We are supposed to meet in the park, for our first date. You arrive, and find me feeding the park’s ducks and geese. We greet one another, and I hand you some bread to break up and toss to the ravenous birds. It is late spring, so there are several hens with ducklings and gosling in lines trailing behind them. We are having a good, fun time tossing the bread, trying to make sure the bullies get less, and the runts a more generous share. Suddenly, the sky cracks, and fierce lightening and thunder startles us. The heavy rains quickly follow, and we shriek or gasp with the sudden cold and wetness. I grab the picnic basket I prepared, take your hand, and we run for cover. The closest cover is the tree line, 50 yards or so away. You are stumbling a little, trying to pull your light jacket up over your head, and I can’t but help laugh at the embarrassing surprise of being caught out like this, so unprepared and with no back-up plan in mind. We must be quite the sight, splashing and laughing and squealing and stumbling hand-in-hand across the open grass.
Actually, you are quite the sight, but I cannot do much more than admire your good spiritedness about this predicament. Your physical attributes are probably readily apparent, to the more casual observer. We reach the tree line, and relative cover from the drenching downpour. We are gasping and laughing, wheezing a bit perhaps from the unexpected exertion. I suggest plunging a little further into the woods, for if nothing else, it is in the general direction of more likely cover or businesses. The rain seems to be coming harder, though the tree cover makes the sound of the raindrops louder, as the drops are falling more sporadically from the overhanging trees. The lightening and thunder continue to crash intermittently, but with increasing frequency, as the storm seems to be coming closer.
Through the growing mist from the warm ground, I spot our salvation. A gazebo! Here, deep and seemingly deserted, with no paths leading to it. Forgotten perhaps by park planners. I turn towards it, leading you to it sanctuary. We find it dry and well covered, a concrete pad of about 15′ in diameter, and benches ringing the inside with two gaps for entrances on opposing sides. We stand there, facing each other, water dripping from our hair, fingertips and running down our legs. Soaked to bone, so it seems.
At this point, I can’t help but note, to my delight, the effect the water has had on your clothing, and they way it is formed to your skin. Wow. Hope I am not gaping too much. You look like you could laugh, or cry at this point. I quickly hand you the jacket I had carried in my free hand, assuming that the fact it was bunched in my hand might have kept some parts of it dry, and that you might want to cover up, or need to warm up.
The storm continues unabated overhead, but the warmth of the spring day causes a mist to start from the ground below and surrounding us. As I hand you the jacket, I ask if you are cold. You admit to needing some warming, so I suggest that, if you don’t mind my boldness, that we could warm each other up in an embrace. “That would be a really good idea,” you reply. I take you in my arms, standing close, and you press your wet forehead up under my chin. You reassure me you do not feel threatened or compromised by murmuring, “You were a Boy Scout, right? Always prepared with the right ideas.”
I feel you are still shivering a bit, so rub your back and arms, and then break away for a second, remembering that I have a tablecloth/blanket in the picnic basket. I unfold it, and wrap it around you, and then press my advantage (I hope) by taking you in my arms again, to warm you. “A Boy Scout particularly plans for the day when he can help a beautiful woman in distress,” I quip. Feeling somewhat comfortable with you here, in total seclusion (who is going to come here for us!) I continue, “I have always had private thoughts about women in water…good thing I am getting to judge you this early on in such a state.” I hope you will laugh….
“Hey Boy Scout, any chance you have any dry clothes in that basket too?” you ask. “Noooo,” is all I can muster verbally.
Quickly though, I respond that my t-shirt is still probably quite dry, and might provide some warmth or cover for you. Without any hesitation, I unbutton my shirt, toss it aside to a bench, and shuck my t-shirt over my head. I hand it to you, telling you it was clean 30 minutes ago, and suggest it as a cover.
“A lot can happen in just 30 minutes,” you slyly reply as you take it from my proffered hand. Again, a crack of thunder and corresponding flash of light startle us. The rain continues to pour, the sheets coming off the roof of the gazebo creating our own shower curtain, of sorts.
You turn, and using the blanket as a cover, shuck your own wet blouse, tossing it in the direction of mine. I turn sideways, trying to send you signals that I can be gentlemanly, but curious and eyes careening out of the side of my head. You surprise me by also flipping your bra, saying out loud, “this won’t do me much good as wet as it is either…”
Then, you turn to me, pulling the blanket over your shoulders like a cloak, and ask, “which is better, shirt on or shirt off?” I realize I too am standing there still bare-chested, and mouth suddenly agape, throat dry, and vocal cords out of commission.
To save me, and to fill the awkward silence, you gracefully follow with, “don’t boy scouts teach you that warmth is better made skin to skin?” “Absolutely,” I croak. I am transfixed by your skin. All that I can see. Glowing, a wet sheen covering you, but what stands out, of course, is a magnificent pair of full breasts, seemingly defying gravity, and more so, as you raise your arms to accentuate them, the blanket forming a kind of curtain behind you. The cleavage is deep, and immediately I feel a little dizzy – must be the blood rushing from one head to another…
“You are so right,” I say, moving to hold you close, to press your breasts to my chest, to warm your back with my flushed hands – just to be close to you now!
You moan audibly as we come together in an embrace. I can’t help but respond in kind. My hands touch your back under the blanket, feeling the soft, warm and silky skin there. Your hands come up under my arms, and I am thrilled with the play of your graceful fingers across my back as you press yourself firmly against me.
I am a little embarrassed, as I am so aroused and excited, and afraid you will discover that hard to conceal fact being so close…
“Hold me, Chase, really hold me,” you whisper. I can’t but help the excitement surging through me. I drop my hands to cup and hold your sweet derierre, pressing you to me. “Is that better?” I sheepishly ask, wondering how far this might go….
“Better,” you whisper, “but don’t be shy, please.”
Write me; tell me if this is plausible, and how we can continue this odyssey of exploration?