniac, her C-cups doing the electric blue samba in front of my face. She moaned faster, threw her head back, squeezing her eyes shut. I fucked myself into a frenzy, slamming my ham into her cunt, groaning rhythmic bass growls while she uttered her high soprano squeaks. Flashes of almost hypoglyceamic sublevel came flying across my eyesight, causing my heartbeat to increase just to pump all that blood into my exploding hotrod.
I was getting closer to an orgasm now. I could feel it. So was she. It felt like a rollercoaster riding faster and faster down a hill, our souls turning into rockets with my gender as a torpedo into her supernova.
Finally, when our auras were pacing at about 200 miles per hour across the island, I slid out my cock and crawled up Susannah’s body toward her face.
“Give it to me, baby,” she grunted, sticking her tongue way out, pointing onto her tongue, “in here.”
I responded by jerking off quicker and faster than I ever had seen myself jerk off before. My manhood grew so big that I literally felt its weight in my grasp. It was like holding a hard super sausage with a steadily growing bulging end. My beautiful wife had her mouth open wide, her tongue sticking out, her vocal chords making happy and begging groaning noises. Shockwaves of bloodshots came racing down from my chest, my sperm factory now preparing for a spectalar lift-off.
I could almost here the NASA control center announcing:
“Starship Michael Hanover, prepare for launch. Turn on your spermcount. Straddle the Susannah-Seat. Hand on the joystick. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Ignition. We have a lift-off.”
The cumload came kicking and screaming out of my switchgear, catapulting out of my balls, through the tunnel and into freedom. The swimmers spread out over my personal Mona Lisa, making da Vinci feel shy that he hadn’t thought of raising the bar a little and turning his work of art into a Sex Goddess.
One gigantic load pinpointed her open tongue, sliding down into her throat. The second shot spread onto her happy laughing cheek. The third came flying across her forehead, landing on a lock of her hair.
Both of us now slowly came out of the rocket lift-off, laughing, panting, sighing, yawning even, our souls doing a happy samba around each other. The Starship Michael Hanover had met the U.S.S. Susannah Carter and both had docked into the Space Station of Sex. I plopped down on the sand, looking up at the blazing sun, my fantastic wife wiping the cum off her face and eating it and then resting her fullspermed head on my triceps.
I put my arm around her, feeling how my rocket still stood erect, little residue cumdrops on my helmet blessed by sunrays like diamonds overglittered by angelic glory.
“Whoa,” Susannah chuckled. “Being fucked by you is like flying.”
“Or like boarding the Starship Voyager and riding toward the Delta Quadrant,” I added. “Or simply like making love to angels.”
My wife crawled up closer toward me, her cheek leaving little cumtraces on my chest.
“If I were lost in space, I would be happy as long as you were with me.”
We met in a tongue kiss that was so passionate that it awoke my declining dick and had me wanting to fuck her again.
If it hadn’t been for the music. Soft otherworldly music played by violins and cellos. Music that sounded like a ship leaving the shore for a new horizon. Both Susannah and I looked at each other, some of my sperm now drying into her skin, other drops dripping onto her legs, some remaining on her face and giving her the appearance of being an otherworldly elf sprinkled by magic fairy dust, if it hadn’t been that one lovejuice-lock that hung down across her forehead. It gave her a Joan Jett-thing going, a look that had me mingling divine surprise with a rocking raunchyness.
Now I heard voices. Three voices to be exact. One baritone and two sopranos.
“Man,” I whispered to Susannah. “That’s Mozart.”
Susannah gave me curious look, one that mingled terror with surprise.
“Your father sang that opera, didn’t he?” Susannah said.
I nodded. “He played Don Alfonso at Covent Garden. This was his favorite trio.”
Susannah, looking like a naked cumdrenched Goddess there on the beach, looked out toward the ocean and saw it first. The ship, a small ship with a roof, white and with a motor, deserted, no passengers, no captain.
“May the winds be gentle. May the waves be calm. And may every one of the elements respond warmly to your desire,” I recited.
