Size: a a a a    Colour: a a a
THE BEACHCOMBER'S LOVE

by Abigail Armani


Greg ducked his head as he came out of the low door of his cottage - one of a row of brightly painted, red-roofed fisherman's cottages that nestled shoulder to shoulder, flanked from the northern gales by the lofty crag above. From a distance the cottages appeared to tumble down the steep cliff side to the seafront below.

The late afternoon September sun shone on the sweep of golden sand and glinted on fossil-filled pools. He never tired of wandering along the tide line of the bay, especially off-season when the tourists had fled from the blustery north Yorkshire winds to find warmer climes down south.

It was low tide, and the beach was deserted save for the gulls as they wheeled through the sky and skimmed the surface of the sea to bob comically on the eddying waves.

He set off along the mile-wide bay, a fossil-seeker's paradise. Had any woman been watching, she would have found him an arresting figure, tall - 6ft 4 - darkly handsome, chocolate brown eyes with a sensuous glint, and a smile to set pulses racing and just the right amount of stubble to be sexy. Today he looked particularly striking as he wore white Chinos and a white shirt, for no other reason than all his remaining clothes were dirty and he hadn't got around to washing them.

Head down, his unruly dark thatch of hair topped with a baseball cap, he walked on the damp sand, leaving a trail of solitary footprints in his wake. Anything of interest or possible use found its way into the big canvas bag on his shoulder. One of his more satisfying finds on a previous occasion had been a large rubber-soled gents slipper. He had pounced on it, cleaned it up, and dried it out on the top of his wood burning stove, and as a joke tested its stinginess on the bottom of a former girlfriend (she was not impressed, and voluntarily moved from current to former girlfriend status). There were no such finds today, and the canvas bag began to fill with an assortment of unusual shells, ammonites, and a curiously shaped piece of driftwood.

It had been raining heavily earlier, and the force of the downpour on the shale and clay land had caused the cliffs to crumble a little, revealing more fossils. He prized them out of the rock carefully with a rock hammer and pocket knife, and added them to his growing collection.

Moving further down past brimming rock pools, he noticed something at the waters edge and set off towards it, thinking it might be more driftwood. But as he drew closer it became apparent that the driftwood was in fact a figure crouching down in the shallows. She was hugging herself, rubbing her arms as though she were cold. Indeed, at this time of year if she stayed in the water for much longer she would more than likely get hypothermia.

"You ok?" He moved closer. She had long dark hair, plastered around her shoulders in wet clumps. Her bikini top was a vibrant pink with black polka dots; it covered a pair of well rounded, nicely full breasts.

"Y... y... yes - I mean n... n... no."

Her teeth were chattering with cold and her lips had a faint bluish tinge.

"Get the hell out of there, woman! You'll freeze to death."

"I c... c... can't," she said, and gave him an anguished look.

"Why not?"

"Because ... because ..."

"Because?"

"I daren't come out. I lost my bikini bottom."

Greg snorted. He tried hard not to laugh, but couldn't suppress a big grin. The woman scowled at him. Poor thing. She must be frozen stiff. Greg took a waterproof jacket from a pocket in his shoulder bag and stepped towards her, holding it out.

"Here - put this on. It will probably come down to your knees and cover your modesty."

"Close your eyes then."

"Aw - do I have to?"

"Yes you damn well do."

With an air of pained resignation, Greg closed his eyes. There was a hesitant silence - clearly, she was checking to make sure he wasn't peeking - and then the ripple and slosh of water as she emerged and waded towards him. The jacket was taken from his grasp, and she struggled into it gratefully. Greg took just a little peek and was rewarded by a brief glimpse of a shapely and very spankable bottom. Then he closed his eyes tightly and didn't open them again until he heard the zipper being fastened.

She stood before him, swamped by his jacket and dripping with sea water.

"Well, I've found some strange things washed up in my time, but I've never had a mermaid before."

She looked at him. Her eyes were a beautiful green colour, like the tranquil depths of the ocean on a clear day. Her face was white and trembling. She was shivering quite badly now, and her teeth were chattering constantly. He regarded her with some concern.

"Are you staying somewhere locally?"

"Yes." She pointed towards a house close to the seafront. "A guest house. Up there."

Interesting, he thought. As his Aunt Martha owned the guest house he knew she had only one guest staying, and that was a young woman, on holiday alone. Alone. Very interesting. "Come on then. You need a hot bath, warm clothes and a nip of whisky. I'm Greg by the way. Greg Masters." He put an arm around her trembling shoulders and led the way up the beach.

"I'm Marion Barnes."

"Marion the mermaid, huh? How long had you been in the water?"

"Too long. And there were too many people around for me to make a dash for it without being seen."

I wouldn't have minded seeing you half naked, he thought to himself.

She smiled wanly. He could feel her shaking. They hurried over the soft golden sands to the guest house beyond the row of brightly-painted fishing cobbles in the boat park. At the gate to the tiny garden of the guest house, Marion looked up at Greg.

"I can't thank you enough."

"You can actually - you can show your thanks by having dinner with me. Tonight. 7pm?"

"Oh. Well - I hadn't planned ..."

"Excellent, 7pm it is then. I'll pick you up."

"But ..."

"No buts. I insist. I'm a bloody good cook by the way - ask my Aunt Martha."

"Martha Campion is your aunt?"

There. That got your attention. "Yep. So that should reassure you that I'm not a mad axe man or anything. Do you like lobster?"

She gave in and smiled. "Yes, I do."

"Great. Then we shall have lobster for dinner. See you at 7."

Greg watched as she entered the guest house, pausing briefly by the door to turn and give him a brief wave. What a find - a real live mermaid. A pretty one too. And she had a great ass. He grinned and hurried home to tidy the place up and do some laundry.


