In early nineteenth century France, shepherds were cut off from the rest of society while taking their flocks to green and uneaten pastures miles from any major settlement. Though most had accepted the solitude that the occupation brought in general, they had to be creative to find the companionship they could. Markings etched into the trees along nearby routes and roads indicated to passerby points of rendezvous, where shepherds and travelers could meet and stave off loneliness and satisfy their base desires.
Cesar was no exception. Markings on trees just off the roadside guided women passing through to the clearing in the woods between his village and the far-off pastures. He knew that Saturday evenings, when the women who went to sell and buy their goods returned from market he could as often as not return to the clearing where he left a wine-stained cup on a stump and find a woman waiting. Hearing the rustlings of one of the market ladies who would stroke her dress while she awaited him, as he walked the winding path towards her still made him aroused with anticipation. More so the occasions when he arrived first and heard footsteps eagerly approaching. Even as he neared thirty-five and he began to find spots of grey in his shaggy brown hair, it excited him. Every time, he would feel his heart beat faster and his cock begin to swell.
When Cecile met him there was when he enjoyed himself the most. She had been paying him visits for nearly a year now. He had known her in the village when they were children, and she still maintained a playful attitude towards him. She had married young to an older man, wealthy by the village's standards but hardly well-bred. Over the years he had turned colder and more miserly both in his spending and his affections, so Cecile resolved to find joy outside their marriage.
She learned quickly that Cesar was not so stingy. On her first visit to his rendezvous point, he poured the wine freely, and when she sat next to him and leaned in, he lavished her with kisses across her freckled cheeks. Though typically demure, she gasped and laughed aloud as his mouth migrated down to her neck, one hand holding hers and the other lifting her dress. He was generous, and she was appreciative. She took pride in the way her soft and quiet lips could reduce his lean and muscular body to a writhing mass of moans and twitches.
One late spring evening about a year into their affair, she brought half a bottle of red wine, having drank the rest on her way back from the market. She found him waiting for her, sitting on the ground looking to where the path entered the clearing. When his eyes met hers he stood up to greet her. "Cecile," he said, "what a lovely surprise." Her lips curled into something between a grin and a grimace. It was no surprise. She had stopped by last week and before leaving made him assure her that he would be in the same place come late Saturday afternoon. She told him that her husband had not touched her in months, and how great it felt when he wrapped her up and pulled her into him, how she loved the way the air touched her when he lifted up her dress. She had buried her head in his chest and told him he made her feel free and she needed to feel it again next week.
In the days that followed though, she had remembered this confession with embarrassment. She and Cesar shared their bodies freely but hid any emotional attachment they felt. Now she was relieved that he had arrived for her, but his allusion to her display last week made her ears hot. It was a small humiliation, yet she felt it deeply. She enjoyed how when he lifted her dress or tore down her stockings he held her, exposed to the world, seeming to remind it that she was his, if only for a moment. When her husband turned his head from her, Cecile liked to imagine it was because the wind that blew across her bare rear there in the woods had whispered in his ear that she was Cesar's now. But Cesar reminding her that she needed him and, in that way, knew she was his, felt different.
"Well, I was passing by," she said as he smirked.
"You even brought me wine," he said.
"Yes, and I've had my share so drink up."
He walked back to the stump and sat down, drank a few gulps quickly then looked back up at her. He looked prepared. She knew he had been imagining during the week as he tended his flock what he would do to her come Saturday. She wondered if he wanted to sit her down and tease her pussy with his fingers and tongue or if he would tell her to get on her hands and knees before he rode her like a rutting animal. For now, he was playing it cool. He sat sipping the wine she had poured for him. Cecile did not want to wait longer to feel Cesar's body on hers. She wore her frustration as confidence and strode over to where he sat.
