Up until the moment she approached, I'd have sworn the answer to can a bikini stop time would be an emphatic no.

But in that moment, I change my mind.

I’m chilling from the brutal heat of the midday sun in the shade of a walnut tree, lying back on a towel after having cooled off in the nearby lake. My swim shorts are plastered to me, and catching a glimpse of her effortless European chic on the path to my right has an immediate and decided effect on the shape out front.

She wasn't the first beauty that had passed. Far from it. The beach complex was teeming with stunning women and toned men, like it was some kind of shrine for the gorgeous. Three beach volleyball courts adjacent to where I lay provided entertainment and a tonne of buxom eye candy. Plus, a steady stream of people walking to and from the lake in swimwear of every conceivable style, covering bodies from the pert to the wobbly, ensured that people-watching was the single most pleasurable afternoon I'd spent in the town since I arrived.

All the sexiness on display, including some who preferred strapless sunbathing and flash glimpses of boobs when tying strings to go for a dip, had me all hot and bothered already.

But nothing could have prepared me for the teenager.

She’s with a small group of equally hot friends, all in equally tiny swimwear, but she stands out. The way she carries herself screams confidence and strength and poise. She’s not the alpha of the pack but is easily the one who would cast the deciding vote on what they did, where they ate and who they sat with. People would listen when she speaks.

The sun glitters off her lightly bronzed body; a thin film of sunscreen and perspiration glistening from the ferocious seventy percent humidity of the French Alps amid the heatwave that continues to batter southern Europe.

Whether it's the heat, the haze, or a trick of the sunlight, midway through her very next step, the scene ahead of me slows. I don't know how; it just does, like the start of a summer movie montage. Music from a soundbar between a pair of locals fades to the background, and her tousled blonde, shimmering mane pools upon shoulders I long to stroke and massage and then dust with endless kisses.

Her strides are perfect catwalk-precision, a faint crossing of each bare foot against the path that leads to the ice cream kiosk and water’s edge. Each step makes her modest chest bounce in the halter-tied bikini cups; milk chocolate triangles of material that barely conceal their contents.

The creamy flesh that plunges beneath the fabric ripples as her feet make contact with the boiling concrete path and I imagine how the soft, pliant, youthful orbs would feel nestled in my palms after I playfully pull the strings to unknot the garment and let it fall away.

One of my favourite things to do is slide my hands up a woman's body and cup her tits. Take their weight, and gently squeeze, watching her reaction. Experience in my misspent youth taught me the bolder the woman, the better she responds to this power shift. And it's then beautifully easy to either sweep a pair of thumbs over her nipples or pinch them. Or both.

Hers are faintly visible through the material, like the sun’s aphrodisiac powers have already elevated her natural excitement, and I wonder if she'd be the type to let me nuzzle and bite them without removing the garment. Some love it. I know I do. So does my wife. There's something downright dirty about sucking nipples through fabric and leaving a darker circle of saliva around the protruding peak as her arousal makes itself known via a bitten lip and sharp intake of breath.

Grazing the edges of a nipple, first with lips then teeth, indicates her susceptibility to rougher play. Rolling the cap between my tightening jaw provides vital information about how far I can push her. With this girl, despite her age, I’m willing to bet she'd go all the way. There’s something about her poise that makes me think she would hiss and beg if I captured a nipple between my teeth—with or without the layer of fabric—and tugged.

She's also a moaner. I'm confident of that. When I grip each hardening pebble between my teeth, bite and pull it away from her body, she’ll growl and struggle and hiss and curse. And then beg for it again when I let go. I've spent a lot of time watching people over the years and she's definitely the type.

Closer now, maybe five languorous paces from me, the teen shakes that incredible, wet mane over one shoulder to accent the swell of her tits. That's a move usually reserved for older women to draw attention to themselves when they believe their natural allure is fading, but she doesn't need the attention. She has it. And I'm not the only one checking her out, so she clearly did it on purpose. To entice. To attract. To tease.

Droplets of water left behind on her breasts roll under gravity to pepper the top edge of her bikini cups. I want to lap each one and make her pant. Chase my caresses up over her collarbone to her neck. Kiss and bite there, too, as she rolls her head aside to afford me greater access to the tender flesh that she wants marked.

And fuck, I would mark her.

By the time my lips leave her front, her neck and tits would be pockmarked with echoes of my teeth. Her nipples would be stiff under my tongue as I swirl and lap to soothe the stings. Suck them hard as if revisiting conquests of my youthful twenties.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not ancient. Perhaps twice her age, maybe a shade older, depending on which side of eighteen she is. My family are enjoying a dip in the lake and all I can think about, my entire slow-motion world in that instant, is consumed by the need to ravage this smoking hot sex bomb. That probably makes me a bad person. Or does it only make me a bad person if I act on it? Are thoughts infidelity?

