The Great Outdoors

Do you ever think of that sweltering outdoor festival two summers ago?

That Godawful grunge band plunking away with a million freaks, punks, drunks, nearly dead hippies and pill-popping zombies swaying in 4/4 time under the punishing sun of an early August evening in North Texas.

Me screaming "Let's get some lemonade!" with my lips brushing the cup of your ear because we couldn't hear shit otherwise, and my heart-shaped booty pressed heard and heavy against your stiffening tool because some beer-guzzling frat boys and bearded bikers had elbowed and pushed and squeezed us all into a big sweaty dancing drunken mess.

So why not venture inside my black leather mini-skirt and caress the sunkissed sweetness of my secret joy until my hips slip into a wiggle that threatens to reveal us as a naughty pair misbehaving in public?

We capture a few wandering eyes amid the crowd, but you don't care.

You simply have to come inside, to sample the soft promise of my tempting curves. With one hand diving into the sea of my red and ready cunt and the other dangling a finger into my mouth, you happily absorb the spastic dance I've drifted into.

And why not unzip yourself to set free that throbbing soldier and let him slide inside the slippery gates of joy, the meat-guarded walls whose tickle sends my spine into an elegant arch and my tell-tale muffled shrieks into the palm of your brick-hard hand?

And why not probe harder and deeper with each angry thrust until my knees buckle and my arms curl back reaching for the hungry demon behind me piercing and poking and bucking and bashing away at the meaty seat of my ample ass and shoving all of me – my shaking limbs, my stuttering moans, my flushed face– into the welcome release of soul-shattering climax?

Do you ever think of that?

This week's confession session:

Here's your chance to share your share past misdeeds of a public and naughty nature.

Any quickies in Burger King bathrooms?
Any roadside romps? Bump and grind sessions behind bushes?

Come on...