Nature's Way - a Warm Afternoon

Copyright 2007 by Richard Williams. All rights reserved.

All names, and most of the detail in this story is fictitious. If I've accidentally used your name, my apologies, but if you think you'll make lots of money in a lawsuit, imagine how silly you'll feel when you find out there is no money to be made by doing so.

THE NATURAL WAY

by Prof. Richard W.

(formerly of the University of ____________)

Several of my on-line friends have asked me whether, aside from Meg (see "Meg's Uniform" in this library), I ever savored experiences with anyone other than co-eds during my days as a professor. One even intimated that I had a thing about young women. I reminded that correspondent that when I first came into teaching at the university, that I was not much older than my students. Also, I've only written about them previously because there were so many women students, that it is easier for me to disguise them enough in the stories so I can avoid giving away their identities.

HOWEVER, the expanding web of the Internet has reached into so many households, that recently, after deductions made from a discreetly coded comment in a website guestbook, I found myself exchanging e-mail with a colleague from those days, or perhaps I should say "kollegin." Barbara Niedlich is back in her home town in Germany now, and enjoys reading these stories. As she was in her mid-40's when I was a younger faculty member, I think that she must be one of the older Internet users, but I can tell you that she remains youthful at heart -- and elsewhere.

She asked me, in fact encouraged me, to write our story and post it here. And from a practical relationship standpoint, she says, Rolf, the retired Bundespost letter carrier who visits her weekly for tea and wild sex, does not use the Internet anyway. (She says that Rolf is quite experienced at giving sexual pleasure, having delivered so much of it to hausfrauen in his working days -- but that's another story.)

In response, therefore, to your requests, here is my account of our time together, critiqued already through e-mail by Professorin Barbara. We both hope that you will enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed recapturing those days.

---

".... apple ... pear... strawberries," you muse,

as you sort

through the refrigerator.

As an Art professor,

with a diploma

from the Kunstakademie, you know a thing or two

about still-life fruits.

Today this is a practical thing to do,

to prepare,

but also evokes pleasing images

of past experiences on paths which led away

from the humdrum drumming of daily sounds

or led to new vistas

or drew you

to old familiar friendly places.

You can picture yourself biting into one of these fruits

and feeling the tart refreshing taste

on your tongue, a taste of pleasing times past and yet

to come.

But strawberries, plump and red ready as they are,

would be crushed in your backpack,

and so they must wait, presumably in darkness,

(although one never knows whether the light goes out

when the refrigerator door clicks shut.)

As you snug selected fruits

in amongst other needful things

you try to think of anything else--

"Is there anything I am missing?

What do I want?

What have I enjoyed having before

when last I escaped duties

and shared some time with myself?"

You realize though

that you already have

the most important thing

to bring with you

and that is your imagination.

A person could survive

in this country

with little but that

in the warm summer days

and dry nights of August.

Your bicycle waits inanimate,

yet full of a hidden spirit--

not puffing like a steam locomotive,

nor flexing muscles nervously like a young nude

before some longed for moment of sexual action,

but almost willing to take off on its own

if you do not take hold of it.

Mount it like a skilled lover

in a smooth blend of motion into motion,

for if you pause to think about it

the trip will end in a tumble here

in your hostesses' driveway.

You and your two-wheeled steed roll

out into tree-canopied streets

which lead by plan toward the business district,

but someone like you who packs imagination

in her picnic supplies

realizes the flaw --

in your eyes it catches the light --

in that these streets also lead

away from the business district,

down toward the creekside trail.

Down past the unfolding golf course

great chestnuts and maples arch

over the curving lines of the curbs and walks,

sheltering you from the afternoon sun

which makes itself known

in flashes blinking as you pass

through the perspective changes.

The golf course fence rails are continuous,

to infinity as if they are a railway track turned

on its side.

The trees,

on the other hand, make their own strong angles,

each so assertively grabbing

at the sky

that they forget

in their competition

to fill in with green those little blue patches.

So the sun

in stroboscopic motion fires its rays

at a crow here or a rose bush there,

then spotlights your hand, your knee,

the turning wheels, and even the spokes

that slice it

into photons and scatters them as petals

behind you.

Leaving traffic and daily cares behind,

you are pulled by gravity

and propelled by wanderlust

into the creek's watershed

on back streets with names of forgotten men

where the trees finally have their act together,

closing off those occasional sneaks of sky.

Cool air sits

at the bottom of the hill, waiting for you

just in time as you realize perspiration is running

down your brow.

You pass a couple who climb the hill

in happy silence-- they nod and turn

back to each other again-- having no need

of words in their moment

of intimate hunger

for each other.

"Turn back!" you warn them in your thoughts,

wanting them to stay content in this place,

wanting them to enjoy Nature's gift to them

in Nature's special place,

but they have some urgent objective

in mind, perhaps shaped by the interaction

of their caresses and kisses.

