Smut Alfresco

by Lucy Felthouse

  “Here I am.” Maretta stepped closer.

  She kissed him first. He’d never be able to debate with his mouth pressed to hers and open wide while he kissed her like a madman.

  Hopping up on to his hips seemed like the natural progression, as did leaning back and landing with him on top of her on the bare picnic table, their surroundings barely lit by the illumination of the moon.

  Maretta wanted it the other way, so she scooted to her right in a swift move out of nowhere so that Herb who was knees and palm down on the wooden surface.

  “On your back,” Maretta demanded.

  Herb tilted his head toward her as if he were considering resisting but he honoured her request, lying flat on his shirtless back.

  Herb’s pyjama bottoms were easy to get rid of, and he wore no underwear beneath. Maretta remembered that about him all of a sudden, hurriedly getting over the shock of his cock springing forth.

  She wet the rounded top of his cock with her mouth and tongue, doing what she knew damn well she was good at. His hips reacted on their own, rising slightly to go deeper into her open mouth.

  Maretta pulled with all the stretch her small tongue could muster and both Herb’s hands went to her face, holding her there.

  Through her oral attention, Maretta looked up at Herb and smiled. The he laughed into the night.

  “You still know how to do it,” he said. “You can still drive me crazy with that mouth of yours.”

  Maretta’s response was a hum-like giggle. She continued licking and sucking until he began to wiggle on top of the picnic table.

  Maretta lifted her head and said, “Be careful of the splinters.”

  “Then stop doing what you’re doing,” Herb said, “and climb on top of me.”

  Maretta was happy to do so. She stood up, and then she turned her back and ass to him and sank down on his cock. Reverse cowgirl, just the way he liked.

  She wiggled her hips and caused him to gasp. She bent forward and grabbed onto his ankles, rising and dropping her middle in quick intervals.

  Herb growled into the night as Maretta moaned in sync. His swollen cock filled her up, tickled her insides. She positioned herself in a way that she would come and she did, all over Herb’s shaft.

  “You didn’t wait for me,” he said, as Maretta continued to move on top of him.

  “Because I couldn’t.”

  “Good,” Herb said. “I was barely holding on myself.”

  Then Herb came, and he still had that knock-out punch. She wished it didn’t feel so familiar. But the feeling rushed back like a tide.

  Herb fucked with intention and determination, with meaning and fascination. He talked while he fucked, asked questions and demanded answers while he fucked, all of which turned her on like she had never been turned on before.

  “Did you like it?”

  “Yes,” Maretta said. Of course she liked it. In fact she loved it and wanted more of it. She didn’t know how she had been able to let it go in the first place, he was so damned good.

  “Then I’ll make you a deal,” Herb said.

  “What?”

  “Meet me here tomorrow, same time, same place, and we’ll see about getting you that particular pumpkin.”

  Maretta nodded her agreement, though she knew it was no longer about the pumpkin. It had stopped being about the pumpkin the second Herb lifted her legs high in the air.

  The next night before she went to meet Herb, Maretta stood naked in front of her bedroom mirror. Glancing over various places on her slender caramel coloured body, she noticed there were red patches on her rear, on her thigh and on her lower back. She smiled to herself, deciding she liked the look on her. It reminded her of laying there on the cold, prickly picnic table with Herb the night before, and that there would be a repeat performance in just a few minutes.

  Herb was sitting on the picnic table’s bench when Maretta got there. This time he was dressed in carpenter-style jeans and a sweatshirt. Maretta was dressed more appropriately, too, a sweater dress, tights and boots, though this time they knew full well that they would be taking it all off.

  “Well, I’ve showed up for my end of the bargain,” Maretta said, though she knew it had nothing to do with the bargain. She wanted one more go with Herb, she couldn’t deny it. She was becoming addicted to him again, little by little.

  Herb hesitated before he spoke. “You might change your mind when you hear what I have to ask you.”

  “We’re asking questions now?” Maretta was still trying to play it cool.

