Summer Hike

This is not a sequel to "Summer Camping". It is inspired by the memory of the same girl but otherwise is entirely fictional. Alas, we never hiked.

Given that it is not a sequel, I made no effort to compare "Summer Camping" with this story for any continuity errors.

All characters are over 18.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle.

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Your mouth tasted of apple and wine, of chocolate and cheese, and was altogether a wonder to me, as were you and the fact that I was sitting there with you. Last summer had been a dream. Fall, winter, and spring lasted an eternity. A weekend in October, two weeks at Christmas, one in February, beyond that I had only your letters and rare static filled calls. I confess now that I hated the calls. Sitting on a wobbly stool, noisy classmates streaming past, the faux privacy of a folding door made for a frustrating, not a romantic, few minutes. I couldn't ignore the rattling clink of quarters that counted out the number of loads of laundry the call was costing me. Despite the glory of the rainy camping trip last summer I was never really able to convince myself you'd be there when school was over. You were. That was a wonder to me as well.

I no longer recall if it was you who had learned of the trail or if it was my idea. It was an easy walk, except for the section that climbed the river bluff, or so it was all those years ago. Today, I suspect it would entail some huffing, puffing, and wiping of sweat. I had been worried we'd be rained out. The morning had been overcast, the blacktop shiny and puddled with rain, but by the time we parked and settled our packs on our shoulders, the gray clouds had given way to blue skies, or so my memory tells me.

The river was rushing and muddy with the spring rains, still a month or more away from its middle-aged placidity and clarity. No one was tubing or canoeing that day. As I recall, we met no one. Perhaps the night's rain was a blessing.

We took our time. Most of the trail was flat, the only difficulty being the slipperiness of the mud in the low places. When the mood was upon us, we propped our packs against a convenient tree and canoodled, serenaded by the river. I loved that word, 'canoodle', even though it was an old fart of a word. I still love it. Canoodle.

It had been our first weekend off together. Neither of us had the luxury of not working. How the flipping of a single year on the calendar made it so much harder to juggle work, seeing you, mom and sleep was a mystery. I don't know if you were as frustrated as me. "Summer" had become a beacon of hope in a way it had not been since I was a kid with nothing but bikes and firecrackers and general dicking around to occupy my time. Now Summer had arrived and I felt almost as isolated from you as I had at school. We had seen a couple movies. I had tasted your lips and neck, felt your hand in my lap and felt your soft breast beneath your shirt, but that was all. Even then, barely into adulthood, I did not expect us to make love as if we were married but I had imagined we would find time to do so occasionally, like at least once more.

It is not easy hiking with an erection. The canoodling was worth it.

The trail began to work itself away from the river and climb. That was the only moderately difficult section of the trail, the narrow switchbacks that climb the bluff. Atop the bluff, the trail climbed more leisurely. The cottonwoods and willows gave way to birch, scattered cedar, and oaks. It had to have been close to noon by then. It was humid inside the woods; the mosquitoes and deer flies jostled each other for a chance at the table.

I have a vivid, an exacting memory of the taste of your mouth, your skin, your sweat. I have an equally vivid memory of how Deep Woods Off tasted if it got in your mouth, the bitter solvent taste of the stuff. We had to have been covered in bug spray, had to. Otherwise, we'd have been nothing but a mass of bites and welts. Had to. So, how is it that I kissed all of your body that day and have no memory of tasting anything but you?

The crest of the hill was covered in fresh green grass. The spring flowers were only beginning to bloom but in those pre-Flonase days I know I must have sneezed more than a few times, yet, as with the bug spray, those sneezes have no place in my memory.

The breeze at the crest was an adequate reward for the stuffiness of the wood. I could feel the sweat leave my face. I held up my arms and let the breeze find its way inside the loose floppy tee shirt I was wearing. Rolling Stones? Remember? It had the weird three quarter length sleeves that caused me to worry vaguely but insistently that I had bought a girl's tee shirt by mistake. It had a hole in the right armpit, a blessed hole that let the breeze caress the sweaty skin of my side.

We stood, breathing hard but not panting, enjoying the view of the river and the flatlands beyond the far shore. The hill was tall enough to allow us to see the farm sections, which were green already, which had been too wet to plow and had yet to green. We could see the fence lines crowded with cedar and scrub brush and the random patches of woods that said whoever farmed that land valued their fall deer and spring turkey hunting more than they did corn or beans. Behind us, the state forest extended for miles.

