The Prick of Brambles
I led the way from the car park. Behind me, I could hear two sounds: the ticking of the six cylinder engine as the big iron block cooled, and the swish of her bare legs pushing their way through the long grass as she followed me.
Ahead of us, the path was less obvious, and I could see that I’d need to devise a cunning route through the wild brambles if we were to discover the seclusion that I’d promised her. I envisaged the thin cotton of her summer frock repeatedly snagging on the undergrowth, and I worried. Mood killer. I knew that she was completely naked beneath the dress. When she slid into the passenger seat a quarter hour ago, she had taken my hand and slipped it first inside the amply filled bodice of her dress, and then beneath its hem, using my palm to chart the inner flank of her closest thigh until I could reach no higher.
“Just as you requested,” she’d said in a low voice, making my cock lurch. My erection had persisted for the entirety of the drive, a feat not discouraged by the frequency with which her hand lingered restlessly upon my loins.
Her voice snapped me back to the present.
“You do know where you’re going?” she asked.
“Of course,” I lied. I’d promised to scout out somewhere suitable for us to indulge our desire for an alfresco coupling. I’d run out of time, leaving it until an hour before I picked her up, close to where she worked, but distant enough to be discreet. This was the best I could find on short notice, but it was far from perfect. Perhaps such places only exist in fiction and fantasies.
The undergrowth grew thicker. That wasn’t the worst thing possible. We were close to dog-walking territory — a few other cars were dotted around the gravel car park, and the sound of dogs barking in the distance was apparent when we got out of the car. I couldn’t imagine anyone deliberately bringing their pets in this direction … but it wasn’t inconceivable that a wayward dog might find its way to us, drawn by intriguing sounds and scents, trailing its exasperated owner in its wake.
A desire for al fresco fucking didn’t mean a concurrent yearning to be caught in flagrante delicto by a total stranger. I glanced back over my shoulder at my companion. At least not on my part.
We’d reached the thickest part of the copse, but I thought I could make out something of a clearing about ten yards ahead. Under my arm, I carried a thick picnic blanket I’d purchased for the occasion. I hoped it would make for a comfortable bed. Twenty years ago, the prospect of sex with a desirous woman would have left me caring little for the consequences of fornicating upon a bed of brambles and musky earth. But that version of me was only a memory now, and a faded one at that, and when I lifted the blanket from the boot of the car, Claudia had nodded approvingly. It was reassuring to know that her own wildness was similarly tempered.
It took a couple of minutes’ more weaving and bobbing to reach the clearing. Up close, it wasn’t much — scarcely enough to justify the description. Roughly six feet square, barely enough for two adults to lie down within. No lush, emerald grass to stretch out upon here, no carpet of bluebells. Some Yellow Archangel and Navelwort, rough grass, fallen branches from the trees that shut out much of the blue-white sky, and the ubiquitous brambles. I had no idea what creatures we’d disturb and send scuttling. But it would have to do. We could wander for another half-hour and find nothing better; worse, we could likely find ourselves back here with nothing to show for our effort but bramble lashes on our calves and less time on our clock of opportunity.
Claudia stopped beside me. I feared that the first words from her mouth would be a withering “Is this it?” I couldn’t have blamed her in the slightest.
“Let’s get the blanket down,” she said, no trace of disappointment or resignation in her voice.
I trod down the undergrowth as best I could, threw aside the bigger of the fallen branches and then lay the blanket down. It was thickly woven, thinly rubberised on one side, as though it had been designed for this very occasion. I was sure it would shield us from what lay beneath us.
I stood up and surveyed the clearing. The blanket’s presence had transformed it. Once we were stretched out, we would be invisible unless someone walked right up to us, and I’d deliberately brought us in the opposite direction to the obvious dog-walking routes. Only our voices and any lustful sounds we might make stood to betray us to the curious.
“Do you like?”
I’d swapped one focus for another, almost forgetting why I was here. How was that even possible? I turned to face her.
