An Outdoor Audience to a Riverbank Rogering

Alfresco fucking at its finest.

I love alfresco sex. For all its many - and let’s make no secret of this, there are *many* - impracticalities, there’s something to the sheer spontaneity and rush of simply giving in to desires wherever and whenever the mood takes hold which makes the experience so gloriously liberating, regardless of how suboptimal the ensuing sex can occasionally prove to be.

It’s probably safe to assume that the largest contributing factor towards the appeal of the humble outdoor fuck - aside from perhaps the enjoyment of feeling a gentle breeze cusp the inner thigh - is the added risk. We’re all simple creatures at heart - doubly so when controlled by libido - and there’s no arguing against the simple biological imperative that risk equals a rush. Sex is singularly one of the most exciting and exhilarating things the body can experience when done well. Throw in the additional risk of getting caught and suddenly you’re piling additional intensity and urgency that can only enhance the experience; risk is the cream atop an already deliciously moist cake.

But, like all things in life, it’s a balancing act. Risk can offer big reward, but also catastrophic failure. Which is to say that the risk of being caught is itself an exciting rush. Actually *getting* caught can be a different experience entirely.

Or it can just add to the fun.

Several years ago I was very much enjoying what is, if i’m brutally honest, one of my favourite parts of any relationship; the very early dating. Which is to say the point in which to even call something a ‘relationship’ would be considerably overstating it. This is early stage dating by its truest definition of simply ‘going on dates’, rather than the broader meaning ‘we are a couple’. Early dating is peak dating because it’s all the fun of adventure and discovery long before any of the tawdry tedium has time to creep in and spoil things.

Andy and I were at peak ‘early dating’, being as it was only our third ever date. The first two had been somewhat traditional affairs; nights out, alcohol and many an exploring hand, but for the third we’d decided to eschew tradition thanks to the gloriously sunny day that beckoned, and simply head out for a lengthy riverside walk instead.

Naturally, I dressed (in)appropriately for the occasion. Which is to say I deployed the very finest of my HIAATAMT summer dresses (Hi I’m Alice And These Are My Tits, for the uninitiated), to ensure I’d have his undivided attention throughout what would no doubt be a walk filled with scantily clad torsos of all varieties, making the most of a rare glorious day. The dress in question has developed quite the reputation (even amidst other HIAATAMT regalia) among my friends, who have seen fit to christen it ‘the dressing gown’, in part due to its tasteful belt around the midriff, but also owing to its open style front. Without wishing to be too indelicate perhaps I can sum up the situation best by simply clarifying that, on breezy days, I’ve been known to deploy tape to ensure my modesty remains largely intact.

The Dressing Gown worked its magic immediately, and Andy seemed sufficiently enraptured when we met in the park. Indeed it was many minutes into the walk before he remembered that eye contact was an aspect of life and common social nicety at all. I suggested he buy me an icecream as recompense, and slyly checked the structural integrity of the tape while he wasn’t looking.

Sketch of ‘The Dressing Gown’

Trying and immediately failing to not make incredibly lewd motions around the ice-cream with my mouth, it’s fair to say that the walk had already taken on a considerable sexual tension. He was stealing glances at the view offered by the generous fitting of the Dressing Gown at every given opportunity, and I could swear he’d deliberately selected a tshirt several sizes too small to show of the magnificent broadness of his shoulders.

I’d like to say I tried my hardest not to slurp loudly on my ice-cream as my eyes devoured him, but it’d be a lie.

After an agonising forty minutes or so of walking, during which it felt as though several years may have elapsed, we were long free of the highly populated park and making the most of a much quieter and considerably farther ‘off the beaten track’ style trek beside the river. Deciding we could be more rustic still, we veered off the footpath and down the bank to a small stone beech by the waters edge.

He suggested we could go for a swim. I told him in no uncertain terms that he could fuck off. It was a lovely day but it was far from being *that* hot, and I had no inclination or desire to drip dry or to test precisely how little water it would take for the Dressing Grown to turn transparent or indeed fully dissolve.

He looked utterly crestfallen, as though I’d instantaneously crushed every hope and dream he’d ever possessed. A small mote of guilt crept into my conscience as I realised that I could perhaps have been a little more tactful with my refusal so, checking briefly behind me that there was no one currently walking the footpath, I deftly unstuck some tape and pulled open the Dressing Gown.

Suddenly he didn’t look quite so sad anymore. Quite the opposite. He erupted into fits of childish giggles, apparently unable to contain his glee.

I was about to sigh and reattach the tape when he managed to calm himself and wrestle his eyes away from my chest. Looking me directly in the eye he said in his smoothest and suavest tone;

‘Nice tits!’

The ridiculous simplicity of it now had be giggling instead, stopping only when he grabbed me for a deep kiss, while his enormous hand did some squeezing as if to check that the Dressing Gown wasn’t simply creating an optical illusion.

‘Ever fucked outside?’ he asked me, as he broke away seemingly content that everything was where it should be.

‘Once or twice,’ I grinned back. Which wasn’t a lie. I had indeed fucked once or twice alfresco. Once or twice many times over, in fact. But this didn’t seem the time to get bogged down in semantics.

We kissed again and while his hands maintained their grasping position up top, mine went on an adventure of their own. The first surprise came when I slid down and into his shorts as I immediately felt the touch of his already hardening cock.

‘Are you not wearing underwear?’ I asked, shocked but quietly impressed by his apparent optimism for what the walk would entail.

