F18 - A summer job worth keeping

The sun is brutal and the company beach day is winding down. Most people have packed up, but he lingers by the little rental cabana, pretending to check emails on his phone. I walk over with two cold waters like I’m just being polite. He’s fifty-something, tanned from golf, wedding ring glinting when he takes the bottle from me. His eyes flick to my bikini top for half a second longer than they should.

“Thanks for staying late to help with the cleanup tomorrow,” he says, voice low so the last stragglers by the volleyball net don’t hear. I nod, heart already pounding. We both know tomorrow is Sunday and there’s no cleanup scheduled.

He gestures inside the cabana to get out of the sun. It’s just a canvas tent with two lounge chairs and a tiny table. The second the flap drops behind us the air feels ten degrees hotter. He doesn’t waste time. His hand slides to the small of my back, thumb brushing bare skin above my bikini tie. I don’t move away.

“You’ve been driving me crazy in that thing all day,” he mutters. I laugh under my breath and let him pull the string at my neck. The top falls. His mouth is on me instantly, rougher than I expected, teeth grazing my nipple while his other hand slips between my legs over the fabric. I’m already wet; he feels it and groans against my skin.

I reach down and palm the front of his swim trunks. He’s thick, straining. He pushes them down just enough and guides my hand around him. We’re both breathing hard, listening to distant laughter outside. He turns me, bends me over the lounge chair, yanks my bottoms to the side instead of off. One quick look at the entrance flap, then he’s pressing in.

It hurts for a second because there’s no real foreplay, just sunscreen and spit, but I push back anyway. He covers my mouth with his hand when I gasp too loud. He fucks me fast and quiet, hips slapping softly against my ass, muttering filthy things about how tight I am, how wrong this is, how he doesn’t care. I come first, biting his palm to stay silent. He follows right after, buried deep, pulsing inside me with a low grunt.

We stay like that for ten seconds, maybe less. He pulls out, fixes my bikini bottoms like nothing happened, ties my top back in place. His cum is already leaking into the fabric. He smooths my hair, gives me a quick, professional smile.

“See you Monday,” he says, voice perfectly steady again. I nod, legs shaky, and walk out into the sunlight like the obedient eighteen-year-old intern I’m supposed to be.