Stranded on Duchesse Rock: I Hooked a Fisherman and His Cock

Summer in Vendée. Me and my man, stranded on Duchesse Rock by the tide. Water rising fast. Perfect spot: hidden mini-beach, no tourists. I strip to monokini, tits out, pale skin soaking sun. Feel his eyes before I see him. Fisherman in waders, casting lines, glancing over. Mid-30s, rugged, focused. My pussy twitches. Boredom hits. I dive in, swim close. ‘Pêche bonne?’ I tease. He stammers. Cute. Tide traps us all. His buddy chats him up, laughs about bronzing. I wait. Then slip into water, up to my nipples. ‘Won’t poke me with that rod?’ His grin. Flirty banter. Admit I love his stares. ‘Your tits made my day.’ Bold fucker. I laugh, splash. Heart races. Check my man: he’s watching, hard already. Loves this shit. I push. ‘Water cold?’ He blushes. Time to reel him in. Wade out, eye his bulge. ‘Mind if I see your lures?’ Up close, salt air mixes with his sweat. Kneel by his tackle box. Questions fly. Then: ‘Bet I can catch this fish.’ Hand on his crotch. He freezes. Thick. Growing. ‘Think you can land it?’ Stroke through waders. Unzip. Out springs his cock. Veiny, hard. Mine.