We parked in what had become our usual campsite under the remains of the big elm. The hatchback car was laden with bedding, tools and food – enough to see us through the four days we planned to be here, and Ryan and I were both in high spirits. Four days would give us time to work, enjoy our land and each other and celebrate our first official Xmas together.
Last year we had still been walking the tightrope of desire/desirability in our relationship, but the latter had miraculously won and with that had come the need to consolidate and move forward. The block of land we had bought in late winter was neglected, covered in saplings spawned from this original elm; along with blackberries and gorse. But there was an old well and a river at the base of the rocky outcrops, and room enough to eventually build a cottage and studios and to extend our initial hasty early spring plantings of fruit trees.
The routine we had established involved the ritual boiling of water on our camp stove followed by brewing and consumption of tea from enamelled cups as we explored the changes that had taken place since we had last visited. Newly planted saplings were inspected for rabbit damage, paths checked for regrowth and house plans revisited. Changes to the river which ran below the property were also noted, including the collection of any rubbish left by thoughtless humans who may have visited in our absence.
Back at the campsite we moved our backpacks to the front seats of the car, ensured the food basket and esky were in the shade, then unpacked the tools and plants we needed before returning to the area near the well we were currently clearing and replanting.
Several hours later, we stopped for lunch, another brew and some fruit cake. It was only a cheap supermarket cake, but it was one that Ryan was partial to, so we’d made sure to stock up, citing Xmas as our excuse. We lounged just inside the rear of the car, on the edge of the already made up mattress, discussing results of the mornings labour and plans for the afternoon. My legs and feet dangled free above a pair of abandoned sweaty gumboots, while long-legged Ryan propped his Doc Marten clad feet on the ground outside. It was warm enough that I favored scrappy cotton shorts, a singlet and an old white cotton shirt to protect my arms from the sun, while Ryan, clad as usual in his black jeans and white t-shirt had even hung his favorite red checked flannelette shirt on a branch near the well.
“You’ve dropped a bit!” Ever helpful, Ryan lunged for my chest, where the remnant clung to the upper edge of my bra, revealed as I hunched forward to avoid leaving crumbs in the bedding. The movement took me by surprise and I half fell back into the interior of the station wagon, grasping his shoulder and arm for support. Conveniently my head landed on the edge of a pillow, which had been shunted back as we unpacked the car.
Undeterred (or was that actually incited) by the inelegant sprawling posture, my half hearted complaints or my subsequent manoeuvring to remove a book from under my shoulder blade, Ryan ostensibly continued his search for the errant crumb, tugging down my top and then my bra, releasing my breasts to his view and touch. “Ah there it is!” he cried in triumph beginning to lick my exposed breastbone with long firm strokes of his tongue. His action sent corresponding shudders through the rest of my body, and I arched upward toward a sensation that I always found intensely sexual. Ryan’s fingers teased and manipulated my stiffening nipples adding to the sensation, and I squirmed to reach between us to rub his cock, a hard thickness pressing against my leg through his jeans.
“No you don’t” he mumbled, moving up and away from my questing hand before trailing his tongue slowly down my belly. Suddenly desperate for his tongue on my cunt, I clutched his head as it moved closer, his long braid falling over one shoulder, tickling my flesh with each teasing movement of his jaw.
His hand located the wide leg opening of my shorts…
His fingers pressed against the wetness spreading across my knickers, rubbing lightly but firmly over what was inside…
His long, probing finger eased beneath the elastic to touch and enter the slick pliant flesh beneath…
He stopped, glancing up at me, lust and mischief writ large on his face.
“Oh for fucks sake Ryan! We both know the crumb’s not down there, but don’t bloody well stop looking for it now!”
Amused Ryan adjusted his position again, moving himself completely out of my reach. Kicking aside my gumboots, he knelt upright on the soft grass at the rear of the car, grabbed my thighs and jerked my bum closer to edge of the vehicle. Anticipation made me moan an incentive as he pulled my knees over his shoulders and buried his face in the crotch of my shorts, gnawing at my twitching cunt through the cloth, while he slid his hands inside my shorts again. Already shaking with intensity, the sensation of his fingers reentering my cunt, spreading and thrusting was enough to send me into spasm, clenching and gushing fluid over his hands, swamping my already damp shorts.
Undeterred, Ryan calmly lifted my quivering legs off his shoulders, bending them up and above the edge of the car, stripping off my sodden clothing, then his own slightly damp t-shirt, which he used to dry my thighs. Pushing forward on the backs of my legs, he used both hands to open me, appreciating the look of my cunt.
“No fruit cake in there!” I proclaimed.
He groaned and pinched my thigh. “I’m not entirely sure you deserve this…” Flinging his plait over one shoulder, he leaned even further forward, pushing my knees to my chest and touching the tip of his tongue to my clit. I jumped. I could feel his amusement buzzing through my skin. Then slowly, methodically, luxuriously, he began to lap at my tingling cunt with his tongue…
To see who else is indulging in pre-Xmas naughtiness click on the link below…
For the conclusion to Xmas Cake (2), click on the link to Wicked Wednesday. – on Wednesday! (Or click here)
For more Ryan stories and poems click here
Readers please note: while the Ryan stories are based on events that happened back then, memory and intense sensation blurs detail, and so artistic license is sometimes need to fill in the gaps…