My Friends the Allens — Big Cypress
by Mark Aster
Copyright© 1997 by Mark Aster
Erotica Sex Story: Journeying through the Big Cypress swamp four friends engage in a passionate and intimate encounter in a secluded outdoor setting
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Fiction Oral Sex .
The boat moves quietly through still, opaque water, blades of sawgrass sliding and hissing against the hull. Things rustle and call in the huge, flat emptiness around us. The sun’s too bright, the air is much too hot. Odd black crabs the size of spiders scramble around on the bark of the tall, isolated trees. Big Cypress. Might as well be Mars.
Mick, our guide, is up in the bow, guiding us on with a long paddle, really a pole, through the invisible channels. His shoulders, wide and sunburned and sweaty, move with rhythmic muscularity. Julie, lying languid behind him, reaches up one small hand now and then and touches his shirt, touches his flesh through the cloth. At first, he would look around at her, but now he’s used to it, and her touch, and the thought of her deep, innocent twenty-year-old-girl eyes, is part of the thought of the swamp, and the water, and the big, cool tree-island somewhere ahead.
Pat lies back behind her sister, eyes closed, ankles up on the gunwales of the narrow, flat-bottomed boat. The sun beats down, her chin casts a shadow over her neck; her big breasts and the lush curves of her body, her spread thighs, are outlined by the glare, and as I stroke with my paddle to push us through the water, I want her very much, I want to go down with her into the cool water, and strip her, and kiss her, and fuck her.
“Why do you folks want to go out to the Maiden, anyway? Not exactly a big tourist spot.” He’s asked this before, but I don’t know, and the girls haven’t answered. Julie’s hand moves over his back, up to the base of his neck, and her fingers touch his skin. “Just a whim,” she says, her voice soft and whispery like the sawgrass sliding under us, “we have good memories of that place.” Somewhere ahead in the endless wetness is a tree-island that the locals call the Maiden. Much too much work for a picnic lunch. Pat stirs, rustles in her pack, takes out a cloth soaked in cold water, raises it to her mouth. She touches it to her lips for a moment, and passes it back to me. I put it on my forehead, and it is cool and alive. For a little while.
The water gets shallower, the channels more twisted. More tree-islands rise around us and slide behind us. Mick points out local attractions, alligator holes, unlikely white-tailed deer bounding in the distance. Finally, the Maiden. The boat slips wetly onto the gentle bank, and for a moment we all sit in stillness. A hint of cool air drifts down to us, and awakening from one dream we pick up the stuff and debark.
The soil is moist and dark under the strange swamp trees, palm and baldcypress and brown gumbo-limbo. Pat spreads the blanket, Julie opens the thermoses, and we sit down, the ground denting softly under us. We eat and drink cool things. Pat is beside me, Julie sits cross-legged very close to Mick, her knee brushing his, her hand now and then touching him casually, caressing him as her eyes move over him, up the trees, out into the brilliant wet prairie beyond. He licks his lips, frowns to himself.
I go to the bushes to answer a call of nature. Mick comes up beside me. Hot smells come up from the ground where our urines splash. He clears his throat.
“Is she...?” he asks.
“They’re both,” I assure him. “You’re a very lucky man.”
He looks at me for just a moment, smiles. We tuck our cocks away and turn back from the edge of the water.
Back at the blanket, Julie has untucked her shirt and undone the bottom two buttons, tying the tails up in a loose knot that leaves her midriff bare. A sunbeam threads through the canopy overhead and splashes onto her stomach. Mick sits down, and Julie lies casually backward, her head on his knee. She looks down at herself, and her fingers play over her bare skin.
“Mosquito,” Mick grunts, and he raises a hand to swat away the big, skinny winged thing that has landed on Julie, just above her navel. But she reaches up and gently restrains his wrist. They watch, we watch, as the mosquito sinks its straw into Julie, in between the fine sweat-moist hairs of her skin, and drinks, and flies off toward the sawgrass.
“I don’t begrudge the swamp a little blood,” Julie says, and she guides Mick’s hand down onto her stomach, rubs his rough, blunt fingers over her skin just below the lower slopes of her small, covered breasts. His hand explores her, and when she releases it, it slides up under her shirt, and he takes her right breast in his hand and gently squeezes. She kisses his arm lightly where it passes by her face, and she sighs.
Pat purrs to herself and moves up behind me on the blanket, and I turn to her and we brush noses and we kiss, and her mouth is warm and soft and welcoming. As Julie reaches up and undoes the rest of her buttons, I take Pat into my arms, and her body is firm and womanly against me. Her tongue slips into my mouth, fat and supple, and her breasts press against my chest.
Julie relaxes on the blanket, her head in Mick’s lap, her hair spread out over his thighs, as his hands roam over the naked skin of her breasts. He strokes and squeezes her, pinches her pink nipples between his fingers, touches her greedily. His eyes are slightly closed, his lips parted. Julie’s breath deepens as his hands touch her, and her hips squirm slightly on the blanket. “Ooh,” she whispers, “ooh, I like your hands.”
I kiss Pat’s lips, her nose, her eyes, her cheeks, her neck. She runs her fingers through my hair as I undo the buttons of her shirt and touch her big, sweaty, braless breasts. Her stomach is firm and golden; my fingers wander down over her skin, between her hips, and slip in under her jeans and her panty. She smiles and reaches down to undo her pants.
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