River

I recently posted a poll on Twitter, to decide on a prompt for my next piece of writing. Out of the four choices (Orchard, Bruise, Spectate and River), River came out on top. Thank you to everyone for voting!

So here is River. CW: Water (submersion)

River.jpg

One of the perks of travelling to a beautiful remote place off season is that this is most likely when it is at its most beautiful and remote. It looks like the postcards, and your pictures look less like holiday snaps and more like the photos which made you want to visit in the first place. In this case it was a small island off the west coast of Scotland, and we were, save the very occasional local dog walker, alone.

Although the walk we were attempting took in hills, coast and small gravel beaches, it was the twist of the river at the centre which was of most interest. The Dell, visited by fairies according to folklore, was peaceful in spite of the trickle of the water running through the it. It was the perfect place to stop and rest, and lay out the blanket across damp grass.

I won’t retell the moments between the blanket and the fuck, because we know it is going to happen. Of course we fuck. We fuck quickly, and I feel the mud soak into my tights as he grips my arse. It doesn’t take him long to finish, and I move to adjust my clothing and back away from the water’s edge. I want to feel him running down my thighs, as I walk back in my cum soaked tights.

I could imagine it through his eyes, my thick maroon tights contrasting the pale of my arse underneath my grey woollen dress. The soles of my boots, slick with mud, facing upwards as I keep my head down, close to the moving water. He loves the arch of my back when I strain to stick my arse up for him.

Did I say you could move?

… Okay, maybe that’s not what is going to happen right now.

I’ve made you nice and wet. Touch yourself.

I start to rub my clit as I raise my head. He sits by the edge of the river with me, and pushes my head back down to the flow, but his hand doesn’t leave my hair. He’s holding me down, inches above the water, as I try to balance on my left arm.
I begin to moan. Well it’s a sort of moan, it’s more like a squeak as I worry we have been here a while and I really don’t want to be caught by one of these dog walkers. I start to vaguely flutter on the inside, and I can feel it building. My breath quickens.

Do you want to orgasm?

Yes.

And it hits me, for only a second, the cold of the water, before I’m gasping for breath. His hand never leaves the back of my head as he submerges my face into the water below.

Yes?

Yes please. I splutter.

But, fuck, it’s gone. The stirring has stopped, scared away by the shock of the water. He starts to grin. I can’t see it, but I can feel it.

Seen as you’ve asked so nicely, you can.

He’s a twisted fuck sometimes. But I love him for it. He knows I am not going to explode like usual following his permission. He knows I had the vague inkling that might happen, and it was something I’d likely wank over later. He knows I didn’t believe he’d do it.

Oh, so you don’t want to orgasm? You’ve had all of your fun, being fucked in the mud, and now you’re filled with my spunk, you want to keep it for yourself?

Well, that works. I start to rise again as he tells me I’m a slut who wants to have her cake and eat it. I respond by telling him that’s not exactly true, it’s more often than not his cum I prioritise eating over cake. On one occasion, actually on the cake.

He’s holding my face so very close to the water again for being so cheeky. The tip of my nose is in the water. I’m transported back to being on his kitchen floor, on my hands and knees, eating my dessert from a tiny bowl, lapping up chocolate sauce. And before I know it I’m shaking.

I didn’t even ask him, but he’s letting me enjoy it. I know I’ll pay for this later. I’d be more than happy to pay for this later. But in this moment he allows me to adjust my tights, and cuddles me into him, wrapping me in the blanket. The blanket he wraps me in again that evening, after laying it in front of the fire to dry, after he’s covered my arse in bruises.

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