I had been told that you can often meet interesting people on adult education literary courses. The seeds of my son-in-law’s divorce were sown at an Open University Summer School. But that’s another story.

After an extensive trawl of the net, I’d found a week-long course on short story writing. The good news was that there were still vacancies and that it was located on the gloriously scenic Gower Peninsular. The bad news was that it was a quasi-religious set-up (early morning prayers, a silent vegan supper etc) in a former Baptist seminary. Quoting to myself the old gambler’s adage ‘In for a Penny’, I sent them a deposit and started planning my train trip to Wales.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You don’t look like a Happy Clapper to me, boyo,” was my taxi driver’s droll observation as I paid for the trip from Swansea station.

“How d’you mean?”

He pocketed the tip and nodded knowingly over his shoulder. “Bloody fervent they are, that lot.”

The piped electric organ hymnal wafting through reception, together with a strong smell of incense, made me wonder if I’d made a terrible mistake.

"You must be Mr Edmonds!” a buxom old biddy in a flour-dusted apron barked as she appeared from the kitchens. “Sign here please. Supper is at six sharp. And, look you, no alcohol is permitted.” I signed her book as instructed. “She took a key from rack behind her. “Room 2B. Ground floor You’re in the beach annexe. Will you be wanting a daily paper?” I declined the offer and took my key. ‘What a good job I’ve brought my own booze’, I reflected.

If the cook-manageress’ welcome was less than cordial, spacious Room 2B was an absolute delight: neatly furnished in several pale blue tones, with a huge double bed and an adjoining bathroom with a state-of-the-art shower. I popped the Gideon Bible into the bedside cupboard. The room’s big bonus was the panoramic view from my bedroom window of the golden sands of The Gower. In the foreground, 2B had the use of a small timber-slatted deck lined with plant pots, though I was alarmed to discover that the space was already occupied by a sunbather. It would seem that 2B shared the deck with another guest’s bedroom.

My next-door neighbour (presumably also on this literary retreat) turned out to be a buxom, dark-skinned 40-something red-headed female in a faded blue denim bib-and-brace boiler suit. She wore crimson lipstick, crimson-painted finger and toenails. Her denim bib-flap was folded down to reveal two huge breasts, each surmounted by a silver nipple ring. In her ears, plugged into her scarlet iPhone, were a pair of red earphones.

I quickly unpacked my few belongings, slipped into some shorts and a T-shirt and quietly let myself out onto the sun deck. As my bedroom door clicked closed, my neighbour opened one eye and simultaneously flipped the brace flap up to cover her boobs, giving me a welcoming smile. “Well, hello! I’m Carla.”

“Pleased to meet you, Carla. I’m Simon. Are you here for the literary course?”

“Yes. Got here this morning. You?”

“Err, yes. But it’s only the short story writing I’m interested in. I need to hone my rusty skills up in that department as there’s an internet competition with a big prize that I want to enter.” I was dying to ask her to fold the top part of her boiler suit down again so that I could admire her glorious mammary display. “Pity about the ‘no booze’ rule,” I reflected.

“Don’t give it a thought, sweetie,” she chuckled. “D’you fancy a dram?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘no’.” I glanced out to sea. “Even though the sun’s not quite over the yardarm. What’s on offer?”

“Would Pimms be ok?”

“It certainly would!”

“Stay right there.” Slipping nimbly from her lounger she headed for her room, returning minutes later to present me with a bubbling tumbler of orange booze. Once again, her bib flap was hanging down, giving me a lovely close-up of her huge tits for the first time. They were magnificent. Her dark brown areolas were the size of small saucers. Seeing my wide-eyed glance, she asked: “So sorry, d’you mind? It’s just I hate bikini lines on titties.”

“Mind? I can’t take my eyes off them. They’re magnificent!”

She stroked one of the nipple rings. “Why thank you, kind sir. Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

Carla settled back onto her lounger, plugged her earphones back in and closed her eyes. I was more than happy to gaze at her beautiful breasts while stroking my hand across the bulge in my shorts. In the middle distance I could see the smooth amber sands being washed over by the incoming tide.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Carla and I shared a table at suppertime (an uninspiring Welsh vegetarian version of shepherd’s pie, followed by treacle tart with runny custard). We lingered over our milky coffees until the dining room was all but deserted. “Are you going to chance tomorrow morning’s opening session?” Carla asked.

“Remind me what the theme is?”

“’How the Bible has influenced modern short story writing’. It’s being given by a local vicar.” She gave a wry half-smile and tipped her head to one side quizzically.

“Err… I think I’ll pass on that one.”

“Me too. Fancy exploring the beach? The tide should be out and the forecast says it’s going to be hot. Maybe take a packed lunch?”

“Mmmm… that sounds much more interesting and I’ll supply the booze.”

“They do say…” her sentence tailed off as she nervously swivelled her empty coffee cup in the saucer.

“Yes?”

“Well… they do say that down the far end of the beach we can see from our deck, there’s a designated nudist beach called Whiteford Sands. Fancy walking down there to check it out?”

“I’d love to.” I wanted to add: “Maybe I might get to see you in the altogether,” but only blushed.

Carla ran a hand up my thigh and giggled. “Don’t worry, sweetie, I think I can read your mind. As a matter of fact, I’d quite like an excuse to get a good look at the tackle hidden in those shorts of yours! You show me yours and I’ll show you mine!”

“It’s a deal!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We slipped out of the house immediately after breakfast. My knapsack held the two packed lunches we’d persuaded the grumpy manageress to put together for us, some fruit scrumped from the garden, our beach towels, a bottle of brandy, four cans of ginger ale and two tumblers. The perfect picnic.

