Salty Dog

As an annual rite of spring break, she fixed a Salty Dog—vodka and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice over ice in a highball glass with a salted rim.

She took a big sip of the tangy-sweet beverage as she made for the hammock slung between palms on the private beach, shedding clothes along the way.

Emerging from the cabana, tall-dark-and-handsome followed, embracing from behind his lovely snowbird flown south to meet him.

“Hey, can I fix you a nice, cold—oh, never mind. I can see you're all set,” he said, kissing the shoulder closest to him.

She’d set her glass on a nearby table, licking grains of salt clinging to her lips. Wordlessly she prodded him into shedding his board shorts before pushing him into hammock behind them. Her knees met the sand as her long hair tickled his thighs.

She wrapped her now-cool mouth around his shaft, stroking his growing tumescence between her briny-tart lips until he was fully erect and his breathing irregular. Cupping his sac with her ice-chilled fingers, she mouth-fucked him slowly until he came, shouting her name.

Releasing him softly she said with a smile, “When you're up for it, I could use another salty dog.”

__________ Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse Words: 200 Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday - Week 24 via Rebecca Grace Allen Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: Salty