The sun had already surrendered most of its fire to the horizon, leaving only a razor-thin band of molten gold above the Andaman Sea. Every wave that rolled in caught that dying light and shattered it into a thousand glittering shards across the shallow water. Emma stood ankle-deep in the warm, receding tide, toes curling into wet sand, feeling the gentle pull of the ocean like fingers trailing up her calves.
Her black bikini was barely there—two scraps of matte fabric no wider than her palms, tied with fragile strings that had already loosened from earlier swimming. Salt water had darkened the material, making it cling transparently to her skin. The triangles over her breasts had ridden up slightly, exposing the soft undercurve; the bottoms sat so low that the delicate line where thigh met groin was fully visible, shadowed only by the last rays.
She sensed Jake long before she turned.
He walked out from the palm fringe with the loose, predatory stride of a man who already knew exactly what he was going to do to her. Shirtless. Board shorts slung dangerously low. Every step flexed the deep cuts of his obliques, the sharp V-lines arrowing down into shadow. His chest rose and fell a little faster than normal; she could see it even from twenty meters away. His eyes—dark storm-gray—never left her body.
When he reached her, he didn’t speak. He simply stepped into her space until their bodies were almost touching, heat radiating between them like a second skin. The air smelled of coconut sunscreen, sea salt, and the faint musk of aroused skin.
Emma lifted her chin. Their foreheads met first—warm, slightly damp. She felt the tremor that ran through him when their skin connected. His breath fanned across her lips.
“You’ve been killing me since noon,” he said, voice so low it vibrated in her sternum. “Every time you arched your back in the water. Every time those strings slipped lower.”
She smiled against his mouth. “Good.”
His hands rose slowly. Fingertips ghosted along her jaw, down the column of her throat, over collarbones, then hooked under the thin straps at her shoulders. He didn’t pull yet. Just held. Letting her feel the promise.
Emma’s nipples were already painfully tight, pressing against wet fabric. Each shallow breath made them scrape, sending tiny jolts straight between her legs.
Jake finally tugged.
The top fell away.
Cool evening air hit her bare breasts. Goosebumps raced across her skin. Her nipples darkened and drew even tighter under his gaze.
He looked at her like he was starving.
Then he dropped to one knee in the sand—right there in the open, golden light—and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the soft swell just above her pubic bone.
Emma’s fingers threaded into his hair instantly.
He kissed lower. Nuzzled the damp fabric still covering her mound. Inhaled deeply. The sound he made—half growl, half reverence—made her knees threaten to buckle.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered quietly.
She did.
Wide.
Jake hooked two fingers into the sides of her bikini bottoms and dragged them down—slow—letting the wet fabric peel away from her swollen lips with an audible, slick sound. The tiny garment dropped to the sand. She stepped out of it.
Now she was completely bare to him in the dying sunset.
He looked up at her—pupils blown wide—and leaned in.
The first touch of his tongue was devastating.
Flat. Slow. From perineum to clit in one long, deliberate drag.
Emma’s head snapped back. A raw, broken moan tore from her throat.
He did it again. And again. Lapping at her like she was melting honey. When her hips began to rock—small, greedy jerks—he sealed his lips around her clit and sucked—gentle at first, then harder, rhythmic pulls that matched her racing heartbeat.
Two fingers slid inside her.
Long. Thick. Curled immediately to stroke that rough, swollen patch on her front wall.
He pumped slowly while his tongue flicked fast, tight circles over the hood of her clit—then flattened it, pressing hard, rubbing side to side.
Emma’s thighs started to shake.
The first orgasm built like a distant storm—pressure low in her belly, coiling tighter with every stroke, every suck.
Jake felt it. He doubled the pressure of his tongue. Fingers curled harder, stroking faster.
The coil snapped.
Emma came with a sharp, keening cry that echoed over the empty beach.
Her inner walls clamped down on his fingers in violent, rhythmic pulses—once, twice, three times—each contraction forcing a fresh gush of slick heat onto his hand, his wrist, his chin. Her clit throbbed under his tongue, swollen to the point of pain-pleasure, each flutter sending aftershocks racing up her spine. Her hips bucked uncontrollably; she had to grip his shoulders to stay upright. A thin, clear stream escaped her, splashing against his chest before dripping down onto the sand.
The climax rolled through her in long, shuddering waves—five, six, seven powerful spasms before they began to soften into fluttering aftershocks. Even after the main pulses faded, her pussy kept rippling weakly around his fingers, greedy little squeezes that made him groan against her.
He didn’t stop.
He gentled his tongue—soft, soothing laps now—while his fingers stayed buried deep, occasionally curling just enough to keep the aftershocks alive.
When her breathing finally steadied, he withdrew his fingers slowly, watching the way her entrance clenched around nothing, trying to keep him inside.
He stood.
Emma’s legs were jelly.
He caught her before she could sink, lifting her easily and carrying her the short distance to the wide wooden lounger half-shaded by a leaning palm. Towels already spread. He laid her down on her back, knees bent, feet flat—completely open to him.
The last sliver of sun painted her body in molten copper—breasts heaving, nipples dark and wet from his earlier attention, inner thighs glistening, sex flushed deep rose and still pulsing faintly.
Jake shoved his board shorts down.
His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, veined, the head flushed dark and already weeping.
He fisted himself once, spreading the slickness, then stepped between her thighs.
No preamble.
He notched himself at her entrance and pushed in—slow—letting her feel every thick inch splitting her open.
Emma’s back arched off the lounger. A long, trembling moan spilled out.
When he bottomed out—hips flush against hers—they both froze.
Full.
Stretched.
Connected.
