The coolness of the water, your reserve, your questions, have had its effect, and my ardor begins to subside. I must look forlorn. I've been sprouting horns for you forever it seems. I have always loved tomboys, the Annie Oakleys, and you, Diane, I thought to myself, were always the best: you knew the woods better than the guys, you were faster on the track than any woman and most of the men, and you knew how to shoot better than sew.
For years, I had been consumed with desire, sparked by your athletic body and ignited by your intelligence, your creativity. You had given the best paper and oral report on Faulkner's "As I Lay Dying" in high school dazzling not just the students but Mr. Hicks and Mr. Morgan with your passion, your poise, your poetry. Even your teachers had crushes on you.
Now, as if reliving a nighttime teenage fantasy, you are before me, nude, au naturel in body as well as spirit. You notice my look of dismay, and your face breaks into a grin, your eyes lighten up and then they smolder with fire, drawing a bead, the huntress Diana. Your arms unfold, and you beckon me forward.
As I approach, your hands dip into the water, deep, not to come up splashing this time, but to find the quarry. You grasp and cradle my balls, tightly, with meaning. I harden again instantly. You draw me towards you, as if seizing a javelin, a spear to hunt some wild boar you've spotted crashing through the woods. I look back, over my shoulder, checking to make sure no one has spotted us, that we are alone, in peace. "Now tell me," you ask, blushing slightly, "exactly what were you thinking as I stripped off my clothes?"
"Oh, my God," I replied, "What wasn't I thinking? When you wiggled out of your shorts, I was thinking about all the times in literature class when I dreamed that you would use your muse of fire to write me love poetry, an erotic story. When you unhooked your bra, I remembered all the times I stripped you naked in my mind as you ran around in your warm up suit and track outfit. When I saw the thong and when it came off, I remembered all the times I had lain awake in bed, torn apart by the hounds of lust, fantasizing about making love to you by streams, in caves, on cliffs, in meadows, amidst wild flowers. I've wanted you for so long. I swear I've been hard ever since our legs brushed together at the restaurant."
"You know how much I love the mountains, this trail. You love it too. You know it as well as I do, maybe better. I wanted you to come with me so bad. I'm a little shy, sometimes. But not out here. Come now and know me. Come explore me. Come hunt for whatever you want, whatever you desire. Take me, mountain man, take me."
Quickly, wordlessly, we lock together in a tight embrace, a mix of affection and lust, and you make it more intense, the strength of your arms crushing us together. I reply with the passion of my lips, the desire of my tongue, skipping the soft stuff, going straight up into overdrive, pressing you back against the outcropping, prodding your inner thighs with my cock, informing you of my strength, my desire, my passion, trapping your bosoms in my grasp, then manhandling your nipples, your loins, your butt, everything. Maybe I'm too rough at first. You free yourself from my grasp and lean back on the rocks, catching your breath, giving me a little time out signal with your hands. You make me want to tear my hair off, tear my skin off and unleash the Satyr of sex within me, pouncing on you from behind, a hound in heat, fucking you doggie style, hard and deep, driving you wild, unleashing you from the lace of Southern bellehood, turning you into a black leather dress woman, a leopard-skin pantied woman, a tigress of sex. In my lust, however, I am metamorphosed: the surging passion of my cock spreads its heat, like a backfire forming inside me, and its flames lick up to my heart, and I become, in the instant, it seems, a changed man, no longer a beast, a satyr, but your lover.
You can smell my true scent now, and you can see it in my eyes. I whisper, "I love you." Your legs part open for me, and I feel again like an animal in heat, a stag ready to rut, but now I am also half-god, a man possessed with a "Song of Solomon" love. For a moment, you appear to me like a queen, a goddess, on some ancient throne, expecting me to kneel down, to worship your diadem. But you have made me strong, cockstrong, and I want you to feel my power. You want my tender tongue, and I want to be thrusting deep inside you. I stride up to you, my cock in my hand, wiggling it for you up and down, strutting my stuff, displaying my self-evident size, air fucking. But you turn away, jumping off the rock and into the water, back to the falls, the stream.
