Valley Forge Scenic Tour

The yappy little diva bitch took a liking to the big, dumb, young, handsome brown stud.

That's how Bailey and I ultimately got together. Dog walking.

We met in our neighborhood while she was walking her Yorkshire Terrier, Polo, while I exercised my precocious chocolate lab pup, Shadow.

The contrasts between respective owners and canines could not have been more pronounced. Polo was eight years old, weighed barely eight pounds, yet made up for her lack of size with a constant cacophony of intimidating yips and growls.

Shadow was just over eight months old, approaching eighty pounds already, and rolled over like an omelette every time Polo would open her mouth. Which was often.

Conversely, Bailey was about to turn twenty-six, recently separated from an abusive relationship, and as a result, had sworn off all activity with men for the last six months or so, while she emotionally healed from the traumatic existence that she had suffered while living with her ex-husband, who had recently been the recipient of a restraining order that Bailey had filed against him.

Bailey was as kind as she was gorgeous (picture Evangeline Lilly with a page-boy hairdo) and outwardly unassuming and naive, at least from my vantage point as a man old enough to be her father. I couldn't imagine any man brutal and heartless enough to render this sweet young woman any pain, emotional or otherwise, and we became fast friends in a paternal kind of way. I took an interest in her fledging education to train to be a paralegal, and Bailey asked many questions about my new-found hobby in my semi-retired days, writing short stories.

I had just turned the big five-oh, and was loving it. I'd recently sold my real estate consulting business and had time to kill for the first time in almost thirty years, and candidly, I was also enjoying the fruits of my hard-earned labor by dating more than I had in my life. Since my divorce was finalized almost two years ago, I realized that I had myself been naive in what now constituted as 'dating' in the divorcee world.

In reality, my experience was that it was a bountiful 'friends with benefits' playing field. As we approached the age of fifty, neither gender seemed the least bit interested in committed relationships (with baggage) after heart-wrenching divorces. Instead, it was essentially a matter of scheduling regular sexual 'hook-ups' around kiddie soccer tournaments and the like. Throw in an occasional dinner to keep things respectable, and well, everybody was happy. Especially me. I went through a loveless and sexless existence for almost the last decade of my marriage, and the way I looked at it, I was just making up for lost time.

Admittedly, it didn't take me long to comfortably morph into the enjoyment of this brave new, post-divorce world. I had two semi-regular mature (i.e, fifty-ish) attractive and exceedingly horny ladies who visited me at my corner townhouse for the almost exclusive purpose of participating in indoor full-contact sporting events.

I guess it had unwittingly worked in my favor, that while walking Polo, Bailey had seen both of these women enter my house within a week of each other. Buxom Carole had left pre-dawn one morning with a distinct 'just fucked' disheveled appearance while Polo was doing his morning business across the street. Then, a few days later, perky petite Marie had worn her miniskirt and embraced me passionately in my doorway as Bailey watched from the side of my lawn as Polo yapped away incessantly.

Before closing the door, with Marie clinging on my arm, I looked back over my shoulder and shrugged and winked at Bailey, who looked back at me in the moonlight with a twinge of disgust, but also with a mixture of intrigue and, perhaps, or perhaps it was just my fertile imagination, interest.

That imagined thought of mine became a bit more than fantasy fodder about twenty minutes later.

After I had just finished providing Marie with her first scalding tongue lashing of the evening, Marie as always had screeched and screamed her appreciation at wall-rattling decibel levels. I went to the window to close it as to not further alert and possibly disturb the neighbors, and noticed that Bailey was still holding onto Polo on the corner of my lawn. She was gazing up at the window.

Bailey looked initially mortified when she saw me at the window and realized that she had essentially been busted in the act of eavesdropping voyeurism.

But then Bailey's eyes cast downward, boring in directly at my erect cock twitching above the window sill, and the expression on her countenance changed immediately to one of unmistakable penis envy.

Marie was still recovering, writhing on the mattress and softly groaning, oblivious to my whereabouts though I was only feet away.

I decided then to give Bailey a little show and began to slowly run my hand across the entire length of my shaft, which on a good night such as this one, can approach eight inches, and is quite thick, with a disproportionately large head.

