Blue Ridge, Beginnings

"There's nobody around for miles. The property is 11.4 square miles. We're alone; this cabin is yours and mine for the weekend. There's another note. Find it."

After the long drive and trying to follow the written directions, you have arrived at your weekend destination. The Blue Ridge Parkway is beautiful this time of year, exploding with the brilliant gold and crimson of leaves preparing to cover the forest floor with a soft bed of cover for the coming winter. The driveway was the hard part to find; just a little orange reflector nailed high up on a tree next to the road was your only warning that the narrow dirt path was coming up.

And about a thousand feet down the dirt two track lane, a gate. Getting out and swinging the gate open, you noticed the fresh tracks in the rich soil of my truck's recent passing. A tiny little picture of a red heart encircled with a black chain is the re-assurance that you're in the right place. Our last email contained a similar picture, and I've left it there for you so you would know that THIS is where I am. You recognize it immediately. You're in the right place; you picked the correct driveway.

And another two minutes past the gate, the drive opens onto a clearing with a sturdy looking, but small log cabin. A diminutive sign says, "Welcome to the World's Greatest Bed and Breakfast" which is the only indication of his business that the owner has put up, preferring instead to believe that his renters like to think that the little house is actually theirs for the duration of the rental.

In excited anticipation, you grab your overnight bag, close the door quietly, and climb up the stairs. The front door is open and upon entering, the rustic smells that greet your nose are heady, earthy, and deeply rich with reminders of life in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Wood smoke, flannel, vanilla, and a wafting hint of locally made potpourri all blend to make a near intoxicating aroma in the room. It's simply decorated; a huge overstuffed sofa with a rough textured fabric blanket thrown across the back, a large leather reading chair, a coffee table made out of an old barn door, and a stone hearth around a corner fireplace appear ready for a Ralph Lauren catalog photo shoot.

On that table is a short section of iron chain holding down a white, folded note. Dropping your bag on the long woven entrance carpet, you move the two steps to the table, lift the chain, and read the note that describes where we are and that you should find the other note.

Beyond the living room is the kitchen with ancient but dependable looking appliances; a refrigerator from the sixties, a toaster, a wood stove, and another table adorn a kitchen hung with homey wooden cabinets and shelves. At the back of the kitchen, there is a French door that looks like it leads onto a porch or deck and to the left is a narrow stairway going up to a loft. And since you haven't seen me or anything else that looks like a note, you ascend the creaking wooden treads with a little pang of anxiety.

At the top, the railing rises into a single room that encompasses the entire upstairs. A huge and comfortable looking bed covered in quilts and pillows is near a window that is so large that it looks out of place in the rustic old home. There is a piece of folded paper on the bed with a small red object holding it there. The object is a four inch high heart that I've made out of wood to look exactly like the emoticon from Lit. Serving as a paperweight, it is joined by a wrapped piece of Dove chocolate. But before you can read the note, you catch a glance out of the window. It overlooks the back of the property and it is magnificent; a long yard falls away and ends at a woods filled with maples and oaks, hardwoods all exploding in the brilliant colors of fall.

But you turn back to the note, still breathless from the sudden unexpected view.

"Darling, I know it's been a long drive, but put your stuff down and walk down the back yard until you see it. It's just a little bit longer, Love. I'm waiting."

There's a small bathroom in the corner; you take a few seconds freshening up and go down the steps. Back in the kitchen, open the French door, and step out onto the expansive deck built onto the back of the house. "My God, the beauty here is unbelievable," you exclaim to yourself.

There's something near the end of the long yard, perhaps a table or other feature and you bound down the steps and across the springy, soft grass wondering what is next on your adventure in the Blue Ridge. Two hundred yards away, there is a mill stone from a long defunct grist mill. And atop the round and flat tool is another red object and another folded piece of linen paper. This object is the red lips of the "kiss" emoticon and appears also to have been whittled like the last one and painted with bright red.

"A little further, Beautiful, a little further. Aren't the woods incredible? You can leave your blouse and bra here on the stone. We're alone here. Trust me? Good Girl. Now follow the path"

"Oh my," you think, "that's awfully presumptuous of him to assume that I would just do it." Going topless in the woods wasn't something you'd expected. With a wry smile and quick look around to make sure you are really alone, you laugh and consider this small surrender. The woods are silent; not even a bird chirps to disturb the ready to slumber landscape. All of nature waits, breathless, for your unveiling.

"I hope this is worth it," you think and the impulse to just do it hits you. Before you can change your mind, you quickly unbutton the loose fitting blouse and shrug out of a lacey, black bra. Onto the mill stone they go, and the late evening air caresses your lovely nipples elongating them into two sharp points. Delicate, pink skin crinkles and reminds you of the ache you've been feeling for this weekend with me.

