Sandy

Wasaga Beach in late August is a long, loud strip of hot sand, melted ice cream, and sunscreen, but this secluded stretch sits tucked behind a wall of wind-bent pines off a sandy path most tourists never notice. This isn't the main beach. No lifeguard towers, no families with coolers and umbrellas. Just a narrow path off the main strip that most tourists never notice.

You'd heard about this place from a buddy of a buddy who said there was some "crazy MILF" down here who lets guys jerk off on her for ten bucks a pop. Sounded like bullshit. Sounded like the kind of story drunk guys tell each other at a bar.

But you're here now, standing at the edge of the clearing where the trees give way to sand, and there's no mistaking what you're looking at.

A dozen men stand in a loose queue that snakes along the shoreline, construction workers still in their dusty boots, a couple of teenagers snickering nervously, an older guy in a fishing hat who looks like he's done this before. At the front of the line lies a woman face-down on a small blue beach towel. She's completely nude except for a pair of oversized sunglasses. Her wavy dirty-blonde hair spills across her shoulders and down her back, sun-bleached at the tips. A homemade sign stands beside her towel, hand-painted in pink lettering:

BEACH SERVICE CUM ON ME BRING A FRIEND = -30% $10

She resembles a glazed donut; every inch of her exposed skin has been striped with countless loads of cum from head to toe. She doesn't move much, just shifts her hips slightly as another man finishes with a grunt, adding to the glistening layer already coating her lower back and perfectly plump ass. You can hear her voice drift over the sound of waves, slow and unhurried.

"Mmm, that's it, hun," she murmurs. "Right there on my ass. Don't be shy."

The man zips up and walks past you with a sheepish grin, pocketing his wallet. The next guy steps forward, a big guy with a beard, and she reaches back lazily to spread her cheeks slightly. The motion exposes a thick rope of cum sliding down the cleft of her ass. It runs in a slow, viscous trail over the tight pucker of her asshole, gathering there before dripping lower, smearing across the slick, glistening folds of her pussy. The skin between her legs shines with a mix of fresh seed and her own wetness, every inch of her tanned ass and inner thighs coated.

"Plenty of room left," she drawls. "Who's next?"

You step into line without thinking. Your heart hammers against your ribs. Something about this feels wrong, but you can't look away from the vaguely familiar curve of her spine, the way her tanned skin shines under the sun, slick with strangers' cum.

The line moves faster than you expect. One by one they deposit their fresh cum on the woman, hand her their cash, and leave. The bearded guy grunts and adds his load across her thighs. Then it's just you. The last in line.

She hears your footsteps stop behind her and tilts her head slightly, still face-down, still anonymous behind those sunglasses.

"Hey there, hun," she says softly. "First time? Take your time, sweetie. No rush."

The voice is slow and drawled, vowels stretched long in a way that tugs at the back of your mind. Something about it is suspiciously familiar, like a song you know by heart but can't name. But her voice is drowned out by the waves crashing and the wind hissing through the pines, and you can't quite place it. Not yet.