Nature's Way - A Warm Afternoon

Copyright 2007 by Richard Williams. All rights reserved.

All names, and most of the detail in this story is fictitious. If I've accidentally used your name, my apologies, but if you think you'll make lots of money in a lawsuit, imagine how silly you'll feel when you find out there is no money to be made by doing so.

THE NATURAL WAY

by Prof. Richard W.

(formerly of the University of ____________)

Several of my on-line friends have asked me whether, aside from Meg (see "Meg's Uniform" in this library), I ever savored experiences with anyone other than co-eds during my days as a professor. One even intimated that I had a thing about young women. I reminded that correspondent that when I first came into teaching at the university, that I was not much older than my students. Also, I've only written about them previously because there were so many women students, that it is easier for me to disguise them enough in the stories so I can avoid giving away their identities.

HOWEVER, the expanding web of the Internet has reached into so many households, that recently, after deductions made from a discreetly coded comment in a website guestbook, I found myself exchanging e-mail with a colleague from those days, or perhaps I should say "kollegin." Barbara Niedlich is back in her home town in Germany now, and enjoys reading these stories. As she was in her mid-40's when I was a younger faculty member, I think that she must be one of the older Internet users, but I can tell you that she remains youthful at heart -- and elsewhere.

She asked me, in fact encouraged me, to write our story and post it here. And from a practical relationship standpoint, she says, Rolf, the retired Bundespost letter carrier who visits her weekly for tea and wild sex, does not use the Internet anyway. (She says that Rolf is quite experienced at giving sexual pleasure, having delivered so much of it to hausfrauen in his working days -- but that's another story.)

In response, therefore, to your requests, here is my account of our time together, critiqued already through e-mail by Professorin Barbara. We both hope that you will enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed recapturing those days.

---

".... apple ... pear... strawberries," you muse,
as you sort
through the refrigerator.

As an Art professor,
with a diploma
from the Kunstakademie, you know a thing or two
about still-life fruits.

Today this is a practical thing to do,
to prepare,
but also evokes pleasing images
of past experiences on paths which led away
from the humdrum drumming of daily sounds
or led to new vistas
or drew you
to old familiar friendly places.

You can picture yourself biting into one of these fruits
and feeling the tart refreshing taste
on your tongue, a taste of pleasing times past and yet
to come.

But strawberries, plump and red ready as they are,
would be crushed in your backpack,
and so they must wait, presumably in darkness,
(although one never knows whether the light goes out
when the refrigerator door clicks shut.)

As you snug selected fruits
in amongst other needful things
you try to think of anything else--
"Is there anything I am missing?
What do I want?
What have I enjoyed having before
when last I escaped duties
and shared some time with myself?"

You realize though
that you already have
the most important thing
to bring with you
and that is your imagination.

A person could survive
in this country
with little but that
in the warm summer days
and dry nights of August.

Your bicycle waits inanimate,
yet full of a hidden spirit--
not puffing like a steam locomotive,
nor flexing muscles nervously like a young nude
before some longed for moment of sexual action,
but almost willing to take off on its own
if you do not take hold of it.

Mount it like a skilled lover
in a smooth blend of motion into motion,
for if you pause to think about it
the trip will end in a tumble here
in your hostesses' driveway.

You and your two-wheeled steed roll
out into tree-canopied streets
which lead by plan toward the business district,
but someone like you who packs imagination
in her picnic supplies
realizes the flaw --
in your eyes it catches the light --
in that these streets also lead
away from the business district,
down toward the creekside trail.

Down past the unfolding golf course
great chestnuts and maples arch
over the curving lines of the curbs and walks,
sheltering you from the afternoon sun
which makes itself known
in flashes blinking as you pass
through the perspective changes.

The golf course fence rails are continuous,
to infinity as if they are a railway track turned
on its side.

The trees,
on the other hand, make their own strong angles,
each so assertively grabbing
at the sky
that they forget
in their competition
to fill in with green those little blue patches.

So the sun
in stroboscopic motion fires its rays
at a crow here or a rose bush there,
then spotlights your hand, your knee,
the turning wheels, and even the spokes
that slice it
into photons and scatters them as petals
behind you.

Leaving traffic and daily cares behind,
you are pulled by gravity
and propelled by wanderlust
into the creek's watershed
on back streets with names of forgotten men
where the trees finally have their act together,
closing off those occasional sneaks of sky.

Cool air sits
at the bottom of the hill, waiting for you
just in time as you realize perspiration is running
down your brow.

You pass a couple who climb the hill
in happy silence-- they nod and turn
back to each other again-- having no need
of words in their moment
of intimate hunger
for each other.

"Turn back!" you warn them in your thoughts,
wanting them to stay content in this place,
wanting them to enjoy Nature's gift to them
in Nature's special place,
but they have some urgent objective
in mind, perhaps shaped by the interaction
of their caresses and kisses.

