The more she thought about the scene, the hotter she got. This would be an outdoor orgasm for the ages.
Then something cold, clammy, and totally unexpected pushed in between the bouncing cheeks of her exposed, and unsuspecting ass. Halfway through what should have been the penultimate down stroke, her body braked to a halt and, Defying all known laws of inertia, instantly reversed direction. A mere nano second later, her terrified scream was cut off as her head hit something and everything went black.
Hot, steaming, al fresco sex is a favorite fantasy for many folks. That’s why it’s a common subject in romance and erotic writing.
Great sex in the great outdoors can happen. But fiction writers seldom give the whole, unvarnished story of such encounters. It’s true that nature can be breathtakingly beautiful. But when it comes to sex, beds are best. Those of a contrary opinion are both wrong, and encouraged to consider the trials and tribulations of Angelina Eveready.
As is the case with many otherwise sane, normal people born and raised in the big city, Angie yearned for bucolic bliss. Her all-consuming fantasy was to make unbridled love with a rugged, yet sensitive, mountain man in the great out-of-doors. In her imagination, passion overwhelms them in some secluded mountain glade during a summer rainstorm, or they make love while swimming nude in a tranquil lake, or the two of them frolic in an isolated meadow filled with songbirds and flowers.
So entrenched was this longing for splendor in the grass, after the fall semester of her freshman year, she defied her parents and, with the encouragement of her cousin, Etta Toupes, transferred from an elitist Private University to that bastion of rural virtues, Wodehouse College.
Etta was Angie’s cousin. That and the fact both were female was about all they had in common. Etta was cute, blonde, perky, very smart, poor, and two years older. Angie was voluptuous, brunette, sultry, just smart enough, rich, and two years younger. Naturally, they were great friends and decided to share an apartment.
When Angie arrived in January, the much praised WC campus proved to be cold, dreary, and disappointing. The weather was too miserable to do anything on the outside and there wasn’t much to do inside except study and go to basketball games. Then Etta hooked up with a rich frat rat named Willie Sinclair and became scarce. To Angie, it seemed like spring had been cancelled due to boredom.
Then April arrived and with it the approach of Earth Day. Signs of nature’s renewal began showing up everywhere. The sun became warmer, the days longer, and student apparel skimpier. All this renewed Angie’s primal longing to play nymph to some insatiable satyr in an elysian field of erotic delights.
It was her good fortune to possess the three qualities most needed to fulfill her desires. She was a female, and she was in love with the ideal of love. In other words, she was easy. It didn’t hurt that her earth-mother figure and exotic good looks attracted men ranging in age from pre-school to post-senility.
That fall’s crop of freshmen females had been a poor one, boasting few blue-ribbon keepers. This paucity of prime pulchritude and her own ample charms made Angie an instant, and much sought after, sensation.
Her first conquest was Ernie, a good friend of Willie and Etta. No doubt this choice struck some as odd. For while it’s true he was sort of handsome when viewed in a certain light, Ernie was not the rugged, mountain man type. Nor was he interested in becoming one. Having grown up in the rustic region surrounding the Wodehouse campus, he tended to take nature for granted. In his opinion, the best thing about the outdoors was coming indoors.
But though built on the long and lanky model and no woodsman, he was patient and smart. Those attributes played a vital role in the remarkable improvement in Angie’s academic fortunes during the first half of the semester.
To her credit, Angie was quick to reward this kindness. To her delight, Ernie’s slender frame was more than offset by two compensating factors. A member of the school’s cross-country track team; he possessed great stamina. And then there was his being, to quote a locker-room wag, “hung like a fucking Missouri mule.” After becoming aware of both factors, Angie shifted her rewards program into overdrive.
None of that “rewarding” activity lessened her wish to experience pastoral passion, however. With her full lips, talented tongue, enticing cleavage, nimble fingers, and almost total lack of anything resembling a sexual inhibition, Angie seldom had trouble coaxing men. Long before the first warm weekend of the year, the reluctant Ernie had been well and truly coaxed into obliging her.
When the great day arrived, Angie, being romantic, brought a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a copy of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Ernie, being practical, brought a plastic ground cloth, a blanket, and a first aide kit. He also brought his dog, an aging but still inquisitive beagle named, Buford.
The chosen spot was under a towering tree in an out-of-the-way rustic glen. Ernie busied himself smoothing a spot and spreading the ground cover and blanket. The moment these tasks were completed, he learned what Angie had been doing. Wearing nothing but a big smile, she jumped onto the blanket and pulled him down beside her.
Foreplay was not on the agenda. Ernie’s clothes seemed to vanish, followed moments later by his prodigious penis. But while neither had any idea where his clothes were, both knew the exact location of his magic sword; buried up to the hilt in Angie’s writhing body.
Even with his endurance and her desire, that first explosion of passion couldn’t last forever. When they started to recover, a jug of wine and a loaf of bread weren’t what Angie wanted. She wasn’t even interested in Ernie being beside her singing in the wilderness. What interested her was having him on his back with his cock planted way up inside her pussy while she sat on top, controlling the pace and teasing him with her breasts.
Thanks to her remarkable ability to coax men, she soon had everything she wanted. In a way, Angie was like Will Rogers except that in addition to men, she never met a sexual position she didn’t like. But this one was, oh, so very special, generating a wave of warm, tender emotions she began sharing with her lover.
