This summer, in Vendée’s hidden coves, my ritual fishing trips promised solitude. Duchess Rock, that massive boulder accessible only at low tide, felt like my private enclave. Chest-high waders hugged my skin like bespoke neoprene, shielding me from the chill as I waded 150 meters offshore. Cane in one hand, tackle box in the other, I gripped slick rocks. Pure escape. Mind drifting with the waves.
First hour: fruitless casts. Lures swapped in vain. Fish ignored me. Bored, I circled to the sea-facing side. A secret mini-beach, untouched by tourists. Then, the vision. From afar, a lithe blonde in monokini. Milky skin glowing under the sun. I edged closer, feigning casts. She was no mature woman—mid-twenties, nymph-like. Breasts perfect: firm, buoyant, defying gravity like sculpted marble. Invisible bra magic. Eyes locked. Graceful face, mischievous smile. She swam oblivious. Nearby, an older man lounged on the sand.
The Privilege
She called out. ‘Good fishing?’ ‘So-so,’ I stammered. I settled nearby, stealing glances. Disappointment hit as she covered up, packed with him. Gone. Focus shattered. But quarter-hour later, they returned—trapped by rising tide. He approached. Local? Tide peaks soon. Two hours to escape. He laughed. ‘Stuck bronzing.’ I grinned. ‘Worst fates imaginable.’ We chatted fishing woes.
I shifted closer. She slipped into the water. ‘Don’t poke me with that rod.’ ‘Not equipped for fish your size.’ Banter flowed. Water lapped my navel. Her breasts bobbed at surface. ‘Morning not wasted?’ Bold now. ‘Your view brightened it.’ Cheeks burned. ‘Those breasts stirred me deeply.’ She giggled. ‘That much?’ ‘Water’s cold—barely coping.’ Her laugh enchanted. No offense taken.
She assured: he loves men ogling her. Confidence booster. I changed lures. She followed ashore. Curious fingers on tackle. Then: ‘Let me fish this.’ Hand clamped my cock through waders. Stunned. ‘Catch this monster?’ Kneeling, she unzipped. Mouth engulfed. Expert strokes. Tongue swirled glans, fretted frenulum. Deep throated. Eyes locked, teasing. Ecstasy.
The Excess
We lay. Fingers invaded her soaked bikini. Slit dripping—not sea. Lips parted. Clit swollen. Firm circles drew moans. She straddled reverse. Pussy shaved smooth. Nectar divine. Tongue plunged. She quivered, came hard. Gushed. But she resumed sucking. Balls massaged. Finger teased ass—saliva slick. Probed gently. Prostate bliss.
Huge cock appeared—his. Slammed her pussy. ‘Lick her!’ I obeyed, dodging shaft. Tasted it accidentally. He sighed approval. Brief licks. She orgasmed wildly. Remounted me. Tight velvet gripped. He joined—double penetration? No, anal hint later. She sucked him clean. I craved it. She fed me his cock. Velvety skin. Salty-sweet. He face-fucked. She rode harder.
She sucked me firm again. Fingers—two—in ass. Divine stretch. His cock poised at my hole. Her pussy-flavored digits distracted. Gland breached. Slow thrust. Full. Prostate ignited. I erupted—ropes of cum. He pounded. She licked my load. Kissed me, sperm-tangy. Hard again. He neared. I jerked him into mouth. Exploded. Thick, creamy jets. Swallowed greedily.
Collapsed. Bliss haze. They whispered ‘merci,’ vanished with tide. I lay, spent. Shame? No—unrivaled high. Tide ebbed. Dressed. Fished no more. Bredouille? Irrelevant. Secret sealed by waves.
