Lilli and I: The Arboretum

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“I’m detecting a subtle pro-Aquafina slant to this vending machine,” I say as I insert two dollars into the tall monolith standing before us. We both silently pray that the thing won’t reject our hard-earned money, because if it does, well, there’s going to be hell to pay. Outside, the temperature has climbed to an unexpected ninety degrees or so, and of course, because this town was built on a swamp, the humidity is close on its heels. I punch one of the eight, count ’em, eight big buttons stamped with the Aquafina logo and ba-ba-ka-boom, two sixteen ounce bottles tumble to the slot and we both reach down greedily to scoop them up.

“I’m disappointed, I kind of thought mine would really be this size,” I say, gesturing to the five-foot bottle pictured on the front of the machine.

“If it was that size, I wouldn’t drink it, I’d just climb in,” you say, and take a swig from your bottle. We step away from the machine and back onto the walking path, giving up our precious shade for the moment and strolling at a snail’s pace down a softly curving hill.

We’ve been at the arboretum for about two hours, first checking out the bonsai garden with its rows of trees that look and act like old men, then moseying through a maze of trellises (or is it trelli?) festooned with overhanging vines and plants that strained down to touch us, then admiring the water garden. After a walk out to the gigantic stone columns that mark the most striking feature of the place (meaningless though they may be), we’ve started a long, leisurely walk from section to section in the afternoon heat.

This place is more like a vast, empty park than a tourist attraction, made up of vast stretches of lawn and footpaths and rolling hills broken up by smaller areas of gorgeous foliage. Most people don’t have the energy to walk the entirety of such a big place, but most people aren’t us. We’ve set a goal to do the entire circuit and by God, we mean to accomplish it. We just didn’t expect it to be this damn hot. We’re certainly dressed appropriately for the hike, me in my T-shirt and green shorts, you looking resplendent and fit in a similarly snug pink tank-top and black spandex shorts with a white racing stripe down the side which, you explain to me, increases your foot speed by upwards of forty percent. Indeed.

“Did I ever bore you with tales of my month in Northern California and the incredible climate there?” I ask you, fully aware that I’ve been harping on it ever since we got here.

“If you can’t take the heat, go live in your hippie state,” you say. “I love this.”

“You Washingtonians are freaks,” I tease you as we walk along, headed more or less toward a section where a large group of exotic elms promises a little respite from the sun. “There are only two temperatures here and you totally accept it: one hundred and ten degrees below zero, and microwave popcorn. That’s it. There’s nothing in between.”

“My foot’s going to be between your eyes if you don’t stop yer whinin,” you say smilingly, and reach out to hold my hand. Oooh, it’s nice and cool, having been wrapped around your bottle of water for a minute.

“You’re so considerate,” I tell you, noticing how you switched the bottle from your left hand to your right just so I could feel that coolness. After that brief bit of delight, I get the pleasure of simply holding your hand in mine as we stroll, now crossing a bit of lawn and deciding to bypass the elms for something more promising up ahead: an expansive warren of budding trees, colorful bushes, what looks like a small pond, and a couple of gazebos. By the time we get there that shade will come in handy.

“Look at your legs,” I say, admiring them as we go. You look down as if to make sure they’re the ones I’m talking about. “Damn.”

“Merci, monsieur. You might remember them from last night. You pretty much went over every inch of them.”

“Yeah, I think there’s still a four-inch area I didn’t get, though,” I say, and lean over and down to squeeze the back of your left thigh. “There, got it.”

You take another sip from your water bottle and let go of my hand just long enough to lean over as well and squeeze my butt with over-the-top force. Then our hands clasp again and we walk along quietly for a moment, in mild awe at the spread that rises before us. This part of the arboretum is so far from the entrance that a lot of people don’t even get to really see it. It’s like a small park in itself, a place where the rosebushes lead travelers along small lawn paths amongst a beautiful series of hedges and small trees, which all surround the tiny pond. There’s no one around, much like the rest of the arboretum. It’s free, people–where the hell are you all?