But for a desultory beachcomber in a shabby mackintosh walking his dog, the long sandy beach was deserted. A half-mile on we encountered a rope-and-post barrier. ‘RHYBUDD!’ (warning) it declared, with printed bi-lingual regulations printed beneath. The English version instructed anyone passing this point to remove their clothing, but advised that ‘inappropriate behaviour would result in automatic prosecution.’

“Spoilsports,” Carla snorted as she ducked beneath the rope. She was out of her boiler suit in moments, exposing a wonderful all-over tan. With her clothing crumpled around her ankles, she stroked the palm of one hand across her silky-smooth Mons Venus. “Right, big boy: time to let the dog see the rabbit.” I froze at the invitation – despite the fact that all the way along the beach I had been eagerly anticipating this moment.

“Well?”

I was still standing in non-naturist territory. Hard as a rock and horny as hell. I unzipped, letting my shorts fall around my ankles to expose a huge erection (I’m the proud owner of an uncut eight-incher with a fat girth).

“Mmmmm! Just get under the rope pronto, buster. I need to wrap my lips around that magnificent tool,” Carla squealed excitedly. “Let’s go up in those dunes, so we can be REALLY nude and naughty!”

We settled on a nice secluded hollow in the sand dunes and set out our stall: towels, picnic things and, most importantly, the bar (which I was to be in charge of). Carla squatted on her towel, legs spread wide so that I could admire her delicious quim. I handed her a large brandy and dry ginger. Then kneeling naked in front of her, I tentatively stroked my glans across her opening. My pre-cum matched her moistness perfectly. “How does that feel?”

She giggled. “The brandy or your cock?”

“Either.”

“Well, I certainly need both of ‘em inside me!”

Any thoughts of literary advancement rapidly vanished as two rapacious individuals fell on each other. I slid inside her with ease. “Oh fuck, Simon, that’s so fucking beautiful; your lovely big cock right inside me!” she moaned. “Don’t take it out, darling, until you’ve filled my cunt up with your spunk!” And as if to arouse me further, she added: “And when you’ve cum I’ll sit on your face so that you can lick it as it trickles out!” Face-sitting had long been one of my favourite perversions.

Carla expertly ‘ground’ her crotch into my face, at the same time dexterously using her vaginal muscles to push my semen into my mouth. I wanked myself off, eagerly shooting over her spine. After a long and very messy session we paused to refresh our empty glasses. “D’you suppose they’d classify that as ‘inappropriate behaviour?” she asked with a giggle.

“Most definitely. In Victorian times we’d probably have been deported to Australia!”

Carla stretched out on her towel, leaving her legs splayed tantalisingly open, glistening with our ejaculate. Raising her head, she glanced in the direction of the sea. “Hey, I think we’ve got company,” she whispered.

I cautiously turned in the direction in which she was gazing. The dog walker in the pork pie hat was silhouetted on top of a dune, eyeing us furtively and clearly playing ‘pocket billiards’.

“Shall we lay on a show for him?”

“Such as?”

“Anal. You kneel behind me and I’ll go ‘doggie’.”

“What a lovely idea. Doggie for the doggie man.”

Carla reached into her beach bag to remove a tube of gel and began liberally lubing my shaft. “Oh my, you are big aren’t you?” she said gleefully.

“Think you’ve got room?”

“Well, he’s certainly larger than my biggest toy. We’ll soon find out.”

Ducking her head beneath one arm, Carla checked out our ‘audience’. Pointing her rear in his direction she added: “He’s got his cock out now, so we’d better lay on a good show for the old perve!” The dog walker’s mac was now spread open, revealing the classic ‘flasher’s kit’: fake trouser leg bottoms secured by Velcro tapes. His cock was in his hand and he was wanking energetically.

She stretched a hand between her legs in order to expand her sphincter for me (and also to give the flasher a good view). My engorged knobhead paused momentarily at the dark opening to her anus, then slipped easily inside.

“Oh Simon, you don’t know how much I love having my bottom fucked: go deep darling!” The words triggered my third load of the day.

Holding hands and with our naked bodies liberally ‘dusted’ with sand adhering to all our secretions, we flopped onto our towels, our shoulders touching. The flasher had vanished. Eyes closed, Carla began to idly frig herself. I felt her gently quiver as she came. “Know anything about ‘twat swat’?” she casually enquired after a pause. Being something of a sexual ingenue I had to confess I didn’t.

“AKA ‘pussy spanking’,” she added with a grin, opening her eyes.

“How does it work?”

“Well now that I’m nicely aroused with my mound quite swollen, you could spank it lightly with the palm of your hand. As if it was a baby’s bottom.”

“Isn’t that rather painful for you?”

“Stings a bit. But then all forms of spanking do. Fancy trying it?” she asked, rubbing some lube over the shaved triangle above her dark brown labia lips. “You never know, it might make me cum again.”

Kneeling between her opened legs I tapped the mons gingerly.

“Harder, Simon. MUCH harder!” ‘Thwack’ ‘Thwack’ ‘Thwack’. Three successive strokes with the palm of my hand was my response. Followed by three more.

Ever seen a woman squirt?” she asked impishly.

“No never.”

“Well, here goes.” Lifting her hips off the towel she opened her legs, allowing a long orgasm to spurt from her quim, splashing onto my cock. She flopped back onto her towel, then whispered: “Hose me down big boy, then let’s go for a swim.”