We found a spot close enough to the meadow to see the river below but close enough to the forest to be in the shade. It was past midday and the forest behind us extended westward. As the afternoon wore on, the shade extended its arms around us.

No one, at least no one in our neck of the woods, had imagined you could put plain old water in a bottle and people would buy it. Was that why we brought wine? Or were we playing 'grown up'? I wouldn't put that past me but you were too down-to-earth for such silliness. Where'd we get the wine? We were both twenty. Who bought it for us? My mom didn't drink wine and there is not the slightest chance you stole a bottle from your parents. Did we have wine that day? I remember the taste on your tongue so it must have been so, mustn't it?

I 'never' hiked without beef jerky or a Slim Jim. Did my mouth taste of those? It's foolish I know, what difference could it make now, but I deeply hope that you remember.

Wine or water, jerky or not, we had finished the sparse picnic lunch we'd packed. The remnants, mostly empty packaging, had been stowed. We lay side-by-side on the blanket and kissed. Our heads rested on our outstretched arms. Our hands rested on each other's waist and we kissed.

You tugged with your teeth on my lip. That was the first time anyone had ever done that. I returned the favor, cautiously, afraid I'd hurt you. You pressed you mouth against mine and your tongue touched mine. I tasted wine and apple, chocolate and cheese and it was a wonder to me.

I rose up and leaned over you. You shifted slightly, twisting your shoulders though you remained on your side. I kissed your eyes and your cheek and the side of your neck that I could reach. I nipped at your ear lobe and kissed behind your ear. To reach your ear I had to lie across your chest. Your breath was hot against my skin. When you moaned I felt it in my chest. Your breasts pressed against my lower ribs.

I sat up and tugged at your arm and you followed. When my fingers touched the bottom of your shirt, you raised your arms up and I lifted your shirt. I kissed you as you sat there with the shirt over your face, your arms trapped. You giggled. I nibbled the side of your neck and your giggle dissolved into a breathy sigh. I laid your shirt aside. You weren't wearing a bra, something you rarely did. Under your shirt, you wore a soft white top with spaghetti straps. I don't know what the material was. It was silky under my fingers and thin. I could see your nipples through the material and the pink circle of your areolas.

I touched the tip of my index finger to your left nipple and you moaned. The material was slippery. It slid easily over your nipples as I caressed them. I kissed your right nipple. I blew my breath through the material, wondering if my breath would feel as hot on your skin as yours had on mine. You shivered.

When my fingers grasped the bottom of the camisole, you raised your arms again. Your breasts, another wonder. It was spring. You had no tan lines, your breasts were milky white except for the pink areolas and brown nipples that crinkled and shrank at the touch of the breeze. Your camisole joined your top and my hands covered your breasts. That's all my hands did, cover your breast, your nipples were hard stones pressing into each palm as we kissed.

At some point my hands began to move and squeeze the soft flesh beneath them. Your one hand was behind by head, pulling my mouth close to yours. Your other hand was on my shoulder where it burned. Your fingertips burned. In my mind, I could feel every swirl, every loop of your fingerprints. You etched them into my skin.

When I urged you down onto the blanket, you rolled onto your back. I devoured you with my eyes. I saw the shine in your own, the wetness of your lips, the soft pulse at the base of your neck, your taut tummy with its belly button begging for my tongue. And most of all, your beautiful breasts, the way they rested on your chest, the shadow they cast on your ribs, the small faint shadow of your nipple. I wanted to build a sundial at that moment, a sundial with your areola as the plate and your nipple its gnomon. That thought was lost as I bent to take your nipple between my lips.

I kissed it, at first, much as I had your lips. I played my tongue over it. I tugged at it. Once again, one of your hands found my hair; the other pressed its nails into my back. We paused long enough for me to pull my shirt off, giving your hand free reign over my skin. I lay across your body to reach the far nipple. My erection ground against your hip. I supported myself on one elbow and put my other hand between your legs.

Your shorts were wet. It was probably sweat from the hike - but maybe not. I moved my hand up to the warm firm skin of your tummy and wiggled my fingers under the waistband. Your hand left my head. You unbuttoned and unzipped your shorts. I flicked my tongue across your nipple in appreciation. My fingers worked their way under your panties. I went slowly. I didn't want to pull your hair and I wanted to savor the sensation of your crisp curls on my fingertips.

