RIVER ENCOUNTER (MF cons rough) She was not a young woman. Yet her life had been full, rich with adventure and challenges. She had hiked steep mountain trails to quiet mysteries; she had explored the heat of deserts and walked beside the pounding surf. She was comfortable in the airports of the world: Europe, the Americas. She had reached the pinnacle of her career through dauntless hard work, and often at the expense of personal relationships. And now she was tired. Three years it had been since she walked out of the rat race---just walked away, saying one day, "I've had it. Enough of this. The rest of my life is for me." And she had cleaned out her desk, given a cocky salute to the security guard as she walked out the gate, loaded the cardboard box filled with her past into the trunk of her car, and driven straight into the mountains with no stops on the way. It did not take her long to find the place she wanted to live for the rest of that life. A tiny town, fewer than three thousand people, high on a bluff above a whitewater river, where she had gone rafting years ago. Of course she had had to go back to settle things, sell her condo and the furniture, explain to her now former employer. She had seen a big, rambling 100-year-old house for sale. She bought it that first day. What had begun with an exciting spontaneity turned slowly into three years of loneliness and regret. Though the mountains and the river and the deep, high forests were so beautiful they took one's breath away, the big house was empty and silent. The people in the town, many of whom had lived there for generations, did not take kindly to newcomers. She devoured books; she listened to music; she got a cat. She walked for hours along the narrow road above the river. And now, with so much time for introspection, she became aware---and surprisingly---of her repressed sexuality. In all those past years, there had been occasional lovers; but she had found that love is time-consuming and distracting. It had been easier to satisfy those urges with her own finger against her clitoris. Often, months would go by without feeling a need. Now, she ached with need constantly. Still, at her age and in this isolated place, partners were rare. She knew about pleasuring herself. Like everything she had ever done in her life, she approached masturbation methodically, testing and weighing the options. She rummaged through the house for things to insert into her wetness: produce from the market in every shape and size; long silken scarves stuffed to fullness, then drawn out slowly across her clitoris to sweet orgasm; the great knobby ends of an antique oaken coathanger stretching her with its strength and its size; the cat's rough tongue. Vibrators and dildos and beads from a catalog came through the post in plain brown wrappers. Each day, she placed a low stool on the Turkish rug in front of the full-length mirror in the spare bedroom. Two high windows in this room framed the mountains coming straight down to the river's edge. A giant holly tree, brushing against a third window, gave her the sensation of being high in a treehouse. It was almost magical here. She seated herself on the stool and watched her reflection. She wore gauzy underthings, removing them slowly, one by one. Her unclothed body always startled her at first---full hips, her belly softly rounded, the nipples of her breasts dark, prominent. She pinched their hardness to feel the pain. Her legs were long, muscular---nice legs, she thought. She painted her toenails bright red. It was her single vanity. Her skin was good, no wrinkles yet; nose and ears small, almost delicate; neck long; back and shoulders straight; hair on her head cropped and dark, pubic hair fine and silky. She cupped her hands, poured lavender-scented oil into the palm, and began the ritual of anointing every part of her naked body, stroking with long hard strokes until her skin glistened. She fantasized a lover with no face, a lover with no body, only hands---strong, commanding, knowledgeable hands---taking control. She pulled her stool closer to the mirror and spread her legs, to see even more intimately the lips of her vulva swollen and engorged with blood. The drops of her wetness on the soft pubic hairs reflected the afternoon sun. She began stroking the labia, pinching it, pulling it, then plunged two fingers into the cavity of her vagina, then three, finally forcing four inside, fingers flaying and twisting. She could see in the mirror that the clitoris had burst from its hood, luminescent and erect. She felt herself reaching the edge and she moaned softly. She reached to the clitoris with her other hand and rolled its hardened bud between index finger and thumb unrelentingly, until the fire inside her burst and the moans became a scream of release. She kicked the stool aside and lay curled on the rug for long minutes, lungs heaving, sweat mixed with lavender oil, fingers still tight between her legs. She did this every day. The obsession with sex gave her a new sense of power. She had always been in control: of her life, of her career, often the working lives of others. Now she was in control of her own sexuality---its frequency, its intensity. Yet something was missing and she was confused. She needed to be in control; it was her lifelong pattern. But at the same time, she ached to give up that control to someone else---anyone else. Each day, bit by bit, the masturbation became more frustrating, less fulfilling. She relieved the physical and emotional tension by walking more and more, letting her leg muscles pull her up and down the steepness of the mountain road above the river. She rarely encountered anyone else walking, a car passing only now and then. She liked the hot days of late spring. It felt good to sweat hard. Her senses were remarkably acute as she walked; the sound of the rapids below excited her with the memory of the danger always possible when rafting. She could see the outline of every new fresh spring leaf on the trees; she smelled the earthy, moldering smell of