The Goat and the Ibex

Robi looks down the mountainside. 'They're just driving off.'

'Tourists always stop for a look at the gorge.' I pick up my empty plastic cup. 'Now face me.'

Robi looks at the cup and says. 'I can guess what you want to do. But supposing I won't let you?'

Crouching at the side of the spring, I fill the cup, then step over to her. 'You don't have to let me,' I say, 'because you're going to do it yourself.' And I hand her the cup.

The water is icy: the springs in the mountains are fed by meltwater from the winter snows. She looks at the cup, then looks me in the eye, then looks down at my erection. And then she empties the cup over her front, with a shudder as the water soaks across her breasts.

I step away and take more photos. 'Shoulders back. Stick those luscious boobs right out.' The wet, translucent fabric sculpts itself to the hardness of her nipples and faintly shows two pink discs against pale skin. From the way they hang against her chest I have a maddening sense of how her breasts would be to fondle: soft, yielding, heavy...

I move further back. Her figure stands out sharp against the far side of the valley, bronze and ivory against soft blue-grey. 'Just drop the cup anywhere. And now take off your top. Not too fast.'

Robi grins at me. 'Wicked man. I'm really not sure I should. I'll be totally naked except for my boots – what would my husband think?'

'Your shirt's all wet. He wouldn't want you to spoil the holiday by catching cold.'

She laughs, and slowly undoes the top button of the dripping shirt. Then the next one, and the next, all accompanied by a provocative smile, until the dripping shirt gapes a little even while it clings to her, and I can glimpse goose bumps on the pale roundness of her breasts.

Her vulva is still hidden in shadow. I say nothing as she pauses, her hands gripping either side of the shirt opening. One eyebrow is raised quizzically as she smiles at me. Apparently she's hoping I'll beg her to continue, but I say nothing.

She chuckles, 'OK then,' and peels the wet fabric from her body, slipping the shirt down from her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor of the hollow. Her body is stunning: slim yet softly rounded, her breasts with just enough relaxed hang to make me think of cupping them in my hands. Her nipples are stout, with the pink discs around them clear-edged, and puckered from the cold water. Even her knees have a certain seductive neatness. And the landing strip leads down to a pair of lean outer lips between which two moist, pink inner labia protrude invitingly.

I say, 'Walking boots suit you.'

It's while I'm kneeling to capture an upward shot framing her breasts and pussy that we both hear a far, shrill whistle from the valley behind her. Robi twists round to look, gasps, and freezes.

'What is it?'

She puts one hand to her mouth, laughing incredulously. 'Oh... fuck...'

'I'm guessing you have an audience.'

'I wonder how long they've been there.'

'Nobody's going to recognise you at that distance.'

Robi looks back at me, grinning with a blend of panic and excitement. 'A whole truckload of workmen. And they're taking pictures on their phones.' Then, abruptly, she laughs and the blood rushes back to her face. 'No point trying to hide now.' She waves at the spectators. A faint cheer floats up from the road. She says to me, 'Do please come and get a picture with them in the background.'

I move until I can see a band of fluorescent orange waistcoats, then I start photographing. Robi poses with her hands on the back of her head and her back curved to thrust her breasts out boldly.

'Open your legs, Robi. I want to see that pussy against the pure mountain air.'

This change of pose brings another cheer. She turns round and puts her hands under her buttocks, twisting her head to observe the reaction. The men's enthusiasm prompts her to bend almost double, hands on her hips, legs apart, to present her rear to them.

'What about me?' I demand, and she obligingly repeats the pose in my direction.

Robi strikes several more poses, each one met with vocal approval. She has her hands supporting her breasts and is twisting sideways to show them in profile to the men, when I hear splashing behind me.

'Robi, stop.'

'I don't want to stop. I have a duty to my fans.'

'Quick. Pick up your clothes and come away from here.'

She twists to look at me with a puzzled frown. I point towards the spring.

'A stray dog,' she remarks. The dog – a lean, lurcher-like animal – ceases lapping water and looks at us, its head tilted. 'It's not doing any harm.'

'That's the sort of dog the goatherds use round here. Listen.' And we hear goat-bells somewhere above the hollow. 'They're coming down the mountain. They must be or we'd have heard them before. They're being brought down to drink.'

'Oh fucky fuck. Will there be someone from the village?'

'Probably.'

