You and your soul mate are alone in a sun-kissed pasture, entwined in a torrid lover's knot. High times and hot sex fill the afternoon you and your lover spend on a serene hillside. The two of you make slow, sensual love in an intimate grotto tucked behind a tropical waterfall.
Hot, steaming, al fresco sex is a favorite fantasy for many folks. That's why it's a common subject in romance and erotic writing.
Great sex in the great outdoors can happen. But fiction writers seldom give the whole, unvarnished story of such encounters. It's true that nature can be breathtakingly beautiful. But when it comes to sex, beds are best. Those of a contrary opinion are both wrong, and encouraged to consider the trials and tribulations of Angelina Eveready.
As is the case with many otherwise sane, normal people born and raised in the big city, Angie yearned for bucolic bliss. Her all-consuming fantasy was to make unbridled love with a rugged, yet sensitive, mountain man in the great out-of-doors. In her imagination, passion overwhelms them in some secluded mountain glade during a summer rainstorm, or they make love while swimming nude in a tranquil lake, or the two of them frolic in an isolated meadow filled with songbirds and flowers.
So entrenched was this longing for splendor in the grass, after the fall semester of her freshman year, she defied her parents and, with the encouragement of her cousin, Etta Toupes, transferred from Elitist Private University to that bastion of rural virtues, Wodehouse College.
Etta was Angie's cousin. That and the fact both were female was about all they had in common. Etta was cute, blonde, perky, very smart, poor, and two years older. Angie was voluptuous, brunette, sultry, just smart enough, rich, and two years younger. Naturally, they were great friends and decided to share an apartment.
When Angie arrived in January, the much praised WC campus proved to be cold, dreary, and disappointing. The weather was too miserable to do anything outside and there wasn't much to do inside except study and go to basketball games. Sometime around Valentine's Day, Etta hooked up with a guy named Willie Sinclair and became scarce. To Angie, it seemed like spring had been cancelled due to boredom.
Then April arrived and with it the approach of Earth Day. Signs of nature's renewal began showing up everywhere. The sun became warmer, the days longer, and student apparel skimpier. All this renewed Angie's primal longing to play nymph to some insatiable satyr in an elysian field of erotic delights.
It was her good fortune to possess the three qualities most needed to fulfill her desires. She was a female, and she was in love with the ideal of love. In other words, she was easy. It didn't hurt that her earth-mother figure and exotic good looks attracted men ranging in age from pre-school to post-senility.
That fall's crop of freshmen females had been a poor one, boasting few blue-ribbon keepers. This paucity of prime pulchritude and her own ample charms made Angie an instant, and much sought after, sensation.
Her first conquest was Ernie, a good friend of Willie and Etta. No doubt this choice struck some as odd. For while it's true he was sort of handsome when viewed in a certain light, Ernie was not the rugged, mountain man type. Nor was he interested in becoming one. Having grown up in the rustic region surrounding the Wodehouse campus, he tended to take nature for granted. In his opinion, the best thing about the outdoors was coming indoors.
But though built on the long and lanky model and no woodsman, he was patient and smart. Those attributes played a vital role in the remarkable improvement in Angie's academic fortunes during the first half of the semester.
To her credit, Angie was quick to reward this kindness. To her delight, Ernie's slender frame was more than offset by two compensating factors. A member of the school's cross-country track team; he possessed great stamina. And then there was his being, to quote a locker-room wag, "hung like a fucking Missouri mule." After becoming aware of both factors, Angie shifted her rewards program into overdrive.
None of that "rewarding" activity lessened her wish to experience pastoral passion, however. With her full lips, talented tongue, enticing cleavage, nimble fingers, and almost total lack of anything resembling a sexual inhibition, Angie seldom had trouble coaxing men. Long before the first warm weekend of the year, the reluctant Ernie had been well and truly coaxed into obliging her.
When the great day arrived, Angie, being romantic, brought a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a copy of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Ernie, being practical, brought a plastic ground cloth, a blanket, and a first aide kit. He also brought his dog, an aging but still inquisitive beagle named, Buford.
