Stranded

Stranded

Kathryn M. Burke

The Outer Banks of North Carolina! What a wonderful spot for a summer vacation, especially if you've spent most of your life in a landlocked area like Columbus, Ohio.

I'm Jimmy Gardner, and my parents decided to treat me to this vacation as a way of celebrating both my eighteenth birthday and my acceptance to Ohio State (sure, it's mostly just a dopey football school—but hey, it's close by and won't cost too much). My high school career wasn't all that stellar, but was just good enough to get into OSU. The downside of the vacation was that my annoying older sister, Janice, who was twenty and would be starting her junior year at the same eminent institution of higher learning, would be tagging along. She and I didn't exactly get along so great. She'd become one of these feminists who thought all guys were criminals-in-the-making who didn't "respect" women the way women deserved to be respected. I guess her only virtue, in my opinion, was that she was quite a looker—but more on that later.

The vacation got off on the wrong foot, as my dad was delayed by urgent work at his office and wouldn't be able to join us for a day or two. So the three of us bundled into the car ourselves and headed out. We figured that, with all three of us sharing the driving, we would get there in pretty good time—and we did.

It was damn hot in the Outer Banks that August, but that's what we wanted. We were all good swimmers, and we packed various bathing suits to take advantage of the kinds of sandy beaches that people in Ohio can only dream about. And I have to say that having not one but two nice-looking females, both of whom would be dressed only in swimwear for long periods of time, was one of the things I was most looking forward to on this trip. I'm referring, of course, to my sister—and my mom.

My mother (she had the old-fashioned name of Mabel—which she hated all the time she was growing up until Dad came along and said it was "charming") had had Janice when she was only twenty, so right now she was forty—and looked a lot younger. She was petite (no more than five foot four) and slender, but really curvy here and there, especially where it mattered. All my guy friends said she was just the cutest mother they'd ever seen; in fact, they'd started using another term about her—an acronym, I think it's called—which, when I finally understood what it meant, made me want to punch them in the face. But on reflection, I couldn't say they were wrong.

She had this delicate, oval face that was somehow tinged with melancholy—not that my mom was sad a lot, or at all. In fact, a lot of the time she seemed spooked. She was one of these people (and I'm sorry to say there are more women like this than men—no disrespect toward females intended!) who seem scared of everything. She was a wonderful mom, and I loved her—but when I got to be bigger and stronger and taller than her, I think she began to be afraid even of me. That's silly, isn't it?

That first day of the vacation, we were just tired from all the driving we'd done, and we managed to get to our cabin on the Outer Banks pretty late in the day, so we did nothing but go right to sleep. Luckily, the place had three bedrooms, so I wouldn't have to shack up with my annoying sister—something she would have hit the ceiling about anyway. The next day we just loafed around, not really knowing what to do. Dad was usually the one to organize our vacation schedules, and he wouldn't be showing up until the next day.

After dinner, I saw a place near the shore where you could rent little speedboats and go on your own self-guided tours of the area. That sounded like a good idea to me, but both Janice and my mom were hesitant. I managed to persuade Mom to go with me, but Janice drew the line, giving me this look that said, There's no way I'm stepping into a boat with you driving it! Okay, I'd never driven a speedboat before, but how hard could it be?

So Mom and I took off while Janice went back to the cabin for some peace and quiet. I made a joke about what she might be doing all by herself, and she swung her little fist at me—but I dodged it with ease.

Mom and I got into the boat, which really was pretty small. There was still a lot of daylight, since sun set pretty late at this time of year. After getting some elementary instructions about how to run the vehicle, we set off on our journey.

Did I mention that Mom had changed into a strapless one-piece swimsuit that clung to her body—from breasts to butt—in a way I'd never seen before? I could tell she was hugely self-conscious about showing off her "assets" to her own son, and she tried to avoid my gaze as much as she could. I myself was wearing only swimming trunks: it was still pretty warm, and I figured we might land on some remote beach and have a swim.

The boat was pretty easy to manage, and we were exhilarated by having the wind strike our faces, the spray from the water coming up and giving us a nice little bath, and of course the spectacular view of the overall terrain. I decided to head for a spot where no one else was: maybe I could pretend I was on that stupid old Gilligan's Island show and land on a "deserted island." Of course, there were no islands here, just this long peninsula; but you could dream, couldn't you?