'Buggery fuck.' She steps off the rock, blows a storm of kisses at her admirers, and then grabs her top from the ground while applause drifts up from the road.

I've already picked up her shorts and panties. We head for the olives as fast as the boulders will let us. The dog shows an embarrassing eagerness to make friends, and noses around our knees and ankles as we confer in the shade.

'Will the goatherd see us if we go behind these trees?' Robi wonders. 'There's not much cover back along the path.'

'It's this stupid dog. If it goes on making a fuss around us we don't have a hope.'

'How long do you think we've got? Yowp! Perverted animal!' She slaps the dog, which had thrust its nose between the tops of Robi's thighs with an appreciative sniff. It looks up at her with mild surprise.

'We might have five minutes. Goatherds don't hurry much.' I'm stuffing things into my backpack – her clothes, the wine bottle, my camera... There's a plastic cup on the ground beyond the spring, but I dare not leave the cover of the olive trees.

Robi is frantically scanning our surroundings. 'There's a sort of ravine behind here. Come on.'

I follow her. The ravine is a slot between cliff-walls leading straight up behind the olives. Its floor is clearly a stream-bed in winter and the dog finds it much easier to scramble up than we do. After twenty metres we come to a huge boulder wedged across our path. I tear my eyes away from Robi's bare bottom and look behind. We have ascended just far enough to be in view from the spring, and the sound of goat-bells is much nearer.

'I can't get up that,' says Robi with despair, eyeing the boulder.

'I'll make a back.'

'Will you be strong enough?'

'Of course,' I declare confidently, bending over with my arms braced against my knees.

'I'd better use my hands as much as I can.'

A few seconds later I straighten up and see the lower half of Robi's naked body wriggling over the top of the boulder. Her inner lips are still wet. Then she turns and peers down at me.

I hand my backpack up to her. 'I think I can get up at the side here. Oh, piss off!' The dog is revolving excitedly around me. Hauling myself up by the stem of a stunted tree, I join Robi on the platform of grit and gravel that the stream has laid down almost to the top of the boulder.

She is laughing breathlessly. 'This is no good. We're practically on a stage up here.' The sun is shining directly down the ravine. A goat arrives at the spring and starts to drink, while the dog sits on its haunches below us, looking up at us, panting and sweeping a fan-shaped mark in a patch of grit with its tail.

On each side an unclimbable rock face dotted with bushes rises towards the sky, but not far ahead is a clump of small trees, almost a miniature wood. We stumble towards it.

The trees have leaves right to the ground. I hold some of the whippy branches to one side and Robi slips into the gap.

After the bright sunlight the space under the trees is like a shuttered room. Looking back between the leaves, we see the spring surrounded by milling goats. A short, sharp whistle comes from beyond the olives and the dog trots towards it.

I am suddenly very conscious of how close to me is Robi's nakedness.

She is biting her lower lip. Then she gasps. I look down the ravine and see the dog leading its owner: a tall, wiry man whose sun-browned skin is darker than his grey hair. He is holding the plastic cup.

'Oh God,' Robi whispers. 'I want to go out and show myself to him.'

'Not a good idea.'

'I won't. But Christ, I want to.' The goatherd stops and stares up the ravine, his eyes narrowed against the sun. 'Can he see us? What does he want?'

'I don't suppose he gets much conversation out of a dog and a dozen or so goats.'

Robi murmurs, 'Maybe he can see me anyway.'

'Your pussy likes that idea, doesn't it?'

Robi doesn't reply. She's staring at the villager. She raises her hands to her breasts and starts to gently strum her fingers across her thick nipples.

The villager crushes the cup in his hand and turns away. The dog follows him back into the olives. Robi whispers, 'More photos now.'

I glance around the leaf-walled space. 'Lie on that flat rock there.' There's a large, low slab jutting from the rock face.

Robi steps over to the slab and lies full-length on it. I stand beside her and raise my camera, adjusting the exposure for the pattern of light and shade that sun and leaves throw across her body. She has a half-smile as she raises her breasts with her hands, the soft flesh swelling between her spread fingers. As I photograph her, her thumbs start to stroke back and forth across her nipples.

'Are you excited?' she asks.

'Of course I am.' I zoom the camera and try to capture the spring of her hard nipples as she plays.

'How excited?'

'Very excited.'

