ALL NATURAL BEAUTY
Showing posts with label unshaven. Show all posts
Showing posts with label unshaven. Show all posts
TREE HOUSE TRUTH OR DARE
When I was a kid, I had a tree house, down the hill past the barn, in the back field. Grandpa helped build it high in an old oak out of scrap wood. It had a rope ladder I could pull up, to keep my sister and her friends out.
At first, my tree house had a strict "no girls" policy. When I was a little older, I wanted to reverse my policy, but there were no girls offering to join me. Many times I'd sneak one od my dad's Playboys up to the treehouse, and stare longingly at the images.
The Millers has a daughter, several years older than me. Denise was 18 when I was 14 in the summer of 1978. School had let out, and I spent a lot of days in my tree house. One day, I spotted her walking across the field in her dress. I called to her from my perch in the tree. It took her a while to locate me, but she eventually walked over and looked up. I kicked down the ladder, and she came up to my secret spot.
She glanced around. I'd brought up an old blanket and some pillows to make it like a fort. She didn't seem impressed. Then her eye caught the corner of the Playboy sticking out from under a pillow.
"What's this?" she asked, taking it from it's hidden place and flipping it open. "You're too young for this!"
"No I'm not!"
She continued to flip though it as she sat down on the pillows. She'd stop and read the centerfold. "Miss April..." she said to herself. "I could be her..."
"You're just as pretty," I said.
"You think?"
"Heck yes."
"Oh you don't know. You're just a kid."
"No I'm not."
"Oh yeah?" she looked up at me from the magazine. She seemed to let her eyes move over my body and around the tree house and off into the distance, toward the field and the forest. The she said casually, "Ever play Truth or Dare?"
I hadn't.
"Truth or dare?" she asked.
"Truth."
"Have you ever kissed a girl?"
I admitted that I hadn't. She'd dare me to kiss her. I leaned forward, mouth puckered. She laughed.
Then she asked if I'd ever seen between a girl's legs, and I admited, shyly, "Only in the magazines."
She lifted her sundress just enough to show me she wasn't wearing any underwear. I caught a glimpse of her thick triangle of dark curls.
She asked if I'd ever felt a breasts, and I said no.
"Hold out your hand," she instructed. I did. She took my hand and placed it squarely on her breast. She pressed her hand over mine, forcing me to cup her soft breast, feeling her through the light fabric.
She glanced down and noticed my erection straining in my pants.
"Truth or dare?" she asked.
Feeling bold from the recent touch of my first boob, I said with as much courage as I could muster: "Dare."
"Show me your pecker," she said.
I blushed, but tugged down my shorts, and let my boner spring out.
She looked at my body with interest. Did I ever touch myself? Sure, I admitted.
"Thinking of me?"
I nodded.
"Thinking of this," she asked, spreading her legs and showing me her bush again.
I nodded.
"Do you want me to show you?"
I nodded.
"Do you dare me?"
I was blushing, shaking, my dick sticking out in the wind. I stared at her body and her pale skin that had been under the cover of her summer swimsuit. She opened her lips, parted her curls with her fingers, and showed me her soft, pink skin.
"I dare you to touch yourself," she said.
Awkwardly, I fumbled with my penis. I was hard and the sight of her body sent me over the edge quickly. She watched me the whole time, letting one finger slowly glide up and down her wet lips.
When I was done, she flipped her dress back down and descended the ladder. "See ya around," she said. I didn't know if I should be embarrassed or proud.
In the following days, she'd return to the tree house. It was summer break and we both had plenty of time on our hands. She had a job at Dairy Queen, but it left plenty of hours to come by. Sometimes we'd look at the latest Playboy.
She would let me stare at her as she spread her body, as she touched herself, and told me to do the same. We'd get our timing right to cum at the same moment. The more we did it, the closer she let me get to her naked body. She never let me have sex with her, though; she said she didn't want to get pregnant. But she'd let me caress a nipple with one hand as I stroked with the other. She'd let me cum on her chest a few times.
By the end of summer, she even let me stick a finger inside her, and put my mouth on her, and taste a woman for the first time. She showed me how, and she would let me make her orgasm with my tougue on her clitoris and my finger stroking inside her pressing up against her vagina wall at her-g-spot. I didn't know the name then, but I knew to watch for the signals as she began to shake, and then release in orgasm.
