Helena Ch 01 A Bearskin Rug

Writer's Note: This is the first in a series of stories I wrote for a certain Litster; a wonderful lady who never fails me as my muse.

A Bearskin Rug

I'm sitting in the waiting area of the Knoxville Airport, waiting, and I can't remember the last time I felt this nervous. Doubts race through my mind like a Grand Prix racetrack.

What if she's turned off by me? What if she's disappointed? You've been honest with her, and you insisted on providing pictures, but what on earth makes you think this woman will want you? How do I greet her? Do I shake her hand? That seems kind of odd, considering the thoughts and words we've shared over the last several months. Do I kiss her? Hold her hand?

I've been battling these thoughts ever since we confirmed the date. A fluke of fate had brought an opportunity for you to come to the States, and then some careful planning had squeezed out this window of opportunity for us to finally be together in the flesh. We agreed there was no pressure; either of us could put the brakes on this if we felt uncomfortable. I was very, very sure that I did not want to put a stop to it; I had already come to have a deep connection with this beautiful English soul with whom I had shared some of my deepest thoughts, fears and dreams. But really, now: Did I really expect such a woman to feel the same towards me?

Well, I guess we're about to find out, because I see now on the board that your plane has landed, and in 15 of the longest minutes known to mankind, passengers come ambling out through the gate. I'm grateful you're not going through Customs; you already did that in New York.

I wondered if I'd be able to pick you out. I had a picture of you, and you said you'd be wearing a blue dress, but in a crowd of moving people, it can be hard to-

There you are. Oh.My.God. In the blink of an eye (not that I blinked; I don't think so, anyway) I knew I was right to trust my heart on this. You're beautiful, simply beautiful. I've spotted you before you spot me; you probably thought, "Who's this big gorilla smiling at me, oh, it must be him..." Navigating your way across the stream, rolling a suitcase behind you, you make your way to stand before me.

No, I'm not going to shake your hand. That question gets resolved immediately in my head.

We stand in front of each other, just smiling at each other for a moment, like two people who share a funny secret. I step closer, raise my hand, and palm your left cheek softly, then pull you towards me.

"Welcome to Tennessee, Helena," I say softly, just before I kiss you. You're quickly kissing me back, your hand raising and resting on the hand holding you.

"Thank you, John," you reply when I finally release your mouth from captivity. Somehow, my other arm has found its way around you, and I hold you to me, enjoying thoroughly the feel of your body against me. For maybe a minute longer, we stand, looking into each other's eyes, until finally I realize this is NOT where I want to spend our time together.

I reach down and take the suitcase handle from you. "Do you have any other bags or anything?"

"No, I travel light." I'm glad we don't have to spend time in baggage claim, so taking your hand in my other one, I walk us towards the exit and towards the garage. I put your bag in the back of my big SUV, and then open your door and help you up and into the passenger seat. I love my old Suburban; it eats gas like a fat kid eats cookies, but it will get me in and out of pretty much anywhere I want to go. Today, though, I'm not loving my plush bucket seats, because it means I can't have you slide over beside me. Oh, well.

We stop for a bite to eat in Maryville, which is the last real civilization before we head towards Townsend and the Smoky Mountains. We flirt through the meal like we're teenagers on a date, and I think we're both anxious to get going to our destination.

It's evening time here; the sun has a couple of hours of light left before it takes the night off. As we leave Maryville and approach Townsend, you begin to see the mountains.

"Wow, it really is beautiful, isn't it? I can see why you love it here."

I smile to myself. 'You ain't seen nothin' yet...,' I think. "Yes, I love it up here. But just wait, it gets better."

To the left, now running parallel to the road we are on, runs the Little River. There are places up and down this river where people can rent tubes and float down the river. A few small restaurants, one grocery store/gas station, cabin rental offices, and a smattering of small businesses comprise most of Townsend's commercial area, but it only takes two minutes to get from one end of town to the next. At the far end, Highway 321 turns off to the left to take you to Pigeon Forge; if you go straight instead, you're in the Smoky Mountains National Park in about 30 seconds.

