RIVER ENCOUNTER
Maggie McGee
April, 2000
Note: This is the same as "Woman in Control - Recently Retired." Only
the title has changed.
She was not a woman. Yet her life had been full, rich with adventure
and challenges. She had hiked steep mountain trails to quiet mysteries; she
had explored the heat of deserts and walked beside the pounding surf. She
was comfortable in the airports of the world: Europe, the Americas. She had
reached the pinnacle of her career through dauntless hard work, and often at
the expense of personal relationships. And now she was tired.
Three years it had been since she walked out of the rat race---just walked
away, saying one day, "I've had it. Enough of this. The rest of my life is
for me." And she had cleaned out her desk, given a cocky salute to the
security guard as she walked out the gate, loaded the cardboard box filled
with her past into the trunk of her car, and driven straight into the
mountains with no stops on the way. It did not take her long to find the
place she wanted to live for the rest of that life. A tiny town, fewer than
three thousand people, high on a bluff above a whitewater river, where she
had gone rafting years ago. Of course she had had to go back to settle
things, sell her condo and the furniture, explain to her now former
employer. She had seen a big, rambling 100-year-old house for sale. She
bought it that first day.
What had begun with an exciting spontaneity turned slowly into three years
of loneliness and regret. Though the mountains and the river and the deep,
high forests were so beautiful they took one's breath away, the big house
was empty and silent. The people in the town, many of whom had lived there
for generations, did not take kindly to newcomers. She devoured books; she
listened to music; she got a cat. She walked for hours along the narrow road
above the river. And now, with so much time for introspection, she became
aware---and surprisingly---of her repressed sexuality. In all those past
years, there had been occasional lovers; but she had found that love is
time-consuming and distracting. It had been easier to satisfy those urges
with her own finger against her clitoris. Often, months would go by without
feeling a need. Now, she ached with need constantly. Still, at her age and
in this isolated place, partners were rare. She knew about pleasuring
herself.
Like everything she had ever done in her life, she approached masturbation
methodically, testing and weighing the options. She rummaged through the
house for things to insert into her wetness: produce from the market in
every shape and size; long silken scarves stuffed to fullness, then drawn
out slowly across her clitoris to sweet orgasm; the great knobby ends of an
antique oaken coathanger stretching her with its strength and its size; the
cat's rough tongue. Vibrators and dildos and beads from a catalog came
through the post in plain brown wrappers. Each day, she placed a low stool
on the Turkish rug in front of the full-length mirror in the spare bedroom.
Two high windows in this room framed the mountains coming straight down to
the river's edge. A giant holly tree, brushing against a third window, gave
her the sensation of being high in a treehouse. It was almost magical here.
She seated herself on the stool and watched her reflection.
She wore gauzy underthings, removing them slowly, one by one. Her unclothed
body always startled her at first---full hips, her belly softly rounded, the
nipples of her dark, prominent. She pinched their hardness to feel
the pain. Her legs were long, muscular---nice legs, she thought. She painted
her toenails bright red. It was her single vanity. Her skin was good, no
wrinkles yet; nose and ears small, almost delicate; neck long; back and
shoulders straight; hair on her head cropped and dark, pubic hair fine and
silky.
She cupped her hands, poured lavender-scented oil into the palm, and began
the ritual of anointing every part of her naked body, stroking with long
hard strokes until her skin glistened. She fantasized a lover with no face,
a lover with no body, only hands---strong, commanding, knowledgeable
hands---taking control. She pulled her stool closer to the mirror and spread
her legs, to see even more intimately the lips of her vulva swollen and
engorged with blood. The drops of her wetness on the soft pubic hairs
reflected the afternoon sun. She began stroking the labia, pinching it,
pulling it, then plunged two fingers into the cavity of her vagina, then
three, finally forcing four inside, finger flaying and twisting. She could
see in the mirror that the clitoris had burst from its hood, luminescent and
erect. She felt herself reaching the edge and she moaned softly. She reached
to the clitoris with her other hand and rolled its hardened bud between
index finger and thumb unrelentingly, until the fire inside her burst and
the moans became a scream of release. She kicked the stool aside and lay
curled on the rug for long minutes, lungs heaving, sweat mixed with lavender
oil, fingers still tight between her legs. She did this every day.
