Encounter

When her legs lost most of their shakiness, she carefully shaved her pubic area. She always felt a little giggly, using the hot-pink razor, with its round shapes, packaging something so sharp in all these cushioned padded areas. It made her feel almost commercially female. The package did not say "PUSSY SHAVING RAZOR FOR NOT ENDANGERING YOUR VAGINA AND THOSE OTHER PARTS", but it might as well have, and it was true that it had never yet hurt her. It made her feel a little too pretty, maybe, a fully naked pussy by a very girly razor: you could see everything, the gentle inwards curve of her body making a soft "w" in between her soft thighs. Whenever she was excited, or when she recently had been, you could see more of the dark pink skin that coloured her inner lips, and the space between her navel and her slit would be like a blank canvas, to be kissed and caressed. It might feel a little weird, but it was nicer, as it chafed less on a trek, anyway.

As she gathers her trekking gear, I will tell you a little about her house. It is not big. It is light, warm, has a fireplace in the centre which is often used, and it smells of clean washing and of the basil plant on one of the window sills. The bed seems soft and bouncy, you can see a box with toys sticking out on a slovenly day, and maybe, looking carefully, you see a little book of smut under a pile of other things, lying on the nightstand. She doesn't notice: she rummages through a closet for the last bit of gear, then returns to the hallway where everything is gathered. She looks it over: she stands still, bites her lip, and a little wrinkle appears between her eyebrows as she narrows her eyes. Maybe just two more nut bars, just to be sure. After running to the kitchen, she tests if everything fits in the bag, turns off any lights, and says goodbye to the house. She turns around, having locked the door, and smiles at the world outside. The sun has started to shine, and the world is squeaky clean.

...

She locks her car and starts walking towards the beginning of the trail. Having been here once before during the winter, she notices now the greenness and lushness of the plants around her. The soil under her feet is beautifully brown-black, and a little bouncy. Nobody else seems around, which is no surprise; it's just a regular weekday, and we are quite a ways away from the city. She steps on, enjoying the birches and the light filtering through their leaves. There are some squirrels in the middle of play, chittering through the branches above, whether it be in love or in war; a line of industrious ants cross the road, on their way to some sweet thing to take home to their queen. It is a living, sprawling, fertile sight. It smells like wet earth and sunshine, and she cannot help but smile. This definitely is it.

A silhouette approaches, she sees it in the distance, coming her way. There was after all someone else. As they move nearer, she hears a noise from the bush next to her, and is distracted; something big seems to be rustling there. Is it a deer, maybe? It sounds bigger. She peers through, heart bumping a little faster, and hears it again. Then, a black flash: the blackbird noticed her, and it flees away. She chuckles: those guys always make such a ruckus. You'd think there was a whole herd of swine rummaging through the leaves underneath this beech tree, but it often is just one of those little fellows. As she looks up, she is startled; the person she saw in the distance is now suddenly very close. He had definitely been running. That is not, however, what now nails her frozen to the ground. It is his appearance. He is a beautiful man. Clear eyes, strong, muscular body, full lips and a steady thread. He slows down to pass her. He smiles, questioningly, and greets her, with a deep and powerful voice. She is reminded both of a running creek and some kind of elegant predator, the slight growl, the satin of his speech. She blushes, stammers.

"Hey- hi."

"Everything all good?", he asks, as he looks to the undergrowth where the bird just flew from.

"Uh... Yeah. Super. Beautiful, actually," she hesitantly says, "but I was just- there was just... This blackbird."

He looks into her eyes. She can't help but notice how nice he smells. Which is weird, he has clearly been running. Suddenly, he raises his muscular arm, and although it was just to scratch his head and adjust his headband, she feels a shock. Something about his determined but sudden movements makes her uncertain, like a deer. She realizes she is alone here, with a stranger. And what kind of a stranger. His eyes have a decisiveness which she isn't used to in people, and there is something else there which she can't place. Hunger?

She smiles, and looks away. It is quite easy to move one foot in front of the other, once their contact is broken, and she deliberately relaxes her shoulders on an exhale as she walks on. Is he still looking? The thought makes her nervous, and it makes her acutely aware of the movement of her body, the way her ass cheeks move along the fabric of her trousers. She notices her arousal, it comes as a surprise. Her nipples strain against the soft fabric of her shirt, and a series of images flash before her eyes. She sees herself kissing this man, this stranger, passionately, she feels their lips and skin pushing against each other, their tongues searching; she thinks of the joy of undressing, fumbling with zippers and buttons, sharp inhales and exhales, kisses in between, laughing at their haste; she can imagine the feeling of the forest ground underneath her knees and shins as she holds him down with one hand, and guides his penis into her - warm, wet - with the other, slowly, she knows how she would sigh. She thinks of his lips, how they would part, how his wet mouth would open and moan deeply. There is this way of sitting up top, where the tops of her feet would press into the soft inner part of his upper legs, applying pressure on them to stay down, while she lets him slowly slide in and out of her. Would he make her nervous then? Would he use his easy strength to grab her tits, her sides, her butt?

His hand is on her shoulder, his body is next to her, pressed against her, before she even notices what's going on. A scream, a practical, logical scream, fitting the circumstances, dies in her throat, she only gasps. He smells so good, she senses a warmth in her underbelly. He whispers:

"Will you let me do this?"

She is not thinking straight. She nods, and makes some kind of affirmative noise, truly bewitched by his nearness.

"I am going to make you mine," he continues, in a strained, still low, voice, "and I know you will like it. Do you trust me?"

She wonders how he does not seem to know, to sense, that she agrees with all he is saying. Her whole body agrees, whatever he plans to do; and this he should be able to feel, instinctively. She turns around, though he is now holding her hands behind her back, and looks him in the face. She finds what she is looking for: this hunger in his eyes, which is also hers.

"Yes."