  “Just one,” Herb said. “And I’d call it more of a request.”

  “And that is?”

  “I want you to spank me.” Herb hung his head when he said it.

  Maretta bent down closer to him, unsure that she had heard him correctly. “Did I hear you right, Herb? You want me to spank you?”

  “Yes, you heard right and please don’t patronise me, Maretta. We can call the whole thing off if that’s what you’re here for.”

  “I’m not here to patronise or to tease, Herb. You always did like a good spanking, though, didn’t you?” Maretta rubbed Herb’s shoulders to put him at ease.

  She felt him relax the slightest bit, but he was still embarrassed at his revelation. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

  “I’m not. I’m just surprised, is all. After all this time, I would have thought you’d find someone to fulfil that particular need for you.”

  “Well, not everyone’s into that type of thing. And you have to be really comfortable with someone.”

  Maretta blinked. “So, you’re saying you were comfortable with me?”

  “Was, and am. So, will you do it? There’s a gorgeous pumpkin in it for you, if you will.”

  Maretta stood up and put her hands on her hips. She craned her neck to the side and took all of Herb in.

  Then she said, “Take off your belt.”

  The black leather belt made its familiar noise as Herb unbuckled it and slid it through the loops. He folded it, holding it by the loose ends and handed it over to Maretta.

  “You know what’s next,” she said, nodding toward his jeans.

  Herb unbuttoned and lowered them. He was, again, commando.

  Maretta took a moment to admire his high, firm ass. The pecan-brown cheeks were strong as was the rest of his body from manual labour. He could probably stand more now than he used to. Briefly, Maretta wondered if she was up to the challenge.

  Their prior sessions would last for lengthy spans of time, with each requiring a brief reprieve to gather their bearings. Herb would still want more, even when his rear was burgundy and sore, even when he stood high on his toes from the sting of receiving the strike of whatever instrument he chose for that night. Floggers were once his favourite.

  Now, Maretta slowly pulled the leather through her hands. It gave a brief, cool burn. Then she wrapped the buckled end twice around her palm as the belt was extra long and she took a few steps back.

  “Bend over,” Maretta commanded.

  He did, his elbows and forearms resting on top of the picnic table.

  Maretta didn’t give any warning. She just drew the belt back and landed the first stinging strike.

  Smack!

  The sound excited her. She had forgotten what that sounded like, what bringing the belt down on someone’s naked ass felt like.

  “You’re free to scream, you know. We’re in the great outdoors,” Maretta said.

  And Herb did. Through clenched teeth, he let loose a vicious grunt when the leather made contact with his skin.

  Maretta pulled the belt back, and brought it forth with greater force. The muscles in his rear end quivered this time, and Herb’s lips parted, letting out a deep throated yell.

  “Ugh!”

  Maretta knew Herb and knew that his cries were of pleasure and not of pain. He bent down farther, sticking his ass out more for her. So, Maretta gave him what he was so desperately seeking.

  It was all coming back to her, the f
act that Herb preferred to be surprised rather than to hear or see it coming. And he liked to be talked to, scolded during the act.

  “Who’s in charge now?”Maretta asked as she swung high and hard. “Tell me, Herb, who’s the boss?”

  “You are,” Herb whispered softly.

  “I can’t hear you,” Maretta demanded.

  Herb grunted and then opened his mouth wide. “I said, you’re the boss.”

  “You’re damn right.”

  Herb was turned on. Maretta could see it in his rock solid cock, the way it pointed out directly in front of him.

  She delivered a series of swings. His ass cheeks tightened against each strike. Herb’s pleasure fuelled Maretta’s delivery and she went faster and harder, the licks sounded off louder into the vast darkness and emptiness of the pumpkin patch.

  Finally, Herb gripped the edges of the picnic table so tight that his knuckles poked out against his skin. He was nearing the edge.

  “How much more can you take?” Maretta asked, and then struck him again with the belt before he had a chance to answer.

