Twilight on the Mill Pond Swing

The wooden swing groaned under our combined weight as the chain links bit into the oak branch above us. You'd found the swing set behind the old mill pond—half-forgotten, tucked between cattails and wild phlox that nobody tended anymore. The evening had gone purple and gold, and the frogs were starting their noise down at the water's edge. I'd brought two beers in a paper sack, thinking we'd just sit and talk, maybe share a joint. That was the kind of evening I'd pictured. Simple. Manageable.

You had other plans.

You'd been flirting all afternoon—touching my arm when you laughed, standing close enough that I could smell the warm skin beneath your collar. Not perfume. You knew I hated perfume. You'd remembered that from before, from the first time you came to my condo and we'd fumbled through a conversation about what we liked. You'd leaned in and said, "I won't wear any next time." And you hadn't. Your skin smelled like soap and something faintly metallic, like the inside of a wrist. I liked it more than I knew how to say.

Now you were on my lap. Not beside me on the second swing, not standing in front of me kicking at the dirt. On my lap. Your weight settled against my thighs like you belonged there, and your arm draped over my shoulder, fingers playing with the collar of my shirt. I was holding the chains on either side of us, knuckles white, like the swing might throw us both if I let go.

"You're stiff," you said, and laughed. Not at me—with me, or maybe near me. Your hips shifted. A small motion, barely anything. The wooden seat creaked.

"I'm always stiff," I said, which was the wrong thing to say, because you grinned and shifted again, more deliberately this time. Your ass pressed down through your jeans, finding the line of my cock through my loose shorts. I felt the warmth of you—concentrated, deliberate—and my face went hot.

"I know," you said. "That's kind of the point."

I tried to look at the pond. A heron was standing motionless at the far end, one leg tucked, patient as a saint. I focused on the heron like it might rescue me. You turned my face back with your fingers under my chin and kissed me.

Your mouth was soft and tasted like the beer we'd been sharing. Your lips parted mine and your tongue found the edge of my teeth, then retreated, then came back. I kissed you back because there was nothing else to do, because your weight on my lap and the slow grinding of your hips had bypassed every rational thought I'd been trying to assemble. The swing swayed with our motion, the chains singing a low note above us.

I pulled back. Turned my head. "Someone might—"

"There's nobody here," you said against my neck. Your mouth found the tendon running from my ear to my shoulder, and you bit it gently, then not so gently. My cock swelled so fast it almost hurt, pressing against the thin fabric of my shorts, straining up toward the heat of your crotch. You felt it. Of course you felt it. You ground down harder, a slow circle that dragged the seam of your jeans across the head of my dick, and you looked into my face with an expression I'd never seen from anyone—half amusement, half hunger.

"Look at you," you whispered. "You're shaking."

I was. My hands were trembling on the chains. My breath was coming short and uneven. I was eighteen years old and I'd never been with a woman—not like this, not with the heat and the weight and the wetness I could feel through two layers of denim. I'd never been looked at the way you were looking at me, like I was something to be unwrapped and consumed.

"Let's get off this thing," you said.

You stood and the swing recoiled, nearly throwing me. I caught myself, stood on legs that felt borrowed, and followed you through the tall grass toward the reeds at the edge of the pond. The cattails were shoulder-high, and the ground beyond them was soft with moss and clover. You dropped down like you'd been planning this all day, pulling me after you by the hem of my shirt.

I lay on my back and you straddled me, your knees on either side of my ribs. You took my wrists and pressed them to the ground above my head. Held them there with surprising strength. Your face hovered above mine, hair hanging in a curtain that blocked the last of the sky.

"You're going to stay right here," you said. Not a question.

You kissed my mouth, then my jaw, then the line of my throat. You bit my collarbone through my shirt and I made a sound I'd never heard myself make—a low, broken noise that came from somewhere below my lungs. Your tongue found the hollow at the base of my neck and traced it, tasting salt. You knew I preferred skin over perfume. You'd remembered. You were giving me exactly what I'd told you I wanted, even though I hadn't known what it would feel like to actually get it.

You kissed lower. The fabric of my shirt rode up as your mouth traveled down my chest, your lips brushing the trail of hair below my navel. I was writhing. There's no other word for it—my hips were coming off the ground, my back arching, my wrists straining against your grip even though I wasn't trying to get away. I was trying to get closer. To something. To anything.

