Amy spotted the man watching them when the sun reflecting off the binoculars he held caught her eye.

She wondered how much he could see. She didn't tell Rachel. She'd wait until Rachel finished.

She glanced down the beach again to see if the man was still watching. He was. Standing there, ominous as a scarecrow, higher than them on the third-floor deck of an ultra-modern house four houses away. She could almost feel his eyes on her bare breasts.

Turning to watch Rachel on the chaise lounge next to her, Amy thought, it won't be long now; she’s almost there.

She wondered if the man with the binoculars could see what she was doing. Rachel had that look on her face, like she was in acute pain—or was about to get off. She was pressing the little oval vibrator so hard into the crotch of her bikini bottom her knuckles were white and Amy couldn’t hear the buzzing anymore. There she goes, Amy thought, as Rachel arched her back and lifted her body against the back cushion of the chaise.

"Nnnnnng, nnnnggnn, ahhhhhh," went Rachel, coming hard. Her body jerked several times before she relaxed and opened her eyes, blinking against the sunlight.

 "Good one," Amy said. She felt the tingle she always got watching Rachel orgasm, imagining she could almost feel it too.

"Omigod," Rachel said, shaking her head, catching her breath. She looked at her crotch. "I'm soaked."
She turned off the vibrator, squeezed her legs together, talked fast. "Really good . . . Scary good. I was afraid . . . I hurt myself. You know how sometimes you can feel it coming, only real far away, and you squeeze down on it, trying to make it come?”

Amy nodded, listening, enjoying Rachel chirping like a happy little songbird.

“Then I just, I don’t know, erupted inside? It wasn’t like using your fingers, it felt different, a lot, like you feel the buzz and it's like . . . you're hearing it with your pussy . . . Where’d you get this anyway?" She examined the vibrator. “I want to get one. But I really thought I might have hurt myself somehow.”

"Seriously, Rach? It didn't look like you were thinking at all."

"I wasn't at first, but when it got really, really intense, I got a little scared," she said. "Phwew!"

"Oh, Rachel, you're adorable," Amy said, smiling affectionately. "Listen. Don't look, but there's a man watching. With binoculars. Down the beach, that way," she said, and jerked her head to indicate he was behind her. "He's on the top deck of that real modern beach house."

"Omigod," Rachel said. She bolted off the chaise and turned her back to put her top on. "Did he see me? Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were pretty busy," Amy said, not putting her top on. They had been sunbathing topless for at least an hour, and Amy figured he'd already seen her boobs. She wondered how Rachel could be totally uninhibited one minute and embarrassed the next—just because someone was watching. Amy wished it had been her getting off. It would be more exciting with him watching her. But, that's Rachel. She’s not an exhibitionist.

"You let me keep going? With him watching?"

"Yea-ah. What's the problem? I love watching you," Amy said, laughing at Rachel's rosy blush. "Besides, if I said anything you would have missed that scary one, wouldn't you?"

"It was really good, I'm still tingling," Rachel said, a dreamy far-away look in her eyes as she gazed at the ocean. She turned to glare at Amy and slammed her palms on the arms of the chaise. "That's not the point! You should have warned me!" She looked past Amy. "Is he still there? I don't see anyone."

Amy looked over her shoulder. "No. He's gone," she said. "Too bad. We could give him a real show." Rachel didn't say anything. She shot Amy her exasperated look and went inside.

* * *

Rachel's great uncle owned the Jersey shore house where the girls were staying. It was on a barrier island north of Atlantic City in a seaside community where old traditional beach houses were interspersed with contemporary structures designed to be uniquely different from their neighbors. Aaron was the last of her grandfather’s six brothers still living and the property had passed to him. He and his wife, Emily, usually spent long weekends in the house, except during the winter when they closed it up.

Rachel had always gone there before with her parents, but they had decided to take a European tour without her, a kind of “second honeymoon” they said. So she invited Amy to come with her. It was early August in the summer before their senior year. In return for her great uncle’s hospitality, the girls had volunteered to do some cleaning and painting.