A foot path leads further into the thick woods. As you walk, you realize that the trail is cleared of rocks, the descent is not steep, and the brush to either side is cleared back enough that you can walk easily. Relaxing a little, you uncross your arms from in front of you and walk naturally—as naturally as a lady can walk in the out of doors with her breasts exposed—and begin to revel in the sensation of being nearly naked outside. A small clearing comes into view and in the center is the other mill stone from the pair that worked whatever mill they came from. Your focus is on the center; instead of another hand-fashioned emoticon, there is a real rose. You step closer, wondering if the note that should be with it has blown away.

Looking around, I step from behind a thick and ancient oak tree. My smile shows nothing but happiness that you've journeyed this far; my eyes silently share the deep connection we've built through hundreds of emailed conversations. I move to you quickly and embrace you...kiss you...tentatively, silently, hungrily. Our arms encircled, you kiss me back. Our need grows with each tender kiss, hunger for the other multiplies while tongues duel, and our bodies press closer.

My hands search your eager flesh. Up and down your spine, lightly, caresses heat your perfect, soft skin. We move apart, only enough so that my insistent, gentle hands can touch your breasts. I thumb your nipples, never breaking our kiss. The hard, pointy skin is so fascinating to my fingers that if possible, they grow harder, jut out from the breast further.

A soft moan escapes my mouth, the first sound either of us has made to this point. You are about to be worshipped in this outdoors altar. Your womanliness--all of your feminine being--is going to be celebrated completely. I plan to take you to the heights your body can reach, the extremes your psyche can achieve, and the deepest pleasures your mind can conceive.

I undo the clasp on your skirt, and confusingly to you, step away. Before I move further, I lean back in for a kiss, unwilling to give up your lips so soon. I spread a thick, soft quilt onto the huge flat top of the surface of the round stone. Silently, you watch, my movements are sure and efficient. Done. I move to turn back towards you and find that your skirt is on the forest floor like the prettiest leaf in the loam.

I merely watch, unmoving. A light wind blows your hair and still I wait, watching, anticipating.

With no conscious effort on your part, your feet propel you to this padded love altar. My eyes appear to be about to melt; my heart is conjoined with yours. At the edge of the "bed" you stop. I hook a finger in the side of your thong and give you a silent 'no' look. Your hands help and the garment pulls away reluctantly from your hips, but falls to the thick grass with barely the noise that a falling leaf can make.

Without further instruction you climb onto the makeshift bed and lie back. I stand over you for what seems like an achingly long eternity. I want to immediately come to you but I stand still and pensive, wanting to drink in your sight, revel in your beauty, inhale the essence of what you are and why you're here.

And I come to you. Above you, I begin to kiss you again. More frantic this time, my mouth is hungry, needing. I feel your responses all along your body; my body feels the same. My mind screams, "Oh God, this woman, this girl, this beautiful creature..." and my hands leave no doubt as to my desires as I kiss you, kiss you, kiss you again and again.

Gentle but always insistent hands play with your nipples and squeeze your breasts. Trying to keep up with your writhing beneath me is becoming a small and sweet challenge. I know you're not trying to get away, but you're a squirmy little thing. I suckle at your tits. Light nips, prolonged licks, and slight suctioning pressure are all felt through the nerve endings of your nipples. If you're feeling like I am, then you're in danger of exploding. Goodness, I am on fire, electricity running up my spine and jolting sparks throughout my body; I hope you're feeling it too.

And down, down, and down. My mouth searches across your tummy, delves into your navel, and continues, slowly down, down, and down.

At the top of your pussy, I lighten my touch further. Gently, with gossamer lips, I nuzzle your sex. Soft as cobwebs, I intrude with my tongue into the upper folds of silk. Further I move, slowly down the length of the soft and flowering folds, dabbing at the dew with my tongue and inhaling, intoxicated with you. My nose bumps your clit; you jump. My tongue snakes to it, circles, and withdraws. It almost seems to try to follow my tongue as it pulls slightly back. Another tongue-poke, another small start from you. I lap at your sex, a flattened tongue pressing itself wholly against your little nub. Up from below, again and again my tongue brushes against the fleshy spot.

I'm enthralled with your taste and smell. I drink deeply of you.

A tentative stab at your hole with my tongue is next followed by light rimming of the entrance. I am rewarded with more sighs, more writhes, more of your sweet dewy moisture. Oh to spend a lifetime between these soft thighs!

And then my hand strokes your outer labia, parts the folds, and lightly twists your clit. A last lick at your sex and my finger pushes inside of you. Your legs spread further allowing me entrance and I delight in your unspoken offer.

Acceptance is offered and I curl the fingertip of the intruding finger into your g-spot. A spongy pad of flesh is found and I stroke it while continuing my mouth's assault on your hardened clitoris. And now, the first sounds from your sweet lips are heard. Low moans sing a song that is beautiful to my ears. You're close. Your pleasure is all I want. I vary my motions at your pussy while listening to the sweetest sound of your voice.

I push slightly harder, adding a second finger to the fleshy mound inside your pussy and delight as you arch your back. And I speak, finally, for the first time since you've arrived.

"Darling, will you come for me?"