The chosen spot was under a towering tree in an out-of-the-way rustic glen. Ernie busied himself smoothing a spot and spreading the ground cover and blanket. The moment these tasks were completed, he learned what Angie had been doing. Wearing nothing but a big smile, she jumped onto the blanket and pulled him down beside her.
Foreplay was not on the agenda. Ernie's clothes seemed to vanish, followed moments later by his prodigious penis. But while neither had any idea where his clothes were, both knew the exact location of his magic sword; buried up to the hilt in Angie's writhing body.
Even with his endurance and her desire, that first explosion of passion couldn't last forever. When they started to recover, a jug of wine and a loaf of bread weren't what Angie wanted. She wasn't even interested in Ernie being beside her singing in the wilderness. What interested her was having him on his back with his cock planted way up inside her pussy while she sat on top, controlling the pace and teasing him with her breasts.
Thanks to her remarkable ability to coax men, she soon had everything she wanted. In a way, Angie was like Will Rogers except she never met a sexual position she didn't like. But this one was special. It generated a wave of warm, tender emotions she began sharing with her lover.
"Oh, fucking yes! It's just so fan-fucking-tastic, to the fucking max. I mean, feeling every sweet fucking inch of your big fucking beautiful cock rooting around inside me, it's just, you know, like so in-fucking-credible."
Words failed her before she could make any specific comments regarding the exquisite pressure Ernie's erection was creating inside her body or how being able to look around at all the beauties of nature was adding to her pleasure. But he seemed to understand.
A large tree trunk blocked the view in front of her. But there were butterflies in the wildflowers to her left. A few feet away on the right, birds flew in and out of a large thicket. Ernie's old dog was nearby, stretched out on its belly in a patch of sunlight, watching them and slowly wagging its tail. She wondered what the dog thought about all this. Was he bored or enjoying the show?
Fucking like this was so fucking good, so right. She cupped her breasts, kneading and rotating the heavy globes. Doing that always felt sexy, and like most guys, Ernie seemed fascinated. She noticed the dog's tail was moving faster. Maybe they both were. The thought made her giggle.
She began slowly rocking back and forth, enjoying the sensation of that huge hammer moving inside her. Making love outdoors was even better than she'd imagined. Feeling the sun and wind on your bare skin was such a turn-on. Everything was peaceful and sexy. The sounds of nature were accompanied by the gentle slurping of her lover's thick shaft moving inside her wet, and, oh so happy, pussy.
The more she thought about the scene, the hotter she got. It wasn't long before she was leaning forward, hands on Ernie's shoulders, her full breasts swaying back and forth, gently slapping against his face as he tried to capture one of the erect, elusive nipples with his lips.
Angie felt herself slipping into the moment, her body taking control as her mind became a swirl of sensory delights. Ernie latched onto one of her breasts. He sucked hard, taking in more and more flesh before releasing just enough to let him chew on the sensitive nipple.
On some subconscious level, Angie knew her hips were moving faster and faster, knew Ernie was meeting each downward stroke with a hard, upward thrust, knew she was on the brink of an outdoor orgasm for the ages.
Something very cold, very wet, and totally unexpected pushed in between the cheeks of her exposed, and unsuspecting ass. She was about halfway through what should have been the penultimate downward plunge. Her body braked to a halt. Defying all known laws of inertia, it reversed directions with such speed and force she pulled a lower back muscle. This went unnoticed at the time and does not appear to have impeded her subsequent movements.
The rapid reversal was accompanied by a spectacular sound. It bore a striking resemblance, in both its high frequency and even higher volume, to the nerve shattering screech emitted by well-tuned tornado alert sirens in the great state of Kansas.
With a speed that would have pleased an Olympic sprinter coming off the starting line, she was rushing away from the cold terror down below. That this terror was just another one of nature's marvels, in this case the cold, wet nose of Buford the beagle, would never mollify Angie. In any case, the information remained unknown to her until well after the crises passed.