In her shapeless workout suit a runner stretches
to warm up
before attacking the uphill route
and a mother sits and reads while her child swings
in the little playground at the entrance
to the trail.

At each apex of her swing, the child cries out
in celebration of her moment of freedom from gravity,
approaches the wooded trail in her flight
and then pendulums safely
back toward her mother, glancing
to see that she is still there.

Glide into the enclosing trees and bushes,
now alone with Nature, who seems
to have sent those other people home,
so that she can entertain you,
as a courtesan brings her lover
into her garlanded boudoir,
without unwanted distractions.

Angular guard rails interrupt the irregular patterns
of Nature,
in a well-meaning attempt to keep you
on the path and
out of the creek.

For there it is, bubbling
toward the Willamette, Johnson Creek, playing
with the round rocks and fallen leaves,
not revealing its occasional swelling power
which enters this ravine each Spring and
in a tumble of foam, torrentially splashes life
into this currently peaceful part of Earth.

It's so easy to follow now
to the place which you discovered before,
where the flood power this Spring moved the old logs
around for you as easily and unintentionally
as hot lovers unmaking their bed.

It engineered a modest clearing of sorts,
before receding to its happy, bubbling self, a place
to lay out your blanket and open your pack,
where only the sharpest eyes can make out the diverging path
into your secluded grove.

You found it on an earlier expedition, and now you alight,
push aside the leafy brush and walk your bike
through the grabbing blackberry bushes, Nature's Velcro,
that guard this unadvertised special part.

"What all is in this pack?" you ask,
and toss the blanket over the humid bottom land
near the creek, then lay things out
to see what goodies you packed
for yourself.

Having done this before, there are no big surprises,
and everything will contribute
to the growing sense of well-being that spreads
out with the blanket
in this perfect, private picnic space.

You first detected the magic of this place
when you would relax and remove your blouse
and soak in the summer heat; it reminded you
of that beach up near Esjberg, a kind of place
which you had never found
in this alien culture
in this time.

Lean back
on the half-folded pack, unbutton your blouse now,
and look
for tiny sunlight openings
in the tree canopy over you.

A sudden feeling of warmth wells
from within, spurred by memories, makes you
realize that you already have
the most important thing unpacked
and that is your imagination.

With all the familiar landmarks
and the entrancing repetitious burbles of the creek
around you it is easy to begin remembering
your visit before, and a time when you found me
with my brimming blackberry pail reaching
for the sweetest, juiciest treasures.

You laugh out loud, upsetting a squirrel,
as you recall how I almost fell
into the stickery branches when you surprised me
there in the 'secret' clearing.

You saw that it made me happy
when you took a chance and chose to stay, leading me
to reach higher and higher, watched me precariously lean
into the clutching green arms, to try
for the most beautiful berry of all, just
beyond reach it seemed.

You held your breath beautifully for me,
and I only got a few scratches
that drew blood
from this seemingly pagan fruit ritual
in which, naturally, I presented you
with the sacred object of my effort.

Perhaps hindsight shows you
that this was a prehistoric test, created
in your subconscious, something genetically programmed,
that women would desire a mate who could reach deeply
into a blackberry bush
without drawing back hesitantly.

Now replay the scene
in slow motion (wonder if people did that
before Hollywood directors invented the technique),
stretch time out to enjoy again and again my coming
toward you, me perspiring happily
from the strain, and only bleeding just the tiniest bit.

"It is only a flesh wound, ma'am," I assure you,
and even though you knew that to be true,
as only the clumsiest die from attacks by blackberry thorns,
and most are only Eastern tourists, you marvel again
at how despite the pain I held the berry so delicately
within my fingertips, turning it
before you so that you could see Nature's perfect pattern
between us.

Remember, too, that I was able
to gently posess that fruit
while letting my gaze rove
over your lithe form,
and that I did not even harm it
when I noticed that perspiration
had molded your blouse
to your braless bosom.

Your lips part even now as you remember me holding it, the berry,
to them, so careful to place the indescribable taste
on your tongue intact, both of us knowing
that this time could not be repeated, but if savored fully
with intensely focused senses, would last in our memories
for a lifetime,
or at least as long as we had good taste.

Now you lie back in this glade, the humid warmth again
surrounding your bared breasts,
and take pleasure in the recollection, knowing that it will
turn up whenever you chose to recall the feeling
as your tongue squeezed slowly against the berry, pushing it
to the roof of your mouth.

What ancient unspoken communications had
passed between us then, as your conscious mind full
of trivial details, concerns and fears, argued
against me, talked of nothings, while
inside your subconscious deftly took command.

I, too, was full
of academic trivia and departmental gossip,
as my balls churned frantically
in preparation
for you.

You knew of me as the shallow young instructor,
of whom,
with whom,
for whom,
too many
of your female students had shared real
or imagined experiences.

You had seen how the utterly dull, conventional still life
on Katie Wilson's canvas, half-finished as she struggled for colors,
had suddenly burst into a carnival of delight
after our meetings on her term paper.

