Sunshine in the Park

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Someone watches Kelly's picnic.
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Kellysed
Kellysed
31 Followers

Sunshine. Warm blue sky; soft gentle breeze; seagulls’ laughter drifting in and out. Perfect day for a picnic.

She’s packing a light lunch. Peaches, soft fuzzy skin taut over perfectly ripe, juicy flesh. Her hands caress the fruit as she places it carefully in the basket. A wedge of brie, still cool, will warm to runniness by the time she gets to the beach. A small baguette of perfect french bread, crusty outside wrapped around soft warm inside. Split of a toasty, berry-red cabernet.

Once she’s packed everything into the basket, wrapping a soft cloth around her lunch, she walks to her car. The slight cotton wrap sundress she’s put on over…nothing…twitches in the breeze, front flap rising up and opening slightly. An elderly man walking by on the other side of the street glances at her, then stops and watches; yes, the breeze is getting stiffer, and as he looks the front of her dress opens wider. He sees enough to know she’s hairless below the waist; sees the definition of her labia, inner lips peeking out, shiny smooth thighs, then the zephyr that gave him a view of heaven is gone. But he stands for a minute, watching her put her picnic into the trunk, and he’s rewarded again; she bends over and the back of the dress rides up, creamy white ass exposed to the perfect day.

She feels eyes on her, and her skin warms. Standing up, she smoothes her dress, turns and glances at the old man, but he’s walking again and isn’t looking at her now.

She slides into her seat and starts the car.

On the highway, driving her 5-speed, the wrap dress tends to fall open. It’s such a wonderful day, so warm, she’s got the window down and the breeze lifts her hair, makes the opening in her dress flutter. The wind feels good; on her face, in her hair…and tickling her skin. She can feel fingers of each zephyr on the insides of her thighs, on the bare flesh between them.

A moving van pulls up behind her, slow, moving out to pass. The driver—young; probably in his 20s, muscular and a little sweaty in the heat—glances over at her and then stares. He can see the wind blow her dress open, see the triangle of skin between her legs where there is no hair, where the slit of skin boasts pink lips peeking out between. He feels his cock harden, moves his legs apart to make room for it in his tight jeans. Looks over at her again and sees her hand between her legs; is she adjusting her dress, or touching herself? A horn honks next to him and someone shouts, he swerves back into his lane and she shoots away. He loses her on the highway.

The park she’s going to is up on a hill, a view between the trees of the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate bridge. It’s cooler there—fog sometimes rolls in late in the afternoon as the evening thermals bring cool damp. Trees surround the open area where she envisions herself setting up her picnic.

She pulls into the parking lot. It’s not crowded, but about half the spaces are filled with an assortment of cars—an old Chevy, rusting in places; a red Acura NSX, a Corvette, a pickup truck, a few others.

She reaches into the trunk for the basket and her dress hikes up again. She doesn’t see the man in the trees behind her. Young, blonde, and dressed in casually elegant designer clothes. He watches as she bends deeper into the trunk, reaching for her blanket, and sees between her ass cheeks; sees, he thinks (though it’s hard to be sure from this far away) the glisten of moisture on deep pink labia, the swollen flesh of a woman aroused. He doesn’t want her to see him, to know that he is watching, so he stays in the shadows as she moves around the car with her picnic lunch.

She’s heading for a specific spot, one she’s sat in before. In the sun, just down from the sculpture garden. Her sandals make the footing uncertain and she slips occasionally; her dress is a little loose, and sometimes when her arms shoot out to help her keep her balance the front gaps and he can see her breasts. Her nipples are hard; even from here he can see they are big as pencil erasers, rubbing against the front of her dress. He imagines the feel of them; warm, stiff, nubbly, they would just fit between his lips.

She snaps her blanket in the air, shaking it out as it settles to the ground. But as she tries to sit gracefully, she falls with a soft thump onto her ass, and her dress comes up entirely, flies open at the tie opening, and for a moment she is bare to the sun. Her body is completely female…soft, lush breasts he could hold in one hand each…small belly probably firm but soft to the touch. Solid thighs, the muscles in them just softened by gentle female roundness, and that bare flesh where other women have dark curly hair. He touches his own hair as if reminded of it; it’s dark, too, and curly, salted with gray.

On the blanket, recovering from her fall, the woman pulls her dress closed. Slowly, though, as if reluctant to relinquish the warm sunshine on her skin. She reaches into her basket and pulls out the cheese, the bread, the wine, the peaches. Takes out a knife and cuts a peach into wedges. The slice drips with juice as she lifts it to her warm pink lips and sucks it, slurps at it, slides it into her mouth. Licks her fingers.

She reaches for the basket, for the bottle of wine, and her honey-colored hair falls forward, covering her face. It shines in the sun; watching her, he imagines how it feels—smooth and silky, frictionless under his hands. Thinking of her hair in his hands; thinking of her head, her face, her mouth…the feel of her hair in his hands as her lips touch his cock, her mouth wraps its warmth around him. Wet heat in the sunshine. She’s on her knees in front of him, wrap dress undone, lush, full breasts brushing his legs as she positions herself. Licks the underside of his cock, the tip of her tongue drawing a wet line from his balls to the tip then around the head and up the slit. Then he’s in her mouth, deep in her throat.

She swallows the warm red wine, feels it slide into her and heat her belly. Tilts her head back, eyes closed, face to the sun, soaking in the caress of its rays. She leans back on the blanket, holding herself up on her elbows. Takes another sip of wine.