You let go of my wrists and sat up. Then you did something I wasn't prepared for. You inched forward, your knees sliding up past my shoulders, and settled your weight on my chest. A schoolgirl pin—the kind I'd seen in wrestling diagrams, never in life. Your thighs clamped my arms to the ground, and you looked down at me with that same knowing expression.

"Comfortable?" you asked.

I couldn't answer. Your hands found my nipples through my shirt and pinched. Hard. A jolt went through me like a current, straight from my chest to my cock, and I bucked under you. You laughed—not cruel, just pleased with yourself—and pinched again, rolling the skin between your fingers, watching my face contort.

I could smell you. Not perfume, not soap. Something deeper, something animal and warm. The heat between your legs was inches from my chin, radiating through your jeans. I could feel the dampness of you through the denim where it pressed against my chest. You were wet. The realization hit me like a fist.

You reached down and unzipped your pants. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet evening—the frogs had stopped, the heron had gone, and there was nothing but the rustle of reeds and the teeth of your zipper parting. You worked your jeans down over your hips, then your underwear—simple cotton, nothing fancy—and I saw my first cunt.

It was nothing like I'd imagined. The diagrams in health class, the pixelated glimpses from magazines—I'd had no idea. You were swollen, flushed pink and dark at the folds, glistening in the fading light. The hair was trimmed but not bare, dark and curling. You smelled like iron and musk and something sweeter underneath, like overripe fruit. I stared because I couldn't not stare, and my cock was so hard it was throbbing against my shorts.

You inched forward again and lowered yourself onto my face.

The wetness of you pressed against my mouth and chin. The heat was immediate and total, like pressing your face against a furnace. I tried to turn away—instinct, panic, the overwhelming strangeness of it. I'd never done this. I'd never been close to doing this. My mouth was clamped shut and I was breathing hard through my nose, which was buried in the wet fold of you, and I could taste you on my lips whether I wanted to or not.

"Lick me," you said. Your voice had changed—lower, tighter, like the words were being squeezed out.

I shook my head. Not defiance. Just fear. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know how. I'd never—

You ground down harder. Your cunt covered my mouth completely, smearing wetness across my cheeks. I tried to turn my head and your thighs clamped tighter, holding me in place. I felt your hand reach back, down past my chest, past my stomach, and slide through the loose leg of my shorts.

Your fingers found my balls.

I tensed. Every muscle in my body went rigid. Your hand closed around them—not gently, not cruelly, but with a grip that communicated something very specific. You squeezed. Not enough to injure. Enough to make a point.

"Lick me," you said again.

I tried to twist away, my hips bucking, my arms straining against the prison of your thighs. You squeezed harder. A spike of fear went through me—sharp, electric—and my mouth opened. Whether to protest or to gasp, I don't know. But my tongue touched you.

The taste was nothing I'd expected. Tangy, metallic, rich. It coated my tongue and I licked again—not because I wanted to, but because your grip on my balls told me I had to. I licked flat and broad, the way I'd read about somewhere, and your whole body reacted.

You gasped. Your hips jerked. Your grip on my balls loosened and then tightened again, reflexive, and you let out a sound that was almost a sob. "Oh fuck," you said. "Oh fuck, right there. Keep going."

I kept going. My tongue found the swollen nub at the top of your cunt and traced circles around it, tentatively at first, then with more pressure as your reaction intensified. You were shaking above me, your thighs trembling against my ears, your cunt grinding against my mouth in a rhythm that matched the pounding of my own pulse. The wetness was everywhere—on my chin, my cheeks, running down my neck.

"That's it," you said, your voice cracking. "Right there. Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."

I didn't stop. I licked faster, pressing harder, and your hips bucked so hard I thought you'd break my nose. Your hand released my balls and grabbed the front of my shirt, twisting the fabric in your fist. Your head was thrown back, the last gold light of evening catching your throat, and you were making sounds that I'd never heard a human being make—guttural, rhythmic, desperate.

Three minutes. Maybe less. Maybe more. Time had stopped meaning anything. Your thighs clamped around my head like a vice and your whole body went rigid, and then you came.