The obsession with sex gave her a new sense of power. She had always been in
control: of her life, of her career, often the working lives of others. Now
she was in control of her own sexuality---its frequency, its intensity. Yet
something was missing and she was confused. She needed to be in control; it
was her lifelong pattern. But at the same time, she ached to give up that
control to someone else---anyone else. Each day, bit by bit, the
masturbation became more frustrating, less fulfilling.
She relieved the physical and emotional tension by walking more and more,
letting her leg muscles pull her up and down the steepness of the mountain
road above the river. She rarely encountered anyone else walking, a car
passing only now and then. She liked the hot days of late spring. It felt
good to sweat hard. Her senses were remarkably acute as she walked; the
sound of the rapids below excited her with the memory of the danger always
possible when rafting. She could see the outline of every new fresh spring
leaf on the trees; she smelled the earthy, moldering smell of last autumn's
leaves and the lighter fragrance of unidentified wildflowers. She felt a
great need to get closer to the water.
She left the road. There was no path, but trampled undergrowth and an
occasional broken branch suggested that others had come this way before.
"Damn," she said, as a wayward hawthorn branch tore at her leg. "This
probably was not such a good idea."
She half slid, half climbed down the steep incline, coming out onto a narrow
rocky shoreline next to the water. She stood for a moment, catching her
breath. The breeze from the river chilled her uncovered arms. She was
wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, and the exertion and the excitement of the
climb had left her aroused. She was aware of her nipples stimulated to half
erection under the thin cotton fabric.
A great boulder perhaps eight feet high and easily as wide rested at the
water's edge, having crashed down in a landslide eons ago. A narrow trail
seemed to go around it and she took a few tentative steps. As she rounded
the huge rock, she was suddenly startled to see a fisherman, knee-deep in
the water. He was a large man, weathered face, hazel eyes, salt and pepper
mustache. He was not young, early fifties maybe, or older. He wore a beat-up
New York Yankee's ball cap over hair that was turning gray. His bulky
fishing vest hung loosely over his shoulders.
He held a flyrod in his left hand, and with the other hand he motioned for
her not to speak. She watched silently as he cast the line into a stand of
rushes along the shore. And then she noticed his hands. They were huge,
powerful. Yet the fingers were long and graceful, balancing almost
delicately the play of rod and line. The motion was beautiful, like a dance,
she thought. She stood, mesmerized.
He laughed, then, as he pulled in the line, an easy, husky laugh.
"Still cold from the melting snow. It'll warm up in the next month or so."
He waded to shore and lay the flyrod on the rocks. He was wet to the waist.
She saw his eyes fix on the rising and falling of her chest. She couldn't
get her breath, though it had been some minutes since she had made the climb
down from the road. He was staring now at the outline of her erect nipples
pressing hard against the light shirt. She reluctantly admitted to herself
that she felt some little fear. What surprised her was her growing arousal,
contractions of electricity in her groin and rising to her throat.
He spoke again. "Out for a healthy river stroll?" He continued to stare, and
waited for her reply.
"I walk frequently." Her voice sounded stiff and formal, tight.
"Alone?"
Again that flash of fear. "Yes, frequently---almost every day."
She wondered why she had told him that, this man, this stranger. She began to feel out of control. The tumult inside her was unlike anything she knew. Was she actually desiring this man?
He pulled off his boots.
"Man, that water is cold. Got to get out of these
wet pants. I've got a dry pair in my pack."
She watched the long fingers of his left hand unzip his pants; and she still
did not move as he stepped out of them and kicked them out of the way. His
penis was flaccid, and his skin looked cold in spite of the warmth of the
sun. He shivered, and then he laughed.
"Doesn't do much for my manhood, I'm afraid."
