Late Summer; just before Fall equinox. His favorite time of the year. Leaves changing color. Air getting cooler. Dusk falling just as his homeward bicycle ride takes him through the forest. Dusk always appears unusually long during these two weeks. Long shadows and stray sun rays playing with the greenery; glimpses of wildlife from afar.
Much-needed solitude of the forest after a long day at the office. Time for self-reflection, meditation, enjoyment of nature... and to ogle that jiggling set of boobs.
Come again?
Full stop; just enough force on the front brake so the bike doesn't flip.
He turns around. Eyes confirm what he absent-mindedly observed from in front: what a delectable posterior in those anthracite leggings. That salmon hoodie, however... not exactly his cup of tea. But these luscious, thick thighs... What was that less pleasant detail again?
He pedals, catches up with her. Full stop using his rear brake in the curve, kicking up dust, blocking her way. Spectacular—or so he thinks. Although stopped, she keeps skipping on the spot. Questioning look.
“Nice shoes,” he grins. “Wanna fuck?” Always wanted to try this stale pick-up line.
She keeps skipping on the spot, rolls her eyes. “Piss off!”
“Too bad,” still sporting his smirk. “Hoped to tap that delicious ass.”
She chuckles, “I like men who talk turkey but my husband's waiting. With dinner. Can you cook?”
“So what?” he replies. “Fiancée's home too. Pregnant. Who will ever know? Just the two of us.”
She rolls her eyes again. “Filthy pig. Get lost!”
“C'mon!” he tries, bravado persistent. “Just a quickie. Five minutes, not even. He'll not even notice the delay. Can just say you took a short detour. Improving your cardio and stuff.”
Her expression changes. Irritated. “So what's in it for me, then? You'll never get me off in that time. Forget it. One last time, bozo: fuck off!”
“Really? You've never had a real man, then?” he presses on, testing his chutzpah.
“Hubby takes at least ten minutes. Been at it for seven years. Damn well knows what he's doing,” she tries to shoo him away. Adds, for emphasis, “Makes me cum hard. So hard I forget my own name for a good half-minute.”
“Ten minutes? What's taking him so long? He's never heard of the elusive clitoris or what? Bet you never allow him to come inside you,” he replies. Tries to read her expression: shame, anger, provocation but also confession. “Bet you'll beg me to fill you with my load in those five,” checks his watch, “Nah, four minutes? If you can still talk straight, that is.”
Her expression changes. Vexed to red-hot angry. She stops her skipping, steps to him. Takes his face by his chin, squeezes her fingers together so his lips form a fish pout.
“Shut it before I rip your dick off!” she snarls.
In response, he offers his best smile. Looks funny through his mistreated mouth. “Why don't you get a proper feel of it?” Takes her free hand, places it on the crotch of his skin-tight bicycle shorts. “And now gimme that kiss. You want it too. I can tell.”
Angered by his persistent self-confidence, his sheer audacity, she looks at him. He reads confusion in her eyes: growing lust mixed with rampaging rage. Too easy to fathom, clearly not used to direct confrontation. Easy prey.
His face still in her iron grip, he slides his hand into her hood. Pulls her by the neck; a peck on the lips. She's trembling. Tears in eyes. Fighting with lust. Just one fleeting kiss and yet...
“Impressive, isn't it? Still wanna go home and miss out on this? Not curious if I can keep a promise? The fuck of your life in, uh, three minutes now.”
Her eyes roaming over his entire face, seeking something to hold on to. He hears her heavily swallow. Tears of hatred. Tears of inner turmoil. Tears of regret. Decision taken long ago.