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Nature's Way - A Warm Afternoon
Post #1
Copyright 2007 by Richard Williams. All rights reserved.
All names, and most of the detail in this story is fictitious. If I've accidentally used your name, my apologies, but if you think you'll make lots of money in a lawsuit, imagine how silly you'll feel when you find out there is no money to be made by doing so. THE NATURAL WAY by Prof. Richard W. (formerly of the University of ____________) Several of my on-line friends have asked me whether, aside from Meg (see "Meg's Uniform" in this library), I ever savored experiences with anyone other than co-eds during my days as a professor. One even intimated that I had a thing about young women. I reminded that correspondent that when I first came into teaching at the university, that I was not much older than my students. Also, I've only written about them previously because there were so many women students, that it is easier for me to disguise them enough in the stories so I can avoid giving away their identities. HOWEVER, the expanding web of the Internet has reached into so many households, that recently, after deductions made from a discreetly coded comment in a website guestbook, I found myself exchanging e-mail with a colleague from those days, or perhaps I should say "kollegin." Barbara Niedlich is back in her home town in Germany now, and enjoys reading these stories. As she was in her mid-40's when I was a younger faculty member, I think that she must be one of the older Internet users, but I can tell you that she remains youthful at heart -- and elsewhere. She asked me, in fact encouraged me, to write our story and post it here. And from a practical relationship standpoint, she says, Rolf, the retired Bundespost letter carrier who visits her weekly for tea and wild sex, does not use the Internet anyway. (She says that Rolf is quite experienced at giving sexual pleasure, having delivered so much of it to hausfrauen in his working days -- but that's another story.) In response, therefore, to your requests, here is my account of our time together, critiqued already through e-mail by Professorin Barbara. We both hope that you will enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed recapturing those days. --- ".... apple ... pear... strawberries," you muse, as you sort through the refrigerator. As an Art professor, with a diploma from the Kunstakademie, you know a thing or two about still-life fruits. Today this is a practical thing to do, to prepare, but also evokes pleasing images of past experiences on paths which led away from the humdrum drumming of daily sounds or led to new vistas or drew you to old familiar friendly places. You can picture yourself biting into one of these fruits and feeling the tart refreshing taste on your tongue, a taste of pleasing times past and yet to come. But strawberries, plump and red ready as they are, would be crushed in your backpack, and so they must wait, presumably in darkness, (although one never knows whether the light goes out when the refrigerator door clicks shut.) As you snug selected fruits in amongst other needful things you try to think of anything else-- "Is there anything I am missing? What do I want? What have I enjoyed having before when last I escaped duties and shared some time with myself?" You realize though that you already have the most important thing to bring with you and that is your imagination. A person could survive in this country with little but that in the warm summer days and dry nights of August. Your bicycle waits inanimate, yet full of a hidden spirit-- not puffing like a steam locomotive, nor flexing muscles nervously like a young nude before some longed for moment of sexual action, but almost willing to take off on its own if you do not take hold of it. Mount it like a skilled lover in a smooth blend of motion into motion, for if you pause to think about it the trip will end in a tumble here in your hostesses' driveway. You and your two-wheeled steed roll out into tree-canopied streets which lead by plan toward the business district, but someone like you who packs imagination in her picnic supplies realizes the flaw -- in your eyes it catches the light -- in that these streets also lead away from the business district, down toward the creekside trail. Down past the unfolding golf course great chestnuts and maples arch over the curving lines of the curbs and walks, sheltering you from the afternoon sun which makes itself known in pendik escort flashes blinking as you pass through the perspective changes. The golf course fence rails are continuous, to infinity as if they are a railway track turned on its side. The trees, on the other hand, make their own strong angles, each so assertively grabbing at the sky that they forget in their competition to fill in with green those little blue patches. So the sun in stroboscopic motion fires its rays at a crow here or a rose bush there, then spotlights your hand, your knee, the turning wheels, and even the spokes that slice it into photons and scatters them as petals behind you. Leaving traffic and daily cares behind, you are pulled by gravity and propelled by wanderlust into the creek's watershed on back streets with names of forgotten men where the trees finally have their act together, closing off those occasional sneaks of sky. Cool air sits at the bottom of the hill, waiting for you just in time as you realize perspiration is running down your brow. You pass a couple who climb the hill in happy silence-- they nod and turn back to each other again-- having no need of words in their moment of intimate hunger for each other. "Turn back!" you warn them in your thoughts, wanting them to stay content in this place, wanting them to enjoy Nature's gift to them in Nature's special