"There’s a place along the Oregon Coast, a public campsite, that I must introduce you to. I don't remember the name of it offhand, but it is pretty far South from here, and there’s a lighthouse that you can walk to. "
When I suggest that we go there, you look skeptical. I invited you to come to Portland, and you were expecting to stay at my home with my family. You’ve got all sorts of reservations. After all, I’m some sort of wacko you met on the internet! But you’ve been "talking" to me for ten months--now’s not the time to say you can’t trust me.
I take your hands in mine, and look deep into your greenish eyes, and say, "Let me show you what I mean. The coast is so beautiful. Don’t you want to see the ocean?"
"Well, yes. " You consent reluctantly.
I’m stunned by how adorable you are. You have mousy brown hair, a small nose, and a slight scar along your cheek. I think you told me in an email long ago that you got the scar when you were a child and your brother accidently hit you with a rock. You’ve got hot, perky tits and a small ass. You exercise. Your shapely legs tell the story of someone who can mountain bike eight miles a day.
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But somehow, you don’t seem secure in your looks. Your breasts are lost under a shirt that’s way too big. Your hair’s pulled back and clipped with a dozen little clips. No make up.
I wanted you to be attracted to me, and I’m not afraid to admit it. I wore a tank top with no bra and some tight jeans. I dyed my hair a redder brown than my natural color. I dashed a hint of plum lipstick across my cheekbones. My nipples are rigid. Now that we’re standing face to face, it all feels inappropriate. Self-conscious, I cross my arm across my chest. Maybe I shouldn’t be hoping something will happen. You told me before you agreed to come visit, it was not a sure thing. You’ve never been with a woman before. I haven’t either, but since meeting you online, it’s all that I think about.
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I collect you at the airport. We pack up the gear, and drive down the coast. On the way, we stop at a winery, and sample some wine, and buy some that we both like. We stop at Tillamook to get some ice cream, and I have to show you the quilt shop in Newport. But it’s the campsite that I really want to introduce you to. When we get there, it’s dark. The road winds around a row of hedges. You notice all the other tents and RVs and think "Why?"
We get to a spot, kind of back a ways, and yes, it’s a little bit of a hike to get to the john, but there’s a flushing toilet, and for that, it will be worth the walk. Fumbling in the dark, we pitch the tent. You collect a washcloth and a towel and go to the bathroom. I start a fire in the pit. Fortunately we brought some wood before we came because it costs $6 a bundle to buy it here. I set our sleeping bags into the tent, and even though I want to zip them together, I’m unsure of how you want to proceed. You may need that space, so I will give it to you.
After you come back, you say, "There’s showers here!"
"Well, it’s a pretty nice place.
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"
"It’s cold. "
"I know. But there’s no mosquitos. "
You think for a minute. "Right. That’s nice. And it’s not as cold as it is at home in Minnesota. "
"I figured you’d be okay with it. "
I have water boiling, and I offer you some tea. You decide to open the wine that we bought earlier. Around our campsite, there’s an elaborate hedge. One of the remarkable things about this place is that the whole campground is essentially cut out of a brambly bush. Hedges block off each campsite, giving every camper a fair amount of privacy. We sit on a log with our boots toward the fire. We drink berry wine out of the bottle, and listen to the wind blow.
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We can hear other voices from time to time, but it’s quiet. Very calming.
It gets late. I feel like one of us has to be the one to admit that we need to get some sleep. I could sit and stare at you by the fire forever, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I’ve really enjoyed being with you, finally meeting you in person, and I’ve not tried to push into you, or overwhelm you. I hope you’re feeling okay. With you here drinking wine, I’m getting mixed messages. I don't know if you want to loosen up or just get sleepy. I suspect you’re trying to avoid the issue tonight.
I get a towel and follow the flashlight’s bobbing spot of light to the bathroom.
When I come back, you’re inside the tent in your sleeping bag. I bend and climb inside mine. I feel you there, just inches away. Judging from the sounds of your breathing, it sounds like you’re already sleeping.
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Or you’re trying to fake me out. I can’t help but feel disappointed. I lie there, smelling stray wisps of smoke from the campfire and try to unwind. I want to roll over on top of you and force my tongue in your mouth. I want to feel your firm breasts. At the worst, I want to lay there in the darkness, think about you and masturbate. Like I’ve done a million times. I’m so close, I can smell your hair–like henna and apples. I can feel my sex stirring. Juices seep out of my vagina. It’s torture just to lay here inches away.
I feel like a seven year old girl waiting for Christmas. I secretly doubt that Santa Claus will really come.
