It's Only Natural

March 2012

This feeling is so good it ought to be illegal. Technically I suppose it is, which is maybe what makes it more fantastic.

It's a glorious day -- unseasonably hot and summery -- the kind of day where almost everyone finds a grassy country park in which to picnic. I can see them enjoying themselves on the field through the canopy of trees, laughing; playing ball games; Frisbee; cycling; walking dogs; eating and drinking. All beneath a cloudless, azure sky.

The birds high above us are in full voice, scant leaves atop the budding treetops occasionally whispering as they catch the gentle breeze. It's cooler in their shade but not by much, the air's slight dampness the only indication that it's still Spring.

Beneath my feet the woodland floor is a fragile and spongy ecosystem, littered with old twigs, leaves and moss, struck with the golden rays of sun that penetrate the branches of our natural awning. And just tens of feet away a burgeoning violet carpet of traditional English bluebells is sprouting in the unexpected early summer conditions; their fragrant sweet smell being carried to my nostrils beneath half-closed eyes.

I'm breathing heavily, almost panting, my skin lightly flushed and perspiring in the heat. Cool tree bark grazes the alabaster skin of my sacrum, and the warm hands of my fiancé hold my hips an inch or two below the hem of my Paramore T-shirt; the Brand New Eyes butterfly now showing distinct signs of wear. But it's comfortable and loose fitting: the two qualities that made me choose it today.

As his fingers dig gently into my flesh he either doesn't notice the extra kilo that interrupts my otherwise trim belly, or accepts the flaw as part of the package. It's one of a suite of minor physical imperfections that I carry; fragments of insecurity that chip away at my confidence and would probably consume me if I didn't have him to regularly remind me how pretty I am and how much I mean to him. Though I'm a big enough girl to know that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and he's ever so slightly biased, I still shine inside at the thought of him loving me for who I am and not solely for how I look, or what I can do for him. For reasons I cannot easily explain, part of me -- the self-doubting teen who should have grown up fifteen years ago -- still needs the reassurance.

Day-old growth on his chin prickles my neck and I tip my head back, smiling as he nuzzles against me and places tender butterfly kisses across my exposed throat. My long, dark mane snags lightly on the rough tree trunk but I barely notice as I wrap my arms around his torso to grab fistfuls of his pale red T-shirt and feel his powerful yet sinewy body move against mine.

Our closeness has a profound effect on me. A series of tiny things, both internal and external, accumulate to paint a bigger picture of my arousal; the quickening of my pulse; ears becoming warm as they turn a deeper shade of pink; mouth reflexively parting to allow my hot breath to escape into the atmosphere for the trees to convert back into oxygen; nipples rising beneath my lacy bra; a fire beginning to smoulder in the pit of my stomach. All the signs point in my favourite direction.

His strong hands roam south over my pelvis and continue round to cup my voluptuous bottom. The yoga trousers in which I've been teasing him all morning are already rolled down, nestled just below the crease where my thighs join my backside, and the touch of his palms against my nakedness sets off a shiver. I love the feeling of him against me and smell of his skin; a faint mixture of soap, heat and that inexplicable pheromone that magically makes us compatible. He just smells "right"; always has.

His breaths form an irregular pattern as he draws me against him and basks in the scent I've strategically dabbed at my pulse points. It floats up between us -- sometimes concentrated, sometimes elusive -- then mingles with the muskier forest and drifts away from our bodies to be lost among the foliage.

Whether it's the abundance of negative ions in the air or proximity to the man I love, I feel centred, radiant, connected and happy. But also hot. So hot. Being outside in the sun always makes me horny, which is a double whammy given the day I've had so far. I perspire a little more and my T-shirt briefly clings to my side, then releases as we sway and hug.

The thudding of my heart momentarily takes over my primary senses. I focus on its rapid beat, the organ swelling close to the surface, as if it's about to escape my chest and connect with his; joined through our thin clothing via an invisible force as we embrace. I glow internally, feeling new and giddy, like this is my first time all over again but with the considerable benefits that experience brings. Love is definitely in the air, though the line between it and lust is blurred.

My elevated pulse and state of undress are primarily due to the location of his cock. His wonderful phallus effortlessly splits my hairless folds and drives up inside my slick, yet tight channel. Like a head on one of the young, pink foxgloves that we passed as he urgently led me hand-in-hand to this spot, my trembling petals fit snugly around him each time he rams home.