place, but they have some urgent objective in mind, perhaps shaped by the interaction of their caresses and kisses. In her shapeless workout suit a runner stretches to warm up before attacking the uphill route and a mother sits and reads while her child swings in the little playground at the entrance to the trail. At each apex of her swing, the child cries out in celebration of her moment of freedom from gravity, approaches the wooded trail in her flight and then pendulums safely back toward her mother, glancing to see that she is still there. Glide into the enclosing trees and bushes, now alone with Nature, who seems to have sent those other people home, so that she can entertain you, as a courtesan brings her lover into her garlanded boudoir, without unwanted distractions. Angular guard rails interrupt the irregular patterns of Nature, in a well-meaning attempt to keep you on the path and out of the creek. For there it is, bubbling toward the Willamette, Johnson Creek, playing with the round rocks and fallen leaves, not revealing its occasional swelling power which enters this ravine each Spring and in a tumble of foam, torrentially splashes life into this currently peaceful part of Earth. It's so easy to follow now to the place which you discovered before, where the flood power this Spring moved the old logs around for you as easily and unintentionally as hot lovers unmaking their bed. It engineered a modest clearing of sorts, before receding to its happy, bubbling self, a place to lay out your blanket and open your pack, where only the sharpest eyes can make out the diverging path into your secluded grove. You found it on an earlier expedition, and now you alight, push aside the leafy brush and walk your bike through the grabbing blackberry bushes, Nature's Velcro, that guard this unadvertised special part. "What all is in this pack?" you ask, and toss the blanket over the humid bottom land near the creek, then lay things out to see what goodies you packed for yourself. Having done this before, there are no big surprises, and everything will contribute to the growing sense of well-being that spreads out with the blanket in this perfect, private picnic space. You first detected the magic of this place when you would relax and remove your blouse and soak in the summer heat; it reminded you of that beach up near Esjberg, a kind of place which you had never found in this alien culture in this time. Lean back on the half-folded pack, unbutton your blouse now, and look for tiny sunlight openings in the tree canopy over you. A sudden feeling of warmth wells from within, spurred by memories, makes you realize that you already have the most important thing unpacked and that is your imagination. With all the familiar landmarks and the entrancing repetitious burbles of the creek around you it is easy to begin remembering your visit before, and a time kartal escort when you found me with my brimming blackberry pail reaching for the sweetest, juiciest treasures. You laugh out loud, upsetting a squirrel, as you recall how I almost fell into the stickery branches when you surprised me there in the 'secret' clearing. You saw that it made me happy when you took a chance and chose to stay, leading me to reach higher and higher, watched me precariously lean into the clutching green arms, to try for the most beautiful berry of all, just beyond reach it seemed. You held your breath beautifully for me, and I only got a few scratches that drew blood from this seemingly pagan fruit ritual in which, naturally, I presented you with the sacred object of my effort. Perhaps hindsight shows you that this was a prehistoric test, created in your subconscious, something genetically programmed, that women would desire a mate who could reach deeply into a blackberry bush without drawing back hesitantly. Now replay the scene in slow motion (wonder if people did that before Hollywood directors invented the technique), stretch time out to enjoy again and again my coming toward you, me perspiring happily from the strain, and only bleeding just the tiniest bit. "It is only a flesh wound, ma'am," I assure you, and even though you knew that to be true, as only the clumsiest die from attacks by blackberry thorns, and most are only Eastern tourists, you marvel again at how despite the pain I held the berry so delicately within my fingertips, turning it before you so that you could see Nature's perfect pattern between us. Remember, too, that I was able to gently posess that fruit while letting my gaze rove over your lithe form, and that I did not even harm it when I noticed that perspiration had molded your blouse to your braless bosom. Your lips part even now as you remember me holding it, the berry, to them, so careful to place the indescribable taste on your tongue intact, both of us knowing that this time could not be repeated, but if savored fully with intensely focused senses, would last in our memories for a lifetime, or at least as long as we had good taste. Now you lie back in this glade, the humid warmth again surrounding your bared breasts, and take pleasure in the recollection, knowing that it will turn up whenever you chose to recall the feeling as your tongue squeezed slowly against the berry, pushing it to the roof of your mouth. What ancient unspoken communications had passed between us then, as your conscious mind full of trivial details, concerns and fears, argued against me, talked of nothings, while inside your subconscious deftly took command. I, too, was full of academic trivia and departmental gossip, as my balls churned frantically in preparation for you. You knew of me as the shallow young instructor, of whom, with whom, for whom, too many of your female students had shared real or imagined experiences. You had seen how the utterly dull, conventional still