A River Runs Through It (L)

Often a consumer; first time a contributor.

I was excited that my wife could join me, as I spoke to a conference of several hundred adults gathered at a retreat center edged by wild mountains, some open meadow, and deep forest.  The room assigned as our bedroom was comfortable, clean, and Spartan.  The retreat center was modern and up-to-date and in no way rustic, but it was designed to give all of those who stayed there a sense of simplicity and separation from the ordinary.

Our lodging was somewhat removed from the other guests—the only guest room on the second floor of the main hall—and, yet at the same time, in the middle of everything.  We quickly learned that voices (and even footsteps) passing through the grand central station below our loft, moving between conference rooms, the dining hall, lounges, and all the rest, were easily heard behind our door.  This also meant, of course, that our voices and movements were easily heard in all of those public spaces.  So much for the raw and raucous sex of which I had dreamed on this assignment.

The meetings went very well; my teaching schedule included morning and evening plenary sessions, all of which were well received.  I knew it was right for me to be there.

But, my mind fled, in almost every spare moment, to racy dreams of mad, passionate sex with my wife.  The spectacular setting in the mountain wilderness, fields of summer flowers in bloom, brilliant afternoon sunshine, and blue sky caressing the whole fed my passion; I approached the few hours between lunch’s end and my evening responsibilities with a mixture of excitement (focused on what I’d like to do) and frustration (born by the reality of the audible loft in the middle of a crowd passing by).  My nights were torturous, lying next to the very hot body of my wife, knowing she would not chance being heard by the other conference guests in the heat of passion.  Let’s see, will I lose my mind in these couple of days, denied by circumstance the release of my nuts now aching?  Hmmm.

I’m no stranger to managing alone for a few days, as I am on the road often.  But, being physically close to my wife, seated at the table, so to speak, of a feast just beyond my grasp, was, well, a test.  I have a very healthy appetite.  To describe my state of mind by the second day as horny would be an understatement; crazed would be better.

On our second full day of the retreat, my wife and I decided to walk away from the retreat center and into the small village nearby.  It was hot and dry that afternoon, as we followed the small lane off the property, across a bridge spanning a broad but shallow creek, then leading through some open meadow, laced with tall golden grass splashed with bright blue and white wildflowers.  The road soon brought us to the village:  a quaint collection of just a few buildings, a general store, the post office, a filling station, a few chalet-like houses, dressed with window boxes and pastel shutters.

In time, we were through the berg and walking now into the forest, still on the quiet lane, having not seen a car pass.  Before too many more steps, we heard rushing water and discovered a magnificent river of white-water, cascading down its bed, crashing against rocks and large trees, here and there, that had fallen into its way.  The thundering of the river rose as we drew near, magnetic in the way it called us.

We clamored over some rocks, left the road, and found our way to the river bank.  Swirling, shallow, unspeakably clear water pooled near the bank, as the river churned just a stone’s throw beyond.  We hopped from stone to stone, hand-in-hand, finally abandoning our shoes and just wading in, as we forged upstream.

Every cell of my being was alive, electric, engaged, and framed by a familiar hunger for my wife that is nevertheless fresh and original every time it seizes me.  I stopped and took her into my arms, standing in the water, shrouded by the forest, bathed by the sun, and clothed by the din of the rushing river.

I pulled her into a deep kiss, an aggressive kiss, pushing my tongue against her own.  She clawed my back as I grabbed her oh-so-prefect ass and kneaded it like bread.  I spied a patch of soft grass on the shore and moved her to the ground.  She lay on her back, eyes dancing with desire to match mine, as I dispensed with her buttoned shirt, released her barely-tit-covering bra and cupped her breasts.  Her nipples jumped to attention as I licked, sucked, and circled them with my lips and tongue.  She moaned in the way that I have learned signals that her body is rapidly moving into a pre-orgasmic state.  I thought my dick was going to explode in my cargo shorts, then and there.

We played in this way, she plying her hands over and around the massive bulge between my legs, driving me wild, as I moved one hand inside her shorts, releasing the button and deftly moving her zipper down.  Her flesh-colored low-rise panties, with a band of lace across the top inviting exploration of what waited below—one of my favorite pair—were already damp, soaked really.  Oh, the turn-on of my wife’s drenched panties, begging me to taste, smell, and feel her sex!

I stood up, towering over her, staring.  She lay, cushioned by the grass, framed by some wildflowers just to the left of her head, her blond hair and green eyes as if in a glossy photo-shoot.  Bare-chested, with her shorts now removed and those panties the only thing between a taste of heaven and the moment, this was a picture too intimate, too sacred, too personal to ever find its way into Vogue, but one forever etched into the magazine of my memory.

I loosened the belt of my cargo shorts and they dropped effortlessly to my ankles, as I stepped barefoot from them.  I have for several years been freeballing—going commando—sans underwear, revelling daily in the freedom, comfort, and feeling of my package unencumbered.  In this moment, my cock stood straight out and hard, as my cargo shorts released it from its cage, veins bulging, pre-cum oozing, still straining in the open air, in the way all guys understand when totally turned on.

