Marked

They walked up the old utility access road together. A cool spring breeze swished through the Douglas firs that towered like sentinels above them. The soft forest duff cushioned and quieted their steps. The sun shone uncharacteristically for a day in April. They were in search of a special place, a place to be alone in the sun. The road was not long, maybe a quarter of a mile, but it was enough to transport them out of the busy hustle of the highway into a world of their making. They wanted to sample the early spring sun, to spark the life of their cells with star energy. They wanted to make love in the open air, in the cool April breeze, overlooking the majesty of the Columbia Gorge. At the top of the overgrown road, still damp with winter’s moisture, was a tiny plot of ground, open to the slanting sun and surrounded by basaltic scree. It was nothing fancy, but it was theirs. They were alone. They were buzzing with desire.

He unfurled the blanket. The wind was stiff and cool. When she pulled the shirt over her head, her nipples became like pebbles in a mountain brook. When he pulled his pants off, his scrotum pulled into his body and all but disappeared. They undressed and fell upon the blanket, giggling in the realization of the bold insanity of it all. The sun was warm, but the air nearly cancelled out the warmth. Still, there they were, finally naked in the sun, wrapped together in love. They drank beer and took pictures and fucked and sucked and licked and kissed and ran their fingers through each others’ hair.

Suddenly, she announced that she had to pee. “Wait,” he said. “Do it on me.”

“Are you serious?” she asked. He had asked her before and, out of fun, she had pissed on his chest in the shower. But, out here? Out in the grass, in the open, in the sun? No one had ever asked her to do this. She was leaping with joy, inside. Never had she met such a man. He was an animal.

“Mark me,” he said with a wolfish grin. “I’m your territory.”

He reclined on his elbows, in the grass. “Piss on my head,” he ordered.

She straddled him and gazed off into the awesome beauty of the gorge. Seagulls arched and dove in the river wind and she could feel the same cold wind flowing across her tingling body. The stream was tentative, at first. It dribbled on to the top of his head and ran down the back of his neck. He reached up and soaked his hand and rubbed it across his face, breathing in the strong aroma of her. She saw his reaction and relaxed and the urine flowed easy from her. It sprayed out of her and down his face and across his chest. Soon, he was swimming in her currents. His body shone like a beautiful stone in the sun.

As soon as she was spent, he turned and smiled at her, piss dripping off his chin. “Your turn,” he said, with a large smile. “Really?” she asked, nearly leaping out of her sensual skin. He got up and said, “Sit here.” She did.


She leaned back, her legs splayed in front of her, and she felt the torrent of him pouring through her hair and over her face and down her breasts and into her open crotch. She was coated in the feral essence of him. When he was done, she pulled him to her and kissed him like she had never kissed him. With all of the power of instinct she pinned him to the ground and, piss dripping from her hair, drove her tongue into his throat, growling. Their soaked bodies ground into each other while the sun and wind dried the perfume of their sex onto their skins. They were forever marked, forever belonging.