u/VulvaWorship

It takes a couple of hours of paddling, but at last we arrive at the stretch of river that I’ve been aiming for: the section where we had phone sex, back when we were first connecting long-distance. It was my first outdoor phone sex experience, and one that I will never forget as long as I live, so of course I wanted to take you on that same journey so that we might recreate it, skin-on-skin. Along the way, I’d been diligently keeping up my paddle strokes, pretending to ignore your provocations, but we both know I’m not missing one single detail. Thighs slowly swaying, apart and together, causing your beautiful buttercup yellow dress to rise higher and higher, summer spun into fabric. Fingers slowly tracing filigree patterns along the silky flesh thus exposed. Higher. Lips wetted by your playfully swirling tongue.

But it’s the provocations that are not necessarily intended as such that really get my heart thumping in my cock. That musical laugh of yours, a sound so addictive that I would do absolutely anything to bring it into the world. That incandescent smile, so bright it can feel dangerous, like staring at the sun. Those glinting emerald eyes, portals that seem to change shade depending on your mood. Lighter when playful, storm-dark when tinged with desire.

I’ve traveled this stretch of the river before. The current is steady, the banks are clear of prying eyes, not a habitation in sight. The banks are free of snags, no need to steer, so I lay down my paddle, slide off my shorts, and beckon you into my arms, your back to my bare chest.

“This is the place, baby,” I whisper-growl into your ear. “Our phone sex actually started about a mile back, but this is the exact spot where I slipped off my shorts and started stroking my cock for you in earnest, with you moaning in my ear. No houses for miles. I want you to just close your eyes, and feel.”

I closed my own eyes and followed my own advice. I let my hands roam your beautiful body of their own volition, mindful to take it slow. Caressing your shoulders, your nape, your arms, your thighs, pulling the creamy dress ever higher, revealing and reveling in your silken skin. Pressing my nose into the crook of your neck, breathing deep of your perfume and your own warm scent, before planting soft suckle kisses, eager to taste your skin. My strong thighs enveloping you in a warm embrace, while my hard weeping cock pulses and twitches against your lower back. Every single sigh and soft cry escaping from your lips fueling my hunger, pulling low growls from deep in my core. Laser-focused lust.

All five senses are inevitably locked in on you, allowing me to experience the elements all around us as an extension of our play. The cool breeze caressing every inch of our exposed flesh, like extra hands materializing for our pleasure, perfectly harmonizing with the motion of my own. The radiant sun almost has a tactile force, massaging our gradually exposed flesh as our boat slowly spins and dances in the current. This lazy motion allows us to experience the sun’s rays moving across our bodies, never static, like the eyes of a hungry voyeur, circling us with avid intent. Warm. Pulsing. We feel the current of the river almost as if it were coursing through us, not just carrying us along. Rippling. Thrumming. The red-winged blackbirds trilling happily all around us provide counterpoint to our moans and cries. The cattails and rushes swaying along the riverbank bathe us in a fresh green perfume, balancing perfectly with the heady aroma of our arousal.

As always, your pleasure is my focus, forever the driving force behind my own, so it thrills me to the core to have the eager assistance of Mother Nature helping to bring us both to new heights, providing further inputs to the feedback loop of our lust. The elements become instruments, harmonizing with our symphony of pleasure. As my right hand traces along the crease of your right thigh, the warm breeze caresses your left. As my left hand slides up to cup your left breast, pinching your taut nipple, the sun’s rays focus a beam of warmth directly on your right nub. As I scoop a creamy dollop of your wet from your entrance and drag it up to your clit, pressing my index and middle fingers to either side of your taut shaft, the current increases below our boat, adding a turbulent thrum that passes through us, pulsing in perfect syncopating rhythm as my index finger crooks and plucks at the swollen shaft of your clit.

At some point, it all starts to blur together. Is that my lips pressing hot kisses to the side of your writhing neck, or is it a sunbeam? Is that your hand sliding over the top of my thigh, or is the warm breeze? Does it matter?

It all becomes a beautiful swirling blur of pleasure, but we need a nexus point. A single focus point of undeniable contact at the center of this amorphous maelstrom of desire. I need to be deep inside you. Now.

