Picnic

It's August in London. Humid and sticky and the light is starting to change ever so slightly, so he convinces me to ditch work, spend the day with him while the sun is still warm and we don't need a hundred layers. Before it's scarves and coats again, and gloves. Too much distance. I like the idea of having him as close to my skin as possible, walking down the street. Just one layer of cotton between his hand and my thigh, or my waist, or the curve of my back. And nothing more. 

We've packed up a picnic of late summer treats, fat strawberries, ripe peaches and dark cherries, crusty bread and some kind of dark delicious wine he has been saving from somewhere. I like the idea of him, a bit tipsy, in the hazy heat drinking me in too. I pack up a blanket, he scoops up the food, bundles me to the Heath, before I change my mind and dive back into the chaos of my emails. 

It's not like me to skip meetings, in the middle of the day, to lie about on the heath getting sunburned and light headed on too much luxury.

He laughs at me, uptight and anxious, smacks my ass as we walk up a small hill into a clearing, the noise of the nearby cafe receding a little behind the trees. This part of London feels almost separate to the hustle and bustle of the city, and yet we're right in the middle of it. That sense of being alone, just the two of us, but not. There must be hundreds of people here, but then, just out of sight. I wonder who could be watching us. It's a thrill. Even now. With just his hand on my knee while I try and eat a peach without making a huge mess of it.

I don't succeed. The juice runs down my chin before I can scoop it up with my fingers. And I'm wearing white. 

A rookie mistake.

His laugh. Clear and loud and confident. 

I'm always awkward, and yet, he seems to transform it into something appealing. Or something almost transgressive. Like I'm doing it on purpose, just to wind him up. He runs his thumb across my chin, my bottom lip, catches the last of the peach juice before it ruins my dress any more. 

“Messy aren't you,” he says.

A slightly crooked smile, a suggestion.

I blush bright red, mainly because I can feel that familiar pulse between my legs. When he touches me. Almost every time he touches me. I shift my weight a little, from one side to the other, which he pretends not to notice. He brings a knife out of the bag and cuts the peach into pieces. The juice spilling over the edges of his fingers where the knife catches the skin. Then the flesh. And I have to stop watching. This mundane, everyday, ordinary task made so intense I feel my mouth run dry. Swallow hard. Which he pretends not to notice, too. So when he moves his hand to my face, I almost jolt, the reality of where we are, on an ordinary Wednesday and where my mind is... like I could be consumed by him, piece by piece. His hand then on my face, his thumb on my jawline, holding me still when he kisses me. I can barely move. The taste of him, the fullness of his tongue, sweetness of the fruit, the tang of the wine. I feel drunk in it. In the heat of the day. Light headed. That pulse quickens, and I can feel how slick I am now, against the cotton of my knickers. 

“You taste so fucking good.”

He pulls away, shaking his head. Like it's a surprise. 

I roll onto my stomach, in a bid, I think, to stop ruining my dress with cherry stained fingers and peach juice. Maybe to catch my breath, and start toying with making a daisy chain, slowly gathering tiny flowers, weaving them into each other. Trying not to think too hard about his fingers turning the pages of a new book. He is reading something I've sent him from work, an anthology. His forehead burrowed in a frown, he is not sure if he likes it yet and doesn't realize I'm watching him, which is a gift. He is usually so observant of me, nothing goes unseen, I only really get to watch him like this when he’s sleeping. I look away before he sees me. An attempt to preserve the moment without being caught. 

It's then I feel his fingers lazily worrying the hem of my dress, where it’s creased almost indecently half way up the back of my thighs. He’s clearly lost interest in the book, although he’s still reading it, or pretending to while his fingers start to trace the seam of my knickers through the fabric. Inching it up every time he circles back from one side to the other. The sweat from my skin has made everything feel more intense, but it makes me shiver, and I can feel my pelvis start to rock almost unconsciously. Like I have no control over my physicality around him at all. Even with just the tips of his fingers touching me, barely a breath of pressure. 

He slowly pushes my legs apart. I don't resist. My dress is pulled up almost over my knickers, so the edges are on display, now almost see through given how wet my pussy is.

“Oh poor baby, so needy.” 

That almost teasing laugh. 

Knowing what effect this has on me, knowing there's nothing I can do about it. He slides my knickers to the side, I don't move, concentrating on daisy chains, trying not to give in just yet... I'm worried I won't be able to stop. In the middle of the heath. With hundreds of people somewhere... anywhere right? I'm bright red and nervous and also soaking and desperate. 