The laugh broke the tension and she laughed, too. Suddenly, it seemed
normal, casual, perfectly all right to be standing here in the middle of
nowhere talking to a half-nude stranger.
"Do you fish here often?"
"No, first time in this section of the river. I usually fish the slower
stretches about 20 miles downstream."
"More exciting, fishing in the rapids?" She was aware of the double entendre
in her question.
He nodded. He continued to stare into her eyes. She realized it did not make her feel uncomfortable. She liked what his eyes were doing to her. She knew what her eyes were saying to him. He had not made a move toward his pack for a change of clothes.
"Tell me," he said quite suddenly. "What is the most outrageous thing you
have ever done in your life?"
"What?" The question took her by surprise. "It's been a long life, and I
suppose I've done a lot of outrageous things--at least other people might
have thought they were outrageous. You'll have to narrow the field down
some."
Then she laughed, but it was not an easy laugh.
Now the stranger was grinning, challenging her.
"All right. That's easy enough to do. What is the most outrageous thing you have ever done sexually?"
She had known from the start that was what he had meant. She hesitated, but
for some reason felt strongly compelled to share the most secret things of
her life with him.
"That's a little personal, don't you think, since we saw each other for the
first time, what, five minutes ago?"
"Tell me, I want to know."
It seemed almost as if she had no choice, as if she had suddenly entered a
confessional. So, she began to tell him about the daily ritual in the room
next to the holly tree. She laughed nervously as she talked, trying to pass
it off as a joke, but her voice grew deep and husky with lust. She left out
no detail. He watched her mouth as it said the words; he watched her eyes.
She knew he was undressing her with his mind and she stood naked before him.
He spoke quickly.
"Ever want to make love to a complete stranger? Someone
safe? Someone who would give you exactly what you wanted, the way you wanted
it? Someone you would never see again?"
Her mind raced, trying to sort out the intelligent, rational thoughts from
the physical turbulence. She felt more and more out of control. This
terrified her. Her heart was pounding rapidly and she couldn't get her
breath.
"My god," she thought. "Do I want this stranger that badly? Want him now?"
She knew the answer.
He went on stowing his gear into his pack. Then he stood and turned, a half
smile on his face.
"Think about this," he said as he rubbed his cock. "You
can have my cock just this once. You can only have it right here, right now.
I gotta leave soon, and I won't return."
She watched as he picked up the flyrod from the rocks where he had laid it.
She watched him begin to dismantle it. She watched him step across the rocks
toward his pack. And she spoke, her voice scarcely a whisper:
"I would never see you again, you say? And you would give me exactly what I
wanted? And you would never return?"
He didn't answer immediately, remained bent over above his tackle box and
his pack. She wanted to reach out and touch the long muscles of his legs and
the hard, tight muscles of his ass. Suddenly, she felt back in control.
Caution no longer played a part. She could do this on her terms.
"All right," she said. "I'll accept your proposal. And remember your
promise."
"What promise?" He remained turned away from her.
"To give me exactly what I want, the way I want it. Will you do that?"
He stood slowly and nodded, taking off his heavy vest and laying it beside
the pack. Still in jeans and T-shirt, she sank to her knees on the rocks in
front of him. Though it was only in half-erection, his cock seemed huge,
hanging heavily down in front of him. She reached for it with her right
hand, letting it lay in her palm. It was cold. Her left hand moved for his
contracted testicles, cupping them in the warmth of her hand. They were
tight, compacted, and cold too from his recent trek in the cold water. She
watched, fascinated, as his cock grew slowly in her right hand. The glans of
his penis took in more blood, swelling it much larger than the still flaccid
shaft. She touched the pulsing, hardening veins with a tentative finger,
startled at how quickly the color rose and changed. And she realized,
suddenly and surely, that it was this, this man-tool, this penis, that was
missing from her ministrations there in that secret room at the top of the
house. She shifted her right hand so its palm was against his pubic hair,
her index finger and thumb grasping his cock at the base. She squeezed and
watched the cock come to life. She released her grip, then squeezed again.
