When the Wine Kicks In (f/qs/fatal)

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MikeKK
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Joined: Sat Mar 27, 2010 1:06 pm

When the Wine Kicks In (f/qs/fatal)

Postby MikeKK » Fri Oct 07, 2016 8:14 pm

The last story I have in storage. This one is shorter and has less dialog. I guess I felt like doing it a bit different than the other two.

When the Wine Kicks In

It happened at night, on an unknown spit of beach under the throbbing deck of a hotel night club. I never even found out her name. She was one of those magazine chicks: just tall enough, copper hair, with curves made for my hands (so I thought). I was...well, I was just me. But when the wine kicked in, 'just me' is good enough, I guess. We danced, and she pressed her body against mine with just enough enthusiasm that I could tell she wasn't entirely sober. Not drunk, either, but definitely relaxed and willing.

She backed up against me, rolling her shoulders against my chest, and craned her neck back to whisper, "You can have me if you can catch me." Then she winked and left.

I followed her outside, where the night was dark and cool, and, laughing, she jogged down the stairs onto the sand. Waves crashed in the dark, and I almost lost sight of her, but I sped up and caught her on the other side of a rock bank, where the hotel was out of sight. I wrapped my arms around her waist and playfully tackled her to the ground, where we rolled around a bit like kids, throwing sand on each other.

She ended up on her back with me on top of her; no accident, judging by the way she invited me down with hungry eyes. I kissed her, but my lips didn't stay on hers for long. Soon I was tasting her cheeks and her neck, and she writhed and bucked under me with each touch. Her shirt came off, as did mine. She pulled me back down on her, arching her back to press her soft chest into mine. We kissed again.

This is where I have to take a pause to point out a few things that I didn't know at the time. First, there were warning signs. Literal signs. We'd missed them in the dark, but the next morning I saw them in plain sight. Second, the strip of beach we'd turned into our little lust nest was regularly stirred up by the tide, which, as luck would have it, was out when we were there. With that information in mind, I'm not surprised (in retrospect) at what happened next.

While my hands eagerly explored the contours of her ripe body, her soft moans turned into a grunt, and that grunt became a slight gasp. She pushed me off her chest, her eyes confused.

"Something's wrong," she said.

As far as I was concerned, the only thing wrong was that her jeans were still on, but then I saw what she meant. The beach was softening under us, and my weight had pressed her legs, backside, and shoulders into the sand. I tried to scoot her to a firm spot, but in those few seconds, her prone body began to sink as if she were melting into the ground.

Something clicked in my mind; I understood the situation well before she did. I practically threw myself off her, scrambling to dry ground just before our spot liquefied into a goopy soup. Her legs slipped into the sand, her torso not far behind. She tried to sit up, but her arms merely drove into the soft ground.

She briefly caught my eye, her face a perfect sketch of confusion and growing fear. Then she sank. It happened fast. She didn't have time to straighten her body, or to claw her way out, or even to ask for my help (which would have been a futile request, since I didn't dare go back to her).

As the beach swallowed her, her throat constricted, cutting her screams into choking gasps. She flailed, bucked and dug furrows in the dry ground around her with her fingers, but I knew she wouldn't make it. In a few short moments, only her bent knees, her thrashing arms, and her terrified face remained in view.

She gasped and gurgled as sand and water mixed in her mouth. She tilted her face to the night sky, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her knees vanished. She heaved in a final breath, and then the wet sand sucked her into its quivering depths. Her arms stretched skyward, her fingers clenching, grasping...and then she was just...just gone.

I stayed where I was for a long time, trying to process the fact that I had just watched my beautiful night-partner die in front of me. To this day, I don't think that process has fully happened. Sometimes I'm convinced that I'd had more to drink than her, and that we'd finished our passionate little escapade, and that she had left, and that I'd dreamt of the sucking sand in my drunken state that night.

But I know that's not the truth.

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