Monday, February 16, 2009

Winter Picnic

(Photo by David Rolin)

It was the anticipation, his order to wear a skirt and no underwear. The air was cool and damp, and clouds swirled about a winter moon. They met to walk under the full moon, to feel the heat from each other. They met to make love and to fuck. She buzzed inside when she saw him walking toward her, in the darkness, the roll of towels under his arm. She had an hour.

“Do you want to go up to the top? There are some picnic tables over here, where we should still be able to see the moon,” he said, in a calming, playful, voice. She didn’t know why his voice made her feel so comfortable. It was soft and deep and had some indescribable power in it. He seemed not to be tentative about anything. The strength in him flowed into her and she breathed easier. He looped his arm around her and kissed her, deeply. “Let’s walk over here,” he said. She followed.

The tables were on the east side of the hill, under towering fir trees. A sheen of moisture caused them to glow under the moon. He unrolled the towels and placed them, side-by-side, on one of the tables’ benches. They sat there, his arm around her, slowly warming in each others’ presence, assisted by the Johnny Walker Black in his flask. He ran his hands through her thick hair and she rested her head against his broad shoulder, drawing him closer.

The cloudy sky opened, and the full moon cast her light upon them. He reached into her skirt and lifted it. “The winter moon is lighting up your pussy,“ he observed, dipping into her wetness. She spread her legs in the light, as he kissed her and invited the power of the moon into her. His fingers moved like clouds through the thick folds around the little moon of her clit. She groaned into his open mouth and he sucked her breath out of her lungs. Her atmosphere, her oxygen, her wind and air and life were drawn into him.

She was rising to meet the moon, when he stopped and stood. “Come,” he demanded, softly. He took her hand and helped her onto her quaking legs. He led her to the end of the table, lifted her up, spread her legs and impaled her with his cock. Just that quickly, just that unceremoniously, just that passionately, he was slipping in and out of her, there on the picnic table in the park, in the coolness, in the subtle warmth of a winter moon. Her head almost exploded. She closed her eyes to keep all of the feelings inside. This was exactly what she wanted, in this hour, with this man. This was an experience she had held inside of her for so long, and now it was swirling around her in magical streams of sparkling moonlight. He was feeding that winter moon to her, driving it deep. He pushed her back onto the table, hiked up her skirt, fully exposing her. His thumb circled her tiny moonlet until she cried out, the sounds of her radiating lunar orgasms absorbed in the strong silent firs that stood above her.

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