I began to more vigorously stroke my shaft and watched as Bailey watched me, or more accurately, she watched my big cock. Even through the darkness, I could see her pretty young face flush and heard her own breathing quicken. Polo fidgeted and fussed on the leash as Bailey let one of her own hands move to her breast and she eased the top of her tank top of of her shoulder and began to caress a taut, brown, hard nipple on a perfectly shaped tit.

I smiled down at Bailey, now fully and completely aroused, put my hands on my hips and let my dick twitch against the window screen, pushing it slightly with the force of my cock muscles, and then just as unexpectedly, I returned to the bed without closing the window and let Marie's words cascade down through the window to Bailey's ears below.

"Oh, yes, it's huge, fuck me! Now, fuck me with that big cock, John!"

I returned to the window another twenty minutes later, having covered Marie with an inordinately thick load of my cum, to find that Bailey was no longer there. Little did Marie know that the vigor and passion with which she was fucked that evening was more than partially attributable to my knowledge that Bailey was perched below, undoubtedly listening to the grunts and indecipherable dirty talk that only robust, exuberant fucking can evoke.

But, how long was she there? I wondered. Why is it that men always wonder about the other woman rather than the woman they are fucking? It's so similar to the way we handle and manipulate the television remote control. In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, men want to see what ELSE is on. Why did the gorgeous and insatiable Marie become an afterthought, even while I was fucking her?

Because I wanted to see what ELSE was on. I wanted to fuck Bailey, too, of course I did. And, I had planted the best seed that a man can plant when he wants to attract a woman. Let her know that he is desired by other women. It's a competition thing with women of all ages, its part of their innate nature, and Bailey was soon to prove that she was quite the competitor.

And, as I was also to soon pleasantly discover, young Bailey got off on watching and being watched. What's that THEY say? Never judge a book by its cover. Still waters run deep. Always watch out for the quiet ones.

In Bailey's case, these axioms all rang true and then some.

The next morning, as had become my habit, I had made a trip to the pool in our complex shortly after its opening at 10 a.m. I liked to be the first one there in the morning, which was not unusual on a weekday. Even though I had showered, I could still taste the after-scent of Marie's juices on my lips from the night before. I took a dip in the cool water to resuscitate my limbs and my hopelessly flaccid cock, unaware that Bailey had punched the code on the electronic keyboard to grant her access inside of the pool's gate until she playfully kicked and splashed water on me from behind while my arms hung over the side of the pool's deep end.

I turned around and looked up into the sunlight, and found myself staring straight up an almost transparent sarong into the bottom of an impossibly small and tight lavender micro-mini thong string bikini. Only Bailey had such long, slender legs that could be attached to it, I surmised instantly, despite the sun's glare which precluded me from seeing her face. It had to be her. My instincts were confirmed when I heard her light giggle. I held my hand to my forehead in an effort to fight the glare.

That proved to be superfluous when she squatted down directly in front of me in the pool, pulling her sarong up tight, and spreading her legs, which were almost at my eye-level as I hung onto the pool's edge wall.

"I couldn't sleep last night, I wonder why," she said, briefly glancing around to see if we were indeed alone. She moved imperceptibly closer to the edge of the pool and lowered her hand to her bikini bottom, pulling it away from her barely covered snatch, and provided me with an unobstructed birds-eye view of her smoothly waxed and glistening, gleaming cunt.

The scenic view lasted only five seconds, tops, until she slipped the thin fabric back over her slit, and smiled seductively down at me. "Swim to the other side of the pool," she directed me. "Near your blanket, in the shallow end." Michael Phelps could not have aquatically navigated the twenty-five meters or so any faster. Mama didn't raise no fool.

I watched from my pool-side seat as Bailey strolled to the side of the pool that could not easily be seen by whomever might have been inside of the adjacent sales and leasing office. Her long legs sauntered with the casual gait of a prize thoroughbred filly strolling in the paddock, except for this particular race, I was the lone spectator.

She bent over a lounge chair, positioning her ass so that it pointed toward the pool, and slowly pulled down the sarong, exposing her thong-clad, svelte, taut asscheeks almost entirely. Beneath the surface of the pool, Lazarus-like, rising from the dead, my cock began to once again tent in my trunks. She then made a slow and deliberate production of placing two large beach towels over each arm of the lounge chair, achieving the result that she could now basically nestle into the chair so that anyone else's view would be fully impeded by the towels.

