The Swing


My wife and I were about two-thirds of the way through a two-week road trip, feeling generally bored with the splendor of the American countryside as displayed by the Interstate highway system. (OK, maybe "splendor" is the wrong word, but at least we were never more than four exits away from a Denny's. So that's something.) Anyway, there we were, tired of driving, tired of rest areas, and just wanting to do something else for a change. I don't remember who suggested it, but we decided to take the next exit, which was yet another totally nondescript freeway exit with no visible businesses or other signs of intelligent life.

It wasn't at all clear to me what road we were on, and my wife pulled the map out of the glove compartment. However, despite her best efforts, about all we could tell was that the road definitely did NOT lead to Fresno. So far, so good. The road wound along beside a muddy stream, past stands of trees, but no houses, businesses, or any signs at all. We drove on, I don't remember how long, but at some point we finally saw a sign, a small brown highway sign: "Swing: 12 miles". Didn't think too much about it, but there were more small brown signs. "Swing: 10 miles", "Swing: 8 miles", "Swing: Left, 6 miles", "Swing, Left, 2 miles", "Swing, 1/4 mile".

With that kind of product placement, we had no choice: we turned left onto the dirt road with the sign that said "<--- Swing".

About 300 yards up the dirt road, in the middle of a small woods, was a meadow. And in the middle of the meadow was a tree. And on the limb of the tree hung a swing. And on the seat of the swing was a... something.

There was a deserted gravel parking lot, so we parked the car and got out. We walked over to the swing, to see what the big deal was, what made it the most significant attraction for the past 12 miles at least.

There was no plaque describing the history of the swing, no interpretive center for imparting the lessons learned in the building of the swing, no docent to explain the discovery and restoration of the swing. What there was, was the swing itself, the seat a simple plank of wood, wide enough for a grown-up to sit on comfortably, suspended from two long manila ropes. The swing was entirely unremarkable, except that it had a cock sticking up from the seat.

"That's... a bit odd," my wife observed. "Maybe it's art. You know, like putting a urinal in an art gallery."

The cock was made of the same wood as the seat, only worn almost glassy-smooth. "Somehow, I think that there's a simpler explanation," I replied. I pointed at the trunk of the tree, which was decorated with what looked like decades of women's names carved into its bark. "See how smooth that... um... appendage... is? And count the names." There must have been hundreds.

"So, what you're saying is that all these women, ah, used... this swing... for their own purposes?"

"Yup. Looks that way to me."


I moved to stand behind her, and I hugged her close to me. Then I let my hands move lower to unbutton her jeans.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, pushing my hands away.

"Don't you want to find out why it's such a popular ride?" I asked.

"What, are you suggesting that I just strip off my clothes in broad daylight, outside, hop on a handy dildo, and pump away?" she asked, giggling a bit.

"Well, if you put it that way, yes."

"Fine. Just remember, you asked for it."

In just moments, she had shed every scrap of her clothing, and she stood there in the warm sunshine, surveying the smooth wooden cock on the swing. It was about 8 inches long, but as fat as my wrist. She studied it for a few moments, as if trying to figure out what to do with such a huge thing, and then she turned her back to the swing.

"Just a sec," I said, as I pulled one of my "emergency" condoms from my wallet and pulled it over the wooden shaft.

She bent over and pulled the head of the cock closer to her pussy. She rubbed it around, over her clit and labia. "Can you give me a hand here?" she asked, "Or, more to the point, a tongue?"

She held on to the ropes to support herself, the cock still preventing her from sitting on the seat, while she opened her legs and invited me to eat .

Needing no second invitation, I dove in like a starving wolf. (As the flavors of things in the universe go, my wife's cunt is easily the best, beating out chocolate fondue by an easy three-point margin.) So, within minutes, I had whetted my whistle, and she had been sufficiently primed to attempt the cock. So, she once again pulled the cock closer, and started to work in into her cunt.

Meanwhile, I was watching her, watching her boobs as they bounced with every twitch her body made as she impaled herself upon that shaft, watching her face flicker from pain to ecstasy and back as she shoved the inches of cock into herself. I unzipped by pants and pulled out my own cock. I began stroking myself just as she managed to plant her ass on the seat.

"Push me," she said.

I walked slowly around her, squeezing her tits once I was behind her. And then I placed both hands firmly on her buttocks and pushed her forward.

She gasped at the sensation as the cock was driven deep into her.

Then she reached the top of her arc and came down, gasping again at the motion.

I started a steady rhythm, push, stroke, push, stroke, push, stroke. By the time she started panting, I was ready to come. So, when she started yelling "I'm coming!", I came, too.

I've never been able to pinpoint on a map where the Swing is, or even to say for sure what state it's in, but, if you ever spot the road signs for it, be sure to stop. It sure beats eating at Denny's.

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