(all) up (on) a tree by sutreaux
I started writing this while stoned, and had a little too much fun with long ramble sentences, I suggest you read slowly.
$upport nifty if you can
I'm pretty sure you knew somewhere between and 40 and 79 percent of my kinks by the first time we saw each other in real life. I think you would've said more.
Which is probably why I was a little bit chuffed when, after I slipped into your arms, and your hands found the small of my back and the upper curve of my hip where it meets my waist, and after you leaned against the stripped blond sycamore and watched me walk across the grass, and after I jingled my knee and savored the feeling of my freshly trimmed crotch against my jeans for the whole bus ride, and then you brushed a kiss against my ear, sending yet another shiver through me, the first thing you said was, "I cannot wait to rip off whatever stringy lacy scrap of fabric you're hiding under those jeans." I was chuffed -- delighted, definitely pleased with myself, a little haughty even -- because I knew you were expecting something femmey under my torn slouchy jeans -- I had revealed that element of my gender kink pretty early on in our sexting, I dunno, maybe it's a holdover from all the hetero smut I read as a teenager, I guess the bodice and panty ripping really stuck with me -- and I had imagined how you'd react to the tiny but decidedly masc jock that had given me such gender euphoria in the shop mirror.
The hug lingered. Your hands hot hot through my soft t-shirt, also slouchy. Slouchy enough that your fingers easily found my bare skin. We were doing the cutesy greeting things, not at all awkward but I'm pretty sure we were both distracted by raging lust. We definitely both knew exactly why you'd chosen a park. Our first meet-up, mid-day because I'm in my 40s and can't fuck all night anymore, or at least like, why would I, I've been therapized enough to have sex in good lighting, and in a park that my walking trails app would describe as a "a 50-acre moderately trafficked municipal park" but the kids I went with to high school with would think of as a perfect spot to smoke weed and my boozy 30something friends would pick for a weekend afternoon blanket lounge with lots of snacks and you would choose to meet for the first time because you know this is exactly the kind of park my first girlfriend fingered me in and that recurs in the best of my go-to masturbation material. In broad daylight. And now here we were, and I wanted you to finger me in this exact park, and I thought my chances of fishing my wish were pretty solid.
I had been thinking, okay maybe spinning in my thoughts, a little too long, because your whole hand was under the back of my shirt, and you were grinning down at me, and my bottom lip was caught between my teeth, and you asked -- "May I kiss you?"
"Oh, absolutely, by all means, it seems, yes, like what we bo--"
Luckily you cut me off with your lips, I think I could've dragged that out for 50 words at least. Your lips were dry, soft, and gentle at first. I was the one to deepen the kiss, pressing my fingers into your shoulder blades, turning my head slightly and pressing myself up into you. Your hand at my lower back, dipping to press into the top curve of my ass, pulling me tighter. We were on the edge of the woods, but still definitely visible to most of the park, if there had been anyone in sight, and barely decent for public.
I had some judgement. You know, some societal norms are helpful. I slid my hands along the curve of your ribs, up to your chest, dug my borderline sharp but still neatly short nails in for barely a moment, barely enough for you to inhale suddenly, then pushed you away just a hair harder than purely playful.
"Come."
I'm not one to pass up a cheap double entendre, I am a "dad jokes" dyke after all. In a sexy way, I think. I took off deeper into the woods, thicker and darker.
You followed, obviously.
But only so far -- enough for a little more privacy, the darkness of the canopy offering some protection from anyone looking in from the sunlit field, some brambles and bushes making it feel more secluded than it really was -- before you lengthened your stride and came (heh) around in front of me, heading (heh heh heh) me off and backing up against a wide beech tree. I can't say I resisted. I probably looked delighted, which I was. Grinning wickedly, maybe.
I arched towards you as you did a perfect queer lean against the tree, and we paused, maybe to savor being in our bodies together, in the same place at the very same time. Honestly I think I mostly savored being able to see your face and crotch without a semi-elaborate camera setup. And show you mine. Literally. But more on that in a moment.
