It feels good to walk along the path with you. This has always been one of my favorite state parks. When I was a child, I loved the river and foot trails. Now I love it because I am here with you. The shadows are deepening and underbrush encroaches on the path. Most hikers stop at the overview of the river, a mile behind us now. It was a lovely spot and we ate our lunch there. A typical Texas hilltop with prairie grasses and shrubs growing out of the miserly layer of soil spread across flat rock. The Perdernales wound its way below us, deep enough at that point for inner tubes to float downstream. Like black olives stuffed in the middle with colorful pimentos. A few other hikers stopped briefly, laden with cameras and little ice chests and bottles of water. Their picture snapping and exclamations about the view did little to interrupt our lazy lunch. The wildlife was thick: roadrunners, and bugs, and birds and campers.
None of the native sights are as stimulating to me, though as your hard body stretched out next to me. My fingers weave idly through your hair. It is addictive-- touching you. I can never seem to get enough of it. Whenever you are within reach my hand is stroking or petting you. Testing the textures: the sculpted lines of your shoulders and back under the thin cotton of your t-shirt, the soft and sensitive spots along your neck and clavicle, the prickly sensation of your beard, the soft wetness of your lips. The lines of your body are relaxed now. Being outside always does that for you. The habitual watchfulness disappears some. Your eyes are closed, an arm thrown over your face. Your head rests on your backpack, a thin sheen of sweat shows on your arms and neck.
I love to look at you. My big sensual cat with all that sexy damn power packed away under your sleek exterior. You move like a big cat, too: easy grace with a purpose. It is why I am following you deeper into trees. So I can enjoy watching the way your legs eat up ground and the ease with which you carry both of our packs. Little fingers of sunlight dance over your shoulders and I am drunk with the spectacle. You seem to know where you are headed, and I am content, as always, to follow you. The sun is dropping down by the time we stop. The clearing you chose will make a good spot for the night. We move together with easy compatibility to set up camp. When the tent is done and our sleeping bags are rolled out, I dig through my pack for the last of our sandwiches and some fruit. There are even a few granola bars and a wedge of cheese. I am so hungry that it looks like a feast. Sitting on one of the bags with my back to your strong chest and your back to a tree, we demolish supper in record time. Your heat feels so good against my back and I absently stroke your thighs with both hands.
The cicadas are screeching out their noisy foreplay and moths dance crazily in the light of our two lanterns. I close my eyes and concentrate on you: the touch of your skin, your smell, the rhythm of your breath, your hands moving over my breasts and abdomen. Your mouth brushes my hair, planting little kisses along my scalp. In return, I take your hand and kiss and bite the pad beneath your thumb. "Right her, right now," I tell you, "I am more complete than I have ever been, Paul." The pleasure my words bring you is obvious. Your body hums with it. When I raise my face, your gentle kiss feels so very good. Fitting my mouth to yours and exploring with little tentative thrusts with my tongue. Your beard tickling my face and your strong hands cover my back and waist. Bodies close enough to melt into one another. Your taste and your scent fill me until I know only you and hear only your quickening breath. The little moans in your throat tug at me. Like fingers pulling at my center and drawing slick wetness from my core.
Your thighs cradle me. I can feel your hardness against my back. Kisses along my neck send shivers through my body. My heart knocks against my ribs now, and breasts are swollen and hard beneath your hands. You have such talented fingers: caressing and teasing me. You stroke my breasts until even a slight touch draws me tight. I am so glad that I didn't wear a bra today. I raise my hands when you take the shirt off of me, and even the air feels sensuous on my skin. Just the tips of your fingers, tracing designs on my skin. I am trembling now with need. The smell of your skin, warm, slightly salty, gave me the same feeling that a glass of wine might: slightly dizzy and flushed and a little breathless. You are intoxicating. I am panting now and straining towards your hands. "Please, please, fix it. Sweet, fix it." Your clever hands continue to tease me. Brushing the tips of my breasts, my back, my neck and my waist.
I do not argue when you guide me to one of the open bags and pull me to lie beside you. It is easy to slide out of my shorts and discard my socks and sneakers. I lick and kiss your skin when you let me undress you as well. Propped on your side, one leg thrown over my thighs you stroke me again with maddening thoroughness. Need curls through me hot and heavy because of your touch. Your hand trembles and the look on your face is raw and possessive. Your arousal is so obvious: glorious and masculine. My fingertips itch to stroke you. Your hands brushes the underside of my breast, strokes my belly and thighs. Low coursing pleasure fills my womb. All I want is the feel of your heavy cock inside me, your weight above me, and your hard body filling me—covering me, consuming me. "My pet," just those two words. Deep and husky; your voice slides over me like liquid heat. You always make me feel like the most desirable woman, some pagan goddess formed just for your pleasure. I do not even argue when you tell me I am beautiful. Right now that is exactly how I feel.