At the very end of summer, she told me she had a special treat for me becuase I had given her so many orgasms. She took my penis into her mouth and sucked me off, until I came powerfully in a spasm. She didn't stop sucking until she had drained every drop of cum from my teenage balls. Then she looked up at me and wiped a drop of semen from her lips and smiled. "You're a good kid," she said. "And not a half bad lover. I'm gonna miss you."
She left for college and I never saw her again. Some said she went to New York and became a model.
When I was a kid, I had a tree house, down the hill past the barn, in the back field. Grandpa helped build it high in an old oak out of scrap wood. It had a rope ladder I could pull up, to keep my sister and her friends out.
At first, my tree house had a strict "no girls" policy. When I was a little older, I wanted to reverse my policy, but there were no girls offering to join me. Many times I'd sneak one od my dad's Playboys up to the treehouse, and stare longingly at the images.
The Millers has a daughter, several years older than me. Denise was 18 when I was 14 in the summer of 1978. School had let out, and I spent a lot of days in my tree house. One day, I spotted her walking across the field in her dress. I called to her from my perch in the tree. It took her a while to locate me, but she eventually walked over and looked up. I kicked down the ladder, and she came up to my secret spot.
She glanced around. I'd brought up an old blanket and some pillows to make it like a fort. She didn't seem impressed. Then her eye caught the corner of the Playboy sticking out from under a pillow.
"What's this?" she asked, taking it from it's hidden place and flipping it open. "You're too young for this!"
"No I'm not!"
She continued to flip though it as she sat down on the pillows. She'd stop and read the centerfold. "Miss April..." she said to herself. "I could be her..."
"You're just as pretty," I said.
"You think?"
"Heck yes."
"Oh you don't know. You're just a kid."
"No I'm not."
"Oh yeah?" she looked up at me from the magazine. She seemed to let her eyes move over my body and around the tree house and off into the distance, toward the field and the forest. The she said casually, "Ever play Truth or Dare?"
I hadn't.
"Truth or dare?" she asked.
"Truth."
"Have you ever kissed a girl?"
I admitted that I hadn't. She'd dare me to kiss her. I leaned forward, mouth puckered. She laughed.
Then she asked if I'd ever seen between a girl's legs, and I admited, shyly, "Only in the magazines."
She lifted her sundress just enough to show me she wasn't wearing any underwear. I caught a glimpse of her thick triangle of dark curls.
She asked if I'd ever felt a breasts, and I said no.
"Hold out your hand," she instructed. I did. She took my hand and placed it squarely on her breast. She pressed her hand over mine, forcing me to cup her soft breast, feeling her through the light fabric.
She glanced down and noticed my erection straining in my pants.
"Truth or dare?" she asked.
Feeling bold from the recent touch of my first boob, I said with as much courage as I could muster: "Dare."
"Show me your pecker," she said.
I blushed, but tugged down my shorts, and let my boner spring out.
She looked at my body with interest. Did I ever touch myself? Sure, I admitted.
"Thinking of me?"
I nodded.
"Thinking of this," she asked, spreading her legs and showing me her bush again.
I nodded.
"Do you want me to show you?"
I nodded.
"Do you dare me?"
I was blushing, shaking, my dick sticking out in the wind. I stared at her body and her pale skin that had been under the cover of her summer swimsuit. She opened her lips, parted her curls with her fingers, and showed me her soft, pink skin.
"I dare you to touch yourself," she said.
Awkwardly, I fumbled with my penis. I was hard and the sight of her body sent me over the edge quickly. She watched me the whole time, letting one finger slowly glide up and down her wet lips.
When I was done, she flipped her dress back down and descended the ladder. "See ya around," she said. I didn't know if I should be embarrassed or proud.
In the following days, she'd return to the tree house. It was summer break and we both had plenty of time on our hands. She had a job at Dairy Queen, but it left plenty of hours to come by. Sometimes we'd look at the latest Playboy.
She would let me stare at her as she spread her body, as she touched herself, and told me to do the same. We'd get our timing right to cum at the same moment. The more we did it, the closer she let me get to her naked body. She never let me have sex with her, though; she said she didn't want to get pregnant. But she'd let me caress a nipple with one hand as I stroked with the other. She'd let me cum on her chest a few times.
