One Weekend Stand Ch. 06

He headed outside, leaving her to her kitchen expedition. He spent the next few minutes lugging logs down to the fire pit, arranging everything so that a single match would give them a roaring fire. Despite his best efforts, he found himself sooty and covered with smears of ash. There was no way she was going to let him back in the cabin like that.

He was already soaking wet and shivering in the shower when he realized that: A) He didn't have any soap. B) He didn't have a towel. And C) She was probably in the cabin watching him and laughing her ass off. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now. So he scrubbed himself the best he could, the tepid water growing colder by the minute, the soot seeming to simply transfer itself from one patch of skin to another. Finally he was at least clean enough to attempt to get in the cabin. Maybe he could use one of the towels to wipe the rest of the dirt from him.

He shook his hair like a mangy dog just outside the door, before wiping as much moisture off his limbs as he could. He could already hear her giggling before he stepped through the door, and it took a moment for him to realize why her laugh had such an evil edge to it. He looked down. Yes, the cold water had done it's embarrassing work on his lower appendage. Why did cold make women's parts engorge and men's parts shrink? It was a question that the universe had yet to answer. And he didn't feel a solution would be coming down from the mountain in the next few seconds, either.

"Ooooh, you poor baby," she exclaimed in an exaggerated mother's voice. "Is oogums all cold?"

There was nothing to do but let her have her laugh. When she pulled the towel out from behind her back, he reached for it. But he was forced to wait as she folded it in half, then half again and again, until it was folded into a thick pad. He reached for it again, but instead she carefully placed it on the ground at his feet and then quickly knelt on it. He only realized what she was up to when his shriveled cock and balls were deep inside her mouth, and her tongue was lashing his most sensitive bits.

The warmth of her mouth was as shocking as the cold had been, like coming inside on a below-zero day and wrapping your hands around a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He could feel the heat radiating along his stem and into his core, her mouth enveloping him in liquid fire. She was good at this, whether by nature or practice he didn't know and didn't care. She brought her fingers into play as the blood pumped into his shaft, making it too large to all fit inside her mouth. Her digits manipulated his sack and balls, her fingernails a tempestuous counterpoint to the silky softness of her tongue and mouth.

Soon she was sucking on him with less tenderness and more exuberance. The helmet of his cock was afire as she flicked her tongue back and forth across it. His cock was hard as a rock, the veins prominent across the granite.

When she finally pulled away to admire her work, he was hard, wet and bobbing. And when she told him he ought to dry off and get dressed for dinner, she had to turn around to hide her smile. She quickly headed to the kitchen area, knowing that if she'd waited one or two seconds more, he would've pulled her to the floor and fucked her right there. And she would've been powerless to stop him. No, that wasn't right. She wouldn't have even tried. She would've spread her legs and fucked him right back. But this had been much more fun. Hadn't it?

They ate dinner picnic style on the floor of the cabin, sitting on a blanket she'd found in the big trunk. A shrimp and vegetable stir fry. Salad, with homemade ranch dressing. Fresh (well, from yesterday) French bread. A special bottle of wine she'd bought just for this occasion. Real crystal wine glasses that she'd lugged all the way up here. And a slice of cheesecake to share for dessert, which they fed to each other like young lovers in some sappy teenage movie.

They stretched out on the blanket and talked, not about marital problems but about hopes and dreams and pets and childhoods. He touched her lightly as they talked and she responded in kind, as if they'd been married for years. No, not even that. As if they were still in the dating stage, as if each person can't believe that simply talking to someone could be this wonderful. And each needed to touch the other to assure themselves it was real.

She knew she was being foolish with such thoughts. This was no fantasy love affair. Nothing with a long term future. Or even any future. They'd need to go back, tomorrow, precisely at 2:00, to rejoin the lives they'd left behind. She to her needy, whiny but good-father husband. He to his wife, with all her blemishes. Neither could afford or even really wanted to put that in jeopardy. Yet...