last autumn's leaves and the lighter fragrance of unidentified wildflowers. She felt a great need to get closer to the water. She left the road. There was no path, but trampled undergrowth and an occasional broken branch suggested that others had come this way before. "Damn," she said, as a wayward hawthorn branch tore at her leg. "This probably was not such a good idea." She half slid, half climbed down the steep incline, coming out onto a narrow rocky shoreline next to the water. She stood for a moment, catching her breath. The breeze from the river chilled her uncovered arms. She was wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, and the exertion and the excitement of the climb had left her aroused. She was aware of her nipples stimulated to half erection under the thin cotton fabric. A great boulder perhaps eight feet high and easily as wide rested at the water's edge, having crashed down in a landslide eons ago. A narrow trail seemed to go around it and she took a few tentative steps. As she rounded the huge rock, she was suddenly startled to see a fisherman, knee-deep in the water. He was a large man, weathered face, hazel eyes, salt and pepper mustache. He was not young, in his late forties, early fifties maybe. He wore a beat-up New York Yankee's ball cap over hair that was turning gray. His bulky fishing vest hung loosely over his shoulders. He held a flyrod in his left hand, and with the other hand he motioned for her not to speak. She watched silently as he cast the line into a stand of rushes along the shore. And then she noticed his hands. They were huge, powerful. Yet the fingers were long and graceful, balancing almost delicately the play of rod and line. The motion was beautiful, like a dance, she thought. She stood, mesmerized. He laughed, then, as he pulled in the line, an easy, husky laugh. "Still cold from the melting snow. It'll warm up in the next month or so." He waded to shore and lay the flyrod on the rocks. He was wet to the waist. She saw his eyes fix on the rising and falling of her chest. She couldn't get her breath, though it had been some minutes since she had made the climb down from the road. He was staring now at the outline of her erect nipples pressing hard against the light shirt. She reluctantly admitted to herself that she felt some little fear. What surprised her was her growing arousal, contractions of electricity in her groin and rising to her throat. He spoke again. "Out for a healthy river stroll?" He continued to stare, and waited for her reply. "I walk frequently." Her voice sounded stiff and formal, tight. "Alone?" Again that flash of fear. "Yes, frequently---almost every day." She wondered why she had told him that, this man, this stranger. She began to feel out of control. The tumult inside her was unlike anything she knew. Was she actually desiring this man? He pulled off his boots. "Man, that water is cold. Got to get out of these wet pants. I've got a dry pair in my pack." She watched the long fingers of his left hand unzip his pants; and she still did not move as he stepped out of them and kicked them out of the way. His penis was flaccid, and his skin looked cold in spite of the warmth of the sun. He shivered, and then he laughed. "Doesn't do much for my manhood, I'm afraid." The laugh broke the tension and she laughed, too. Suddenly, it seemed normal, casual, perfectly all right to be standing here in the middle of nowhere talking to a half-nude stranger. "Do you fish here often?" "No, first time in this section of the river. I usually fish the slower stretches about 20 miles downstream." "More exciting, fishing in the rapids?" She was aware of the double entendre in her question. He nodded. He continued to stare into her eyes. She realized it did not make her feel uncomfortable. She liked what his eyes were doing to her. She knew what her eyes were saying to him. He had not made a move toward his pack for a change of clothes. "Tell me," he said quite suddenly. "What is the most outrageous thing you have ever done in your life?" "What?" The question took her by surprise. "It's been a long life, and I suppose I've done a lot of outrageous things-at least other people might have thought they were outrageous. You'll have to narrow the field down some." Then she laughed, but it was not an easy laugh. Now the stranger was grinning, challenging her. "All right. That's easy enough to do. What is the most outrageous thing you have ever done sexually?" She had known from the start that was what he had meant. She hesitated, but for some reason felt strongly compelled to share the most secret things of her life with him. "That's a little personal, don't you think, since we saw each other for the first time, what, five minutes ago?" "Tell me, I want to know." It seemed almost as if she had no choice, as if she had suddenly entered a confessional. So, she began to tell him about the daily ritual in the room next to the holly tree. She laughed nervously as she talked, trying to pass it off as a joke, but her voice grew deep and husky with lust. She left out no detail. He watched her mouth as it said the words; he watched her eyes. She knew he was undressing her with his mind and she stood naked before him. He spoke quickly. "Ever want to make love to a complete stranger? Someone safe? Someone who would give you exactly what you wanted, the way you wanted it? Someone you would never see again?" Her mind raced, trying to sort out the intelligent, rational thoughts from the physical turbulence. She felt more and more out of control. This terrified her. Her heart was pounding rapidly and she couldn't get her breath. "My god," she thought. "Do I want this stranger that badly? Want him now?" She knew the answer. He went on stowing his gear into his pack. Then he stood and turned, a half smile on his face. "Think about this," he said as he rubbed his cock. "You can have my cock just this once. You can only have it right here, right now. I gotta leave soon, and I won't return." She watched as he picked up the flyrod from the rocks where