In the morning, you’re up with the birds. I hear the clink of metal and rustling around the campsite, then smell fresh coffee, which pulls me up out of bed.
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The steaming coffee tastes strong and goes down good. You fried pancakes. I eat one, and feel like I should have gotten up earlier to help. Then I remember we’re in different time zones. You’re probably raring to go! We should go for a walk. I want to show you the lighthouse. I pick up a package I brought and we walk off together.
The hedge has blocked a surprising amount of wind. The trail forks. The path to the beach drops 60 yards before it gets to sand. I’m glad I bothered to pack my boots! We wander off on the other path through the grassy field to the lighthouse. It’s a brisk walk. The sand and the sea grass makes everything look stark and far away. We walk up to the stone lighthouse and look around, but everything’s locked. We peer inside paned windows, but all we notice is spider webs and dust.
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Now that we’re here, I feel foolish. I know we exchanged email stories about the romance of lighthouses, but I’m not sure how much you’re really interested in them now that we’re here. Long ago, I told you that I was your lighthouse, a beacon to guide you here. You answered back that you felt the pull of me, but you were afraid to give in. If you came to me, you asked me, would you be like a moth to a flame, incinerated by the meeting?
How stupid! Remembering our email fantasies makes me feel insane. What if this was just some ridiculous fantasy--one to better stay a fantasy, to never fully explore?
"What’s in the package?" you ask.
"A kite. " I open it up. "We should fly it here in the wind. There’s no trees. "
Moments later, the kite is together. Laughing, I give you the roll of string and dash through the grass, stretching to hold the yellow kite high above my head.
We launch it. You pull it into its orbit around the curve of the beach. It sails off.
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You throw out yards and yards of line. The diamond-shaped kite becomes a tiny straggle of color, the line bowing into the wind.
We take turns guiding it, watching it lean and twist, then struggling to upright itself in the wind. I like watching you move, how you hold yourself. You seem so confident and assured. Your hair is loose today and it billows behind your head. When you turn your face, it whips across your eyes. Impatiently, you tuck it behind your ears.
A family comes up the trail. Their young son watches us flying the kite, and wistfully says, "Oh, Daddy, we should have brought a kite. " Done with our adventure, we pass the kite off to the boy and his father, who have thought about doing this sort of thing together for years, and longed for the kind of windy day where kites actually fly.
"You want to walk down to the beach?"
"Sure. "
We’re off to the other trail. We stumble down the rocky path to the water’s edge. You close your eyes and inhale the cold, briny smell.
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It’s not a sandy beach--those are found up by Newport--but it has all the little nooks and chasms that a beach should have. Sea stones scatter on the beach, as well as chunky throes of driftwood here and there. We find a tide pool and stare at the crystalline world below, full of sea anemones and skittering sand crabs. A small stone shines green in the light. I pick it up and hold it in my hand. I feel like it is meant for me, so I slide it into my pocket. No matter what happens, I must always remember. You tell me it’s been years since you’ve stepped foot on a wonderful beach like this.
At this hour of the day, the beach is very private. A bunch of gulls are scattered on the beach ahead, straggling over some tidbit. We can walk from one end of it to the other, and even then we would not be able to get around the rocks blocking us from more beach unless we did some serious climbing, got very wet, or waited for the tide to recede.
Suddenly, I reach out and take your hand. "I’m glad you’re here. "
You squeeze my hand back in reply.
Up a ways, there seems to be some sort of a shallow cave.
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We step inside. Once there, I pull you close to me and I brush your windswept hair out of your face. I’m dying to kiss you, to taste those small, puckered lips. But I don't really want to make a first move unless you want me to, and so far, your signals have been vague, like you’re happy to be here, but you refuse to do anything you might regret. You must be sensible. You’re always so sensible.
Don’t get your hopes up,
you used to tell me in your emails. It’s just fun to think about. I can’t help but have my hopes up. I’ve been writing to you for almost a year. I’ve never hidden the fact that I wanted to be your secret lover. I’ve never hidden the fact that I wanted to taste your soft pussy. Your sacred, special pussy. You told me that you had relatively little experience. You could count the men you’ve been with on one hand.
We both have small cuts on our legs from walking through the tall, reedy grass. I touch one of your cuts, and kind of smooth it away. Your skin is so soft to touch. I feel awkward and pull my hand away. You put your hand over mine.
"Thanks for inviting me. "
That’s it? I feel cold inside, rejected, like I made a huge mistake and read all kinds of things into your messages that weren't quite there. Panicked, I turn to walk out of the cave. Surely we should go back to the campsite and get some food. We were silly to not pack a lunch.