Instead of either of these, we turn right onto Tom Henry Road, a barely-two-lane road which heads up into the hills. This is a dead-end road, and there is very little traffic. Our destination is almost at the end, at the top of a mountain.

While small by Townsend standards, this log cabin is a beautiful example of local craftsmanship. Built at the top of and also down into the mountain, it offers amazing views. You can't see all of that from the little driveway, of course, but what you can see is still very beautiful. Down below, a small stream, bearing water from higher up in the hills, flows by and joins the Little River back in town. I stop the Suburban, hop out, and come open your door, helping you down. I have to smile at the sight of my short English girlfriend, with her purple hair, climbing down from the Beast. Then you smile back at me, and all I can do is...be happy. I pull your suitcase out and, holding your hand, walk you towards the deck and the door.

"Wow, somebody likes bears, I see," you remark. Here in the Smokies, black bears are the main icon of the region; well, them and Dolly Parton. On the porch are carvings of black bears, including little cubs, and inside there are bears in paintings, bear figurines, blankets with bears, and, of course, in front of the fireplace...well, you'll see that later.

"Yeah, you can't go far around here without running into bear stuff," I say as I unlock and open the door.

"But not real bears, right? I mean, they don't come near people, do they?" You sound a bit concerned, but I can only chuckle, knowing that you will most likely see one very soon.

"Well, let's just say you have a fairly good chance of seeing a real, live bear before you go home. So you'll be able to tell your friends you've seen one."

"Aren't they dangerous? Do they attack people?"

"No, for the most part, they don't really bother people. Just don't get between a mama bear and her cubs, or between a bear and their food, and you're fine."

We step inside and I allow you an opportunity to take in the sights. High ceilings, all natural wood. A fireplace of river stone, with a bearskin rug laid out in front of it. The furniture all matches the decor, but while it looks rough, in reality it is very comfortable. I give you a short tour, showing you where you can leave your bag. You tell me you'd like to "freshen up" a bit after a day of air travel, and I direct you to the bathroom in the main suite, and I go to get you a glass of wine for when you return. With your glass in one hand, and a glass of iced tea in the other, I make my way out onto the porch. It promises to be a beautiful sunset, with only a few wispy clouds high in the sky to texture the colors. I'm eager to share the sight with you.

A good bit later, I hear the door open, and you emerge, wearing a light T-shirt and shorts. Your hair is wet from the shower. You join me at the rail, accepting your glass of wine. My arm slides around your waist, and for a few moments, we take in the sight together quietly.

It is you who finally breaks the silence.

"So... We're here. Finally." I turn to look at you, and I see the setting sunlight, the oranges and reds, reflected on your face, making your eyes dance. You're still staring out at the horizon, but a smile creeps onto your face, and any vestiges of anxiety I've struggled with vanish. There is no better place to be than right here, right now.

I slide over to stand behind you. Bending down, I nuzzle your neck, leaving light kisses along the path from your collar bone up to your ear, which I capture between my lips, pulling lightly.

"Yes, it appears we are," I reply. "Are you glad you came?" I ask, continuing to kiss lightly, my arms coming around your waist, holding you lightly against me.

Your hand comes up, around my head, your fingers stroking across the short hair on the back of my head. At this I return to the ear, pulling lightly with my teeth.

"Yessss..." you hiss, although I can't tell if that is a response to my question or my abuse of your ear.

My big hands find their way under your T-shirt, and I slowly, gently sliding them over your smooth skin, steer them to your breasts, which I find, to my delight, are free beneath the cotton.. You exhale as I cup them, gently squeezing them. My fingers tease back and forth around your sensitive caps, not touching the tips; not yet, anyway. You arch your back, pressing your beautiful tits into my hands, and your ass back against me.

You turn your head and we kiss, and there is no holding back. We've been dancing around this moment online for almost a year now, building pressure, the releases we give ourselves only barely containing the pressure. Here, now, in front of this gorgeous sunset, we have no need of nor patience for restraint. We kiss hotly, tongues dueling, your breath coming in short bursts as I now move to your stiff nipples, lightly rolling them between my thumbs and forefingers. A groan tries to rumble free from within you, but I capture it in my mouth. I squeeze those little points, just lightly, and the groan redoubles its efforts.