By the end of summer, she even let me stick a finger inside her, and put my mouth on her, and taste a woman for the first time. She showed me how, and she would let me make her orgasm with my tougue on her clitoris and my finger stroking inside her pressing up against her vagina wall at her-g-spot. I didn't know the name then, but I knew to watch for the signals as she began to shake, and then release in orgasm.
At the very end of summer, she told me she had a special treat for me becuase I had given her so many orgasms. She took my penis into her mouth and sucked me off, until I came powerfully in a spasm. She didn't stop sucking until she had drained every drop of cum from my teenage balls. Then she looked up at me and wiped a drop of semen from her lips and smiled. "You're a good kid," she said. "And not a half bad lover. I'm gonna miss you."
She left for college and I never saw her again. Some said she went to New York and became a model.
ADVENTURE TO THE LAKE WITH NO NAME
I had a crush on Lauralee ever since the day I met her. Her slight southern accent is one of the things that got me, but also she was incredibly smart. She was one of the few people I could actually apply the label "intellectual."
I had wanted to date her for years, but she always had a boyfriend, and in the few times she didn't, I'd find have a girlfriend. I was just breaking up with one when this story happened. I'd been dating Patricia for about six months. It had gone from hot to horrid fast. We'd hung on by having sex, but essentially, there was none of the underpinnings to make a relationship work. When I had to go out of town for two weeks, Patricia lay into me with guilt. When she saw that it wasn't going to make me cancel my trip, she gave me the ultimatum: If you go, I won't be here when you get back. So I left.
When I returned, I called Lauralee. She had just broken up with her dumb ass boyfriend of the time. For the first time, we were both single and sad and needing a great day. So we jumped in her car with swim suits, a map of the national forest, and a bottle of whiskey.
We drove deep into the national forest, turning off the main highway to a primary forest road, to a secondary road, to a gravel road. Mile after mile, we wound deeper into the forest. It was August and hot. The gravel road kicked up dust. We had our windows rolled down.
On the map, I'd picked out a small, unnamed lake. I had no idea if we could find it, but I had pointed us in the general direction. The road got rougher. The ruts deeper, and finally, we bottomed out in her old beater car. As we stepped out, we stretched our legs and surveyed the situation. We were stuck pretty deep, up to the axle. Still, I wasn't in the mood to be defeated. It was a perfect day and I'd broken up with a girl that had put me down for months and I was tired of feeling bad for myself.
I found a strong stick and began to dig out the mud behind the tires. I knew going forward would only push us deeper, but potentially, if we could get traction, we could roll back up out of the tracks we had just made. So I dug and then rounded up small sticks. I wedged them under the tires, then I had Lauralee gently rock the accelerator as I pushed. After a few fruitless starts, the car popped backwards, caught the sticks under it, and shimmied back up out of the mud and onto hard ground. I stood, panting, with mud flecked across my face. "Let's go swimming," I said, grinning.
When I'd gone gathering dead wood, I discovered that we had, by sheer luck, gotten stuck less than 100 yards from the unnamed lake. Through a bluff of trees, we pushed to the beach. It was a tiny lake, half marsh reeds, and ringed on one side by a mud beach. When we reached it, we cracked out the whiskey and saluted the perfect blue sky, the blue-green lake, our triumph over the mud and our success at finding the unnamed lake. I pulled another swig of whiskey, feeling better than I had in months. She took another pull. And then I did, and she did. We drank and considered our good fortune.
"Turn around," said Lauralee. I turned as she stripped off her clothes and slipped into her suit. I wanted to peek and she knew. She had to have known that I harbored a crush on her for years. We were best friends. We'd sleep over at each others houses, in the same bed even, but never touch. Never cross the line beyond a plutonic hug. We'd been in pajamas together before, but whenever it came time to change, there was always a bathroom and a locked door.
Now, she changed in the wide open. I wished I could somehow snap a picture without her knowing. I wanted--needed--to save this moment.
When she was done, I stripped down to my boxers. We pulled more whiskey to brace ourselves for the mountain cold water and waded in. We could walk out nearly to the middle of the lake before the water was over our heads. The further we went, the deeper the sediment. It squished between my toes. "Eww," she said.