Grip. Lift. Poise. Plunge. Hold. Deep, not moving. Fuck yes. We fit so perfectly together. THIS is the anchor point that we need. Now we can surrender to the symphony all around us. Sun. Hands. Breeze. Lips. River. Tongues. Birdsong. Moans. Every instrument is there for our pleasure, our ever building crescendo. Willfully and collectively conducting every single element now, we bring it all to bear on your perfect swollen clit, which transmits orchestrated pulses and spasms to the throbbing anchor of my cock buried deep inside you. Higher. Louder. Wetter. A musical tempest swirling all around us, but concentrated now on this one nexus point, which has become the center of the universe. There is only this. Cock. Cunt. Clit. The eye of the storm. Every single instrument that we and nature can conceive is directed right there, with unflinching and perfectly orchestrated aim. Higher. More. Fuck. Don’t stop. Can’t stop. Never stop. Yes. More. Right. Fucking. THERE.

Our climaxes are so perfectly simultaneous they become one. Every spasm and clench of your pussy is matched to my own pulsating spurts. Flooding. Milking. Demanding. Giving. Receiving. Anointing the eye of our storm.

With gasping cries, we collapse back into the waiting cocoon of our boat. Entwined. Entangled. Drifting and bobbing with the currents. Soft breezes and warm sun enveloping us, a perfect denouement.

Dinner is delicious, but it can't hold a candle to you. You tease me mercilessly throughout. I try my best to mask my reactions, donning my best poker face. You see right through me. You know exactly what you are doing to me. You don't miss a thing. Light flicks of your tongue on the sorbet. Lucky fucking sorbet. My eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. Breath catches only slightly. You pick up every tell, as if I'm wearing a flashing neon sign. You know my cock is throbbing under the table. You know, but you can't resist checking, with your stockinged toe. Light nudge. Mischievous twinkle. Deep bass growl in response. Your nails drag across my palm, eliciting an involuntary shudder. My eyes bore into yours, with an unmistakable message: You are in SO much fucking trouble, the instant I get you back behind closed doors. Your eyes glint in response. Wicked woman.

The check comes. Finally. As soon as I can safely stand with decorum, we are out the door, back out to the strip. Back to the hotel. Purposeful, no nonsense strides. We've done plenty of sight-seeing. My mind is consumed with other sights, now.

Leading you through the casino. You stop at a blackjack table, indicating a seat with a nod. Oh, dear God. My eyes lock with yours, narrowing, almost pleading. Yours gleam back, adamant, stubborn, mischievous. Yes, this was the plan. Play a few hands after dinner, then take you back up to the room and fuck you into oblivion. Yes. But the need has become much more urgent than I had anticipated when we made the stupid fucking plan. My glare promises swift and decisive payback for this wicked taunting. With a soft but thoroughly exasperated sigh, I relent and take a seat, with you gracing my back. My own beautiful Bond girl. A vision in a little cocktail dress.

Your torment is so damn subtle. Even if someone were watching you closely, they wouldn't notice anything untoward. Slowly meandering fingertips brushing the shoulders of my lambskin blazer. Casually lifting to run your nails through the clipped hairs on the back of my head. Leaning in to whisper breathily in my ear, keeping me abreast of the current level of humidity between your thighs. As you lean, your breasts brush ever so lightly against my arm, my shoulder, my back. Subtle. Wicked. Evil. Luckily, blackjack is an autopilot game. I've played so many hands over the years that it takes almost no concentration. I win a few, lose a few. Whatever. I just want to get you behind closed doors, right fucking now.

Without preamble, you excuse yourself with a soft peck on my cheek. Bewildered, dazed, I continue to play, awaiting your return. The dealer's name tag says "Rita. Texas." Rita's smile is knowing. She's clearly aware of my lust-addled state, and approves. Fine. Whatever. Where are you? I play wordlessly, utilizing universal hand signals.

You're back, wearing your wicked grin. You're up to something. When aren't you? After kissing you (trembling with the effort it takes to refrain from tossing you up onto the felt and fucking your brains out), I make overtures to stand and leave. You press on my shoulders. Not firm, but a clear signal. Wait.