While my left hand continues its torment of your left nipple, my right hand slides slowly down, tracing little figure 8's and circles on your abdomen, teasing around your navel, and gently insinuates itself between your skin and your shorts. You may have left your bra inside, but I feel the lace of a pair of panties under the shorts. I stay over, not under them, but gently continue my crazy designs downward. I feel your legs shift slightly apart in anticipation, but after only tracing around just above your sensitive bits, I withdraw my hand.

Your frustration only lasts a moment, followed by a moment of panic as I reach for the button of your shorts. Your hand moves to cover mine, and your eyes open wide, looking at me, and I smile, knowing the question behind your fear.

"Relax. There's nobody around here. It's half a mile to the nearest cabin, and it is vacant. Nobody can see, nobody can hear. Just relax. Trust me."

It takes a moment, but your hand on mine relaxes, though it does not move off of mine. I unbutton the shorts, and slowly slide the zipper down. My left hand relinquishes it's hold temporarily on your tit, and works with its partner on the other side to gently, slowly slide your shorts off and down to your ankles.

It's my turn to catch my breath as I bend down, sliding those shorts off. I am a definite ass man, and yours is made to be loved on. From down low, I grab a cheek in one hand, squeezing them gently. I lean forward, placing kisses on each cheek, just outside of the lace of your black panties, then placing a gentle bite at the bottom of the left one, right where it joins the thigh, eliciting an "Ah!" from you.

I rise slowly, kissing a trail up from your rounded ass to the small of your back, kissing and licking a trail slowly up your spine to the back of your neck.

My hands have returned to their former duties, my left hand now taking ownership of your right nipple, while my right hand slides down, still over your panties, and begins sliding gently up and down the groove it finds in the middle. I can feel your heat and your growing wetness, and it is all I can do not to literally rip the panties off of you right now and plunge into your heat. But it will be better this way, I remind myself, and so I continue to tease.

Your hips are beginning to rock against my strokes, almost imperceptibly at first, then, as your heat grows to frustration, more fervently. Finally, your hunger reaches a new level.

"Please..." you whisper. "Please...touch me."

What kind of a gentleman would I be to deny a lady's request? I slide my hand up to the top of the lace, and insert just the tips of my fingers under the waistband there...and stop. You groan at my teasing. I slide my fingers along under the waistband to your right side, and begin to slide the panties down. Now you get where I am going, and with your left hand you eagerly begin to pull down the other side, wiggling your hips deliciously to help get them down. The crotch of the panties is soaked, and only reluctantly release their contact with your hidden treasure. Eventually, though, they drop to your ankles, and I feel you step first your right foot, then your left out of them.

My hand now returns to its explorations of your flesh, unhindered by any material. Sliding my big middle finger right down that wet groove elicits a moan from you, and your lips part, eager to give me access. My finger has applied indirect pressure to your still hidden clit, and it begins to swell. I slide my finger back up just as slowly, like a bow dragged slowly across the strings of a violin, and it seems to indeed sound a chord within you, one that emerges from your lips between my kisses. I begin a slow rhythm, up and down, slowly curving the last joint of my finger inward on the upward slides, providing more pressure over your sensitive bud.

This is a point of mixed thoughts for me. Part of me wants nothing more than to bend you forward over the rail and slide myself into you from behind. I know, though, that as hot as I am for you right now, I wouldn't last three strokes in your wet heat, and that's not how I want to start our time together. Besides, with our height difference, it would be difficult without something for you to stand on, and I'm not about to break this up to go look for something. I think you might hurt me if I stopped what I was doing, anyway.

I increase both the pace and the pressure, and you're openly moaning now. As much as I get turned on by the sound of English women speaking, I could not have imagined how hot it would be to hear one being carried away in the heat of passion. I survey the porch, and quickly spot what I am looking for.

Standing up, I slide my hand away from your wet pussy, and it joins my left under your shirt. This time, though, it is not there to caress your breasts. I slide both hands up your sides, lifting the shirt up and off of you, leaving you utterly, gorgeously naked in the fading daylight. Your hands instinctively go to cover your breasts, but then you realize there is no need. I turn you around to face me, and I kiss you again. 'Those lips should be kissed thoroughly and often,' I think briefly. Bending down, I pick you up, and your legs go around my waist.