It feels divine to be out here, defying decency, breaking the law and trying to remain discreet. But what better way to venerate this natural setting than by fucking in its midst; demonstrating the birds and the bees to the birds and bees.

Unable to believe it's not just an incredibly vivid dream I look down between our bodies. Stroke after glorious, masterful stroke, his flared six inches spread me in just the way I adore: lovingly, tenderly, yet insistently. His momentum fills me completely, my puffy lips obediently parting in sequence to welcome him, then closing behind him for a fraction of an instant, aching for his return; never disappointed. An almost frictionless rhythm set up between my sticky thighs, his tool coated in my wanton secretions, glinting in the fractured sunlight.

Definitely authentic. I let out a contented sigh, ending with whispering his name into the woodland, "Oh Adam. Yesss... more. Don't stop."

Of course he has no intention of doing so. Pressing home deeper, he plumbs my depths, picking up the pace ever so slightly. My buttocks now scrape against the bark with each languid thrust and the faint, repetitive chink of his belt buckle is added to nature's ambience.

We know we need to hurry: the threat of discovery is very real. Yet taking our time and trying to keep quiet adds to the insane excitement. We're shielded only by a little thicket of waist-high bushes, near the tree against which I'm being taken. Hardly any cover at all. Despite being a short distance from the main pathways, it would only take one of the families we can hear nearby to step off the beaten track, or look in the direction of a hastily stifled groan and we'd be exposed; caught with our pants well and truly down.

Although I don't want to think about the consequences, with a sudden pang of awareness I force my glassy eyes to focus over Adam's shoulder. The large, lush expanse of grass a little over forty feet from our love nest is peppered with multi-coloured blankets. Couples kiss and families eat beneath what little shade the new growth offers; the closest being a pair of bickering teenagers out for a picnic with their parents. They squeal and wrestle, chasing one another while middle class Mum and Dad clear away remnants of the meal.

They're so close, yet oblivious. I'm unsure of the legal ramifications of indecent exposure, let alone how many English laws and byelaws directly forbid our current actions, but being this blatant near unsuspecting members of the public gives me such a buzz that more wetness floods my tunnel. It's drawn outward by Adam's girth, drizzling into the scrunched up crotch of my trousers.

I'd deliberately left the house without underwear, in anticipation of this very event. Yes, I admit that sometimes I'm a manipulative slut. We had spent a large part of the morning wandering the stately gardens and larking around; with Adam taking every opportunity to walk behind me and watch my bum wiggle in the skin-tight material as I coyly lifted my T-shirt to show off. I'm not a member of the "leggings are not outerwear" movement. While I agree that some people should not be allowed to leave the shop with purchases that don't suit their frame, on the right person the use of sprayed-on clothes such as yoga trousers or leggings to show off shapely thighs and curvy buttocks is a valid reason to wear them, providing the assets are in place to pull it off.

Fortunately I still have the assets. Full, round rear globes on an otherwise delicate frame, counterbalanced by a pair of striking 36Cs that I know how to accentuate. "And here's tits on a stick" I think one colleague had jibed as I once breezed in late to an Operations meeting. "Sorry, captain forehead" I cut back amid stifled giggles from the other staff. Yes it was a line from Buffy, but it was too good an opportunity to waste.

While I'm sure Adam appreciates my entire body despite its many faults, he's utterly obsessed with my bottom. That's actually no bad thing because I love the attention; it makes me feel revered and powerful and so very womanly. This morning he had woken me with hundreds of kisses over my derriere, thighs and the soft downy hair of my lower back. He took his time, sliding my charcoal nightie up to reveal the nakedness beneath, then charting a path over the creamy hills and dales he found, noting my reactions and making sure to return to areas that made me sigh or quiver, teasing me at other times by blowing cool air across my flesh then caressing the goose bumps that formed.

His trail led down my toned calves to my feet where he massaged and kissed and stroked the tender skin, paying extra consideration to pressing and rubbing each outer ankle bone with his thumb. He knows my pressure points -- or should I say pleasure points -- and this one in particular turns me on immeasurably.