She had completely unbuttoned the front of her maxi dress. She still wore the wide straps over her shoulders, but the front of her dress hung open. I breathed in deep through my nose, held the air in my lungs for longer than necessary, let it out between my lips in a near silent whisper.
Amazonian, I thought. It was the only word that came anywhere close to being appropriate.
She was nearly as tall as me, and almost as broad shouldered. Her hazel-green eyes held mine with quiet confidence, the laughter lines at the corners crinkling lightly as she enjoyed my scrutiny. Her full breasts were heavily freckled, as though she’d been sprinkled with honey and left out to dry under a warm sun. I’d read somewhere that a girl without freckles was like a night sky without stars. Now I better understood the sentiment that had inspired those words.
Beneath her breasts, the skin of her belly and her loins was flawless cream, and the neat triangle that adorned her mound strawberry blonde, like the long bob she wore her hair in. When we first met, decades ago, her hair had been darker, a rich and vibrant copper, like you’d find burning in the heart of a blacksmith’s forge. Time had stolen some of that heat, but it was still dazzling, still hot enough to scorch a man’s gaze and sear the breath in his throat. And then the freckles began again, decorating her thighs and her shins and her calves. She was marked like some predatory feline, a statuesque leopardess: feminine, desirous, and undoubtedly dangerous if sufficiently roused.
The only word that my brain could fumble was ‘fuck’, but it was too clumsy, too crude, and so I just nodded, hoping that she wouldn’t take my muteness for a lack of appreciation or excitement.
We moved together, meeting at the centre of the blanket. Her mouth was warm and eager for mine, and her tongue quickly joined my own in the fray. It was completely natural to lift my hands to her breasts. Naturally firm, they filled my palms, and her large nipples — the pink darkened by lust — pressed back to meet my grasp, asserting themselves upon me both physically and mentally.
Not without a little awkwardness, we sank into the hiding place we’d fashioned. I lay on my back with her over me. Maintaining our kiss, she straddled my bare thigh — I’d worn canvas shorts for the sake of expediency — and I could feel the heat and wetness of her sex as she rubbed herself back and forth against the heavy muscle. It made my cock lurch. She noticed the movement, and reached out to grasp my erection through my shorts.
She broke our kiss. “Mmmm,” she sighed with satisfaction against the side of my face, before she started to descend along my body. She pulled off my t-shirt and then her hands found my belt. She quickly released it, then just as swiftly unbuttoned and unzipped my shorts. I was naked beneath. She giggled.
“Great minds,” she said, and then slid my glans between the edges of her smile.
My head rocked back. The warmth and softness of her mouth consumed me. I felt myself disappearing into her. Through slitted eyes, I stared through the canopy of branches and saw the twin contrails of a passenger jet crossing the azure firmament. The thin, precise lines of gossamer spread out in the aircraft’s wake, dissipating until they were no longer distinguishable. I pictured the two hundred people, protected from the near vacuum by a thin tube of steel and aluminium and perspex propelled at five hundred miles an hour, oblivious to the illicit carnality six miles below them. It was an intriguing thought. How much fucking did the average airline passenger pass over in one trip?
The jet disappeared into the thickening foliage. I closed my eyes.
Her mouth worked my length with so delicious a languidness, it bordered on indifference. Not for the first time, I wondered what it was that made some women such fabulous suckers of cock. Was it innate talent, or innate desire, a desire that surpassed mere enthusiasm, that passed into something akin to worship? Was it merely a gradual evolution, the combination of multiple experiences with multiple lovers? Or did it require the intervention of a man who wasn’t too afraid of rejection to say, “Slow down. Take your time” or “I’ll show you what I like — just let me guide you”? Maybe it required a combination of those things, and others I hadn’t even considered. Who knew? All I knew for certain was that I’d slept with more women than I’d met great practitioners of fellatio.
Present company definitely excepted.
It had been weeks since my last sexual encounter. If I allowed her to continue unabated, I knew it would only be minutes until I erupted into her mouth like a teenager.