What about touching? What if I follow her to the snack stand? Queue behind her. Brush the back of my hand against her bare hip just below the ridiculously thin waistband that arches like a viaduct bridge; that spark of electricity jolting from the contact point to my throbbing cock a few inches behind her.

What if she likes it? What if she makes eye contact and I detect mountains of unrepressed lust burning behind those eyes that match the cloudless azure sky? What if she lures me into the lake after lunch, like some sort of siren nymph? Leads me a little further beyond the string of buoys, turns and lets me kiss her? Lets me cup her tits and squeeze as she gasps into my mouth. What if she guides my hand down her body in the cool water until it settles between her legs and I slip a digit past the barrier of her bikini bottoms and enter her?

The wetness in her tight young pussy would be a very different viscosity to the lake. Her eyes would roll back as she gasps at my fingers in her, right there, sawing back and forth in the cleft of her hairless slit as she moans and sighs and encourages me to finish her until warm juices join the crystal blue wash that bobs around us.

Fuck, I'm a bad man. There's no escaping it. Would I be able to resist? I guess as long as I'm strong I'll be fine.

But then, as if to light the touch paper of my destruction, she draws level with my stare. Her perfect tits bounce with the step that takes her one pace beyond my direct line of sight and her bubble butt is revealed.

That's it for me. That rear embodies every single thing right and wrong with teenage sexuality. Who would let their daughter out of the house wearing such brazen and tantalising swimwear that covers so little and promises so much?

Daddy can I have fifty Euros for a new swimsuit please?

Of course, sweetie.

Mmm. What do you think of this one?

Perfect. That’ll get the blood of every man with a pulse pumping to all the wrong veins.

Did fathers not have decency these days? Morals?

The arch of the waistband over her hip doesn't give way to a full triangle of taut fabric that shields her bottom as I expect. It crosses to the other hip in a swooping whale tail shape and disappears between cheeks that defy gravity. That redefine beauty. Undulating orbs of a peach, so sweet and so juicy, that each kiss against it, each bite I take would be ripe and flavoursome.

If I longed to take my time exploring her neck and tits, I positively crave to spend aeons exploring her back, dusting kisses from vertebrae to vertebrae on my way to nibble her sacrum and work my caresses up onto the swell of that perfect rear.

Her shivers and low moan of approval would spur me on as I rove kisses and scuffs of stubble across the tanned porcelain of her arse.

With the next step, her weight shifts to the leg furthest from my line of sight and her succulent rear shifts with it. The curves and angles alter, her meat bounces fractionally with the elasticity of youth and settles to form a shadow on her upper thigh in the delicious crease where the overhang joins her leg.

For me, that is the single most erotic part of the female figure; that crease. Doesn't matter where we are: in the open, in a changing room, in the sanctity of her bedroom, I could get lost in that area alone for hours. She responds to my fingertip tracing its curvature, and sighs as I swoop inward. The breeze catches the heat from her pussy through the minuscule diamond gap formed between trim thighs and tightly-encased lips, carrying the scent of her arousal and perspiration with it. A heady concoction.

As I circle her bottom and brush the fabric at each thigh, she casts her gaze back over her shoulder.

“You've already marked my front, you might as well do the same there.”

Like I need asking twice.

Taking one impeccable globe in each hand, I squeeze as she sighs. Gently at first then harder at her insistence, until my fingertips turn white and make ten impressions on the impossibly soft, yet firm, flesh.

When I release her, the marks take a short time to fade. I cup and squeeze. Kiss and nibble. Graze with my teeth and then sink into one incredible sphere as she inhales and hisses, “Yess.”

My jaw flexes and I bite harder. Release and trace a fingertip around the jagged circle that interrupts the perfection. By the time I'm finished, she'll need a full panty bikini to cover up. I kiss my way to the other cheek and chomp. Much harder until she squeaks and l let go then rub my thumb over the stinging red circle and she sighs as the heat dissipates.

Over and over, I kiss, bite, squeeze and stroke until she's grinding her rump against me, and the telltale aroma of a seriously aroused woman drifts.

I sit back and lift her marked rear as she takes another step. Almost brattishly out of reach, I let go and admire how rapidly it settles. Offer a playful slap and she groans.

My heart thuds. “Oh, kitten likes that too, huh?”

She casts a gaze over her shoulder, bites her lip and nods as I pull back my palm and launch it against her. That smack, that echo of a firm hand striking bare teenage flesh zips through me, chased by her little scream that turns to a sustained groan when I soothe it.