We walk very slowly, in absolutely no hurry, down one small path, feeling a little as if we’ve just stepped into the pages of Alice in Wonderland. There’s the occasional chirping of birds and the idle buzzing of bees who don’t seem to be in the mood to do much work today. Every color imaginable is represented canlı bahis in the trees and flowers around us. We don’t stop to eye the plaques that tell us what’s what; we prefer to be overwhelmed

After a good fifteen minutes of passive strolling, the sun has begun to get to us and you point me toward the wooden gazebo coming up on the left, beside the footpath. Not until we step under it do we realize how smoldering it’s gotten. What a contrast. We chug a little water and laugh a little at how sweaty we’ve become just during the walk from the soda machine to here. I drop the backpack I’ve had slung over one shoulder onto the wooden bench and we sit down beside each other, looking out at the splendid view. The gazebo is on a small hill overlooking the entire humanless area. The pond a hundred feet away is perfectly still except for the parcels of water divided and resettled by a family of ducks putting its way from here to there.

You decide that a nice lie-down is in order, so while I remain sitting, you turn, put your legs up on the bench, and lie back with your head resting on my lap. It gives me an easy excuse to touch your hair, so very warm from the sun, and run my fingers through it. You sip from your bottle of water in your lazy horizontal position, careful not to spill it on you, and close your eyes. I rest my hand on your forehead and feel the sweat there, wiping it away gently.

“Yeah, we’ll be getting the tram back to the entrance of this place,” you inform me. “I’m not so pro-heat anymore. We’ve lost enough pounds today, don’t you think?”

“Agreed,” I reply. You take a deep breath, rest your bottle of water on the ground beside you, and keep your eyes closed, looking very nap-oriented. I draw my fingers lightly across your forehead, then run them down through your hair, again and again, going more slowly each time. You make a small sound of contentment.

“You’re spoiling me,” you say.

“Damn, why do I keep slipping up and doing that?” I ask myself. Of course, you know damn well that whenever you lie back on me, I commence to pay extra attention to you. With my index finger, I softly rub the tiny space where your hairline meets your forehead, rubbing for many seconds until it produces an exquisite tickle. Then I brush my fingers across your ear and massage your earlobe a little. After that, I take both hands and work just a little of the stiffness out of your shoulders. You shift on my lap and sigh. A thin stream of sweat runs down from your hairline and I’m quick to place a finger against it before it can get down toward your eyes.

“Hot, heat, hot,” you murmur. The gazebo is kind of small and cut off from the breeze that rose up once in a while outside of it, and it’s gotten kind of muggy where we are.

“Shhhhh,” I say. “In just four months it’ll be tolerable to walk around outside. Only four.” I brush my fingers along your legs, trace a path rising up to your knees, and then let them glide down the other slope toward your feet. I do it twice more. Your legs are slightly moist all over. Humidity, you’re a killer. After your legs are tingled for a time, I stroke your inner arms, making simultaneous paths on both of them with my fingers, doing leisurely sets of ten before resting and resuming again. It can’t even be considered massage; it’s just one human being touching and soothing another in the lightest possible way.

Your eyes open and you look up at me, then more intently at the water bottle which I take a pause to swig from. I lower it to your lips and tilt it ever so carefully until they have a firm grip on it and you take a little in. You swallow it, then I take the bottle away, and instantly dribble a bit of it on your neck.

“Oof,” you say, your shoulders shifting with the new sensation. “Very good.”

“More?”

“Not too much, though,” you warn me, and I tilt the neck of the bottle again, carefully, carefully…then intentionally tilt it forty-five degrees until a nice healthy splash of water falls onto your neck.

“Aiiiiiiiiiiigh, you bastard,” you say, twisting on my lap. You reach a hand up and smear the water around the space just below your neck. A little better, but not that much. It’s sizzling out here.

“Now give me a kiss,” you say, looking into my eyes. “Take my mind off the oven.”

I lean over delicately and press my lips against yours firmly. You lift your head ever so slightly to greet me. We kiss for several seconds, exploring each other a little, and your tongue greets mine. Nice. Then we part again, and you smile and rest your head again. You giggle.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“The way I’m lying here, I can feel something’s gotten into a different state,” you tell me.

“Well, that certainly didn’t take much,” I say wonderingly.

“Nope.” You lift your torso off my lap for a moment and come in for another kiss. This time you bring your right hand to touch my cheek as we do it. Our heads tilt to opposing angles so we can easier connect. The kiss is bahis siteleri a soft and very wet one; before you leaned in I took another drink of water and we melt it away happily with our kiss. I place my hand on your neck, slick with sweat, and caress it. Then you’ve let me go and rested your head back in place again, this time casually folding your hands behind your head and grinning.