I guess I went a little too fast. It was easy to do with this boat, which had a lot more power than you expected. As I was heading toward the coast—which really looked pretty damn deserted—she got up from the back of the boat and said: "Jimmy, please be careful!"

Her words had the opposite effect, because when I turned my head to look at her and say, "We'll be fine, Mom," I kind of lost track of where I was. With a little scream, she tried to wrestle the steering wheel of the boat out of my hands—and the end result is that we bumped hard against something in the water (apparently a submerged rock) that caused a loud crash. The boat's motor immediately died, and we came almost to a standstill.

And then I noticed that there was this big hole in the side of the boat, and water was flowing in.

"Omigod, we're gonna drown!" my mother cried out in a tiny little high-pitched voice, as she looked at the hole in the boat with both hands plastered to her cheeks.

"Mom, we're not going to drown," I said.

But Mom was so agitated that she just jumped overboard, even though we were no more than about twenty feet from the shore. I felt the need to follow her, just to make sure her freaking out didn't result in the very thing she was afraid of. But she was a good swimmer, and her strong, powerful strokes got her to shore pretty fast. I won't deny that I liked looking at her butt as she swam ahead of me, with her shapely legs propelling her along.

When we got onto the beach, we turned around and looked at our poor little boat. It didn't actually sink; it was already in fairly shallow water. But it fell pathetically on its side, like some animal that's been shot with an arrow, and just lay there, useless. There would be no way we could get back to the rental place with it.

So at this point my mom began running around like a chicken with its head cut off, crying, "Omigod! Omigod! We're stranded here!"

"Mom, calm down," I said sharply.

My tone of voice must have taken her by surprise, because she stopped dead in her tracks and just gaped at me.

"Look, Mom," I said with as much confidence as I could summon, "someone will come and rescue us. Eventually they'll figure out that we haven't returned the boat, and so they'll come and look for us. We haven't gone to the ends of the earth, you know."

Mom had managed to take her smartphone with her, just carrying it in her hand. She tried punching in some number—any number—but of course there was no service. There are still places on this earth where your phone just won't work, and we were in one of these places.

"What are we going to do, Jimmy?" she cried—and I thought she was going to burst into tears.

I figured I had to settle her down. So what I did was to come up to her, kind of like the way I'd seen Dad do, and take her in my arms.

She resisted for a while—I guess she thought it wasn't right for a son to do what I was doing—but I held her tight. She only came up to about my chin, and all of a sudden she threw her hands around my neck and hugged me back. She was raised with this idea that men are supposed to be in charge of situations like this—and I was the only man around, so she had to rely on me.

I have to say, holding my mom this way was really, really nice. Her wet swimsuit was like a second skin, slick and glistening, and didn't do anything to prevent her jutting breasts from pressing up against my bare chest. And in spite of her little dip in the salt water, she smelled nice—smelled like a girl. You know what I mean?

She was trembling a little—whether from the chill of having been in the water, or from nerves, I couldn't tell. I stroked her back to try to get her to calm down, and maybe my hand went down a little too far and brushed up against her butt, making her squeal a bit. Then, for no reason that I could tell, I lifted up her face and kissed her on the mouth.

She tried to resist that too, making little sounds in her throat as she tried to pull her face away. But I wouldn't let her, and eventually she just gave way. That's the kind of person she was: she just yielded to superior force, especially when that force was brought on by a man. I'd seen Dad do this lots of times when she was supposedly mad at him: it was his way of making up.

That kiss must have lasted, like, maybe half a minute or even a full minute. Finally she managed to pull away from me, and I could see that her face had gotten all red from blushing. She first gave me this appalled look, then buried her face in my chest again, muttering, "Jimmy, you shouldn't kiss your mother like that."

She broke away from my embrace, as if saying Enough of this foolishness! And she had a point. There was no telling when we'd get rescued: we'd rented the boat for the entire evening, and it was highly likely that no one would come looking for us until tomorrow morning. So we were going to be stuck on this deserted beach for at least one night, and we had to make the best of it.

