“Baise-moi” you groan “Baise-moi!” and the woodsman extends a powerful arm to reach around you, across your chest, his firm hand wrapping around your shoulder, pulling you tighter to his heavy set chest.
Equally assuredly his hefty forearm brushes your waist as his work worn hand reaches down and firmly grasps the top of your thigh, his fingers spreading wider, the pressure firm and testing the musculature of your beautiful limb, pressing the surfaces of your body against his,
You feel the strength in the outline of his chest, waist and thighs; this powerful, working man, his right hand releasing from your shoulder and reaching around your throat, guiding your head upward toward the dimming sunlight.
There’s such beauty in the softening evening light, the fading of the day sinking into the tree tops, as his hand slides slowly across your taught and tender thigh, working inside the loose white cotton of your dress, his unhurried touch, coveting your open crotch, inviting you to ease your gentle weight into the assurance of these work worn hands.
Deftly his strength and posture holds you, leaving you free to soften and melt from within, his firm physique preventing your supple body from falling to the forest floor like a freshly felled sapling.
Rather, your woodsman gently allows the ground to receive your slender weight, lowering you to the soft earth beneath your feet. Your naked knees pressing gently down into the warm soil, while the axe worn hands that support you, never yield.
Spreading out with your arms, placing your elbows, wrists and hands, stretching forward, poised and balanced; his fingers slip away from around your throat and curl into the loose, thick, dark, shiny hair, that coils down your back and between your shoulders, his grip gaining strength, gently closing to a tight fist, easing your head back.
On all fours and facing the setting sun: “Je veux ta bite” you groan aloud, your voice graveled with a growing impatience…
“I vous voulez aussi” affirms the woodsman, his voice equally resonant, hardened with wild want and rough desire. His thick shaft pressing you, as you free your hand to reach around and eagerly tug him closer to you.
Aching, groaning, you slowly beg your sex to open and receive all of him, pushing your hips back, feeling his fist tighten in your hair, reigning you in, giving you every, slow, hard inch of his cock, until his hips are pressing firm against your behind, and he’s all the way against you.
From deep inside you follow every inch of his movement, feel him slowly filling you, the tight of you stretching, soaked, aching to soften, wanting his hardness to come alive with the wild hunger.
Your hands claw at the soil, as his fingers dig into the meat of your hip, his other hand, a fist in your mane, you dip, stretch and arch your body, desperate to accommodate more of him, to feel the long, full stroke of his cock reaching and brushing the tender of your organs, pressing you to the edge.
Gasping, with his cock gripped so deep and tight, you struggle to give up any more of your beautifully tight body. The trees sway, breathing in your every gasp and pushing out their lush, organic air.
And you swallow deep, aching for the harmony of your cunt and clit to sing, and begging for the tingling to tighten and tourniquet, to ride inside and feel the good hard fucking of a man that leaves you wild and breathless.
His cock, so hard and tight, his stroke quickening, pushing faster against you, his muscles tremoring, trembling with wanting. He’s so close to coming. Too close, too soon. And quickly you push your hand back against his thigh, breathlessly begging to calm him:
“Lentement! Doucement! Ne venez pas, mon amour!” you beg him. Coaxing him to yield, to hear you and to listen. And obediently, he obeys, without question, for he is indeed your lover, and your woodsman.