“Oh, fucking yes! It’s just so fan-fucking-tastic, to the fucking max. I mean, feeling every sweet fucking inch of your big fucking beautiful cock rooting around inside me, it’s just, you know, like so in-fucking-credible.”
Words failed her before she could make any specific comments regarding the exquisite pressure Ernie’s erection was creating inside her body or how being able to look around at all the beauties of nature was adding to her pleasure. But he seemed to understand.
A large tree trunk blocked the view in front of her. But there were butterflies in the wildflowers to her left. A few feet away on the right, birds flew in and out of a large thicket. Ernie’s old dog was nearby, stretched out on its belly in a patch of sunlight, watching them and slowly wagging its tail. She wondered what the dog thought about all this. Was he bored or enjoying the show?
Fucking like this was so fucking good, so right. She cupped her breasts, kneading and rotating the heavy globes. Doing that always felt sexy, and like most guys, Ernie seemed fascinated. She noticed the dog’s tail was moving faster. Maybe they both were. The thought made her giggle.
She slowly rocked back and forth, enjoying the sensation of that huge hammer moving inside her. Making love outdoors was even better than she’d imagined. Feeling the sun and wind on your bare skin was such a turn-on. Everything was peaceful and sexy. The sounds of nature were accompanied by the gentle slurping of her lover’s thick shaft moving inside her wet, and, oh so happy, pussy.
The more she thought about the scene, the hotter she got. It wasn’t long before she was leaning forward, hands on Ernie’s shoulders, her full breasts swaying back and forth, gently slapping against his face as he tried to capture one of the erect, elusive nipples with his lips.
Angie felt herself slipping into the moment, her body taking control as her mind became a swirl of sensory delights. Ernie latched onto one of her breasts. He sucked hard, taking in more and more flesh before releasing just enough to let him chew on the sensitive nipple.
On some subconscious level, Angie knew her hips were moving faster and faster, knew Ernie was meeting each downward stroke with a hard, upward thrust, knew she was on the brink of an outdoor orgasm for the ages.
Something very cold, very wet, and totally unexpected pushed in between the cheeks of her exposed, and unsuspecting ass. She was about halfway through what should have been the penultimate downward plunge. Her body braked to a halt. Defying all known laws of inertia, it reversed directions with such speed and force she pulled a lower back muscle. This went unnoticed at the time and does not appear to have impeded her subsequent movements.
The rapid reversal was accompanied by a spectacular sound. It bore a striking resemblance, in both its high frequency and even higher volume, to the nerve shattering screech emitted by well-tuned tornado alert sirens in the great state of Kansas.
With a speed that would have pleased an Olympic sprinter coming off the starting line, she was rushing away from the cold terror down below. That this terror was just another one of nature’s marvels, in this case the cold, wet nose of Buford the beagle, would never mollify Angie. In any case, the information remained unknown to her until well after the crises passed.
We need to stop at this point and consider the situation. Ernie is naked and on his back with an empty mouth and an exposed penis in the initial stages of what has suddenly become a mid-air ejaculation. As with all men during such events, his mind has shutdown.
Buford, the nosey beagle who triggered this event, is wondering what happened to the source of all those strange sounds and tempting smells. Although possibly unfamiliar with either the band or the term, not unlike ZZ Top, he’d just been looking for some tush.
The miniscule portion of Angie’s cerebral cortex still in working order is wondering how to get even further away from whatever the hell that cold, wet, disgusting thing was that just assaulted her ass. This strong, instinctual desire to flee is about to present a very big problem.
Although no member of this dysfunctional ménage-au-trios is aware of the fact, a thick blanket of pine needles covers the ground around them. They helped cushion the earth’s surface for Angie and Ernie while providing a happy home for blood-sucking parasites such as ticks and redbugs.
As is often the case with pine needles when thus observed, these are all dead. To work as intended, they must have a direct connection to a tree limb. If limbs are to function properly, they need to be attached to a tree trunk. And it follows, as night doth the day, that trunks not securely attached to the ground cease supporting the life above them and become logs or firewood.
As realtors are always quick to remind us, location is everything. The instigator of this crisis, Buford the beagle, is currently out of harm’s way. However, the heads of Ernie and Angie are positioned mere inches from a very thick, very hard, very immovable tree trunk. To be precise, it is the trunk of an otherwise unoffending (Pinus taeda), more commonly referred to as a loblolly pine.
Ernie’s head is more or less immobile. And since he’s still occupied firing his load off into the wild blue yonder, his brain remains completely inoperative. He is, therefore, relatively safe.
The same cannot be said for Angie or her head. The portion commonly referred to as her mouth is wide open and busy responding to the brain’s terror alert by screaming like a Hollywood B movie actress confronting a particularly gruesome monster, or her third casting couch of the day. Along with the rest of Angie’s body, it is hurtling forward with mind-boggling speed.
Due to the extreme velocity of this motion, the distance between the top of her head and the tree trunk is diminishing at a rate any impartial observer would describe as, alarming. Some might even be moved to add, very. The laws of motion being what they are, the top of head “A” (Angie) is mere nanoseconds away from contacting the side of trunk “T”(guess) with a loud—
After-action damage assessment:
1. Pulled muscle in lower back
2. Large contusion (bump) on head
3. Assorted teeth marks on left nipple
4. Spine in need of adjustment
5. Neck in need of adjustment
6. Numerous itchy redbug and tick bites
7. Anxiety attacks when attempting the female superior
8. Badly sprained wrist (note: This can only be
indirectly attributed to the collision. The chief
precipitating factor appears to have been her
administering a “good one” to Ernie’s face.)