Walking you over to the wooden table on the porch, I lay you back. I strip off my own shirt, and sit on the bench between your legs. I place your legs on my shoulder, and without hesitation, I begin to enjoy the feast before me. As I'm kissing and licking my way up your right thigh, my hand winds around your thigh and returns to tease your, now rubbing circles around your swollen clit. The left hand comes around the other side, and gently holds you open. With the tip of my tongue, I slide up then slowly down, right in the middle of your budding flower. Your taste is sweet, and I develop a hunger for you. I begin to kiss and lick my way up and down each side, delving into your hot wet opening every once in a while, drawing out your juices.

My right hand has narrowed its circles, and your hips are beginning to move in a timeless dance. I begin to move the focus of my tongue upwards, while my left hand comes back from beneath and probes its way slowly into you. Reaching your swollen clit, my tongue circles around it slowly at first, teasing, caressing. As your hands come down to hold my face in place where you want it, I slide the flat of my tongue lightly across the bud, and my fingers below feel a fresh flood begin to flow from you there as a gasp arises from your lips.

"Yes! Please!" you plead, and though you weren't clear, I think I know what you want. I tease you a bit more, circling 'round and 'round, then sliding across the center of your pleasure, drawing another gasp. I do this a few more times, and just as I sense the frustration is really getting to you, I close my lips around your bud, sucking gently as I flit my tongue back and forth across it.

Your response is like you've grabbed a high voltage power line. Your hips buck up, pressing your sex against my mouth. I think you may have stopped breathing for about 20 or 30 seconds in there. I felt your fingernails on the back of my head; not drawing blood, but certainly erasing any thoughts I might have about retreating. Me? I just rode it out, gently easing off on both my suction and the flights of my tongue back and forth as I sensed you coming down.

Finally, your hips sink back down to the table, and apparently, you decide to start breathing again. Probably a good idea. Just as you seem to be regrouping, I give you one last stroke of my tongue across your clit, and you spasm again, but I know better than to push my luck with your sensitive bits.

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So, what's a man to do with a naked, quivering, beautiful Englishwoman, laying on his picnic table on the porch in the mountains? Hmm, good question...

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As the shivers seem to settle a bit, I gently lower your legs from my shoulders, easing them down so that they hang off the table, although they're a bit too short to reach the deck. I stand up, still between those soft thighs, and reach down to your shoulders. Gently, I pick you up to a sitting position, and pull your face to mine. The kiss now is a little slower, more gentle, but still full of heat and passion. If you object to tasting yourself on my lips and tongue, you don't give any indication of it. Your hands are around my neck, pulling your naked breasts against my own bare chest. It is a minute or two before you finally speak.

"That. was..."

"Tolerable? Not bad?" I joke.

"Most excellent," you say, bumping your accent up a bit. You've obviously already figured out what that accent does for me. "I think I might retain your services again in the future, sir."

"It's all about job security, ma'am," I offer in my strongest Southern drawl, because you deserve the full tourist package.

"So..." you begin, as your hand drops down to my shorts, where you discover a hard lump. You gently squeeze and stroke it, looking up into my face with that smile. "What do you think we ought to do about this...?" Without waiting for my answer, you're unbuttoning and unzipping my shorts. It doesn't take much rummaging around before you have me in hand, and the warmth and softness of your hand feels heavenly as you gently stroke up and down. Within moments, I'm as hard as I've ever been.

"Well, he likes to hide in dark, damp places..." I offer.

"Is that so?" you ask with a chuckle. "Well," you start, as you scoot your naked bottom to the edge of the table, you soft thighs around my hips, "it just so happens that I have one of those dark, damp places, and it just so happens to be vacant..." you pause as you line me up, slipping me up and down along your still-slick lips "...at the moment."

I push inside you. I'm not long, but a bit thick, and if you weren't so wet already (how did that happen?) it might have been a problem. Instead, I bury myself most of the way in on the first thrust.