"Here," I offered. I reached out and invited her to hop up piggyback. As I carried her deeper, my feet sank further under our weight. I thought of her in her swimsuit, her barelegs wrapped around my waist. The deeper we got the more I had to bob, the more it threw her body onto me, the more I lost my balance. She shrieked for me not to drop her. The whiskey was taking effect. We'd polished off a good half of the bottle between us. I was suddenly buzzed and barely able to keep moving forward. The water was cold, but had pockets of warm. It was green and smooth on our skin. The sun reflected off the water. Somehow I knew the timing was perfect. I knew that of all the times I could have kissed Lauralee, I had never made the move. I knew if I never did, she would never. I knew if I'd made it at the wrong time, she would have shot me down. Dating Patricia, I had never had lower self-esteem. I decided now was the time. I could be brave. I could dare.
With a deft flip, I tuned Lauralee around, her legs now wrapped around me and crossed behind me, her arms draped around my neck, her face in front of my face. Without a word, I kissed her. She kissed back. We embraced, locked into each other, kissing passionately. Suddenly everything was perfect. Years of frustration laying beside her as if two slumber party friends was finally released. I had found our lake, saved her car, and was the hero of the moment. I knew it couldn't last. We were already dangerously shivering. We held each other closer, still locked in a kiss.
Slowly I began to wade back toward the shore. I knew that as soon as we reached it, something would have to change. I knew it meant my brief moment could end. Maybe all we'd share was one drunken kiss in a lake. As I turned, surveying the trees and the mountain peak, and our clothes and half-empty whiskey bottle on the shore, I decided that whatever happened afterwards would be just fine. The important thing was that I'd finally raised my courage to the point of making a move.
When we reached the shore, I let her slip from my waist. She teetered over to the bottle and took a quick pull, then handed it to me, shaking, her lips blue. I accepted. We then moved together and resumed our hug, as if seeking each other's vital warmth. We resumed our kiss and soon my hands were rubbing her shoulder blades, warming her, and tugging down her swimsuit.
I'd always wondered what Lauralee looked like topless. She often wore thin t-shirts without a bra. I could often see her nipples pressing the fabric. Now, I was hugging her, kissing her, and she was topless. She stepped back, and I got my first, incredible view.
She staggered a few feet away and then yanked off her suit. She almost fell as she squatted. Holy crap. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. For years Lauralee had always been reserved, almost prude about being around me; now she was buck naked in the middle of the forest, squatting in the sand.
When she returned she took my hand to lead me somewhere. With an instant decision, I yanked down my boxers. Now we were both buck naked beside the lake. We walked further up the beach until the wet mud turned to dry sand. I felt self-conscious yet also liberated, walking, hand in hand, out in plain view of the sky, around the corner of the unnamed lake.
Her knees buckled and she landed with a plop on the sand. I stood over her, naked, looking down at her. For the first time in my life, I could get a look at her as I'd always fantasized about. She was sort of a liberal type, didn't wear a lot of makeup, yet she shaved her legs and under her arms, I knew, so I assumed she probably shaved between her legs as well. As she lay on the ground, she comber her curls with her finger. Her curls were thick and almost reddish in color. She looked totally natural with the lake in the background and the jagged line of the forest. She had her eyes closed and continued to brush out the sand from her curls, and then, right in front of me, her fingers began to stroke.
I stood, naked, dumbstruck, as I watched her slowly begin to touch herself. Is this her gift to me? I wondered Is she saying that we will never be together but that we can be maybe be kissing and watching friends? I was estactic that I was not only seeing Lauralee naked for the first time in one of the most beautiful places I had ever been, but I was watching her masturbate.
She broke my trance be opening her eyes, looking directly at me and asking point blank: "So are you going to fuck me now?" Those were her exact words. I couldn't have made it up. I stood a second more, totally unsure of myself.
Then I lowered myself between her legs. I rubbed the tip of my cold-shruken penis on her now wet and warm vulva. Although I had a lot of whisky in my system, I managed to get hard. Pushing in was perfect. Smooth, warm, embracing, welcoming, drawing me deeper.
The funny thing about having sex outdoors is that as you're pumping away, mosquitoes are landing across your back, arms legs, in your ears. A stick is poking and you just want to move a rock really quick. You want to slap the mosquitoes. I was drunk and distracted and intimidated by Lauralee's sudden acceptance. I was fucking her bareback and didn't know if she was on the pill, if I could shoot or should pull out. All these thoughts swirl through my mind as I tried to focus on the fact that I was actually half-laying on Lauralee beside a lake, penetrating her. I pounded away. She wanted it harder and harder.