Susannah looked at me, full of awe and endless surprise. “Huh?”
“That’s the translation of that trio,” I answered. “Cosi fan tutte was performed a year before Mozart died.”
“Okay,” Susannah said, moments after I had fucked her, “but what the hell is that ship doing here, playing classical music on a Polynesian island. I mean, aren’t we supposed to be alone on this beach?”
We both stood up, looking at how this small ship came up closer and closer toward us, a ship without a crew, relatively new, now silent. It bumped against our beach and stopped. Immediately, both of us walked up toward it, feeling the rugged surface, looking at the small, batterydriven CD-player that had been positioned carefully next to the driver’s seat, playing Mozart’s definately most eerie and romantic piece.
“Who owns this boat?” Susannah mused.
I shrugged. “Who knows?”
Thoughts came to mind. The Flying Dutchman, Captain Barbosa, Jack Sparrow, Long John Silver or just a simply white boat with a painted steel roof, four seats, a rudder and a motor and what seemed to be a big plastic barrel of water.
“Look at what it says here, Michael,” Susannah crooned.
I looked down at the side of the boat, where someone had written three words at the side of the ship in black paint, carefully and with a very delicate brush. It seemed as if this person knew how to write well or at least use his hands well.
“Sweetheart of Samoa,” I mused and looked back on the deserted ship. “What is this?”
I looked out into the ocean, trying to find some damn person that might be swimming after the boat, yelling at us to hold the boat or tell us why we tried to steal his ship. Nothing. Not even a hint of a presence. That is until we heard voices, one man and one woman running along the beach, laughing and yelling and screaming.
Susannah and I, who had booked this vacation in order to be alone in the first place after having spent a year just being around people, saw two obviously Polynesian people fall down on our sand, giggling just like we had just now.
The woman wore a red scarflike robe, one that the man ripped off quite quickly, uncovering her, his mouth literally sinking into her breasts.
“Oh, Ralph,” the woman moaned. “I love that.”
“Linda,” the chubby man groaned. “Suck my cock.”
Well, Susannah and I ended up standing no more than ten feet away from these two younsters, both quite chubby but very handsome fuckers, indeed. We said nothing to them, expecting them to say something, but didn’t. We gazed at the couple, erect and pouting, how she took his erect dick in her mouth, sucking away with a bobbing head and finally pleading for him to stick it in. We saw him turning her around and fucking her from behind, her tush wobbling just like Susannah’s had just now. We saw them getting into a frenzy and going at it faster. Finally, we saw this Ralph guy straddle Linda’s face and squirting his load on her face, while she laughed heartily and happily.
We addressed them. Well, it was Susannah that did first. Funny thing, though. This couple seemed not to notice us. We waved, shouted even, but to no avail. They lay there chatting, holding a conversation so incredibly like the ones Susannah and I often had about sex being such a spiritual thing, such a connection between spirits who loved each other.
In fact, while Ralph and Linda didn’t want to see us or did see us or didn’t see us or whatever, we really got into the mood and began fondling each other again until we realized that the fucking couple actually even used the same phrases as we usually did when we talking about spiritual sex. Things like: “If God had meant for sex to be a sin, he would not have had us be born naked.”
Well, Ralph and Linda jumped up from their position on the sand, telling each other how happy they were that they knew nudity and sex was a divine journey and that by accepting sex as a great thing they could count on being completely faithful.
Without having seen us or noticed us for one second of their time, Ralph and Linda jumped into their ship, their boat or whatever it was, saying that they would take their little Spirit of Samoa for a ride. Ralph turned on his CD-player back to the divine journey, letting Don Alfonso and his two girls sing about how gentle he wanted the winds to be on the way to heaven.
I think Susannah and I stood there for about fifteen minutes, naked, embracing each other, looking out onto the ocean and wondering if our fellow lovers would return. They never did. In fact, we never saw a trace of them again. It was very odd. Susannah and I said nothing to each other for the next half hour. We went to the bungalow. Susannah washed the cum off her face and washed her pussy, I cleaned up my cock and both of us put on some nice clothes, holding hands, both connected in this strange way of having seen another couple, a Polynesian couple, fuck on our beach. Uncanny, how strange.
