For readers who are confused by these stories, there is now an post with the title "Bridge." It explains what this is, gives context and more, not just orientation but a deeper glimpse into the main and supporting characters.
Sorry for the many typos and other proofreading errors.
He talked more about the photographs of us from the college outing. Writing about visiting you reminds me. It was a camping trip and we had to return quickly because of flash floods.
We and the others were getting ready, in a hurry, packing, and Mitchell helped me.
"And don't forget the tee-shirt with the bra over it."
That was the style.
He continued, "And the one with the bra inside."
He saw my eyebrows rise. "Oh, you noticed?" they asked.
"Anyway, I'm assuming there was one. I'm not sure. I mean I didn't check. Ha ha."
He could see my nipples through the white cotton, he was going to say?
"Although of course you know men are always calculating- their chances."
To go to bed with a woman, he meant, of course.
We were with others who listened as we packed, my things laid flat outside still.
Recalling the day, he said he'd badly wanted to be alone with me then, the conversation spurred his hope that I did too. The way I reacted suggested as much, at least left open the possibility. My laugh, soft, almost encouraging.
We'd been walking during the morning in a gully, river bed (the one where the flash flood would come). On one side was an apple orchard. The wizened trees cast distinct dark grey shadows on the ground nearby and Mitchell took photographs of those repeating shapes (the trees and their shadows).
I said to him I also noticed the apple trees more than the surrounding landscape, though it was dynamic, the attraction the place was known for.
We sat in an outdoor shelter, wooden with a bench, almost like a gazebo, with open front view out- seat for two was hard but comfortable, like a love seat. If it swung we wouldn't have been surprised. Not used very much, we could see. Few people came there. The wooden planks composing the shelter had gone colorless because dried over time like the rest of the area. It was a canyon with a wide view back to mountains, quite dramatic, rubble-covered- you could imagine rock fall as well as a flash flood, though we were quite safe then.
I noticed the shelter had a switch on the wall behind us with a cord you could pull that turned on a light in the ceiling, put there, Mitchell and I realized, for people who might find themselves stuck on a starless night.
That zone was really one of serious nature, we understood, where your survival needs were not an abstraction. I felt excited, a tingle in my toes.
I liked that someone, some authority with local workers, had thought through the needs of hikers, taken precautions to protect visitors unknown to them personally. I liked the intelligence, forethought, action on behalf of others.
And as I write about this to you I get wet. I want to give you all my wet, of my mouth, smooth on your tree, of my pussy, flash flood. If I wore a tee-shirt, you would be checking, not calculating but enjoying. I hope when you read this you get hard, so hard. I wanna make the cream come out.
I wanna be on top of you- not facing away like the first night ("reverse cowgirl") but looking at each other, my eyes locked to your gaze, pulling it in, your hands on my breasts, pushing them up, as I ride up and down on you, a mule on a mountain path, smooth, steady- though I don't look like one, just mean the motion of my flanks!
On that camping trip Mitchell and I didn't get alone with each other. We might have if we hadn't had to return early. And he was shy, didn't push. What would you have done?
In the gully, the river bed we walked, the shelter where we stopped, we met a young local boy and he talked to us about the area, even though we were outsiders talked as if we belonged there. He was so beautiful and so peaceful, calm, sure of himself as he spoke in a quiet but clear voice, different from children in the city, adults too, and I was impressed by the beauty of people, of nature. And when he left his echo remained and I wanted Mitchell, his hands on my breasts, the way I want you.
But he was too shy to act, waited for clear signals I wouldn't give. What would you have done, out there in the open air, just some birds our witness? They flew in widening circles, carried by the wind nothing blocked as nothing would the water that came later. "Wheeled" was the word Mitchell used to describe their motion. It seemed a show for us as we looked up, enticing like everything else there, foreign- even alien- serious, dangerous, exciting like you and I are in space, the shapes we draw.
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