Girl in a Red Canoe

II.

The lushness of this spot at this time of summer is my addiction, my fetish. Great rains have driven me from under the camp table tarp to tent. If persistent, to the car. But not this bright and sunny day. Dragonflies arrow towards mating and egg laying. Carp jump randomly out of the Keetawnee. Then splash back with the pride of belly flopping children. Snapping turtles bask on sun warmed rocks. Waders be warned!

Amy has been gone almost an hour. I envy her timing. Not all days are this perfect.

There is a trail that runs the length of the camp property along the river to a rusty barbed wire fence. Over the fence is rougher terrain. I walk more for quietness than safety. Soon the bow of my canoe is visible on the opposite side. It rocks gently in the slow current. The only sounds are nature. Dribbles of current over rock. Humming insects. An occasional crow squawking its territorial rage.

The canoe was adrift. I watched it slowly creep through the shadows cast by overhanging branches. Amy had found a sort of private lagoon. As its position inches into better view I saw something hanging over the side closest to me. A slender naked foot.

Amy has reclined onto her back. Only her shoulders and head are visible propped up against the rear seat against the floatation cushion. And yes, both her legs are extended to dangle over the edges on opposite sides from calves down into the water. Her feet dip into the warm river then pull out with no rhythm. I strain to see her breasts. I am foolishly one tracked in this effort. When I raise my position to look down on her better I see not only her perfectly rounded breasts but her smooth belly and arms branching, swaying in pursuit of self satisfaction. Her skin is glistening with a reddish hue. Her movements are fluid but intentional, in a dance of pleasure she did not intend to share. The whole of her slender arms are in full view. The soft undersides of her arms do not rub against her form merely as a means to reach her parted thighs but also nudge against her erect nipples, the sides of her breasts and down to her wrists that stroke in a slow twisting motion against her clitoris.

Watching a woman masturbate is an exceptional delight for any man. I have been privileged only on rare occasion. But even in my own fantasies I have never even considered a woman pleasuring herself with her wrists. I suddenly remembered the muscle of her hand shake and the effortlessness of carrying the canoe to the river. Her wrists, like the hinges of a solid door support her deft hands and fingers in a pursuit that is not yet in my view.

Her right hand glided across her red glow. Up her stomach to her left nipple. She paused there for only a moment and a quick pinch. She moved her hand more slowly now, diagonally to her neck and eventually, with ballet like movement to her half open mouth. She sucked in the two middle fingers. I saw her cheeks collapse concave. There was a hard noise in the canoe. Something scraping on it's bottom. With the slow current always changing her position I could now see that she was grasping the paddle to push the handle against and between her pussy lips. Her other hand returned to her stomach, then thigh, next sharing a hold on the wooden tool that was her toy of fulfillment.

It was the most beautiful combination of natural world and human lust under a hot sun on this summer day. At the moment I felt my mouth going dry she reached again with her right arm. This time her hand came to view holding the wine skin. Her arm stretched straight out above her. A dribble, then a stream of red wine flowed down from it onto the center of her rib cage between her breasts trickling to and then directly onto her hand gripping the paddle. The canoe began to rock gently from side to side. The scraping noise increased in speed. While sucking the same two fingers again she flexed her thighs and lifted her toes out of the water. I could clearly see every muscle in her legs from ankles to hips.

She was teasing and denying herself the ultimate pleasure. Her legs stiffened more. She lurched in the boat so violently that it made little slapping noises on the waters surface sending out circles of ripples. There was a shudder in a near by tree. A Great Blue Heron lunged from it's nesting place with it's gigantic wings giving lift. The Heron's long legs dangled behind as it passed directly over her. It was like a silent ceremony once it was aloft. I felt her wish was granted. The slow motion flight and her generous self indulgence left her smiling with eyes wide open staring into the bluest of skies.

I watched her languish and stroke herself. It was hard to tell but between the sounds of the river and the woods, I could swear that she was singing a soft song.

Eventually she sat upright and reached over into the water. She cupped her hands and bathed herself. Tenderly wetting all her skin. Her face was serious now. I feared she would know I was so near. She carefully pulled on her shorts and shirt and began paddling back in the direction of the camp sites. I let her go a little ahead knowing that I could go on to my site without her seeing me through the thick foliage.

Once the trail joined the gravel road I hurried my pace and positioned myself at the wooden table on my site. Several minutes passed. Amy did not appear as I had expected her to. I rose to look down towards her camp just in time to see her enter her tent and zip the screen shut. My red canoe was pulled up on the bank.

In the long afternoons of August there is plenty of time for naps and returning borrowed items. There would be a meal to prepare later. And, wine may flow from a skin.