Picnic

The simple text message ‘Picnic. 2pm?’ had been a pleasant surprise, especially since you hadn’t even known he was in town. You sent back a quick acceptance, then told your office you were headed out to meet a client and made your escape. After stopping at home to shower and change, you stopped in at the deli, picking up the necessities of a picnic then driving out to the woods, walking in the last half mile or so when the trail narrowed too much for your car. The scarred old picnic table still stood in the secluded clearing, forgotten by everyone except the two of you.

By the time you’d set out the picnic, it was still not quite two o’clock, and you strolled to the outlook point, enjoying the view until you heard the distinctive throb of a motorcycle. And there was only one motorcycle that sounded like that. You return to the clearing and he’s there, blond and handsome as ever, the layer of scruff on his face evidence that it’s been at least a couple of days since he’s bothered to drag a razor across his face, and you wonder if it was deliberate, since he knows you love seeing him that way.

“You brought the bike.” You say softly, stroking your hand across the shining chrome surrounding the headlamp.

“Yeah.” That sparkling, famous grin. “It’s been so long – I’d forgotten how much fucking fun this thing was.”

Now that you’ve torn your eyes off his face, you realize he has a strap wrapping diagonally across his body, and when you look behind him you see a soft guitar case, the neck of the instrument tucked down behind his thigh.

“You brought your guitar? Damn – that’s really not what I was hoping you’d play with.” You pretend bitterness, and he laughs, a low, growling chuckle that puts a knot of tension in your belly and a rush of heat between your thighs.

“That’s for afterward.” He grins. “Or between-times.”

“Well, why don’t you get off your bike and come eat?”

He swings a leg high over the front of the bike, sitting facing you on the leather seat as he unslings the guitar.

“Why don’t I get off the bike and we can both cum, then eat? That way I can enjoy lunch without a hard on.”

“That works, too.” You murmur as he props the guitar against the Harley and slides off the seat, standing long and lean in front of you. Long, lean and already hard, you notice, glancing down the front of his body. He catches the direction of your gaze and reaches for you, grabbing you roughly and pulling you toward him for a kiss.

“Been too fuckin’ long.” He growls as your body slams against his, the thick stubble rough on your face as his mouth closes on yours.

This is the only good thing about the infrequency of your encounters, the desperate need you both feel, a hunger that transcends simple lust and drives the passion high. He only comes to you when he’s travelled alone to see his parents, leaving his wife and kids back home, yet neither of you feel guilt as you share the simple, uncomplicated pleasure of each other.

Without preliminary, he grips the hem of your cotton skirt, flipping it high enough to get his hands on your ass, one palm wrapping firmly around each buttock. He groans as he jams you against him, letting you feel the rock hard erection he has for you. He’s backing you up, across the clearing until you wince at the roughness of the old table against your bare ass. Pushing you onto the tabletop – narrowly missing the food you’ve already laid out – he leans forward over you with a predatory grin, standing between your thighs.

“I’ve got you now.” He grins, sliding his hands under your top, pushing it to your neck, the grin widening when he sees you’d decided not to bother with any underwear at all. “No panties AND no bra?”

“I figured it’d save time.” Your reply fades to a moan when his mouth closes around one taut nipple, his fingers teasing the other until your moans grow pitiful, broken words begging him to fuck you now.

From your position on the tabletop, you can’t move, your legs hanging off the edge, spread around his thighs. He takes his hand off your breast, then raises his head slowly, reluctant to lose the taste of you, but needing more. When he unzips his jeans, his cock forces through before he’s even dropped the denim to his knees, and you watch him slip on a condom then you can’t prevent a groan when he rams himself deep into you in a single powerful thrust. He pulls back and slams into you again, and this time you scream with the pleasure of it. Leaning down, he kisses you again, his lips and tongue stifling the sounds you can’t contain. His hands come onto your breasts, a rougher touch than before, evidence of how hungry he is for this, and you’re not far behind. Even now, though, in the grip of his lust, he’s conscious of not hurting you and he moves his hands away, gripping the edges of the table instead.

He’s hunching his back with every thrust, driving into you hard and fast, finally tearing his mouth from yours as you both struggle for breath, and you grab onto his hair – the first thing you see – as you start cumming. A grin flashes across his face as you arch your back, but the pulsing contractions of your orgasm pull him over the brink, too, and the grin vanishes as he grunts in satisfaction, and with a final hard thrust he collapses on top of you, breath sawing in his throat.

“Fuck me.” You whimper, and he raises his head from your chest, grinning tiredly with shocked blue eyes.

“I thought I just did.” He groans, and you both laugh, the humor and shared sense of the ridiculous one of the things that keeps him coming back to you.

As he slowly softens inside you, he eases back, taking his weight on his hands and slipping free of you, tossing the condom into the trash bag you always bring to your picnics before tucking himself away and pulling you into a sitting position on the table.