Wednesday morning, after breakfast, the girls walked south on the beach, past the modern house where Amy had seen the man on the deck the afternoon before. They walked barefoot along the water line, feeling the cold waves lap their feet, leaving grains of sand clinging to their toes and brightly painted toenails. They were both wearing T-shirts over bikini bottoms, no bras, and walking into a stiff breeze made the shirts cling to their breasts and flat tummies.

"Do you see him?" Rachel said, as they passed the modern house, not wanting to look herself.

"Yes, there he is! Hi, there!" Amy said, waving to no one.

"Omigod! Amy stop!" Amy knew Rachel would rather bury her head in the sand than look at the house. "Relax, Rach. He's not there. I'm teasing."

Rachel slapped her arm. "Amy, I swear I'll pee myself if you do it again."

"I think next time he's watching we should give him a real show, Rach. It'd be fun."

"You can, I'm not," Rachel said, imagining what Amy meant by “a real show.” "It's too freaky. I couldn't do it."

They walked a quarter mile or so along the beach before turning back. They didn't see the man on the way back. Their plan for the day was to wash windows. Working together they finished all the windows by noon. Rachel made grilled cheese sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea for lunch and they ate sitting at the table in the big old-fashioned kitchen.

Time at the beach was turning into an orgy of masturbation. They had become obsessive-compulsive about it. Amy got anxious if she went one day without masturbating. And if Rachel didn’t feel like it, she would watch, sometimes joining in if watching aroused her. They indulged daily, getting off singly or together, fingering themselves or each other, experimenting with any object they found in the house that could be inserted, including the wooden handle of an antique potato masher discovered in the kitchen. Their seventeen-year-old vaginas didn’t require lubrication. They were always wet.

The obsession began two weeks before when Amy showed Rachel a video on her iPad of her fingering herself. They made a few videos alone or together until they got bored with it. Rachel thought it was too bad they had no record of Amy going down on her. It had been wonderful, but she hadn't done it again. Rachel wanted her to, but she was too shy to ask. Amy was waiting for Rachel to return the favor, waiting to feel Rachel’s beautiful lips on her pussy. After eating and cleaning up the kitchen, Amy said she was going to the second-floor deck again to lay in the sun.

Rachel said, "I know what you're thinking."

Amy said, "What?"

"I know you're hoping he'll be watching."

Amy said, "So? Why do you care?"

Rachel put her hands on hips and said, "I'm not going out topless any more." She sounded like a defiant child.

"Suit yourself," Amy said. "Maybe I'll get naked." She made a face and stuck out her tongue. They were like a pair of two-year-olds squabbling.

On the deck facing the ocean Rachel wore a top, Amy didn’t. Rachel settled in a chaise and opened a paperback romance novel. The cover illustration showed a couple embracing, apparently in a storm, because Amy saw that the woman's long hair was blowing off the page. Standing by the railing she could make out the author’s name, bigger than the title.

"Why do you read that shit?" Amy said, her tone of voice continuing their squabble.

"No reason, just something to do."

"Well, if you want something to do, you could read something more intelligent," Amy said, making a sour face.

"Fuck off," Rachel said. She turned a page and continued to read.

Amy glanced toward the modern house and saw the man come out on the deck. She went over and knelt next to Rachel on the chaise lounge. Rachel shifted her hips to make room.

"I'm sorry, Rach," Amy said sweetly. She leaned both hands on the armrests of the chaise and said, "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

She kissed her mouth. Rachel pushed Amy's face away. Rachel frowned, realizing what Amy was doing.

"He's back, isn't he?"

Amy grinned. "Uh-huh."

"I don't want to do anything, Amy." Amy puckered her lips and made a sad face.

"Oh, Rachel, I'm so horny."

