© Copyright 2011 - Jo - Used by permission
Storycodes: M/f; bikini; beach; naked; public; bond; rope; tape; dirt; garden; buried; cons; X
I unrolled the long, black hose, left it loosely coiled in the sun.
The rototiller made quick work of the plot and hand digging took less than an hour. It ended up kidney-shaped, the trough a thin scar cutting across the middle.
I made a couple of trips with the cart, unloaded the truck, and arranged the plants about the plot. The trough would be lined with bricks, but not just yet.
I loaded the rototiller into the truck, checked the hose. It was warming nicely. I went to work with shovel and trowel.
The azaleas came first, framing the back third of the plot. Then I pressed in a smattering of bulbs. It was the wrong time of year to plant bulbs, but I figured I'd give it a shot. I filled the bulk of the plot with nandinas and junipers, arranging their tendrils across the dirt. Filled the gaps with wildflower seeds. Lastly I went into the house to retrieve Debbie.
She was as I'd left her - hogtied with a strip of tape over her lips, a white scarf covering most of her face. The thin, nearly sheer white gown clung to her tits and hips, coming well below her knees. Brown nipples and lush, dark bush clearly visible through the thin material.
I picked her up, navigated the steps on the back porch, walked over to the trench, and set her in. I released her ankles from her wrists, though I left them bound. I rolled her over onto her back, straightened her legs, and arranged the gown. I cinched a cord to her bound ankles, tossed it over a convenient branch. It was going to be a filthy mess in a few minutes and plucking her from the ground seemed the best option.
The depth was just about right, about two feet. Deep enough to properly bury her, but not so deep that she couldn't sit up in a fit of panic. She'd never panicked before, but you never know. Until now we'd played our game only at the beach and she was never completely buried. I picked up the shovel.
The dirt was thick and rich, almost black. Moist and almost gooey. I covered her, beginning with her feet, working my way up her legs, up over her hips, belly, and tits. Where the globs of dirt fell away, they left a thick, black stain on her white gown, on her bare skin. I peeled the tape from her lips.
She opened her mouth and accepted the plastic tube. I grabbed the shovel and covered her cloth-shrouded face.
I kept laying on the dirt until the trench had become a small mound. I picked up the hose, gave it a squirt. The sun-warmed water was nearly hot. I sprayed the mound.
As the dirt became wet, the mound settled, turning it, once again, into a trough. I shoveled some more dirt in. Applied more water. I imagined the mud, thin and slick, flowing down and around her, filling all the gaps, encasing her more fully. The flow cooled and I directed the stream at the new plants. Soon the entire plot took on a rich, slightly muddy sheen.
The plants looked nice, everything balanced, except for the dark scar of bare dirt running through the middle
I fiddled with things a bit, then I put the tools away, coiled the hose, fixed a drink and settled in next to my new garden. I'm into bonsai and eventually I'd line the trough with bricks, making a display platform of sorts for my little plants. But not today.
"Come on! It's fun! We always buried each other as kids."
"Well, yeah, me too, but ..."
We were on our honeymoon, laying on the beach, adult beverages in hand.
"Down by the edge where the sand is all wet and cool."
"One word: Tide. You could drown."
Debbie laughed. "No! Not that kind of buried. Just enough to cover me, well, and a bit more. It's no fun being buried unless you really feel buried."
A look passed across her face that I'd never seen before.
"You do it when the tide is going out and when it comes back in it washes the sand away. We used to play a game of chicken as kids. My older brother would bury my sister and me and when the water came in the first to break free lost. It's not dangerous, just uncomfortable when you get a snoot full of seawater." She laughed.
I buried her.
The next morning I checked the tide chart. I went to the Army surplus store and bought a folding shovel. Down on the beach we spread the blanket just below the high tide mark. I dug the hole.
"It has to be deeper down at my feet end so I'm reclining a bit and can watch the waves."
I dug, Debbie reclined. I covered her feet and legs. I was about to scoop the wet sand over her hips when she said, "Here," and promptly undid the strings of her bikini bottom. She tugged at them and tossed it at me. "Hurry up, bury me or someone will see."