“So what’s for lunch?” He asks with a boyish grin.

You share the picnic, squabbling good-naturedly over the last piece of cold chicken until you compromise by tearing it into strips and feeding each other. When the food’s gone, you pack away the remaining trash and he looks around, only now seeming to realize you’ve no transport.

“How did you get up here?” He asks, confused.

“I parked at the bottom of the trail and walked.”

“Wanna ride back down?”

“Sure.” You grin wickedly. “But only if you ride ‘bitch’.”

He begins to refuse, then a grin spreads his lips again and he nods. Gleeful at the idea of getting your hands on the controls of the classic bike, you don’t take notice of his expression as you both cross to the big machine. He stuffs the trash into one of the panniers, then takes your hand, steadying you as you swing a leg over the saddle in a decidedly unladylike manner. The move rucks your skirt up, landing your bare butt on the sun-warmed leather, but before you can adjust it, he slides onto the bike, jamming himself close behind you. You start the engine and he wraps both arms around your waist.

“Don’t wreck my bike.” He purrs in your ear, and you chuckle as you drive away.

Only moments later, though, the bike does take a sudden swerve to the side when one of his hands slides over your thigh, under the skirt and down to your clit. The other arm around your waist holds you prisoner as he drops his hand lower, your thighs spread wide by the bike’s tank so you can’t stop him. You let the bike coast to a gentle halt as he strokes you, building the fever in your blood before slowly pressing two fingers into you, pushing the heel of his hand against you now. Pushing yourself back against him, you feel the hard on fighting the constraint of his jeans, and you tilt yourself forward, rubbing your ass against the hard lump, teasing and inviting him. He groans against your neck when you do it again, but he holds back, determined to get you off first.

“Cum for me.” He whispers, tensing his hand against you, then moving again, two fingers still stroking inside your soaked pussy while the fingers of his other hand take over the assault on your clit until you’re moaning helplessly again, cumming hard, knowing your juices are drenching both his hands and the black leather seat. As you pant through your orgasm, he slides one hand away, and you hear the rasp of his zipper and feel the heat of his cock against your ass as he yanks his jeans open. He pushes you forward, onto the swell of the gas tank, the air cool on your naked butt, and you hear the tiny sound of ripping foil before he grips you by the hips and lifts you, the strength in those muscled arms getting you even wetter, if that’s possible. With a tilt of his hips, he slides you onto his swollen cock, breath hissing through clenched teeth as he raises you again, sliding you onto him harder this time.

The bike sits low enough that he can get both feet flat on the ground, giving him the purchase to drive his pelvis against you, and you prop your feet on the footrests, letting him take full control over you as you grab onto the handlebars, gripping tight and pushing back against him. He cums inside you, but he’s not satisfied, still thrusting into you as one hand seeks out your clit again, deep between your thighs and driving you on until he feels you cumming, hears you screaming his name. Finally satisfied, he pulls himself out of your throbbing flesh before scooping you off the tank, gathering you into his arms until you’ve both recovered.

“We need to go back to the clearing.” He mumbles, when he can speak. “I forgot my guitar.”


He squeezes his arms around you again, dropping his head to kiss your shoulder, right where it begins the rise into your neck, then he shifts you forward on the seat so he can half-stand behind you, creating space to he can tuck himself back into his jeans, zipping up slowly. When he sits down again, he lightly caresses your back for a moment, and you just barely hear his contented sigh before he speaks.

“Want me to drive back up?” He asks, but you shake your head.

“You may be able to get me off easy, darlin’.” You chuckle. “But you’re not getting me off the bike that easily.”

Laughing, he slaps your bare thigh lightly. “Okay then, babe. Let’s go.”

You carefully manoeuvre the bike around until you’re facing back uphill, gently easing the throttle open, unable to prevent a gasp at the vibrations of the engine, exaggerated by the low speed and rough ground. Behind you, Jon chuckles again, knowing exactly why you gasped, but he leaves his hands just resting comfortably on your bare thighs until you reach the clearing again. The guitar - still in it’s soft case - is propped against the picnic table, and you bring the big bike right up to the table before stopping.

His arms come up around your waist as another sigh escapes him, a sadness there now.

“I don’t want to go back just yet.” He murmurs.

Hearing the change in him, you drop one hand back, onto his thigh, as you twist your head to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” You ask gently, and he sighs again, a twisted grin on his lips.

“Nothin’. I just……I just feel such a prick, treating you this way.” He sees your confused frown and tries to explain. “I feel like I’m just using you, whenever I’m here.”

“You’re not. I’m happy with this.” You smirk slightly, wondering if he’ll remember what you’re about to quote back at him. “Like a wise - and hot - man once said….I’m not looking for forever….not even looking for tonight…..just looking for a couple hours…..a couple minutes….”

