tagHumor & SatireWC 102: Outdoor Angie

WC 102: Outdoor Angie

byRumple Foreskin©

You and your soul mate are alone in a sun-kissed pasture, entwined in a torrid lover's knot. High times and hot sex fill the afternoon you and your lover spend on a serene hillside. The two of you make slow, sensual love in an intimate grotto tucked behind a tropical waterfall.

Hot, steaming, al fresco sex is a favorite fantasy for many folks. That's why it's a common subject in romance and erotic writing.

Great sex in the great outdoors can happen. But fiction writers seldom give the whole, unvarnished story of such encounters. It's true that nature can be breathtakingly beautiful. But when it comes to sex, beds are best. Those of a contrary opinion are both wrong, and encouraged to consider the trials and tribulations of Angelina Eveready.

As is the case with many otherwise sane, normal people born and raised in the big city, Angie yearned for bucolic bliss. Her all-consuming fantasy was to make unbridled love with a rugged, yet sensitive, mountain man in the great out-of-doors. In her imagination, passion overwhelms them in some secluded mountain glade during a summer rainstorm, or they make love while swimming nude in a tranquil lake, or the two of them frolic in an isolated meadow filled with songbirds and flowers.

So entrenched was this longing for splendor in the grass, after the fall semester of her freshman year, she defied her parents and, with the encouragement of her cousin, Etta Toupes, transferred from Elitist Private University to that bastion of rural virtues, Wodehouse College.

Etta was Angie's cousin. That and the fact both were female was about all they had in common. Etta was cute, blonde, perky, very smart, poor, and two years older. Angie was voluptuous, brunette, sultry, just smart enough, rich, and two years younger. Naturally, they were great friends and decided to share an apartment.

When Angie arrived in January, the much praised WC campus proved to be cold, dreary, and disappointing. The weather was too miserable to do anything outside and there wasn't much to do inside except study and go to basketball games. Sometime around Valentine's Day, Etta hooked up with a guy named Willie Sinclair and became scarce. To Angie, it seemed like spring had been cancelled due to boredom.

Then April arrived and with it the approach of Earth Day. Signs of nature's renewal began showing up everywhere. The sun became warmer, the days longer, and student apparel skimpier. All this renewed Angie's primal longing to play nymph to some insatiable satyr in an elysian field of erotic delights.

It was her good fortune to possess the three qualities most needed to fulfill her desires. She was a female, and she was in love with the ideal of love. In other words, she was easy. It didn't hurt that her earth-mother figure and exotic good looks attracted men ranging in age from pre-school to post-senility.

That fall's crop of freshmen females had been a poor one, boasting few blue-ribbon keepers. This paucity of prime pulchritude and her own ample charms made Angie an instant, and much sought after, sensation.

Her first conquest was Ernie, a good friend of Willie and Etta. No doubt this choice struck some as odd. For while it's true he was sort of handsome when viewed in a certain light, Ernie was not the rugged, mountain man type. Nor was he interested in becoming one. Having grown up in the rustic region surrounding the Wodehouse campus, he tended to take nature for granted. In his opinion, the best thing about the outdoors was coming indoors.

But though built on the long and lanky model and no woodsman, he was patient and smart. Those attributes played a vital role in the remarkable improvement in Angie's academic fortunes during the first half of the semester.

To her credit, Angie was quick to reward this kindness. To her delight, Ernie's slender frame was more than offset by two compensating factors. A member of the school's cross-country track team; he possessed great stamina. And then there was his being, to quote a locker-room wag, "hung like a fucking Missouri mule." After becoming aware of both factors, Angie shifted her rewards program into overdrive.

None of that "rewarding" activity lessened her wish to experience pastoral passion, however. With her full lips, talented tongue, enticing cleavage, nimble fingers, and almost total lack of anything resembling a sexual inhibition, Angie seldom had trouble coaxing men. Long before the first warm weekend of the year, the reluctant Ernie had been well and truly coaxed into obliging her.

When the great day arrived, Angie, being romantic, brought a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a copy of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Ernie, being practical, brought a plastic ground cloth, a blanket, and a first aide kit. He also brought his dog, an aging but still inquisitive beagle named, Buford.