First there was more kissing, light but getting heavier groping, "oh goddess" and shit like that, groaning whispering a little bit of giggling, heat building between us. Your hands were everywhere on me, my hip bone, my ass, the back of my neck, tangled in my hair, using so many leverage points to pull me into you. With your back against the tree, I was left to pull your belt loops, dig my fingertips into your biceps, grind my chest and hips against you. It wasn't long before the grinding-panting-pulling-away-clothes stage, but before we got much off, I backed up, eager for my moment of triumph, for your reaction to my skimpy-butch boy unders, for the look of surprise I'd been anticipating since I found the perfect navy blue mesh jock and knew exactly when to debut it.
I stepped back, the fingers of one hand still in your belt loop, lightly pushing you back against the tree as your lips and hands and hips followed me. You got it immediately. Your eyes fell to my waistband, knowing. I savored the moment, the thrum of energy through my body, my heart pounding, my skin hot, remembering all the times you'd made me feel this way from afar and all the moments I'd had to wait for your next message, next photo, next direction. I'd like to say I gave you your comeuppance, made you wait, but my reserves of patience were tapped out. I did manage what I think was a pretty sexy reveal, giving you just a teasing glance a first, dipping down the edge of my jeans, showing you the wide strap over my hip bone. The noise you made was perfect, exactly what I'd been hoping for -- a gasp-groan, accompanied by you reaching for me. I took another step back and unbuttoned my fly, one-handed, but held it together for a moment, playing with you, waiting for you to look up at my face, you begged with your eyes and I laughed, haughty. Instead of showing you the rest, I spread my fingers, some inside the jock, some splayed over the front of my pants. After briefly teasing myself, but mostly you, I let my baggy jeans fall to my mid-thighs and finally revealed myself, my sexy fucking jock strap and through the mesh, my fingers playing alongside my clit, dipping and rolling and skimming.
"Fuck babe, those are hot."
"I mean, are you surprised?" I have always loved a sexy quip.
"Didn't you want me to be?" Like I said -- 40 to 79 percent of my kinks. At least.
I smirked, blushed, but didn't stop. You watched me intently as my fingers continued their play, becoming more direct, more intent, even dipping down further and coming back up slick. As much as I burned for your touch, I was practiced in waiting for you, in turning you on by getting myself hot and wet. You let me go on, and on, and on, calling my bluff, knowing you could outlast me and that as much as I love getting myself off, I'd come here for something different, something I'd already been waiting for for weeks. It was the kind of sexy dominance play that I generally want to lose.
I tried upping the ante. With one hand stroking my clit, I moved the other hand to my chest, starting slowly, cupping and pressing and enjoying the weight of first one breast, then the other, letting my nipples slide between my splayed fingertips a few times before finally giving in, giving more attention to the nipples you'd loved and tortured so well from afar, often and thoroughly enough that you'd taught me what you like. First I drew slow, light circles, sensitizing the skin through my thin shirt, and raising the puckers you obsess over like they're works of art, always asking for close-ups and different angles, even joking once, or maybe not joking, about sending me macro zoom lenses to get even finer detail than you'd be able to in person. After the pleasure -- on top of the pleasure -- heightening the pleasure -- comes the pain. Pinching. Tweaking. Stretching. Finally throwing my head back and twisting twisting twisting while my other palm rocked hard against my clit, two fingers almost two knuckles deep.
I guess I was naive to think you'd let me come like that, after so long of telling me your plans -- to sink into me, to feel me, to caress me and spank me and hold me, to drive me to the edge of an orgasm, or maybe The Orgasm, and hold me there for longer than I could ever hold myself off on the many occasions I'd jacked off for you and asked for permission to come and waited not quite long enough. But still, I was surprised when I felt you behind me suddenly, a burning presence. I tried to lean back against you. Instead, you pushed my shoulders forward. I managed to catch myself before face-planting into the tree, and anyway, you had your hand tangled in my hair, pulling back just enough for me to feel your control, and just enough to make me arch my back, my chest forward and my tender nipples against the wide, not quite smooth tree, only my soft slouchy shirt protecting me. My hips countered, and I could feel your thick silicone dick through your jeans, pressing between my ass cheeks.
