Private Beach

Stuck in a low-paid job and bored with her
non-existent sex life, twenty-two-year-old Megan has never been to
Europe, so she seizes the chance to spend a week in a hot
stranger's apartment in the South of France. But there's one catch:
she'll be staying in a nude beach resort where anything goes

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © by Trinity Lee 2012

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places,
businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or
locales is purely coincidental. Contains graphic sexual content.
Not recommended for those under 18.

She stood in front of the apartment
building, weighing up whether to use the key. The bright sunlight
bouncing off the clinical white walls and reflecting back in the
glare of the Mediterranean sea was giving her a headache, despite
her oversized sunglasses.

It had been a long flight from Chicago to
the South of France, and she still did not know what she was doing
here. But it was too late for her to walk away now.

She clutched her cellphone in one hand,
ready to speed-dial her friend Amy in case there was a problem.

She had told no one other than Amy exactly
why she was here: she figured they would have talked her out of it
long before she accepted the airline ticket and the directions to
the apartment. She would have done the same if one of them had come
to her with some crazy story about a free holiday offered by
someone she had never met.

Or maybe she wasn't crazy. The warm breeze
fluttered her sheer chiffon skirt against her bare brown legs and
blew teasingly down the back of her neck, where she had tied her
long, tawny mane back for the long trip. Chicago had been suffering
from an unseasonable cold snap, but here in France, the weather was
perfect.

She took a deep breath and punched in the
entry code for the apartment's main door.

Once inside, the air conditioning and the
marble floor cast a slight chill which caused her arms to come up
in goosebumps. She shivered, despite the sunshine outside.

The atrium was luxurious, with wooden
panelling and Persian carpets. The elevator doors slid open
noiselessly and Megan stepped inside.

The apartment was on the third floor, and
her footsteps were noiseless in the thick carpet of the
corridor.

Her heart pounding, she turned the key in
the lock, her thumb still firmly on speed-dial.

She opened the door and stepped inside. The
key worked: that was a good start. It had crossed her mind that the
whole thing might be an elaborate hoax and she would turn up in
France without knowing a soul and a word of French, with nowhere to
stay and a maxed-out credit card. She had no Plan B: other girls
might have Googled the location of the nearest Youth Hostel, but
Megan did not do plans and she definitely did not do Youth
Hostels.

The door opened directly into the living
room. The apartment was compact, but luxurious, and she could see
from where she stood that she was alone - unless the mysterious
Marc was hiding in a closet, of course.

She let out a sigh of relief and kicked off
her sandals, her feet enjoying the cool of the tiled floor. The
window was open and the sea breeze whispered against her skin.

As promised in the photographs she had been
sent, the bathroom and bedroom matched the discreet opulence of all
she had seen so far. A huge tub and a pile of fluffy white towels
reminded her of what she needed after the long flight and she
stepped towards the bathroom, shedding her skirt and T-shirt as she
went.

She checked herself out in the full-length
mirror as she turned on the hot water, cupping her full breasts in
her hands and shaking her loose curls free over her shoulders. She
had the taut, tanned curves and narrow hips of a teenager, yet now,
at twenty-two, there was something knowing in her hazel eyes that
offset the girlish sprinkling of freckles over her cute nose and
advertised that she was very definitely a woman.

While the tub was filling, she wandered over
to the window and looked out at the beach. It looked pretty much
like any other golden sand beach she had ever seen, except for one
thing: everyone was naked.

Ignoring the older men and women with their
wrinkled skin and decidedly unsexy paunches, she fixed her gaze on
a couple of young guys playing beach volleyball. Northern
Europeans, she decided, probably Swedes. Their tanned six-foot
frames were slick with sweat, and their cocks were massive, even in
their unexcited state.

Unconsciously, her hand slid down and she
began to finger herself, picturing what it would be like to have
one of these Nordic twins inside her, filling her with their
hugeness.

She stopped, suddenly embarrassed that she
was standing in the apartment window, where anyone could see her.
Then she relaxed. After all, Marc had made it clear that this was a
private beach, and the normal rules did not apply here.

The bathroom was full of steam now, and she
reluctantly turned away from the eye candy and stepped into the
deep, steaming bath.

She flicked a switch at the side of the tub
and the water began foaming. She stepped into the jacuzzi with a
squeal of delight, relaxing as the firm, warm jets began to pummel
away the stresses of the long flight and her fear that she was
about to be abducted by a gang of slave traders the moment she
stepped into the apartment.

She opened her legs wider, sliding beneath
the water as one particular pulse of warm liquid found its way
towards her vulva and began caressing her labia. She moaned in
pleasure, her lips slightly parted. This time she did not need her
fingers on her sensitive little nub, but instead allowed the
streams of water to do their trick, pounding and pulsing until they
drove her to a shuddering climax.