The chosen spot was under a towering tree in an out-of-the-way rustic glen. Ernie busied himself smoothing a spot and spreading the ground cover and blanket. The moment these tasks were completed, he learned what Angie had been doing. Wearing nothing but a big smile, she jumped onto the blanket and pulled him down beside her.

Foreplay was not on the agenda. Ernie's clothes seemed to vanish, followed moments later by his prodigious penis. But while neither had any idea where his clothes were, both knew the exact location of his magic sword; buried up to the hilt in Angie's writhing body.

Even with his endurance and her desire, that first explosion of passion couldn't last forever. When they started to recover, a jug of wine and a loaf of bread weren't what Angie wanted. She wasn't even interested in Ernie being beside her singing in the wilderness. What interested her was having him on his back with his cock planted way up inside her pussy while she sat on top, controlling the pace and teasing him with her breasts.

Thanks to her remarkable ability to coax men, she soon had everything she wanted. In a way, Angie was like Will Rogers except she never met a sexual position she didn't like. But this one was special. It generated a wave of warm, tender emotions she began sharing with her lover.

"Oh, fucking yes! It's just so fan-fucking-tastic, to the fucking max. I mean, feeling every sweet fucking inch of your big fucking beautiful cock rooting around inside me, it's just, you know, like so in-fucking-credible."

Words failed her before she could make any specific comments regarding the exquisite pressure Ernie's erection was creating inside her body or how being able to look around at all the beauties of nature was adding to her pleasure. But he seemed to understand.

A large tree trunk blocked the view in front of her. But there were butterflies in the wildflowers to her left. A few feet away on the right, birds flew in and out of a large thicket. Ernie's old dog was nearby, stretched out on its belly in a patch of sunlight, watching them and slowly wagging its tail. She wondered what the dog thought about all this. Was he bored or enjoying the show?

Fucking like this was so fucking good, so right. She cupped her breasts, kneading and rotating the heavy globes. Doing that always felt sexy, and like most guys, Ernie seemed fascinated. She noticed the dog's tail was moving faster. Maybe they both were. The thought made her giggle.

She began slowly rocking back and forth, enjoying the sensation of that huge hammer moving inside her. Making love outdoors was even better than she'd imagined. Feeling the sun and wind on your bare skin was such a turn-on. Everything was peaceful and sexy. The sounds of nature were accompanied by the gentle slurping of her lover's thick shaft moving inside her wet, and, oh so happy, pussy.

The more she thought about the scene, the hotter she got. It wasn't long before she was leaning forward, hands on Ernie's shoulders, her full breasts swaying back and forth, gently slapping against his face as he tried to capture one of the erect, elusive nipples with his lips.

Angie felt herself slipping into the moment, her body taking control as her mind became a swirl of sensory delights. Ernie latched onto one of her breasts. He sucked hard, taking in more and more flesh before releasing just enough to let him chew on the sensitive nipple.

On some subconscious level, Angie knew her hips were moving faster and faster, knew Ernie was meeting each downward stroke with a hard, upward thrust, knew she was on the brink of an outdoor orgasm for the ages.

Something very cold, very wet, and totally unexpected pushed in between the cheeks of her exposed, and unsuspecting ass. She was about halfway through what should have been the penultimate downward plunge. Her body braked to a halt. Defying all known laws of inertia, it reversed directions with such speed and force she pulled a lower back muscle. This went unnoticed at the time and does not appear to have impeded her subsequent movements.

The rapid reversal was accompanied by a spectacular sound. It bore a striking resemblance, in both its high frequency and even higher volume, to the nerve shattering screech emitted by well-tuned tornado alert sirens in the great state of Kansas.

With a speed that would have pleased an Olympic sprinter coming off the starting line, she was rushing away from the cold terror down below. That this terror was just another one of nature's marvels, in this case the cold, wet nose of Buford the beagle, would never mollify Angie. In any case, the information remained unknown to her until well after the crises passed.

