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Young Yank lusts for mature Southern belle.

It almost seems now as if you are blushing. Coyly, you cover your bosoms with an arm and your little patch of venus fur with a hand, holding me off, making me all the more desirous. I'm not a man to be teased.

"Where are your hounds, Neil? Did you leave them behind?"

"Yes, of course, I only take them out when I am hunting. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

The coolness of the water, your reserve, your questions, have had its effect, and my ardor begins to subside. I must look forlorn. I've been sprouting horns for you forever it seems. I have always loved tomboys, the Annie Oakleys, and you, Diane, I thought to myself, were always the best: you knew the woods better than the guys, you were faster on the track than any woman and most of the men, and you knew how to shoot better than sew.

For years, I had been consumed with desire, sparked by your athletic body and ignited by your intelligence, your creativity. You had given the best paper and oral report on Faulkner's "As I Lay Dying" in high school dazzling not just the students but Mr. Hicks and Mr. Morgan with your passion, your poise, your poetry. Even your teachers had crushes on you.

Now, as if reliving a nighttime teenage fantasy, you are before me, nude, au naturel in body as well as spirit. You notice my look of dismay, and your face breaks into a grin, your eyes lighten up and then they smolder with fire, drawing a bead, the huntress Diana. Your arms unfold, and you beckon me forward.

As I approach, your hands dip into the water, deep, not to come up splashing this time, but to find the quarry. You grasp and cradle my balls, tightly, with meaning. I harden again instantly. You draw me towards you, as if seizing a javelin, a spear to hunt some wild boar you've spotted crashing through the woods. I look back, over my shoulder, checking to make sure no one has spotted us, that we are alone, in peace. "Now tell me," you ask, blushing slightly, "exactly what were you thinking as I stripped off my clothes?"

"Oh, my God," I replied, "What wasn't I thinking? When you wiggled out of your shorts, I was thinking about all the times in literature class when I dreamed that you would use your muse of fire to write me love poetry, an erotic story. When you unhooked your bra, I remembered all the times I stripped you naked in my mind as you ran around in your warm up suit and track outfit. When I saw the thong and when it came off, I remembered all the times I had lain awake in bed, torn apart by the hounds of lust, fantasizing about making love to you by streams, in caves, on cliffs, in meadows, amidst wild flowers. I've wanted you for so long. I swear I've been hard ever since our legs brushed together at the restaurant."

"You know how much I love the mountains, this trail. You love it too. You know it as well as I do, maybe better. I wanted you to come with me so bad. I'm a little shy, sometimes. But not out here. Come now and know me. Come explore me. Come hunt for whatever you want, whatever you desire. Take me, mountain man, take me."

Quickly, wordlessly, we lock together in a tight embrace, a mix of affection and lust, and you make it more intense, the strength of your arms crushing us together.

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