The ground was welcoming as I sank down into the soft grass. I ran my hands softly over my breasts, concentrated on the feeling of my palms floating over my nipples. I squeezed my soft flesh gently, began to mould it in my hands, shifting, weighing. I could feel ripples all the way down to my toes.
I pulled on my buds with thumbs and forefingers, rolled them, teased them and shivered as a stray gust of air wafted over the ladydew now oozing from my pussy.
One hand moving from breast to breast, I slid the other down over my ribs, across my tummy. I bypassed my sex, gently stroked an inner thigh with my fingernails, caressed my other thigh. I felt a hunger grow within me, drew a fingertip through my wetness.
I moaned softly as my finger explored, spreading slick dew over my lips. My pearl was almost crying for attention; my whole body froze as I stroked it gently with a slippery fingertip.
Light pouring between the leaves above me filled my eyes and I smiled at the sun’s warmth. I spread my legs wider, drew the middle fingers of my hand the length of my outer lips, separating them, fingers trailing fairy touches on my inner labia. And again. Again, my clit being drawn between my fingertips this time. She emerged from her hood now, expectant, insistent.
I felt the desire growing within me, a soft roar of arousal, surging higher with each second, each movement. My nipples and clit seemed to have become one, a touch on one instantly echoing in the others.
I moaned again, louder this time, then gently probed my opening with two fingers, felt my inner walls shimmy in welcome. I pushed deeper, then drew them back, pressing on my G-Spot as they passed.
I was close, so very close. I wanted to stretch out this deliciousness, make it last, make it last forever.
My mouth hanging open, gulping for air, I pulled out my fingers and began to lightly circle my clit with one fingertip, keeping me just nearly almost, almost…
There was no time in my world now. I couldn’t tell you how long I drifted through an boundless fog of pre-orgasmic pleasure. It might have been a minute; it might have been an hour.
Then, three fingers lightly sweeping my clit back and forth, drawing her from side to side, my other hand cupping first one boob, then the other, I began to pant, tried to make it last even longer while still pushing myself higher and higher up the slope, closer and closer to the brink.
My stomach began to tremble; my legs shifted back and forth, dragging my feet across the forest floor. I could smell crushed grass, feel the blood hammering in my ears.
It began, a growling fire deep at my very core. I went back to softly circling my clit with just one finger, round and round and round and a nova of ecstasy burst inside me, dragging out a loud cry of joy. I trembled, panted as it continued to grow. My body rose off the ground, resting now only on my shoulders and feet. Incandescent pleasure seared through my body, rebounded, filling my whole being with delight. It seemed endless.
My body fell back to the grass; my hands dropped away, fell to my side. I lay almost boneless in the sun, watched a brightly-coloured butterfly circle, then land on a branch almost directly above me. I felt like reaching out to it in welcome, thank it for its blessing, but simply hadn’t the energy.
I lay there a long time, feeling the orgasm drift away like a slowly-ebbing tide, leaving me utterly spent, consumed with the bliss of it.
I was very late getting home that day.
+
So, in the end, of course I said Yes to Erin. Having paid the entry fee, I received confirmation of my registration a day or two later, along with a welcome sheet with suggestions for first-time participants. I found myself becoming increasingly aroused every time I reread those dry instructions. I still had some questions, but I knew I could ask Erin when we met at the event.
Then calamity, a text from Erin two days before the event. A sick co-worker meant Erin’s hours had been changed; she couldn’t come. Have fun, don’t get lost and I’m looking for a doctor who prescribes arsenic…
Right.
+
The sun was barely over the horizon as I arrived at the rendezvous specified in the event notice, an out-of-the-way parking lot intended for hikers. I’d done an orienteering event there two years ago and remembered it as having lots of steep slopes and a confusing, tangled network of narrow and often muddy footpaths.
There were a few people already standing around when I pulled in and parked, half a dozen guys and three women. One woman was, like me, in her early 20s, a second maybe ten years older and the third much older, a frail, bird-like creature with braided grey hair and crêpy skin showing below the cuffs of her blouse. I wondered at her presence; this was supposed to be a demanding event. I shrugged – her business, not mine. I gulped the last of my now-cold coffee.
My car engine clicking as it cooled, I got out of my car and got ready to join the others. I had just slammed the door when a bus pulled into the parking lot.
I wasn’t the only one staring as it approached.
For one thing, it was a very old bus. I’m no expert, but it looked maybe forty years old. The motor sounded healthy enough and there was no rust that I could see, but it was definitely dated and definitely a city bus vice a long-haul inter-city bus, if you get my drift. It bore the faded, painted-over green-and-white paint scheme of some unknown city transit company. I could make out a bold, stylized pocket compass newly painted on the side.