Jacquot couldn't let go. He gradually started in again, this time more subtly, harder to pin down. He'd "just happen" to go to the same grocery store when mom went shopping. He'd "just happen" to pick the same movie as we did. (We loved necking in the movies. It was so daring to sit there in the dark surrounded by people while we French kissed and felt each other up. It made up for our not being able to make out in public. But knowing Jacquot might be there put a damper on our fun.)
We were getting spooked by him. When we were making love at night, we'd wonder if he was out there lurking around. We needed to get away from the pressure, so mom rented us a cabin in the mountains for the weekend.
She let me drive the green Beetle up to Fort Collins, along the Cache la Poudre River into the Rockies, and over the pass into Walden. She was wearing a denim miniskirt that showed off her thighs, but I tried to keep my eyes on the road. It was a beautiful route, with willows flanking the river between pink sandstone canyon walls. For me the river was Diana's flowing center, the springy willows her hair, the pink walls her legs, and I was penetrating up to the source of her stream. Over the front range, we dropped down into a broad, fertile plateau, green and well-watered, ideal for raising hay, cattle, and horses. The rolling lushness of it reminded me of her midlands—her loins, stomach, and hips where I had spent nine wonderful months. On the horizon soared the white peaks of the high Rockies, where the storm gods lived in snowy heaven.
The small town of Walden, a commercial center for the local ranchers, was less charming than its name and the country around it. Our cabin was beyond it in the wild, at the end of a long gravel road behind a locked gate, totally isolated. Diana had picked it especially so we wouldn't have neighbors.
The log cabin was comfortable but a little hokey, done up for Eastern tourists who want a cowboy outing: elk's head mounted above the river-rock fireplace, spurs and horseshoes decorating the mantel, bear skin rug, wagon-wheel chandelier, a branding iron for a fire poker. In the closet hung some western duds for the dudes: chaps, fringed leather vest, bolo ties, gun belt without a gun. The walls were hung with prints by Charlie Russell, the cowboy artist. The ceiling was knotty pine—with all the knots looking like eyes peering down on us.
Next to the cabin were a small corral and a barn that held a few chickens and two riding horses. Surrounding that were pastures of the adjoining ranch, where other horses and a herd of black Angus cattle grazed. Beyond in all directions stretched forest and mountains.
Ours were the only buildings in sight, so we finally felt free to just be ourselves and show our love. In the city, especially since Jacquot had shown up, we always had to hold back. Even something as simple as a kiss on the lips could cause suspicion. Although I was legally an adult, society had labeled our love a crime and would punish us both with years in prison. This constant need to be careful took its toll on our spirits. The Beatles' lyric, "You've got to hide your love away," seemed written for us.
The first thing we did, right on the front porch, was take off each other's clothes. Reveling in new freedom and the warm sun, we rubbed each other's naked bodies with tanning lotion until we glistened. Some parts that weren't used to the sun got extra attention—we wanted to get hot but not burn.
Out in the pasture, the animals were mating. Wild with desire, the stallions were mounting the mares, biting their necks to the point of viciousness, neighing and whinnying as they sank their poles deep inside the magic place. The bulls were lumbering up on the cows, humping those massive haunches, thrusting their schlongs into those commodious cunts, both bellowing with pleasure. In the corral, a cock was treading a hen, hopping onto her back, digging his spurs in to hold on, poking his little red rooster into her feathery nest, crowing with delight. The bears and bugs and bunnies were fucking, and their frantic antics made us tremendously horny to join them.
"I'll bet some of them are mothers and sons," I said, creaming mom's rear end. "The animals aren't hung up on all that prudery."
"That's true. They'll do it that way whenever they get the chance." She squirted a line of lotion along my cock and massaged it in.
"Yeah, it's ridiculous to say it's unnatural...when nature does it herself." I patted her buns.
By now we were both aroused, but we wanted to find an idyllic setting for enjoying each other. Our plan was to explore the place on horseback, have a picnic, then play around.
To get there, though, we needed to wear a few things. Not wanting to squash my balls, I'd brought a jock strap. Curious about how it worked, Diana insisted on putting it on me. She stretched the elastic bands around my rump and tried to fit my penis into the pouch. One hairy, wrinkled testicle dangled from the side. "That will never do," she said. "But I'm afraid I'll hurt it if I just put it in."
"You won't hurt it," I told her. "It's not so fragile."
Mom reached inside the pouch from the top, gave what was in there a tickle, raised the lower edge of the elastic, and cautiously pulled the straying nut back in. By then the shaft was hard and stuck out the top, unwilling to go in. She asked doubtfully, "You sure this strap thing's going to work?"
I nodded. "Once he knows you're not going to play with him anymore, he'll give up and go back in."
She gave him a parting kiss. "Good-bye for now. See you later."
The kiss made him grow even more. "That's not the way to discourage him," I told her.
Mom looked at him sympathetically. "Well, I don't want him to get
too
discouraged." She examined the bulging pouch. "I don't see how that elastic can protect him. The least little bump would go right through."
"All it does is hold everything up out of the way...so he doesn't get banged around."
She gave it a pat and said, "OK...I hope so. I'd hate for anything to happen." She looked me over again, then turned me around and snapped the straps against my bare ass. "It's cute," she concluded. "But not as cute as nothing."
For protection from rocks and sun, we put on our cowboy boots and hats which we'd brought from home. These we hardly ever wore in Denver—too touristy—but out here they were practical work clothes.
The horses were two gentle mares, patient and used to all sorts of dudes. Our being nude dudes didn't seem to bother them at all. With only her hat and boots on, Diana looked like the ultimate cowgirl swinging up into the saddle.
Staying within the property of the cabin for privacy, we rode a trail that wended among aspen trees along a stream leading to a green glade where beavers had dammed the flow to make a pond. We could hear the burble of water, the flutter of leaves in the breeze, chatter of birds, splash of trout in the pond, clatter of horse hooves on rock—but all these sounds were just punctuation in the surrounding silence. We were a long ways from Denver.
Diana's thighs rippled and her jugs jiggled from the rocking sway of the horse. Every part of her was in tempting motion. Her nipples stiffened from a combination of the groin massage she was enjoying, the fresh air, and my admiring gaze.
I wanted to see a beaver, looked all over, but couldn't find any. Mom's was enticingly out of sight too, hidden by the saddle pommel. I knew it was there, though, and that I'd be playing with it soon.
I got a great shot of it when she dismounted—blue glints shining on her curly black hairs in the sunlight, red lips spread and moist from riding, ready for me to ride them. She'd left a long smear of juice on the saddle, and I inhaled her delicious fragrance. Her scent and those of the horse and leather combined into an olfactory feast of nature in the raw.