1. One loose tooth (it was a very “good one”)
2. One busted lip (see previous entry)
3. Numerous itchy redbug and tick bites
4. A chronic case of semen retention headache resulting
from Angie terminating (with extreme prejudice) herrewards program
Buford the Beagle:
1. A well-grounded fear of angry, large-breasted, naked,
2. Chronic nightmares of one such human, with a big bump on
her head and a large tree limb held in one hand, chasing him for miles
One would think such an experience would have ended Angie’s fascination with the idea of outdoor sex. If so, one would have thought wrong. What the experience did do was convince her getting laid in the shade amidst the great outdoors required a real outdoorsman, not a skinny, indoor nerd, even if he was sweet.
No doubt it can be attributed to her being a naïve freshman that in her search of this man of the wilderness, Angie turned to a graduate student in wildlife biology. In her defense, it should be pointed out that Bruce at least looked the part. He was tall, broad of shoulder and seemed to know everything there was to know about the fauna and flora in the forest primeval. Unfortunately, this extensive knowledge, and the starting lineup of the ’27 Yankees, comprised virtually all he knew or cared about.
This became apparent the moonlit night when, after some skillful coaxing on Angie’s part, she and Bruce slipped off to a local lake. They paused beside the dark, still waters to play a spirited game of squeeze and tickle while ripping off each other’s clothes.
Unfortunately, the extra skin surface attracted even more mosquitoes. By mutual agreement they stopped fondling one another and waded into the lake. This movement involved a series of tentative stops and starts. For while it was April and spring was in the air, winter’s chill was still in the water.
Angie had expected nice, clean sand on the lake bottom, like that at the beach. What she got was weeds and a thick mud that felt yucky squeezing between her toes. But she was too excited to care about any of that, at least not much. They played in the water like two horny, if somewhat chilly, otters. The whole scene got her so turned on, she decided to surprise Bruce with an underwater blowjob.
She was clinging to his back, her legs wrapped around his middle, and nibbling on his right earlobe when she got the idea for an underwater blowjob. She told him to spread his legs. When he obliged, she took several deep breaths, slid down his back and under the surface. Moving quickly, she slithered head first between his long legs, then moved up in front of his thick, semi-soft organ and slipped it between her lips.
The reaction was immediate and strong. He placed both big hands on her head and began thrusting into her mouth. That was okay, at first. But he kept pumping, forcing himself in deeper and deeper. That threatened to trigger her gag reflex, which would further deplete her quickly diminishing supply of air.
She tried to push his hands away, but they remained firmly in place. Bruce was big and strong and in the grip of two powerful passion. That he was racing toward an orgasm was obvious to Angie. What she did not, could not, know was that while his body was responding to her mouth, his wildlife biologist brain was responding to the sight of two raccoons that had waddled up to the nearby shore.
In a way, Bruce was in the pleasant position of having both of his heads satisfied at the same time. The situation was far from pleasant for Angie, who was making a quick transition from discomfort and worry to agony and near panic. She couldn’t get Bruce’s attention. The water kept her from hitting him hard enough to do the job. And she didn’t want to bite. That would be painful, maybe even dangerous. She would do it only as a last resort—a situation that was rapidly getting closer.
No doubt aided by a combination of oxygen deprivation and survival instinct, she remembered his testicles, i.e., Bruce’s balls. Almost frantic by now, she wrapped her fingers around the sensitive sack and gave it a gentle squeeze. Judging by what happened next, it’s possible the squeeze was a just a wee bit harder than she intended. Bruce reacted violently to this testicular torment, jerking backwards while shoving her head away.
In light of certain teeth marks and scratches emergency room personnel later observed scattered about on the penis of her watery lover, it appears Angie may have failed to fully open her mouth. Whatever the source, it is true that when these injuries occurred, the condition of Bruce’s dick was not even close to being her primary concern.
With her supply of oxygen all but exhausted and her open mouth now unoccupied, she instinctively inhaled, and swallowed a large quantity of lake water. Thanks to the force of Bruce’s unexpected shove, the same bare bottom that so attracted Buford the beagle, had just come to rest on the lake’s slimy bottom.
She swallowed more water before getting her feet beneath her. With a desperate shove, she shot upward until her head broke the surface. One deep breath later, she vomited, then puked, retched, barfed, hurled, and even threw-up before her pollution of the lake ended in a series of dry-heaves.
Bruce was neither sympathetic nor apologetic. To his grad student mind, getting in that cold-ass lake and the underwater blowjob were her ideas. What’s more, she put a serious hurt on his nuts, mutilated his member, then scared off the raccoons with all her gagging and puking. And to make matters worse, he never got off.
After-action damage assessment:
1. A sore throat
2. An aching jaw
3. Fear of having her face under water
4. Numerous mosquito bits
5. A head cold
1. Cuts and abrasions on shaft of penis
2. Sore testicles – temporary
3. No Angie, in or out of water – permanent
4. Numerous mosquito bits
5. A head cold
It’s a testament to the power of Angie’s fantasy that even after first smashing her head against a sylvan setting. When will she ever learn?