I follow you, my quarry. I plunge after you, catching you by your legs. I pull you towards me, as if you are caught in a net, and I lift you up and turn you upside down, like some cheerleader routine, flopping your legs over my shoulders, cunt now in my face, your head falling down me behind me, backwards, almost touching the water. I tongue you hard, fast, relentlessly, until you tense for a moment and then relent. Your body becomes limp, soft, and I take you up in my arms, cradling your body, a groom taking his bride over the transom, a man taking his captured prey into Bridal Veil Falls. In our rutting we have become too hot and sweaty, and we sink down into the water, still embracing, and then we arise in its flow, its cascade: the water hitting our heads, our chests, our shoulders, soothing us and invigorating us, nature's own jacuzzi, and then I, stand behind you, doubling the pleasure: the power of the falls is matched by the power of my hands, an X-rated Swedish massage.
I enwrap you in my arms and feel you up all over: hands rubbing up and down your sides...hands circling you flat, hard stomach...hands caressing your boobs, enjoying every contour and curve...hands and fingers strumming your nipples, keeping them taut, making them sing and dance....a hand going down and grasping your pussy tighter than any thong, a finger sliding up and down its length, pressing just inside, entering furtively. I then lift you off the ground, arms under your legs, holding you open, calling upon the forces of nature to take you, to pleasure you, as if you are sneaking in a bath in the middle of the dog days of August, letting the spigot of water do all the work as you cool yourself down, giving yourself the little hidden pleasure you deserve and need, the chance to romance yourself, escaping in your fantasies to waterfalls all around the world, escaping into the arms of a hidden admirer, a stranger on an elevator, or a man who knows the woods, a man who knows how to pleasure a woman as if he were a woman, a man with rough, calloused hand but soft enough and slow enough to enter you after the flute finishes on "Bolero" and not come until the end, with you, in full orchestral accompaniment.
The eroticism of the waterfall arouses us fully, readying us for our own plunging fury. I turn you around, and as I lift, you hop a bit into my arms, your legs wrapping around me, tight, your hands clasping behind my neck, your pussy brushing up against my cock, and then you wiggle yourself onto me, provoking from both of us a little gasp, and then you suck me in and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, making me groan in pure joy, loud and louder and loudest. You have the tightest love muscles I have ever felt, the love muscles of a goddess, of a huntress who can catch her quarry and never let go. I want to hold you there forever, almost still and almost silent, the wetness of Bridal Veil Falls circling around us, covering us in its mist and spray, and the wetness of your pussy circling around my cock, surrounding me in its moistness, in its honey-thick nectar, the inner ambrosia of the goddess Diana, each squeeze another arrow from her quiver sent into my heart. Instinctively, the ancient rhythm begins, the rhythm of lovemaking: rocking slightly together, then steadily together, and then our cock and cunt become one: pumping together faster and faster, as my hands grasp your butt, pulling you tight against me, and then playing with your butt like a helium balloon, keeping it bouncing in the air, letting it fall a bit and then striking it back up, generating a rhythm of play and passion, and as you climb near the top, ready to fall, I swing us both back towards the plunging water. plunge inside you, again and again, harder than the falls, with quick, fast strokes, until you rise high, and stop, arching back in ecstasy, as you spasm and shudder, and I keep shaking you up until every little shiver is over, until your are wrung out of pleasure, like a beautiful natural sponge squeezed dry, like bread dough kneaded and stretched and left to rise. We collapse, sinking back into the water, ready, to drown out the world and every sound but our own beating hearts and the rushing water of Bridal Veil Falls. But then the huntress discovers that the hunt is not over: you reach for my manhood, and find it, still hard. You raise me up and encircle me from behind, grasping my cock, pumping it hard, as your bosoms push into my back, impelling me forward, back into the stream of the falls, its spumes of water falling on my cock as you pump it and pump it, its length straining like a salmon fighting its way up stream, until you make it a fountain, a falls, in its own right.
We linger together, in the water, only our heads showing above the surface so we can focus on our eyes. We trade kisses and then thoughts. We talk about our favorite places on the trail, wondering if there is any special place, a secret spot, the other does not know about, a hidden erogenous zone, like a male nipple that has never been played with before by a woman who knows the favorite trails, the spots, the secrets of a man's body. We each make a suggestion.
