Two girls in bikini tops and Daisy Dukes pull up to a gas station on the PCH past Zuma beach.
A white Land Cruiser pulls up behind them, and two men pull their sunglasses down to give the them a drooling once-over.
As the girls skip out of the gas station convenience shop, American Spirits and Diet Mountain Dews in hand, the two guys, one blonde and one Hispanic make their move.
“Where you girlies going?” the gorgeous blonde driver posits.
“To the beach. You?”
“Wherever you’re going.”
The girls pull out aggressively and the boys follow. But soon the ladies realize they have no destination, so they end up following the Land Cruiser to a secret surf spot at a military base. Did I mention that one of those girls was me?
The second I saw that blonde, svelte driver I knew he was mine. Turns out he was a professional surfer, and a model for a very famous clothing company. The chiseled abs and He-Man hair said it all. As I watched him on his board, soaking wet, riding those waves as if the ocean were a stage on the earth in which he ruled, I knew I wouldn’t be satisfied until I saw what was under those dudely shorts.
His friend, with a name that resembled a weather occurrence, appeared much less attractive, but much more stoned and added the hint of comic relief always necessary in these circumstances. Though sometimes he only served to block my cock and I wanted to sock him in the face a couple of times.
Two days later, homegirl and I attend a get together at said surfer’s sponsors home at a less than modest house in Malibu. And when I say that, I mean a garage full of shark tanks, a massive aluminum fridge full of beer, and a backyard cliff to shame El Capitan.
As we flirt shamelessly with everyone in attendance (oh wait, that’s three dudes), I keep allowing myself to get a little more intoxicated, so I can aggressively make my move on the Model.
Finally, he has me on his lap, and is ready to give me a tour of the place. We chasse into the garage, examining the sharks while partaking in small talk that we know is irrelevant. Then, he finally takes me to the upstairs. First to the porch, then to a massive master-bathroom. I plant a kiss on him. “You’re getting me all fired up,” he says cutely, almost with a princely innocence.
We walk past a wall of mirrors, and Model grabs one of them and slides it open, revealing a secret room. As I enter the room I quiver in excitement…this place was full of surprises. As we sprawl out on a love cushion that has been mounted into the wall, we claw at each other and I am instantly taken by the most perfect looking man I have ever beheld.
“I don’t usually do this kind of thing,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah,” I think. “Just take your damn clothes off before I rub one onto your body.”
As he whips out his sparkling cock it is as though a ray of light is shining down from the heavens to reveal a gift from God. The thing is massive without a single gnarly vein, and it feels like a silk rod inside my tight soaking pussy.
“Hang on,” I say. “Let me show you something.”
I just had to show off the ass that I had been so assiduously working on at the gym before my trip to the West Coast. I get on all fours and he slides my shorts down, unable to contain himself at the site of my perfectly round, baby soft booty.
“Holy God,” he says, as he slides it in from behind.
We eventually move it into the bathroom and then to his surfer-bro pad where we gobble down some food, and then each other. There is a mirror directly across from the bed, and as he plows me from behind, I vainly admire the contrast if his golden hair against my stark black locks. “Look at those two,” I think, while I embrace every moment of our coitus.
We collapse, gasping for air, until thirty seconds pass and he is again ready to ride my pussy like a tsunami.
Three hours later, I wake up and get on a plane back to the East Coast. Panties wet, and in a post-sex haze, I stay awake for the six hour flight. I know that it may take at least a few weeks to top this one.