(Butch/Femme - NOT stone)
When I wake up to an empty bed in our little cabin, I’m disappointed but not surprised - you’ve always been an early riser and, I suppose, vacation is no different if your internal clock is unyielding. I try to languish alone, enjoying the idea of not needing to go anywhere in particular for the next few days, but without cell service and without a warm body next to me, staying in bed becomes a dull and passionless idea. Besides, in a little slip all alone, I’m starting to get chillier than I like, so I slip out of bed and throw on the fleece that you threw haphazardly on the floor last night.
Padding through the tiny house, I can’t find a trace of you. You’re not curled up with a tea, watching the mist rise over the lake, you’re not in the kitchen whipping up breakfast. You’re not even sitting on the porch outside. I sigh, and check the driveway - our car’s still here, which means you can’t have gone far.
I suddenly hear some noise in the thick thatch of forest next to us, and without thinking, slip on some shoes and stride out in nothing but a negligee and your fleece. These woods are empty of others, I’m pretty sure - but wouldn’t it be just my luck if I came across a startled deer or something, instead of my beloved? Then I would have to go back into the cabin and wait, alone - my least favourite activity.
I’m already arranging a pouty speech in my head about how cruel it is to leave your beautiful partner alone on holiday, how I had hoped to occupy our time with sweet, lazy lovemaking but was abandoned in the woods. I practice fluttering my eyes and I know that my words would be incredibly effective - by the time the forest thickens around me, I’m daydreaming of how you’d make it up to me, how you’d mockingly agree that the whole ordeal must have been very difficult for me. Daydream-me looks up through my lashes and deliberately slides a hand down my own thigh. Daydream-you darkens and steps toward me–
But that daydream is shattered by the image in front of me. Despite the early morning chill, your undershirt is exposed with your flannel around your hips, and your muscles actually ripple as you bring an axe down against wood. I didn’t even know that was a real thing that happened, I thought it was an exaggeration, and yet here you are, casually fulfilling a fantasy I didn’t even know I had.
I think I squeak, because you look up in surprise and grin quickly at me, wiping some sweat off your brow. (I want to chase that sweat with my tongue.) You admonish me for being out of bed softly, sweetly, saying that you wanted to wake me up to a fire-warm house with a large cup of coffee. The idea makes me weak at the knees, and I can’t help but walk towards you, like I’m being pulled. Magnetic.
When I’m in front of you, I touch your face softly, and tell you that I missed you when I woke up. You lean in to give me a soft, warm kiss, which I deepen immediately and purposefully. You drop your axe behind you and slide your hands under the fleece, along my waist, and I shiver a bit at the contact before pressing myself flush against you. You don’t put up any resistance when I walk you backwards towards the nearest tree, and when I slide down to my knees (bare against the rich earth), you look at me with eyes as wide and dark as they were in my fantasy.
Without fanfare, I unbuckle your belt and shimmy your pants and boxers down to your ankles. You spread your legs a little and lean back against the tree, letting me set the pace and enjoying the view. I nuzzle my nose against the crease of your leg, and pepper soft kisses along your hip until finally, finally laving my tongue against your clit and sucking you into my mouth deeply. You shudder a little at the sensation, winding your hands into my hair and pulling, just a little.
As I work my tongue against you, you become looser and freer, grinding against my face and making little noises - fuck, baby and you feel so good and yes, good girl, just like that. I slowly work fingers inside of you - one, two, three - until I’m cupping my own chin and you’re fucking my hand and my face. I can feel the heat gathering between my legs every time you pull a little tighter and and grind a little harder. I’m merciless - I drink you down as if your wetness is the nectar of the gods, and when you shudder and come against my face, I feel myself dripping down my legs in sympathy.
You shake for a moment, and then collapse back against the support of the tree, your hands loosening and stroking my hair as you gasp raggedly above me. I’m feeling very, very smug. My hair must be a mess, there’s come on my face and my knees are dirty from the forest floor - I must look wild, like part of the forest itself, a dryad appearing to sample the pleasures of the mortal world. To drive home the point, I look you dead in the eyes and use my mouth to clean up the hand that was just inside you, working up my wrist and then sucking my own fingers into my mouth, hollowing out my cheeks around them.
The trick works just as I had hoped. You grab me and spin me around, positioning me so I’m bent over against the tree, and lovingly make up for the fact that I was cruelly abandoned in bed this morning.
2087
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