Ned Samuels - Hand maid

"Now hang on," Vern had countered, "I don't quite think that's my style, not at all. I'm a city girl. You know that. I can't quite see getting turned on by exhausting myself climbing around a lot of rocks, getting soaked by the rain, caked up by the mud – besides there aren't any powder rooms out there."

"Come on Vern."

"No deal."

That's what happened and now Vern regretted it. She wished she'd taken advantage of the opportunity, if for no other reason, that it would have given her a new setting for hot action, a new atmosphere to get it on with the stud. But that didn't even cross her mind at the time; she was too involved with thoughts of creature comforts, of her fool vanity, which she should have realized wasn't even on John's mind at all – what difference what she looks like on a trip like this, he'd thought.

Now she'd make up for missed opportunity, rewrite the scene in her mind's eye with a vengeance. Veronica walked into her bedroom and orchestrated the dialogue the proper way. She glance at her clock, and felt drowsy for a second; it had been a rough day yesterday, and especially last night. Vern stretched out on the cool sheets, her sleek body dominating the spread, her arms stretched above her head and her breasts uplifted beautifully by the movement. Suddenly she was off on cloud nine, dreaming, languidly moving about on the sheets, and after several hours she awoke.

She jerked forward and glanced at the clock. One thirty, she observed, as if she'd almost missed an important appointment. Lucky I woke up, or I might have missed one fantastic journey.

Veronica imagined what it would be like shoving off down the rapid river upstate, far from civilization, with their two young guides, one a nineteen-year-old young male, with a wild look in his eye, who called himself Buck, the other, an eighteen year-old girl calling herself Maggie, an odd name for someone so attractive and sensual.

Veronica could almost feel the wind on the river and see the frothy rapids which energetically, dangerously took them whisking downstream. She turned and looked at Buck and could see that he had a full crotch area which hinted to her that he probably had a nice cock hanging between those wild legs. For that matter, his friend Maggie was a nice stacked girl, all blond, tan and healthy, a buxom country lass who'd probably gotten her first experience in some barn or after a country square dance. But that was fine and gave the entire scene a certain romantic atmosphere, a difference from her office, with its sterile, urbanized sexuality. These kids were so much more straight forward, she thought, no nonsense, none of the beating around the bush, but probably just straight, hard action when they got down to business.

"Watch it," Veronica imagined Buck ejaculating. She moved about her bed, pretending to be amidst the dangerous rapids, their narrow canoe shuffled helplessly between the white peaks, Buck yelling orders about which way to paddle.

Buck then doffed his shirt in order to get a better handle on his paddle, and displayed a sinuous muscular build which immediately turned her on, a reaction which Maggie didn't miss, rapids and all.

In a few minutes they were past the real danger, and united in their mutual survival; there was something to having gone through the same thing with several people which draws a group together, and when the scene is created in the mind of one nympho, aided by her electric dildo, then the potentialities are all the more intense (the perfect setting for some really intimate dangers).

Veronica imagined how they'd have dinner with some fresh trout stick roasted over a wood fire. She could picture in her mind the handsome, rugged good looks of Buck, who would ravenously devour the fish, pieces of the fresh meat, stuck on the sides of his mouth, the buttery juice carelessly gliding off his lips and onto his chin. He would observe Veronica doing her own watching, and give her knowing kinds of glances. Veronica could swear that he crossed his legs in a manner which thrust his cock against the inside of his jeans, daringly outlining the stem against the material, outlining it proudly so that Vern could get an idea of its true proportions.

The group would go to sleep all in their mutual sleeping bags, but then, late at night, Buck would come over and silently get into Vern's bag, his body making the material of the bag stretch in order to accommodate her form. Vern had never made it in a bag before, and in order to simulate the experience, she wrapped herself in blankets in her bedroom, feeling the pressure against her breasts, the way her legs were pressed together such that every move had to be economized. Buck whispered in her ear, "If you never made it in a bag before, I think you'll find it quite a unique experience. You see, there's no room to move, so you have to move your room. Know what I mean?" Vern had no idea but she went along with the boy.

In a few minutes, he somehow managed to wrap his legs around her own and envelope her in his loins. She could tell that he had an uncommonly huge cock, not just a big cock, but a huge cock, a cock so giant as to dominate his center, so titan as to make her almost cry out in amazement and wonder how on earth she could accommodate the stud.

Would such a specimen put her into a comatose, an impalpable state of unfeeling, or would it be a brand new high? In order to approximate the sensation, Vern took the largest carrot from the table and brought it into the bedroom. She realized it was of incredible proportion, but by the same token, it was possible that some well endowed young lad could have such a token; it was conceivable though, no doubt, most unusual.

A cock? A rammer? A mere pecker? – or more than that, the epitome of masculine power and wildness, prepared and ready for her under the stars: the biggest fucking pecker she'd ever experience!

Veronica prepared herself to luxuriate in that cock, to ease her way into some new ultimate form of sensuality, to render her senses euphoric and completely satiated yet yearning for more under the onslaught of mere foreplay. Could such a stem be truly harmonious with her more modest pussy, or would it be an undue strain, beyond the point of diminishing returns.

Vern looked at the carrot, imagining it to be the man's fantastic endowments. The fat stem and the way it tapered ever so slightly toward the tip, its firmness and sinuous contour, its determined penetrating look. She feared it might create convulsion, a stitch in her sensations, or some other torment as she would be racked by the huge member; but on the other hand, the other possibility was enough to keep her going. It could mean untold pleasures, new, enticing sensations of even greater intensity than those of which she was accustomed (and given her recent experience, that was really saying something). She could feel the stud moving his hands against her thighs as he struggled to move in on her pussy. Such was the difficulty, and he be came kind of stuck just as he made his way below her abdomen. She wanted to help him, but found that the bed was just too snug for her to make any kind of move.

There was one dividend, though, in that she could feel her loins become plastered against his, his cock proudly erecting to its nearly full size, surfacing above her pubics and reaching almost all the way up to her belly button.

"Baby," she whispered hotly, "that's one tool you have there."

"I'm known for it around these parts."

She liked that, hearing him proud of his endowments, rather than sporting some mock modesty or worse yet, the vestiges of shame.

"Push," she whispered.

He managed to position himself lower in the bag – or so Vern imagined it – until he was just about a foot below her head, his chin digging decisively into her tits. He liked that too (and who wouldn't like getting a chin full of such magnificent, womanly, flesh) so he kept pushing against her, perhaps pretending that there was no other way to move, more likely intentionally taking advantage of a good situation. They both began their gyrations, their sexual pyrotechnics.