“Jesus, it’s even harder now,” you say, and you snuggle in more tightly to my lap, arching and then un-arching your back to torture me a bit.

“Well, what do you expect,” I say. “I have a hot Lilli lying on me, her chest is right in front of me, and she’s wearing bicycle pants so tight I can read the brand name of her panties though them.”

“No panties today, are you kidding me?” you say. “Too hot. Just flesh, my dear.”

“My my,” I say.

You turn your body so that you’re on your side, pressed closer to me, and your face is just inches above my lap. Your left breast dozes gently on my thigh. You rest your head on my knee, scoot your body a little back toward the edge of the bench, and look down at my crotch, where there’s a very noticeable bulge. Very noticeable.

“Impressive,” you say. “Just kissing you did that?”

“Pretty much,” I reply, looking down there as well. The sight of you, looking down at me there, is causing yet more enthusiasm to announce itself. God.

“I guess the fact that there’s also less than a millimeter of fabric between your thigh and my left nipple is doing a little something to you too, eh?” you ask me sweetly.

“Why, why do you do this to me in public all the time?” I ask you, laughing.

“Oh yeah, this is really in public,” you say. “This place is sad and empty, like the space between my tanned, beautiful legs.” Now you’ve moved your face in tighter to take in the view of my bulge, creating an almost comical sight, like a scientist observing a male erection for the first time and fascinated by the proceedings. Of course, to me, it’s not so much funny as incredibly arousing.

“Holy fuck,” you say mildly as you see the tip of my dick peek out from the fabric covering my left thigh. “I think your friend wants to introduce himself.” As hard as it can get, pretty much, my shaft has elongated itself so that a full half inch of it is exposed, sitting tight against my thigh. Like a sulking teenager playing a game which makes you happy, you resume your original position and flop your back on my lap again, looking up at me. “How presumptuous of you, sir,” you say. “Perhaps I shall meet him under different circumstances, but never amongst such beautiful greenery. It would be disrespectful to nature.”

“He’s kind of anxious to make your acquaintance,” I say, “but it’s so hot out here he thinks he’ll just go to sleep for a bit.”

You giggle and lift your hands to give your breasts a squeeze through your pink top. “Tell him to meet me right here sometime and we’ll share an experience.”

God, as if I wasn’t hard enough, you had to go bring those amazing breasts into the picture. Resigned to the fact that I’ll just have to have a hard cock for a while (no real complaints—I do like the feel of your back squished against my lap, giving it no room to maneuver and thus keeping it on high alert), I go back to stroking your hair again. It seems to please you, but I’m a little worried that the heat is just a bit too ridiculous to bring you any long-term enjoyment.

“What did you bring to snack on?” you ask me, eyes still closed. I have an absolutely dandy X-rated response ready to roll off my tongue, but instead I choose to maintain my high intellectual standing and turn to unzip my backpack. From it I take out a small Ziploc bag full of grapes and carrots.

“Grape me,” comes your request. I unzip the bag. The grapes are still wet from when I washed them today and I rest one on your partially parted lips. You open them, take the grape in, bite it in half, then chew it and swallow, immediately opening your mouth again to ask for another. I place another on your teeth, smooshing it around a bit to confuse you—where is it? Where did it go? But you don’t even open your eyes to see, just open wider and let the grape fall in.

“This pleases me just a tiny bit, just enough to stave off the heat for about five seconds,” you say after you swallow. “And by the way, I haven’t heard the tram since we started walking out here. We’re stranded, fella.”

“I think you’re right,” I sigh. “Sorry. We’ll bake on the way back, no two ways about it. I’ll make it up you to you. I’ll bake you a pie or something.”

“Close you eyes,” you say, and of course I do. I’ve gotten used to obeying your commands, because there’s always a pleasant result. I hear you digging into the bag of grapes and then I feel one pressed against my neck. You roll it up, bit by bit, over my Adam’s apple, trying to guide it with just two fingers and not letting it fall. It scoots up over my neck, then onto my chin, and finally I feel it touch my lips. bahis şirketleri I open my mouth and take it in. When it’s firmly ensconced in my mouth, I suck on your fingers, which you’ve let dawdle on my lips.