More blood entered the cock, and it continued to grow in her hand. All of
her fingers now rested over it, with her thumb curled underneath. She
squeezed it once more and pointed the now fully erect cock directly towards
her. She leaned forward.
She had a maddening desire to lick this amazing living, growing thing, so
close it now was to her face. Her mouth was half-open and she ran her tongue
slowly around her own dry lips, wetting them. She reached out her tongue,
then, and probed the tiny opening in its head, wet with beads of moisture.
The round smoothness of the glans slipped so easily between her lips. She
fought the urge to devour it. She willed herself to explore it with tongue
and lips and teeth. Its textures, the smoothness, the roughness, each
crevice and tiny sensitive spot that made him moan with approval. She felt
the shaft get hot and stiff in her mouth. Her lips played with it, pressing
the helmet lightly, then extending her tongue outward, down along the shaft
toward where her thumb and finger still rested. Then tracing her tongue back
the full length of his cock, flicking from side to side, rapidly then
slowly, teasing. She altered the pressure of her lips again and again,
intensifying the suction. She inhaled deeply the pungent odor of his
crotch--sweat and lust and the smell of the river. She was intoxicated. He
ground his hips into her face and shuddered.
But this was to be on her terms. There were more---other things---she
wanted. She pulled back, then, and said quietly,
"I want your hands on my body."
As if he were reading her mind, he reached down and pulled her to her
feet before him. In one quick motion, he pulled the T-shirt up over her
head, raising her arms straight, then ran his great hands slowly down each
arm from wrist to shoulder, across her underarms and along the sides of her
breasts. He reached under the waist of her jeans and slipped them down her
legs and off her feet. His hands then reversed their direction, inching
upward past knees and inner thighs, long fingers lingering in the crack
between thigh and belly, then over hipbone and up her back. Cupping her
rounded asscheeks with those massive hands, he pulled her body up against
his hardness, and she gasped.
All around them was rock and water. Brambles in the undergrowth. The sound
of the rapids was loud in their ears; the air with the earthy smell of
decaying wood from fallen trees. On the river side of the giant boulder that
had first obscured her sight of him was an indentation, a narrow stone
bench, warmed now by the heat of the noon sun. He pushed her toward it and
lay her out upon it on her back, head hanging over the edge, arm dangling so
close to the water her fingers could touch it, her legs splayed out to hold
her balance. He knelt on the rocks beside her.
He touched every part of her body with the tips of his long fingers. He
brushed them, finally, like whispers, across her breasts, circling her
nipples, blowing on them with his breath. His great hands, then, strong as
steel and commanding, encompassed both breasts, binding them hard until she
felt pain mixing with the intensity of pleasure soaring through her body. He
forced her hardened nipples out through his fingers and held them taut and
rigid away from her breasts. He bent and licked each nipple in turn, first
slowly and gently, then faster, rougher. Her body arched up to him. Without
warning, his teeth bit down on the right nipple, hard. She screamed
involuntarily.
He stood and stepped back from her, but his eyes did not leave hers. She did
not move from the stone bench. Together, they remained there for perhaps a
minute, not speaking, their only connection what their eyes were saying to
each other.
"We are not through here yet, are we?" she said finally--quietly, calmly.
"No," he answered. "We are not through yet. There is more. But you must tell
me what you want. That is the bargain. Do you not want me to you?"
She did not answer immediately. She had not moved from the shelf of stone on
which she lay. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, and said softly, "I
want your hands to me."
He turned her over so that her and belly rubbed against the hard
stone. He kneaded the muscles of her neck and shoulders with his
knowledgeable hands. He moved his fingers slowly down her back, coming to
rest above her anal opening. He teased the sphincter; he probed lightly into
its entrance until all her tenseness was gone, until she relaxed and was
purring, now, like a cat. In an unexpected flash of movement, he raised his
hand high and brought his open palm down onto her ass with swift sharp
force. She gasped a sharp intake of air, tears welled up in her eyes, she
doubled her fists from the pain, but she did not cry out. It was as if in
that moment of eye contact, they had established a pact between them. She
whispered:
"Again."