You had been amused when Karen Olivetti, the uptight ed major,
had suddenly, aggressively wanted
into the "permission only" figure studies class (the one
where varsity baseball second baseman Bill Sanders would pose
in the nude),
Miss Olivetti having blushed ferociously
at the thought only days ago,
before she came and came again as my project assistant.

And now, as we chatted amiably, your tongue continued
to clean your lips, even
after most of the berry stain was gone,
and when I teasingly pointed that out, you
at first denied it,
but that forced your conscious mind
to notice the fact that inside your clothing,
you were being subverted
by your own firming breasts, now-tender nipples,
and an irrational desire
to have my berry-delicate fingers between your thighs.

Hurriedly trying
to catch up with the plan already being implemented
by your libido, your conscious mind realized
that it would be interesting, just this once,
in this secret unexpected rendezvous,
to find out
for yourself what entranced your students.

As a mature woman, and as one who had spent her younger days
in Bohemian relationships, having,
after all, been the unknown Muse speculated
by critics and art historians
to have existed
in Kriscenzsy's turbulent life
in post-War Vienna, you only had angst
for the possibility of
mediocrity or a dire shortage of schlagsahne
in his place
when you chose to accept a lover.

And, dear Barbara, was it not true that there were others, too?
The British Army officer who poured Devonshire cream
for you at teatime, and who always kept a stiff
upper lip?

The American correspondent who meant to only write
about the public side of your talents,
but who put the wire service desk men and that one woman
into horny, envious reveries, with the sheets
from his well-traveled Remington
growing progressively typo-ridden
as you teasingly removed the lacily Freudian slip
that he had given you,
while he accidentally wrote
about the pubic side of your talents?

Yes, your conscious mind was ready now
to participate,
to place me
in your collection and move us
into frenzied unbuttonings, unhookings, unzippings,
and unbearably deep kisses.

It was ready now,
to step back and let your inner woman direct the proceedings,
while you watched warmly with your artist's eye,
the changing curves of your breasts in my hands,
my lips grazing your tummy,
the elastic band stretching as your femininity emerged
from the plain white panties you had selected
for this quiet afternoon's bicycle ride.

And no matter how experienced, you still enjoyed it,
the excitement of watching as I wrenched my briefs
around my expanding cock, and then it being delightfully free
to climb into position, knowing that you had
become my entire focus, that I was taking the form
predestined to fit your powerful requirements.

You remember, do you not, stretching out as you are now,
Venus on a half-empty backpack and a picnic blanket,
legs opening, eager, as I knelt and kissed my way
to your pounding heart
from your teasing toes, and then came down
over you, entering just when you were ready
to demand my presence
inside?

You must remember that your bicycle-exercised thighs
surrounded me with feminine strength,
and the way you folded your legs
over me, and held me
inside you with your heels riding the small of my back,
your toes savoring the urgent energies
of the muscles flexing
through my hips
as I moved you,
within you,
to release,
your secret Pallete
of colors.

Recollect the look of utter satisfaction
as I took my pleasure
in sharing yours and
with the murmur of the creek waters flowing past,
you can easily recall our conversation afterward,
interrupted only by our returning again and again
for just one more berried treasure.

I asked you
about a lot of things, but most importantly,
how did that first berry taste
as you caressed it
on your tongue,
and then felt it yield its precious juice?

You assured me that you would always remember it,
as you are doing at this point in time, and then
with sticky fingers, pink teeth and red-stained lips,
we took our farewell.

You watched me withdraw through the guardian bushes,
the same ones which now change to twilight colors,
before your half-opened eyes.

Nattering squirrels which you hear
in the distance will bring you
out of your reverie and
back into the present, time flowing
with the stream has caught up
with you, the challenging uphill ride is
ahead.

Stop to look
into the moving water, but
aside from dappled light made
of the leftovers of the day, unfortunately it accepts no reflections.

Too bad, you will think, and I can imagine,
as only the forest jays see the renewed excitement
on your face,
in your eyes,
in the saucy upturn
of your nipples which you hold, that
for a moment, you will draw kiss-sketches,
in your fertile mind,
before tut-tutting the jays, and slipping your blouse
back on.

As you gaze deep into it, though,
and because you packed your imagination
on this trip as
in times before,
you will know that you can picture yourself
in the green secret place whenever it pleases you, and visualize
out of the thinnest air intricate details
of color and form, taking pleasure in the shapes
of man in nature,
and, as you are now,
enjoy the earth-feeling of preparation
in your body
for the entry
of your chosen man.

The world is waiting
for you
at the top
of the hill.

Ride with new energy
and unroll again the long fence
and the canopy of trees,
back to your starting point revitalized
and full of new thoughts.

###

P.S.

After we collaborated on this via e-mail, Barbara claims that she has asked Rolf to increase his deliveries to 2x- or 3x-weekly.