The sun was setting in a hurry, and the temperature was dropping just as fast. I could see goosebumps all over my mom's arms, and I felt them on my arms too. She was rubbing those arms up and down to get warm, but it wasn't helping much. She was also looking around to see if we could find some shelter for the night, but there really was nothing at all to be seen—just this long beach. Her expression was getting even more spooked and despairing than usual.

So I felt I had to make some hard decisions.

"Look, Mom," I said, "this is what we're going to do. We'll have to dry ourselves off somehow and then get as comfortable as we can. And the only way we can do that"—and here I glared at her in the most authoritative way I could—"is to cuddle up together and let our body heat get us through the night."

Her jaw dropped at that, but she said nothing.

"The one thing we have to do is get out of these wet suits," I went on. "We'll never get dry keeping them on."

As my mother stood there frozen in alarm and horror, I calmly removed my trunks. It was pretty hard to get them off: they were pretty tight to begin with, and had become tighter and more unwieldy because of a certain situation.

To put in bluntly, I had a huge hard-on.

Well, what do you expect? That long kiss, along with the feel of my mother's body from head to toe—with only that thin swimsuit she was wearing over her naked skin—had roused me more powerfully than anything in recent memory. It didn't matter that it was my mom having this effect on me: by now I was starting to think of her simply as an incredibly desirable female whom I wanted to get to know a whole lot better.

Meanwhile, Mom was staring at my erection the way a rabbit stares at a snake. I was a full eight inches, and maybe she was surprised at how big it was. I actually saw her lick her lips as she gawked at it—which made me wonder . . . (Was it bigger than Dad's?)

I picked up handfuls of sand and rubbed it all over my body, front and back, to dry myself off. A lot of it clung to me, but I got fairly dry in a matter of minutes. Then, bearing down on her, I said to Mom:

"Okay, it's your turn."

Her face took on a grimace like that of the standard "tragedy" mask. She backed away, and her hands clung to the suit as if she'd just keel over and expire if it was removed.

"No, Jimmy," she whined, "we mustn't . . ."

"Mom," I said gently but commandingly, "this is the only way. You don't want to freeze to death, do you?"

There really wasn't much likelihood of that happening: I figured the temperature might go down to the 50s overnight, but that was about all. But it really wasn't good for her to be wet all over with the chill of night coming. Anyway, I was not to be denied: I now wanted to see her scrumptious naked body in the worst way.

So I came up to her, grabbed her swimsuit on either side at the top, and pulled it down.

The first thing that happened was that her breasts popped out. Now I was the one who gaped: those boobs were incredibly round, firm, and heavy, and the nipples were already as erect as my cock. I now knelt down and continued to peel off the suit the way you remove the outer skin of an onion, and even though Mom was letting out these pathetic little moans, I forced it all the way down to her feet.

She was now totally naked.

Of course, she tried to cover herself in the usual way: one hand over her tits and the other over her groin. That made her look like Botticelli's Birth of Venus, except that Mom was a brunette instead of a blonde, and Mom didn't have the ridiculously long hair that Venus used to help cover her delta. In fact, my face was now exactly at the level of that area, and I could see a thick patch of dark, curly hair that her tiny hand didn't come close to concealing.

Mom didn't remain standing for long. With a little cry, she fell to the ground and tried to get into a fetal position, to hide as much of her nakedness as possible. I really did want to get as much moisture off of her as I could, so I basically started rolling her around in the dry sand. Her back and butt got a lot of sand on them, but then I had to pry her hands away to get sand on her front. I won't deny that I spent a fair amount of time pressing sand against her breasts and delta, while Mom just lay there with her eyes tightly shut. That was just like what kids did: If I can't see you, then you must not be able to see me.

But I'd gotten a pretty good look—and feel—and was ready for more.

We were now in an area of the beach that, so far as I could tell, would remain dry even at high tide (whenever that was). So I figured this would be our makeshift bed for the night. I took Mom in my arms and basically forced her to hold me—but in fact she did that of her own accord, throwing her arms around my neck and holding her body close to mine. At least—so she was thinking—you won't be able to see my private parts this way!