I was definitely overstimulated, in such a good way. I was glad we'd set some boundaries and expectations in advance -- mostly so you already had consent to overwhelm me. But you paused for a beat or two and checked in anyway.
"Tell me you want this."
"Please. This, yes, please." I pushed my hips back against you too, underlining my point and crushing my breasts into the tree.
Only partially satisfied, you pulled my head back by my hair. Face now close to mine, you said, enunciating each word, "Tell me you want this."
"Yes, I do. I want this. Pleeeeease. I want this so badly, I want you so badly, I want you to fuck me, pound into me, take me and finally show me what you know I've needed for so so long. It's so good inside me. Don't you want to feel my sweet cunt finally?"
You grinned at me, and let go of my hair. You drew up one of my arms -- not the one still stuffed down my pants -- to rest between my forehead and the tree, to free up your hand to hold my hips where you wanted them. Finally finally I felt your fingers pushing the jock to the side. I started to withdraw the two fingers still inside me, but you growled -- "Don't you dare pull out."
I gasped as two of your fingers joined mine, slipping in easily despite their thickness. With my fingers oriented forward, reaching for my g spot, and yours oriented backward, tangling with mine, you could stretch me open, pulling me up and back onto my tiptoes, then release, rocking your fingers into mine and letting me clench down hard. I yelped the first time you did it, moaned the second and third and fourth time, and was begging for more soon after that.
"Please, please, please" -- my begs were interspersed with my pants and moans, following the rhythm set by the thrusts and pulls of your fingers, urged along by my fingers sliding and rocking in tempo. The stretching made it like I could feel every inch of my cunt, every nerve ending lighting up on our fingers. "I need more, more of you. Stretch me. Fill me."
I've never learned to be careful what I wish for, but I don't think I want to.
My breath caught and almost all of me, all of me but my hips and fingers and cunt, as your murmured in my ear. "You think you're asking for a dicking, but you haven't specified, and our consent was specifically for fingering in the park. But I think we can make do..." I didn't really have time to wonder what you meant by making do, because you spread your fingers, pressed them deeper inside me, then cupped them as you withdrew, as if gathering my come in your palm.
It felt like that's what you were doing because that was what you were doing, gathering my come to use as lube. You slicked those fingers over my asshole, spread my cheeks between your thumb and fingers, and for good measure spat just below the cleft at the top of my ass, the wetness sliding down and mixing with my come to let your finger slide in easily past one, two knuckles. You weren't pulling my hair back anymore, but my head fell onto your shoulder, my knees buckled, and I made some noise, hopefully something kind of sexy, but probably more like a gurgle as my whole system shorted out briefly and I was swamped in pleasure.
I rebooted quickly, but you didn't give me much time to adjust. Before my cunt could slick up again, you slid in two fingers from your other hand, and with less lubrication there was a little pull, a little pain, delicious and not quite enough, so I ground my nipples into the tree bark intentionally this time, rocking forward to invite your fingers a little deeper, then rocking back to finally find that full feeling I'd been craving. I didn't know if I could handle being so overwhelmed, astonished and -- is devastated the right word? You laughed, delighted, then moaned; I moaned, satisfied, then laughed with you. Whatever I was feeling, whether or not I could handle it, I wanted it, wanted you, wanted more.
The sex had started out intense, heated, thick like a sticky summer day, and suddenly we were in that moment just before the thunderstorm breaks, windy and playful and powerful. I had asked to be fingered in the park, and you fingered me like a virtuoso, trilling and twirling and pistoning your fingers in my cunt and ass as I came and came and came, until finally my quads gave out and you withdrew quickly enough to roll under me as I crumbled. As we kissed and recovered and thanked and admired each other, I remembered to applaud you for finding a park that was closed for a significant re-landscaping that hadn't yet started.
*** Was it good for you? Let me know: sutreaux@gmail.com Follow me on instagram for new smut: @sutreaux