life on Katie Wilson's canvas, half-finished as she struggled for colors, had suddenly burst into a carnival of delight after our meetings on her term paper. You had been amused when Karen Olivetti, the uptight ed major, had suddenly, aggressively wanted into the "permission only" figure studies class (the one where varsity baseball second baseman Bill Sanders would pose in the nude), Miss Olivetti having blushed ferociously at the thought only days ago, before she came and came again as my project assistant. And now, as we chatted amiably, your tongue continued to clean your lips, even after most of the berry stain was gone, and when I teasingly pointed that out, you at first denied it, but that forced your conscious mind to notice the fact that inside your clothing, you were being subverted by your own firming breasts, now-tender nipples, and an irrational desire to have my berry-delicate fingers between your thighs. Hurriedly trying to catch up with the plan already being implemented by your libido, your conscious mind realized that it would be interesting, just this once, in this secret unexpected rendezvous, to find out for yourself what entranced your students. As a mature woman, and as one who had spent her younger days in Bohemian relationships, having, after all, been maltepe escort the unknown Muse speculated by critics and art historians to have existed in Kriscenzsy's turbulent life in post-War Vienna, you only had angst for the possibility of mediocrity or a dire shortage of schlagsahne in his place when you chose to accept a lover. And, dear Barbara, was it not true that there were others, too? The British Army officer who poured Devonshire cream for you at teatime, and who always kept a stiff upper lip? The American correspondent who meant to only write about the public side of your talents, but who put the wire service desk men and that one woman into horny, envious reveries, with the sheets from his well-traveled Remington growing progressively typo-ridden as you teasingly removed the lacily Freudian slip that he had given you, while he accidentally wrote about the pubic side of your talents? Yes, your conscious mind was ready now to participate, to place me in your collection and move us into frenzied unbuttonings, unhookings, unzippings, and unbearably deep kisses. It was ready now, to step back and let your inner woman direct the proceedings, while you watched warmly with your artist's eye, the changing curves of your breasts in my hands, my lips grazing your tummy, the elastic band stretching as your femininity emerged from the plain white panties you had selected for this quiet afternoon's bicycle ride. And no matter how experienced, you still enjoyed it, the excitement of watching as I wrenched my briefs around my expanding cock, and then it being delightfully free to climb into position, knowing that you had become my entire focus, that I was taking the form predestined to fit your powerful requirements. You remember, do you not, stretching out as you are now, Venus on a half-empty backpack and a picnic blanket, legs opening, eager, as I knelt and kissed my way to your pounding heart from your teasing toes, and then came down over you, entering just when you were ready to demand my presence inside? You must remember that your bicycle-exercised thighs surrounded me with feminine strength, and the way you folded your legs over me, and held me inside you with your heels riding the small of my back, your toes savoring the urgent energies of the muscles flexing through my hips as I moved you, within you, to release, your secret Pallete of colors. Recollect the look of utter satisfaction as I took my pleasure in sharing yours and with the murmur of the creek waters flowing past, you can easily recall our conversation afterward, interrupted only by our returning again and again for just one more berried treasure. I asked you about a lot of things, but most importantly, how did that first berry taste as you caressed it on your tongue, and then felt it yield its precious juice? You assured me that you would always remember it, as you are doing at this point in time, and then with sticky fingers, pink teeth and red-stained lips, we took our farewell. You watched me withdraw through the guardian bushes, the same ones which now change to twilight colors, before your half-opened eyes. Nattering squirrels which you hear in the distance will bring you out of your reverie and back into the present, time flowing with the stream has caught up with you, the challenging uphill ride is ahead. Stop to look into the moving water, but aside from dappled light made of the leftovers of the day, unfortunately it accepts no reflections. Too bad, you will think, and I can imagine, as only the forest jays see the renewed excitement on your face, in your eyes, in the saucy upturn of your nipples which you hold, that for a moment, you will draw kiss-sketches, in your fertile mind, before tut-tutting the jays, and slipping your blouse back on. As you gaze deep into it, though, and because you packed your imagination on this trip as in times before, you will know that you can picture yourself in the green secret place whenever it pleases you, and visualize out of the thinnest air intricate details of color and form, taking pleasure in the shapes of man in nature, and, as you are now, enjoy the earth-feeling of preparation in your body for the entry of your chosen man. The world is waiting for you at the top of the hill. Ride with new energy and unroll again the long fence and the canopy of trees, back to your starting point revitalized and full of new thoughts. ### P.S. After we collaborated on this via e-mail, Barbara claims that she has asked Rolf to increase his deliveries to 2x- or 3x-weekly. |
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