he had laid it. She watched him begin to dismantle it. She watched him step across the rocks toward his pack. And she spoke, her voice scarcely a whisper: "I would never see him again, you say? And he would give me exactly what I wanted? And he would never return?" He didn't answer immediately, remained bent over above his tackle box and his pack. She wanted to reach out and touch the long muscles of his legs and the hard, tight muscles of his ass. Suddenly, she felt back in control. Caution no longer played a part. She could do this on her terms. "All right," she said. "I'll accept your proposal. And remember your promise." "What promise?" He remained turned away from her. "To give me exactly what I want, the way I want it. Will you do that?" He stood slowly and nodded, taking off his heavy vest and laying it beside the pack. Still in jeans and T-shirt, she sank to her knees on the rocks in front of him. Though it was only in half-erection, his cock was huge, hanging heavily down in front of him. She reached for it with her right hand, letting it lay in her palm. It was cold. Her left hand moved for his contracted testicles, cupping them in the warmth of her hand. They were tight, compacted, and cold too from his recent trek in the icy water. She watched, fascinated, as his cock grew slowly in her right hand. The glans of his penis took in more blood, swelling it much larger than the still flaccid shaft. She touched the pulsing, hardening veins with a tentative finger, startled at how quickly the color rose and changed. And she realized, suddenly and surely, that it was this, this man-tool, this penis, that was missing from her ministrations there in that secret room at the top of the house. She shifted her right hand so its palm was against his pubic hair, her index finger and thumb grasping his cock at the base. She squeezed and watched the cock come to life. She released her grip, then squeezed again. More blood entered the cock, and it continued to grow in her hand. All of her fingers now rested over it, with her thumb curled underneath. She squeezed it once more and pointed the now fully erect cock directly towards her. She leaned forward. She had a maddening desire to lick this amazing living, growing thing, so close it now was to her face. Her mouth was half-open and she ran her tongue slowly around her own dry lips, wetting them. She reached out her tongue, then, and probed the tiny opening in its head, wet with beads of moisture. The round smoothness of the glans slipped so easily between her lips. She fought the urge to devour it. She willed herself to explore it with tongue and lips and teeth. Its textures, the smoothness, the roughness, each crevice and tiny sensitive spot that made him moan with approval. She felt the shaft get hot and stiff in her mouth. Her lips played with it, pressing the helmet lightly, then extending her tongue outward, down along the shaft toward where her thumb and finger still rested. Then tracing her tongue back the full length of his cock, flicking from side to side, rapidly then slowly, teasing. She altered the pressure of her lips again and again, intensifying the suction. She inhaled deeply the pungent odor of his crotch--sweat and lust and the smell of the river. She was intoxicated. He ground his hips into her face and shuddered. But this was to be on her terms. There were more---other things---she wanted. She pulled back, then, and said quietly, "I want your hands on my body." And as if he were reading her mind, he reached down and pulled her to her feet before him. In one quick motion, he pulled the T-shirt up over her head, raising her arms straight, then ran his great hands slowly down each arm from wrist to shoulder, across her underarms and along the sides of her breasts. He reached under the waist of her jeans and slipped them down her legs and off her feet. His hands then reversed their direction, inching upward past knees and inner thighs, long fingers lingering in the crack between thigh and belly, then over hipbone and up her back. Cupping her rounded asscheeks with those massive hands, he pulled her body up against his hardness, and she gasped. All around them was rock and water. Brambles in the undergrowth. The sound of the rapids was loud in their ears; the air thick with the earthy smell of decaying wood from fallen trees. On the river side of the giant boulder that had first obscured her sight of him was an indentation, a narrow stone bench, warmed now by the heat of the noon sun. He pushed her toward it and lay her out upon it on her back, head hanging over the edge, arm dangling so close to the water her fingers could touch it, her legs splayed out to hold her balance. He knelt on the rocks beside her. He touched every part of her body with the tips of his long fingers. He brushed them, finally, like whispers, across her breasts, circling her nipples, blowing on them with his breath. His great hands, then, strong as steel and commanding, encompassed both breasts, binding them hard until she felt pain mixing with the intensity of pleasure soaring through her body. He forced her hardened nipples out through his fingers and held them taut and rigid away from her breasts. He bent and licked each nipple in turn, first slowly and gently, then faster, rougher. Her body arched up to him. Without warning, his teeth bit down on the right nipple, hard. She screamed involuntarily. He stood and stepped back from her, but his eyes did not leave hers. She did not move from the stone bench. Together, they remained there for perhaps a minute, not speaking, their only connection what their eyes were saying to each other. "We are not through here yet, are we?" she said finally--quietly, calmly. "No," he answered. "We are not through yet. There is more. But you must tell me what you want. That is the bargain. Do you not want me to hurt you?" She did not answer immediately. She had not moved from the shelf of stone on which she lay. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, and said softly, "I want your hands, I want your hands to hurt me." He turned her over so that her breasts and belly rubbed against the hard stone. He kneaded the muscles of her neck and shoulders with his knowledgeable hands. He moved his fingers slowly down her back, coming to rest above her anal opening. He teased the sphincter; he probed lightly into its entrance until all her tenseness was gone, until she relaxed and was purring, now, like a cat. In an unexpected flash of movement, he raised his hand high and brought his open palm down onto her ass with swift, sharp force. She gasped a quick intake of air, tears welled up in her eyes, she doubled her fists from the pain, but she did not cry out. It was as if in that moment of eye contact, they had established a pact between them. She whispered: "Again." He slapped her over and over and over again until both cheeks were fire hot. She was sobbing uncontrollably now, writhing on the rough stone scraping the skin from her breasts. Spasms of orgasm twisted her body; tremors of intense pleasure ran down her legs; blood pounded in her clitoris. He reached his hands into the icy water of the river, then stroked the coolness onto the heat that burned her. He did this over and over; she was awed by his gentleness. He then turned her over, drew her ass over the edge of the rock ledge toward him, lifted her legs to his shoulders, knelt between them, bent his head, and drank. And drank. Her body continued to shudder with animal intensity as he sucked the head of her clitoris, playing with this miniature penis, teasing the swollen head of it as she had teased his cock. Her legs clenched his head with vise-like strength as she orgasmed. He knew he could not hold in his own need much longer. He had come to the edge many times and retreated. He could retreat no longer. "Now," he said. She understood. "Come into me." It was as simple as that. She stood then, facing the wall of the giant boulder, bracing her exhausted body against it with outstretched palms. He moved close behind her, curling his big right hand lightly around her throat. Again, there was the flash of fear, but she knew it did not matter. She glanced back to see him spin the ball cap around on his head, placing the bill directly to the back, like a workman starting out on the job. She laughed at that, but the laughter did not break the tension. Her respiration quickened in anticipation. He leaned into her and roughly engulfed her left nipple with his left hand, sending shockwaves again shooting through her orgasm-wracked body. His right hand worked between her legs and she closed her eyes in total surrender. With those long fingers inside her sopping orifice, pressing hard into her, he lifted her hips higher and toward him for better entry. She could feel the head of his cock take the place of his fingers. With his left hand, he reached across her chest, taking hold of her right nipple, pulling her body close onto his. Simultaneous with his first great thrust, he pulled and twisted on the nipple cruelly, at the same time letting out a deep animal cry. The pain and the pleasure swirling through her were now indistinguishable. His heavy chest lay upon her back as he stroked in and out of her, pinning her roughly against the rock. As his intensity grew, he grabbed her forearms just above the wrist and pulled them down to her sides, squeezing them hard as he slammed his hard hot cock into her over and over. Her burning face slid against the rock, feeling its coolness against her fever. He leaned back slightly to change the angle of thrust and continued to stroke unrelentingly. She knew her body was exhausted, but she did not want it to stop. She heard him reaching his climax, low rumblings in his throat mounting to chest-deep growls. The tremors of still another orgasm were beginning to fill her. Together at one moment, they both shouted in loud animal voices, unintelligible words, high and wild, and he exploded inside her. As his orgasm subsided, his grip loosened and he released her arms. She felt his spent cock slide out from her. No longer supported, she turned to face him and slid down the rock wall, squatting on her heels. He stood over her slowly stroking his shrinking cock. Unconsciously, she caressed her clitoris. And then they both started to laugh-easy, rolling, releasing laughter. He helped her to her feet, grinning. She waded into the river just past her knees. She lowered her red and burning ass into the healing coolness of the water, and with her fingers rinsed herself clean of him. He was already dressed when she came out of the water. He stood at a distance, watching her silently as she found her clothes and put them on. "You said you were never coming back." She spoke quickly. "Can we change the bargain?" He did not answer. "It would be a shame to find a really good fishing hole, and not return. Surely you have to weigh the value of the catch." He was thoughtful. And then he spoke. "An honest fisherman never goes back on a bargain. And it 's important to remember that when a fisherman starts out in the morning, he never knows what he will catch-or if he will catch anything at all. It doesn 't really matter, because the joy is in the grace of the sport." But he smiled as gathered his pack and his gear, then turned and climbed to the road. The End - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - I would like to repeat part of a paragraph John Jameson included with his most recent story, and hope that he does not mind. SPECIAL NOTE: This story is fantasy. The characters herein have engaged in unprotected sex acts, but that in no way implies that the author of this story advocates or condones unprotected sex. (And the following are my words): In fact, a woman--or a man--would have to be suicidal to have sex willingly--and eagerly--with a stranger, even on a riverbank. These are both intelligent people; I trust they know better. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- This story is my first venture into erotica, in fact, my first posting ever to a newsgroup of any sort. I am grateful to the members of this delightful community for the pages of FAQ's that guided me through the process. I will be back. Maggie ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyrighted (c) with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +--------------------------------------------------------------------------- + Woman in Contol: Recently Retired by Maggie McGee (with encouragement from the fisherman) desertskies_@excite.com [This work is copyrighted (c) by the author. You may download and keep copies for your personal use as long as the author's byline and e-mail address and this paragraph remain on the copies. Posting to newsgroups or on websites is permitted as long as no money is charged for access and as long as the author's byline and e-mail address and this paragraph remain on the story.] She was not a young woman. Yet her life had been full, rich with adventure and challenges. She had hiked steep mountain trails to quiet mysteries; she had explored the heat of deserts and walked beside the pounding surf. She was comfortable in the airports of the world: Europe, the Americas. She had reached the pinnacle of her career through dauntless hard work, and often at the expense of personal relationships. And now she was tired. Three years it had been since she walked out of the rat race---just walked away, saying one day, "I've had it. Enough of this. The rest of my life is for me." And she had cleaned out her desk, given a cocky salute to the security guard as she walked out the gate, loaded the cardboard box filled with her past into the trunk of her car, and driven straight into the mountains with no stops on the way. It did not take her long to find the place she wanted to live for the rest of that life. A tiny town, fewer than three thousand people, high on a bluff above a whitewater river, where she had gone rafting years ago. Of course she had had to go back to settle things, sell her condo and the furniture, explain to her now former employer. She had seen a big, rambling 100-year-old house for sale. She bought it that first day. What had begun with an exciting spontaneity turned slowly into three years of loneliness and regret. Though the mountains and the river and the deep, high forests were so beautiful they took one's breath away, the big house was empty and silent. The people in the town, many of whom had lived there for generations, did not take kindly to newcomers. She devoured books; she listened to music; she got a cat. She walked for hours along the narrow road above the river. And now, with so much time for introspection, she became aware---and surprisingly---of her repressed sexuality. In all those past years, there had been occasional lovers; but she had found that love is time-consuming and distracting. It had been easier to satisfy those urges with her own finger against her clitoris. Often, months would go by without feeling a need. Now, she ached with need constantly. Still, at her age and in this isolated place, partners were rare. She knew about pleasuring herself. Like everything she had ever done in her life, she approached masturbation methodically, testing and weighing the options. She rummaged through the house for things to insert into her wetness: produce from the market in every shape and size; long silken scarves stuffed to fullness, then drawn out slowly across her clitoris to sweet orgasm; the great knobby ends of an antique oaken coathanger stretching her with its strength and its size; the cat's rough tongue. Vibrators and dildos and beads from a catalog came through the post in plain brown wrappers. Each day, she placed a low stool on the Turkish rug in front of the full-length mirror in the spare bedroom. Two high windows in this room framed the mountains coming straight down to the river's edge. A giant holly tree, brushing against a third window, gave her the sensation of being high in a treehouse. It was almost magical here. She seated herself on the stool and watched her reflection. She wore gauzy underthings, removing them slowly, one by one. Her unclothed body always startled her at first---full hips, her belly softly rounded, the nipples of her breasts dark, prominent. She pinched their hardness to feel the pain. Her legs were long, muscular---nice legs, she thought. She painted her toenails bright red. It was her single vanity. Her skin was good, no wrinkles yet; nose and ears small, almost delicate; neck long; back and shoulders straight; hair on her head cropped and dark, pubic hair fine and silky. She cupped her hands, poured lavender-scented oil into the palm, and began the ritual of anointing every part of her naked body, stroking with long hard strokes until her skin glistened. She fantasized a lover with no face, a lover with no body, only hands---strong, commanding, knowledgeable hands---taking control. She pulled her stool closer to the mirror and spread her legs, to see even more intimately the lips of her vulva swollen and engorged with blood. The drops of her wetness on the soft pubic hairs reflected the afternoon sun. She began stroking the labia, pinching it, pulling it, then plunged two fingers into the cavity of her vagina, then three, finally forcing four inside, fingers flaying and twisting. She could see in the mirror that the clitoris had burst from its hood, luminescent and erect. She felt herself reaching the edge and she moaned softly. She reached to the clitoris with her other hand and rolled its hardened bud between index finger and thumb unrelentingly, until the fire inside her burst and the moans became a scream of release. She kicked the stool aside and lay curled on the rug for long minutes, lungs heaving, sweat mixed with lavender oil, fingers still tight between her legs. She did this every day. The obsession with sex gave her a new sense of power. She had always been in control: of her life, of her career, often the working lives of others. Now she was in control of her own sexuality---its frequency, its intensity. Yet something was missing and she was confused. She needed to be in