So back to fishing it was, which led him to a little island on the north end of the lake. Catfish loved to stick to the craggy areas of the coves, so he trolled his line slow, dragging it along the bottom, wiggling his worm and waiting for those damnable bottom-feeders to pick up on his bait. He was so focused on the hated act of fishing that he almost didn’t see the shimmer of a woman’s pale skin shining in the moonlight.
Buster did a double take at the sight of so much exposed flesh in the distance. Was it? Couldn’t be! He grabbed his knocks and brought the small island into focus. It was a woman all right, and not a stitch of clothes on. The island itself was just a few feet across, just enough for the woman to stretch across with a little room to spare. The chick was quite a young thing, couldn’t have been more than twenty, if that old. She had a knockout figure, too. Big tits, flat tummy, wide hips. Her neatly trimmed bush said she was a natural blonde too, or at least she took the time to make the carpets match the drapes. Little Buster strained against his trousers as Big Buster leered at the display. Who was she? And what in the hell was a woman as beautiful as that doing buck-ass naked on the rocky shore of some random isle in the middle of a lake?
Buster knew better than to ask such things aloud, because what the Lord giveth and all that garbage. He just set to peeping and diddling and doing his best not to make a sound, lest he frighten the poor girl away. But she wasn’t going anywhere. Didn’t move much either. She just lay real still, on her back, with her legs spread wide and those perfect breasts pointed heavenward, which was just where Little Buster was headed.
After about an hour, both his arms got tired, even with switching out his stroking hand, and it was then he got a bit worried about the woman. She wiggled once or twice, shifting her weight about like she was trying to get comfortable, but she never moved more than that. Buster, who was now thinking with the big head instead of the little one, eyed the landscape a bit, but couldn’t make out a boat, or raft, or her clothes for that matter. He started to think maybe, just maybe, something untoward had befallen the pretty young thing. Perhaps someone had brought her out here earlier in the night, had his way with her, then left her stranded. There was a good chance that she might not be lying out, all naked and pretty, just for him stare at and jack off. There was a good chance that she might be in genuine trouble.
His dead dad could have lit a fire under Buster’s ass and he wouldn’t have moved much quicker. Buster hightailed it from the scene as fast as his oars could carry him, lest he be associated with the possible crime. The fishing line was still in the water when he started rowing for the southern shore, but he let his best rod drop into the murky depths rather than hang around to cut the thing free. Buster arrived back at the dock in record time and was huffing and chuffing as he dragged the little boat back onto the trailer. His heart was still jack-hammering when he fired up the truck and sped away. He didn’t really calm down, didn’t really draw a deep clean breath until he was back at his farm, miles away from the lake. That night he swore off both the despicable act of fishing and the peeping that went with it.
His resolution lasted a week. Buster checked the papers every day, just to make sure that no one saw him leave, and in the hope of finding out who the hell the poor girl was. There was nothing, not a peep in the papers about him or the woman. Maybe she was just out… what was it Carla used to call it? Moonbathing. That was it. Carla liked to moonbathe. Buster always thought it was weird, but Carla wasn’t his wife, so what did he care? Carla was Dale’s problem, but the woman on the lake was Buster’s dream. He decided it was safe enough to chase that dream all the way back to the lake.
Three weeks came and went with Buster spending every free night at the lake. And there she would be, spread out across the rocky ground, as if she were waiting for nothing more than him to come and spend his seed at the sight of her. More than one night, he had trouble finding the woman, as well as the island. He supposed he must have gotten turned around; it was easy to do on such a big lake. He would just row and row until either he got tired of rowing or she all at once appeared, island and all, like a ship parting the fog. Buster always left his lady fair just before sunrise, worried that the sunlight would give away his shameful deed.
Over this time, he developed an idea of who she was. It was obvious when one thought about it for more than a few moments. She must have been the daughter of one of the lake folks. The debutante of some rich family who snuck out each night, stripped on her private shore and swam all the way out to the island, where she would rest for the night, drying out before her swim home again. Sure. That explained it all. The lack of boat. The lack of clothes. Her incredible figure. Sure. That was a reasonable explanation. Wasn’t it?
Buster also fished between peeping sessions. He refused to go to the lake with the sole purpose of leering at some naked chick, so he always packed his usual fishing fare. Sometimes he fished before he sought her, sometimes after. Sometimes he would jerk off, fish a bit, then come back for another turn. He even made a game of it, refusing himself the sight of her body or the pleasure of an orgasm until he caught a decent-sized bass, or a catfish, or a perch. His freezer was full before the first week was out. Which was kind of a shame, because not only did he hate to fish for fish, but he hated to eat them, too.
At the end of three weeks, on another lonely Friday night, Buster decided he was tired of just watching. The woman was everything he had ever wanted in a mate. Sure, there were other beautiful women in the world, but none as fine as his mysterious moonbathing beauty. Sure, he didn’t know much about her personality, but he didn’t really want to know anyway. Personality equaled nagging, and he didn’t want a nag. He wanted a shag. Now. Tonight. It was time to call off his pussy ban. Five years of pulling his pud by his one-some had finally gotten old.
Buster found the island early that evening, and the mystery woman was there as always, the steady object of his oversexed desires. At first he panicked, rowing his little boat to his usual hidey hole where he could hyperventilate in peace. But as he looked to her resting in the distance, the need to meet her rose up in him like the swelling tide. He longed for her, much more than just to touch or taste or even sink himself deep inside of her. He just wanted to be near her. He craved her proximity. He was drawn to her, the moth of his desire pulled to the glow of her skin, the sheen of her sex, the sight of her perfect body shining like a white flame under the light of the full moon.
Plus, he was kind of hoping, if everything worked out, he would get to fuck her.
God, did he ever want to fuck her!
Buster closed his eyes as he whispered his well-practiced lines again. “Ahoy there. I saw you while I was fishing and wondered if you needed any help. Would you like a ride back to the shore?”
Would it work? Probably not, but Buster would never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try. He looked to her again, or rather her pert tits and velvet puss, then swallowed hard as he put his back to his dream and rowed into the moonlight toward her shore.
The oars cut the water with expert hush. Buster had spent so long trying not to alert her to his presence that he almost forgot to make noise on purpose. As he drew his vessel closer to her, it dawned on him that he was, in all essence, sneaking up on her. A few yards from the shore, he slapped the water with his oars, relishing the ensuing splashes for the freedom they gave him. He was here, damn it! He was here and she was going to see him for the first time, and hopefully not the last.