My middle finger touched your clitoris and you tensed. My finger glided over your clit. When I pressed, my finger entered you easily. You were wet and warm and at the risk of repetition - a wonder. When you raised your hips, I helped you tug your shorts and pants over your hips. From there, you moved your legs up and down until they rested on the blanket beneath your feet.

I pulled away and swept my eyes over your flushed face, heaving breasts, and your glistening sex. A wonder.

I stood. The tent had been cramped, the sides untouchable due to the rain. Here I was bounded only by the sky. I unbuttoned my jeans and undressed for you. I left my underwear on at first. The front was as wet as your panties. I pulled the waistband away from my belly and freed my erection. I loved stripping for you. I loved the way you stared at my cock. I loved seeing my own hunger in your eyes.

I turned, looking for my backpack. You told me it was okay that you were on the pill. When I turned back, a questioning smile graced your lips and you pulled your legs up and opened yourself to my eyes. Your lips were pink and wet, your clit a darker shade of red, a red reflected in my own cock. I'm sure my eyes widened but my smile should have left no doubt that I was in awe of your boldness.

I did not move to kneel between your legs, as much as I wanted to. Instead, I laid down beside you. I reached across my body and took your far hand in mine. I pulled at it. You looked confused so I whispered for you to get on top of me.

You did. I can remember the heat of your legs along my sides. I put my hands under your butt and lifted. You looked confused again so I whispered for you to lift up. You did and started to scoot backward. I held your bottom in place and shook my head before I began to wiggle my way underneath you.

I could no longer see your face. What I saw was enticing. In case you had doubts to my intentions, I urged you down with my hands. This was not the first time I had gone down on you but it was the first time you sat on my face. Sat on my face. That sounds vulgar or a joke but it was anything but vulgar.

I sated myself on you, physically, emotionally. I drew your strength and your beauty and your love from your most basic self and imbibed with joy and gratitude. There are no phrases that do the act justice, not one I've ever heard, certainly none I've ever been able to dredge from my mind. I went down on you. I ate your pussy. I ate at the Y. I had a furburger and an order of thighs. I went muff diving and carpet eating. I ate your cunt. I ate you out. No doubt there are others, all unsatisfactory.

I worshipped you. I took your love straight from your body. You offered and I partook.

Don't get me wrong. I was a twenty year old in love and more importantly, horny. We had canoodled our way up that hill. I had been in a state of over-excitement for hours, hell days. I didn't lay there on my back thinking deep thoughts about the metaphysics of love. No. I clenched at your ass hard enough to leave bruises that I felt ashamed of later and buried my face in you. I wiggled my face from side to side, getting as much of it inside you as physically possible. I stuck my tongue inside you. I suck at your lips, licked your slit, and then sucked, licked and flicked the proud stiffness of your sex, your clitoris.

I laved it with my tongue, pushing its tiny hood back and flicking its naked little head. You quickly began to rise up and down on your knees. I had to raise my head off the blanket and clutch with the hands on your butt to keep you in my mouth.

When you pulled away, you shuffled backwards on your knees and grabbed my cock. In a gift of the gods to young lovers, you put me inside yourself with no fumbling. You rested your hands on my chest and began to rise up and down. I matched your motion with my hips.

We had never made love in this position. I was amazed at how deeply I could penetrate you. When you settled over my cock and I pressed upward, I could feel the firm mound of your cervix. When my cock bumped it, you moaned and your hips did a little circular movement. We began to move faster.

I had never been inside you without a condom. I wasn't sure I could ever go back. The feel of you against my naked cock was incomparable to how you'd felt with a condom. If Twain will forgive me, it was the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.

When you came, your hands left my chest and you pinched and pulled at your nipples. I arched my back, shoulders and heels supporting our weight as I pushed into you and came, also. I could feel your pussy expanding to accept my offering. I remained arched with you sitting on my cock until your body stopped quivering and your hands fell away from your breasts.

You followed my body back to the blanket and collapsed atop my chest. Your breasts heaved against the pounding of my heart. My face was still wet with your excitement. I could smell you. You were inside my nose, my mouth and smeared on my face. You turned to kiss me and I tried to turn my head away but you would have none of that.

Soon, I tasted you on my tongue again, now off your own lips and tongue. We kissed until my cock slipped out of your pussy, followed by a gush of warm fluid that quickly chilled in the late afternoon breeze.

You slept then, atop my chest.

It was a wonder to me.