'Talk to me about how excited you are.' Now she's holding her nipples, tugging and twisting, the tension lifting her breasts enough to produce thin furrows in the creamy skin.

'My cock is hard for you.'

'How hard?'

'Like the wood of these trees. So hard I can feel my pulse in it.'

Her right hand slides down towards her vagina. Her fingers stroke her landing strip. I follow her hand with the camera. 'Go on,' she orders.

'There's so much precum I'm afraid it's soaked through my boxers.'

'I can see a tiny damp patch on your trousers. It's nice.'

'My scrotum's tight. I've got a thrill in my balls as if my cum is fighting to be let out.'

Her right middle finger rubs across her clitoris. She moves her left hand down and presses thumb and forefinger either side of her pale outer lips to stretch them apart. For a few seconds she lifts her right hand to show off her clitoris, pink and glistening above flushed inner lips, before she begins to rub it again.

'Are you frustrated?' she asks.

'Desperate.'

'Stop taking photos.' Her breathing is heavy. 'Show me how I excite you. Don't touch me. Just show me.'

I hang my camera on a branch. Forcing myself not to hurry, I unfasten my belt and undo the waist-button of my trousers. I unzip the fly, and my black boxer shorts are forced into the gap by the pressure of my erection. Robi's eyes are fixed on that V-shaped gap.

'Show me!'

I pull my trousers and shorts down to my thighs. As my cock comes free it flicks upright, and a tiny drop of precum flips away and lands on her thigh. She takes it on her finger and rubs it on her clitoris.

'You've got a nice cock. Well built.' She is rubbing fast now. 'It deserves to cum. I need to cum with your sperm on my tits.'

'I'll kneel over you.'

'Yes. Please.'

When I'm in position I cup my balls in my left hand and hold the head of my cock in my right. The sight of her breasts below me, so large and luxuriously soft, thrills my cock and I start to slide my foreskin up and down over the head while I stare at them. The head glistens with precum. I've been hard for long enough. I'm already near orgasm.

'Do it now,' she gasps.

I feel ejaculation gathering, a cloud of pleasure all through my cock and balls that demands release. I squeeze my balls and rub my foreskin faster. A few second later I hear myself gasp and the first long drop of semen is leaping from the tip of my cock, to splash across the freckles at the top of her right breast, the milky fluid pale against tanned skin. The second spurt is heavier and lands in a fat streak covering her left nipple. Spurt follows spurt. When the very last drop is a thread hanging from my penis, she plants her left hand on her breasts and spreads my semen from one side to the other, smearing it onto both her nipples, and then works one nipple in her semen-coated palm.

'More photos,' she pants, and I take up my camera again.

She is pressing hard on her clitoris. She places her left forearm under her breasts and gathers them, bringing my semen better into her view. Her right hand moves faster. Her mouth is half-open, her eyes almost closed. Then a series of groaning breaths tells me she is climaxing.

*

Below us, the goats flop in the shade of the ancient walls beside the spring. We contentedly share my picnic while my sperm dries on Robi's naked body. We chat in subdued voices about our sexual tastes and experiences, taking it in turns to drink wine from the bottle. We look through the photos on my camera.

By the time the sun is well past its highest there's still no sign of the goats departing, so Robi gets dressed and we look for a way to escape, picking our way uphill between overhanging bushes. The cliffs on each side become lower and lower as we climb, until we emerge onto a faint path across the bare mountainside. At once Robi's phone rings from the pocket of her shorts.

It's Robi's husband. He's on his way to the village. I take the card from my camera, put it in its little plastic case and hand it to her. She tucks it in her pocket. As we arrive on a ridge that juts into the valley, we see a tiny white dot moving along the winding road. Robi says, 'That might be him'. We lose sight of it and walk for ten minutes until the village comes into sight. Now there is a white car parked next to the taverna.

'I think it's best if we don't arrive together,' says Robi. 'Look, thank you so much. I'm going to put some of the photos online. Now I'd better go on ahead. My husband says we'll have to hurry to make the south coast in plenty of time, so I probably won't see you again. So...' She puts a hand on my upper arm and we kiss goodbye, full on the lips. Then she turns away and hurries along the path.

I wait on the steep mountainside, and watch until she's hidden by an outcrop. My eye is caught by movement against the skyline above me. An ibex, looking boldly down at me – I scrabble in my backpack, but by the time I have a fresh card in my camera the creature has gone.