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The outlaw is captured.

Blaine gently twisted my hand behind my waist and pulled me to him. I closed my eyes just as his thick, puffy lips encountered mine. The kiss wasn't what I expected, what I was prepared to offer him, what, in truth, I wanted. It was brief, platonic, almost soulless except that what it lacked in ardor was made up for in promise. It left me more excited than had Blaine let his passions burn against my mouth.

Perhaps that first kiss would have led to more had I not become unstable on the shifting sands of the incoming tide. Blaine tried to steady me and faltered himself. Each tried to save the other and both of us tumbled into the water.

Blaine had seen virtually all of me already and whatever he hadn't was revealed as the soaked fabric of my dress clung to me like tinted body paint. But Blaine, too, was soaked. His clothes were made of a light cloth similar to mine. He wore no underwear of any kind, and it was the erotic aspects of his body that were revealed for the first time.

I'd seen his chest of course, at the beach, but the young black had worn those horribly baggy bathing trunks that Americans thought fashionable, not the more revealing European styles. Now I got to see more, so much more. And there was much more to see.

When we stopped rolling in the retreating wave, I was on my knees and Blaine his stomach. The view was brief but I saw his clenched buttocks, black and gleaming as if he were nude, as he spread his arms and legs in an effort to keep the departing surf from pulling him farther down the beach.

We were laughing good-naturedly at our unexpected predicament, me, knees spread wide in the sand, both dress and panty virtually transparent, breasts pointing proudly. Blaine rolled onto his side, pant leg plastered to his thigh, an enormous, overly proportionate, fat, black tube extending from his groin as if an x-rated cartoonist had drawn a caricature of a cock there.

The cock flopped and I gasped reflexively. It was so large it almost looked menacing. In fact, for just a moment, it appeared alive, like Blaine's bike lending buddy was also an anaconda smuggler and one of the contraband wrigglers had slithered up Blaine's trouser leg.

"Don't be frightened," Blaine laughed in that deep baritone that could mesmerize many women...or me anyway. "It's only me," he said and caused his cock to undulate along his leg. I don't know what I was thinking by then except that I wanted that first kiss back. Regrettably, the moment was broken; the kiss was gone.

We were dripping wet when we again mounted the motorbike. Blaine slid his hand high on my thigh, ostensibly to assist my balance, but that assistance had long ceased being necessary. He did it because he had done it every other time, and because he enjoyed touching my leg. I allowed it because I'd allowed it every other time, and because I enjoyed him touching my leg.

That invasive hand again kept going up my leg and more forcefully encountered my (now for a couple of reasons) sopping wet panties. Perhaps my leg had become slicker from the briny sheen glistening on my skin. I was kissed again. I opened my mouth eagerly, yearning, waiting to be assaulted. But again, I was not invaded. I blushed furiously when Blaine pulled his hand away from my soaking crotch and said, "And I thought you'd gotten the seat wet before."

I wanted simultaneously to slap Blaine's face and pull him onto the sand and have him right there. But Blaine started the bike so I did neither. I sat and soaked the scrumptious seat shivering delightfully like some gasoline powered vibrating mega-tongue.

Our clothes were still damp when we got back to the hotel. Blaine invited me up to his room and I accepted despite the mixed signals I felt he'd been sending. I wanted him badly and was prepared to put up with more than the usual amount of crap to get him.

Blaine showered while I sipped beer from a plastic glass.

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