On the San Lorenzo with Lilly

This story is part fantasy, part memoir. . .

The two photos that have been included were approved by the young woman who is actually the subject of the fantasy.

*

I'm not sure what I was expecting to find. I remember this stretch of the San Lorenzo River, above Santa Cruz between Felton and Ben Lomond. You had to know the right jeep trail to take off Highway 9, and it wound down to another social trail that meandered off through sandy soil and redwoods. You could hear the wind sighing softly in the gently swaying younger redwoods, occasionally the echoing screech of a hawk. But another murmur could be heard as well, deeper and more melodic in the distance. The River was calling.

The trail ran down to a series of flat beaches of sand, deposits from the Spring flood, with banks of ferns and other undergrowth hanging off the edges of the bank. Clear green water tumbled over sandbars and a few rocks in the narrower Summer channel, but this was a gentler stretch of the River, not rushing, just flowing lazily along. The murmur was where it tumbled over the occasional shelf of rock and sand. Down here in the valley, the trees towered behind me in late Summer's afternoon warmth. The sun lowering over the western ridges of the Santa Cruz Mountains now beamed in long hazy beams through branches and trunks, leaving dappled shadows dancing through leaves and rippled waves.

She was wandering along the shore. She had on a light flannel shirt, open with the sleeves rolled up. A faded blue plaid, washed and worn so often it was soft and light, almost like chambray, but with a velvety nap to it. Her dark hair tumbled to her shoulders. When she first looked up, I couldn't quite make out the color of her eyes, as they peered between the lustrous dark hair that framed her tanned face. She was biting her lip to one side in concentration as she traversed a few scattered boulders along the riverbank. Then looking up she saw me, and her pursed lips spread into an inviting smile She had on ragged cutoff Levis. . . not whorishly short, but still riding high above her lush, tanned thighs, tight on her pear-shaped ass. She wore a plain white ribbed cotton tank top beneath the light flannel shirt, covering her round breasts. . . barely. The tank top was loose and hinted at the hidden treasure hiding beneath the fabric, but her nipples were insistently straining at their constraint.

I was taken aback at her casual beauty and open smile, and mumbled a hasty and shy apology for disturbing her solitude. But she paused, cocking her head slightly to one side, biting her lip again, and then saying, "Stay. . . I would love some company."

And then she actually reached out and took my hand.

The touch was electric, a rush. We started to walk slowly along the sandy embankments, casually holding hands as if we were already old lovers. I glanced sideways at her and she was looking down almost demurely, minding her footing on the uneven surface.

"What's your name?" I asked, feeling shy and bold all at once.

She turned to look at me, and then smiled a secret smile, looking down to her feet again. Our hand swung gently forward and back as we strolled in the dappled shadows beneath the great trees.

"Lilly," she said simply. "And you? Should I know you better?"

Blushing, I looked at my own feet, but looked up and said, "Scout." She smiled again.

"Sounds like Tonto's horse. . . "she observed slyly.

"Well, I used to drive a classic '72, Scout II. . . but I had to swear off Internationals. They are just too hard to service."

"Mmmmm. . . wisdom."

We came upon a bend in the river, and the embankment was built up into a kind of stage projecting out into the river. It was covered with lush green grass, not gone brown yet in the Summer heat, kept supple in the moist atmosphere down by the water. She paused, let go of my hand and shrugged out of her flannel shirt. She spread the shirt on the grass and gracefully sat down upon it, crossing her legs in front of her. I shrugged out of my day back and sat beside her. It was peaceful, the song of the river and the wind surrounding us.

"Do you live around here, Scout?" she asked quietly.

"No. . . not now, anyway. Years ago, in my sordid youth, I roomed with a co-worker and his wife in Brookdale. Wild times on the graveyard shift. More psychedelics than were probably good for us."

She glanced at me again, seeming to take my measure. "Sounds very hip and dangerous."

"More mundane than you would believe," I said, shaking my head. "But we had this unique ritual driving to and from the job down in the Valley. The drive lasted just as long as the Stephen Stills Mannassas album played on an eight-track."

She giggled. "You're really dating yourself."

"As if my grey beard wasn't a giveaway. But you know. . . we had three sunrises coming home. When we left work, it was just clearing the Hayward Hills. We'd come up Highway 9 from Saratoga and get across Summit Road. Then we'd be in shadow again as we wound down the valley through Boulder Creek. The second sunrise would come over the ridgeline of the Summit." I laughed, thinking about what it was like to be young and high like that, wheeling an old Chevy pickup around the bends and hairpins of the mountain roads.

