Sunday in the Park With Charlie

Sexually speaking, there are two types of people - those who have fantasies and those who live them. It is certainly easier to be in the latter category when you have a partner who shares your sense of erotic adventure. So when I told Charlie I had been fantasizing about being taken by him in a natural setting such as a park, taken from behind in broad daylight as I lean against a tree with my dress up over my ass, while people are picnicking unaware beyond a cluster of bushes, invisible but near enough to hear a muffled orgasmic moan, he said, "Mmmmmmm...let's make it happen."

I had it all planned out in my head. We were going to a 1920s Lawn Party at Governor's Island on Sunday. I knew exactly what I would be wearing, and I knew that he would be looking dapper in rolled up shirtsleeves and parted hair.

Ragingly horny beneath our Gatsby-like decorum...we take a stroll, arm in arm, in search of a discreet patch of grass where we may satisfy our desires. We find the perfect place just when I realize I have to pee from all the wine and lemonade I drank at the picnic. Alas, there are no public restrooms. Just as I'm about to tell him I'm going to do it behind the tree, he grabs me and kisses me passionately. When I break away I feel some pee escape. Giddy with love and vague intoxication, I hold up my dress and let it go, releasing a hot stream right through my vintage black lace panties. Although I didn't mean to wet myself, I'm not embarrassed. I like the way it feels, and I like it even more because he's watching me and seems to be enjoying my performance. I can tell from the bulge in his seersucker pants. When I'm finished peeing, he approaches me and slips his hand between my legs. He rubs the wet silk over my pussy and moans as he begins to stroke himself.

I back up toward the tree. He turns me around and pulls my panties down to my white stocking calves. The next thing I'm aware of is a wet knob of flesh rubbing against my ass. I know he wants to be inside me. My pussy is aching for penetration. The risk of someone or several someones strolling our way, along with our covert style of public pleasure arouses me even more than if we were doing the same thing privately naked at home in our bed. So I bend over and push him into me and he fucks me ravenously as I use the tree for support. Maybe he pisses on my ass before he enters me. Maybe I play with myself and come with my cheek against the bark. Or maybe he finds the angle cumbersome or someone almost sees us, so he pulls out and whisks me around. Through discreet whisperings of desire, we find a more secluded spot in a thicket where he lays his jacket down before I collapse on the grass bed. There he screws me in a passionate frenzy, our rhythms reflecting every erotic moment we have lived before, in another time, another place, another body. We may be the stars of a vintage silent porn film that a 21st century libertine will watch at a sex party in 2008. He thrusts me into ecstasy and a few moments later pulls out and shoots his timeless load all over my cunt.

Chronology and details may vary, but in every version of this fantasy, one thing never changes: my stockings and shoes never come off.