control; it was her lifelong pattern. But at the same time, she ached to give up that control to someone else---anyone else. Each day, bit by bit, the masturbation became more frustrating, less fulfilling. She relieved the physical and emotional tension by walking more and more, letting her leg muscles pull her up and down the steepness of the mountain road above the river. She rarely encountered anyone else walking, a car passing only now and then. She liked the hot days of late spring. It felt good to sweat hard. Her senses were remarkably acute as she walked; the sound of the rapids below excited her with the memory of the danger always possible when rafting. She could see the outline of every new fresh spring leaf on the trees; she smelled the earthy, moldering smell of last autumn's leaves and the lighter fragrance of unidentified wildflowers. She felt a great need to get closer to the water. She left the road. There was no path, but trampled undergrowth and an occasional broken branch suggested that others had come this way before. "Damn," she said, as a wayward hawthorn branch tore at her leg. "This probably was not such a good idea." She half slid, half climbed down the steep incline, coming out onto a narrow rocky shoreline next to the water. She stood for a moment, catching her breath. The breeze from the river chilled her uncovered arms. She was wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, and the exertion and the excitement of the climb had left her aroused. She was aware of her nipples stimulated to half erection under the thin cotton fabric. A great boulder perhaps eight feet high and easily as wide rested at the water's edge, having crashed down in a landslide eons ago. A narrow trail seemed to go around it and she took a few tentative steps. As she rounded the huge rock, she was suddenly startled to see a fisherman, knee-deep in the water. He was a large man, weathered face, hazel eyes, salt and pepper mustache. He was not young, in his late forties, early fifties maybe. He wore a beat-up New York Yankee's ball cap over hair that was turning gray. His bulky fishing vest hung loosely over his shoulders. He held a flyrod in his left hand, and with the other hand he motioned for her not to speak. She watched silently as he cast the line into a stand of rushes along the shore. And then she noticed his hands. They were huge, powerful. Yet the fingers were long and graceful, balancing almost delicately the play of rod and line. The motion was beautiful, like a dance, she thought. She stood, mesmerized. He laughed, then, as he pulled in the line, an easy, husky laugh. "Still cold from the melting snow. It'll warm up in the next month or so." He waded to shore and lay the flyrod on the rocks. He was wet to the waist. She saw his eyes fix on the rising and falling of her chest. She couldn't get her breath, though it had been some minutes since she had made the climb down from the road. He was staring now at the outline of her erect nipples pressing hard against the light shirt. She reluctantly admitted to herself that she felt some little fear. What surprised her was her growing arousal, contractions of electricity in her groin and rising to her throat. He spoke again. "Out for a healthy river stroll?" He continued to stare, and waited for her reply. "I walk frequently." Her voice sounded stiff and formal, tight. "Alone?" Again that flash of fear. "Yes, frequently---almost every day." She wondered why she had told him that, this man, this stranger. She began to feel out of control. The tumult inside her was unlike anything she knew. Was she actually desiring this man? He pulled off his boots. "Man, that water is cold. Got to get out of these wet pants. I've got a dry pair in my pack." She watched the long fingers of his left hand unzip his pants; and she still did not move as he stepped out of them and kicked them out of the way. His penis was flaccid, and his skin looked cold in spite of the warmth of the sun. He shivered, and then he laughed. "Doesn't do much for my manhood, I'm afraid." The laugh broke the tension and she laughed, too. Suddenly, it seemed normal, casual, perfectly all right to be standing here in the middle of nowhere talking to a half-nude stranger. "Do you fish here often?" "No, first time in this section of the river. I usually fish the slower stretches about 20 miles downstream." "More exciting, fishing in the rapids?" She was aware of the double entendre in her question. He nodded. He continued to stare into her eyes. She realized it did not make her feel uncomfortable. She liked what his eyes were doing to her. She knew what her eyes were saying to him. He had not made a move toward his pack for a change of clothes. "Tell me," he said quite suddenly. "What is the most outrageous thing you have ever done in your life?" "What?" The question took her by surprise. "It's been a long life, and I suppose I've done a lot of outrageous things-at least other people might have thought they were outrageous. You'll have to narrow the field down some." Then she laughed, but it was not an easy laugh. Now the stranger was grinning, challenging her. "All right. That's easy enough to do. What is the most outrageous thing you have ever done sexually?" She had known from the start that was what he had meant. She hesitated, but for some reason felt strongly compelled to share the most secret things of her life with him. "That's a little personal, don't you think, since we saw each other for the first time, what, five minutes ago?" "Tell me, I want to know." It seemed almost as if she had no choice, as if she had suddenly entered a confessional. So, she began to tell him about the daily ritual in the room next to the holly tree. She laughed nervously as she talked, trying to pass it off as a joke, but her voice grew deep and husky with lust. She left out no detail. He watched her mouth as it said the words; he watched her eyes. She knew he was undressing her with his mind and she stood naked before him. He spoke quickly. "Ever want to make love to a complete