  He showed her instead, that he’d had enough. Herb’s knees buckled slightly and he knelt on the bench. His face was drenched in sweat, his cock still hard. His breathing was heavy.

  Exhausted herself, Maretta dropped the belt onto the ground. The buckle sounded off when it landed.

  “Thank you,” Herb said when he caught his breath.

  He didn’t look at her. He looked down instead, at his still holding on erection, and he grabbed it in his palm. He began to lightly stroke.

  She once loved watching him do that, pleasuring himself when he thought she wasn’t looking and even when he knew that she was. She was standing by quietly as he jerked himself off, marvelling at the way he could bring himself to such sweet relief.

  Herb was kneeling and humming the tune of his self-given pleasure as he slowly and steadily brought his broad hand around, up and down his massive cock.

  It wouldn’t be long now. Herb’s moaning got deeper, his strokes faster. The strokes sounded as if he were slapping himself, giving himself his own spanking. And then came his spunk, clear and thick, coating parts of his thighs, the seat and the wet grass.

  Maretta couldn’t take her eyes off of him, watching him clean himself up with a handkerchief, looking at the burgundy patches on his chocolate ass courtesy of her mighty swing and the strong leather belt.

  She hadn’t given much thought to the fact that at some point, she had begun touching herself as well, and he would turn around any minute and see her with her dress up over her hips and her fingers inside her panties, fingering her own cunt.

  Herb carefully replaced his bottoms, gliding them easily over his sore spots. She had hurt him good, it was obvious.

  “We can go get that pumpkin now,” Herb said and as his eyes froze on her spontaneous masturbation and consequent climax, “I’d say you’ve earned it.”

  Clothing and bearings intact, they walked together through the patch. Maretta picked out the biggest, brightest and loveliest pumpkin from the patch, knowing just what she would do with it.

  She would make Herb a pie from his own patch, because after her patches and his, he had most certainly earned it.

  Meadow

  By Jacqueline Brocker

  B looked at Lucas in the dappled sunlight, and all she could think was; I could take you right here, right now, and not care who was watching. I could straddle your hips and sink onto your lovely cock and rock back and forth until we both came.

  Lucas, she knew, would rather drink two gallons of water from the Cam, risking mud, slugs, fish, and its vile reputation for infection.

  B smiled to herself, bit into a chunk of apple, and wondered if they could compromise.

  They’d packed the picnic together that morning. After she’d made some cracks about going off like Mole and Rat, Lucas had stared at her, and said with false solemnity that he’d never call her a rat.

  B had put her hand on her hip. “But you’d call me a mole?”

  He’d given her a level gaze, and said they should probably stop talking about children’s books, before he’d chuckled and hugged her.

  “But you’d be my mole.”

  B had hoped that was a compliment, not a veiled, though affectionate, jibe.

  They’d cycled across Cambridge, down Mill Lane, past the weir and the Mill Pond, over the fen-like Sheep’s Green, through the playgrounds of Lammas Land, until they came to Grantchester Meadows.

  Grantchester Meadows lay between Cambridge and the village of Grantchester. Owned by King’s College, it was the summer’s best place for walking, cycling, and swimming in the river Cam. On the river itself, canoes and punts went leisurely by - the College rowing teams used the north parts of the river, where it was wider and with longer stretches of straight water. Here, by the meadows, a stone could be thrown across with river with little difficulty. It was more like a long, meandering pond; peaceful, for play. The only threats were the nettles clustered on the bank, and the swans when their cygnets were especially young. In the past, B and Lucas had seen one harass a man on a canoe who, life-jacketed and carrying an oar, really should have had the upper hand, but instead cowered by the river bank, gingerly poking the oar in the swan’s direction, while the creature had arched its neck, wings up like a white hooded cape.

  Lucas had called out to him, grinning as he did, “Go on, give it a good thwack!”

  “Shh!” B had said, lightly smacking him on the arm. “Don’t want to kill one of the Queen’s pets!”