Angie Eveready was not given to long bouts of contemplation. She was a firm adherent of the “if it feels good, do it” school of social behavior. But in the wake of her third, less-than-perfect experience with making love in the great outdoors, she felt the situation required a good, old-fashioned think.
The perfect place for such deep introspection was stretched out on something like a massage table, while a sweet middle-aged chiropractor named Dr. Ari A. Fresca did all sorts of delicious things to her bare back, and shoulders, and thighs, and bottom.
Her first taste of sylvan sex, a romp in the woods with Ernie, had been a total blast, at first. But it ended in failure when his dog, Buford the Beagle, nosed into the act, so to speak, in a very up-close and personal way.
Then came her near-drowning experience while skinny-dipping. How was she supposed to know that Bruce, the wildlife biology grad student she was giving an underwater blow-job, would become so mesmerized by the sight to two damn coons he wouldn’t think to let her surface?
Those unsatisfactory experiences lead to some second thoughts, not to mention, insect bites, a crick in her neck, muscle strains in her back, a minor concussion, and one helluva cold. The back and neck were mending nicely, thanks in no small part to the dedicated work of Dr. Fresca.
It was in the midst of this discontent that Ralph showed up. Like most members of the small student body at Wodehouse College, he was a friend of a friend. They met at an Earth Day planning session.
Ralph was a sharp dresser and fast talker. Many otherwise charitable observers considered him a low-life, slime-ball. Others insisted he was more like a case of persistent jock itch. But he had these soft, puppy-like eyes that, for no logical reason, gave certain females the mistaken impression they could safely confide in him.
It wasn’t long before Angie joined that number, confessing her love of the wilderness and her long-held fantasy of communing with nature by making love in the great out-of-doors. After her third post-planning session beer at Ralph’s apartment, she even admitted to her two recent failures in this regard. She then granted Ralph a sample of what would be in-store should she ever achieve the long-sought natural nirvana.
All this fired Ralph with an even greater zeal to help Angie fulfill her fantasy. The term “even greater” is appropriate, for when it came to face and figure, mother nature had been very kind to Angie. She possessed the type of body the late Aldous Huxley would no doubt have described as, “pneumatic.” While her long legs, shapely bottom and generous bosom diverted the attention of most men, those who managed to lift their gaze would behold an exquisite, Madonna-like face that featured dark brown eyes, full lips, and a smile that was both beatific and seductive.
It was an accepted truth around campus that whatever Ralph might lack in looks, smarts, and class, he more than made up for with a line of solid-gold bullshit. Using this skill, he convinced Angie her problem with outdoor sex wasn’t the fantasy or setting, but her male partners. She needed a guy who wouldn’t bring a dog along or get fixated by two raccoons, someone who had access to a mountain cabin near a waterfall, and who knew everything anyone needed to know about the wilderness. In other words, she needed a fellow nature-lover like Ralph.
By Ralph’s somewhat loose standards, he wasn’t lying, not really. He did know enough not to bring a dog and wouldn’t know a raccoon from a rhino. He also thought that, with a little luck, he might be able to wangle a remote cabin he spent a miserable night in many years ago. To consider his claim that he knew everything anyone needed to know about the wilderness as valid, however, one would need to accept his contention that all any sane person needed to know about the wilderness was to stay the hell out of the place.
Though Angie was just a WC freshman, she possessed a remarkably inclusive attitude towards men. Still, guys with beady eyes, a face strikingly similar to that of a ferret, a scrawny body built by years of easy living, and the personality of a two-faced rat, were not her favorite type. But those soft eyes and the promise of a mountain cabin near a waterfall proved too much to resist. She agreed.
Angie’s cousin, roommate and best friend, Etta Toups, greeted the news with something less than wholehearted support. It was Etta’s considered opinion that going from Bruce the grad student to Ralph the lifetime undergrad was a case of trading in a joke for a jerk.
Etta kept trying to talk Angie into giving Ernie, the first of her failed outdoor partners, another chance. There was no denying Ernie had a lot going for him. He was sweet and sort of cute, easy to coax into doing whatever she wanted, and had great stamina. The fact he was hung like a Clydesdale contributed in no small way, so to speak, to his appeal. But he also had that damn beagle. Thanks to Dr. Fresca’s magic fingers her body, once a mass of pain and agony, was healing quickly. The bump on her head was gone, so were the headaches the concussion caused. But the memory of that day in the pines, when she was on top of Ernie, blissfully communing with nature and his super schlong, and what happened when Buford’s cold nose made contact with a very personal spot, well, it was still painfully fresh and more than enough to outweigh everything else.
So Angie headed off to spend the weekend with Ralph in a mountain cabin near a waterfall.
The cabin in question was the seldom used property of a friend of the second wife of one of Ralph’s cousins. He told Angie it belonged to his uncle. The location played a large role in its limited use. Reaching it required an extended hike up, and up, and up a long, narrow, overgrown trail. Even well-conditioned day-trippers found the feat a challenge. For those who were out-of-shape, and toting a backpack loaded with enough supplies for a weekend, it was crushing.
Being a gentleman, and a man whose idea of exercise was popping the top on another beer, Ralph let Angie lead the way. This gesture accomplished two things. It kept her from seeing him sweating and straining while giving him a highly motivating, low-angle view of her ample bottom in motion. This most inspiring view managed to keep him climbing that long, long trail even as he felt a growing kinship with those who endured the Bataan Death March.