stranger? Someone safe? Someone who would give you exactly what you wanted, the way you wanted it? Someone you would never see again?" Her mind raced, trying to sort out the intelligent, rational thoughts from the physical turbulence. She felt more and more out of control. This terrified her. Her heart was pounding rapidly and she couldn't get her breath. "My god," she thought. "Do I want this stranger that badly? Want him now?" She knew the answer. He went on stowing his gear into his pack. Then he stood and turned, a half smile on his face. "Think about this," he said as he rubbed his cock. "You can have my cock just this once. You can only have it right here, right now. I gotta leave soon, and I won't return." She watched as he picked up the flyrod from the rocks where he had laid it. She watched him begin to dismantle it. She watched him step across the rocks toward his pack. And she spoke, her voice scarcely a whisper: "I would never see him again, you say? And he would give me exactly what I wanted? And he would never return?" He didn't answer immediately, remained bent over above his tackle box and his pack. She wanted to reach out and touch the long muscles of his legs and the hard, tight muscles of his ass. Suddenly, she felt back in control. Caution no longer played a part. She could do this on her terms. "All right," she said. "I'll accept your proposal. And remember your promise." "What promise?" He remained turned away from her. "To give me exactly what I want, the way I want it. Will you do that?" He stood slowly and nodded, taking off his heavy vest and laying it beside the pack. Still in jeans and T-shirt, she sank to her knees on the rocks in front of him. Though it was only in half-erection, his cock was huge, hanging heavily down in front of him. She reached for it with her right hand, letting it lay in her palm. It was cold. Her left hand moved for his contracted testicles, cupping them in the warmth of her hand. They were tight, compacted, and cold too from his recent trek in the icy water. She watched, fascinated, as his cock grew slowly in her right hand. The glans of his penis took in more blood, swelling it much larger than the still flaccid shaft. She touched the pulsing, hardening veins with a tentative finger, startled at how quickly the color rose and changed. And she realized, suddenly and surely, that it was this, this man-tool, this penis, that was missing from her ministrations there in that secret room at the top of the house. She shifted her right hand so its palm was against his pubic hair, her index finger and thumb grasping his cock at the base. She squeezed and watched the cock come to life. She released her grip, then squeezed again. More blood entered the cock, and it continued to grow in her hand. All of her fingers now rested over it, with her thumb curled underneath. She squeezed it once more and pointed the now fully erect cock directly towards her. She leaned forward. She had a maddening desire to lick this amazing living, growing thing, so close it now was to her face. Her mouth was half-open and she ran her tongue slowly around her own dry lips, wetting them. She reached out her tongue, then, and probed the tiny opening in its head, wet with beads of moisture. The round smoothness of the glans slipped so easily between her lips. She fought the urge to devour it. She willed herself to explore it with tongue and lips and teeth. Its textures, the smoothness, the roughness, each crevice and tiny sensitive spot that made him moan with approval. She felt the shaft get hot and stiff in her mouth. Her lips played with it, pressing the helmet lightly, then extending her tongue outward, down along the shaft toward where her thumb and finger still rested. Then tracing her tongue back the full length of his cock, flicking from side to side, rapidly then slowly, teasing. She altered the pressure of her lips again and again, intensifying the suction. She inhaled deeply the pungent odor of his crotch--sweat and lust and the smell of the river. She was intoxicated. He ground his hips into her face and shuddered. But this was to be on her terms. There were more---other things---she wanted. She pulled back, then, and said quietly, "I want your hands on my body." And as if he were reading her mind, he reached down and pulled her to her feet before him. In one quick motion, he pulled the T-shirt up over her head, raising her arms straight, then ran his great hands slowly down each arm from wrist to shoulder, across her underarms and along the sides of her breasts. He reached under the waist of her jeans and slipped them down her legs and off her feet. His hands then reversed their direction, inching upward past knees and inner thighs, long fingers lingering in the crack between thigh and belly, then over hipbone and up her back. Cupping her rounded asscheeks with those massive hands, he pulled her body up against his hardness, and she gasped. All around them was rock and water. Brambles in the undergrowth. The sound of the rapids was loud in their ears; the air thick with the earthy smell of decaying wood from fallen trees. On the river side of the giant boulder that had first obscured her sight of him was an indentation, a narrow stone bench, warmed now by the heat of the noon sun. He pushed her toward it and lay her out upon it on her back, head hanging over the edge, arm dangling so close to the water her fingers could touch it, her legs splayed out to hold her balance. He knelt on the rocks beside her. He touched every part of her body with the tips of his long fingers. He brushed them, finally, like whispers, across her breasts, circling her nipples, blowing on them with his breath. His great hands, then, strong as steel and commanding, encompassed both breasts, binding them hard until she felt pain mixing with the intensity of pleasure soaring through her body. He forced her hardened nipples out through his fingers and held them taut and rigid away from her breasts. He bent and licked each nipple in turn, first slowly and gently, then faster, rougher. Her body arched up to him. Without warning, his teeth bit down on the right nipple, hard. She screamed involuntarily. He stood and stepped back from her, but his eyes did not leave hers. She did not move from the stone bench. Together, they remained there for perhaps a minute, not speaking, their only connection what their eyes were saying to each other. "We are not through here yet, are we?" she said finally--quietly, calmly. "No," he answered. "We are not through yet. There is more. But you must tell me what you want. That is the bargain. Do you not want me to hurt you?" She did not answer immediately. She had not moved from the shelf of stone on which she lay. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, and said softly, "I want your hands, I want your hands to hurt me." He turned her over so that her breasts and belly rubbed against the hard stone. He kneaded the muscles of her neck and shoulders with his knowledgeable hands. He moved his fingers slowly down her back, coming to rest above her anal opening. He teased the sphincter; he probed lightly into its entrance until all her tenseness was gone, until she relaxed and was purring, now, like a cat. In an unexpected flash of movement, he raised his hand high and brought his open palm down onto her ass with swift, sharp force. She gasped a quick intake of air, tears welled up in her eyes, she doubled her fists from the pain, but she did not cry out. It was as if in that moment of eye contact, they had established a pact between them. She whispered: "Again." He slapped her over and over and over again until both cheeks were fire hot. She was sobbing uncontrollably now, writhing on the rough stone scraping the skin from her breasts. Spasms of orgasm twisted her body; tremors of intense pleasure ran down her legs; blood pounded in her clitoris. He reached his hands into the icy water of the river, then stroked the coolness onto the heat that burned her. He did this over and over; she was awed by his gentleness. He then turned her over, drew her ass over the edge of the rock ledge toward him, lifted her legs to his shoulders, knelt between them, bent his head, and drank. And drank. Her body continued to shudder with animal intensity as he sucked the head of her clitoris, playing with this miniature penis, teasing the swollen head of it as she had teased his cock. Her legs clenched his head with vise-like strength as she orgasmed. He knew he could not hold in his own need much longer. He had come to the edge many times and retreated. He could retreat no longer. "Now," he said. She understood. "Come into me." It was as simple as that. She stood then, facing the wall of the giant boulder, bracing her exhausted body against it with outstretched palms. He moved close behind her, curling his big right hand lightly around her throat. Again, there was the flash of fear, but she knew it did not matter. She glanced back to see him spin the ball cap around on his head, placing the bill directly to the back, like a workman starting out on the job. She laughed at that, but the laughter did not break the tension. Her respiration quickened in anticipation. He leaned into her and roughly engulfed her left nipple with his left hand, sending shockwaves again shooting through her orgasm-wracked body. His right hand worked between her legs and she closed her eyes in total surrender. With those long fingers inside her sopping orifice, pressing hard into her, he lifted her hips higher and toward him for better entry. She could feel the head of his cock take the place of his fingers. With his left hand, he reached across her chest, taking hold of her right nipple, pulling her body close onto his. Simultaneous with his first great thrust, he pulled and twisted on the nipple cruelly, at the same time letting out a deep animal cry. The pain and the pleasure swirling through her were now indistinguishable. His heavy chest lay upon her back as he stroked in and out of her, pinning her roughly against the rock. As his intensity grew, he grabbed her forearms just above the wrist and pulled them down to her sides, squeezing them hard as he slammed his hard hot cock into her over and over. Her burning face slid against the rock, feeling its coolness against her fever. He leaned back slightly to change the angle of thrust and continued to stroke unrelentingly. She knew her body was exhausted, but she did not want it to stop. She heard him reaching his climax, low rumblings in his throat mounting to chest-deep growls. The tremors of still another orgasm were beginning to fill her. Together at one moment, they both shouted in loud animal voices, unintelligible words, high and wild, and he exploded inside her. As his orgasm subsided, his grip loosened and he released her arms. She felt his spent cock slide out from her. No longer supported, she turned to face him and slid down the rock wall, squatting on her heels. He stood over her slowly stroking his shrinking cock. Unconsciously, she caressed her clitoris. And then they both started to laugh-easy, rolling, releasing laughter. He helped her to her feet, grinning. She waded into the river just past her knees. She lowered her red and burning ass into the healing coolness of the water, and with her fingers rinsed herself clean of him. He was already dressed when she came out of the water. He stood at a distance, watching her silently as she found her clothes and put them on. "You said you were never coming back." She spoke quickly. "Can we change the bargain?" He did not answer. "It would be a shame to find a really good fishing hole, and not return. Surely you have to weigh the value of the catch." He was thoughtful. And then he spoke. "An honest fisherman never goes back on a bargain. And it 's important to remember that when a fisherman starts out in the morning, he never knows what he will catch-or if he will catch anything at all. It doesn 't really matter, because the joy is in the grace of the sport." But he smiled as gathered his pack and his gear, then turned and climbed to the road.