Sex Du Jour
Chapter 2

Copyright© 2015 by livobeornwulf

Erotic Sex Story: Chapter 2 - A horny and lewd couple has sex in a forest while on their way to the beach.

Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/ft   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fiction   BDSM   Size   Hairy   Big Breasts   Slow   Nudism  

I cannot draw in or gasp out any scanty, insubstantial breath or puff as I relapse and sink myself down the steaming, heated water of the Jacuzzi or sauna that I am bathing and taking a dip in. Water tears and hums and whirs all about me, damping and moistening my eyes as I snap and break them up open all at once and in an instant like a fleet, brisk, and quickie-some shot—ie. My flame brown hair is dank and wringing wet too and I even note and sight its twines and strings and strands inch and ease and pick their way past my eyes.

Stian Elberd and I myself—Ragnhild Ascwin—are at Cano Hotel here in the town of Rovich in Iceberg, where we have solely and singly come to have fun and be involved in a sport and leisure and junket just for two people uniquely; a twosome thing (for husband and wife) idiosyncratically. Of course! Like you must foresee and think likely, we are going to have sex ... shag ... bang ... and lots and scores more of hump and come-have-your-way-hither-with-me sex.

As I come forth and turn up out of the water, I glimpse and catch sight of him bottomed and assed down there, sprawling and lolling on an elegant and baroque Chesterfield settee that has got downy and feathery and furry and squashy squabs and pads and headrests on it. Apart from having on tenebrous and swarthy glasses, he is gawping and goggling direct at me dumbly and mutely. What is it that he is pondering and brooding his brains about? What explicitly?

I am stark-naked and in my very gorgeous birthday suit in this sauna and hot tub. I love the feel and stroke of the moderately hot and comfy pleasant water as it socks and bubbles up and tonks against my clean-shaven, creamy, and soothing slick skin. My chunky and waterlogged hair twines round and clasps on to my skin itself, trickles and drips of water seeping and running down from it. Funny and absurd enough, I smile quirkily at Stian straight away and without warning.

"Can I come join you, Ragnhild?" He inquires me in a moored and anchored pitch of voice. How must I hit back at him? How exactly? With downright, 'yes'—or absolute, 'no'? How in fact? I am clueless, if not dim and witless on that!

"You are at liberty and on the loose to come and join me, Stian," I find myself acknowledging and riposting back to him cringe-worthy and barro style. Screw me for it! What is there precisely here to be all cringe-making and uncomfortable about? What verily?

Stian picks himself and stands up on his jellified and close-grained feet. He is enchanting and dazzling and drop-dead in slinky and come-hither briefs and underthings that make him look like a godforsaken and god-mirroring Don Juan or Casanova stud. He looks like a gay dog womanizer on the other hand ... a ladies' man that all enchantresses and sirens would obviously and without doubt contest and take up arms against just to win and bag him over to their lone and companionless beds. Inevitably! Apart from the smalls and pitch-black underwear, he puts on and clothes himself in nothing else. Not even a brummagem, garish brand of shirt; not even anything that jazzy or flash tacky sort-like.

I am whacked and slugged out of breath. I cannot gasp; I cannot gulp or sigh as I feel like. Stian! He has staggered and swept me off my feet. Is a man alleged and presupposed to be this exquisitely dishy and well-proportioned. Is this up to the mark and so and so? Is it really? Just when his eyes burrow and pierce into mine, I can start to feel my yoni and twat down there become watery and wringing wet. Yes! She cannot curb and countervail against giving way and knuckling over to lasciviousness and randiness. Lustily—with might and main—she is already rapacious and greedy and desirous for Stian's tool and joystick itself. Darn! Won't he hop and leap into the water already and confer and consign it heart and soul to us? Won't he heretofore?

I note and eye him as he brushes and laps his lips with his gluttonous, hoggish, and edacious tongue. Yeah ... that's the grit and balls and gameness. Sex, sex, and lots and incessant more of inexhaustible sex, measureless sex, and unbounded loads more sex. He must vouchsafe and grant it to me now—because if he is not indubitably going to do it, I would rather push up the daisies and snuff it for the very last ultimate and final time. Of course! I am not being straight and plain-spoken here. I am merely quipping and gagging jests and one-liners and nothing more.

Taking his time, ploddingly and inchmeal, Stian lowers and sinks himself down into the puddle or sauna's water, gawping and eyeballing direct and unwinding and unswervingly straight at me. Goodness! What must I anticipate and think likely doable from him. What perhaps, huh? What haply? Once he has made it as far as I am, he straightens out his hand and clasps my face and cheek likewise. I feel all the more snug and at ease and relaxed and serene. Yeah. This is assuredly euphoria and nirvana in one way or another, or is not it? I needless to say believe so.

"Stian," I say to him sotto voice and under my breath velvety smooth and yieldingly soft. He takes a dekko and feasts his eyes down upon me, tensile-toned and sweet like. I idolize and think the world of this; so; so; very much indeed!

"I cannot presume and maintain that you are finally mine," he counters and ripostes selflessly and lovingly. I can heed and make it out in his eyes; I just hardly can blab and take it off its toll. What Stian is putting to words is but the sheer and dyed-in-the-wool fact and no any ilk of make-believe. I can cross my heart and take an oath on that!

"What do you purport by that, Stian?" I query tight-assed and parsimoniously. I am thrown off balance and flummoxed topsy-turvy style at hugger-mugger sixes or sevens by merely that. What literally is he gabbing and running off at the mouth about? What scrupulously, huh? What expressly?

Nimbly; seemingly brusquely; and incisively; Stian's lips skim and graze against mine, igniting and making my blood boil and foment with lewdness and libido. Deep down all this, I wish and yearn and long to gasp and gulp both inside and outwardly. I ache and itch to do all this and so much more. Yet I am not fitted and proficiently endowed to transact and pull off it. Why methodically, you may ponder and be curious? I have no any slight dealings or knowledge or awareness of that. Maybe it is because I have given way and knuckled myself over to Stian's slurping and siphoning and supping like kisses. Perchance yes; peradventure not!

As he smooches and cannodles and pecks and snogs me all the more jellified and stiff and jelled, he takes me in his arms and grasps and squeezes me, patting and fondling my spread out and charming flame brown hair pleasurably and pleasingly well. How am I supposed to respond and take the bait back to this? I merely and solely cuddle and hold him taut and hermetic-like as well, straightening and stretching myself out so he can brush and scrape my velvety smooth, silky cushiony-like skin with his lenient, easy-going, and touchy-feely lips. Yes! He is the exemplary and superlative crown and beau ideal of this! He far and away and come hell or high water is this and so much more further.

The keenness and ardor and fire between the two of us is vehement and heartfelt and frenzied and lustfully aroused. We nibble and snap and champ each other's gloopy, squidgy lips with our fixedly dense and fit-as-a-fiddle teeth. Not that we work it out with objectives and designs and intents to whisk and blend and rouse the other's soreness and trouble and shooting twinge! Everything that we effect is worked out roguishly and jokey-like and coyly. Precisely that at most!

 
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