Landed in Brest for a 24-hour layover. Grabbed my board bag from the airport carousel, hopped a cab to this anonymous seaside hotel. Magnetic key card beeps me into room 312. Gray October light filters through curtains overlooking the deserted beach. Unpack quick: wetsuit, towel, apple from my backpack. No plans but waves and solitude. Two years single, talking to myself. Jet lag hits, but that fine rain stopped. Time to hit the strand.
Slipped into my black-gray wetsuit, trudged down the dune path. Beach empty, just pebbles and foam. Two big rocks offshore. She’s out there, powering through swells in a sleek purple-black neoprene suit. Blonde ponytail slick. Killer form. Her beast of a German Shepherd paces the shore, soaked fur no match for his bulk. Obeys her whistle like a soldier. No leash, beach rules be damned.
The Stopover
I stash my board behind a rock, six meters from her setup. She’s unaware. Tries for privacy, I guess. But damn, that ass molded in neoprene. Not young, maybe 40s, tall, athletic Valkyrie build. Light eyes, hard to peg blue or gray. I crack my book, fake reading. Heart picks up.
The Peak
She hauls out, wrings her hair, chats the dog. Laughs low, gravelly. Pets him, feeds raw beef chunks from her jute beach bag. He inhales it, flops down whining for her sandwich. She teases, unwraps her ham-butter. Birds wheel overhead. Only us crazies in this damp chill.
Peels off her suit like it’s nothing. Tits swing free—natural, not fake. No Playmate rack, but perky, nipples hardening in the breeze. Skin tanned or olive. Long, muscled thighs. And fuck—smooth-shaven pussy. No bush. Legs part to yank the neoprene, slit opens pink. Camel toe city. My cock throbs hard in my suit. Haven’t boned in ages. Mutter to myself: ‘Slutty siren.’