When he returned to collect Marion, the whites had been replaced with faded blue jeans and a navy blue fisherman's sweater. He had given his thick thatch of hair a good brush to get the tangles out. It had grown a bit longer than he was accustomed to, but he quite liked the shaggy dog look.

Marion stepped out of the front door of the guest house as Greg walked up the path of the tiny front garden. Now that she was dry and warm, the colour had returned to her cheeks, and her luxuriant hair formed a soft brown cloud that floated around her shoulders and half way down her back. He guessed she must be around 30. There was a sparkle in her green eyes as she moved towards him. She was pretty. Very pretty, with arched brows, a wide smile and dimples on her cheeks. He circumvented her proffered hand shake by squeezing her hand and stooping to kiss her cheek; a chaste kiss, nothing threatening. He had no intention of scaring her off.

"Well now, you look in much better shape than you did earlier. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine now, thanks. After a soak in the tub I took your advice and had a glass of Martha's whisky."

"I bet you a hundred pounds that she had one with you."

Marion grinned. "Yes, she did. Two, in fact. She's made me feel very welcome."

"Martha brought me up. She never married or had any children of her own."

"Oh how sweet of her - but what of your own mother?"

"I never knew her. She died when I was a baby. And I never knew my father either - he was some irresponsible grumpy old sea dog from Northumberland. I've obviously inherited my love of fishing from him."

"You're a fisherman?"

"Sometimes - as a hobby rather than as a means of livelihood. I'm a freelance journalist. I earn enough to keep me going and I don't take on more work than I can handle - I value my spare time too much."

"Oh? And what else besides fishing do you do with your leisure time?"

"I read. I listen to music. But mainly - I'm a beachcomber. I take the gifts from the bountiful sea. Over the years I have found a lot of interesting things, but today was the best catch of all. Today I found a mermaid." He smiled and showed a row of white teeth as he took her arm and steered her in the direction of his cottage.

Marion laughed. It was a pretty laugh that animated her face and made her eyes sparkle. She was very easy to talk to, and their conversation flowed naturally without any awkward silences. They climbed the steps and wandered through the narrow passages of the quaint village until they reached Greg's cottage - the end cottage in a row of three. He didn't mention that he owned all three properties; the other two he rented out for holiday accommodation in the summer.

"This is absolutely wonderful. How long have you lived here?"

"Almost fifteen years. I love the place. Come on in." He smiled and ushered his guest inside.

The lounge was small and cosy. It had a quirky maritime feel to it, with ships timbers used as beams for the ceiling. The room had its stained and original matchboarding to the walls, on which were hung paintings, a ships wheel, a barometer, and a ships bell. A long shelf along one wall contained shells, fossils and curios found washed up on the beach; and a small intricate model of The Cutty Sark. A cast iron wood burning stove filled the room with the wonderful heady aroma of driftwood, and through the sash windows the sea view beckoned.

The lounge led through to a galley kitchen with a small dining area. Greg uncorked a bottle of chilled Chablis and poured the wine into two crystal glasses. They were soon seated and tucking into fresh lobster, salad, new potatoes and green beans. He found out that Marion had been divorced for almost a year and worked freelance as an illustrator of childrens books.

In her enthusiasm to taste Greg's home made autumn berry pudding, Marion carelessly spilled a spoonful on the white linen cloth.

"Oooops. Sorry," she grinned.

"You don't look in the least bit sorry - I should spank your bottom for that, young lady," quipped Greg, giving her a stern look tinged with humour. Let's see how you respond to that suggestion.

He waited, watching her intently to see her reaction. She spluttered and coughed and ended up spilling more berry juice on the cloth.

"Oh dear!" she said, looking genuinely nonplussed - and yet, there was something hiding behind her expression that signalled a flare of interest. She bit her lower lip and giggled, blushing furiously.

"No problems, it will wash out." Greg grinned at her, noticing the sudden blush to her cheeks.

"Do you spank all your visitors?" She blurted the question out and then immediately regretted it.

"It depends." He flashed her that bone melting smile again.

"On ...?" She tried to sound cool and calm and collected. But inside she was screaming, Yes! Yes! Spank me - Please! Followed immediately by, No! No! Don't be so bloody stupid, woman!

"... On a lot of things - like whether they've been a good girl or a bad girl." Given that he had eaten dinner, there was an avidly hungry look on Greg's face. "And YOU, young lady, are a very bad girl indeed, ruining my nice white tablecloth. Finish your pudding, then we'll have coffee in The Den."

"The Den? I'm intrigued." She was intrigued about a lot of things concerning Greg Masters. He was so wonderfully ... masterful, and handsome and a really nice guy as well. Not that she was looking for anyone ... men, they were trouble. Love rats, most of them. They get you in the sack and have their wicked way with you and then dump you when someone younger and prettier and thinner comes along. Still, she had to admit, Greg was something else. What a hunk, with his luxuriant hair and designer stubble, and his deep chocolatey voice. She'd be a fool to let this one slip through her fingers. She spooned the last of her pudding into her mouth. "That was great. I'm all done now - lead the way to the Den."

"With the greatest of pleasure. Come this way." He stood and crooked his finger at her, his eyes glinting devilishly.

Marion suppressed a shiver of pure excitement, and followed.

The Den was Greg's personal space. To reach it, one had to climb the creaky stairs which led to a bathroom and just the one bedroom. But in the corner of the bedroom there was a wooden ladder leading to the roof space. Greg casually manoeuvred the situation so that Marion climbed up first, giving him a fine vision of her well rounded bottom as she ascended. She wore a charcoal grey skirt; it fit snugly, and as she climbed, the fabric stretched taut over her buttocks.

Greg licked his lips appreciatively at the sight.



© Abigail Armani
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.