This story is my submission for the Summer Lovin' Contest 2023. If you enjoy the story, please vote for it before the contest closes on September 8th.
This is my first stand-alone lesbian story. It's about chance meetings, immediate attraction, stepping outside your comfort zone, and romance. Oh, and sex, lots of very vivid and erotic sex.
PASSION AT PLAY ON MIDSUMMER'S DAY
The Appalachian Trail is a renowned long-distance hiking trail in the eastern United States, stretching over 2,100 miles (3,500 kilometers) through 14 states from Georgia to Maine.
BOBBI
"I would sell my soul for a smothered and covered at Waffle house, a hot shower, and a new razor blade to shave my pubes," I said out loud. I had been verbalizing my thoughts for the past two weeks, often unfiltered. But that's what happens when you find yourself on a four-month summer thru-hike along the Appalachian Trail.
GPS said I was somewhere near Michaux State Forest in Cumberland, Pennsylvania. I had covered 1,227 miles since mid-April. I was making about 20 miles a day, loving the solitude, nature's beauty, and time away from the fucking Savarinos. In that time, I had learned more about myself, life, and survival in the great outdoors than most would in a lifetime.
I stopped looking at my watch weeks ago. The only thing I needed to pay attention to was the calendar, as I had to be back in Boston by late September to finish writing this cookbook. My trek on the trail would inspire everything in the book, including foraging wild food, creating hearty meals from nothing, and sustainability. I had made several great finds, and my notebook overflowed with ideas.
But for now, all I could think about were those damned waffles. My stomach growled. I was hungry a lot on this trek, and while I didn't have a scale, I estimated I'd lost at least 15 pounds so far but replaced most with muscles in my legs and ass.
I went to my diversion tactic. The best way to not think about food was to think about sex. I loved having sex, I lived for orgasms, and I loved giving pleasure. For someone who enjoyed getting and giving, I had not thought the sex part through when I began the trek. I didn't even pack my favorite vibrator because I needed every inch of space in my backpack. What was I thinking?
To stop dwelling on waffles, I considered each encounter and tried to recall them in a row. Greg Gilletti took my virginity in an awkward encounter, and I'm still not sure he got inside me. Randy Freshone was my first blow job, Wesley Wiess was the first time I swallowed, and Andy Reddy was my first orgasm. Andy was two years older and four years more experienced. He was one of four men who cared if I orgasmed. I still send him a Christmas card, always with a picture of a big tree which was my nickname for his cock. His cards to me are always religious, so either that's a funny reply, or he found God.
Great, now I wasn't hungry, but I was horny as hell. Neither situation seemed to be solvable. Then, as if ordained by the gods, I realized I was in the middle of a vast meadow of wild blueberries. My pussy might be frustrated, but I would eat great tonight.
Using my hat as a berry bucket, I picked and picked, then took a break to sit on a rock and enjoy some of my blue treasures and the late afternoon sun. They were plump and sweet, and I jotted notes of things I could create from their goodness.
There was movement in the bushes. There were plenty of wild animals out here on the trail. Most were harmless except bears. Bears scare the shit out of me, and sitting in a field full of berries, It only now occurred to me that bears like berries. Well, there could be worse places to die.
I climbed a rock and took out my binoculars to see if one of those furry bastards was rummaging around. I looked at the movement and noticed something. It was bare, but not a bear. It was a bare ass. There, in a small clearing, was a woman squatting to pee. I couldn't see her face, and I knew I should respect her privacy, but it had been a while since I'd seen a naked ass and even longer since I had seen a woman's ass, so I watched. She finished peeing, stood up to dry her pussy with her pee rag, obviously an experienced hiker, and wow! Talk about a hairy pussy. I knew my kitty needed a shave, but this gal was sporting quite the jungle out here in the woods. I kept watching even though I knew I should not.
She looked around, spotting me on my rock, watching her.
"Sorry if you were waiting for me to take a dump; I only had to pee," she shouted.
I put the binoculars down, not embarrassed of being a voyeur but of getting caught.
"I thought you were a bear," I shouted back.
"Yeah, if you got a good look at my bush and legs, I could see where you might make that mistake. I'm Suebelle."
"Interesting name. I'm Bobbi," I replied.
"Equally unique," she responded.
I crawled down the rocky outcropping and made my way toward her.
"Which way are you headed?" I asked.
"North. You?"
"South," I replied.
"Nice to meet you, Bobbi. Nice to meet anyone."
"Same here. Hey, are you hungry? I'm thinking blueberry pancakes with a blueberry rémoulade sauce."
"OK, is there an Ihop nearby because that sounds a little too fancy for this trail."
"I'm a chef," I replied. "Correction, I was a chef, but now I write cookbooks. I'm drafting one on edible wildlife. If you want to step into my test kitchen, let's see what acorn pancakes with wild blueberries do for you."
Suebelle followed me down the trail, explaining she was a seismologist from Cal Tech. She was using this trek as an excuse to study the Appalachian Mountains, but really as a way to escape the ultra-competitive academic and research institution, which she claimed was sapping her energy. I felt like there was more to her story, but I didn't want to press.
We could hear a stream in the distance. Trekking off-trail, we found the perfect mountain creek with a shallow natural pool. A clearing to one side had a stone circle from past campers, the ideal place to make breakfast.
Suebelle gathered wood while I separated my ingredients. I carried several staple items with me, but about a month ago, I figured out how to process acorns into flour. I mixed the flour and added baking soda and vinegar, my egg substitutes.
Thirty minutes later, we were enjoying acorn pancakes. Typically, acorn flour is bitter, but the blueberries were extra sweet, and using some honey I sourced the day before, the meal was perfect. I wrote down my observation and asked Suebelle for hers.
"I love breakfast for dinner," I mentioned.
"If this is what you can cook with stuff you found on the trail, then I can only imagine what you can do in the kitchen," she remarked.
"Cooking is like chemistry. If you don't have what you need, you seek substitutes with similar qualities. There's a natural replacement for everything—herbs, bark, insects. If you can swallow it, you can cook with it. You can even use semen."
"Semen? Like ejaculation?" Suebelle asked.
"Yeah, it's protein, lots of citric acid, aminos, enzymes. Have you ever tasted it?"
"Do I swallow? Yes, but usually it just shoots down my throat, although my husband got into pulling out and giving me an unrequested facial after watching too much porn."
"That is so not cool," I replied. "Just once, I wish I could rub some guy's ejaculate in his hair and let him see what a mess it is."
While Suebelle was finishing the last of her meal, she leaned right and farted. She immediately realized what she had done and turned bright red.
"Oh, my God. I'm so embarrassed. Excuse me. I've been alone for so long that I just fart when I need to. I'm not sure I can ever go back to civil society."
"No need to apologize for bodily functions around me. At times out here, I swear, regressing into a cavewoman," I added.
