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How did we get here?
It is not even the warmest part of the year, but the midday Texas sun seers the back of my neck as we walk through shoulder-high grass and brush in the clearing just above the creek. I am following the movement of her dress, the rhythm of her ass dancing amongst the clumps of Little Bluestem grass has emptied my mind of all frivolous thoughts. I have been so focused on the beckoning call of her locomotion, that I forgot why we wandered out here in the first place.
An afternoon escape from the dark mediocrity of the stale living room seemed like a good idea. It was a great idea. We just failed to ease our minds before stepping out. I was mad that she wore that dress. That is not proper attire for the wandering I like to do. She walked ahead in frustration because of me. Understandably so. I was being a patronizing dolt. She knows how to take care of herself out here. And now here we are, not talking. I hear her anger in her silence. I just cannot bear the thought of harm to come to her. I overstepped. I no longer care about chiggers and ticks.
Instead, I am watching the strength of her buttocks peak through the dark thin fabric of that dress. Every hop leads to a split moment where I see a bit more thigh than I should. I am letting the distance between us grow slightly just so I can see all of her without having to move my eyes too far. She moves gracefully in my view. She would argue differently. She is wrong. There is a smoothness to her motions that is attractive: when she runs, when she stands up from the kitchen table, even when she tosses sheets at me to throw into the washing machine. I sometimes watch her shower, not because I am fiendishly staring at the brilliance of her nudity, but rather because I like to watch her body in motion as she washes her hair and rinses it.
My daydreams of showers and sheet washing are interrupted by the immediate panic I have as she slips into the shadows of the juniper curtain. I know she is just a little ahead of me. Her disappearance is unsettling nonetheless. This is always the case. I have the same slight panic every time she gets beyond my perception: when she leaves for work, or when she walks out of the bedroom in the morning. I know she is not gone. But I have to consciously console my subconscious panic every time. I try to front a confident and tough male exterior, it is false bravado.
The scratch of the juniper under-story brings my attention back to the moment. I duck low and push through the barbs of the thin and sharp lower branches. The sun disappears into the deep shadows of the creek bottom. The smell of juniper leaves sterilizing the ground is cleansing, a change from the sweet smell of prairie grasses. The aroma overpowers my senses as my eyes adjust to the sudden change in brightness. I scan the dropping terrain for her, the panic still upon my chest with a heft I do not care for.
I find her sitting upon a little step of limestone outcropping. A flat solid hunk of smooth rock laid down by an ocean bottom eons ago and worn smooth by the constant flood of the creek. She has found a dappled bright spot to bask in. A spotlight created by the short Post Oak clutching onto the rock like a child looking over the edge of a cliff. The limestone step offers a bench that drops down about four feet before flattening out onto another piece of flat limestone. This stair-stepping goes all the way down until the fertile, sandy flood plain flattens out to the creek bed. Each step goes back further in geologic time. This cascade of solid rock is broken up by the strength of some of the biggest trees of the area, Post Oaks, live oaks, sycamores, cottonwoods, and finally towering bald cypress trees that stand guard over the ancient waterway.
She does not acknowledge the sound of breaking branches as I scratch my way through the resistance of the juniper. I walk up with her back turned to me. She is perched upon the limestone, legs free with her chanclas dangling. It is quite something to see how perfect she appears after pushing through the hot tall grass and fierce brambles of the juniper and smilax vines. There she is, in her dress and little else. Beautiful. Here I am, dressed clumsily in boots, jeans, and a thick cotton snap shirt. I am standing behind her, admiring the magic of her appearance. Her dark hair is pulled up and back in a ponytail, exposing the nape of her neck. Her delicate neck sweeps into bare and strong shoulders. Shoulders that bear the weight of life with ease. I appreciate the way her shoulder blades dig into the back of her dress as she leans forward to study something.
She hops from the rock deftly and lands on the balls of her feet with a bounce. Her dress flows gracefully with her. She hunches over, gathering her knees into her bosom, and peers over at a thin red flowering herb.
“What is this?” She inquires with an honest inquisitive tone. It is the first thing she has said to me since her exasperated fulya escort tsk when I asked if she would be wearing that dress in the brush.