I knew I couldn't last. Alreadly I had built up from our prolonged kissing in the lake. I had a huge load of cum bursting. With one final pump, I pulled out and sprayed across her belly and chest. She looked at me, eyes bleary, and blinked.
We got up, brushed off. I itched my new mosquito bites, and we walked, naked, my cum drying salty with the lake water on her breasts, my erection now limp but wagging with each step, still slick with her juices, the light of the afternoon already fading, back to our clothes.
I had a crush on Lauralee ever since the day I met her. Her slight southern accent is one of the things that got me, but also she was incredibly smart. She was one of the few people I could actually apply the label "intellectual."
I had wanted to date her for years, but she always had a boyfriend, and in the few times she didn't, I'd find have a girlfriend. I was just breaking up with one when this story happened. I'd been dating Patricia for about six months. It had gone from hot to horrid fast. We'd hung on by having sex, but essentially, there was none of the underpinnings to make a relationship work. When I had to go out of town for two weeks, Patricia lay into me with guilt. When she saw that it wasn't going to make me cancel my trip, she gave me the ultimatum: If you go, I won't be here when you get back. So I left.
When I returned, I called Lauralee. She had just broken up with her dumb ass boyfriend of the time. For the first time, we were both single and sad and needing a great day. So we jumped in her car with swim suits, a map of the national forest, and a bottle of whiskey.
We drove deep into the national forest, turning off the main highway to a primary forest road, to a secondary road, to a gravel road. Mile after mile, we wound deeper into the forest. It was August and hot. The gravel road kicked up dust. We had our windows rolled down.
On the map, I'd picked out a small, unnamed lake. I had no idea if we could find it, but I had pointed us in the general direction. The road got rougher. The ruts deeper, and finally, we bottomed out in her old beater car. As we stepped out, we stretched our legs and surveyed the situation. We were stuck pretty deep, up to the axle. Still, I wasn't in the mood to be defeated. It was a perfect day and I'd broken up with a girl that had put me down for months and I was tired of feeling bad for myself.
I found a strong stick and began to dig out the mud behind the tires. I knew going forward would only push us deeper, but potentially, if we could get traction, we could roll back up out of the tracks we had just made. So I dug and then rounded up small sticks. I wedged them under the tires, then I had Lauralee gently rock the accelerator as I pushed. After a few fruitless starts, the car popped backwards, caught the sticks under it, and shimmied back up out of the mud and onto hard ground. I stood, panting, with mud flecked across my face. "Let's go swimming," I said, grinning.
When I'd gone gathering dead wood, I discovered that we had, by sheer luck, gotten stuck less than 100 yards from the unnamed lake. Through a bluff of trees, we pushed to the beach. It was a tiny lake, half marsh reeds, and ringed on one side by a mud beach. When we reached it, we cracked out the whiskey and saluted the perfect blue sky, the blue-green lake, our triumph over the mud and our success at finding the unnamed lake. I pulled another swig of whiskey, feeling better than I had in months. She took another pull. And then I did, and she did. We drank and considered our good fortune.
"Turn around," said Lauralee. I turned as she stripped off her clothes and slipped into her suit. I wanted to peek and she knew. She had to have known that I harbored a crush on her for years. We were best friends. We'd sleep over at each others houses, in the same bed even, but never touch. Never cross the line beyond a plutonic hug. We'd been in pajamas together before, but whenever it came time to change, there was always a bathroom and a locked door.
Now, she changed in the wide open. I wished I could somehow snap a picture without her knowing. I wanted--needed--to save this moment.
When she was done, I stripped down to my boxers. We pulled more whiskey to brace ourselves for the mountain cold water and waded in. We could walk out nearly to the middle of the lake before the water was over our heads. The further we went, the deeper the sediment. It squished between my toes. "Eww," she said.