Once I'd started to stir and the familiar sexual warmth had begun to pervade my soul, he gradually crept north, continuing to caress and kiss my legs and the ticklish backs of my knees. I inched my legs apart so he could access more of my supple inner thighs. The invitation didn't go unnoticed, his erratic breaths condensing against me as he nibbled and nudged me wider, trailing kisses in all the right places, becoming more eager to see and hear how turned on I was. I'm sure the jasmine top note and earthier base that drifted from my hungry sex to his nostrils gave him enough of a clue: I so wanted him. In fact, pictured him losing control, taking me where I lay, roughly pressing inside, widening my velvety pussy with his lovely fat cock and putting his full weight on me; pinning me to the bed as I let him use my body for our mutual pleasure.

The reality, however, was better. When his palms came to rest on my upturned bottom I knew I was in for a treat. He gently parted my cheeks, feasting on the sight of my smooth cleft and its wrinkled centrepiece. I could feel his eyes burning into me, almost sensing him being mesmerised by my tractor beam and it thrilled me to wait while he appraised my rear, each passing second compounding the anticipation. Droplets of juice unabashedly drizzled from my slit and pooled on the cotton sheet between my spread thighs. Waiting. Wanting.

When he could no longer resist and I was about ready to beg, he plunged his face in and spent over twenty divine minutes licking, swabbing, and probing my dark rosebud while I masturbated beneath him, groaning into the pillow like a woman possessed.

Even after all this time with him, and my ever increasing affinity with anal play, it still felt deliciously dirty to actually do it; some dark corner of my mind needing the forbidden deed to validate my sense of self through the degrading act. Perhaps it was the wild, scampering sensation that started in my belly and swept through my entire body, or the acceptance that I could be a filthy bitch and get away with it; I had no idea. When it came to the wire, I simply loved it.

As the heat between us grew, and as much as I wanted to howl out his name and thrust my fingers inside my dripping pussy, grinding my hot pink jewel with my palm, I stopped myself short of coming. While release was amazing, I always loved that sensation of teetering on the edge; juicy, wet, and fired. Especially if I could make it last a few, maddening hours. Once I have that dancing feeling in my tummy I turn into a sexual siren; the need for more wells up until I can barely control my actions. Instinct takes over and invariably leads to situations like the current one in the park; led by emotion and libido above all else.

The gnarly trunk is supportive as Adam grinds up against me, crushing my eager clit between our bodies. I bite my lip and fleetingly wonder if the crime we're committing carries a heaver sentence if I face the tree, letting his magnificent hardness carry on where his tongue left off this morning. Sodomy, I suspect, is tolerated even less than regular intercourse, but I flush at the thought of servicing him with my anus in such an exposed setting. I always come harder with him filling me back there; the winking ring of muscle squeezing and milking his creamy load into the taboo darkness. Doing that outside would mark a new high -- or low, depending on viewpoint -- in the continued exploration of my depraved mind. With a wry smile I tuck the thought away in my mental "ToDo" folder.

Not that conventional sex is any less fantastic. I claw at his back with each lunge, and pant to the branches above, finding it increasingly difficult to keep noise to a minimum. Burying my head in his neck and biting down is the only sure fire way of keeping my volume control intact. He winces a little and I back off, briefly glimpsing red and hoping not to have drawn too much blood. Thankfully his thrusts don't abate. If anything, my impromptu vampirism causes him to drive in harder, the intensity of the situation clearly having an effect on him too. I whimper into his shoulder, raining the pent up wetness of the morning onto his rigid manhood.

Adam hadn't needed asking twice to join me in making love outside: I'd ensured his complicity a short while earlier. As we'd passed an ice cream stall I bought refreshments, then made him laugh as I lewdly went down on my Calippo. A twinkle in his eye sparked my naughty gene -- already heightened thanks to his tongue bath and the exquisite weather -- and I yanked him off the path as we passed a wide tree, shoving him against the trunk partially out of sight of tourists.

With a practised motion I undid his belt, freed his organ and sank to my knees, wrapping my ice cold lips around him. He convulsed at the touch and his cock jumped in my mouth, beginning to harden, much to my delight. I loved that I had this level of power over him with so little preparation; the need to be wanted and desired, it seemed, was as primal as it was vain.