No doubt spurred on by the vision undulating before him, Ralph managed to reach the cabin without collapsing or throwing up. They both gratefully dropped their overloaded packs. While Angie admired the tall hardwood trees surrounding the cabin, Ralph tried to unlatch the door. This proved a time consuming process. Due to a combination of lust of exhaustion, his fingers refused to stop shaking.
Unoccupied, rustic cabins often acquire a memorable, earthy aroma. This is most evident when first entering the structure. Consider for a moment; Grandma’s attic. Now add in mold, mildew, animal droppings and the funky aroma of socks left months ago by some poorly-groomed hunters, and you begin to get the idea.
It was Ralph’s plan to get Angie inside, spread out the sleeping bags, and begin the first of what he hoped would be many boisterous bounces in the cabin. The strong, unique aroma that wafted out of the cabin door, along with the sound of that waterfall, cancelled that plan.
When he tried to get her inside, she gave him a big kiss, giggled and slipped away. Her idea was to leave the door open so the cabin could air out while they went to find the waterfall. This didn’t seem like a very good idea to Ralph who was both horny and still exhausted from the climb.
Those who have read, WC 102 Outdoor Angie, may recall her amazing ability to coax men into doing virtually anything she wanted. On this arboreal occasion, the quick removal of her t-shirt did the trick.
In justice to Ralph, it must be reported that few men, living or dead, could resist the sight of her bountiful bosom. Angie’s breasts were large and shapely with the springy tautness of youth. To the slack-jawed Ralph, their large, erect nipples seemed to be pointing right at him. When Angie turned and headed for the falls, he followed like some dumb ox after a carrot being dangled just inches in front of him.
Though not very large, the waterfall was so impressive it got Ralph’s mind off Angie’s breasts for a good ten seconds. To him, the place looked like a jungle scene from some Tarzan movie. A thin stream of water seemed to appear by magic high in the forest, then it plunged down an almost vertical cliff face onto the rocks at the edge of a small, tree-lined pool.
The sight of Angie, sitting on a rock and taking off her hiking boots, diverted Ralph’s attention and raised his hopes, among other things. To his disappointment, she didn’t remove her shorts. Instead, she moved to the edge of the pool, found another rock to sit on, and began splashing her feet in the water.
This was better than nothing he decided, and quickly joined her. The water was colder than the proverbial well digger’s ass in Idaho, but it felt good on his hot, sweaty feet. Something told him not to rush Angie, that his time would come, soon. In a rare display of patience, he put an arm around her shoulders and they just sat, savoring the spectacle.
But they were young and healthy. Ralph was also very horny. As for Angie, little was ever required to stir her primal instincts. Now she was falling under the romantic spell of the waterfall. So when Ralph took one of her breasts in his free hand and nuzzled her neck, she responded.
Passion is one thing; practicality another. In this case, their passion to copulate ran into the reality that there was no way in hell they could do so on that rock.
Ralph’s very practical suggestion that they return to the cabin met with passionate resistance from Angie. She didn’t agree to spend the weekend with a guy like Ralph, then hike all the way up here, just to screw in some dirty, stuffy cabin when they could be making love beside such a beautiful wonder of nature.
This attitude initiated a search, best described as frantic, by the hyper-horny Ralph. While Angie sat on her rock, contemplating the waterfall, he moved furiously around the edge of the pond, looking for a flat surface. Tucked away near the spot where the pool ended and the stream recommenced its downhill journy, he found that for which he sought.
It was a secluded nook, just up from a little strip of sand. Having once scored on the beach, he was glad there was a fern-like ground covering to keep the sand and dirt out of their asses. Not that he really cared. That would be Angie’s problem. But he wanted to keep her happy, horny, and humping. With a yelp of triumph, he rushed back around the pool to claim his prize.
Angie thought the spot was great. She turned and gave the beaming Ralph a big kiss while pulling off his shirt. It fell to the ground and she rubbed her breasts against his pale chest, letting her hard nipples slip through the sparse chest hairs. With a cry of outdoor joy, she hugged him close, letting him start working on her shorts while she gazed over his shoulder at the waterfall.
It was while they were in the midst of this embrace, that the wind shifted. Until now, it had been to their backs, coming up the mountain. The most significant effect was to blow the mist and spray away from anyone who happened to be at the base of the waterfall. The shift in direction meant those tiny droplets of ice-cold mountain stream water were now being directed their way.
Both lovers noticed the chilling effect of the wind change at the same time. Their reactions differed, however. Ralph was all for returning to the snug dry, cabin. Angie, whose outdoor fantasies included making love in the rain, decided this would make a reasonable alternative, and insisted they stay.
In his excited condition, it took very little coaxing on her part before Ralph agreed. However, he urged her to go ahead and crawl into their hide-away. This time she agreed. But at the entrance, she paused. Recalling past disasters, she asked if he’d checked it out and was sure it was safe.
Ralph, who had barely glanced inside, said he checked every inch and for her not to worry. Reassured, Angie crawled in, rolled over on her back, snuggled in among the soft green ivy, spread her legs, and then lifted her arms toward Ralph in a totally unnecessary gesture of welcome.