Her eyes blaze down into mine and our gazes don't waver as I pull back the other hand and strike her. She stifles a cuss, letting it huff into a long moan. My cock stiffens and I don't give her time to enjoy the relief before I smack her again and again, each stroke landing on progressively blushed flesh.

Fuck I want to make her a mess. So much that when I'm done and roll my hands up to grip her bikini waistband, she’s practically begging for me to rip it off her.

Hooking my thumbs in, I draw it down, stretch and roll it over the globes that wiggle in the sunlight ahead of me as she takes another stride past.

Fuck, she's incredible. Those silvery strings of excitement that cling to the material gusset make me drool l as I peel the garment to the floor. I'm renowned for my patience, but there's a limit, and I'm at it.

I immediately grab her ruined bottom with both hands and pull her apart, burying my nose against her rosebud and plunging my tongue ahead into the tight gap alongside her glistening cunt lips.

She sighs and groans, stepping apart to allow my tongue greater freedom to seek her dripping entrance. So sweet. So fresh, her juices drizzle for me to lap and scoop and drink as the musk of her behind consumes my senses.

I'm a man possessed, my sole mission her release—her pleasure—and as she bends forward and her flavour intensifies, I drive my tongue deeper into her tight, bare cunt. She bucks against my face, cries escalating, and I ravage her without regard for my own breath until I'm drowning in her juices and mewls of ecstasy as she spills and succumbs to the pleasure racking her frame.

She's so fucking tasty. Earthy yet sweet. My chin and lips are drenched and having her stiffened body in my grip to support her through the inner explosions adds to the intensity. I daren't let go as she rasps through every beat of her orgasm and grinds back against me to crush my nose and mouth to her smoky ass and luscious folds.

Only when she huffs out a final sigh, and her pussy ceases fluttering against my buried tongue do I gradually release my grip and let her step forward from my grasp, the remaining translucent strings of grool that connect my mouth to her pussy stretching and looping and ultimately snapping as the distance increases.

She takes one more step and the clap of a stray beach ball across the path behind her restores time. Restores the music and shouts from the volleyball court as a kid races to collect the wayward ball, and the object of my daydream strides away.

I'm left with the sudden realisation that I have the world's most colossal and obvious boner in my swim shorts and she can't fail to have noticed. I know this because four paces further, she casts a glance back at me over her shoulder, rakes her gaze all the way up and shares a hushed sentence and raucous giggles with her friends who all slow to glance back and regard my predicament.

Sitting up self-consciously, I rearrange my shorts to make my erection less obvious and she throws me another glance, sticking her lower lip out in mock disappointment that I've covered up.

I know she's toying with me, but the state I'm in, marriage be damned, I could gladly race after her and steer her away from her friends to the nearest secluded spot behind the copse of trees. Shove her against the bark of one and breathlessly kiss her as she strokes my hardness through my shorts and frees it, before turning away from me and offering her flawless bottom for my attention.

Peeling aside the thong from her delicious crack, I'd slide my fat cock into her tightness and glide my hands up her impossibly tender tummy to cup her soft tits. Free them and clutch her breasts hard as she gasps and presses her forearms on the tree to mash back against my relentless invasion.

Outdoor sex is so liberating, and it's amplified being buried inside a smoking hot teenager whose slippery, vice-like cunt sheaths my rampant shaft. Finesse isn't even on the menu. She wants it as much as I do. Needs it. Our bodies slap together while the oblivious shouts and shrieks of families enjoying themselves in the lake filter past us.

I pinch her nipples and her muted sighs turn deeper as she cums around my shaft, triggering my climax deep inside her pretty young pussy. Rope after rope of sticky white spunk blasts into her ripe snatch and we groan and gasp in the shared release.

Panicking, I shake my head to clear the vision, cock swelling as I shiver and pulse, a spurt of pre-cum rocketing up my shaft into my shorts. I clench my muscles tight to prevent any more, and fight to control the unexpected climax that has been bubbling all day thanks to the endless display of hot women capped off by the incredible teen.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Force myself to breathe through it, praying to a god I don't believe in for strength to avoid the embarrassment of ejaculating fully in my shorts.

Miraculously, I hold back. Just.

But fuck, I need release. Her bottom rounds the bend in the path and disappears from view. If I stand and make a break for the water or the toilet block, there's still a chance the friction en route will trigger my orgasm. I'm trapped, hugging my knees in the shade, waiting for the sensations to fade enough so I can safely take care of myself somewhere.

One thing's for sure though. A guy can dream. And the right bikini on the right body can definitely stop time.