We need to stop at this point and consider the situation. Ernie is naked and on his back with an empty mouth and an exposed penis in the initial stages of what has suddenly become a mid-air ejaculation. As with all men during such events, his mind has shutdown.

Buford, the nosey beagle who triggered this event, is wondering what happened to the source of all those strange sounds and tempting smells. Although possibly unfamiliar with either the band or the term, like ZZ Top, he's just looking for some tush.

The miniscule portion of Angie's cerebral cortex still in working order is wondering how to get even further away from whatever the hell that cold, wet, disgusting thing was that just assaulted her ass. This strong, instinctual desire to flee is about to present a very big problem.

Although no member of this dysfunctional ménage-au-trios is aware of the fact, a thick blanket of pine needles covers the ground around them. They helped cushion the earth's surface for Angie and Ernie while providing a happy home for blood-sucking parasites such as ticks and redbugs.

As is often the case with pine needles when thus observed, these are all dead. To work as intended, they must have a direct connection to a tree limb. If limbs are to function properly, they need to be attached to a tree trunk. And it follows, as night doth the day, that trunks not securely attached to the ground cease supporting the life above them and become logs or firewood.

As realtors are always quick to remind us, location is everything. The instigator of this crisis, Buford the beagle, is currently out of harm's way. However, the heads of Ernie and Angie are positioned mere inches from a very thick, very hard, very immovable tree trunk. To be precise, it is the trunk of an otherwise unoffending (Pinus taeda), more commonly referred to as a loblolly pine.

Ernie's head is more or less immobile. And since he's still occupied firing his load off into the wild blue yonder, his brain remains completely inoperative. He is, therefore, relatively safe.

The same cannot be said for Angie or her head. The portion commonly referred to as her mouth is wide open and busy responding to the brain's terror alert by screaming like a Hollywood B movie actress confronting a particularly gruesome monster, or her third casting couch of the day. Along with the rest of Angie's body, it is hurtling forward with mind-boggling speed.

Due to the extreme velocity of this motion, the distance between the top of her head and the tree trunk is diminishing at a rate any impartial observer would describe as, alarming. Some might even be moved to add, very. The laws of motion being what they are, the top of head "A" (Angie) is mere nanoseconds away from contacting the side of trunk "T"(guess) with a loud—

THUNK!

After-action damage assessment:

Angie:
1. Pulled muscle in lower back
2. Large contusion (bump) on head
3. Assorted teeth marks on left nipple
4. Spine in need of adjustment
5. Neck in need of adjustment
6. Numerous itchy redbug and tick bites
7. A tendency towards anxiety attacks when attempting the female superior position
8. A badly sprained wrist (note: This can only be indirectly attributed to the collision. The chief precipitating factor appears to have been her administering a "good one" to Ernie's face.)

Ernie:
1. One loose tooth (it was a very "good one")
2. A busted lip (see number one)
3. Numerous itchy redbug and tick bites
4. A chronic case of semen retention headache resulting from Angie terminating (with extreme prejudice) her rewards program

Buford:
1. A well-grounded fear of angry, large-breasted, naked, female-type humans
2. Chronic nightmares of one such human, with a big bump on her head and a large tree limb held in one hand, chasing him for miles

--

One would think such an experience would have ended Angie's fascination with the idea of outdoor sex. If so, one would have thought wrong. What the experience did do was convince her getting laid in the shade amidst the great outdoors required a real outdoorsman, not a skinny, indoor nerd, even if he was sweet.

No doubt it can be attributed to her being a naïve freshman that in her search of this man of the wilderness, Angie turned to a graduate student in wildlife biology. In her defense, it should be pointed out that Bruce at least looked the part. He was tall, broad-shoulder and seemed to know everything there was to know about the fauna and flora in the forest primeval. Unfortunately, this extensive knowledge, and the starting lineup of the '27 Yankees, comprised virtually all he knew or cared about.

This became apparent the moonlit night when, after some skillful coaxing on Angie's part, she and Bruce slipped off to a local lake. They paused beside the dark, still waters to play a spirited game of squeeze and tickle while ripping off each other's clothes.