Not unlike a drowning man lunging for a life vest, Ralph leapt into the breach. After one or two near misses, he scored a direct hit and sank into the snug warmth of Angie’s exceptional pussy. If his body and equipment were less impressive than those she’d recently experienced, Angie didn’t mind. With the exception of a few men she’d known, okay, make that one man, Ernie, it was her experience that all tomcats were gray in the dark. And what Ralph might lack in size and technique, he almost made for with enthusiasm.
At some point she began to feel something small and sharp poking into her bottom. Assuming it was a stick, she continued thrusting her hips up in rhythm to Ralph’s downward thrusts, taking in every inch he had to offer.
Then she felt something else, more like a pinch this time, near the first one. She was closing in on what promised to be a really nice climax, and didn’t want to stop. So each time she lifted her hips off the ground, she gave them an extra wiggle, hoping she’d land on a spot free of those stickers or whatever it was. This drove Ralph to even greater heights of verbal prowess, but the stinging only got worse.
Among her many talents, Angie knew how to multi-task. Even as the passionate coupling between she and Ralph became more intense, she slipped a hand beneath her and tried to smooth away whatever was bothering her bottom. When something sharp and painful stuck her hand, she jerked it away. While still hunching and moaning, she moved the hand near her face and gave it a close look.
Small objects were crawling around on the back of her hand. They were, to be more precise, red ants. One of them picked that moment to try a sample of her flesh. Since ants were simultaneously attacking her butt and hand, Angie’s next reaction was, in hindsight, both natural and reasonable.
It would be hard to imagine any two people being closer at that moment than were Angie and Ralph. Despite this physical proximity, a vast communication gap existed between the young lovers. Ralph misinterpreted Angie’s shouts and screams, not to mention the vigorous physical gyrations she was in the midst of performing, as manifestations of a passion that was about to explode. Having read several sex manuals and how-to articles, he knew real men always left their women satisfied. This led to a re-doubling of his efforts. Besides, he was on the verge of blowing a wad that could float the Titanic.
It was at this point in the proceedings that Angie got the distinct sensation the ants down below had begun an exploration of that environment and were approaching the same part of her anatomy Buford the Beagle had also sought to investigate, but with his nose.
This revelation proved highly motivational. With a scream of “Get off me you stupid bastard,” Angie gave a particularly powerful heave with her hips while pushing against his chest with her hands. It was thus that she managed to dislodge the confused and preoccupied Ralph. This condition was due to his being in the early stages of what had suddenly become a mid-air ejaculation, similar in nature to the one experienced by Angie’s first outdoor lover, Ernie.
It is a little known physical law that those lying buck naked in small, dim, secluded woodland nooks find it very difficult to remove ants that are inflicting a series of burning bites while at the same time doing their best to enter certain private passages and recesses of that person’s anatomy. To Angie’s credit, she quickly grasped this concept.
Shoving the bewildered and still spurting Ralph aside, she jumped up and raced toward the pool. Though it ran counter to her long, and loudly, espoused love of nature and reverence for animal rights, she fully intended to drown every one of what, in her mind, she now labeled, little mother-fuckers.
Do you remember that wind shift mentioned earlier? In case that item slipped your mind in all the excitement, it began while Angie and Ralph were playing tongue hockey and ripping off what little clothes they still had on. The shift propelled the waterfall’s spray and mist in their direction and quickly covered their bare skin with a thin film of cold water. Then Ralph said lets go do it in the cabin and Angie said no, let’s get in that spot you found and get it on. You remember now?
Well, that wind has continued blowing in the same direction. As a result, the once dry rocks which provided such sure footing when Angie and Ralph first arrived, are now coated with water and have become VERY slippery. It’s a testament to either Angie’s youthful agility or her good luck that she almost made it before a foot slipped, an ankle twisted and she went stumbling into the ice-cold water in a manner somewhat resembling the cannonball dive so favored my drunken men with large bellies.
To use the negative form of an expression made famous by former U.S. Vice President Dan Quayle, Angie was not a happy camper. By the time she managed to get her boots back on, a process delayed by her throwing one of them at Ralph, and limped to the cabin, her back was beginning to itch. A quick check of her official, Earth Day Guide to Plants and Other Outdoor Stuff, revealed the hard truth that the soft ground cover she had recently reclined upon was, poison ivy.
After-action damage assessment:
1. Various bruises and abrasions
2. One sprained ankle
3. A severe case of poison ivy
4. Blisters on both feet
5. Numerous ant bites, some in very personal spots
1. Blisters on both feet
2. Dehydration, from carrying both packs back to the car
3. A strained back, ditto
4. One black eye, from Angie’s well-thrown boot
5. No more Angie, not on Earth Day or in her lifetime
But now she was back in civilization and Dr. Fresca’s fabulous fingers were making it all better, thought Angie. Her bare bottom wiggled with contentment under the kindly doctor’s skillful touch. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need to try experiencing nature in a more refined setting; like amid all the flowers and natural beauty he keeps talking about in his backyard. And with it being surrounded by a tall, privacy fence, I could lay out next to the heated pool in my bikini, or even less. After all, he says sunshine will help clear up the last of this damn poison ivy. And he’s the doctor, and kind of cute for an older guy with a skinny moustache, so he should know, right?
