If I ever became a bikini, it’d only be because I love the beach.
By Jason Klamm
When my friend Glenn said “Damn, I’d like to be that bikini,” I understood what he meant. But it made me think. What must it be to life your life as a bikini? And as I pondered this, I slowly realized that I, too, wished to be a bikini. But if I ever became a bikini, it’d be only be because I love the beach so much.
The sun rippling across my fabric, I’d roll in the sand and enjoy the day with the rest of the bikinis. The sound of seagulls singing their desolate song would lull me to sleep under the ass I was currently strapped to. The smell of the salt air would bring me back to parasailing with Uncle Rod. But, then again- can a bikini have an uncle? After all, aren’t all bikinis female? I’m not really sure.
But I do know that the highlight of my day as a bikini would come in the water. I love the envelope of that warm, barreling current. I would soon soak in the water that now covers the adequate to beautiful breasts that I protect. These would be my breasts to take care of. I would be their guardian. Lest a hand come near, or a UV ray offend, my strong fabric would keep my breasts from danger.
Not that I’d be so possessive- rather, they wouldn’t be MY breasts in an absolute sense. But I would feel a sense of urgency to protect them. My twin charges, they would be my soul thought. As would the ass.
I wonder what kind of fabric I’d be. It seems to me that I wouldn’t want to be a standard sort of polyester- no need to conform as all the other bikinis do. Neither would I want to be something like those swimsuit models wear- suede, or something. I would want to be something protective, however- something sensible and practical. And plastic seems the way to go. Maybe- if I were get my wish, a poly-cotton blend, to bring just enough breathability and comfort simultaneously to those breasts, and, of course, ass, that I would be the sole guardian of.
And thusly, I would awake only on those days that my dear friends the breasts and ass would travel to the beach. The salt air in my lungs, wherever those might be, the sun beating down on me, and the sound of waves lapping at me. It sure would be wonderful to be a bikini, just not in that pervert way.
