Private Beach
by Trinity Lee
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
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Copyright © by Trinity Lee 2012
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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.