"By the time we got to our cabin in Brookdale," I continued, "and settled down in the breakfast nook with eggs and bacon and a joint, the sun would clear the final ridge and pour brilliant, high morning light across the table."

She looked wryly amused. "And where was his wife during all this?"

"They were in the process of getting divorced. . . still seeing each other and thinking fondly of one another, but they couldn't live together. There were other lovers, and it was. . . complicated." I shrugged. "She stayed with him some weekends and came often with friends to party. But the process would be final by the end of the year."

"Seems a shame," she murmured. "Such a beautiful place it must have been."

"It really was," I agreed. I looked down as she lay back, resting her head on crossed arms. Her legs were still crossed in front of her, shorts creeping discreetly up her thighs. "I wouldn't want you to think we were living like monks when she wasn't around. There were women coming and going in these parts. I felt so alone sometimes. . . and yet probably a half dozen women passed through my bed at one time or another in the year and a half I lived with those folks."

"And now you return to the scenes of your youthful exploits," she teased.

I nodded. "There was a waitress I had a fearful crush on, and I brought her to this section of the river." I sighed, feeling the reverie. "I really wanted to make love with her here on the banks of the river, I didn't care if we were caught. It was late in the day. . . "

"And. . .?" Lilly prompted.

"It would be terrible to suggest I was disappointed having to wait until I took her back to the cabin. . . but there was a reason I had brought her to the river. Still, we ended up going out to supper and I didn't end up in her arms until we got back home." I smiled my own secret smile. "She was awfully sweet, but kind of tame." I snapped out of it, looked at Lilly lying so comfortable and lovely on the carpet of grass. "What about you? Do you live around here? What brings you to the river at this time of the year?"

She laughed, a natural adjustment of the odd state of the world.

"No," she said. "I'm a stranger to these parts. I came up from Southern California to visit an old college roommate." She looked up at me with a kind of challenge in her eyes. "But she had a gentleman caller show up in her small cabin in the woods." She pulled one hand from behind her head and lay it gently on her tank topped midriff. "I tried to just hang out in the living room when the disappeared to the back of the house, but you know how these mountain cabins are, I imagine. . . "

"Only too well. . . " I said, remembering how often I had heard my roommate with his various lovers, and knowing full well they must have been aware of my shenanigans as well, for it was frequently a party night, with both of us getting lucky of a given evening. Perhaps after dancing at the Catalyst in Santa Cruz, perhaps after tripping around the table on psychedelics playing loud music and playing penny ante poker. Perhaps both.

"You know," she said, reaching up and running her hand up my arm where I sat beside her. "I had to get out of there, not that they cared." She looked at me directly, and went on, "It's just kind of difficult to hear the fun'n'games begin, and not have a partner ready nearby. . ."

I glanced upstream and downstream. . . nothing but the tumbling, sparkling waters of the San Lorenzo and the sighing of the wind in the redwoods. Somewhere up the valley there was the ubiquitous screech of a red-tailed hawk stooping on some unwary prey. I looked again at Lilly, and her lips parted a bit as she smiled. . .

Her kiss was sweet and warm, with just a slight tang of tobacco. . . not a heavy smoker, but the taste of a bon vivant who will have her pleasures. I pressed against her lips with mine, withdrew, touched her lips lightly again, and then felt her hand at the back of my neck, pressing me closer. Our tongues touched, danced around one another, and then plunged deep as we both felt our passions rise.

The tank top she wore was a simple ribbed cotton affair, not tight like lycra or spandex, but which clung naturally to her flat belly and round breasts. I felt the rise and fall of her breathing as I stroked her belly with one hand, lightly grabbed a handful of her fine hair with the other. The hand that wasn't stroking my hair at the back of my head was stroking my outer thigh and butt through my army trousers. I stopped kissing Lilly just long enough to raise up on my knees and pull my denim workshirt off.As she pulled me down again, her hand brushed across my nipples, palm then flat against my belly as she reached for the waistband of my pants.

There was no belt, and she found the button fly easier to work than a zipper. I had gone commando that day, and as she released the buttons one by one, my cock throbbed with rushing blood and eased out as she parted the opening. She grasped from the underside, reaching around with thumb and fingers to make a little hand cunt for my hard member. She rubbed up and down the shaft, squeezing ever so slightly, while her tongue fenced with mine.

Held close to Lilly's lean but luscious body, I felt her undulate her hips against mine. Having finished taking my cock out of my pants and sliding them down off my butt, she reached down and zipped out of her cutoffs. As he pushed them away with a smooth, sure motion of her feet one by one, I felt her hip bones against mine, the bare mound of her womanhood rubbing against my hairy belly and cock. My hand was reaching under the soft jersey fabric of her tank top. . . a decided advantage of the looser fit! Her breasts were just nice, firm handfuls as I stroked her nipples erect.