Bobbing in front of him, I alternately sucked the lolly and his rapidly rising shaft, hearing sharp intakes of breath catching in his throat. Stray passers-by paid us little or no interest, perhaps out of embarrassment. Even if one had caused a scene I doubt I'd have cared at that moment. I felt so decadent -- beyond reproach -- which was dangerous when kneeling outdoors with a man's tumescence bumping the roof of my mouth.

The breeze blew my hair across his girth and I swept the strands out of my eyes. I continued to lick, slurp and suck as deep as I could muster, making well over three-quarters of his cock shiny and sticky with the combination of saliva and sugar. As he rose to full hardness in my throat I transferred the ice lolly to my other hand, withdrew, and jacked his steel with my cold paw. It felt glorious and organic, hardness encased with chamois that rippled in my fingers as I stroked. Then I popped the head back in my mouth to be warmed, before rubbing the lolly directly against his dick and running my tongue up to collect the sweet dribbles of juice. He groaned, the hot-cold treatment a new twist to our play, spurring me on.

He especially enjoyed when I swooped down to his tightening sac and flicked my tongue over each of his balls then sucked them into my cool mouth. The pièce de résistance being when I gazed up doe-eyed at him while I nibbled and caressed the glossy skin, our eyes locked the whole time I was working my way up his length to the tip, engulfing his circumcised head and driving my lips down over his rod almost to the hilt.

It didn't take long to have him right where I wanted him. Several cycles of hot and cold licks, sucks and wanton, submissive eye contact was all it took to have him quietly begging to shoot his load into my slutty, cold mouth. That's when I did perhaps the cruellest act of our relationship: stood up, tucked his hardness back into his pants, zipped and rebuckled his fly, kissed him with sticky lips, breathed "later" and ran off to finish my ice lolly.

He gave chase. I let him catch me. Barely half an hour of laughter and frolicking passed, before we stumbled on the copse of trees and he'd pretty much grabbed me, ripped my yoga trousers down and taken me on the spot, shoving his still hard cock deep into my more than willing folds, rinsing off its sugary coating with my moistness.

And here we are, fucking like reborn teenagers; hard meeting soft. Further wetness floods my channel as I recall the Calippo incident. Maybe he's doing the same, replaying my dirty act in his mind as the pace of his pounding steps up another notch. We've not reached 'frenetic' but we're not far off. I'm molten inside, honeydew lava trickling down my ivory thighs, staining the crotch of my forgotten outerwear.

A wicked thought flashes through my mind: when we get back home I will chase him to the bedroom still fully clothed, straddle his chest, and look down into his widening hazel eyes while I inch forward until my knees are either side of his head. The smell of me -- of us -- will dominate his senses. I'll quickly pin his arms by his sides with my legs and tease him, hovering millimetres from his salivating mouth without letting him touch the sodden crotch of my trousers until we both brim over with desire. Then I'll make him eat me through the sullied material, calling him a barrage of names as I ride his face and come once again. He'll love that: adores the taste of me from the source, especially when I force him to take it.

As if he can sense my fiendish intentions, he abruptly changes angle and ploughs into me, the divine upward motion soon resuming a measured, forceful beat. God he's in deep. I realise I'm on tiptoes and thread my fingers into his soft, brown hair, hugging his head, burying his face between my breasts as mini explosions begin in my mind; the onset of orgasm. I can feel warmth start to spread through me, racing along the meridians that connect brain and body, somehow being everywhere and nowhere all at once. Like a dot-to-dot puzzle completed at warp speed, my erogenous zones join. Ankles, knees, thighs, pussy, bottom, breasts, neck, face and ears all glow in anticipation of the main event; the conclusion of this morning's wake up call.

My chest heaves in a lungful of fresh woodland air and I gasp as quietly as I know how. Adam, ever the sensitive lover, detects my physiological and emotional changes and realises their significance. He pulls his head from my grip, looks longingly into me and begins to piston in and out with renewed vigour, hammering my body up against the tree.

Now it's frenetic.

I grab his shoulders and draw him to me again, needing his closeness, the scraping of bark along my back barely registering as we hump together: a conjoined entity. The world shrinks to just our little patch of wood and my pleasure receptors begin to overload. I know it won't be long before I can no longer keep my actions in check.