Sigh. Okay. A few more hands. Then you are mine. You resume your subtle torment. Brushing. Whispering. My free hand, my left, slides down to discretely caress your stockinged thigh. Just above the knee. You purr breathily in my ear. "Here. I have something for you."

Your hand presses to mine. Soft. Wet. Fabric.

Fuck.

Undone. Lost. Completely. Somehow we end up on the elevator. We are not alone. I don't care. Have to touch you. Feel you. An older couple get in with us. They face forward. I stand in front of you, facing you, back to them, slightly to the side. Pressing you inexorably against the back wall of the elevator. Eyes locked with yours. Aching to kiss you, but I want to see your face. My hand reaches under your conveniently brief dress. Touching your inner thigh. Holding it still. Feeling the heat. Eyes locked with yours, which dart to them, then back to me. Propriety battling need. I can see need's decisive victory in your eyes. My fingers slowly slide up, finding wet flesh. Completely unraveled. It's a contest to see whose knees will buckle hardest, fastest, but you have the elevator wall to help you. I have nothing, so I quickly throw an arm up to the wall, over your shoulder, leaning, almost collapsing in a haze of lust. Nothing in the world exists except for your eyes. Your rapid, shaking breaths. And your wet, hot flesh under my probing, demanding fingers. Slipping one inside you. You barely stifle a gasp, I inexpertly disguise my growl as a cough. So fucking wet. Another finger. Pumping. Can they hear? Can they smell? Do I care? Fuck no.

Elevator slows to a stop. Wordless question in my glance. Ours or theirs? I can't see the number. Can't see anything but your eyes. You answer, also wordlessly. Ours. Reluctantly, my fingers withdraw, and your dress hem succumbs to gravity. I shakily lead you from the elevator with my dry hand, bringing my wet hand to my lips as we step pass the couple, ostentatiously sucking your juices from each slick finger. We make it to the room. Somehow. Barely. I slide the key card in the slot, marshaling every ounce of manual dexterity left to me. I open the door.

We don't make it to the bed. Way too fucking far.

Need you.

Now.

The click of the door and the dull thud of your body slamming against it are simultaneous.

Your beautiful little dress suddenly becomes intolerable. An impediment to skin on skin. A barrier to be overcome. Poor beautiful dress. You led a very good, if brief, life. My tie is brutally yanked off and discarded. My shirt buttons ricochet in every direction, torn asunder by you. My pants succumb to gravity, and are somehow kicked aside.

Every inch of space between us is unacceptable. Not being deep inside you is intolerable. Reaching, clasping both of your hands in one of mine. Pulling them above your head. My other hand lifts your leg, mid thigh. Up. Back. Opening. Knee bend. Poise. Thrust. Pause for a beat. Two. Then... HARD. Deep. Spearing. Thrust. Stuffing you, mercilessly. Shuddering. Growling. Lips attacking yours. Bruising kiss. Holding deep inside for far too long, but never long enough, before my hips take over. Thrust. Pound. Piston. Drive. Fuck. Fuck. Hear the sound of each dull impact on the poor hapless door. Wet fucknoises. Growling. Attacking your neck. Teeth scraping. Nipping. Not breaking skin, but marking. Mine. Don't care how weak your knees get, you can't fall. Impaled to the door. Pounded to the door. Merciless grappling doorfuck. Hear it rattling. If we bust it down, I don't fucking care. I'll fuck you on the splintered door, in the middle of the hallway. Can't stop. Won't stop.

Never stop.

Dinner is delicious, but it can't hold a candle to you. You tease me mercilessly throughout. I try my best to mask my reactions, donning my best poker face. You see right through me. You know exactly what you are doing to me. You don't miss a thing. Light flicks of your tongue on the sorbet. Lucky fucking sorbet. My eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. Breath catches only slightly. You pick up every tell, as if I'm wearing a flashing neon sign. You know my cock is throbbing under the table. You know, but you can't resist checking, with your stockinged toe. Light nudge. Mischievous twinkle. Deep bass growl in response. Your nails drag across my palm, eliciting an involuntary shudder. My eyes bore into yours, with an unmistakable message: You are in SO much fucking trouble, the instant I get you back behind closed doors. Your eyes glint in response. Wicked woman.