Lilly suddenly rolled out from under me, rose up on her knees and pulled her tank top over her head. That classic cross armed shrug, the fabric snagging momentarily on her chin and in her hair, then shaking that marvelous mane loose as she flung the top away on the riverbank. She hugged my naked body with hers, moving her hips so her cunt lips were lightly brushing the top of my hard cock as it bobbed between her legs. Then she pushed me down on the ground in the tangle of our discarded clothing. Her hand clutching at the base of my shaft, she went quickly down on me. Hot lips brushed at my soft cockhead, the cushion at the end of my rod. I began to seep a glistening dew of precum. She felt it, teased it once with the tip of her tongue, and opened her mouth. She engulfed the mushroom head, tongue flicking sweetly at the sweet spot on its underside, and then moved her mouth down. . . and up. . . and down again. And again. Sweet hot wetness surrounded my cock.

I found myself reaching for her perfect peach of an ass and pulling it over to me while she gobbled greedily on my hard meat. Pulled her to where she would fall over if she didn't sidle over.

I slapped her ass sharply, producing a brief pink mark, and said, "C'mon, bitch. . . turnabout is fair play."

With that she straddled my face with her long, tanned legs, and the glory of her pussy and ass was revealed to me. Her tight perfect slit winked above me, and as she rocked involuntarily while sucking up and down on my cock, the outer lips parted, revealing thick, fleshy petals that were the same color as her inner thigh. I grabbed the cheeks of her ass and spread them, opening up her pussy a bit more, and revealing her puckered brown star. I immediately started flicking my tongue up and down her slit, lavishing attention on both her clit and her asshole, but dragging as well deep between her flaring and glistening, wet lips. Her ass swayed above me as I probed her with my tongue and fingers. Her mouth was full, her own tongue was busy, but I heard her growl as the pleasure grew in her.

I wanted to be in control, and it was impossible to maintain even a semblance of control. Waves of pleasure washed over us both. We reamed each other's asses tenderly, she teased my hirsute balls with her mouth, I opened her cunt and tasted her creamy, tangy juices. She climbed on my hard cock and rode me like a fucking cowgirl. I rammed both her hot holes from behind as if she was a bitch in heat. She stood above me and spread her cunt, letting a warm stream of pee cascade across my body and throbbing cock. I held her throat in my hand and tugged her hair while once again brutally fucking her doggy style. She looked up at me with her dark brown eyes as she went down one more glorious time on my dick and I exploded in a gooey paroxysm in her mouth. Three times I thrust deep in her mouth as I pumped my jizz down her throat, and she swallowed all but a thin stream trailing down her chin from the edge of her mouth.

"Oh, wo-o-o-www. . . " I sighed.

And she licked her lips, smiled at me, and giggled, "Oh, Daddy!"

We cuddled up, spooning on the riverbank on our tangled clothes. The roaring in my ears subsided to where the music of the San Lorenzo became the ambient vibe. We cooed at each other and talked lazily for a while about where we came from, what we wanted to do. Perhaps too lazily. . . Her breasts pressed against me from behind, and I was encircled by her arms, one hand on my belly, another on right shoulder, holding me close. Slowly, as the buzz of late afternoon insects hummed in the distance, I drifted off to sleep. . .

. . . and when I awoke, night had fallen. The river's tumbling chorus continued eternally, but the insect hum was gone. Stars shone above me in the gap between the trees that was the San Lorenzo River Valley, and somewhere I heard the hoot of an owl. As sound carries further at night, I heard the occasional passage of some vehicle on Highway 9 in the near distance, and the woods would be briefly illumed by their headlights as they went around the bend.

I was alone. Somehow I had my trousers on again, although my fly was still unbuttoned. My shirt had been draped over me like a blanket. It wasn't all that cold. But it was odd to not feel her arms around me, her head on my shoulder, to hear her breathing in my ear. I hardly knew her and felt like I knew her profoundly indeed. I rolled on my side, looking at the river. The moon was shining somewhere up the valley, although I couldn't see it. But its light sparkled on the wavelets as the river made its way to the sea. There beside me lay a perfect Tiger Lily, that gorgeous, speckled orange beauty that bloomed this time of year. . . although, I don't recall passing a patch of them along the banks of the river.

Where did the lily come from? Where had Lilly gone? Where will Old Scout go now?

I sighed, looking at the night sky between the towering groves of trees, and remembered the feel of her body close to mine. . .