He frowns for about a millisecond, then he gets it and laughs, nipping lightly at your ear.

“God, you’re crazy.” He chuckles. “And you make me feel so damned good.”

Stepping off the bike, he reaches to pick up his guitar, hesitates, then turns to kill the engine of the Harley.

“C’mere.” He holds out a hand to you. “Let me play you some of the stuff we’re working on for the new record.”

Obediently - eagerly - you slide off the bike and sit on the rough wooden bench as he unzips the guitar case and pulls out his old black acoustic, perching himself on the tabletop, feet on the bench as he grins down at you, his sadness evaporating as he starts to play. You know that the few songs he plays for you won’t sound the same way when they finally hit the shelves, but it just makes them more enjoyable, knowing this is how they were written - just a guy, or two of them, with an old acoustic guitar. The last one he plays rips at your heart as he sings of longing and loss, his eyes closed as he falls into the lyrics, but you don’t even realise you’re crying until he finishes and opens his eyes, looking at you and biting on his lip.

“Is it a good thing or a bad thing,” he asks, laying the guitar down, “that I’ve made you cry?”

“It’s a good thing.” You assure him. “That’s one of the most beautiful songs I think you’ve ever done, Jon.”

“Thank you, darlin’.” He says softly, sincerely.

He drops to sit on the bench beside you, straddling the boards and sliding close so you’re tucked between his thighs. Gentle touches of his fingers on your cheeks wipe away the tears before he folds you into his embrace. You lay your head onto his shoulder as you get as close as you can, your hip against his crotch, feeling the heat of his body. Even though his song had moved you to tears, it also turned you on from the longing and hunger in his voice, and you turn your head, bringing your lips onto his throat.

You kiss the side of his throat, the scruff on his skin prickling against your lips, and as you work your way up to his ear, you whisper to him.

“There’s one major problem, of course, with that last song.”

“What’s that?” He asks, curious, but also a tiny hint of irritation.

“Well.” You nip his ear, your tongue snaking inside for a second, making him groan, and you feel the build of pressure against your hip where it’s jammed against him. “The major problem is how I’m going to stop myself climbing onto the stage if I hear you do that live.”

“Climbing up to stop me?” He asks with a grin now, his hands roaming under your top.

“Nope. Climbing up to fuck you right there.”

One of his hands leaves your body to move up and grab your head instead, holding you as he kisses you hungrily, groaning into the kiss when he feels your hands on his jeans. You get his jeans open, then your fingers dip into his pocket, gratefully finding one last condom stashed there. With the foil packet in your hand, you put both hands on his shoulders and push him down on his back on the bench.

He just looks up at you, frowning when you lay the condom on the table, then grinning as you move back slightly so you can bend over him, trailing your tongue slowly along his length, then without further preamble taking him deep in your mouth. You raise your head again, pressing your tongue on him, sucking on the sensitive tip, then his hand is on your head as you sink deep again, taking it slowly and deliberately, hearing him groan softly, fingers tightening in your hair. He’s getting close when you back off, pushing his faded t-shirt up to kiss that hard belly. He doesn’t even try to make you finish what you’ve started, knowing how you feel about it, and you see him breathe deeply as he exerts control over himself, just grinning at you as you rip open the packet and slowly roll the condom onto his swollen cock.

With a swift movement, needing to get him into your wet, ready flesh, you move off the bench and straddle him quickly, his hands assisting you as you raise your skirt, holding him gently with one hand as you lower yourself onto him. You can’t keep from moaning as you settle all the way onto him, the unaccustomed position driving him incredibly deep. He feels it, too, gasping ‘Oh Jesus’ as he grips your ass hard, fighting to hold back.

Impatiently, you wait a moment until his grasp loosens, then you start a slow rocking on him, leaning forward with both hands spread on his chest, supporting yourself as you adjust your position to grind your clit against the coarse hair at the base of his cock, the position and slow movements driving you higher. His hands start to move you more, lifting you a little at the end of each roll of your hips, then pulling you down again, both of you working together to get each other off.

His hands are tightening on you again, and your own fingers are tensing on him, digging into his hard pecs as you bite back a moan.

“Kiss me.” He mutters, and you slide your hands from his broad chest, over his shoulders and down to grip the end of the bench as you lean forward to kiss him.

You don’t know now which of you is setting the pace as you move on him, harder and faster, his kiss confusing your thoughts as you feel yourself falling, the orgasm slamming into you hard until all you’re conscious of is the utter pleasure ripping through your body and mind. Nothing else matters, and the only thing you can hear over the pulse thundering in your ears is his groan, louder as you pull your mouth from his, gasping and whimpering as you ride it out. Finally, exhausted, you slump down on top of him, and Jon wordlessly coils his arms around you, pulling you against his chest as you both try to recover.