In the opinion of Angie Eveready, this could be the Garden of Eden, except that ancient arcadia lacked a heated swimming pool. In reality, she was in the backyard of her half-Greek, half-Italian chiropractor, Dr. Ari A. Fresca, but that was close enough for her. She lay stretched out on a towel, nude and glistening with suntan oil, near the edge of the heated swimming pool which had been landscaped to resemble a natural pond. She could hear birds in the big oak at the far end of the yard. Ivy and honeysuckle covered the yard’s high, privacy fence and formed the background for an incredible variety of spring flowers.
Angie liked flowers. In fact, she liked everything about nature. But roses, orchids, tulips, and daises were about the only ones she could tell apart. Still, the ones here were so gorgeous they could turn anyone into a plant-nut, like Dr. Fresca. It was cute the way he seemed so proud and happy, even excited, talking about his organic gardening techniques while pointing out Jonquils, Camellias, pansies, and Crocuses. By now she couldn’t remember which was what, but it didn’t matter.
The only thing that did matter was Dr. Fresca’s fantastic fingers working over her back. It would lead to their making love, she was sure of that. And while the middle-aged divorced doctor with the thin moustache looked a bit greasy for her taste, she didn’t regret accepting his invitation. It would be nice making love outside without having to worry about ants, redbugs, mosquitoes, poison ivy, prying dogs, or distracted lovers holding your head underwater until you half-drowned.
Of course, she should be back on campus at Wodehouse College, helping get things ready for the upcoming Earth Day celebration. But if there really was a time and place for everything, then this was the perfect place and the right time for her to get a slow, total-body massage and then make love amide all this bucolic backyard beauty.
Dr. Fresca said he was finished with her back and, somewhat hesitantly, suggested she might want to turn over. He’d seen her bare backside many times while treating her strained lower back, but had enjoyed little more than brief glimpses of her front half. Angie paused to let the suspense mount. Then she looked around, gave him a languid smile and asked for help turning over.
The gasp that followed the maneuver was most satisfying. Angie was accustomed to such involuntary compliments. However, while this may strike some as hard to believe, as is the case with so many modern women, she didn’t like her figure. Oh, she appreciated its advantages and the reactions it generated, such as the one by Dr. Fresca. But her self-image was of a girl a few pounds past pleasingly plump. If given the choice, she’d have preferred a slim, athletic figure like that of her cousin, roommate, and best friend, Etta Toupes.
Through absolutely no effort on her part, she possessed the type of non-athletic figure that, though perhaps a bit too pulchritudinous to meet contemporary fashion standards, could stop traffic even when fully clothed. When adorned only in a string bikini, it had been known to turn women sick with envy and men into catatonic zombies. This extravagant endowment came complete with a full package of attention grabbing extras such as: long dark hair, full lips, big brown eyes, and a warm, light-olive complexion.
In this case, the string bikini was floating somewhere in the pool. The top had fallen victim to some early horseplay while the bottom joined it prior to Dr. Fresca’s just completed treatment of her lower back. Therefore, the good doctor was now gaping at a totally unencumbered view of the bounty mother nature had bestowed on Angie. Once the initial shock wore off, he emitted a garbled noise that sounded a little like the legendary bacchanalian cry of, “Evo!” and dove, face first, in-between her shapely thighs.
For the next few minutes, he snacked his way up Angie’s smorgasbord of erotic delights while shucking off his swimming trunks. By the time their lips meet, she was in post-climactic bliss, while his state of arousal had redlined somewhere way beyond 100% and was still climbing.
The coupling that followed was invigorating, but very brief. This didn’t surprise or even disappoint Angie. In her experience, the first time was usually brief. But thanks to her uncanny ability to coax men into doing virtually anything she wanted, those first brief sessions were almost always followed by seconds and thirds, sometimes even by four or more.
She watched with a sense of satisfaction as Dr. Fresca gritted his teeth, shook his head and let out a long groan. The trembling, ridged body that seemed balanced above her on the one point where their bodies met, made a last spasmodic thrust, then seemed to melt over her. A moment later, Dr. Fresca murmured something that sounded sweet and pleased, then he kissed her and rolled off.
That was a mistake. Astute readers may recall this narrative opening with her stretched out beside a pool. While Angie had turned over, she hadn’t moved away. If anything, she was even closer. The upshot was the good doctor slipped out of her warm embrace and immediately flopped over into the pool.
This was not a disaster on the scale of her own recent plunge into a cold mountain stream. He took the experience with the sort of good grace one might expect from a middle-aged man who, while aware he may have looked a trifle foolish, had just nailed a wantonly sexual young college girl prior to falling into his own heated pool.
They laughed and the doctor suggested he go fix them some drinks. Angie asked him to first give her a new coating of suntan oil. He agreed, of course, but insisted she try some of his all-natural coconut oil lotion instead of the petroleum based product Angie preferred.
She thought about mentioning that petroleum WAS a natural product, but her mood was way too mellow to argue. So she agreed and rolled back over on her stomach. There was more post-coital laughing and teasing as he applied a thick coating from her feet to her neck while giving special emphasis to her bountiful bottom.
The warmth of the spring sun and the feel of Dr. Fresca’s fingers added to Angie’s post-sex lassitude. Maybe that’s why she didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying about the flowers and bees. But after he got up, Angie heard one buzzing nearby. Thus prompted, she asked the departing doctor to repeat what he’d told her about bees.