"Here," I offered. I reached out and invited her to hop up piggyback. As I carried her deeper, my feet sank further under our weight. I thought of her in her swimsuit, her barelegs wrapped around my waist. The deeper we got the more I had to bob, the more it threw her body onto me, the more I lost my balance. She shrieked for me not to drop her. The whiskey was taking effect. We'd polished off a good half of the bottle between us. I was suddenly buzzed and barely able to keep moving forward. The water was cold, but had pockets of warm. It was green and smooth on our skin. The sun reflected off the water. Somehow I knew the timing was perfect. I knew that of all the times I could have kissed Lauralee, I had never made the move. I knew if I never did, she would never. I knew if I'd made it at the wrong time, she would have shot me down. Dating Patricia, I had never had lower self-esteem. I decided now was the time. I could be brave. I could dare.
With a deft flip, I tuned Lauralee around, her legs now wrapped around me and crossed behind me, her arms draped around my neck, her face in front of my face. Without a word, I kissed her. She kissed back. We embraced, locked into each other, kissing passionately. Suddenly everything was perfect. Years of frustration laying beside her as if two slumber party friends was finally released. I had found our lake, saved her car, and was the hero of the moment. I knew it couldn't last. We were already dangerously shivering. We held each other closer, still locked in a kiss.
Slowly I began to wade back toward the shore. I knew that as soon as we reached it, something would have to change. I knew it meant my brief moment could end. Maybe all we'd share was one drunken kiss in a lake. As I turned, surveying the trees and the mountain peak, and our clothes and half-empty whiskey bottle on the shore, I decided that whatever happened afterwards would be just fine. The important thing was that I'd finally raised my courage to the point of making a move.
When we reached the shore, I let her slip from my waist. She teetered over to the bottle and took a quick pull, then handed it to me, shaking, her lips blue. I accepted. We then moved together and resumed our hug, as if seeking each other's vital warmth. We resumed our kiss and soon my hands were rubbing her shoulder blades, warming her, and tugging down her swimsuit.
I'd always wondered what Lauralee looked like topless. She often wore thin t-shirts without a bra. I could often see her nipples pressing the fabric. Now, I was hugging her, kissing her, and she was topless. She stepped back, and I got my first, incredible view.
She staggered a few feet away and then yanked off her suit. She almost fell as she squatted. Holy crap. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. For years Lauralee had always been reserved, almost prude about being around me; now she was buck naked in the middle of the forest, squatting in the sand.
When she returned she took my hand to lead me somewhere. With an instant decision, I yanked down my boxers. Now we were both buck naked beside the lake. We walked further up the beach until the wet mud turned to dry sand. I felt self-conscious yet also liberated, walking, hand in hand, out in plain view of the sky, around the corner of the unnamed lake.
Her knees buckled and she landed with a plop on the sand. I stood over her, naked, looking down at her. For the first time in my life, I could get a look at her as I'd always fantasized about. She was sort of a liberal type, didn't wear a lot of makeup, yet she shaved her legs and under her arms, I knew, so I assumed she probably shaved between her legs as well. As she lay on the ground, she comber her curls with her finger. Her curls were thick and almost reddish in color. She looked totally natural with the lake in the background and the jagged line of the forest. She had her eyes closed and continued to brush out the sand from her curls, and then, right in front of me, her fingers began to stroke.
I stood, naked, dumbstruck, as I watched her slowly begin to touch herself. Is this her gift to me? I wondered Is she saying that we will never be together but that we can be maybe be kissing and watching friends? I was estactic that I was not only seeing Lauralee naked for the first time in one of the most beautiful places I had ever been, but I was watching her masturbate.
She broke my trance be opening her eyes, looking directly at me and asking point blank: "So are you going to fuck me now?" Those were her exact words. I couldn't have made it up. I stood a second more, totally unsure of myself.
Then I lowered myself between her legs. I rubbed the tip of my cold-shruken penis on her now wet and warm vulva. Although I had a lot of whisky in my system, I managed to get hard. Pushing in was perfect. Smooth, warm, embracing, welcoming, drawing me deeper.
The funny thing about having sex outdoors is that as you're pumping away, mosquitoes are landing across your back, arms legs, in your ears. A stick is poking and you just want to move a rock really quick. You want to slap the mosquitoes. I was drunk and distracted and intimidated by Lauralee's sudden acceptance. I was fucking her bareback and didn't know if she was on the pill, if I could shoot or should pull out. All these thoughts swirl through my mind as I tried to focus on the fact that I was actually half-laying on Lauralee beside a lake, penetrating her. I pounded away. She wanted it harder and harder.
