9:30… nearly a half-hour to drive, very close I think. A half-hour to turn back, not go. A half-hour to contemplate the birder, his thick cock pressed up against his shorts.
I enter number and street name into the GPS and let the voice guide me:
Bend over, on your knees. Kiss me. Lick me.
I am soaking now, I know–my panties clinging to skin, my shorts no better off, my pussy still throbbing now in… what? I think, the window down with the scent of damp lilacs in the cool air surrounding me, an odd wood fire. I try not to let my mind wander too far into the realm of possibilities while I am still behind the wheel.
Around a series of now forgotten curves and turns, I find myself at the edge of yet another forest. Yes, birder the outdoorsman may well live here–it is plausible that he would be comfortable here in this land of ski racked vehicles, bicycles on front porches, rocks and wild things across the yard. A canoe. Reading between the lines of the REI ads, I have always suspected that the underlying adventure always is never so simple as climbing a mountain, but about that most urgent nature, the need urging me here, now. An address, a time. I am on time, and I wait. He is not here.
Or is he?
The birder has a way of appearing suddenly, not answering front doors as ordinary people do, but coming around to the porch from somewhere else, as though he had never left this morning, as though nothing had ever happened, as though it were perfectly normal to turn women around and push them gently through a front door they have never before seen.
Tea. It was tea he offers, black tea. And it is cool outside and warm in his house, suddenly soft here on a sofa, here with the wood burning, and his warm tea breath on my neck, my skin electric as his fingertips trace my hair, the edges of my clothing, as he kisses me here on the sofa. Yes, that giddy hot feeling as he silently grins and unbuttons my blouse, peeling back the fabric and exploring each new inch of skin with his tongue, his cock hard and full against my leg as I lay immobile with lust now lavish and full.
And yes, it is that sharp acidic scent damp with perspiration that I kiss the top of his head as he kneels between my legs and unzips my shorts, rolls them down, pushing my legs back together as he grabs the shorts and tosses them across the room, then opens my legs again, my panties still drenching, caught to my hot skin, not a modest covering, but a souvenir catching the scent of my desire now for hours, the near climax in the woods earlier, the walk, the anticipation, all here in red lace slick, too, and in the way in my own mind, but not in his as he simply moves the fabric aside from my swollen labia, his tongue now close, just touching a shudder. Fuck me now. No. Take the panties, take them off, all the way, please. Let me spread wide open for your lips, your tongue sucking my clit as your fingers explore skin, my dripping desperate cunt. A cunt that wants you now.
Yes, I hold your head half for bearing in this real world, half to keep you from stopping, my legs shaking as I squirm wider open to your face, yes. My near the edge panting–was it moaning, you said later–my need-you fucking good time hoping that you will not stop praying that you will not. I want you, and it is not about the bird now, is it? not about the birds and the morning hike and the pine and the crackling leaves. I want you to flip me over and fuck me hard while you pull my hair–you do not even know my name to shout it. And I want you, want all that you might be and all that you are, your shorts now so crowded that I stop your sacred tongue. I want you, and I stop your tongue and its magic all as I unhook your belt and buttons and zippers and want you, yes, this cock so willing and delicious, so eager as I push down your shorts and your briefs and your cock bounces back my lips surrounding you as you sigh and push deep into my throat just as I wished you may. Wished you might, and your semen beads up, your cock ever harder. I want you to fuck me now, plunge right into my sweet pussy in one quick stroke, your balls tight and wet now, too, you deeper still and motionless inside of me as I try to writhe and pump you, as you push one notch farther in, and my head falls back and lets you, my nipples hard and no longer forgotten as I come once more, as you now pump me and groan as your cock fills me white.
I knew you, birder, I call you, though I do not truly know you are such an avid pursuer of winged creatures like that. Or are you following me, perhaps, in the early morning, wanting me, wanting you?