A Spectacular View from the Balcony

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It had been a beautiful day for the beach at the Sunshine Coast. The weather had been hot, but not oppressively so, and there had been enough of a breeze to keep the air from growing still and muggy, without making the surf rough or kicking up sand.

I went down to Kings Beach for a swim just after lunch. At sixty-seven years of age and with what could be described as a matronly build, I attracted no one’s attention. My dyed auburn hair was tied back and I wore the sort of swimsuit that’s designed to lift, compress and constrain. Women of a certain vintage know what I’m talking about.

When I had finished in the water, I went and sat on my towel in the sun for a while. The dark blue water and lighter blue skies stretched as far as the eye could see, offset by the brilliant white sand and the brightly coloured outfits of the beachgoers. It’s funny how many words there are for the scraps of lycra we wear into the water. Bathers, swimsuits, swimmers, cossies, togs, we all have our preferences, based on regional linguistics, but as I am a Queenslander born and raised, I tend to call them togs. Or swimsuits. Never a cossie, though, and never a bather.

The UV index is high here, and the youngest of children are often almost entirely covered in pink or blue lycra. By three of four years of age, when individuality trumps even the most dedicated of parents, the togs become almost garish. There are lots of licensed swimsuits and bright colours. One young girl, maybe four or five, had a shimmery green-blue outfit that shone brightly in the sun as she darted about the shallows. Another, a boy of roughly the same age, wore a faded Bob the Builder set, no doubt a hand me down from an older sibling.

By their late teens and early twenties, most swimmers wore togs that left little to the imagination and, if they were a woman who had been roughly dumped by an unexpectedly large wave and had her bikini top half torn off, there was precious little that couldn’t be seen. People in this age group were typically at the peak of their tiny togs career.

As marriage and children came along and the years ticked by, bringing with them weight and stretchmarks for the women, and weight and extra hair for the men, the clothing again became less showy. The men shifted back to long board shorts which were often worn with a short or long sleeved lycra shirt and a broad brimmed hat.

Their wives and partners were similarly modest; one piece togs with board shorts and streaks of sunscreen, not quite rubbed in, on their faces and arms. That’s the lot of a woman with young children, though, isn’t it? Never quite enough time to fully attend to themselves as they oversee a husband and offspring. Still, most seemed happy enough, and when their husbands took their children off to the local gelato store, they took the moment not to fix their sunscreen but to lay in the sun and do absolutely nothing.

My husband would never have been thoughtful enough to take the children to get ice-cream, and if he’d caught me lying in the sun he would have lost his temper. Couldn’t be a lazy Susan, could we, haha, he’d laugh. I never hated my name until I married George, and I only married the pompous shit because he’d knocked me up, and in those days women didn’t have babies out of wedlock. I’d had three choices; risk an illegal abortion, adopt the baby out, or marry George. In hindsight, I should have chosen either of the first two options, irrespective of how impossible those choices might have seemed at the time.

As I pondered the thought of a childfree adult life, I caught sight of a couple in their mid to late thirties walking down the beach. It was the woman that caught my initial attention. She was beautiful; standing five foot eight or thereabouts, voluptuous but not fat, and dressed in a blue and white check swimsuit. The top half of her togs harked back to the style of the nineteen-fifties, but the lower half was more modern; high cut, and showing off well shaped legs. Around her waist was a short, transparent, sarong and on her face were classic black sunglasses. I craned my neck to see her shoes, and saw she was wearing white slip-on sandals. Her hair was dark, her skin lightly tanned, and the sun glinted off the wedding ring she wore on her left hand. She wore no other jewellery, but she’d taken the unusual path of wearing lipstick to the beach, and the ochre stain only made her stand out even more.

As she and her husband wound their way through the crowd to a quiet patch of sand, several people stared at her. She was by no means the most overtly sexy woman on the beach, but her outfit and posture spoke of class.

