Monday, November 29, 2004
Once upon a time I was very, very young. And a young man took me on a picnic on a river bank. It was not a swiftly moving river, it was slowly meandering past the bank. There were trees overhanging the river, and they made a secluded spot were the grass was about calf high (on me) and the view from the road (and the bridge) was partially blocked.
I would love to take you there, on a picnic under the trees. Let me tell you about the picnic we'll have.
We park just off the road, where there is a patch of gravel that is level... I think people have been here before. We carry a blanket and a picnic basket, and I won't let you peek inside.
We scramble down the bank, toward the trees, and slip between them. We'll hear anyone coming on the road before they can ever get close enough to see us. I spread out the blanket, and you put down the picnic basket.
We sit, we chat, we kiss a little, because I like kissing you, and you sometimes give me what I like. I unbutton your shirt, kissing your chest as I go.
You remind me that we are there for a picnic, not to play. Then you reach into the picnic basket. And you give me that look. You know the one.
You see, there is no food in the basket. Just some carefully chosen toys. And if I'm really lucky, I'll be having you for lunch. You often allow me that. Even though you know how much I enjoy it. I do love taking you into my mouth, feeling you grow to fill me.
You remove my blouse, and my bra. You pinch my nipples, hard, for playing such a trick on you. Then you gently lower me to the blanket, and take my hands in one of yours.
You reach into the basket and find what you want. You lift my arms over my head, and on go the cuffs. You make certain I am well secured, but have enough room to move. You like to see me squirm.
You reach back in to the basket, and come up with a roll of duct tape. You look at me and say, "No. I want to hear you." And you do. You like hearing me wimper, the sharp intake of breath when you surprise me, the soft cries, and, eventually, the moans of pleasure.
I would love to take you there, on a picnic under the trees. Let me tell you about the picnic we'll have.
We park just off the road, where there is a patch of gravel that is level... I think people have been here before. We carry a blanket and a picnic basket, and I won't let you peek inside.
We scramble down the bank, toward the trees, and slip between them. We'll hear anyone coming on the road before they can ever get close enough to see us. I spread out the blanket, and you put down the picnic basket.
We sit, we chat, we kiss a little, because I like kissing you, and you sometimes give me what I like. I unbutton your shirt, kissing your chest as I go.
You remind me that we are there for a picnic, not to play. Then you reach into the picnic basket. And you give me that look. You know the one.
You see, there is no food in the basket. Just some carefully chosen toys. And if I'm really lucky, I'll be having you for lunch. You often allow me that. Even though you know how much I enjoy it. I do love taking you into my mouth, feeling you grow to fill me.
You remove my blouse, and my bra. You pinch my nipples, hard, for playing such a trick on you. Then you gently lower me to the blanket, and take my hands in one of yours.
You reach into the basket and find what you want. You lift my arms over my head, and on go the cuffs. You make certain I am well secured, but have enough room to move. You like to see me squirm.
You reach back in to the basket, and come up with a roll of duct tape. You look at me and say, "No. I want to hear you." And you do. You like hearing me wimper, the sharp intake of breath when you surprise me, the soft cries, and, eventually, the moans of pleasure.