Satisfied at her handiwork, Bailey then pulled her loose t-shirt over her head, revealing two tiny triangles of purple material that barely concealed her perfectly proportionate tits, each nipple almost jutting out of its respective holder and pressing prominently beneath the thin fabric.

Without saying a word, she gracefully slipped into the reclining chair and propped up the seat back so that she her back sat at a forty-five degree angle from the ground. She reached into her oversized bag and extracted a pair of sunglasses, which she slipped onto her tanned face, and also a small bottle of lotion.

She began to leisurely dab and rub the cream over her flat, toned belly, and then her hands commenced on a slow journey downward to her inner thighs, which she parted to permit lubrication of the slippery cream.

I gulped audibly at the exhibition and began to stroke my own cock below the surface. My movements did not go unnoticed by Bailey, who next raised her left hand to her breasts and peeled the fabric of her bikini top over to expose her mocha-colored nipple, stiffening as she pinched and pulled on her nub.

I was pumping my own rod frantically now as Bailey continued her self-stimulation performance by slipping her right hand into the teeny enclosure of her bottom, and began tracing small circles under the fabric until she once again slid the patch to the side, fully exposing blood-filled dark brown labia that protruded and swelled as she continued her self-discovery tour.

Bailey acted as casually as she could muster, but tiny beads of perspiration ( Note: men 'sweat' when aroused; women 'perspire') were beginning to form on her brow, matching the drips cascading now from her pussy. She raised her hips and pelvis several inches from the chair, so that her perineum and anus were now yawning into my line of vision. She plunged a manicured finger deeply into her cunt, and groaned ever so softly as the digit reached its intended target within her cunt, and she twirled it around as a orchestra conductor would wave his baton, urgently and animatedly.

She pulled apart her lips further, so that the light brown labia majora seemed to mingle with her pinker inner lips to form a collective bright rainbow hue of tight pussy cavern, almost a glorious sepia-colored combination. When she ultimately extracted her finger with an audible 'pop', a small stream of milky white liquid accompanied her finger's departure from her cunt, resulting in what looked like the foam of a hearty beer overflowing from its mug. She cupped some of the nectar into a small puddle in her palm, and lapped at the moisture as Polo would have with a bowl of water.

She mercifully stopped just as quickly as she had begun, her stomach heaving now, her face flushed. It was just in the nick of time for my purposes, as I was perilously close to polluting the pool with a stream of my own semen. She panted in small bursts, valiantly attempting to regain her breath, and it ultimately took her several long minutes before she composed herself enough to cover up her private parts.

She eased the bridge of her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose with the same finger that had just been massaging her pussy, and asked me a silly question.

"Do you have any plans that you can't break this afternoon?"

I pantomimed flipping through an imaginary roldoex or blackberry, and ultimately announced, "Magically, I've canceled all of my appointments that I had scheduled for today. So, what did you have in mind?"

She stood up, the pool of cum still cascading down her thighs and coating the front of her bikini.

"Let's take the dogs for walk at Valley Forge Park. I love it there, and we can let the dogs run and play. Can you meet me out front in a half-hour?"

Shadow and I were there in twenty-five minutes, and I'm not sure who was panting more eagerly as Bailey and Polo slid into my Jeep.

Bailey had on a black cotton miniskirt that resembled a tennis skirt and barely reached mid-thigh, and a maroon mid-riff tank top that was fighting a losing battle with her nipples that were trying to break loose from their prison. I saluted my approval beneath my own baggy khaki shorts, a sight which did not go unnoticed by Bailey as she gave me the same lustful stare that she had given me last evening below my window, her eyes riveted onto my cock.

Finally, I realized that Bailey had draped over her arm the same two beach towels that she had used to screen from view her blatant self-examination by the pool.

"What are those for, gorgeous?" I asked with sincere curiosity as I gunned the Jeep into motion, Polo happily hanging out of one rear window and Shadow the other.