In her shapeless workout suit a runner stretches

to warm up

before attacking the uphill route

and a mother sits and reads while her child swings

in the little playground at the entrance

to the trail.

At each apex of her swing, the child cries out

in celebration of her moment of freedom from gravity,

approaches the wooded trail in her flight

and then pendulums safely

back toward her mother, glancing

to see that she is still there.

Glide into the enclosing trees and bushes,

now alone with Nature, who seems

to have sent those other people home,

so that she can entertain you,

as a courtesan brings her lover

into her garlanded boudoir,

without unwanted distractions.

Angular guard rails interrupt the irregular patterns

of Nature,

in a well-meaning attempt to keep you

on the path and

out of the creek.

For there it is, bubbling

toward the Willamette, Johnson Creek, playing

with the round rocks and fallen leaves,

not revealing its occasional swelling power

which enters this ravine each Spring and

in a tumble of foam, torrentially splashes life

into this currently peaceful part of Earth.

It's so easy to follow now

to the place which you discovered before,

where the flood power this Spring moved the old logs

around for you as easily and unintentionally

as hot lovers unmaking their bed.

It engineered a modest clearing of sorts,

before receding to its happy, bubbling self, a place

to lay out your blanket and open your pack,

where only the sharpest eyes can make out the diverging path

into your secluded grove.

You found it on an earlier expedition, and now you alight,

push aside the leafy brush and walk your bike

through the grabbing blackberry bushes, Nature's Velcro,

that guard this unadvertised special part.

"What all is in this pack?" you ask,

and toss the blanket over the humid bottom land

near the creek, then lay things out

to see what goodies you packed

for yourself.

Having done this before, there are no big surprises,

and everything will contribute

to the growing sense of well-being that spreads

out with the blanket

in this perfect, private picnic space.

You first detected the magic of this place

when you would relax and remove your blouse

and soak in the summer heat; it reminded you

of that beach up near Esjberg, a kind of place

which you had never found

in this alien culture

in this time.

Lean back

on the half-folded pack, unbutton your blouse now,

and look

for tiny sunlight openings

in the tree canopy over you.

A sudden feeling of warmth wells

from within, spurred by memories, makes you

realize that you already have

the most important thing unpacked

and that is your imagination.

With all the familiar landmarks

and the entrancing repetitious burbles of the creek

around you it is easy to begin remembering

your visit before, and a time when you found me

with my brimming blackberry pail reaching

for the sweetest, juiciest treasures.

You laugh out loud, upsetting a squirrel,

as you recall how I almost fell

into the stickery branches when you surprised me

there in the 'secret' clearing.

You saw that it made me happy

when you took a chance and chose to stay, leading me

to reach higher and higher, watched me precariously lean

into the clutching green arms, to try

for the most beautiful berry of all, just

beyond reach it seemed.

You held your breath beautifully for me,

and I only got a few scratches

that drew blood

from this seemingly pagan fruit ritual

in which, naturally, I presented you

with the sacred object of my effort.

Perhaps hindsight shows you

that this was a prehistoric test, created

in your subconscious, something genetically programmed,

that women would desire a mate who could reach deeply

into a blackberry bush

without drawing back hesitantly.

Now replay the scene

in slow motion (wonder if people did that

before Hollywood directors invented the technique),

stretch time out to enjoy again and again my coming

toward you, me perspiring happily

from the strain, and only bleeding just the tiniest bit.

"It is only a flesh wound, ma'am," I assure you,

and even though you knew that to be true,

as only the clumsiest die from attacks by blackberry thorns,

and most are only Eastern tourists, you marvel again

at how despite the pain I held the berry so delicately

within my fingertips, turning it

before you so that you could see Nature's perfect pattern

between us.

Remember, too, that I was able

to gently posess that fruit

while letting my gaze rove

over your lithe form,

and that I did not even harm it

when I noticed that perspiration

had molded your blouse

to your braless bosom.

Your lips part even now as you remember me holding it, the berry,

to them, so careful to place the indescribable taste

on your tongue intact, both of us knowing

that this time could not be repeated, but if savored fully

with intensely focused senses, would last in our memories

for a lifetime,

or at least as long as we had good taste.

Now you lie back in this glade, the humid warmth again

surrounding your bared breasts,

and take pleasure in the recollection, knowing that it will

turn up whenever you chose to recall the feeling

as your tongue squeezed slowly against the berry, pushing it

to the roof of your mouth.

What ancient unspoken communications had

passed between us then, as your conscious mind full

of trivial details, concerns and fears, argued

against me, talked of nothings, while

inside your subconscious deftly took command.

I, too, was full

of academic trivia and departmental gossip,

as my balls churned frantically

in preparation

for you.

You knew of me as the shallow young instructor,

of whom,

with whom,

for whom,

too many

of your female students had shared real

or imagined experiences.

You had seen how the utterly dull, conventional still life

on Katie Wilson's canvas, half-finished as she struggled for colors,

had suddenly burst into a carnival of delight

after our meetings on her term paper.