I had been too busy to notice the flora around us. My attention has been drawn to her since I walked up. I quickly study the flower that seemingly holds her gaze. I also see the shape of her back and ass as her position has pulled the dress material tight around her. Each cheek is visible in shape. It is as if two lines start separately and curve sensually around her buttocks in perfect symmetry. The lines then come toward each other in the slimming of her waist before again diverging into the strength of her back.
“Cedar Sage,” I say in a much softer tone than my usual speaking voice. I am lucky I managed to even get those two words out. My eyes are affixed to her arcs. She looks back at me over her shoulder. Her deep dark brown eyes are swimming with electricity that they always carry. How eyes so dark can be filled with so much energy is beyond my comprehension.
Her full lips become visible as she smiles in a very wry manner. Her hands leave the ground and find her hips. She pins her dress tightly against her back and ass as she stands up, I see the ripple of muscles in her glutes and hamstring as she maneuvers. She lets go of her dress and spins around and walks back toward the limestone bench she was sitting on. I am now standing with my toes over the edge, just above her. She floats to a stand of big green-leafed woody plants covered in red hibiscus-looking flowers. The flower community is taller than she is, dwarfing her petite frame and reaching up to my waist even though I am standing on higher ground.
She leans over facing me to smell the lower flowers. Her knees are locked together and she bends at the waist, leveraging herself with her hands upon her thighs. I watch her slowly bow to the flower, her eyes barely open and a soft smile upon her full lips. I cannot help myself. I drift past her beautiful visage. The elastic along the top of her dress is no match to gravity. I gaze down the front of her chest. I see the fullness of her breasts free of constrictions. I look even further beyond her cleavage to her solar plexus. It becomes quite clear that she is not wearing a bra. Her freedom excites me a great deal. I immediately felt how restricted my choice of clothing was. Particularly in my jeans, as my excitement has swelled in more places than just deep in my chest.
I force my gaze back up, slowly enjoying my vision’s traverse to her eyes. When my trek is complete, I find her piercing a knowing half-smile directly into me. I am caught staring. I don’t care, even though I feel a bit awkward.
“And this?” Her eyes have not left mine, though she continues to pretend to smell the flower. I am aware that she is pretending, as I know that there is no aroma to this bloom.
“Turks Cap, but… uhhh… you know that already,” I fumble through the statement, clearly impacted by the beautiful temptation in front of me. She smiles wider but does not move. Her eyes burn deep into me. My heart explodes with her piercing light, my legs are instantly weak in shaking potential energy.
“You should come down and look at these flowers with me,” her instructions ignite my ears with a warmth that bleeds into my blushing cheeks and pounding chest.
I do not need another invitation. I squat down and become aware of truly how bad of a choice this particular pair of jeans was. The course denim strains against the swell of my eagerness for her. Getting off of this limestone perch hurts and it is an embarrassing struggle. Yet there is no hesitation on my part. I finally leap the last couple of feet, my footing giving way on the calcareous rubble, I slide clumsily a few inches before putting a hand down to stop myself. She has not moved, nor does she acknowledge my uncoordinated dismount from the rock except for a brief snicker. I chuckled too, laughing at myself to ease my bruised ego.
I brush my hands off on my jeans and walk up behind her. I place my hand on the small of her back, just above her ass, and lean over her right shoulder. I relish how the warmth of her skin is transmitted through the thin dress material.
“You know you can eat these, right?” I ask in a low tone. She simply turns and looks up at me with eyes as big as I can imagine her eyes to be. She knows they are edible, we have shared them before. I reach past her and pull a bloom from the stem.
She never says a word. Her eyes flash brightly. Her lips parted allowing her tongue to escape slowly. I place the flower, sweet end first, onto her waiting tongue. She slowly pulls the end in between her lips and gently sucks the sweet nectar from the flower. She indeed remembers.
I am caught in the cast of her spell. I stare. Breathless.
“Mmmm, it is so sweet,” she reports with a wide smile. She knows why I have not said a word. She still is bent over in front of the flowers. antep escort My hand is still on her back. My heart is pounding in my chest. So hard, it seems to me that she must feel it all the way down to my hand. I certainly feel it. Each beat brings a pinch to the crotch of my jeans. Standing behind her, just beyond her view, I adjust. I shake myself into a bit more room. Unfortunately, the attention to the problem exacerbated things. I feel my cock grow into the newly created space.
