This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
The air was thick as the hot Georgia sun beat down on them. Sweat clung to their bodies and could be seen trickling down certain areas–-across his forehead, down his temple, beaded across his upper lip, along her hairline where new growth clung to the nape of her neck. The occasional drops of perspiration spilling down between her breasts. Their clothes were moist. The air was heavy.
People passed them with drooping shoulders and half-hearted smiles, signs of the oppressive heat weighing them down. Even the Savannah river ahead seemed lazy as it sluggishly rolled along.
The high-pitched roar of a jet-ski startled them. Marie hurried down the brick steps to a lookout. She threw herself against the rail and laughed. Mark walked down slowly behind her, shading his eyes against the sun.
In many ways they were opposites. He was introverted, she was extroverted. He was shy, she was bold. His experiences were limited, hers were more extensive. She had a zest for living, he had buried himself in work. But lately, he had sensed a time for change and she was a witness to an awakening in his life. His dormant desires were reaching for release and she had fallen in love with his determination.
They stood side by side and watched the jet-skis race back and forth. “Doesn’t that look like fun? She asked. “Do you want to try it?”
“No,” he said. “I’d probably kill myself.”
She looked at him then, standing there, wilting in the sun with a huge grin on his face. She smiled in return. The heat wasn’t noticeable. The jet-skis were forgotten. Their attention had returned solely to each other.
They sauntered along the walkway enjoying the many attributes the Augusta Riverwalk had to offer. For certain it was beautiful. The path was lined with trees and flowers of all shapes, sizes and colors – nature’s palette supplying an exuberant backdrop of color.
They pretended to be interested in it all. The only thing she could think of was the way they walked together, he was much taller than she and his normal stride should have far out-measured hers. But as they strolled, their steps matched. A perfect rhythm. Everything was simpatico.
There was no mistaking the looks of love that passed between them. She loved him. He loved her.
They held hands.
Or tried to. Every time his hand reached for hers, something went wrong. His grip wouldn’t mesh with hers, and she giggled. How could something which should be so easy be so hard, he wondered. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not much good at this.”
She laughed. “Of course you are,” she said. “Don’t think about it. Just do it. Pretend it’s a dance.”
“A dance?” he said. “I’m not much good at dancing, either.”
“Not a complicated dance,” she said with a grin. “Not a fox-trot. Definitely not a tango. Just something slow and easy. A waltz. A two-step. There!”
He grinned back at her. “Pretty good for an older man. Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”
“You’re hardly an older man,” she said, squeezing his hand gently. “Just someone who’s spent too much time with work and not enough time with romance.”
“But I am pretty good at eating waffles,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed, remembering the adventure with syrup from that morning. “That was fun.”
“I’m so lucky to have you,” he said.
“Have me?” she said.
Instantly he blushed. “I mean ... I didn’t mean it that way. I meant. Be with you. You know? Like walking, and talking, and ... and holding hands.”
“I know, silly,” she said. “I was just teasing. You’re so much fun to tease.” She was walking backwards now. “And I’m lucky to have you, too.” Her hand in his fingers, tugging him along the path.
The walkway curved around a corner and opened up to an amphitheater tucked into the side of the hill. Metal bench seats climbed all the way up the steep slope. At the very top, a single couple sat in the only shady row. The other seats were wide-opened to the blistering sun.
“Sing for me,” she said.
“No,” he said.
She pleaded. He refused. She begged him. He refused. She sat down on seat 104. The hot metal burning her rump. She yelped. He laughed. She whimpered.
He had more reasons why he shouldn’t sing than she could come up with why he should.
He wouldn’t sing.
But he would compromise.
They moved to the back of the pavilion, up against the back wall that looked out over the river. She stood facing him, leaning against the wall, hands propped up on the rail in an open position. He stood close, directly in front of her.
And he sang to her, quietly so no one else could hear. For her. “As Time Goes By”.
He couldn’t remember all the words, even struggled for some of them. Her heart melted as concentration furrowed his sweat-beaded brow.
She fought back tender tears that threatened to spill. She loved him all the more for doing things that really made him uncomfortable, but doing them anyway for her. He finished singing.
She sighed. “I love it when you sing for me.”
“You like seeing me make a fool of myself?”
He wasn’t as bad as he claimed to be. “Well you’re not Pavarotti, but who needs Pavarotti? And she kissed him, stopping him from answering.
Just like lyrics in the song they were lovers being welcomed by the world.
They walked on until they reached a small grove of magnolia trees blossoming in brilliant shades of magenta. They sat down on a shady bench under the flowering branches. They looked at one another. He squinted. “I can’t see your eyes,” he said and he slowly pulled her sunglasses away from her face. He leaned forward and kissed her, dry kisses turning into wet, slippery ones. His hand reached and groped her breast, and she pulled back, looking at the family of four that had rounded the corner.
“You won’t sing, but you’ll grab my boob in front of all these people?” And she laughed. He glanced quickly over at the intruders.
“They’ll understand the groping. My singing would scare them.” His self-disparaging words meant to make her smile and cover his rising embarrassment.
She rolled her eyes, grabbed her glasses, and slipped them back on.
“Come on, Mr. Powers, lets head back.” She had taken to calling him what everyone in the south had been calling him. Only when she said it, it didn’t sound so formal.
She bent to remove her shoes. She felt like a young girl and that meant barefoot. She didn’t give thought to the paved surface until she was trapped on it with scorching heat touching her feet. She ran quickly ahead to a shaded area. A sensible girl would have slipped her shoes back on but she didn’t want to be sensible. She was determined to enjoy being barefoot. She hobbled from shady spot to shady spot.