Her husband – and he was definitely her husband, they were both too relaxed around each other for him to be anything else – was of the same height as her, and slim, bordering on skinny. Unlike her, he blended into the background, wearing green and white board shorts and a black rash shirt. His hair was dark brown, and his van escort skin was the colour of someone who spent their working days outside. A tradesman, perhaps, or a commercial fisherman or farmer. There are plenty of all three in the area; the fisherman at the shore, the tradesmen in town, the farmers in the surrounding rural areas.

I watched as they laid out towels and applied sunscreen. He rubbed the lotion into her back carefully and with practiced skill, and when he was done he leant forward and kissed the back of her neck. She tilted her head back and said something to him which made him laugh. He kissed her again and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug. Love and lust, innocently and publicly displayed in just a few small gestures.

After a while I grew tired of people watching and returned to my apartment for a nap. I’ve lived here for five years, since shortly after my divorce. On my sixty-first birthday my husband announced he’d found – online, of course – a nice Cambodian woman he wished to marry, and hence a divorce was imperative. George tried his damnest to get his fiancé an Australian visa, but due to his age and reduced finances following the divorce, he found it quite impossible and he now lives in some Cambodian village with her and her family.

I’m not unhappy about the situation. I feel sorry for the poor woman who didn’t end up in living the nice life in Australia, as she’d no doubt imagined she would, but on the other hand, if George is in Cambodia it means he’s not in Australia, and I think that’s of benefit to our entire island continent. We had him for sixty-five years; it’s someone else’s turn now.

The remainder of the afternoon and the evening passed in it’s usual, uneventful fashion. It was past nine at night before I knew it and I was sitting on my balcony quite alone and quite content.

The streets around Kings Beach are filled with apartment buildings of varying vintage and quality, but they all share one feature; a balcony. And what do we each get to view from our balcony? Well, unless you’re a local or you’ve visited Caloundra before, you won’t know, so I’ll tell you. We get a glimmer of the ocean, and the montage of hundreds of other apartment perches, almost all hosting an outdoor setting, a drying rack, and brightly coloured beach towels that have been hung out to dry.

The detritus of our lives are left out for all to see, but do you know what you don’t see on balconies? People. Very rarely do people seem to sit on their balconies, sunning themselves, reading a book or – to use a ghastly word to describe an even ghastlier event – entertaining. The later it is in the day, the less likely you are to spot another human being enjoying sitting outdoors, and by night it is quite dead.

As I sat on mine I scanned the nearby the balconies curiously, searching for signs of human life. It was on my second visual sweep that I saw a sliding door on one of the nearby balconies open and from it walked the woman in the old fashioned togs. She was lit up not only by the apartment’s exterior light, but by a brighter, more vibrant light attached to the side of our apartment complex.

The woman was only perhaps twenty metres away from me, but while I could clearly see her and her balcony, she would have had to turn to the right and stare quite intently to catch sight of me as my balcony was swathed in darkness, and I was hidden by my collection of small palms.

The woman leant against the balcony railing and did what I had done just minutes earlier; scan the area for other humans. She was still in her togs and I could smell chlorine in the faint evening breeze. She must’ve just finished a night swim in the complex pool.

I waited for her to go inside, to shower and change, but instead she remained leaning over the balcony in her blue and white swimsuit. Her husband stepped out of the sliding doors and stood alongside her, surveying the view of the other apartment buildings. He was dressed in nothing but his boardshorts, his rash shirt seemingly dispensed of now there was no need for further protection from the sun.

Unlike his wife, he wasn’t interested in the scenery so much as he was in having sex. He brushed her wet hair to the side and kissed the back of her neck in exactly the same manner as he had kissed her neck at the beach.

Everyone has that one, instinctive move that they make when they want to be intimate with their partner, don’t they? A touch of the hand, a secret smile, a gentle kiss in a special place, all of it conveys a certain private desire that their partner automatically interprets, considers and then either rejects or accepts.

Observe enough couples and you’ll know precisely what I mean. You’ll start to hold your breath in anticipation, waiting to see if the advance has been positively received. More often than not, sexual activity follows, but on a reasonable number of occasions the advance is rejected. yalova escort

Sometimes, I understand why the request has been refused; a child has started crying, the partner is a thoroughly repugnant person, or they are tired and sunburned and just want to go to bed. At other times, I see no basis for the rejection, but know that denial has become a common theme in the relationship because the spurned partner will appear so unsurprised by the refusal that you know that this is not the first, second, or third time that they have been knocked back.