Behind me, you put your hand on my shoulder to stop me. You put your arms around me, hugging me from behind. There’s tears in my eyes. I’ve wanted this for so long. You hold me close, and I turn into you, our hair, all tangled together.
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Your hair smells wonderful! I find your mouth, and I kiss you. I close my eyes and feel you there, and I kiss you. Over and over. Hoping you won’t make me stop. I pull the hair out of my face, and study your mouth, tracing your lip with my finger. I stop and smile and kiss your velvet lips again. Behind us, gulls scream and waves crash on the beach.
Many moments later, we decide to go back to the campsite to eat. Not that either of us are really hungry. The trail goes up, and it is not meant for two people to walk together, but I cannot take my hand away from you now that we have finally touched. At the top of the cliff, the trail winds through the hedges to our site, and we stop under the cover of the hedge, gnarly limbs
all around us, like Sleeping Beauty's castle. I pull you to me again. I kiss you there in the hedge, locked inside our own little world.
You pull me back to the campsite. You get out the wine again, and this time we share the bottle.
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We sit side by side on a small log, knees touching, taking long droughts of cool wine. I think we both know what’s going to happen next. We’re going to finally confront the big IT that’s been between us all this time. Are you trying to drink your courage?
We don't start a fire, for we prepared snacks in tidy little bags. We nibble on grapes and carrots and such. We sit together, barely speaking, sharing the same plate, sometimes putting the food into each other's mouth.
After we’ve eaten, the wine starts to hit. Laughing, I open the tent, and lay down flat on my back, arms outstretched. The orange glow of the walls makes it look surreal. I pat your space on the sleeping bag next to mine. You come inside and lay down. I turn to you, and prop my head up on my elbow. Maybe we should talk? I look into your emerald eyes, all flared from the wine, and I can't stop talking. Oh, I’m so nervous.
That is, until you take my hand, and give me the bottle of wine again, nearly empty.
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Drink, you urge. Once I take the bottle away from my lips, your lips are there on mine, pulling that taste of wine out of my mouth with your tongue. Oh your tongue is incredible. You probe around in my mouth, touching my teeth, slightly sucking my tongue. At the end of the kiss, you nibble my bottom lip.
I’m overwhelmed. It’s been so long! I’ve been craving your touch forever. Now that the moment’s finally come, I hardly believe my luck. I taste your breath, and collapse into your soul. From somewhere, you pull out a cotton quilt which you spread over the slippery nylon of the sleeping bags. You start to undress me.
I pull off my sweatshirt. You unbutton my blouse, deliberately, slowly, taking time to kiss my skin below each button. I hold my breath every time you touch me, wanting it to last and last. Waiting to see if this will go as far as I hope it will.
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In my bra and shorts, I lie against the cotton of your quilt. I’m glad you brought it. I love the homey feel of cotton. It smells the way your house must smell, like lavender and bubble gum.
With the strange orange glow from the walls of the tent, our skin looks tinted and unique. I watch you above me, pulling your t-shirt up over your head.
You unfasten your bra and toss it near your pillow. The contrasting darkness of your nipples, already erect with desire, capture my attention. I reach for you, and you crumble against me. My hands wander along your skin, touching and discovering places and sensations I have only imagined. Oh! Your skin is incredible! A man has never felt so smooth, so sumptuous.
I simply want to touch you. I fumble in a pocket in the tent and for orange spice body oil that I had stashed there. Just in case. I ask if I can use it, not wanting to stain your quilt.
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You whisper that I can, and roll over, and I start to spread the oil over your soft skin, and smooth it away, massaging your shoulders and back, slowly, then aching to get lower to touch your bottom. I dash some more oil on my hands from time to time, and then warm it before I touch your perfect skin. I try to think about everything else but the fact that I am finally touching your ass! You still have on white satin panties. My oiled hand makes an imprint on the fabric. I massage the muscle deeply, trying to be detached. I trace circles down to your thighs and long to reach between them. I massage your calves and ankles, rubbing each of your small feet, tugging on each of your ten toes. Your body is perfect! I can hardly believe I am there, that I am with you.
I unhook my own bra, so I can press fully against the softness of your back. I hope terribly that you won't mind. I unfasten my jean shorts, and pull out of them as well, my panties already wet with anticipation.
Holding you close to me, I can barely breathe. I am afraid if I react, you will disappear like a flash of light in the evening sky. My hands cup each of your breasts. Behind you, I press into you, finally feeling that I have captured you completely.