We arrived at the Yutepow Inn at five o’clock for our champagne and lobster supper and began toasting and chatting about this and that. I think Susannah’s impatience got the better of her, because she grabbed one of the waiters, a very elegant fellow named Kapena.
“Excuse me, Kapena?”
“It’s delicious, all of this.”
“Why, thank you, Miss,” Kapena answered. “I will tell the chef. Was there anything else, Miss?”
Susannah nodded, her boobs wobbling under her purple gown as she did, making me want to fuck her again. “Yes. We saw something strange on our beach today, Kapena, and we would like you to tell us what it could be.”
I literally sunk through the floor, expected Susannah to tell our waiter that we had fucked on the beach and seen a couple fucking on the beach, as well.
“A small boat called the Sweetheart of Samoa came sailing up to our shore,” she began and immediately envoked a strong reaction of surprise from the waiter named Kapena. ”Two young lovers that addressed themselves as Ralph and Linda cuddled on the beach before jumping into the boat and disappearing.”
Kapena’s mouth twitched once, twice and three times. He scratched his head, shook, trembled and laughed.
“What?” I asked, impatiently. “What’s the matter, Kapena?”
Kapena looked at us with a very transparent and almost otherworldly gaze.
“You have seen the island ghost, Sir,” Kapena said, very seriously now.
I sat back in my chair, putting down my Dom Perignon. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ralph worked here in the Yutepow Inn many years ago with his wife Linda,” Kapena began. “He saved money for years and years, so he could buy a boat for his wife. They used to enrage our boss by going to the beaches the guests had booked and making love quite openly. He believed that sex and nudity weren’t sins, but parts of God’s natural world of lovemaking and fertility. He told people to make more love and fight less. It is believed, and this is something you shall have to hold in dear secret confidence … can you?”
We both leaned over toward Kapena, excited to hear what he had to say.
“This will never be written in any tourist pamphlet,” Kapena began. “He said that if people fucked more with their spouses, the world would be a better place for it. I hope I haven’t shocked you.”
We shook our heads. “No, not at all.”
“What happened to them, Kapena?” Susannah asked.
“Well,” Kapena began. “They left in their boat, the Sweetheart of Samoa, listening to their Mozart music on Ralph’s battery driven stereo, probably making love on the boat. They were caught in a storm and drowned. Several guests have been surprised by their presence of their returning ghosts, by their lovemaking and the adamant ritual these ghosts have to play a piece from Mozart’s opera Cosi fan tutte.”
“May the winds be gentle. May the waves be calm. And may every one of the elements respond warmly to your desire,” I recited.
Kapena nodded. “The ghosts are not harmful. In fact, they might even increase your arousal. I am sorry we didn’t tell you before.”
“No problem,” we both chanted.
Well, Susannah and I nodded, waving Kapena good bye and talking about nothing else than the ghosts of Ralph and Linda for the remainder of the evening. We ate lots of food that night, we drank two bottles of champagne and arrived at our bungalow when it was dark. We knew, then and there, that the ghosts of Ralph and Linda had influenced us to trust our lovemaking and that the sociological battle of the sexes was due to a misunderstanding that sex was a sin. The answer lay in relating to one another as genderbased souls and not as purely sociological beings.
Ralph and Linda never appeared before us again, but we often think of them and know their souls are safe in the next world. Every time Susannah and I fuck, we try to do it with lots of heart. After all, that is what faithful lovers do.
They give it lots of heart.
Just like Ralph and Linda did before their last journey here on Earth, sailing toward the passionate sun over in the everlasting eternity, spirits love making love. Sex, we understood, is, or should be, a tool for couples to express what they feel for each other: making love, feeling arousal, creating passion and within it the willingness to one day create new life. Sex is creation. Sex should be the divine way of how to physically say: I love you.