I knew I couldn't last. Alreadly I had built up from our prolonged kissing in the lake. I had a huge load of cum bursting. With one final pump, I pulled out and sprayed across her belly and chest. She looked at me, eyes bleary, and blinked.
We got up, brushed off. I itched my new mosquito bites, and we walked, naked, my cum drying salty with the lake water on her breasts, my erection now limp but wagging with each step, still slick with her juices, the light of the afternoon already fading, back to our clothes.
PRAIRIE ROSE
If I had a little house on the prairie, I'd want to shack up with this beauty. Yee haw!
If I had a little house on the prairie, I'd want to shack up with this beauty. Yee haw!
I (HEART) NY
When I had the chance to present in NYC, I called Jenny. She was glad to host me, although, she warned, her apartment was the size of a closet. In graduate school, when Jenny and I dated, we were used to small, starving-student studio apartments. Nothing had prepared me for what New Yorkers called a "small" apartment. She had a bed and a dresser, a window that looked out at bricks and other windows, and a door.
So many years had passed, but giddy with seeing each other, Jenny took me out to see the sights of Manhatton. We returned late, slightly intoxicated, and exhausted. We stripped, by habit, to our underwear and slipped into her small bed. We were too exhausted to make love that night, but the next morning we were as comfortable as if we had.
Jenny stood in only her panties; semi -transparent, they revealed the thick of dark curls. She always let her hair grow uncut, and her panties would matte her curls, so that when I touched her, my finger would slip into her panties, wiggling into her briar of curls, to find soft, wet, flesh. She would get so wet. She also had nice breasts. They had lost a little of their firmness from our college years, but were still lovely in shape. Her nipples were always thick and responded to hard touching, and especially pinching. The harder the better. She stood, looking at me with a smirk as I picked up my camera. I wanted to record her and hold the image forever, but even then I knew I didn't need to--I knew every bend and fold for her. The years had not changed how we responded to each other's body's, what we liked, how we touched, and how we wanted to be touched.
Only inches from her, I knew she was already wet. I knew how it would feel to push into her panties, comb her curls and plunge my finger into her eager wetness. I was hard with this thought. She knew that, and knew how I tasted, and my textures. No doubt that is why she stood in the morning light, and smiled as I took her photo. We knew each other, and we knew what was next.
When I had the chance to present in NYC, I called Jenny. She was glad to host me, although, she warned, her apartment was the size of a closet. In graduate school, when Jenny and I dated, we were used to small, starving-student studio apartments. Nothing had prepared me for what New Yorkers called a "small" apartment. She had a bed and a dresser, a window that looked out at bricks and other windows, and a door.
So many years had passed, but giddy with seeing each other, Jenny took me out to see the sights of Manhatton. We returned late, slightly intoxicated, and exhausted. We stripped, by habit, to our underwear and slipped into her small bed. We were too exhausted to make love that night, but the next morning we were as comfortable as if we had.
Jenny stood in only her panties; semi -transparent, they revealed the thick of dark curls. She always let her hair grow uncut, and her panties would matte her curls, so that when I touched her, my finger would slip into her panties, wiggling into her briar of curls, to find soft, wet, flesh. She would get so wet. She also had nice breasts. They had lost a little of their firmness from our college years, but were still lovely in shape. Her nipples were always thick and responded to hard touching, and especially pinching. The harder the better. She stood, looking at me with a smirk as I picked up my camera. I wanted to record her and hold the image forever, but even then I knew I didn't need to--I knew every bend and fold for her. The years had not changed how we responded to each other's body's, what we liked, how we touched, and how we wanted to be touched.Only inches from her, I knew she was already wet. I knew how it would feel to push into her panties, comb her curls and plunge my finger into her eager wetness. I was hard with this thought. She knew that, and knew how I tasted, and my textures. No doubt that is why she stood in the morning light, and smiled as I took her photo. We knew each other, and we knew what was next.
ARTISTIC AUTOEROTICISM
BW FIGURE POSE
Here's a lovely vintage picture of a figure model striking a classic pose of the pin-up era. She has a lovely figure, and the outdoor light cast soft shadows on her skin.
Here's a lovely vintage picture of a figure model striking a classic pose of the pin-up era. She has a lovely figure, and the outdoor light cast soft shadows on her skin.