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Then at once, you turn over. I take in the view of your satiny skin, the ribbon of white satin across your pubic bone. You move your legs so your feet are a shoulder’s width apart, and I can see the crevice of your vagina. Your puffy pussy lips are parted below the fabric. I could trace the line with my tongue. Oh I want to taste you! At your feet, I start massaging my way up, skipping from your thighs to your flat belly, and up to your shoulders, then back to your lovely soft milky-white breasts.
Next, is a flurry of motion and passion, as I ease down your panties to study your naked body against the soft quilt. You look just as I had imagined, like a beautiful thing, too lovely to be mine. Your breasts quiver in the soft light. I start to slide off my own panties, but you stop my hand and pull them down yourself, slowly and deliberately, your hands gentle against my skin.
I spread more oil across your breasts. You catch your breath below me, and then kiss me hard, and then roll up on top of me. You’re taking the initiative! Now I know you want this as much as I do. I was worried that I would have to convince you, and you would be reluctant. I feel your 34C’s pressing onto my breasts.
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Mooshing oil all over my tits. My nipples are rock hard, standing rigid. Kissing you dearly, my hands wander down to your thighs. I tentatively touch you there, sliding the fingers closer and closer to your pussy. By now, you’re all oily, all wet. I so want to probe my fingers into your cunt. But this is the only first time, and I want it to be perfect.
I take your nipples one at a time into my mouth. Oil’s smeared all over my face by now. You relax and shut your eyes. I look down at you on the quilt, and can imagine nothing else, breasts full and round, softness, whiteness. . . loveliness insurmountable. I take my time exploring you.
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I slip my hands between your legs, touching you, lingering, finally merging into your folds. I move closer, skin to skin, hands wandering, and mouth moving to discover.
I tuck my pillow under the small of your back, and invite myself between your thighs. I spread your pussy open, and gasp when I dare to look. You are so pink! Like a newly opened flower. I blow air on your clit, blowing, blowing softly, before I take my first taste. You push up against my mouth and my tongue, holding my head with your hands, trying to make me attend to the spots that you need me to touch. I diddle with my tongue. You taste wonderful. I suck and lap at your intimate spots. I can’t get enough.
At one point, you shriek, and rise up on your elbows. I stop, thinking I must have hurt you, but it’s just one of those odd places, where you want to be touched again, just not so intently. As you settle back against the quilt, I let my fingers wander on your clit. I move my mouth back up to your breasts where I suck and taste them.
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You pull me up to your face and lick the taste of your pussy away from my chin and lips. You kiss me deeply and passionately, and roll me to my back.
Then, you take control. Your pressure is perfect. You handle my breasts deftly. I ache to have you pinch them and suck them deeply. I move my pussy against your hand. You’re taking your sweet time, but eventually you’ll get there. I’m so ready, I can almost scream. Wetness between my legs starts to trickle, a sticky trail. I immediately wipe it away. You see my hand move there and follow it with your own. I start to touch myself, but you push my hand to the side, and take over, slowly, longingly, lingering on spots where I want you to be, then flitting away, teasing, milking it for more time, more sensation. I’ve never felt like this!
You’re not used to making love to a woman, and neither am I. We both know what needs to be done, but don’t have experience doing it.
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We both use what we like ourselves to make moves on the other, but it isn’t 100%. But it is good. Oh so good. You make me come, and watch as my back heaves and my breasts thrust forward. My climax sweeps through me like the wind through our kite. Then you take my nipple into your mouth with the realization that you can make me do it again. No men here, no premature ejaculation. No "Thanks Babe, I’ll get you next time. " No rolling over and starting to snore.
I use my hands to make you come, then I suck deeply against your pussy, and wet it again, and set you up to come again. The ebb and the tide, the water bouncing against the shore, the gulls calling to each other outside becomes one with us as we touch and explore. We discover each other ever so patiently with so much care, and then with so much fury. At one point, you thrust four of your fingers deep inside my cunt. I scream with a gush of cum.
Night falls.
Weary, we pull ourselves out of the tent, clothes touching our skin unwillingly. My toes ache, they’ve curled so hard. We stir up a fire and make food that we feed each other. Young men walk by our site, and we sit up and look more appropriate, but once they have passed, we are back to each other's skin. Later that night, the lantern pulled into the tent so that I can see you there, in the soft light. The same group of men walk by. The lamp light allows them to see inside. They snicker as they notice our breasts' silhouettes where we sit naked. They elbow one another, guffawing. Then silent as they think about what it is that they have seen.
Finally, we settle into each other’s arms and fall asleep. Not once does the tent feel cold.
.