Carefully, I pulled her mouth away from me, drawing it back to mine. Now she tasted of cock as well as lipstick and toothpaste. I rolled her onto her side and then her back, cupping her mound. Her thighs splayed, and her sex opened for my fingers like a luscious flower. I used the wetness within her to lubricate a path to her clitoris. She bucked wildly the first time my fingertip brushed across the tight nub, and her mouth slipped away. When she was caressed like this, it was as though her ability to interact was stripped away. She just lay there, eyes closed, suddenly passive and able only to receive delight. I didn’t mind at all. It was like being gifted the opportunity to practice my art. I had always taken great satisfaction from giving as much pleasure as I could to the women who chose to sleep with me.
I teased her clit, alternating with slipping two fingers deep inside her, curling them within her oiled velvet to caress the front wall of her cunt. Each time I did, she groaned and her hips undulated, like the deep roll of the oceanic swell thousands of miles from any continent, where the world is nothing but liquid.
When she came, it was as though she was being electrocuted … but she kept her screams locked away inside herself. Even when her climax was over, she just lay there, eyes closed, her body quivering, as though the current were still flowing through her. Not the mega amperage that had carried her to so high a peak, but powerful all the same. Not for the first time, I found myself both envious of and unsettled by the power of the female orgasm.
I started to slip down her body to taste her sex, to carry her up another shattering peak, but she grasped my shoulder to stop me. “No,” she said, her breathing still fast and shallow. “I won’t be able to keep quiet if you make me come like that.”
She moved quickly, pushing me back so that I was looking up at the sky again, and dragging my shorts down my legs to render me naked. Her strength was impressive. It would be an intriguing matchup, to face her not as a lover but as an opponent. She swung her leg across me again, but this time she straddled me completely, her knees planted on either side of my waist. She scarcely paused, reaching down to grip the thickness of my shaft and guiding my glans to her sex in a fluid move.
“Condom,” I reminded her, admittedly half-heartedly.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay.”
I looked into her eyes as she nestled the tip between her labia, teasing her cleft with my cockhead. Why was it okay? Because we were both married, and so there was less risk of one of us infecting the other? Because she’d reached the point of middle age where the chances of us creating new life here in this bespoke bed of nature were rendered minuscule? Or was I missing something else entirely?
I wanted to ask what it was that made it okay … and yet I didn’t want to ask at all. I didn’t want to care. I just wanted to forget all the questions and let go. I wanted her to make the decision for both of us, so that we could forget about consequences, at least for now. I wanted her to sink down onto me and let me experience that delectably unmistakable, unforgettable sensation of cunt sheathing cock.
And so she did.
We gasped as one, even as we were individuals in worlds of our own making. I didn’t know what she was thinking, what she was feeling — not for sure — and the same was almost certainly true for her. This wasn’t love, not for either of us. This was the expression of mutuality: two people trapped in sensationless marriages, both craving a taste of the excitement of carnality, of the satisfaction of flesh. We represented convenience, and safety, to one another, because neither of us wanted anything more than stolen moments, to renew us, to sustain us. It was nothing but a bandaid, a sticking plaster slapped over an old wound. But sticking plasters were all the treatment either of us would countenance for now.
She rode me with a practiced poise, scarcely pausing to strip away her dress. Now we were both completely naked. The realisation was exhilarating. Her body blazed above me. I watched raptly, drinking in her narrowed gaze, her wanton half-smile, the way she bit down upon her bottom lip as each wave of internalised pleasure reached another half-peak. Her full breasts swayed beguilingly in time with the rise and fall of her body. I reached up to cup them, awed by their weight, their firmness, their softness … but I was just as content to rest my hands against her hips and marvel, mesmerised, at the sensuous curves of her body.
She came again, forcing herself down onto me at the instant of her climax, grinding her clitoris into the resistance of my pubis. She groaned, and for a moment, I thought that she was going to lose control of her voice, release her ecstasy upon the wind. But then she clapped her hand over her mouth and I could see the sinews stand out along her neck as she bit down into the ball of her thumb.
