Our surf crew rolled into the wild spot off the Aquitaine coast late afternoon. Backpacks dumped, tents zipped up fast like hotel keycards sliding in. No names known here, just anonymity in this forbidden prairie ringed by the Invisible Forest. Legend said Knight Hugues d’Arzac hanged himself after his lover’s death. His ghost still prowls. Perfect for a one-night stopover before tomorrow’s train south. We crashed hard after village party vibes.
Next morning, July sun blazing, the gang grabbed boards and hit the dunes. Waves called. I, Marina, stayed back. Nightmare wrecked my sleep. Zipped into my tent, mat firm under me, sea breeze whispering. Tried to nap. Cracking branches nearby. Peeked out. Nothing. Heart raced. Dog maybe? But that musky man-scent hit. Human. Fear prickled.
The Stopover
Something brushed my hair. No wind—trees still. Shiver down spine. Dove back in tent. Warm hand now on nape. Massaging shoulders, sliding to tits. ‘Just tired,’ I muttered. Party hangover. But touches real. Fear faded to thrill. Peeled off top, bikini bottom only. Bottom off too. Wet already. Hot breath on neck, kisses, nibbles. Mouth sucking nipples. Ghost? Hugues? Village girl like me knew the tale—good man, not cruel.
Hand guided mine to pussy. Other teased hard nips. Pleasure built. Felt his cock—huge, throbbing, invisible in my grip. Jerked it slow. Lips wrapped around, tasting heat. Needed him inside. Four paws, ass up. Felt tip nudge, slide in deep. Slow thrusts. Moaned loud. Paced faster, hips slamming. ‘Fuck me, ghost daddy,’ I gasped. Climax hit hard. Blacked out.
Giggles woke me. Julie burst in our shared tent. ‘You okay? Rest?’ ‘Weird dream,’ I said. She spotted hickey above tit. ‘Not a dream!’ Eyes wide. Boys yelled—off to village store. We alone. Told her everything. She laughed, then squirmed. Hand between thighs. ‘Hot story.’ Suddenly, her hair moved. Strap slipped. ‘He’s here! Touching my tit!’
The Transit
‘Let it happen,’ I urged. Her eyes shut bliss. Other strap down, bronze tits out—Antilles beauty, caramel skin, fiery eyes. I watched, horny. Touched her hair, then curves. Kissed deep, tongues wild. First girl kiss. Her panties yanked off. ‘His tongue on my clit!’ she cried. Hot laps. Put her doggy. Gripped ghost cock, rubbed her slit. She bucked, screaming.
69 next. Licked her dripping folds. She devoured mine. Ghost urged us? Orgasms crashed—mine, hers, multiples. Forgot him. He watched? Soul eased now.
Sun dipped. Boys due back. Zipped bags, folded mats. Last look at woods. ‘We’ll return,’ we whispered. Train tomorrow. That hickey? My transit trophy. Anonymous fuck, pure heat. Road called.