Karen’s Thank You

I could have sworn she was about my age.

I’m 21 now, making me a dedicated observer of girl’s asses and legs for the last eight years or so. I can detect the slightly-too-slender look of a hot little piece of jailbait, or the subtle signs of impending cellulite that brand most older women.

So as I walked along the beach perhaps 30 feet behind the bikini-clad brunette, I never would have guessed she was old enough to be my mom.

It was about 8:30 on a sticky, windless June evening in North Myrtle Beach. I was staying for a week in an oceanfront condo with a couple of buddies who had just left to go clubbing for the night. I had drunk far too much the night before and the thought of another round made my stomach roll, so I took a raincheck.

I threw on a pair of trunks and a ratty T-shirt and headed for the beach, with the vague thought of swimming until dark. But as I was crossing the wooden bridge that protected the dunes, I saw her strikingly sexy profile. She was straight ahead of me and strolling in the direction of a distant fishing pier.

I didn’t make a conscious decision to follow her. But as I approached the lapping waves I made a right turn on the flat, wet sand and matched her languid pace.

This was some girl. She was tall and slender, probably about five-eight and 120 pounds. The salmon-colored sun was just beginning to touch the horizon opposite the surf. It bronzed her smooth skin and set fire to the ends of her dark curly hair.

She was graced with a delicious heart-shaped ass hugged by a dark purple bikini bottom. A lot of the girls at my college are just too skinny, with unnaturally small butts that look like a boy’s. No, this ass was perfect, shimmering just slightly with each step she took, and gracefully leading to a pair of long, toned legs.

I lingered several times to pick up random shells, not wanting her to think I was a stalker. She never looked back at me, but females have some innate sense about those things.

As she occasionally glanced toward the Atlantic or politely spoke to approaching walkers, I got only a fleeting glimpse of her profile. That led my mind’s eye to fill in the blanks. It of course created a face of matchless beauty with striking brown eyes, full lips and the petite, slightly upturned nose of a cover model. I gave her firm breasts of about 34B, suitably sized for her athletic form.

I was so lost in my hormone-fueled musings that I didn’t realize my cock had sprung to life. It was quite often a challenge to keep the damn thing down — or at least hidden. I was just trying to adjust my partial erection when the woman who had caused it squealed in pain and collapsed on the sand.

I paused in surprise for only a second, then sprinted to her aid. I reached her side just as she was sitting up and saying, “Fucking rednecks!”

“Who? What happened?” I asked as I knelt beside her.

“Some asshole broke a beer bottle,” she muttered as she looked around for additional pieces of shattered glass. I saw that one shard was embedded in the arch of her left foot. It was roughly the size and shape of a guitar pick, and blood was already oozing around it.

“Shit, that has to hurt,” I said stupidly. “Are you okay?”

“I will be,” the girl answered through gritted teeth as she looked up at me for the first time. Her face was etched with pain, but still very pretty and oddly similar to the way I imagined it. I also realized she was no girl. This was definitely a mature woman, probably in her mid to late 30s.

“Gotta get this thing out,” she muttered. I watched silently as she pulled the brown glass from her foot, groaning with pain but not shedding a tear. The moment she removed it, blood began flowing more freely. I knew she needed to cover and protect the wound but there was nothing in sight that would serve as a bandage. So I quickly pulled off my shirt, and wrapped and tied it around her foot.

“Thank you so much…” she told me with expectant eyes.

“Jason,” I answered.

“Karen,” she replied. “Thanks again, Jason. Can you help me up?”

I circled around her so she could favor her left leg when she stood. I draped her arm over my shoulder, gripped her narrow waist and lifted her to her feet.

“You’re light as a feather,” I told her.

“Lucky you,” she answered with a crooked smile. “I can’t put any weight on this foot, so you’re going to have to help me back to the house.” I noticed it wasn’t a question. Nodding ahead of us, she explained that she was heading that direction, and was probably only five minutes from her destination.

“Five minutes walking, but fifteen hobbling,” I reminded her, and we began making our way down the beach.

I maneuvered a bit farther from ocean waves, not wanting her makeshift bandage to get wet. “We can’t get your blood in the water,” I jokingly warned her. “The sharks would have a feeding frenzy.”

“I worry more about the sharks than can swim on the land,” she answered with a smile.

“Can’t you feel them circling, honey?” I replied, and we both laughed at our shared reference to the Jimmy Buffet song.

As the mood lightened, we swapped stories about what brought us to the beach. Karen was staying with her younger sister, Beth, who had a house two blocks off the ocean. Beth’s husband had just walked out on her, and Karen planned to spend the next few weeks doing whatever she could to help and comfort.

“Not sure I’m really the best person to offer advice,” she admitted. “I’m twice divorced.”

“Really? How old are you?” I asked reflexively, forgetting that’s the worst question to ask any woman.

“Forty-four,” she revealed without hesitation.

“Wow,” I said softly, and she raised her eyebrows at me. “I mean, wow, you look great. When I first saw you, I thought you were as young as me.”

“Not likely. I’ve got a daughter your age. You’re what — about 20?”

“Close enough. Twenty-one.”

I found myself admiring this woman for the way she’d retained her youthful appearance. Surely a combination of hard work and good genes.

With her arm over my shoulders, I was free to look down upon her stunning body. The first thing I noticed was her tits, partly because my face was only inches from them. They were larger than I expected, probably a large C-cup and maybe approaching a D. I quickly decided they were enhanced with implants. As Karen and I hobbled together along the beach, they shook less than they should for their size.

I love the look and feel of natural tits, but had never gotten my hands on a pair of fake ones.