The check comes. Finally. As soon as I can safely stand with decorum, we are out the door, back out to the strip. Back to the hotel. Purposeful, no nonsense strides. We've done plenty of sight-seeing. My mind is consumed with other sights, now.

Leading you through the casino. You stop at a blackjack table, indicating a seat with a nod. Oh, dear God. My eyes lock with yours, narrowing, almost pleading. Yours gleam back, adamant, stubborn, mischievous. Yes, this was the plan. Play a few hands after dinner, then take you back up to the room and fuck you into oblivion. Yes. But the need has become much more urgent than I had anticipated when we made the stupid fucking plan. My glare promises swift and decisive payback for this wicked taunting. With a soft but thoroughly exasperated sigh, I relent and take a seat, with you gracing my back. My own beautiful Bond girl. A vision in a little cocktail dress.

Your torment is so damn subtle. Even if someone were watching you closely, they wouldn't notice anything untoward. Slowly meandering fingertips brushing the shoulders of my lambskin blazer. Casually lifting to run your nails through the clipped hairs on the back of my head. Leaning in to whisper breathily in my ear, keeping me abreast of the current level of humidity between your thighs. As you lean, your breasts brush ever so lightly against my arm, my shoulder, my back. Subtle. Wicked. Evil. Luckily, blackjack is an autopilot game. I've played so many hands over the years that it takes almost no concentration. I win a few, lose a few. Whatever. I just want to get you behind closed doors, right fucking now.

Without preamble, you excuse yourself with a soft peck on my cheek. Bewildered, dazed, I continue to play, awaiting your return. The dealer's name tag says "Rita. Texas." Rita's smile is knowing. She's clearly aware of my lust-addled state, and approves. Fine. Whatever. Where are you? I play wordlessly, utilizing universal hand signals.

You're back, wearing your wicked grin. You're up to something. When aren't you? After kissing you (trembling with the effort it takes to refrain from tossing you up onto the felt and fucking your brains out), I make overtures to stand and leave. You press on my shoulders. Not firm, but a clear signal. Wait.

Sigh. Okay. A few more hands. Then you are mine. You resume your subtle torment. Brushing. Whispering. My free hand, my left, slides down to discretely caress your stockinged thigh. Just above the knee. You purr breathily in my ear. "Here. I have something for you."

Your hand presses to mine. Soft. Wet. Fabric.

Fuck.

Undone. Lost. Completely. Somehow we end up on the elevator. We are not alone. I don't care. Have to touch you. Feel you. An older couple get in with us. They face forward. I stand in front of you, facing you, back to them, slightly to the side. Pressing you inexorably against the back wall of the elevator. Eyes locked with yours. Aching to kiss you, but I want to see your face. My hand reaches under your conveniently brief dress. Touching your inner thigh. Holding it still. Feeling the heat. Eyes locked with yours, which dart to them, then back to me. Propriety battling need. I can see need's decisive victory in your eyes. My fingers slowly slide up, finding wet flesh. Completely unraveled. It's a contest to see whose knees will buckle hardest, fastest, but you have the elevator wall to help you. I have nothing, so I quickly throw an arm up to the wall, over your shoulder, leaning, almost collapsing in a haze of lust. Nothing in the world exists except for your eyes. Your rapid, shaking breaths. And your wet, hot flesh under my probing, demanding fingers. Slipping one inside you. You barely stifle a gasp, I inexpertly disguise my growl as a cough. So fucking wet. Another finger. Pumping. Can they hear? Can they smell? Do I care? Fuck no.

Elevator slows to a stop. Wordless question in my glance. Ours or theirs? I can't see the number. Can't see anything but your eyes. You answer, also wordlessly. Ours. Reluctantly, my fingers withdraw, and your dress hem succumbs to gravity. I shakily lead you from the elevator with my dry hand, bringing my wet hand to my lips as we step pass the couple, ostentatiously sucking your juices from each slick finger. We make it to the room. Somehow. Barely. I slide the key card in the slot, marshaling every ounce of manual dexterity left to me. I open the door.

We don't make it to the bed. Way too fucking far.

Need you.

Now.