He stayed there a moment, letting her adjust, letting her feel the heavy throb of him deep inside.
Then he began to move.
Long, deliberate withdrawals—almost all the way out—followed by slow, deep slides back in. Each stroke dragged the thick ridge under his head over her front wall, right over that still-sensitive spot.
Emma’s hands flew to his biceps, nails digging in.
“Harder,” she gasped.
Jake obliged.
His pace quickened—still controlled, but deeper, more forceful. The lounger creaked under them. Skin slapped softly against skin.
Emma felt the second orgasm rising almost immediately—different this time. Deeper. More diffuse. A slow-building pressure that spread from her core outward, making her toes curl and her breath hitch.
Jake read her body perfectly.
He hooked her legs over his shoulders—changing the angle—driving even deeper. Now the head of his cock kissed her cervix with every thrust.
Emma’s moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure.
The pressure built unbearably—tight, hot, electric.
When it finally broke, it was cataclysmic.
Her third orgasm—this one the second of the evening, but far more violent—detonated low in her belly and radiated outward in punishing waves.
Her pussy clamped down on him like a fist—violent, rhythmic spasms that milked his length from root to tip. Each contraction forced a fresh flood of wetness; she could feel it spilling out around his cock, soaking his balls, dripping onto the towels beneath her. Her clit throbbed in time with her heartbeat—sharp, almost painful pulses that made her hips jerk upward involuntarily. The pleasure rolled through her in long, shuddering surges—ten, twelve, fifteen powerful waves before they began to taper. Even then, her inner walls kept fluttering weakly, aftershocks rippling through her for nearly a full minute. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes—not from pain, but from sheer overwhelming intensity. She couldn’t breathe properly; every inhale was a gasp, every exhale a whimper.
Jake’s rhythm stuttered.
He was close—dangerously close—but he fought it, wanting to drag her through every last tremor.
When the worst of her spasms finally eased, he pulled out slowly—watching the way her entrance gaped slightly, flushed and slick, before clenching shut.
He flipped her onto her stomach.
Emma went willingly—ass raised, knees spread, cheek pressed to the towel.
Jake knelt behind her.
He dragged the head of his cock through her drenched folds—once, twice—coating himself in her release—then pushed back inside in one long, smooth thrust.
This angle was devastating.
He hit deeper. Harder. The head battered that spot inside her with merciless precision.
Emma clawed at the towels.
“Fuck—Jake—right there—”
He gripped her hips—hard enough to bruise—and fucked her relentlessly.
Fast. Deep. Punishing.
The fourth orgasm built terrifyingly fast.
It started as a deep, almost painful ache low in her pelvis—then exploded outward.
This one was wetter. Wilder.
Her whole body seized.
Her pussy convulsed around him in brutal, rhythmic spasms—each one forcing a sharp cry from her throat. A gush of clear fluid sprayed back against his pelvis, soaking his thighs, splashing onto the lounger. Her clit pulsed frantically—sharp, electric jolts that made her thighs shake uncontrollably. The climax stretched—long, rolling waves that refused to crest and fall—instead cresting again and again. She lost count after the seventh powerful contraction; they simply merged into one endless, shuddering release. Her vision whited out at the edges. Every muscle locked tight, then released, locked again. She screamed—raw, animal—until her voice cracked.
Jake couldn’t hold back anymore.
He slammed deep one final time and came with a guttural groan.
Hot, thick pulses flooded her—spurt after spurt—filling her until it overflowed, dripping down her thighs in slow, viscous trails.
He kept moving through both their climaxes—short, shallow thrusts that prolonged the aftershocks, drawing soft whimpers from her.
When he finally stilled, they collapsed together—sweaty, trembling, hearts hammering.
But the night was young.
After a few minutes of panting silence, Jake rolled onto his back and pulled Emma on top of him.
She straddled his hips—still sensitive, still dripping—but greedy.
His cock—only half-soft—twitched against her folds.
She reached down, guided him back inside.
Slow.
Sinking down inch by inch until she was seated fully again.
They both groaned.
This time there was no frantic pace.
Just long, rolling grinds.
Emma leaned forward—breasts brushing his chest—foreheads touching again.
They moved like that for what felt like hours—lazy, deep, intimate.
The fifth orgasm crept up on her slowly.
A gentle, spreading warmth that started in her toes and rose like a tide.
When it finally washed over her, it was soft—almost sweet.
Her pussy fluttered around him in long, languid pulses—not violent, but endless. Each ripple milked him gently, coaxing a low moan from his throat. The pleasure rolled through her in warm, liquid waves—five, six, seven gentle crests—each one leaving her trembling, sighing, melting against him. No squirting this time—just deep, satisfying contractions that left her boneless.
Jake came quietly inside her again—soft pulses, warm floods—adding to the mess already leaking between them.
They stayed locked together under the rising moon.
Later they moved to the shallows—waist-deep in warm water.
Emma wrapped her legs around his waist.
He pressed her back against a smooth coral shelf just below the surface.
They fucked slowly in the moonlight—water lapping at their joined bodies—gentle thrusts, deep kisses, hands roaming.
Her sixth orgasm arrived like a sigh—soft, rolling, leaving her clinging to him as she trembled through the quiet waves.
His followed—quiet pulses deep inside her.
They floated afterward—her head on his chest—listening to the heartbeat of the ocean.
Back on the lounger, under thin cotton, they traced lazy patterns on sweat-damp skin.
Emma pressed a kiss to his throat.
“More?” she whispered.
Jake smiled against her hair.
“Always.”
And so the night stretched on—cool breeze, warm bodies, endless ocean.
Again.
And again.
And again.