RED COUCH, BLACK STOCKINGS
I have a red couch. Maroon, maybe, or wine colored. It's a dark oak mission style which goes well in my old bungalow. A nice place for a photo, I suggested to my girlfriend. She agreed, and fetched a pair of her stockings. The black and red compliment each other, and her pale skin looks even whiter against the contrast of the strong colors. I think it's a lovely, and sexy, image.
I have a red couch. Maroon, maybe, or wine colored. It's a dark oak mission style which goes well in my old bungalow. A nice place for a photo, I suggested to my girlfriend. She agreed, and fetched a pair of her stockings. The black and red compliment each other, and her pale skin looks even whiter against the contrast of the strong colors. I think it's a lovely, and sexy, image.
THE PROJECT
When I started dating Rachel, she'd keep her pubes very neatly trimmed. As we were apart for months at a time, she decided to give up the daily chore of shaving. She was curious to see her hair grow back and how it would look. She'd write to me about the progress of her "project." And, if I was really lucky, she'd take a snap shot to send me as her report.
When I started dating Rachel, she'd keep her pubes very neatly trimmed. As we were apart for months at a time, she decided to give up the daily chore of shaving. She was curious to see her hair grow back and how it would look. She'd write to me about the progress of her "project." And, if I was really lucky, she'd take a snap shot to send me as her report.
BLUE PAISLEY NUDE
GIRLFRIEND IS A CENTERFOLD
When I was growing up, my dad had a stack of Penthouse magazines stashed under my parent's bed. Of course I found them. And when I had the house to myself, of course I looked. How erotic it was then, even just a glimpse of a girl with a tank top and no shorts. A peek of a public patch. These were the older girls, the ones we Freshmen dreamed of dating--Seniors, cheerleaders, the girls who played tennis or swam. The girls who wore rugby shirts of their jock boyfriends. Girls who talked of boys at bathroom mirrors. The girls who were our counsellors at camp when we were 12 and they were 15--such a divide then. We were still kids; they were in the adult world of high school, with boyfriends. They had "made out." We could only dream of stealing a peek, in a shower room, like our favorite scene in "Porky's," or in a magazine.
Here's to those years of innocence, the desire before the experience. It is agonizing and awkward when you are going through it, but looking back, what any of us would give to look at a girl like this and feel that way again.
WHEN GRANDMA GOT IT ON
Growing up, there was a version of history that went like this: The Victorians were prudes, and no one had sex and if they did, they didn't like it. The Roaring 20s had flappers and shorter skirts, but they were still prudes. Maybe a couple of them had sex, but they didn't really know what they were doing. In the Great Depression, people were too depressed to have sex. In WWII, too busy winning the War to have sex. And the 50s--no way was Apple Pie America having sex. And then in the Summer of Love, a sexual "revolution" occurred, and since then, we have all been liberated from the old fashioned, outdated, and embarrassed subject of sex.
The Baby Boomers like to think they invented sex, drugs, rock and roll. Of course, being the biggest generation in American history, who do they think was making all that whoopee that spawned them?
Growing up in this era of media, I see the grainy black and white images of steam trains and WII bombers. Because they are so small on my screen, somehow it seems like the machinery of yesteryear must be smaller, like models.
Yet, an old WWII bomber is the size of the modern passenger jets. An old Ford Model A is actually not a wind-up toy car but about the same size as a Prius. An old steam train's wheel is taller than my head. Some how the past gets reduced like a diorama. 
So too, it would seem that the tin-type faces of now long-dead generations in their bloomers and top hats would only have sex in the missionary position, and only for the act of pro-creation. In today's world we know we can find explicit images if we google words like "cock sucking." We think, girls gagging on stiff dicks, spreading wide, bending over, and gang bangs are somehow a reflection of our "Post Sexual Revolution," a product of this internet era. But why do assume that those somber faces in the dusty family archives weren't getting it on with just as must lust and gusto? They sucked cock, played with dildos, and had three-ways.
Here's a special tribute to those who "came" before us--
NO PICTURES
What a hilarious image. How great. There's so many sexy elements at work here. A sexy woman flashing on the sidewalk, her full bush beside another bush, a t-shirt that says "no pictures please." Brilliant.
What a hilarious image. How great. There's so many sexy elements at work here. A sexy woman flashing on the sidewalk, her full bush beside another bush, a t-shirt that says "no pictures please." Brilliant.
SAY HURRAY