The click of the door and the dull thud of your body slamming against it are simultaneous.

Your beautiful little dress suddenly becomes intolerable. An impediment to skin on skin. A barrier to be overcome. Poor beautiful dress. You led a very good, if brief, life. My tie is brutally yanked off and discarded. My shirt buttons ricochet in every direction, torn asunder by you. My pants succumb to gravity, and are somehow kicked aside.

Every inch of space between us is unacceptable. Not being deep inside you is intolerable. Reaching, clasping both of your hands in one of mine. Pulling them above your head. My other hand lifts your leg, mid thigh. Up. Back. Opening. Knee bend. Poise. Thrust. Pause for a beat. Two. Then... HARD. Deep. Spearing. Thrust. Stuffing you, mercilessly. Shuddering. Growling. Lips attacking yours. Bruising kiss. Holding deep inside for far too long, but never long enough, before my hips take over. Thrust. Pound. Piston. Drive. Fuck. Fuck. Hear the sound of each dull impact on the poor hapless door. Wet fucknoises. Growling. Attacking your neck. Teeth scraping. Nipping. Not breaking skin, but marking. Mine. Don't care how weak your knees get, you can't fall. Impaled to the door. Pounded to the door. Merciless grappling doorfuck. Hear it rattling. If we bust it down, I don't fucking care. I'll fuck you on the splintered door, in the middle of the hallway. Can't stop. Won't stop.

Never stop.

All day long. Raw animal fucklust. Edgy. Restless. Relentless. Like a nagging itch I can't quite scratch, from the moment I awoke this morning. Lust is tinting my every thought, like a red mist. Can barely walk in public. Hair trigger tumescence.

Nothing fancy. No teasing. No elaborate games. No. Today is for taking. Seizing. Carpe. Motherfucking. Diem.

Grabbing. Grasping. Clutching. No time to undress completely, just rip clothing aside, just enough for access to her flesh. Getting her exactly where I want her. Keeping her there. Bending her to my will as I take my fill. Mounting. Spearing. Searing. Hard invading soft. Stuffing. Blind animal rut. Words that pass barely qualify as such. Basest communication. Growled filthy exhortations. Snarled imperative demands. Fuck. Fuck. Yes. Hard. Harder. Mine. Don't. Fucking. Stop. Never. Fucking. Stop.

Grunts. Keening cries. Human? Hardly. Wet fucknoises. Body impacting body. Slapping. Slamming. Gripping hips. Gripping hair. Nails. Teeth. Digging. Sinking. Raking. Clawing. Marking. Claiming. Muscles striving. Straining. Clenching. Maximizing thrust. Maximizing impact. Trying to fuck through her. Driven by pure, mindless need. Bodies combining, syncopating. Raw carnal dance. Burning. Raging. Lust feeding lust. Hunger feeding hunger.

No barriers. No holds barred. There is no her. There is no me. There is only us. There is only fuck.

I had an appointment this morning which precluded my hiking, so I took advantage of the rare opportunity for a good old fashioned morning jack. I revisited an old fantasy, which (as is the case with many of the old tried and true ones) has its roots in actual experience.

Elegantly appointed hotel room. She's lounging in a capacious armchair, I'm perched on the edge of the bed nearest her. I'm wearing khakis and a white button down shirt, she's sporting a hotel bathrobe, terry. Her skin is flushed and damp from the hot shower she took just prior to my arrival. My eyes, naturally, gravitate toward her knees, willing them to part. They oblige, slowly. Tantalizing. Wet. Glistening. Flesh. Her right leg swings up and over the arm of the chair. I can practically hear her lips parting. Opening. A low growl escapes as my eyes leave hers and focus on her pink nectarflesh. My nostrils flare as I breathe her scent. Perfume and sex. Heady and headier.

My hand travels to my cock, kneading it through the fabric. Her turn to gasp. My eyes dart to hers, then back down. Narrowing in command. Touch yourself, my eyes demand. Show me. She obeys.

I stand. Lower my zipper. Wend my cock through the fly. Proud. Jutting out and up. Taut. I grasp. She rubs. She stares. I stare. Wet fingers dancing. Wet fist stroking. Exposing. Exposed. I can feel her eyes. She can feel mine.