As she waited for the waves of pleasure to
wash over her and subside, she reconsidered the situation that had
led her from her grotty apartment-share in Chicago to this
luxurious apartment in Europe, with all its temptations.

It had all started so innocently.

A friend request on Facebook from an
unfamiliar name. It happened all the time if you were young and
female - especially if your profile photo was as hot as Megan's and
you were prepared to pose in a tiny green string bikini that barely
covered your full breasts and emphasised your tiny waist.

She normally deleted these stranger requests
immediately, but something about this one made her hesitate, her
finger hovering over the delete button.

It was not just the picture on his profile:
after all, anyone could use a photograph of an insanely-hot
olive-skinned guy with black hair and dark green eyes. She was
scammed like that all the time, by automated computer programs that
used stock pictures of models that you could find for yourself
online if you looked hard enough, or by seedy old guys who used
images of their sons as bait to trap the unwary.

No, it wasn't just the photo: it was the
fact that they seemed to have so many friends in common, and also
that he seemed to know so much about her. She liked the fact that
he was up-front about his age - many thirty-two-year-olds would
have pretended to be younger when making contact with someone who
had barely been out of college a year - and also that his friend
request was delightfully honest about exactly what he intended to
do to her. She appreciated the honesty, and also the imagination
which he had used to spell out his desires.

She had hesitated - then clicked to accept
his friend request. What harm could it possibly do? Since she had
graduated, she had been going mad with boredom. She had managed to
secure a low-paid job with a firm of city accountants that barely
paid for the room she rented in Amy's flat, and she knew she was
lucky to have even that. Her student loans hung around her neck
like a millstone. She could not afford a holiday in Florida, let
alone Europe, so when Marc had made his offer, she had immediately
seized it with both hands.

Megan was not so naive to think that Marc
would actually look like his picture, but the increasingly
flirtatious messages they had been trading had piqued her
curiosity. He had presented his suggestion that she borrow his
apartment for the week as a no-strings-attached offer, but when he
had casually mentioned that he was going to be in the area the same
week and they should meet, she realised immediately what was
involved.

"Only if you pay for my flight," she had
teased.

And she had then been stunned when he
emailed her a code to call American Airlines and book her
ticket.

"You're crazy. There's no way you're going,"
said Amy. "To a stranger's apartment, on a... nudist beach."

"Sounds perfect," said Megan, breezily. And
booked her ticket.

Climbing out of the bath and wrapping
herself in a fluffy white robe, she returned to the window,
wondering when Marc would contact her, or if he would simply show
up at the door - with his key. The thought made her feel uneasy,
and she slipped the chain on to avoid surprises.

She checked her Facebook on her phone. No
word from him yet. She decided not to post a status update saying
she was there. Keep him guessing for a while.

Perhaps she would take a walk on the beach.
Most of all, she wanted to sleep, but this was Europe and she
wanted to experience it without wasting a moment.

She dried herself, enjoying the sensation of
the warm breeze on her skin.

She reached for her clothes, then hesitated.
She had never stayed in a naturist resort before, and was not sure
of the etiquette. If she took off her clothes on the beach, then
where did she put them? In the end, she decided it was just too
weird to get into the elevator and walk through the foyer nude, so
she slipped on a light dress that she could carry easily.

No point in wearing underwear if it was only
going to come off again. Although she was uninhibited by nature, it
felt strange to have everything on show, and she was glad she had
gone for that last-minute waxing session which had left her
feminine mound beautifully exposed and soft to the touch.

Within minutes she was on the beach, feeling
distinctly overdressed.

The vibe was less overtly sexual than she
had expected, at least on this part of the beach, and it felt like
the most natural thing in the world to pull her dress off over her
head and stroll along in the surf, her skin soaking up the sun.

It felt as though all eyes were on her,
young and old, male and female. She stole a glance from under her
eyelashes. Although a few of the nude family groups were going
about their own business as if this was the most natural thing in
the world, she had been right to suspect that there were plenty of
people checking her out.

She smiled to herself. She had worried that
she would feel self-conscious for the first few times, but she need
not have been concerned. She realised with wonder that she was
getting off on the looks cast in her direction. She felt her
nipples harden and a warmth spreading through her groin, making her
wet.

She had read online that the dunes were
where all the exciting stuff took place. Maybe Marc would be there?
Even if he was not, she owed it to herself to check out what was
happening. The website made it sound, well, if not harmless, then
safe. Although the dunes were a well-known cruising area for
singles and couples alike, they were so popular at this time of
year, that wandering a little off-piste did not feel like a
risk.