"You're always horny. No!" She pushed Amy away, flipped her long black hair back, and went inside, closing the sliding screen so forcefully it vibrated like a guitar string.

Amy crossed to the railing and looked out over the ocean for a few minutes, showing the man her breasts in profile. They weren't large, but bigger than Rachel's, and she knew they were perfect. She imagined him watching, seeing her erect nipples through the lens of the binoculars. She ran her fingers through her shaggy blond locks, raised her arms and leaned back to look at the sky, puffing out her bosom like a bold advertisement. All she needed was a pole to climb, spin around it, be a tiny topless dancer in the prisms of his binoculars.

Exhibiting her body aroused her, made her wet, caused the fluid to seep into her bikini, like squeezing juice from a slice of lemon. She peeked at him as she moved to the chaise. She bent over, more than was necessary to adjust the back of the chaise so it was nearly flat. Satisfied that she had given him a long enough look at her ass, she stretched out on her back on the cushions of the chaise.

She began lightly dragging her fingertips back and forth over her abdomen, slowly getting closer to her breasts. She touched them with both hands, pinched her nipples gently, generating pleasurable waves of sensation that spread like ripples from a pebble dropped in a pond of sea water trapped behind the falling tide. Her mind was absorbed in the tantalizing feelings of her touch, until she began to wonder if she was being too obvious, signalling that she was aware of him watching. Oh, well, she thought, I am.

Rachel came to the open sliding door and spoke through the screen, "Amy, what are you doing?"

Amy continued to stimulate her nipples, rolling the hard little nuggets in her fingers. "Nothing."

“I can see what you're doing,” Rachel said.

“I know.”

"You know that guy could be a pervert or something."

Amy, wetting two fingers, circling a nipple, said, "Mmmm.

Think he'll come and ravish me?"

"Don’t talk crazy,” Rachel said. She watched Amy's slender fingers, the white nails drawing circles on her tan breast. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips and said, “You know you're making me horny."

Amy slid her hand into her bikini and fondled her clit. "Come on out, Rachel. Come feel how wet I am."
She raised her hand to her face and examined her fingers. She sucked the tips, smacked her lips, and said, "Mmm-mmm. That's yummy, Rachel. You want to taste?"

Rachel stepped back away from the light and began to undress. "Yes. Come here and let me taste."

Amy twisted around look and saw Rachel's nakedness glowing in the dim light inside. "Rachel, don't tease me. Don't say it unless you mean it."

Rachel said softly, "I mean it. Bring your pussy in here. Let me taste it."

The very idea of Rachel going down on her excited her more than continuing to perform for the man on the deck. She had been hoping for weeks that Rachel would reciprocate. She hoped she was serious now.

It took only minutes to find out she was. Naked, on her back, knees flexed, she looked at the top of Rachel’s head between her legs. Rachel squatting down there, staring at her crotch, a look of fascination on her face. Amy wondered what she was doing, wanting Rachel to stop staring and do something, anything. She shivered with anticipation.

Rachel, sitting on her legs with her face close to it, studied Amy's crotch. The labia were autumn toned, the color of a pear. With trembling fingers she gently lifted a flap to peek underneath, as if opening a small gift box. Her eyes widened at the sight of the shocking pink interior of Amy's vagina, glistening with a liquid sheen. The erect clitoris emerged from its hood. The dark opening of the uterus winked flirtatiously in a tiny spasm. She noticed dark fuzz in the crack of the ass near that other hole.

She tentatively applied a finger to the clitoris and Amy stiffened, her head snapped back into the pillows and the air rushed out of her throat. The sound broke the silence and startled Rachel into action. Her insides roiled with fear and excitement, but she plunged forward, gripped Amy's thighs, spreading the pussy lips with her thumbs, pulling it wide, and attacked it rapaciously, like a starving animal.