He slapped her over and over and over again until both cheeks were fire hot.
She was sobbing uncontrollably now, writhing on the rough stone scraping the
skin from her breasts. Spasms of orgasm twisted her body; tremors of intense
pleasure ran down her legs; blood pounded in her clitoris. He reached his
hands into the icy water of the river, then stroked the coolness onto the
heat that burned her. He did this over and over; she was awed by his
gentleness. He then turned her over, drew her ass over the edge of the rock
ledge toward him, lifted her legs to his shoulders, knelt between them, bent
his head, and drank. And drank.
Her body continued to shudder with intensity as he the head of
her clitoris, playing with this miniature penis, teasing the swollen head of
it as she had teased his cock. Her legs clenched his head with vise-like
strength as she orgasmed. He knew he could not hold in his own need much
longer. He had come to the edge many times and retreated. He could retreat
no longer.
"Now," he said.
She understood. "Come into me." It was as simple as that.
She stood then, facing the wall of the giant boulder, bracing her exhausted
body against it with outstretched palms. He moved close behind her, curling
his big right hand lightly around her throat. Again, there was the flash of
fear, but she knew it did not matter. She glanced back to see him spin the
ball cap around on his head, placing the bill directly to the back, like a
workman starting out on the job. She laughed at that, but the laughter did
not break the tension. Her respiration quickened in anticipation.
He leaned into her and roughly engulfed her left nipple with his left hand,
sending shockwaves again shooting through her orgasm-wracked body. His right hand worked between her legs and she closed her eyes in total surrender. With
those long fingers inside her sopping orifice, pressing hard into her, he
lifted her hips higher and toward him for better entry. She could feel the
head of his cock take the place of his fingers. With his left hand, he
reached across her chest, taking hold of her right nipple, pulling her body
close onto his. Simultaneous with his first great thrust, he pulled and
twisted on the nipple cruelly, at the same time letting out a deep cry. The pain and the pleasure swirling through her were now
indistinguishable. His heavy chest lay upon her back as he stroked in and
out of her, pinning her roughly against the rock. As his intensity grew, he
grabbed her forearms just above the wrist and pulled them down to her sides,
squeezing them hard as he slammed his hard hot cock into her over and over.
Her burning face slid against the rock, feeling its coolness against her
fever.
He leaned back slightly to change the angle of thrust and continued to
stroke unrelentingly. She knew her body was exhausted, but she did not want
it to stop. She heard him reaching the edge, low rumblings in his throat
mounting to chest-deep growls. The tremors of still another orgasm were
beginning to fill her. Together at one moment, they both shouted in loud
animal voices, unintelligible words, high and wild, and he exploded inside
her.
As his orgasm subsided, his grip loosened and he released her arms. She felt
his spent cock slide out from her. No longer supported, she turned to face
him and slid down the rock wall, squatting on her heels. He stood over her,
slowly stroking his shrinking cock. Unconsciously, she caressed her
clitoris.
And then they both started to laugh--easy, rolling, releasing laughter. He
helped her to her feet, grinning. She waded into the river just past her
knees. She lowered her and burning ass into the healing coolness of the
water, and with her fingers rinsed herself clean of him. He was already
dressed when she came out of the water. He stood at a distance, watching her
silently as she found her clothes and put them on.
"You said you were never coming back." She spoke quickly. "Can we change the
bargain?"
He did not answer.
Her voice was quiet, reasonable. "It would be a shame to find a really good fishing hole, and not return. Surely you have to weigh the value of the catch."
He was thoughtful. And then he spoke.
"An honest fisherman never goes back on a bargain. And it's important to remember that when a fisherman starts out in the morning, he
never knows what he will catch--or if he will catch anything at all.
It doesn't really matter, because the joy is in the grace of the sport."
He smiled as he gathered his pack and his gear, then turned and climbed to the road.
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