SCA Mountain Ride

When I was eighteen, I attended every SCA event I could. The SCA - or more fully, "The Society for Creative Anachronisms' ', was a medieval re-creationist group. Events were held monthly, and although I had a duffle bag with a decent five-man tent, and a weekends' worth of garb (Medieval clothing and accessories). All of it fit in a wicker basket, and that plus my tent meant that, food aside, I was set for the weekend.

Food was problematic; there was usually a tavern selling limited food and drink, but if not, that is what households were for - mutual assistance, combined resources, and the like. And when one is eighteen and without a car, transport to and from the event.

The event site for this weekend was atop Mount Hamilton, in a fallow field. The autocrat of the event had mown the grass to a reasonable mid-calf height, and there were a series of PortaPotties; some medieval customs, like raw open sewage, disease, etc., pretty much everyone agreed to leave behind. The road up the mountainside was narrow, and the drop off the mountain edge side was formidable. Safe enough, if the driver focused..

The truck in which I rode was a large Ford with a covered shell; the driver, a fellow named Darryl, and his wife, Siobhan were members of the SCA household I had joined. Daryl was perhaps in his mid-thirties, and his wife was somewhat younger. She had shoulder-length dark hair and an hourglass figure, with firm C-cup breasts, a generous curvy ass, and a smile that would give a clergyman a hard-on.

The last time we had met at an event, she had taken me by the hand and taken me for a walk in the woods; I had laid our cloaks on the grass and spent some time necking. Her lips and teeth were everywhere, and my cock had pressed into her sexy backside as we spooned together. I was very nervous, and knowing she was married, I kept my hands in a relatively innocent position.

Siobhan sat on the bench seat between her husband and me. When we stopped for gas, she re-introduced me to her hungry mouth, and the taste of her tongue.

The sun was heading to the horizon as we began our ascent up Mount Hamilton. Siobhan was leaning over, crowding her husband a bit. Her SCA persona was a gypsy fortune teller, and she wore a gypsy skirt and black blouse whose lines threatened to expose her lacy black bra. As the road went around the curves, Siobhan would shift position, leaning against her husband and back again. She had her cloak pulled over her like a blanket, snugged to her neck.

When next she was leaning against me, she whispered for me to give her my hand. I silently complied, and when she moved back to learn against Daryl. She moved my hand under the blankets, and my fingers were moved to her firm, succulent breasts under the cloak. Somehow she had lowered the neckline of her blouse so that my right hand could wander wherever I wanted.

I felt equal parts nervous and naughty; this did not stop my fingers from enjoying the lace of her bra. Her nipple was quite awake and erect beneath the lace. Since losing my virginity to my older sister's friend, I had dreamed of more; more tits, more cunt, more wet, willing mouth.

My fingers were in heaven, my cock was harder than Chinese trigonometry. The next turn that sent her against me allowed me to squeeze and fondle the other breast briefly. She whispered "Harder. I need you to manhandle me, and make my nipples ache."

When she went back to leaning against her husband, I could hear her whisper something to her husband, but his eyes never left the road. As per her directive, I twisted and pulled on her turgid tips. Slowly working up my courage and paying the utmost attention to any reactions of my lover, I treated her breasts with less and less caution. I longed to bite the white sensitive flesh to hear her beg me to be gentle - only to have me refuse. I wanted to spank her breasts with short, stinging swats, I wanted to punish her with pleasure for being a slut - more specifically, I wanted to make her my slut, mine alone.

Instead, I had to be satisfied with her gentle moans.

I wanted more. My fingers released her abused nipple and went exploring. When they dropped to her outer thigh, my beautiful whore adjusted herself, raising her skirts under the cloak until my fingers felt flesh. And lace.

It did not take a large deductive leap to imagine that she was wearing a black lacy panty to match her bra. My fingers, as if with a mind of their own, traced the panty line from her outer thigh to her inner thigh. Heat roiled off from her panties, and my fingers went further.

Her panties were ruined, sodden with lubricious wetness from her swollen, excited cunt. Although her gusset was tight over her cunt lips, my fingers found a way under. She gasped as two fingers stroked her desire, and I heard her whisper to her husband in a slutty moan. I had no idea what she was telling him, but it was clear that as long as I kept to the pretense of illicit, secret activities I could do anything I wanted.

What I wanted is to coat my fingers with her thick arousal. My two fingers pistoned into her relentlessly with my thumb battering her clitoris with each finger-thrust. The scent of raw, primal sex filled the truck cab and I noticed that she was using her hands to stroke her husband's cock through his trousers.

I felt jealous; here I was, making her ruin her panties, and HE was going to reap the benefit. I wanted to stop the car and split her cunt open with my cock, treating her like the cum-hungry pain-slut she was, using her for my lust's satiation, knocking against her womb with my firehose cock - and like a firehose, wanted to soak her inside and out. I wanted to tie her up for the whole weekend and make her my cumwhore, covering her face, breasts, and dirty cunt before seeding her womb again and again.

I'd let her husband cum in his slutwife's ass, but only I was going to breed her. I'd seed her again and again until she could hardly walk. I'd push my cock into her womb to seed her at point-blank range, and clean my cock on her lips and face.

Before I knew it, my rough fingering had her erupting, moaning. She squirted all over my hand, and I kept fingerbanging her until she came a second time.

The truck cab was so quiet after that you could hear a fish fart. The force and duration of her orgasms had broken the illusions, and the stain of her husband's crotch indicated he had spent himself with her. We arrived at the site and busied ourselves with the paperwork and setup. I gathered my gear and claimed a patch of ground on the other side of the household area; the rule being use it or lose it.

Had we gone too far? Been too unsubtle? Only time would tell.