When her rapture had ebbed, she leant forward and kissed me. Her breasts pressed into my chest and her tongue raked over mine. She reached behind herself and cupped my damp balls, cradling them with zeal.
“I want to feel you come inside me,” she gasped, and then kissed me again.
I pulled her forward, so that I could grasp the cheeks of her behind and open her to me, allowing me to thrust into her without hinderance. The fervour of her tongue against mine ably communicated that she approved of the vigour.
As always, the knowledge that a woman wanted to feel my seed surging nakedly inside her body excited me greatly; to my shame, remembering that this woman was sworn to another man only added to my excitement, only served to quicken my pace.
“Oh fuck,” she groaned into my mouth, and then she was gone again, sinking her even, white teeth into my shoulder as my cock began to spurt inside her.
“Oh fuck,” I echoed, vocabulary torn away by pleasure.
As the ripples of my orgasm subsided, an all-too familiar kaleidoscope of feelings and emotions exploded within me: hedonistic satisfaction; physical pleasure and sexual excitement; shame; guilt; regret at the twin betrayals I’d countenanced. In the past, I’d agonised over whether the components of my kaleidoscope made me a uniquely complex individual, or if they were exactly the same for every other man and woman who’d ever climaxed during copulation. I was too old for such uneasy contemplations now. I accepted the kaleidoscope for what it was: a part of me; good or bad, right or wrong.
We lay there for minutes. I was still inside her, although my cock had softened to the point where little movement would be required to dislodge me from her flesh. I kept my eyes closed, content to be alone with my thoughts. In the darkness, I luxuriated in the sound of birdsong, and of the breeze moving through the trees; the smell of sex mingling with the scent of the foliage and the earth; the weight and the heat of her body, the twin thudding of our hearts and ragged synchronicity of our breathing, and the perspiration smeared between our bellies and our chests.
She moved first. She kissed me, a chaste peck on the lips, affectionate but restrained. It was enough of a movement: my spent cock slipped out of her. Still kneeling over me, she reached out for her dress and pulled it effortlessly back over her shoulders. She re-buttoned the bodice and then stood up. To anyone who might have seen, she was a woman in a sundress, emerging from the undergrowth. It might have been obvious what she’d been doing, but no one would prove it from looking at her.
As I looked around for my clothes, she opened her handbag and took out a fresh pair of panties. She gracefully stepped into them and drew them up her long legs.
“No more dribbles,” she chuckled at me as she smoothed down her dress. Were my ears deceiving me, or did her laugh carry a hint of sadness? Perhaps Claudia had a kaleidoscope of her own to process.
Dressed, I rolled up the blanket and put it under my arm. I could feel my damp cock adhering to the inside of my shorts. I made a note to tuck them into the bottom of the laundry basket. I looked down at myself. My shins were striped with several bramble grazes, but I could explain them away. Other than that — and the small damp circle on the front of my shorts — there was nothing to show what I’d been doing.
The walk back to the car took half as long as the walk to the clearing. There were a few extra vehicles parked on the gravel, but some of them had been there when we’d arrived. I glanced around. Not a single person in sight. The kaleidoscope sometimes came with a side order of paranoia.
I turned right out of the car park. After a minute of silence, I switched on the radio. Joe Cocker’s gravelly tones covering a Squeeze original. I snorted at the lyrics, then turned to Claudia to see what she made of the gag.
A single arched eyebrow was all she gave me back. “I didn’t know you were a fan of Irony FM.”
“Neither did I.”
I switched the radio back off. We drove the rest of the way in silence.
I dropped her exactly where I’d picked her up. She didn’t linger. She never did. She leant over in her seat and kissed me, the same chaste peck that she’d given me after we’d fucked.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said.
And with that, she was gone.
I watched her for a minute as she walked towards … towards where? Her own car? A taxi? Bus? Train? I had no idea. She was as discreet as me. Even more so. Ours was the perfect arrangement. A marriage made in heaven.
I was still laughing to myself five minutes later.