Yet here they were, together in a one-weekend stand that was as fulfilling as it was unbelievable. If it was a movie, most guys would've run screaming from the theater. Unless they kept in the sex scenes. Then it might be a blockbuster. And most women would've gotten misty eyed. Until they saw the sex scenes. Then they would've had to tell their dates and lovers No Way. Though some would undoubtedly give in later in the evening.

Soon the bottle was almost empty and she was drowsy and just a little drunk. She liked to tell him that wine didn't affect her, but that was bullshit. She was always pleasantly buzzed when she returned to the office after their lunches, and a few trips to the ladies room were always in order. Sometimes she actually had to go.

He started to clear away the dishes but she interrupted, pulling him close. She kissed him, languidly at first, then with increasing ferocity. His hands slid inside her panties to caress her butt, and she tried to imprint the feeling on her brain, just one of many memories she expected to call upon after they left. Just as she was sure that he would be fantasizing about this weekend for a long time, too. Maybe he'd even write a story about it?

They kissed ferociously, rolling about on the floor, unmindful of the plates and cutlery around them. She liked it best when he was atop her, his body covering hers, pressing down on her, incarcerating her. They ground their waists together, dry humping, his lips almost never leaving hers. That was how she liked it, not all that nibbling on her neck or earlobes or chin that a certain someone always thought was sexy. She just liked kissing, hot, hard and passionate, exploring his mouth with her tongue and sucking his own tongue deep into her mouth. It could be painful, but never for long. She could always kiss it to make it better.

She was nicely buzzed now, but knew she could go a lot farther before becoming incapacitated. Her top was getting in the way so she stripped it off, then pulled his t-shirt off him, wishing she could rip it from his body. That was a lot harder to do in real life than in the movies, she'd discovered to her dismay one drunken night. Her attention turned to his shorts, and she kept his cock occupied with her mouth while she pushed the soft fabric down to his ankles and then off his feet. He tasted a little spunky and she knew it was probably from pre-cum elicited during their make out session.

She knew the taste but didn't like it, unlike most women, according to her husband. Still, she'd come a long way in this area over the past few years. It had taken quite a bit of convincing and bribery to get her to even suck cock. And even more bribery to get her to let anyone cum in her mouth. She still wouldn't swallow it. That just felt wrong. And no amount of wine was going to change that.

But she understood why he tasted that way and took a fair amount of pride in knowing that she'd been the source of it. Unlike earlier, now she wanted to get as much as she gave. With her free hand, she fumbled at her panties, grateful that he understood her actions and gave her a helping hand. She positioned herself so she could lick his cock and balls while he thumbed and fingered her pussy with one hand, and rolled her nipples between his fingers with the other hand. The twin manipulations made her gasp with desire and she swung herself atop his body, lowering herself upon his erection until he could travel no farther into her wet pussy.

She felt like she was of two bodies. One looking on as she writhed decadently upon his thick rod, a sweat-soaked slut that can never be satisfied. And the other feeling his cock stretching her hole, deep inside her, possessing her, robbing her of all strength to resist and any semblance of decorum. She looked down as she lifted her cunt up along the length of his shaft, mesmerized by the sight of it disappearing into her depths. She rode him, bouncing up and down on him, while he supported her at the waist with strong, sure hands. Her husband liked her this way too, except he always wanted her to stay still while he fucked her from below. This way, though, she was in complete control, not just a fuck hole, but an active participant, stroking him in a way few could duplicate.

She wondered briefly how she looked to him, his cock stretching her pussy as it rode up and down. But his eyes were rarely open. And when they were, they stared at her like a carnivore stalking that night's dinner. Ready to devour her at any moment. She leaned forward, his cock still deeply embedded in her hot, wet cunt, and pressed her thin pussy patch against his thick pubes. Her nipples grazed his chest and she sensuously swayed back and forth, her breasts stimulating his nipples, hardening them with exotic promise. They kissed, their tongues probing in time with her humping motion, and she wondered briefly if this might be what it felt like to be fucked by two men at once. Another fantasy she'd never shared with anyone. But such a fucking turn on!