“I… thought we’d probably go swimming.” was all he offered as a somewhat nonsensical answer, before he switched to the distraction technique of sucking on my nipples like his life depended on it.

This continued for… some time. During his marathon sucking session, in which I can only assume he must’ve been trying to suck the memories of the poor answer out of me, I was vaguely aware of others behind us walking the path. Thanks to the height of the bank and a little foliage cover we weren’t directly visible from the path, but it was now I realised that it would only take one walker to stray for a better view of the river for us to be caught without any possible deniability.

Not that I cared. Horny brain was in control now.

I decreed it was probably time to give his lips a rest as I pushed his head gently away from my nipples, and squatted down in front of him. Having already long forgotten my earlier discovery of his lack of underwear, I pulled down his shorts with some urgency as was in no way prepared to dodge as his cock sprang out, catching my unawares and hitting me so squarely in the face that it would have made for a perfect ‘funniest home movies’ blooper.

In a rapid attempt to both regain dignity and silence his new fits of laughter, I took his cock in my mouth and got to work.

He’d been on the receiving end of one of my blowjobs at the end of the second date, so I already had a more than reasonable sense of what he enjoyed and what would work. I skipped the gentle tongue teasing and soft lip strokes entirely, jumping straight to rapid tonguing of the shaft while I plunged the head into the soft inside of my cheek.

I had to pause twice to remind him to keep the noise down.

Eventually, he put his hands on my head to stop me.

‘Let’s fuck.’

I didn’t need telling twice.

I disengaged my mouth as we paused for a moment to consider the practicalities. Beneath the belt of the Dressing Gown is a pair of shorts rather than an open dress - it’s technically more of an open-topped jump suit than it is a dress, but again it was a little late to get bogged down in the semantics - which meant that the traditional alfresco ‘from behind’ approach was unattainable without me disrobing entirely, a prospect I wanted to avoid given the proximity of the path and potential for an enquiring onlooker.

The other option was that one of us was simply going to have to lie on the somewhat uncomfortable stones in order to be mounted. Andy was somewhat hesitant at first, but when reminded that the alternative was a forty minute walk back, he soon decided that the stones didn’t look all that sharp and uncomfortable after all.

Pausing only very briefly to rearrange some of the pointier looking stones, Andy lay back with his cock pointing skyward like a fleshy sundial, as I negotiated the material of the lower half of the Dressing Gown to slide not at all effortlessly on top of him.

The inconvenience immediately melted away as we both savoured the sensations of first penetration.

The sex started slow as I was still slightly fearful of dashing him against the stones like an old ship hull, while also being cautious that nothing should become too entangled in the mess of Dressing Gown material and underwear that was all being held at bay from interrupting. Soon enough though we’d found our rhythm and were having, by any definition, a fabulous day by the river.

Which was when we heard the distant shout;

‘Woo! Yeah, get some!’

I froze. I’d been poised to leap up and snap closed the opening of the Dressing Gown in the event I heard someone stray from the footpath - during the session so far there’d been numerous passers by, but no-one whose curiosity had caused them to stray in our direction. And there was simply no adequate viewing angle to our position from the path itself. So where the fuck had we been seen from?

Reader, I put it to you that sex blindness is a very real thing. If you disagree, then we’ll simply have to call it sex stupidity. Because for all my attention was hyper vigilant and focussed toward the path, I’d been totally blind to one other tiny detail.

The other side of the river.

Yes, we were covered from all prying eyes on our side. But across the river were other paths. Other banks. And a quaint little stony shore not unlike the one Andy was currently laying upon, while I was sat atop him.

And stood upon that shore was a group of three individuals who, while still some distance away, had a completely clear view of us.

Now in moments like this there are two possible resolutions:

Run away as quickly as is possible, attempting and ultimately failing to regain a sense of dignity, and ultimately dying of shame elsewhere.

OR.

Think fuck it. Who cares. And carry on.

I think a lot rides on how far through your fun you are. There’s a crucial tipping point at which accepting your losses and regrouping for a second attempt elsewhere just doesn’t seem viable, and a charge to the finish is the only sensible option. I’ve many thoughts on this, but that’s probably worth a post of its own, so I won’t dwell on it here.

Suffice to say; we took the latter option.

Andy had been slower to register that we were the target of the encouraging shout but, thankfully, he seemed similarly minded to me. He asked me if I wanted to stop in a manner that made it abundantly clear that he had no desire to, and the little excited smile that crossed his face when I responded by simply bouncing on him all the harder made the slight blow to our collective dignity entirely worthwhile.

We continued with our distant audience for another five minutes or so - their calling reduced to occasional ‘Woo’s!’ of encouragement as soon as it was clear we weren’t going to be scared away.

Soon enough, Andy declared he was going to cum and not relishing the notion of a forty minute drippy walk back home, I dismounted - my own loins feeling a pang of disappointment as my underwear snapped against them - and took him back in my mouth.

As I swallowed, I could hear distant almost comedically polite applause drift over the water.

Andy, being a gentleman and clearly wanting to secure a fourth date, had no intention of leaving business unfinished and slid his hand down the front of the still open Dressing Gown, and finished the work with his fingers.

The secondary applause for my climax was matched with a cheer of congratulations, for which Andy actually took a bow - something he immediately regretted and formed the primary topic of discussion on our walk home.

We retuned to the same spot several weeks later as part of another date day, but decided against a repeat performance.

Always leave an audience wanting more.