You had been amused when Karen Olivetti, the uptight ed major,

had suddenly, aggressively wanted

into the "permission only" figure studies class (the one

where varsity baseball second baseman Bill Sanders would pose

in the nude),

Miss Olivetti having blushed ferociously

at the thought only days ago,

before she came and came again as my project assistant.

And now, as we chatted amiably, your tongue continued

to clean your lips, even

after most of the berry stain was gone,

and when I teasingly pointed that out, you

at first denied it,

but that forced your conscious mind

to notice the fact that inside your clothing,

you were being subverted

by your own firming breasts, now-tender nipples,

and an irrational desire

to have my berry-delicate fingers between your thighs.

Hurriedly trying

to catch up with the plan already being implemented

by your libido, your conscious mind realized

that it would be interesting, just this once,

in this secret unexpected rendezvous,

to find out

for yourself what entranced your students.

As a mature woman, and as one who had spent her younger days

in Bohemian relationships, having,

after all, been the unknown Muse speculated

by critics and art historians

to have existed

in Kriscenzsy's turbulent life

in post-War Vienna, you only had angst

for the possibility of

mediocrity or a dire shortage of schlagsahne

in his place

when you chose to accept a lover.

And, dear Barbara, was it not true that there were others, too?

The British Army officer who poured Devonshire cream

for you at teatime, and who always kept a stiff

upper lip?

The American correspondent who meant to only write

about the public side of your talents,

but who put the wire service desk men and that one woman

into horny, envious reveries, with the sheets

from his well-traveled Remington

growing progressively typo-ridden

as you teasingly removed the lacily Freudian slip

that he had given you,

while he accidentally wrote

about the pubic side of your talents?

Yes, your conscious mind was ready now

to participate,

to place me

in your collection and move us

into frenzied unbuttonings, unhookings, unzippings,

and unbearably deep kisses.

It was ready now,

to step back and let your inner woman direct the proceedings,

while you watched warmly with your artist's eye,

the changing curves of your breasts in my hands,

my lips grazing your tummy,

the elastic band stretching as your femininity emerged

from the plain white panties you had selected

for this quiet afternoon's bicycle ride.

And no matter how experienced, you still enjoyed it,

the excitement of watching as I wrenched my briefs

around my expanding cock, and then it being delightfully free

to climb into position, knowing that you had

become my entire focus, that I was taking the form

predestined to fit your powerful requirements.

You remember, do you not, stretching out as you are now,

Venus on a half-empty backpack and a picnic blanket,

legs opening, eager, as I knelt and kissed my way

to your pounding heart

from your teasing toes, and then came down

over you, entering just when you were ready

to demand my presence

inside?

You must remember that your bicycle-exercised thighs

surrounded me with feminine strength,

and the way you folded your legs

over me, and held me

inside you with your heels riding the small of my back,

your toes savoring the urgent energies

of the muscles flexing

through my hips

as I moved you,

within you,

to release,

your secret Pallete

of colors.

Recollect the look of utter satisfaction

as I took my pleasure

in sharing yours and

with the murmur of the creek waters flowing past,

you can easily recall our conversation afterward,

interrupted only by our returning again and again

for just one more berried treasure.

I asked you

about a lot of things, but most importantly,

how did that first berry taste

as you caressed it

on your tongue,

and then felt it yield its precious juice?

You assured me that you would always remember it,

as you are doing at this point in time, and then

with sticky fingers, pink teeth and red-stained lips,

we took our farewell.

You watched me withdraw through the guardian bushes,

the same ones which now change to twilight colors,

before your half-opened eyes.

Nattering squirrels which you hear

in the distance will bring you

out of your reverie and

back into the present, time flowing

with the stream has caught up

with you, the challenging uphill ride is

ahead.

Stop to look

into the moving water, but

aside from dappled light made

of the leftovers of the day, unfortunately it accepts no reflections.

Too bad, you will think, and I can imagine,

as only the forest jays see the renewed excitement

on your face,

in your eyes,

in the saucy upturn

of your nipples which you hold, that

for a moment, you will draw kiss-sketches,

in your fertile mind,

before tut-tutting the jays, and slipping your blouse

back on.

As you gaze deep into it, though,

and because you packed your imagination

on this trip as

in times before,

you will know that you can picture yourself

in the green secret place whenever it pleases you, and visualize

out of the thinnest air intricate details

of color and form, taking pleasure in the shapes

of man in nature,

and, as you are now,

enjoy the earth-feeling of preparation

in your body

for the entry

of your chosen man.

The world is waiting

for you

at the top

of the hill.

Ride with new energy

and unroll again the long fence

and the canopy of trees,

back to your starting point revitalized

and full of new thoughts.

###

P.S.

After we collaborated on this via e-mail, Barbara claims that she has asked Rolf to increase his deliveries to 2x- or 3x-weekly.