It does not help that I am now staring at the folds of her dress hanging off the supple curve of her ass. The material is blowing in the breeze. Little puffs of the wind filter through the trees to breathe life into the dance of her skirt. Each grand écart en l’air of the sheer material gives me a glance at the smooth creamy thighs hidden beneath.
“What is this?” I ask. It is all I could think of. An excuse to come around her backside to her other side. I allow the bulge in my jeans to skim across her ass as I pretend to need the invasion of personal space to slip by. I bite my lip as I feel the pain of the restriction throb in rebellion to the jeans. I swear I hear her slightly gasp. But perhaps that was just the wind in the junipers. My right hand finds the inside of her upper thigh, just below her dress. I squeeze slightly before letting go and moving forward to the stand of Turks Cap. “You can eat their fruit too,” I try to mask my behavior with the ruse of information.
“Oh?” She stands quickly with an incredulous look lightly masking a mischievous smile.
“Yeah, they are pretty good, but I like them when…”
Her left hand finds my right hand, immediately locking her fingers into mine. She lifts my arm and twirls herself into me by spinning inside the span she created. Before I can finish my sentence she is backing into me. My cock is pinned between the top of her ass and the small of her back. She pulls my arm down in front of her. Both of her hands are wrapped around my right arm, her fingers digging into the meat of my muscle. I stiffen up, supporting her slight weight as she leans into my embrace. Her ass pushes hard against my hips.
I suspect I may have moaned. I am not sure entirely. I simply settled into the comfort of her brilliance, engulfed in the moment of my ardent craving for her.
I can smell her. Her heavenly aroma wafts to my nose in waves of warmth. I can smell her sweet fragrances. I can smell the delectable earthen tones of her natural state. I can also smell her heightened state of desire. The latter builds in strength as she holds on tightly to my arms and presses ever harder into my hips. I find the pressure to be satisfyingly painful as I throb against her back. My heartbeat becomes ever more detectable in places other than my chest.
She looks up into my gaze, her own eyes barely open in an apparent state of bliss. The mottled sunlight brightens her skin and brings her delectable lips into my view. I hunger for them, for her. I pull her upright against me so that I can find her lips against my own. I am mindful of my precarious state and test the waters gently. She suckles my bottom lip to show me the possibilities and my tongue responds in earnest. My left hand moves under her chin so that I will not lose the moment. I feel her jaw accept my probing tongue and exploration of passion in the palm of my hand. In the speckled warm sun beneath the Post Oak, we enjoy the taste of our enthusiasm for each other. The quiet hot afternoon was interrupted only by the creek, the birds, and the succulent noises of a passionate kiss.
I work to get another full view of her beauty. I feel her shudder in a slow exhale as my lips break with hers. Her eyes slowly flutter open into a supernova of warm and dark browns, highlighted by the reflection of the speckles of blue deep sky overhead. I lead her around with my arm, she understands my direction without the need of a spoken word. She twirls to face me, her dress is just a bit slower than the rest of her. With the twist of the material form-fitting, I devour her geometry with my stare. My hands come to rest on top of her hips on either side of her waist. I hold tight. I smile. I gaze.
I enjoy the show of the Post Oak leaves dancing in shadows upon her gorgeous soft complexion. The movement of the wind reminded me that the wonders of the wilderness pale to the beauty of her physical being. That immutable physical beauty, in turn, pales to the beautiful strength of her spirit and soul. She pushes me. She nurtures me. She fights against my flaws. She fights for me.
And we smile at each other. Silent. In the wind. Above the creek. Her free in her dress. Me straining against my jeans and conformity.
I move my hands slowly up along her midsection. I can feel the warmth of her soft flesh through the thin material. I can feel the undulation of her ribcage until I feel the swell of her breasts as I lightly traverse across the gaziemir escort rise of her bust. My hands come to rest along her jawline, cradling her head in my hands. I feel the weight of her visage as it rests in my hands. Her hand caresses my left arm, ensuring I do not leave her unsupported. I have no intentions of letting go unless it is to get a better grip on her to satiate my desire. I slowly move toward her smile, her full lips, her perfect nose, and her carefully manicured eyebrows. I move closer until it all disappears to my closed eyes. Yet, I still see her in my consciousness as my lips again taste her smile.