Amy was nearly delirious with pleasure. She gasped. She groaned. An image of the man flashed behind her eyelids. She wished he could see this. She clutched the backs of her thighs, pulling them higher, and pointed her toes at the ceiling. Her expressions alternated between wide-eyed surprise and frowning desperation as Rachel fingered and sucked at her. She clenched her teeth and went “Nnnnuunnngggg” then opened her mouth to gasp for air. She didn’t hear the surf breaking or the shorebirds croaking outside the open windows, only the slittery sounds of Rachel's tongue and fingers.

Even with no experience, Rachel had her in ecstasy.

Rachel was savoring the tastes and smells she discovered between Amy's thighs: Salty on skin and flaps, a mild tangy flavor inside, both intensified by a musky odor that assaulted her nose and kindled her own desire. Her tongue discovered a tiny patch of stubble Amy missed when she shaved. Amy’s pussy quivered against her lips. Eating pussy was more stimulating than she had imagined.

She pushed Amy's ass cheeks to raise her pelvis and spread her gash wider and plunged her tongue inside. A flood of Amy’s juice blended with Rachel’s saliva and spilled into a growing wet spot on the bed. Rachel’s lips, chin, and fingers were slimed with it. She lapped Amy’s swollen clit and plunged two fingers into her cunt.

Her pinky touched the anus and Amy gasped. Rachel probed the opening.
 
"Yes. Yes!" Amy cried.

Rachel pushed gently and the pinky slid in. She paused, held it there, and raised her eyes to look at Amy’s face.

Amy grunted “Yes!” nodding her head head frantically.

Rachel inserted her middle finger. Slathered in the lubricious liquid drooling from above, it went in easily. Amy wriggled downward, wanting it deeper. Feeling the heat inside Amy's ass made Rachel even hotter, forced her aching tongue to keep going as she smothered Amy’s cunt with her face. Amy stiffened, red-faced, grimacing, holding her breath; Rachel felt the sphincter squeeze and release her finger as it spasmed again and again.

Amy screamed, “Oh! Oh-oh! Oh, god! I’m coming! I’m comm-innnngggg!” so loud Rachel feared for a second that somebody would hear it.

Rachel couldn’t wait any longer. She clambered on top of Amy, held her face in her hands and kissed her passionately. She got her leg between Amy's thighs and thrust her crotch tightly against Amy's. She twisted and rotated her hips to rub their pussies together.

Her orgasm began almost on contact. It was like riding a rocket that climbed to its zenith and hung there agonizingly long before exploding in a starry burst of white-hot sparks that faded away as they drifted back to earth. And she drifted back from that place she went during orgasm, trembling, entwined with Amy, panting to fill her lungs with air, and noticed that her mind was quiet, not a thought to be heard.

“Omigod,” she whispered. Amy didn't stir. Her eyes were closed.

"Amy?" Rachel said. "Amy? You okay?"

Amy untangled her legs as a broad happy grin stretched her lips. "I'm wonderful. You're a sweetheart . . . sweet Rachel, I love you."

"Omigod, Amy. You sound drunk," Rachel said.

"You can't, no, I can't . . . believe how good I feel. Like, like--" searching the room with her eyes, trying to think how to describe it, "I'm like a bowl of warm cooked noodles, soft and warm, drenched in butter, oodles of butter. I’m sleepy."

"Ohmigod, Amy, was I really good?" 

Amy smiled and nodded solemnly. "Yes. And I loved your finger in my ass. That really sent me over the edge."

"I mean, omigod, it was my first time . . . and I wasn't sure I was doing it right. I just tried to imagine how it would feel to you, if you would like —"

“I told you I loved it,” Amy whispered, and shushed her with long tender kisses. In a few minutes they fell asleep, nestled together like a pair of kittens.
* * *


Uncle Aaron and Emily arrived Saturday morning. He was pleased with the girls' work at the house. Glass that hadn't been cleaned for years was clear as an open window. He took them all to dinner Sunday night at the best restaurant on the island, The Sandpiper. They were having coffee and dessert when Amy saw a handsome older man approaching them. She thought there was something familiar about him. He was wearing a gray blazer, plaid shirt, white cotton trousers, and Dockers.