“Keep your eyes closed,” you say. “Here comes another one. I don’t want you cheating.” There’s a moment where nothing happens at all. Where’s my grape? I wonder what you’re doing, but there’s no particular rush to ingest another three-calorie piece of fruit. I sense some movement but can’t determine its origin. Then the mystery ends when the second grape is felt on my lips, this one not making any sort of long fleshy journey to my mouth. It’s merely pressed there firmly right away, and I take it in and…whoa. Whoa.

WHOA.

I open my eyes and look down at you. You’re grinning from ear to ear.

“And what is THAT taste I have on my tongue right now?” I ask you in amazement, letting my gaze drift from your eyes to your thighs.

“I thought I might marinate that one a little,” you tell me. “It’s nice and sweet and salty, I hope.”

I savor the grape in my mouth, sucking on it, tasting your secret juices. “Wow, that’s terrific,” I say. “You sly dog….and a quick one at that. I’m surprised I didn’t sense you pulling your shorts down.”

“I’m clever,” you say, and I lean over to kiss you hard on the mouth. We remain like that for a long moment, and when I come up for air my cock, which had been settling down, is back at full attention beneath you.

“I’m still hungry,” I tell you. “Give me another one. I want to see.”

Looking into my eyes, you put your fingers into the bag and take out a grape. First, you kiss it in an insanely sexy way, once on the center of your lips. Then you place it in the oft dreamt-about slope between your breasts, just above the beginning of your pink top, and you squeeze your shoulders to hold it in place. You let it sit there for a moment while I watch it, one long deep breath from you making it rise and fall on a wave of flawless skin. Then you remove it, and, without much further ceremony, you reach your hand down into your tight spandex shorts and work your hand down below.

You shift on the bench, putting your tongue out in mock effort, licking your lips, and my cock yearns against your lower back as I watch the place where your hand, concealed by your shorts, works its magic. I can see a bit of your hair down there, hidden mostly by shadow, and I start to breathe a little faster. Then your hand has emerged again and you slowly bring the grape up to my begging lips. You let the grape go and I roll it into my mouth greedily, sucking on it loudly for effect. God, the fine coat of wetness around it, tasting entirely of warm pussy, deliciously salty, fantastically sweaty and sticky….I chew it and swallow it down.

“Hope you enjoyed your lunch,” you say, still smiling. You sigh and go into an elaborate stretch, as if you’ve just woken from a terrific nap. “Wow, I just realize you also have carrot sticks in there…”

“Oh Jesus, I absolutely cannot take it,” I laugh. “Please.”

“But don’t you like the sight of a long, hard carrot going in and out of my mo—“

“I’m sending you to jail,” I say, “no trial, just fucking jail.” Visibly satisfied by the agony you’ve caused me, you sit up and get to your feet. When you look down from your new vantage point, the first thing you notice is that a full two inches of my dick can be seen against my thigh. When I stand up too, the fabric of my shorts covers it but there’s still no way in hell I can walk anywhere at the moment in my condition. We’ll just have to wait a minute or so, and that’s a fact.

“I sort of like the idea of fucking jail,” you say, and bend over to lift your bottle of water. You take one step toward me, still looking down at my erection tenting out my shorts. “Is that where they lock us in a room together and we have to fuck each other a lot?” Suddenly you push the lowest part of my shorts covering my left thigh up and back a few inches to expose my cock in its aching entirety. You release every inch of it into the open air unapologetically, and then, seizing the tip with your left hand, you pour a long stream of water over the whole thing from shaft to head. I flinch back, almost doubling over with the shock of it, and you laugh and laugh. I collapse back onto the bench and curse your name. Oh my God, that felt good. Between the feel of your hand clenching the slick head of my dick and the water engulfing it…I forget completely about the heat for a moment.

“Come on, you wimp, you can’t walk with that hanging out? I don’t have any problem walking along with these exposed….” You lift the bottom of your tight pink tank-top and show me your tanned breasts, then stand like that for a long moment, putting your hands saucily on your hips like a pouty Playboy model. I stand up, reach forward, and pull your shirt back down over your boobs, pretending I’m physically dying from desire. You grab my mouth and squeeze my lips together.

“Poor baby,” you say. “I’m just trying to take your mind off the awful walk ahead. Like an idiot I even wasted most of my water washing your dick.” You hold up your bottle of Aquafina, now mostly empty.

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