Unfortunately, the extra skin surface attracted even more mosquitoes. By mutual agreement they stopped fondling one another and wadded into the lake. This movement involved a series of tentative stops and starts. For while it was April and spring was in the air, winter's chill was still in the water.

Angie had expected nice, clean sand on the lake bottom, like that at the beach. What she got was weeds and a thick mud that felt yucky squeezing between her toes. But she was too excited to care about any of that, at least not much. They played in the water like two horny, if somewhat chilly, otters. The whole scene got her so turned on, she decided to surprise Bruce with an underwater blowjob.

She was clinging to his back, her legs wrapped around his middle, and nibbling on his right earlobe when she got the idea for an underwater blowjob. She told him to spread his legs. When he obliged, she took several deep breaths, slid down his back and under the surface. Moving quickly, she slithered head first between his long legs, then moved up in front of his thick, semi-soft organ and slipped it between her lips.

The reaction was immediate and strong. He placed both big hands on her head and began thrusting into her mouth. That was okay, at first. But he kept pumping, forcing himself in deeper and deeper. That threatened to trigger her gag reflex, which would further deplete her quickly diminishing supply of air.

She tried to push his hands away, but they remained firmly in place. Bruce was big and strong and in the grip of two powerful passion. That he was racing toward an orgasm was obvious to Angie. What she did not, could not, know was that while his body was responding to her mouth, his wildlife biologist brain was responding to the sight of two raccoons that had waddled up to the nearby shore.

In a way, Bruce was in the pleasant position of having both his heads satisfied at the same time. The situation was far from pleasant for Angie, who was making a quick transition from discomfort and worry to agony and near panic. She couldn't get Bruce's attention. The water kept her from hitting him hard enough to do the job. And she didn't want to bite. That would be painful, maybe even dangerous. She would do it only as a last resort—a situation that was rapidly getting closer.

No doubt aided by a combination of oxygen deprivation and survival instinct, she remembered his testicles, i.e., Bruce's balls. Almost frantic by now, she wrapped her fingers around the sensitive sack and gave it a gentle squeeze. Judging by what happened next, it's possible the squeeze was a just a wee bit harder than she intended. Bruce reacted violently to this testicular torment, jerking backwards while shoving her head away.

In light of certain teeth marks and scratches emergency room personnel later observed scattered about on the penis of her watery lover, it appears Angie may have failed to fully open her mouth. Whatever the source, it is true that when these injuries occurred, the condition of Bruce's dick was not even close to being her primary concern.

With her supply of oxygen all but exhausted and her open mouth now unoccupied, she instinctively inhaled, and swallowed a large quantity of lake water. Thanks to the force of Bruce's unexpected shove, the same bare bottom that so attracted Buford the beagle, had just come to rest on the lake's slimy bottom.

She swallowed more water before getting her feet beneath her. With a desperate shove, she shot upward until her head broke the surface. One deep breath later, she vomited, then puked, retched, barfed, hurled, and even threw-up before her pollution of the lake ended in a series of dry-heaves.

Bruce was neither sympathetic nor apologetic. To his grad student mind, getting in that cold-ass lake and the underwater blowjob were her ideas. What's more, she put a serious hurt on his nuts, mutilated his member, then scared off the raccoons with all her gagging and puking. And to make matters worse, he never got off.

After-action damage assessment:

Angie:
1. A sore throat
2. An aching jaw
3. Fear of having her face under water
4. Numerous mosquito bits
5. A head cold

Bruce:
1. Cuts and abrasions on shaft of penis
2. Sore testicles - temporary
3. No Angie, in or out of water - permanent
4. Numerous mosquito bits
5. A head cold

It's a testament to the power of Angie's fantasy that even after first smashing her head against a tree, and then almost drowning, she still yearns for sex in a sylvan setting. When will she ever learn?

Keep checking the list of entries in Literotica's Earth Day Writing Competition for the next earthy episode of, Outdoor Angie.

--

note: This is an entry in the Earth Day Writing Contest. Considering my past record, odds are votes and comments will be my only reward, again. Be kind. RF

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