"Hello, Aaron," the man said. "No, don't get up."

He shook hands with Aaron and Emily, greeted them, asked how they were, chatted about the weather.

Aaron introduced them, and the man took Rachel’s hand, saying so nice to meet you. He took Amy's hand, said "enchanted," saying it the French way, on-shawn-tay, and he held her hand a tad too long, staring into her eyes until she blushed.

His name was Robert Bissett, Ro-behr Biss-ay was the way Aaron said it. He was from Quebec.

"I think I've seen you," he said to Amy, and she realized why he looked familiar. He was the man who had been watching her. She felt her cheeks burning.

"Yes, you've probably seen these pretty young ladies," Aaron said, "They're at my house."

"Ah-hah," Robert said. "Just so. That's probably where I've seen you." His eyes lingered on Amy and he winked. He smiled and said, "Well, I certainly hope to see you all again soon. Au revoir."

After Robert Bissett left, Aaron told the girls he was a wealthy industrialist who owned factories in Europe and Asia.

"Does he own that modern house near yours," Amy said, "the really modern white one about four houses down the beach toward the narrow part of the island?"

"Yes. He built that house, oh, must be several years ago now," Aaron said. He leaned in to the table and said in a stage whisper, "It's a monstrosity, isn't it? An ugly insult even to modernity."

Amy disagreed, but didn't say it. She thought Robert's house was cool.

Back at the beach house, after Aaron and Emily left for home, Amy told Rachel. "He was the guy watching us!" 

"Omigod!" Rachel’s eyes opened wide. "Are you sure?"

"Uh-huh. It was him."

"He was really handsome, though, wasn't he? Omigod."

"Rach, you have to start saying something else. That's getting old."

"Omigod!" she said, covering her mouth. "Do I say it all the time?"

"You mean, like, just now?" Amy said. "Yea-ah."

* * *


Monday morning they prepared to paint the dining room. They rolled up the oriental rug and moved the furniture into the middle of the room and covered it with plastic drop cloths. They took down everything from the walls and stashed it in the living room. They were ready to begin painting when the telephone rang. Rachel went to the wall phone in the kitchen and picked up.

"Hello. This is Robert Bissett. Which one are you?" Rachel’s jaw dropped.

Amy said, "Who is it?"

Rachel cupped the mouthpiece with her hand and whispered. "It's him! The guy from down the beach!"

Amy rushed over and grabbed the phone. She took a deep breath and said in her sexiest tone, "Hello, Rob-ehr. It's Amy. How are you?" She thought of trying high-school French but decided against it. Her pronunciation had never been very good.

"Very well, Amy," he said, "and you?"

"Oh, we're fine. I mean, Rachel's here. She's fine, too." Rachel chewed a thumbnail. "She said hello."

"Oh, wonderful. Hello there, Rachel. So, Amy, I bet you're wondering why I called. I have to go to Quebec in a few days, I don't know when I'll be coming back, but before I go I wanted to invite you—and Rachel, of course—to dinner. Can you come tomorrow evening to my home?"

"Oh, we'd love to come to dinner . . . at your house," Amy said, beaming and pumping her fist. She did a little shimmy with her hips. Rachel rolled her eyes. Amy said, "What time?"

"Let me see, I want to prepare something special for you two very special girls. Do you like lobster, Amy? And your friend?"

"Yes."

"Lobster it will be, then. Can you come at six o'clock? My home is the white one, just down the beach."

"Yes. Six. We'll see you then." She winked at Rachel. “Thank you so much.”

"Oh, yes. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Amy. Cioa Bella," he said.

"'Bye, Rob-ehr. Rachel! Were going to dinner! Do you believe it?"

Rachel glared back at her. "You said yes and you didn't even ask me."

"Oh, Jesus. Get over yourself, Rachel. You're going."

To be continued . . .