It was like watching a storm break. Your back arched, your mouth opened, and a sound tore out of you that was half scream, half groan. Your cunt spasmed against my mouth, clenching and releasing, and a rush of wetness flooded my chin. I kept licking because I didn't know what else to do, and you shuddered with each pass of my tongue, aftershocks rolling through you like waves.

Finally, you collapsed forward. Your hands caught the ground on either side of my head, and you hung there, breathing in ragged gasps, your hair hanging in front of my face. I could feel the sweat on your thighs against my cheeks. I could taste you in every crevice of my mouth.

"Jesus Christ," you said. You laughed, breathless. "Where the fuck did you learn to do that?"

"I didn't," I said. "You made me."

You lifted yourself off me and collapsed beside me in the clover, your jeans still around your thighs, your cunt still glistening. You were laughing and trying to catch your breath at the same time, and the sound was beautiful—raw and unguarded, like you'd been surprised by your own body.

I lay there with my face wet and my cock aching and my heart hammering against my ribs. The frogs had started up again. The sky had gone from purple to deep blue, and the first stars were showing through the cattails. I could feel the cool air on the wetness that covered my chin and cheeks, and I could still taste you—salt and iron and that strange sweetness that I knew I'd never forget.

You rolled onto your side and propped your head on your hand. You looked at me with an expression that had softened from hunger into something warmer. Your free hand reached out and touched my face, tracing the line of my jaw, smearing your own wetness across my cheek.

"You're a mess," you said.

"You made me a mess," I said.

"I made you a lot of things tonight." Your hand slid down my chest, over my stomach, and found the waistband of my shorts. Your fingers dipped inside. "I'm not done."

My cock jumped at the first touch of your fingers—light, exploratory, almost clinical. You wrapped your hand around the shaft and squeezed gently, feeling the hardness of me, and I let out a breath I felt like I'd been holding for an hour.

"You've been hard this whole time," you said. Not a question.

"You were sitting on my face."

You laughed again and stroked me—slow, deliberate, your thumb circling the head where precum had soaked through the fabric. You pulled your hand out and brought your fingers to your mouth, tasting me, and the sight of it made my cock throb so hard it hurt.

"Next time," you said, lying back and pulling me toward you by the hip, "I want you inside me. But tonight I just wanted to see your face when you figured out what you were doing."

I didn't know what to say to that. I was eighteen and I'd just had my face ridden by a woman who'd known exactly what she wanted and had taken it. My mouth was still wet with her. My cock was in her hand. The stars were coming out over the mill pond and the reeds whispered around us like they were keeping our secret.

You pulled me down on top of you and kissed me—deep, tasting yourself on my tongue, and the kiss was different now. Not demanding. Grateful. Your legs wrapped around my hips and your hand guided my cock along the wetness of you, sliding the head between your folds without entering, back and forth, until we were both trembling.

"Next time," you whispered against my mouth.

"Next time," I said.

And then you smiled—wide, wicked, satisfied—and pushed me off you, stood up, and pulled your jeans back on like nothing had happened. You offered me your hand and pulled me to my feet, and we walked back through the cattails to the swing, where our beers were still warm in the paper sack.

You handed me mine and clinked your bottle against mine.

"To your first time," you said.

I took a long drink and looked at you in the starlight—your hair messy, your jeans crooked, your mouth still swollen from kissing.

"To my first time," I said.

You grinned and leaned against the swing, and I realized that somewhere in the last hour I'd stopped shaking. My hands were steady. My face was still wet and I could still taste you, and I knew I'd be tasting you in my dreams for weeks.

"You know," you said, tipping your beer back, "for someone who didn't know what he was doing, you caught on pretty fucking fast."

"I had good motivation," I said. "You had me by the balls."

You laughed so hard you snorted beer through your nose, and I watched you wipe your face with the back of your hand, and I thought: I could get used to this. The mess of it. The surprise. The way you looked at me like I was a project worth finishing.

The frogs sang. The heron came back. And we sat on that swing until the beer was gone and the stars were thick overhead, and you put your head on my shoulder and I put my arm around you, and for the first time in my life I felt like I'd done something right without knowing how I'd done it.