The lake was quiet. I was lying naked in the sun, my wife asleep beside me, when I heard something in the bushes behind me. At first I thought it was just someone taking a leak. But what I saw… fuck. I couldn’t look away.
At thirty-four, married ten years, nude sunbathing with my wife isn’t about thrill anymore. It’s about quiet. We go to the same hidden lake a few times each summer. She lays out her towel, takes off her top, naps in the sun. I read, swim, maybe stare at the clouds.
Today was no different. She was next to me, topless, already drifting off. One leg bent, one hand resting on her belly. Her mouth slightly open. I was naked too, lying on my stomach this time, arms tucked under my head, sunglasses on. The sun was strong. The sand warm beneath my hips.
Then I heard something behind the trees. A faint rustle. Rhythmic. At first I thought someone was taking a piss. But when I lifted my head to glance…
Two men. One standing. The other on his knees, sucking his cock. Right there in the bushes. From where I was lying, I had the perfect angle. Anyone else on the beach wouldn’t have seen a thing.
I froze. The one standing had his pants low on his thighs, his cock out. Thick, flushed, already wet. The guy on his knees was working him hard. Head bobbing, spit running down his chin, hand gripping the shaft while he swallowed him deep. You could hear it. A wet slurp every time he bottomed out. No hesitation. No looking around. Just cock, throat, need.
I stared. My cock swelled so fast it made me dizzy. One brutal pulse and I was fully hard. I shifted my weight, slowly rolled onto my belly like I was adjusting, and my cock sank straight into the sand beneath me. The pressure made me gasp. It was hot and rough and raw. I didn’t pull back. I let it press deep, my cock buried in the grit, trapped under my weight, throbbing. And then I moved, just a little, and felt it grind. A slow, involuntary hump. My body was doing it without me.
I should’ve looked away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not with my cock leaking like that, grinding into dirt like it was a mouth.
They kept going. The guy standing started to fuck his mouth, shallow and fast, hips moving with tight rhythm. His balls slapped against the other guy’s chin. He groaned, looked down, said something low. I couldn’t hear, but it made the guy on his knees moan, thick and wet, cock still buried in his throat. He started jerking himself furiously with his free hand, ass flexing, back arched. You could see him tremble.
His face was a mess, lips swollen, spit stringing from the base to his nose. Every time he pulled back to breathe, the head popped from his mouth with a sticky sound, coated and slick. Then he went back down, faster, deeper. You could hear the gag. Hear him swallow around it.
My cock throbbed harder. The tip felt raw where it rubbed against the sand. I could feel it leaking, pre-cum dribbling out, soaking into the earth beneath me. My hips twitched. I bit my forearm to keep from groaning. If I’d moved again, even slightly, I would’ve come right there. Into the fucking sand. My whole body locked up. Like edging by accident. I don’t know how I held it back.
The man standing gripped the other’s head with both hands and started thrusting rougher. Sharper. His thighs locked. His abs flexed. His jaw clenched. He gave one final push and froze.
He came. You could see it ripple through him, from gut to balls to cock. The guy on his knees swallowed it, throat pulsing hard around the shaft, hand still stroking his own dick fast, frantic. He came too. Probably. His whole body jerked. He whimpered into the other man’s skin. Their foreheads touched for half a second. A kiss. Then they tucked themselves in, said nothing, and walked away like it hadn’t even happened.
I stayed where I was, breathing hard. My cock still throbbing in the sand. I shifted slightly and felt it, slick, wet grit against my slit. I lifted myself just enough to look down. The sand beneath me had clumped, gone darker with sweat and pre-cum, forming a shallow pit where my cock had been buried. The head was smeared. Damp. Grains of sand stuck to the crown, clinging to the edge of my foreskin, some packed tight into the slit.
It looked obscene. Like I’d fucked the ground. Like I’d used it. I wiped at it with shaky fingers. It just smeared more. A paste of precum and earth, still warm. My cock twitched in my grip, still stiff, still aching. I wanted to stroke it out right there. Just one pull and I’d have exploded.
But behind me, my wife stirred. I sat up quickly. My cock swung forward, sticky and filthy, a smear of sand still clinging to the underside. I muttered, “I’m going for a swim,” voice hoarse.
She didn’t answer. Still asleep.
I walked toward the water. My balls felt heavy. Each step rubbed grit deeper into my skin. My cock bounced with each movement, red and wet and leaking. I felt like I’d been caught in something I wasn’t supposed to see. But I’d seen all of it.
The lake shimmered, cold and clean. I stepped in. The shock of it wrapped around my thighs, my groin. My cock flinched one last time, then started to soften. The sand peeled away, reluctantly. I ducked under, let the cold silence me.
But later that night, in the bathroom, door locked, hand around my still-dirty dick, I saw it all again. The slurp. The gag. The hands, the thrust, the spit.
And I came so hard I hit the mirror.