I enjoy the flavor of her kiss for minutes. Perhaps tens of minutes. It is hard to gauge time when in the grip of her presence. The sun and shadows continue their dance. I love the way she tastes. I love the way she smells. I always want more. Always.
My desire to consume expands with little resistance. The physical manifestation of my desire though remains confined in the strength of denim and the capacity of my heart and lungs. I move my left hand forward slowly toward the back of her head. I close my grip, gently. I am careful to not entangle and pull her hair. I ensure that gravity does the work. Her head sweeps to her right, exposing the strong left side of her jawline and long neck. I explore diligently with sweeping kisses, my tongue gently examining the slightly salty path my lips take to her neck, just below her ear. I feel the impact of my exploration. She does not weigh much, but I feel her let go, resting her mass into me. I suckle her ear lobe as I position myself to tell an undeniable truth.
“I always want you. But right now, I want you immediately,” I say this in a soft panted whisper into her ear, yet with an air of direct tonality.
She gasps a long and simple, “Yes.” Good, because I had no intention of stopping with her ear. I pull her in tight, resting her head on my chest. My arms fold over her head. I hold her over the deafening violent beat of my heart. I watch her head move in and out with each long contraction of my breath. She does not move while I look over our surroundings for a solution.
I spot the limestone shelf behind her, just next to the stand of Turks Cap. I watch the Gulf Fritillary butterflies hover above the blooms with their thirst and see the sun bright upon the light-colored grey rock of the shelf, the dancing Post Oak shadows beckoning me. Mother nature guides me by instinct and clues me in. I, like the thirst of a butterfly, desire her nectar.
I hold onto her shoulders as I take a half step back, my eyes once more finding hers as she turns her head to face me seeking guidance. I take the opportunity to study the beautiful arcs of her lines hidden by her dress. I see the stark texture of her nipples interrupting the sweep of her breasts, punctuating the greatness of her form. I study the strength of her thighs in their smooth temptation. I step in again, allowing my hands to fall down her back traveling to find a secure place to grasp under her arms.
I half crouch and lift. Her petite frame is lighter than she thinks. Her mass is no match for my appetite. I lift her up so that she is at eye level with me. I look past her bewildered smile and spot her landing on the shelf. The motion induces her to let out a sudden half-yelp half-giggle that echoes off of the canyon of the creek bottom. I set her down quickly on the rock and stepped in. I let go of her sides, my hands grab the backside of her knees. I lift her legs to my shoulders and move forward until her knees rest upon my collarbone. I allow her calves to drop to my back. Her left chancla loses connection with her foot and falls to the leaf litter below, first cartwheeling off of my ass.
My hands caress the length of her outer thighs on their way to grip her waist tightly. My lips find the inside of her right thigh. My tongue drags gently along her flesh toward the center of my goal. I feel the texture of her instant goosebumps against my tongue. Her deep exhale of approval is the fuel for my tongue’s journey. I grab the front bottom of her dress and pin it back into my grip along her hips. The bright dappling of the sun highlights what I suspected. There is no other barrier between the nirvana of her flesh and my lips. Just for a moment, I admire the beauty of my feast: the smooth pale skin, the dark tuft of hair trimmed and centered above the natural delectable shape of her femininity.
I continue my journey slowly. The heat of my goal burns ever hotter against my cheek until I feel the hot dampness against the corner of my mouth. My nose finds the nook where her thigh joins her hip at the groin. I exhale slowly and forcefully against the blossoming of her delicious sweet bloom. Like the butterfly, I gently flutter and hover just above her. Her aroma is irresistible, my thirst unquenchable.
I reach with my tongue, her folds guide me to her wet and delicious warmth. Her thighs close tightly around my head, centering my nose onto her patch of hair.
I taste her. I smell her. I feel her. I devour her.
She feeds me with shivers and gasps of “oh fucks”. She floods me with the freedom of nectar. I feast in my confinement.
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