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, and though it made it harder for her to hump him, she was glad for the contact. She wondered how close he was to cumming. She didn't know any of his warning signs. She didn't care if he came deep inside her. Didn't care if he coated her cunt with his thick, creamy eruption. She just wasn't ready for this to end. She wanted more. Far more. Wanted him to fuck her brutally, with the kind of mindless, dirty, filthy lust you only saw in the movies. But real. Not faked.

As if he read her mind, again, he carefully rolled her over, his weight momentarily crushing her. She had never really liked that, but this time it felt unaccountably exciting. Then he regained his balance and lifted himself until the only point connecting them was the stiff rod pinning her to the ground. He levered himself up, lifting his rod completely out of her, and leaving her disconcertingly empty, and then plunged himself violently back inside her. He did that again and again, as if pillaging her anew every time. And she spread her legs farther open each time, welcoming him to fuck her as much as he wanted.

They continued that way for stroke after stroke, the only change an occasional respite where he would reach down and rub his cock up and down her glistening slit, as if to remind her that there was more to this than simply sliding in and out.

Soon, though, it became apparent that she'd have to put a stop to this. The big meal, combined with the wine, had filled her up in more ways than one. And his body was placing a lot of pressure on her bladder. In short, she needed to pee. But would he interpret her needing to stop as some sort of rejection? It was hard to tell with men. Their egos really did need a lot of coddling. And most were horrendously poor at interpreting anything. And then they'd find meaning in something that had no meaning.

None of that speculation changed her current predicament, she reminded herself. She still needed to pee. So, gently, slowly, tenderly, she withdrew her body from his. At his questioning look, she told him her destination. To which he answered that he did too. What, she wondered, did he really mean by that?

He really did need to go, but he let her have first occupancy of the water closet. Women just didn't have as many options. Or, in his experience, the ability to hold it for very long. Besides, he'd been looking for a reason to break it off for a while. Not because it wasn't enjoyable. Far from it. But he needed to pace himself, because he was pretty sure he was only good for one more shot. That was something that women always seemed to forget. Men had a limited number. Women could keep going virtually forever. And because he was, well, greedy was the only word for it, he wanted to keep going as long as humanly possible. Because it just felt so damn good.

Besides, he thought it would be good for both of them to deny themselves for a while. It might be a long and intense night. Their last night together for... forever, probably. And she'd want to open the fourth locker in spite of her trepidation. He was sure of that. She might even do it just to stand up to her fears. He knew what was inside, of course. His associate had made a big deal out of it. And it was true, it wasn't something you saw every day. And she'd probably really enjoy it. He wouldn't even be too bothered if it left her exhausted, which would probably be the case. After all, he'd wanted to give her a weekend to remember, and that would be memorable for sure.

After she returned and he finished with his business, they headed out to the fire pit. He saw her cast a few furtive glances at the shed door and guessed that she was already wondering what was in the final locker. And why were they wasting their time on a dumb fire when they could be exploring that locker. And why was this fire so important, anyway.

He had always liked fires. From the day he was old enough to stand near one without crib bars between him and the flames. Some of his favorite memories came from times spent in front of a roaring fire. Singing songs with his family, aunts, uncles and grandparents while on vacation. His first stolen kiss at a campfire on the lake. Cozying up with a shivering girl in front of an open fireplace. A fire was mesmerizing and comforting. And, even though it had nothing to do with their time spent together, he was damned if he was going to skip such a perfect opportunity to have a blazing campfire.

The evening air had cooled somewhat, the sun having disappeared below the horizon, leaving the sky with a rosy tinge that was quickly turning purple and black. He'd set the wood up in teepee fashion and it took just a single match to set it ablaze. They were both dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and the heat from the fire was enough to keep them both from shivering in the night air. Soon the sky was black and stars were beginning to peek out, barely visible through the canopy of needles. There might've been more stars to see, but the fire was so bright it completely ruined their night vision.