The woman in the swimsuit seemingly neither accepted nor declined the invitation to partake in love-making, but instead leant over and whispered something in her husband’s ear. An order? A deferral? Whatever it was, he didn’t seem offended. Accepting, perhaps. He turned around and went inside, and came back shortly, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses.

She opened the bottle for him, and poured them each a glass. She enjoyed the wine whereas he seemed unfussed by it. He drank it, but not with the obvious pleasure that she did. His glass was empty within minutes and he reached for the bottle for a refill, but before he could lift it, she placed a hand over his and stopped him in his tracks.

An alcoholic. He was an alcoholic, struggling to regulate his intake, I realised. He couldn’t see the alcohol without wanting to drink heavily, whereas her relationship with wine was one of social enjoyment.

My suspicions were confirmed when he headed inside and returned with a can of Coke. He couldn’t stop eyeing off the wine, though, and with a sigh she picked up the bottle and took it inside. Out of sight, out of mind.

There is a tear in the fabric of every relationship, and alcohol is theirs. She needs to stop offering him alcohol, or better yet, stop drinking around him. She needs to drink with girlfriends, not with her husband. I think she must know that, too, because after a minute or two she smiled at him and ruffled his hair. He muttered something to her, embarrassed, and they kissed, both sin and apology accepted and forgiven.

They’re a sweet couple. Tourists, not locals, because the apartment they’re staying in is part of the holiday rental pool, and at any rate I can’t imagine him, with his dark tan, being someone who lives in an apartment. They’re here to take some time out from their regular lives. That, perhaps, is why she chanced the alcohol, and why he is so amorous. He can’t keep his hands off her; once again he’s kissing her neck and his hands are rubbing her lycra-clad buttocks, and she, in keeping with her earlier reaction, is not refusing him, but not quite accepting his advances, either.

All of a sudden there was a flick of the wrist, an authoritative and powerful response, and my stomach contracted with the fear of a woman who knows what it’s like to be hit in anger by a male spouse, and feared that another woman was about to endure the same thing.

Only, no, no, there was no violence here, only dominance, and it was her that was asserting it over him. There was a towel, one I didn’t notice earlier, but not one that she took out to the balcony with her – she was empty handed when she came out – lying on the coffee table. She picked it up and reached underneath, retrieving a set of handcuffs. Well, I thought to myself, that was a surprise. I certainly hadn’t seen that coming, and nor, from the expression on her husband’s face, had he.

The woman knew precisely what she was doing. She was going to fuck him out here. She was going to handcuff and fuck him. She’d planned this earlier today, that’s why the handcuffs were left out here, ready for use, and why she was so careful in scanning the adjoining balconies for signs of life. Everything has been scripted but out of the three of us, only one of us had known it. Like her husband, I never guessed that this was coming.

People engage in sexual activity on their balconies more often than you’d think, mostly late at night and mostly couples aged in their late twenties to early fifties. The overwhelming majority are heterosexual. I imagine that homosexuals are less inclined to take the risk, owing to already backwards societal views, and are thus either so discreet when making love outdoors that I’ve never seen them, or instead keep their antics in the bedroom.

My mobile phone was lying beside me. I picked it up and drafted the text I always send our body corporate manager when I see couples getting frisky on balconies. I didn’t press the ‘send’ button, though. I wanted to see if they were actually going to do the deed outdoors before wasting Ned’s time.

I glanced at the couple to see where they were up to. The man’s hands were now handcuffed behind his back and he was leaning forward and passionately kissing his wife. He loved her, oh fuck, did he love her. He trusted her implicitly, too, I knew that for certain because he was completely vulnerable yozgat escort and utterly at her mercy. His superior male strength had been neatly purloined the moment the handcuffs had locked tight around his wrists, and she now controlled the show.