She licks her lips, moaning. I know what she wants. She knows I know. More than anything, she craves to be fed cock. Aches for it. I move a few steps closer, cock purposefully aimed at her mouth. She cries out, locks eyes with mine, pleading. Fingers flying faster, pawing at her drenched cunt now.

Closer. Just a few inches away now. Her eyes locked on my cock, on my fucking fist. Her head leans forward. "No." Her eyes plead, desperate, mouth making involuntary suckling motions. Her hand is a blur on her cunt. So fucking wet, she is. The sound of wet fingers, wet fist fill the air.

Closer. Her eyes lock with mine. She's shaking. Close. "Please. I'm so close. Please."

My control shatters. I trace my slick cockhead on her lips. "I'm going to feed you my cock. I want you to just feel it. Just hold it in your mouth and cum for me. Don't worry about pleasing it, yet. Just take it. Just feel it. Just taste it. Just let it fill your mouth."

As I slide my cock into her hungry mouth, it crashes over her. Violent, convulsive spasms. Moaning with her mouth full. Overcome.

In the fantasy, I don't come until much later.

In my bed this morning, I came at that point, explosively, seeing her face transported by pleasure, her body wracked with spasms, her mouth gurgling and moaning around my cock.

Made a fucking mess, too. Jet after jet of seed. I remember one long thick strand of it was supended in the hair at the very middle of my chest. I could fucking smell it, hanging there.

I had an appointment this morning which precluded my hiking, so I took advantage of the rare opportunity for a good old fashioned morning jack. I revisited an old fantasy, which (as is the case with many of the old tried and true ones) has its roots in actual experience.

Elegantly appointed hotel room. She's lounging in a capacious armchair, I'm perched on the edge of the bed nearest her. I'm wearing khakis and a white button down shirt, she's sporting a hotel bathrobe, terry. Her skin is flushed and damp from the hot shower she took just prior to my arrival. My eyes, naturally, gravitate toward her knees, willing them to part. They oblige, slowly. Tantalizing. Wet. Glistening. Flesh. Her right leg swings up and over the arm of the chair. I can practically hear her lips parting. Opening. A low growl escapes as my eyes leave hers and focus on her pink nectarflesh. My nostrils flare as I breathe her scent. Perfume and sex. Heady and headier.

My hand travels to my cock, kneading it through the fabric. Her turn to gasp. My eyes dart to hers, then back down. Narrowing in command. Touch yourself, my eyes demand. Show me. She obeys.

I stand. Lower my zipper. Wend my cock through the fly. Proud. Jutting out and up. Taut. I grasp. She rubs. She stares. I stare. Wet fingers dancing. Wet fist stroking. Exposing. Exposed. I can feel her eyes. She can feel mine.

She licks her lips, moaning. I know what she wants. She knows I know. More than anything, she craves to be fed cock. Aches for it. I move a few steps closer, cock purposefully aimed at her mouth. She cries out, locks eyes with mine, pleading. Fingers flying faster, pawing at her drenched cunt now.

Closer. Just a few inches away now. Her eyes locked on my cock, on my fucking fist. Her head leans forward. "No." Her eyes plead, desperate, mouth making involuntary suckling motions. Her hand is a blur on her cunt. So fucking wet, she is. The sound of wet fingers, wet fist fill the air.

Closer. Her eyes lock with mine. She's shaking. Close. "Please. I'm so close. Please."

My control shatters. I trace my slick cockhead on her lips. "I'm going to feed you my cock. I want you to just feel it. Just hold it in your mouth and cum for me. Don't worry about pleasing it, yet. Just take it. Just feel it. Just taste it. Just let it fill your mouth."

As I slide my cock into her hungry mouth, it crashes over her. Violent, convulsive spasms. Moaning with her mouth full. Overcome.

In the fantasy, I don't come until much later.

In my bed this morning, I came at that point, explosively, seeing her face transported by pleasure, her body wracked with spasms, her mouth gurgling and moaning around my cock.

Made a fucking mess, too. Jet after jet of seed. I remember one long thick strand of it was supended in the hair at the very middle of my chest. I could fucking smell it, hanging there.