  They’d arrived around lunchtime, and found a large willow tree to sit under. One of the branches shot straight out at right angles from the trunk. Beneath the branch was a clear space, while at its end, the long leaves draped down the very edge of the bank like a curtain. They arranged the bits and pieces they had brought with them: bread with a thick crust and fluffy inside; hummus and baba ghanoush; grapes and strawberries; a bottle of lemonade; another of white wine. They were a little secluded, but people passed them, and they were far from alone. The joys of summer, that might only be one day of the year, so people rushed into it, men stripping off their shirts and women going with short-shorts and strappy sandals, while the children would be dressed in fluro colours and little caps.

  Lucas was more staid than that. He wore jeans and a blue T-shirt with an image of a web comic he read. B had tried to read it once or twice but the jokes were mostly too science-based for her to follow. B herself had a loose, knee-length skirt, and a tight black tank top. It showed the Celtic knot tattoo on her right shoulder, the twining vine down her left forearm, as well as the iris that went up her right inner calf.

  They settled down to eat. They clinked their plastic glasses of lemonade together, and as they ate, leaned against each other, watching the people pass by. Lucas spotted a frisky golden retriever, and offered a running commentary on it.

  “Here comes the dog. And it’s going to jump, it’s going to jump! Only wait, not it’s not, it’s going to stop, and jump, and wag its tail until the stick is thrown. And there’s the stick, here goes the stick!”

  B laughed as the dog vanished into the river with a loud splash, and its owner, a man of about fifty with a pot belly, called it back to the bank.

  She was Bethany, but everyone called her B. Bethany was too soft, she’d always thought, for her face and her body. It suggested pillows and plush toys, flowers in the field. She liked her taut body, had worked on it, sculpted it to its current shape and form. It suited her.

  Lucas was shorter than her, smaller in most ways, though his shoulders were broad enough not to be feminine. She liked that, being able to put her arm around him and feel it was a stretch, to drop her cheek to his shoulder with ease.

  They said little else to each other, just ate and drank and occasionally closed their eyes. It was the kind of air and mood to make her sleepy, for her mind to wander like the river in front of them.

  Where are we going with this? she t
hought, looking at Lucas. Apart from shorter, he was younger than her too. Six years shouldn’t have mattered so much, but he was twenty three, and as her thirtieth approached, it struck her as a gap that wasn’t unimportant.

  B worked in a jewellers that sat unassumingly in a passageway off King’s Parade. It was shop work, and she also learned the trade: accounting as well as the technical aspects of gem setting and design. In her spare time she made her own pieces - silver earrings, pendants with deep colours and lavish swirling patterns. The job kept her safe, kept the wolves at bay, but with her stormy and temperamental boss, she often felt mere steps away from being without income or a safety net. Her parents would take her back home if needed, but under a sufferance she’d not be able to tolerate.

  Lucas, on the other hand… He had more hope than her, brightness and optimism. The edge that Cambridge graduates so often possessed, an assurance and self-confidence, knowing exactly what they had to do to get where they wanted. Lucas had graduated and was now working at one of the science and technology parks on the edge of the city. His boss had recently told him that if he kept working the way he was, he’d be up for promotion in two years time. Lucas had in his work both excitement, newness, and stability. B wondered how much she could offer him, after a time. The older girl with the artistic bent and the practical, ambitious boy.

  There was more than that, though.

  She gazed at him - he’d tilted his face to the sky and had shut his eyes - enjoying the look of him: the dimples in his cheeks, the light freckles across his nose, the way his light brown hair looked with sunlight through it. So bloody adorable.

  But what man wanted to be thought of as adorable?

  It was that discovery, she feared, that she liked his litheness and that she could hold him, doll-like, against her. That his weight was light and he’d never crush her when he was on top. How not to emasculate a man, she thought, and everything she did with him…well. If he knew. If he hadn’t already guessed.

  How to tell him that thinking about engulfing him made her soaking, sticky wet?

  B jolted when his hand reached for hers, and he hooked a single finger around her pinky. His face tilted back to hers, and her chest tightened at his sweet, affectionate smile.