My Neck Of The Woods

A plot? Very little. And I know there'll be comments about safety on the roads, but trust me, I'm a sensible woman and at no time was any man, woman, squirrel or fox in any danger during the making of this story.

So.

We've been chatting awhile -- okay, a week if I'm blunt -- but with a gut-instinct for bullshit so honed I'm willing to trust it, here's me, waiting in an empty car park, doing anything but watch the entrance for your arrival. My brain's going for casual; my body's not convinced.

This is us, you and me, doing the sensible thing -- having an initial meet-up for what we euphemistically call coffee.

We've agreed to meet in my neck of the woods, and I'm flicking the driving seat mirror up and down, idly watching my hair and light pink lipstick in the mirror, when abruptly you're there, your car-nose swooping swiftly across to face mine. I look you in the eye through our respective windscreens, and nod, no smiling, we just sit, stare. I want to take out my phone and text you, but I know that's weird form, so I open my door, slide out and stand there. You do likewise and step towards me.

"You're taller than I thought."

You kind of announce that, like it's news, and I instantly think, fuck you, and garble out how I'm sure I've mentioned this - because I know me, and of course I have - but you're there in front of me, and mumbling's all I can do.

Your attempts, natural enough given the circumstances, to hug me, to peck my cheek are dodged and averted, as I slope my head round like Penelope Pussycat in Pepé le Pew. But I face you, yes, having to look up, just a little, and I grab hold of your hand as it eases into mine, and I kiss you a smidgeon, maybe more, before climbing into your car.

I'm wearing my white dress, black roses, black lace and leggings and my hair, on this occasion, is scarlet and bobs down onto my shoulders. Silly little sandals, red suede wedges with bows, but then I don't know how the evening's going to go and what might pass for appropriate footwear, though I have my inklings and suspicions.

I suggest we go to the dodgiest pub I know. This, I surmise, will avoid potentially difficult encounters with acquaintances of mine, and as station pubs tend to be notorious dives, this is where we head.

I guide you, driver-man, through what's unfamiliar territory to you, and you, like a good little boy you just follow orders. As we get out at the next car park, you take my hand and I have to agree with you when you comment, in different words, that we have fallen into such companionable familiarity passers-by would take us for lovers.

In the pub I'm quiet. You talk. Me, I'm just watching because I can't quite work you out and, though I know I like you, I'm not yet convinced about how much. I'm not really drinking, what with the car and all, but two glasses of wine later and we're sitting cosily together and it's clear where this is headed, I just need to figure out when and how.

We're giggling, laughing, accidentally brushing one another at every excuse. We start cracking gags about my cleavage, and we both know you've seen what's under that dress, so let's not be too coy here.

Last orders. And I'd say I had a decision to make, but if there were a time when I consciously made it, that would be the point at which you ask me, what next, and I hear myself reply that what we need is a place with no CCTV cameras.

And so we drive.

Like I said, this is my neck of the woods, and we head out to the nearby forest. That relaxed air of companionable chuckling still underpins what we are, but now we know where we're headed and the atmosphere is dripping, flowing, with a craving, a longing and a sense of inevitability. You drive with one hand, while the other explores under that dress and I open wide, so wide, and watch your explorer hand as it rubs at that hot-hot honeypot about which you and I have spoken so much over the past week.

And fuck, does that hot-hotness just ache for you.

As you steer through new territory towards some secluded spot, you murmur of its heat and insatiable dampness; it pushes up to greet your long fingers which deftly test the waters, and I remind you that I told you so, because I did. I warned you exactly how eager a beaver it could be. You really do need to listen more, babe.

By the time we pull into a small off-road car park, I take your hand and guide us both, trippity-tripping on those silly-silly heels, deeper into the darkness. I notice the full moon, which seems, well, yeah, just right.

We pause to kiss and chuckle, conspiratorial us, some more at our downright bloody dirtiness, and you, cheeky-fuck, looking me right in the damn eye, tell me, "Get down on your knees, Miss, and suck my cock."

And so it happens that the first time I am properly introduced to your hard cock is two hours and 17 minutes after meeting you, when I take the heft of it in my right hand on my knees in a forest, one drizzly Spring night shortly before the witching hour. I lick the tip of your cock, before taking the full length into my mouth, with my left hand resting scooped round the back of you, supporting my head as it bobs back and forth, up and down.

Maybe not the world's most romantic blow job, but, fuck me, if I don't meet the task with absolute delight and enthusiasm, as I kneel down on the undergrowth in that pretty little dress, spurred on by your sighs and moans of encouragement. Oh, I do. I love to suck that cock of yours.

But it wants to hunt out other warm and damp and soft spaces, and me, hell, I'm buggered if I'm going to stop it. I'm thinking I know just the place.

I stand up, in front of you, as you deftly rub at that steaming covered wanty-needy cunt with your hand, and I slide out of the leggings, so that you can crawl with those fingers under the next layer of honey-soaked fabric. These I also remove and throw, with some dramatic gesture, deeper into the forest declaring that, fuck them, I don't need them. It's true.

Together we fall onto the sodden earth, matted with thick high grass and, me on my back, you slip into me, for the first time, look down at me and pause. So much for meeting for coffee.

In the dark of the forest, you thrust that cock of yours into me, on top, again and again, but I have a better idea. Wait. And now I roll over so that, not for the first time this evening, I am on my knees, but as I lean forward on all fours, you stick that hard rod into me with a force that makes us both moan and howl.

And. We. Fuck.

If ever an erotic moment deserved the title of true fuckery, we are living it.

The divine friction of you as you beat and push inside me, hits me and I just want you to cum in me. Cum. Cum. Cum. I push back at you as we bang and bash and bounce our bodies off and into each other, and we crash and smash and bash and fuck and fuck and fuck.

Nothing exists at this point, save the swing and the beat of us, and the noise -- our combined noise. And I know, like I always will, a few seconds, more maybe, before you cum, and I just fucking grin so damned wide at the thought and the feel of it.

Shall I remind you that it's now you tell me for the first time you love me? As you cum in me, in that forest? Nah, that's simply crass. But you do. And part of me loves you back; that honeypot loves you for sure and she beams too.

So, I guess it's all smiles as we pull up and on and zip and you hold out your hand to pull me up, before we wave goodbye to the forest folk, to the werewolves, the fairies and the midnight foxes, and stroll back to the car.