“If I get to the white pavement instead of this black top, I think it will be okay.”
“That won’t make a difference.”
“Yes it will, black absorbs the heat a lot more than the white does.”
“No, it doesn’t!”
“Yes it does.”
“Explain the physics of that.”
“I don’t have to explain, my feet know the difference.”
All of a sudden, he grabbed her, swept her up in his arms, and carried her ahead to the next alcove. She was hysterically laughing when they sat down.
“Why, Mr. Powers, where has all this bravado come from?”
“You, madam. You are a terrible influence on me.”
“Dear sir, that could offend a Georgia peach ... if I were a Georgia peach.” He kissed her, muffling her attempts at a southern drawl. Their lips lingered, passion rose quickly between them. She pulled away.
“Unzip your pants,” she said breathlessly.
“Right here?” he said. “You’ve got to be kidding?”
“Come on, no one can see us.”
“Yes they can, or they could if they walked up.” He looked quickly in both directions. “Tell you what, you unbutton your blouse and I’ll unzip my pants.” He was sure he was safe with that option.
But she shocked him again. “Ok, I will.”
“Will not” he started to say, but his words faded as she stood directly in front of him and began unbuttoning her blouse. Seductively, revealing more and more of her full bosoms held carefully in black lace.
He glanced around in a panic – an aroused panic but still a panic. She was right, no one was around. Her hand went behind his head, drawing his gaping mouth to the valley between her breasts. He smelled her. The sweet, feminine smell of woman, her sweat and her bath suds. He nuzzled. He tasted her, her salty, moist skin pressed against his mouth. He exhaled, long, deep breaths that cooled her heated flesh.
She ran her fingers through his scalp and rested her chin on his head. Ah! The closeness of him. She turned her cheek to rest on the top of his head. She held herself motionless, allowing his tongue and nose to explore her cleavage. He placed little kisses one after another on the inner side of each breast. He reached around and pulled her closer.
His hands moved: her legs parted. His fingers climbed up her inner thighs beneath her skirt. She trembled. He moved with honed dexterity. Feathery little touches, inching to the elastic of her panties. He cupped her, his hand pressed against wet cotton, prickly pubic hair poking through. She stretched into his touch. She moaned against his head.
He continued his sensual parade over her body. Fingers dipped beneath hemmed elastic. Pulling at it. The strength of his grip surprised her. She didn’t recognize his purpose until she heard and felt the ripping of cloth torn away form her crotch. The whisk of air tingling the skin beneath. She gasped.
“Oh my god, Mark!”
He sunk his fingers inside the soaked crevice, and then pulled away, surprising her. He looked directly up at her with shrouded blue eyes. She watched as his gleaming fingers reached his open mouth. The sucking sound was deafening as he slurped and licked.
“Jesus, Marie, You’re so wet! You taste good!”
His fingers returned between her legs, delving deeper. She let him. Rocking against his touch. The world around was gone. They remained, clouded in a sexual haze. She asked again for him to unzip his pants.
She caught his bulge then and worked her way to the zipper. Forcing it open with a single downward motion.
It was a meager and useless attempt at protest. He wanted her hand around his penis more than he cared about being caught. He was in this magical place with the woman he loved. This experience wasn’t going to pass him by.
She worked her hand inside his zipper, then counter-worked to release him. His penis sprung free, bolting for wide open space. She gave a couple up and down strokes then straddled his lap. He had thought the plan was mutual masturbation, but she shocked him again. Were they going to go as far as intercourse? Right here on a semi-busy walkway?
She worked herself over his lap. Her knees on the bench on either side of his hips. Her hands fought for balance and held tightly to his shoulders. He reached between them and grabbed his penis, placing his palm directly over the glans. He loved that feel. Her moist, hot cunt rested against the back of his hand.
His cock needed very little guidance to find the inner core. It sensed its rightful place and landed directly at the swelled opening. She felt the bump of the head and lowered herself on to it, quickly and completely. Pubic bone met pubis. Hair entwined. Juices converged. They stopped.
They grappled with thoughts of their unbelievable actions. She looked down the pathway. “No one can see,” she whispered. It was a siren’s song, all he could hear or wanted to hear. She moved. Slowly, a pendulum sway, back and forth. He felt wild yet still in control until she squeezed. Powerful clenches.
Squeeze ... Release ... Squeeze ... Release.
Where had she learned that move? Squeeze. He was sweating. Release. He was being milked. Squeeze. He would never last. Release.
She bent to his mouth and sucked his bottom lip, then whispered in his mouth.
His body heard the command. He released. Hot spatters of jism shot inside. Coating her vagina. She continued to manipulate him until his sac was empty. The shuddering that followed shook them both.
Minutes passed in silent trembling. Holding. Breathing. The warm liquid oozing down his shaft, trickling over his balls and following the path of least resistance, down the crack of his ass was sticky, sweet, like the hot molasses he had poured over the morning waffles.
She lifted herself off. They stared at his wilting cock, covered with the product of their union. Sounds of approaching people reminded her they were in public or she would have bent down and sucked it into her mouth. Instead, she hovered over him as he carefully tucked himself away.
She giggled. Nearly guffawed. She stood there, barefoot. Shoes forgotten, cum escaping down her thighs. What else could she do but laugh? She reached down and caught the seepage on her fingers. She looked at him and brought her wet fingers to her mouth. She licked her fingers clean.
He watched and felt the tingle in his groin.
“Baby, you’re a horrid tease!”
She grinned, a self-satisfied grin.
Together they walked on. He reached for her. He reached for life.
They held hands. A tango, not a polka.
Copyright © 1998 by Desdmona.