My wife took me all in with her eyes, too, silhouetted against the brilliant blue sky.  “Dear God in heaven, Thank You,” I breathed, speaking out loud for the first time since our toes earlier had touched the water.  “You look absolutely amazing,” I said in a low tone, “and I am so hungry for you that I don’t care if the whole lodge hears,” I now shouted above the river’s noise.  She grinned and motioned for me to get to it.

I ripped her panties off and my head plunged between her legs.  The smell and taste of her pussy, mixed with the scent of evergreen and the whole outdoors was intoxicating.  My wife’s juices were flowing, smooth, silken, glistening.  I tongued her clit, fingered her slit, and worked her into, literally, a writhing frenzy.  I moved up onto my knees and then turned around, lowering my body onto hers in a 69 position, once again engaging her always magnificent vaginal folds and most delicate parts.  I drank from her pussy until my face and stubble dripped of her wetness.  Sloppy. Wet.  Just like we like it.  She began to cry out, her voice trembling, calling me by name, at first, in a controlled crescendo, but suddenly escalating into a scream of pleasure.  Her hips and torso bucked beneath me, as wave after wave of orgasmic pleasure gripped her, from head to toe, as I unrelentingly teased and then drove her over the edge.  God knows—yes, He knows—how much I love that.  My wife does, too.

As she regained a measure of control, I lifted myself up and now positioned my throbbing cock at my lover’s most personal and sacred entrance.  Bracing myself with one arm, holding myself above her chest and face—I am 6’ 2” and she is 5’ 6”, so when I stretch over her, her face stares at my neck and chest, unless I bend to kiss—I pulled off my T-shirt, now completely naked by the river’s bank.  I had felt the warmth of the sun on my butt and legs as we began, but the sweeping embrace of the warm sun across my shoulders and back was an unexpected pleasure.

I teased her opening with the head of my dick, swirling, pushing, pulling, and rubbing.  The glans was washed with her wetness, as it moved slowly in and out.  Her cunt was by now so flooded with her own sweet nectar, that my shaft glided perfectly in, as I suddenly decided to plow all the way.  I know that my length sometimes is uncomfortable for her, pressuring her cervix if I am too rough—in this moment I forgot myself and I felt her flinch as my cock was buried inside.  But, catching myself, I pulled back and owned the fucking we both loved, in a way that made her groan again and made me so glad, as always, that God made me a man.  The sensations of penetration and filling my wife, the feeling of myself buried deep inside of her, the heat, the throbbing, the clenching, the tightness, the full body experience emanating from my meat never grows routine.  I rocked and fucked and paused and did it all again, filling her completely, drawing as much from the seamless union of our bodies (and, I think, souls) as can in this life be known.

Bending to kiss her breasts and then her lips, I braced myself again with both arms, lifting my chest above her and looked on the priceless gift and partner that is my wife.  “I love you.  Thank you for loving me,” I whispered.  She smiled as she always does when she knows I am putty in her hands, that she is the giver of this all-encompassing pleasure, designed by God.  “I hope you’re ready, because I am about ready to … uh, oh shit, here it comes.  Fuck.  Fuck!  I’m cum-m-m-ing!”  I descended into a primal roar that, were it not muffled by the raging river’s deafening and constant flow all around us, would have been echoed for a football field’s length in every direction.  My cock expanded—past what I thought possible–at that sweet, supreme moment, shooting stream after stream of my jizz deep inside my wife’s snug pocket.  As my body convulsed, I threw my head back and reveled in the hot sun, limitless sky, and horizon of jagged peaks surrounding us.  Whatever heaven holds for us, could it surpass this?  I believe so, but cannot imagine how.

I lifted myself up, tracing the last ooze of my cum on her stomach and then we laid still, half-drowsy, side by side in the grass, she held in my arms.  As I began to drift into sleep, my wife nudged me, reminding me of the time.  A new hard-on came into view, as another erection came to life; I felt it, she saw it.  And as I smiled and began to pull her rear end into contact, she kissed my arms, then cradling her breasts, and talked some sense into me.  “You have a job at this retreat to do, you know,” she said softly.  “Yes, yes, I know:  duty calls.  Time to preach.”

We dressed and climbed away from the river back onto the road, a bit disheveled, I suspect, for any passersby to see.  But, there were none.  We walked lazily back to the lodge.  We showered, combed our hair, and donned clean clothes.  I opened my Bible and reviewed my text.

I spoke that night to the crowd, in front of the massive fireplace and floor-to-ceiling glass framing the great outdoors.  I spoke from Genesis 32, a passage which describes Jacob protecting his family and also wrestling with an angel, by the River Jabbok.  I described the scene in a way that the audience could be transported there:  the sound of the water rushing, the quickened pulse of the man Jacob, the wrestling and thrashing about the ground.  “A river runs through it,” I deadpanned to the crowd, outlining the narrative.  My wife sat demurely in the second row, far right, next to the window, smiling.  Me, too.