After a couple of weeks of quietness followed by prickling discontent, I found the perfect way to work the wanderlust out of my system. Just take a woman with a car, a randy man with a train ticket, a picnic blanket and a whole lot of intent.
Young Lion and I had been disagreeing about the situation of our delayed encounter. I wanted to wait until we were free for a hotel meeting and he argued that we should trawl the great outdoors one night until we found somewhere private. I ended up seeing his point of view — even though we were thwarted for 40 kilometres last time — and I packed the car with a rushed handful of regular and never-tried, extra-wide and somewhat anticipated condoms, water, a torch, beach towels and a blanket.
I collected him at dusk and we drove to the nearest beach car park for a scoping mission. The evening had to be the closest to perfect this summer: comfortably warm with the gentlest sea breeze, an azure ocean rippling contentedly and a huge tangerine sun saying goodbye on the horizon — of course, the fucking beach and clifftop paths were packed full of people not there for sex.
We slid somewhat treacherously down some off-the-beathen-track paths to the beach and crawled back up in the hunt for a quiet cove but our luck was out. My leg muscles were complaining but my eye muscles were compensated with the fine view of his skinny denim-clad rear as we hauled up narrow steps in single file.
On the way back to the car park I noticed through some scrubby trees a reasonably-concealed clearing to the side of the path. If we were quiet, we wouldn’t be noticed unless someone was looking for us or we attracted attention. We returned to my car and collected the bag of items, not meeting the eyes of anyone on our walk of suspicion back to the path. I’ve said in the past that I adore the moments of anticipation before the first moments of sex with a new partner, but there we were camped on a blanket in a clearing still visible by persistent light and feeling awkward between whispered small talk and swatting mosquitoes.
I thought some clothed horizontal fun would keep us occupied until nightfall and I laid on top of him and grinded my pelvis into his hardening cock. We kissed. He’s a good kisser and enjoys lip-to-lip contact, but by the end of the night I had the impression that his sexuality is cock-centric — fucking for him is king and everything else is part of the support act. He asked if I was wet and I reached inside my loose pants and inserted two fingers, withdrew them and placed them in his mouth. He closed his eyes and sucked, not enthusiastically and not out of obligation, but just sucked. We shifted positions and he went down on me for a while and he was competent but again seemed to lack real intensity.
I looked up and we agreed fervently that passersby wouldn’t notice us unless we made noise, and I lowered his pants and prepared an oral attack on the cock that nearly defeated me last time. He laid flat on his back and I laid alongside him on my side, leaning directly over his cock and I took a long, deep breath in anticipation. His dimensions were easier to tackle this time around because of the angle and his muffled moans indicated he had his hand over his mouth to avoid groaning out loud. My jaw took longer to fatigue and I alternated longer periods of sucking with rubbing my hand up his saliva-coated cock. I heard him ask if I thought I could take the whole length in my mouth. I whispered that I could only try and dived as deeply as I could. The breadth of the head of his cock triggered my gag reflex and I tried a few times until he said it was enough. Puzzling, as I thought most men would like a gagging woman to keep trying to win a cock sucking dare, but anyway, I stopped.
It was probably a good idea to stop with hindsight as I was dripping a serious wet patch through my pants. I gave him two condoms to choose from and asked if the normal size would be would be wide enough. He took both and selected the regular Ansell, looked quizzically at the extra-wide Magnum, putting it and the empty wrapper in the pocket of his discarded jeans.
I lowered myself over his shaft, relishing the opportunity to finally ride him, but wishing we could have started with him on top with my legs in air for a pounding to truly see if he lived up to his claims. However, we’d have been far too noisy to even try. I experimented with a few variations to maximise penetration and settled on about a 45-degree angle with my hands gripping his shoulders. Everything seemed to be working for both of us until my legs started aching and sweat was running down my face so I sat upright to try a more vertical position. After no more than three strokes, an unexpected orgasm gripped me and I stopped speechlessly and quivered for a few seconds. And then rocked back and forward on that angle like a child with a new toy until another climax almost took me down. When I came around, I could hear a panicked voice asking if I was all right. I wanted to yell FUCK, YEAH! but I gasped, “Yes, more than fine, fanfuckingtastic fine, thank you.” He said he thought I was having a heart attack. I explained that I had to pause the important business of fucking to work out ( and not explain to also file away in my head) exactly how his cock elicited such a reaction. He seemed relieved but perturbed and mentioned it a couple of times in text messages the next day. They were quiet and happy orgasms that didn’t cause any extreme reactions and I can only wonder about his surprise.
His back and my knees were starting to ache and we changed roles. A new kind of physical heaven opened when he entered me in the missionary style and I suddenly vowed never to care if he’s ambivalent about foreplay and oral sex because I’d stumble a hundred rocky cliff faces to have him inside me from on top again. I wished we were in a hotel room where we could spread out and have him fuck me until I was seeing stars but I was more than content judging by the feelings smashing around my body.
He was correct in his earlier claims about endurance and we again switched to me being on top because he was getting carpet burns on his knees. I fucked him until my legs were about to give way and had to take a rest. He was close to coming and I resumed sucking his cock until he came as quietly as he could in my mouth. I remembered to collect and swallow quickly to minimise the aftertaste — his semen tasted as rank as last time.
We chatted quietly and stared at the stars for a while (the ants had gone away and we could lay down in peace) until we realised the hour and I had to get him to the station. We collected our things by the light of our mobile phones as I had forgotten the torch in my earlier rush. When we reached the car park, we did another walk of suspicion as two youngsters had parked their car thoughtlessly close to mine and were staring at us impatiently as we put the gear away. I’d have hurried if they had the sense to leave personal space but instead chose to take my sweet time packing.
I dropped Young Lion off and noticed later he had kept the extra-wide condom without mention. He had sifted through his pockets on the way out when he thought he had lost his wallet and couldn’t have missed its presence. I’d have happily offered it to him if he’d asked, and given him a few more to play with. Oh well. It was almost a fitting ending to a wonderful but slightly weird magical mystery night.