She grinned at me lasciviously, with much more libidinous intent than I thought this sweet young woman was capable.

"Therapy and relaxation, John," she purred.

"Therapy and relaxation."

The thirty minute drive to the historic National Park seemed to last much longer than that, such was the mutual anticipation of what may transpire. I wasn't exactly sure what Bailey might have had in mind, and despite her rather brazen poolside exhibitionism of less than an hour ago, I was determined that I wasn't going to be the aggressor. I was mindful and respectful of Bailey's past and her self-professed emotional fragility, which I had garnered from our many prior conversations when we had walked our canine companions.

For her part, Bailey seemed to join Polo and Shadow in enjoying the drive, rolling down her window and staring out the window as the Pennsylvania Turnpike rolled on with us. Her slender fingers rested on my knee, and she occasionally stroked it gently, but that was as carnal as it got, at least for the vehicular portion of our trip. We exited the Turnpike headed west on Rte. 422, and I eased the car past the Visitors Center and pulled into the public parking lot behind the Park Rangers' office, and obediently and patiently awaited further instructions.

Bailey gazed out onto the rolling hillsides and then picked out a spot on the barely visible horizon, perhaps a mile or so away. "There, over there," she said, pointing to a spot that I could not yet see. Polo's own patience began to wane and she began that annoying yapping whine that only a dog under ten pounds can make. Shadow's own tongue hung down and he looked at us, quizzically, also awaiting orders. He just wanted to run somewhere.

I gave Bailey a look that indicated my own lack of recognition of her preferred destination, so she elaborated. "See those cannons on the horizon? There is a bluff behind those cannons, and usually there are dozens of deer running around. There." She looked at me with those doe-like blue eyes and rubbed my palm, which was still gripping the steering wheel. "Let's go there. We can let the dogs run without leashes."

Shadow barked his agreement to this splendid idea, and off we went.

The pooches took off like shots when we opened the car doors, while Bailey and I walked about an eighth of a mile down a secluded hillside. There were several houses down on Gulph Road on the outskirts of the park, perhaps a few hundred yards away, that were partially obscured by trees and separated from the park by one of those pointy horizontal picket fences that you only see at National Historic battlefields.

Bailey stopped at a small clearing in the middle of what otherwise was a field covered in long grass reeds, some as high as eight feet tall, and she dropped the towels to the ground. We were essentially secluded from public view of the walking trails, a park within a park. Whatever her intent, which was becoming clearer to me now, she had chosen wisely.

She made a motion with her hands for me to lay on the blanket, and as I did so, she looked around briefly, pulled the tank top over her head, unzipped the skirt so that it fell to the ground, and stood before me wearing only the skimpiest of black silk thong panties.

I observed without a sound, slack-jawed, as she began to sway her hips in conjunction with the reeds swaying in the gentle breeze, and she began to run her hands all over her body. She was dancing to a silent, imaginary symphony, with Mother Nature as the orchestra leader.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, her hands rubbing small circles on her pert tits.

"Take it out," she said softly, keeping her eyes shut, now pinching one of her chestnut-sized nipples.

She kept her eyes closed and smiled when she heard the sound of my cascading zipper. My shorts were kicked to the blanket and my assumed the approximate size of an oak tree root.

Bailey hooked her thumbs around the strings of her lacy thong and guided them to the ground, and she now stood before me clad in only her beige sandals. Her sensationally gorgeous pussy gleamed in the warm sunlight, and her sweet aroma wafted down breeze to my nose. My olfactory and visual senses were now connected on an express train to my pubic bone.

She finally opened her eyes, and her pupils widened at the sight of my unencumbered manhood bouncing freely and unfettered straight up against my belly button.

"Touch yourself," she demanded politely yet firmly. "Like last night. Stroke your beautiful cock for me, and this time, do it only for me. It's just you and me now, John."

My dick twitched incessantly, like a screen door in a hurricane, as I used my right hand to firmly grip my rod and my left to prop myself up on the blanket. Bailey's eyes opened wider in fascination, boring onto my impossibly throbbing meat, and she began to tap lightly on top of her mons, the tip of her index finger flicking against her engorged clit, peeking beneath its hood, as if it, too, wanted a better view of my fervent masturbation session.