And she was enjoying the control. Her slim fingers caressed his torso, teasing him, taunting him, showing him that she was the more powerful of the pair. With a wicked smile she loosened the laces on his boardshorts and tore the Velcro fly fastening apart.

The Sunshine Coast is tranquil at night, even on a Saturday, and by ten o’clock the last of the restaurants and bars have closed. It was now nine-thirty, and so quiet that I could hear the loud sound of the nylon hooks being released from the loops. The noise alarmed the man and his eyes widened as he desperately searched his wife’s face for reassurance. The woman smiled at him, and swept her hand around the balconies. Look, she must have said to him. There’s nobody around.

I pressed the ‘send message’ button.

The man was now naked, his erection clearly noticeable. He was still uncertain about being exposed, and the woman found his hesitation amusing. She was confident there were no onlookers, so confident in fact that she stepped behind him and grabbed the chain that joined his handcuffs together. She marched him to the railing, bringing him closer to the edge, proving to him that there was nothing to fear. Her self-assurance was impressive, her control absolute. He didn’t want to stand, naked, on a balcony, showing the world his erect cock, but she told him do it and he obeyed.

When she was satisfied with his submission, she drew him into an embrace. She held his face in her hands and whispered something to him, before gently kissing him. She was pleased with him. He’d met her approval.

The man was now shy, bashful, and he bowed his head and laughed, embarrassed, but his chuckle died in his throat when his wife reached for his penis and began to softly stroke it. She pushed back the foreskin and rubbed the head with her thumb, no doubt smearing precum over him. With obvious delight, she continued to tease him, employing both hands to fully stimulate his cock and balls, until he was thrusting into her hand.

The woman stopped masturbating her husband and pulled the gusset of her togs to the side. She led her husband forward and helped him penetrate her. He was awkwardly positioned, with his hands still tied behind his back, but he didn’t ask for his hands to be freed. He just accepted her guidance without complaint.

I glanced at my phone. Five minutes had elapsed since I sent my message, but there was no response.

I returned my attention to the couple. The woman had leant back against the railing to keep her balance, and tilted her pelvis forward. Slowly and gently, she began to fuck herself with her husband’s cock. At that moment he seemed to me no more than a well-loved servant employed to keep her satisfied. She was giving him what he wanted, but it wasn’t for his benefit, but for hers. He had shifted from horny husband to subservient sexual plaything.

The woman was highly aroused but still in complete control. With excruciating languor she edged her husband’s prick from her pussy, and fixed her swimsuit back into position. She was glowing; he was a mess. He was near to orgasm, and he wanted to finish.

She smiled sardonically as she reached for the shoulder straps of her togs. She pulled them down, exposing large, white breasts topped with huge, dark stains of nipples. As I and her husband watched, entranced, she began to fondle them.

He was so aroused it almost pained me to see the longing in his eyes, but she was a cool customer. She ran her tongue seductively over her lower lip as each hand played with a breast, massaging the soft flesh and toying with the hard nipples.

She made him wait as she slowly peeled off her swimsuit, revealing centimetre after centimetre of smooth, white skin. After what seemed an eternity she entirely stepped out of it and hung it over a drying rack. Now entirely nude, she stood in front of her husband and let him admire her.

Having given him an opportunity to marvel at her figure, she ran her hands over her torso and down to her crotch. I couldn’t see her pussy, but I could tell by her movements that she was parting the lips and playing with her clit. Her husband made a comment and she laughed and shoved the fingers she’d been using to touch herself into his mouth.

She laughed again as he sucked hungrily, but when she pulled the digits free and touched his cheek, it was with tenderness. Their eyes met. They were playing a game, and each was content with their part.

The woman led him to a deck chair and helped him sit down, but didn’t remove his handcuffs. She then moved a second deck chair so that it was adjoining his and laid down beside him. She spread her legs, and began to unselfconsciously masturbate for her husband.

Neither he nor I could tear our eyes away as she teased herself, emitting gasps and sighs that filtered through the warm summer air. Her body, soft and feminine, and yet perfectly proportioned, was a wonderful example of womanhood.

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