I shoveled on the sand. She stopped me again and the bra soon sat next to the other. Eventually she was buried with only her head above ground. I folded a towel and wedged it under her head.
I walked over to the tiki bar, got something extremely potent. There may have been fruit juice in there, but all I could taste was rum. The bartended slid a couple of straws into the coconut shells and I toddled back down the beach. All the while I had been casting glances back at Debbie. The tide was still dropping, the expanse of beach widening with only Debbie's head to mark the spot. Occasionally someone would walk by. I had a vision of some critter in the sand nipping her, Debbie squealing, and jumping up wearing only her birthday suit. Made me laugh.
I settled in next to her, worked the coconut into the sand between her tits, bent the straw for her. We sipped and yacked about nothing. There were long periods of silence, which was unusual because Debbie can be quite the talker. For minutes at a time she just lay there, a dreamy look in her eyes, as if hypnotized by the row of breaking waves.
There was a slurping sound as she finished her second drink.
"Do you have to pee?"
Debbie giggled. "Here we go."
The first wavelet barely made it to her feet. But wave by wave, minute by minute, the water edged further and further until it was lapping at the mounds of her tits. She was still fully covered, the wash of water leaving behind as much sand as it took. But everything became flat. No tits, no mounds, just a flat expanse of wet sand ... and Debbie's head. She turned to say something, but something caught my eye.
She turned her head, said, "What?" - caught the small wave full in the face.
Debbie sputtered, jumped up, then promptly hugged herself and sat down.
I shrugged. "Oops, sorry, I don't remember where we left them."
"Bastard," she snarled as she grabbed her suit and bolted into the surf.
On another day on another beach, Debbie set the basket down, pulled out the blanket, radio, books, and rope. She pulled her arms inside her Mumu dress and I tied her wrists to her ankles. She was naked beneath the dress. Mumus hide a multitude of sins.
I dug the hole, nearly three feet deep. We were further back today, almost to the dunes. The sand soft, white, easy digging, but it took a while because the hole had a tendency to fill.
There were other beach goers, though most were down by the edge. Those of us further back were a sparse lot.
I tugged the dress over her head, hefted her into the hole. Glanced around to see whether anybody had seen. I couldn't tell. I shoveled in the sand.
Covering her is the best part. I love to ladle in the sand and watch it slowly encase her, her beautiful curves disappearing bit by bit. We had added bondage to our games. Fuzzy handcuffs led to a collar, and cuffs; gags, dildoes, and butt plugs; ropes, duct tape, and straps. But for burying, it wasn't really a sexual thing with Debbie, it was just the feeling of helplessness.
It was a turn-on for me, kind of like bondage on steroids.
I settled the jug between her legs, slipped the tube between her lips, Debbie sucked, swallowed, nodded and said, "Good."
I shoveled in the rest of the sand.
I brought the level up to her chin, inverted the basket and placed it over her head. The weave was open enough that Debbie could see out, but no one else could see in. I worked the rim into the sand, piled more sand around it.
The rest was, as they say, just a day at the beach - except for a naked, bound, Debbie buried next to my blanket.
At one point a rubber ball bounced my way and I was invited to a game of beach handball. Later I grabbed my Frisbee and we tossed that around for a while. A couple, towing a kite, settled in a few feet away. I shared my beer. We chatted.
Like I said, just another day at the beach.
Hours later the crowd thinned. I pulled off the basket.
"Ready to go?"
Debbie nodded, sucked on the tube, making scritching sounds.
"Have to go. I'm out of booze."
The way she said it let me know she'd had enough. Couldn't help but laugh.
Speaking of booze, I fixed another drink. I heard the sound of wheels on gravel. Craig pulled in. He disappeared into the garage, reappeared with a beer and folding chair, set himself down next to me.
"How's it going? New garden?"
"Looks good. What's with the bare spot?"
He nodded, sipped his beer.
I just smiled.
In a few hours I'd haul her out, hose her clean, but for now she'd remain dirty little Debbie.