But if I couldn't see them, I could touch them.

The first thing I did was to get a good feel of her butt—and man, it was a great butt! Round and smooth, and still quite shapely after all these years. She wasn't really trying to stop me, but she did let out little whimpers every now and then. In fact, she started squirming up against me, so that her breasts rubbed up against my chest. She had tried to pull the lower half of her body away from mine, to avoid contact with my erection, but there was no way that was going to happen, and when I rubbed it against her thighs I thought I would explode right then.

But now I noticed that those whimpers—which I took to be her embarrassment at being naked and in such close contact with her own son—took on a somewhat different tone. They were turning into moans of pleasure.

Now, I ain't had a lot of experience with girls, but I had some idea of when a female was enjoying herself. My mom was clearly liking my massaging of her butt, and she now seemed to be deliberately pressing herself against my cock. That struck me as an interesting development, so I felt bold enough to go a step further.

I slipped my hand between our bodies and placed it between her legs.

She did emit a little squeal of surprise at that, but she didn't do anything else. I thought she might get really angry and yell, "Jimmy, you horrible boy, stop that at once!" But that wasn't the way she was made. She didn't say anything; and she actually opened her legs a bit more so that my hand had better access to her area. And no wonder: she was already pretty wet.

This wasn't water; this was her own wetness.

That cleft that women have down there is really a bit of a mystery to a lot of young guys: we really don't know what goes on there. It was kind of soft and squishy, but once you parted those lips—they're called labia, aren't they?—you find (if the woman is getting hot) this thin, somewhat sticky, and quite pungent trickle of fluid leaking out. The aroma was like nothing I'd ever smelt before, and it excited me even more than before. But I had a feeling that the things I wanted to do would meet less resistance if I kept on doing what I was doing.

In short, I wanted to make my mother come.

And she clearly wanted it too. Now she was clinging to me with a sort of desperation, and her mouth had latched onto my shoulder—I think she was even biting down on it every so often. Her moans were getting louder now, and she was becoming totally shameless: it made no difference that this was her son stimulating her; she just wanted release from her pent-up excitement.

And that release came surprisingly fast. She suddenly let out a loud cry as I touched that strange little nub she has down there, and then it was as if she was being strangled, if the little choking sounds coming out of her throat were any guide. I kept on rubbing, since a guy had told me you could make a girl's orgasm go on for a long time if you just keep on stroking her gently. Mom was now shuddering, sometimes bucking her hips, and at one point she grabbed my face with both hands and pasted a long, wet kiss on my mouth.

All of a sudden, the enormity of what was happening overcame her, and she flung herself away from me, landing on her back. She didn't seem concerned anymore about displaying her nudity; instead, she just covered her face with her hands and let out little moans.

But I wasn't satisfied with getting her off. It was now my turn.

I too was beginning to realize the momentousness of what I was about to do, but I wasn't going to stop. Giving her supine form a brief glance, I placed myself on top of her, my head at her breasts. I took those breasts in my hand, kneaded and squeezed them, kissed and nuzzled them, and sucked on the nipples. By this time Mom had let her hands drop to her sides as she gazed blankly at what I was doing. Then I literally climbed up her body, made her part her legs, and, while looking right into her eyes, stuck my cock into her pussy.

I was expecting her to scream with horror or try to throw me off of her, but she just lay there in a kind of stunned silence. The funny thing was that, without seeming to be aware of what she was doing, she raised up her legs and bent her knees to let me in more easily. It's like women have this irrepressible instinct to let a man go into them, even if in their conscious minds they don't want it.

The first feel of her pussy as it engulfed my cock was the most incredible thing I've ever experienced. It was warm, wet, and tight. Sure, I knew that two human beings—including myself—had come out of this cavity, but somehow her vagina clutched my cock as if she were a teenager. And, again without her being entirely aware of it, she let her hands snake around my back and offered up her face to be kissed. I did kiss it all over—mouth, nose, cheeks, forehead, even her eyes—and then I kissed and licked her neck and shoulders and armpits (hey, don't scoff unless you've tried it!). All the while I was pumping her harder and harder, getting nearly all of my eight inches into the little crevice that every man believes to be a little piece of heaven.