They sat in the lawn chairs, side by side, close enough to touch but not touching. He let his mind wander as he gazed into the fire, the flames like ribbons, an undulating kaleidoscope of color. He could sit like that for hours until forced into movement by the need to tend the fire. She seemed restless, tapping her fingers, fidgeting, changing positions every five minutes. He wondered if she was always like this. Some people, he knew, were constitutionally incapable of sitting still and relaxing. They always needed to be in motion. Like toys without an off button.

That thought made him wonder what she was like at home. He shook his head with a smile. He was falling into one of his favorite games. Maybe it was a self esteem thing. Or an advanced case of voyeurism. Or a weird need to always be in the know. But he always wanted to know more about other people than they were likely to share about themselves. The personal details about their lives. The intimate workings of their marriages. The kinds of minutiae that most people took for granted.

Part of it, if he was being completely honest, came from wanting to know how his life measured up. Was he doing things the right way? The way most other men did them? What level of taking charge was acceptable? Expected? Desired? How did other couples conduct their lives in bed? Outside of the bedroom he figured he was all right. Respectful of her opinions. Working together to build a marriage and life. There was lots of information to be had on that subject, lots of studies to be studied. Information about how people conducted themselves in the bedroom was a lot less prevalent.

He paused in his reflection, watching her fidget in the chair next to him. How long would it take until she suggested some other activity? He resolved then and there to make her wait to open the last locker. His form of tease and deny.

Sometimes he wished that his wife was more like what she purported to be. Give her a gift and get such and such act in return. Gifts for grab ass. Perfume for pussy. Jewelry for jizz. He wasn't sure what the going rate was, but it was probably more expensive than he guessed. In fact, just recently she'd shown him a new necklace and implied that she'd be providing her husband with something in return. His guess was a blowjob and facial, possibly with a few pictures thrown in. But, maddeningly, she neither confirmed nor denied it.

In the end, he really just wanted to know what he could get away with in the bedroom. It would suck to end up getting old and unable to perform only to find out that his wife would've role-played some of his fantasies if he'd only asked. But he was much too polite to ask. And so it continued. A perpetual circle of self-doubt.

Which was another reason why this weekend was so liberating. There'd be no consequences to asking, as they'd never be in this position again. So he could ask or push or lead in any direction he wanted to take her. And she could say no or yes or maybe or we'll see without his having to worry what she really meant by that. It was a good thing she couldn't read his mind. She'd think that he was a real wimp.

She could take it no longer. Was it possible that he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open, gazing into that stupid fire? Had his contacts melted to his eyeballs? Was he now comatose and in need of serious medical help? His inactivity was driving her insane! There was still so much to see and do, and here they were wasting time in front of this fire. Sure, it was a nice fire. Big. Roaring. Hot. Everything a campfire is supposed to be. Perfect, down to the glowing embers floating lazily into the night sky. A real work of art, this fire. What was it with men and fires?

She considered her options. She could go bold, unexpected and decidedly slutty. She could crawl out of her chair, kneel between his legs, pull out his cock and suck him out of his reverie. She was sure her oral skills were more than up to the task of waking him up to the night's remaining possibilities. Or she could go subtle. Ease around his chair, run her fingers through his hair, give him a shoulder rub. Maybe give him a few light kisses to remind him of what's available. Or she could go ultra subtle. Saunter into the darkness of the forest. The mysterious goddess, briefly glimpsed among the trees. See if she could seduce him away from the light and into her own magical darkness.

She was moving even as she thought it, rising and heading up the nearest hill without a single glance in his direction. She listened carefully. Would he follow? Away from the fire's crackling the silence of the forest spread around her. She couldn't hear him. But she refused to look back. He would either follow her or not. If not, she'd simply return in a few minutes, wait a bit, then try a more direct plan. She'd win this game, one way or another.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt hands upon her shoulders, and despite her determination she turned to make sure it really was him. His lips captured hers even before she could swing around, his tongue sliding inside her mouth as if it knew it belonged there. Maybe it did. The thought flitted through her consciousness only to be replaced by a wave of desire as he insistently pushed his hands up inside her t-shirt, roughly manhandling her breasts while brusquely thumbing her nipples.