Contributor: Eli James Yanna
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We bounced down the rutted two-track. My truck slammed into the sand at he end of the trail. Sounds of slamming surf beat against the sugar sand like a thunderous chorus. Above the capping waves and just beyond the tree line, hung a massive orange-red moon that bathed the landscape in a sepia tint.
Point Solitude was isolated and rarely entertained evening visitors. It was inhospitable terrain just to get there. To get here you needed two things—a tricked out truck like mine or a big set of balls. And there have been many who have bowed to both.
My rig was like no other. Metallic purple graced by pearl ghost flames from nose to tail and just enough lift to give plenty of room for a set of fat Mickey Thompsons to ride on. Christened “The Purple-Headed Monster”, this old Chevy was a labor of love that only served two purposes—impress the ladies and embarrass the boys.
The Point was perfect for intoxicated lovers like us, or the occasional hormone enraged teenagers looking to unleash animalistic urges in private. Out here, no one will hear the screams, wails and howls of ecstasy over the thunder of the surf.
Beside me tonight was Elle, a girl who spent the last few hours twirling her shoulder-length brown hair while occasionally lifting her turquoise eyes with a coy glance as we made small talk at the bar.
I parked my truck where the trail spilled onto the open beach. I whipped the tail end hard to make sure the tailgate faced the water. Any closer and my night of fun could be a long night trying to dig free of the beach sands, even with my bad ass rig.
Meek young Elle was so lovely. She was perched by the only window in the bar, staring into the empty night street and trying to drink away some sorrow stabbing at her tender heart. Being a man of opportunity, I did not hesitate to charm my way into the seat across from her. A few cocktails and some much-needed flattery dissolved her inhibition enough to get her into my truck.
Shy at first, she was now naked and running toward the water, leaving a trail of clothing in the sand along the way. All that remained on her person was that mesmerizing heirloom butterfly clip holding strands of straight auburn hair from her eyes. Her bare skin was so lovely, as it shimmered with glowing wet drops of moonlight as she splashed and danced in the orange luminescence of the rolling surf.
It was exciting to watch Elle’s sensual ballet with the water. It made my heart race and maintaining my composure was quickly getting to be difficult. Her laughter could be heard, defiant against the roaring waves. Seductive body language invited me to join in the watery frolic. Drawn in by temptation, I slipped out of my worn boots, stuffing the socks inside and placed them in the truck bed. My clothes were next, folded neat before placing them beside the boots.
I turned to join Elle, only to jump in surprise as I found her silently behind me, gazing with angelic eyes and grinning with a devilish pout that made my heart race double time.
Being a consummate gentleman, I greeted her supple wet form with a towel and we sat on the tailgate together; an arm around her as she pressed her soaked hair against my chest. That beautiful butterfly clip scraped against my cheek, still perfectly placed. Elle, looking down, giggled at my visible excitement before lifting her head and pressing those sensuous lips against mine. A touch of her hand aroused me more.
I slid off the tailgate and onto my feet, trying not to break the passionate kiss, stumbling to position myself in front of her. Those supple legs wrapped around my body and the towel fell away, exposing Elle’s entire body.
Caught up in the intense passion, I failed to notice her slight of hand that removed the ornate butterfly clip from her wet dark hair. A swift caress from Elle’s hand across my neck followed the sensation of warm fluid running down my chest. My head began to swim with confusion and nausea punched me in the stomach. Before fading into the blackness, a vision of that butterfly clip in her hand, blood covered razor-edge wings and that deceiving smile—so lovely.
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Eli James Yanna is a student at Full Sail University studying Creative Writing for Entertainment online. He is a retired culinary professional who now spends his time writing works of fiction from home where he resides in Northeast Michigan with his wife and four children.
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We bounced down the rutted two-track. My truck slammed into the sand at he end of the trail. Sounds of slamming surf beat against the sugar sand like a thunderous chorus. Above the capping waves and just beyond the tree line, hung a massive orange-red moon that bathed the landscape in a sepia tint.
Point Solitude was isolated and rarely entertained evening visitors. It was inhospitable terrain just to get there. To get here you needed two things—a tricked out truck like mine or a big set of balls. And there have been many who have bowed to both.
My rig was like no other. Metallic purple graced by pearl ghost flames from nose to tail and just enough lift to give plenty of room for a set of fat Mickey Thompsons to ride on. Christened “The Purple-Headed Monster”, this old Chevy was a labor of love that only served two purposes—impress the ladies and embarrass the boys.
The Point was perfect for intoxicated lovers like us, or the occasional hormone enraged teenagers looking to unleash animalistic urges in private. Out here, no one will hear the screams, wails and howls of ecstasy over the thunder of the surf.
Beside me tonight was Elle, a girl who spent the last few hours twirling her shoulder-length brown hair while occasionally lifting her turquoise eyes with a coy glance as we made small talk at the bar.
I parked my truck where the trail spilled onto the open beach. I whipped the tail end hard to make sure the tailgate faced the water. Any closer and my night of fun could be a long night trying to dig free of the beach sands, even with my bad ass rig.
Meek young Elle was so lovely. She was perched by the only window in the bar, staring into the empty night street and trying to drink away some sorrow stabbing at her tender heart. Being a man of opportunity, I did not hesitate to charm my way into the seat across from her. A few cocktails and some much-needed flattery dissolved her inhibition enough to get her into my truck.
Shy at first, she was now naked and running toward the water, leaving a trail of clothing in the sand along the way. All that remained on her person was that mesmerizing heirloom butterfly clip holding strands of straight auburn hair from her eyes. Her bare skin was so lovely, as it shimmered with glowing wet drops of moonlight as she splashed and danced in the orange luminescence of the rolling surf.
It was exciting to watch Elle’s sensual ballet with the water. It made my heart race and maintaining my composure was quickly getting to be difficult. Her laughter could be heard, defiant against the roaring waves. Seductive body language invited me to join in the watery frolic. Drawn in by temptation, I slipped out of my worn boots, stuffing the socks inside and placed them in the truck bed. My clothes were next, folded neat before placing them beside the boots.
I turned to join Elle, only to jump in surprise as I found her silently behind me, gazing with angelic eyes and grinning with a devilish pout that made my heart race double time.
Being a consummate gentleman, I greeted her supple wet form with a towel and we sat on the tailgate together; an arm around her as she pressed her soaked hair against my chest. That beautiful butterfly clip scraped against my cheek, still perfectly placed. Elle, looking down, giggled at my visible excitement before lifting her head and pressing those sensuous lips against mine. A touch of her hand aroused me more.
I slid off the tailgate and onto my feet, trying not to break the passionate kiss, stumbling to position myself in front of her. Those supple legs wrapped around my body and the towel fell away, exposing Elle’s entire body.
Caught up in the intense passion, I failed to notice her slight of hand that removed the ornate butterfly clip from her wet dark hair. A swift caress from Elle’s hand across my neck followed the sensation of warm fluid running down my chest. My head began to swim with confusion and nausea punched me in the stomach. Before fading into the blackness, a vision of that butterfly clip in her hand, blood covered razor-edge wings and that deceiving smile—so lovely.
- - -
Eli James Yanna is a student at Full Sail University studying Creative Writing for Entertainment online. He is a retired culinary professional who now spends his time writing works of fiction from home where he resides in Northeast Michigan with his wife and four children.
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Author:
Eli James Yanna