“Just be a little careful,” he said, from the doorway. His voice sounded casual, reassuring. “With all these new blossoms, I’m sure there’s nothing really to worry about. But sometimes bees can be attracted to coconut oil. If they start bothering you, just roll into the–”
Angie was no longer listening, at least not to Dr. Fresca. That bee was back. How she knew it was the same bee is unclear. But there was no doubt in her mind as to the insect’s identity. As the doctor talked on and on about bees, the buzzing got louder and louder and louder, then ended with a rather quiet, splat.
From that moment on, Angie felt a deep, emotional connection with cattle that were being branded. The agony of having a red-hot iron pressed against your flesh was one she felt certain she could both sympathize and empathize with. Why one bee would find her bottom more appealing than the numerous flowers remains a mystery. But for that bee, the right cheek of Angie’s coconut oil covered ass proved irresistible.
After-action damage assessment
1. One bee sting on right buttock, causing,
2. One painfully swollen right buttock, causing,
3. Total loss of any desire to ever make love outdoors
ever again, not in her lifetime, not with Dr. Fresca,
not with anyone, not if it meant taking vows and
becoming a nun.
Dr. Ari A. Fresca:
1. Loss of one patient, Angie
2. Loss of any second helpings that day of, Angie
3. Loss of any hope for any more afternoons with, Angie
Days later, as the Earth Day celebration on the park-like campus at Wodehouse College was breaking up, Angie noticed Ernie talking with Etta and her main squeeze, Willie Sinclair. Buford the Beagle, Ernie’s inquisitive dog who had cold-nosed her at the worst possible time in the worst possible place, was the first one to see her approaching.
No doubt recalling her very negative reaction to his sniffing out the action, so to speak, between she and Ernie, he now sought protection behind his master’s legs. Angie missed Ernie. After several agonizing weeks of sampling the male population at WC and the surrounding community, she was convinced he was a keeper.
Though tall and almost skinny, he had a great smile and his looks were okay. The important thing was his being a nice guy who seemed to like her even when she had clothes on. It didn’t hurt that he was smart and a good friend of Etta and Willie. Nor did it hurt that he was a great lover with incredible stamina and, oh, dear god, was he ever hung. Sure he didn’t think much of sex outdoors, but that just proved how smart he was. Of course, he also refused to part with Buford the Beagle. But hadn’t poor Buford just been doing what beagles always do, checking out an interesting smell? Besides, if she and Ernie were inside, the bedroom door should prevent any future Buford accidents.
After a round of hello’s and some small talk, Etta made an excuse and left, taking Willie with her. Angie decided if she wanted Ernie back, and she did, she better work on Buford. So she lay down on the grass and began coaxing. As has been mentioned, Angie possessed a special talent for coaxing men, and Buford was a guy-type dog. Soon he was on his back with a contended look on his face as Angie scratched his stomach.
A few hours later, Angie was also on her back with a contended look on her face. She was inside Ernie’s apartment and stretched out on the rumpled sheets of his bed. They had just paused for the first time in their lovemaking. He’d gone to get them something to drink. Angie lay with her eyes closed, savoring the pleasant, pulsing sensations in her body.
Her reverie was interrupted by a click-click-clicking sound approaching the bed. Looking over, she saw Buford. He’d slipped in the door Ernie left open when he went for drinks and was now skulking across the hardwood floor. His primary goal was to retrieve the delicious rawhide chewy he’d hidden under the bed. But like most dogs, if given the chance, he’d be more than happy to hop onto the bed. Ernie seldom permitted this favor due to Buford’s propensity for loud snoring.
Unaware of either motive, Angie looked upon the dog with a new sympathy. Maybe it was his eyes. They bore a striking resemblance to those of Ralph, the non-mountain, non-nature man who’d told her it was safe to make love on what turned out to be an ant infested nest of poison ivy. She would have never gone with him except for the promise of a scenic waterfall, and his soft, puppy-dog eyes. Now here was Buford with the real thing. Angie patted the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, he jumped up beside her.
The “her” he’d jumped up beside was nude, uncovered and still warm from the extended love making with Ernie. While beagles possess many fine qualities, they are not high IQ dogs. If you want a canine to take your SAT or GRE, get a Border Collie. Even those individuals who are fond of the breed, acknowledge that beagles are essentially a nose with four legs and a tail.
It is to Buford’s credit therefore, that he now displayed what must be categorized as animal cunning. Instead of zeroing back in on that spot with all the super scents, he snuggled up along Angie’s hip. He was close enough for a good whiff of said scents, but in perfect position for some serious head stroking. This might be as close to heaven as a beagle can get on this earth; in bed, next to a warm body with all sorts of interesting smells, and being petted. It crossed his beagle brain that this was a lot better than sleeping alone at night on the old couch in the living room.
That’s when Ernie reappeared carrying some snacks and drinks. The two males exchanged glances. Then both looked at Angie. Unaware of having triggered one of the most primal instincts nature has seen fit to bestow upon males of any specie, the territorial imperative, she continued to pet Buford while smiling at Ernie, who had reached the other side of the bed.
As Ernie approached, Buford lifted his head and then placed it, in what impartial scientific observers, had there been any present, would no doubt have labeled a very territorial gesture, upon Angie’s upper thigh. With lowered eyelids he stared across her warm, shapely nude form at the person who had raised him from a puppy–and growled.
Which proves once again gentle readers, that while you can take both man and beast out of nature’s wilds, you can’t take the wild nature out of either one, Especially if Angie Eveready is around.