When he slides two fingers inside me, slowly feeling every inch of me, pressure just where he knows I can't resist it, I groan. It shocks me how well he knows my body, how he’s committed every hidden depth of me to memory. He traces the edges of me, spreading me wider, my wetness changing to cream with each stroke, my clit swollen now. Please…

I look down, the daisy chains torn to shreds, while he’s brought me almost to the edge, my hips arching wanting more of him inside me... but instead he stops. Pulls my underwear back in place, and rolls me to my back.

“Open, baby.”

I do, and he makes me lick his fingers clean. 

“So juicy, both ends .... we are going to have to do something about that.”

I sit up, heat rising to my face again, the effect of his light scolding. I adjust my hair and the straps of my dress still sticking to me, the sweat, heat, humidity, the seams of my knickers slightly cutting into my skin. The slick of my wetness on my face. Dust off the discarded petals and grass stains. 

“Go and clean yourself up.”

There's a cafe a short walk down the hill. I untie my hair and draw my fingers through it in a bid to make myself presentable. The hair slick against the back of my neck, and my fingers still sticky with cherries and bruised daisies. Rearrange it in a loose bun. Slowly bring myself to standing. Check I can walk. He smirks the whole time, his nose back in the book, rolling a cigarette. 

The bathroom is cool. I run the cold water tap and rest my head on the tiles, listen to the blood rushing in my head, let it calm to less of a roar. My cheeks are red from the sun and as much as I've tried to make my hair look presentable I've failed. I splash cold water on my face. Hope it will bring the heat in my body down a notch. No such luck. I go into one of the stalls. Hitch up my dress, pull down my knickers, which are a ruined mess. I'm stepping out of them when I hear the bathroom door open, and then lock. I freeze. The footsteps are, of course, familiar. He swings open the stall. I am wide-eyed. And confused, almost ashamed being caught like this, and immediately turned on. All at once. He puts his finger to his lips. 

“I've put an out of order sign on the door, we have... maybe...10 minutes before we are found out.”

He beckons me out of the stall, starts to unzip his trousers, and I can see just how hard he is and it's an instant kick deep inside my cunt. Urgent.  

I trip out of my knickers, twist them around my wrist while he pushes me against the tiles. Too cold at first on my bare skin where my dress has been pulled up. He turns the faucets on to drown out any sound, plus a hand on my mouth. The lazy, almost haphazard touch from before now replaced with a hard determination. I can feel his cock pushing against me before he pulls the sheer cotton of my dress aside. Spits on his hand, although he realizes as he pushes his fingers into me, there was no need, I'm dripping down my thighs for him already. He moves his hand to my nipple, pulls hard, so I cry out and twist as he pushes his cock into me— 

“Bad fucking girl for making me fuck you here.”

He pulls me over the basin then. Dunks my head in the water. My mascara running, my lipstick ruined. Every freckle on my skin visible through my dress. He lifts my head so I can see, my pupils wide, my skin flushed red, him behind me, his cock deep in my cunt. Slick with my need for him 

“Do you see? See how fucking beautiful this is?”

He bends me over again, runs his fingers between my legs, teasing my clit, the relief and need of him. The building tension as he slides his cock into me again. Hard and slow. And deep, pulling all the way out, and pushing in again. I don't realize I’m groaning until he silences me with his hand. 

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” 

I watch him, in the mirror, my hands up against the glass, taking me, every single inch of me, the pressure starting to build, the thrill of where we are. My almost burned skin, his hand over my mouth, the cool of the mirror, the weight against me everytime he pushes into me. Deeper and harder. I think of that peach, his thumbs opening it up, his teeth. I bite down on his hand, uncoiling. 

He pulls my dress up as high as it can go then, as he thrusts so hard into me I think we might take the basin off the wall...and then he cums, hot and hard, deep.

His breath on my skin.

His voice in my ear. 

I am undone. 

“Now.

Clean yourself up.

Properly."

I'm about to take the sign down.”

The door closes and I can still feel his cum dripping down my legs, my thighs sticky and hot. 

I run the tap. Fix my hair. Wash my face. Run my fingers between my legs, that ache, my swollen clit, his seed. I untwist my knickers from around my wrist, clean myself up before tossing them in the bin. Let the door swing wide as I make my way back up to meet him. 

The light is lower now. Late summer. The suggestion of cooler evenings just out of reach. He takes my hand, bundles me close, kisses my cheeks. 

“There she is.”

I smile, adjust my dress, lean into the size of him, as we begin the journey home. 

Photo by Anastasia Latunova