The Swimmer's embarrassment

[Beachheadache]

Just a story I am working on, enjoy.



Mrs Rebecca Thompson, loved the beach. She loved how swimming made her feel. But today she was not enjoying her late afternoon swim at all.
Carefree and weightless, she had skimmed the sandy bottom, hypnotised by the play of the light dappling the clear water and the muted distorted sounds of the world which seemed further away than the six feet of tranquil sea above her.
So, lost in her reverie, she had not seen the silver wire jutting from the sand ahead, only becoming aware of it when her forward progress had suddenly halted. Instinctively she had struggled to be free before she was consciously aware of what had happened. Had she realized sooner she would have been less reckless in getting free. Now she was breathing the clear sea air in ragged breaths while clutching what remained of her modest one piece to her. The wire and her efforts had been devastating, the tear had started at the hip then had run right up the seam, while her desperate twist to be free had ripped the front of the blue one piece to an impracticable and immodest rag.
She forced herself to think calmly. Thankfully, there were no swimmers close to her, but a few midweek couples lazed on the beach chatting and oblivious to her situation. She stared at her white towel on the sand; there was no way of getting to it without being seen. Beyond the dunes, her seaside cottage, theirs for the summer. John, always the workaholic, still in touch with the office, distracted perhaps for hours and oblivious to her absence.
Her legs began to tire as she treaded the water, her chin dipping beneath the placid undulating surface. Gingerly with furtive glances all around, she moved closer to the shore until her 5 foot 6 inches could stand on the sandy bottom, the water up to her neck. The water was too clear. Anyone too close to her would see what was wrong. Close to her a group of noisy teenage girls splashed in the sea, at ease with their bodies and the bikinis they were wearing. She shuddered at how they would react to a 40 something woman, cringing in embarrassment, exposed in her ruined swimsuit. There would be a moment of confusion, but as the truth dawned fully on them, she imagined their hilarity and teasing. Their antics would draw the attention of others. Men. She had seen the look on her husband’s face when a young woman’s bikini had come undone a few summers ago. John had relished the sight of the genuinely embarrassed woman as she fought to contain her breasts in the top which, Rebecca had to admit, was too small. That was why, even though she had the figure for one, she had never felt brave enough to wear a bikini. The men on the beach that day, had relished the woman’s embarrassment and she’d never wanted to be in that situation.
She snorted, so much for a modest one piece!
As the girls moved in her direction, she backed further away. To look less suspicious, she forced herself to swim. Her once graceful strokes reduced to clumsy ones as she struggled to keep her body submerged and what remained of her billowing and useless one piece hidden from the casual observer.
She prayed for a woman, a mature woman to be swimming that day. Someone who would see the hilarity of the situation, but who would lack the cruelty to exploit it like that group of boisterous teenage girls so close to her.
Her prayers went unanswered.
Surely, John would be wondering where she was now? Her swims never lasted this long. She looked at her left wrist and the tan line of where her watch normally was. How long had she been out there? Half and hour? An hour or more? There was no time, her predicament was timeless and never ending. What if John had left for a drive or had taken a nap or anything that stopped him from thinking about her and why she was so long. Could she wait until late afternoon, the beach almost empty and sprint for her towel? Her legs trembled. Why was she so scared to be seen naked or rather almost naked? Because there was nothing sexy here, she was not naked by her choice or by the choice of her husband and that made her nakedness all the worse. She was a victim to it. And men would find that arousing.
She glanced up and saw a familiar figure walking onto the beach. She waved. He waved back. She beckoned to him. He beckoned to her. She shook her head. He stood puzzled. She swore at his inability to understand something was wrong, very wrong.
Maybe it was the sudden change in his posture, but she knew he had grasped the situation. She squirmed with embarrassment even though she loved and trusted him. She couldn’t see his face fully, but she could imagine the broad smile on it. John had got her naked in the sea before; foreplay to the bedroom or the sofa or even the dunes if he was too urgent to wait. But that had been different, she had been safe. He had enjoyed getting her naked, and she had too, in a reluctant way. She had been partially in control of the situation, but here, alone and stranded, she did not even have that partial control. He mimed changing his clothes and headed leisurely back up the beach as if savouring the situation. Her ordeal was coming to an end but another of sorts was about to begin.

[Beachheadache]

Many thanks for the likes and the views. Just to let you know I'm working on a book of enf short stories. I will keep you updated on it. 1 story almost completed going through an edit, and working on the outlines of the others.

Thanks again.