The park is quiet; some distance away a young couple lie on their stomachs reading, off to her left a man sits sketching in a pad, looking up from time to time at the view and measuring his work against it. Seagulls laugh in the sky, wheel overhead. It’s a day designed to slow down in, and she can feel her tension drain away. Life has not been kind recently, a long sad marriage ending, work difficult and stressful. This is the first time in months she has taken time for herself to escape alone.

The heat arouses her. Another sip of wine; blood-red, smelling of lush ripe berries and spice. She sets the glass down, lies back on the blanket. Reaches for the tie that holds her dress closed and plays with the string, smiling to herself at her earlier fall and the feel of nakedness underneath the cloth.

From the trees, hidden in cool shadows, he sees her hand go to the tie that hides her body. Just that movement quickens his heart, sends a jolt of heat to his cock, blood coursing, thickening, hardening him. His hand strokes his erection under the cotton pants, feels himself grow harder still.

The warmth and heat of the sun make her feel sultry. Sensual. Sexual. Her hands move to her breasts, caressing the hard nipples. She flicks them with her thumbs, rubs them with the palms of her hands. They’re even more obvious under the thin cotton that makes up her dress. As he watches, she takes each nipple between her fingers and pulls, twists…her back arches, her ass lifts up a little off the warm blanket.

His tongue darts out, he licks his lips, not realizing…he’s living in his imagination, now, tasting—feeling—her nipples between his lips, his tongue circling each one, that small soft-hard knob between his teeth. And he’s watching her, intently, to see what she does next.

She sips the wine again. Feels it slide down her throat, warmth penetrating her mouth, her chest, she can almost feel it reach inside her as the sun warms her from the outside. She looks around, sees no one nearby; reaches, again, for the sundress tie and slips the knot undone. Opens the dress, so her skin can feel the sunshine. She’s not wearing anything underneath; not even a tiny bikini. And her mons veneris is bare—does she shave? Wax?--either way, that skin is exposed, too, bare and pale in the bright yellow light.

Her fingers trace a wandering line, down from her collarbone. Watching, he imagines the faintest glimmer remaining on her skin where those fingers have touched; a softly shimmering line of girl-perspiration, a glisten of her own heat. She drifts the fingertips down to her sternum, feeling the small hollow where the breastbone connects her ribs. Then each hand goes its separate way, to the nipples on either side, and he can feel his cock throb as it hardens again.

She rolls them between her fingers and thumbs. Twists, pulls, rubs them with her palms. Her eyes are closed, now, her head back, and her tongue reaches out and licks her lower lip. Pulls harder on the nipples; he can see them stretch, see the tug on the breasts themselves. One hand travels further south, tracing the hollow between the halves of her abdomen, into her navel and back out again, toward the pouting flesh he can almost see clearly in the cleft of her vulva.

Those fingers dip deeper between her legs. Her hips push up to meet them. Now she’s biting her lower lip, not licking it; both hands are on her cunt. One is rubbing her clit—slowly, up and down—one is deeper between her legs. He can’t see it from where he’s hiding, but he knows where it goes; into that warm, wet, probably grasping pussy that’s exposed to the sun.

He imagines his fingers where hers are. His cock is hard, hard as the tree he leans against. He can feel her cunt warming his tool, feel the warm wet walls of her vagina wrapped around him, squeezing, pulsing. He smells her on his hands, or imagines he does. Tastes her pussy on his lips. Watches her from the darkness in the trees.

But while he’s distracted for a moment, someone else has shown up. Who is this? A man approaches her from the park walk; she doesn’t see him, doesn’t seem aware of his presence, and she’s completely defenseless.

His intentions are not honorable, that much is clear. He’s reaching into his pocket for something; it’s a knife—from the woods, he can see it glint in the sunlight. See a spark fly off it as it turns in the air, as this man walks up to her quickly, grabs her hair, holds it to her throat.

She’s immediately terrified. Her reverie in the warm sunlight is shattered, but the slow warm sexuality she’d felt is slow to leave her. The hands on her now are not her own; are not gentle. His palms are rough, brutal; this is someone who knows hard work, hard work outdoors, and the sun is not kind to him.

He grabs her breasts. Squeezes them without sensuality; hurts her pulling at her nipples. Reaches for her cunt and shoves his fingers into it.

“Looks like you like that, snookums,” he says. “Saw you laying here by yourself, and I said to myself, that lady needs a friend. She’s all alone.”

Shoves harder, pushing his work-worn hands into her until she feels skin tear. “Gee, you’re all wet,” he says. “That’ll make it easier for me.”

She’s pushed down hard on the ground. She hears her dress rip, feels him hold her head down by her hair. Use the other hand to force her legs apart, callused palms bruising the insides of her thighs. Knees between hers, pushing her legs farther apart. She can see his cock, now, angry and red, bulbous head purple with blood. The screams she wants to scream are locked in her throat; fear silences her. When she opens her mouth to try to make a sound, he hits her and the last thing she knows is a bright white light inside her head.

The paramedics are dressing her wounds when she awakens.

They’re talking to each other, don’t know yet that she’s conscious.

“…concussion. She’ll probably be glad not to remember anything.”

“Lucky somebody came by just then; too bad they didn’t stick around to get a pat on the back from the PD for offing the scummy bastard. Same one?”

“Yeah, they think so. Got half a dozen other women in the park in the last couple weeks.”

She takes a mental inventory; can feel the bruises on her thighs, raw spots on her scalp, maybe a tooth loose and a swollen jaw. But between her legs, no pain; no wetness. No sticky spot.

Someone stopped him.

Kellysed
Kellysed
31 Followers
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