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Stimulating Stories About Outdoor Sex
A Compilation of Literate Erotica
The Heels Are Alive
by Harry Merkin
This
short story is a work of
fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents
either are the product of
the author’s vivid
imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual human
beings, living or dead,
business enterprises,
events or locales is
entirely coincidental.
Munich is one of my favorite
destinations. I always try
to schedule an extra day or
two when business takes me
there. When the Alps beckon,
my usual plan is to get away
on a late afternoon, spend
the night with friends near
the south shore of the
Starnberger See, and head
south first thing in the
morning.
The area around
Garmisch-Partenkirchen is
always spectacular, but most
to my liking in mid- to
late-spring. The phrase, Sonne
und Schnee, appeals to
many, but after a mishap
while skiing, Schnee
(snow) is not as appetizing.
I always go on weekdays.
Natural beauty and crowds
are incompatible. This
Wednesday morning, I had
decided to take a new trail.
You know, because it was
grassy and wanted wear.
After climbing steadily for an hour,
I was beginning to think I
was lost, but knew all I had
to do was descend to reach a
road. Beyond the next bend
in the trail, there was more
light. It was a small glade
with a carpet of tall grass
and some wildflowers
interspersed. As I
approached, I heard a
friendly, “Grüß dich! Grüß Gott!”
but couldn’t see the female
who had said it. After a few
more paces, she raised her
head and was not wearing
anything from the waist up.
Seeing Germans naked was
commonplace. That’s how they
sunbathe in the parks and along riverbanks –
both males and females. I greeted
her in rudimentary German.
“Bist du ein Amerikaner?
I am teaching Englisch.
Do you vant to talk to me?
“Are you learning English or
teaching English?”
“I learn.”
“What is your name?
“Angela. Wie heißt du?”
“Harry. Do you live close to here?”
“Jess, mit mein Vater.”
“I see tools and a basket by that tree. Do you work here?”
“Jess. I am a Waldvogel.” (a forest bird)
“Where are your wings?”
She giggles. Her bare breasts jiggle and something wiggles between my legs.
“I am a Waldvogel because I find food in woods. I go from tree to tree, all day.”
I had a really bad case of mammary on the mind (or, is it, breasts on
the brain?) and could not stop looking at her chest. “The hills are very
beautiful.”
She knew exactly where I was staring. Angela cupped her breasts, lifted them slightly, smiled at me, and asked, “My heels?”
I blushed, swept my arm toward the horizon, encompassing nearby mountains, “I meant those hills, die Berge.”
“Jess. Die Berge und Alpen are very beautiful. Aber (but), do you like my heels?”
“They are beautiful. Your hills are better because they are alive.”
“Was ist, ah live?
"Es bedeutet lebendig.” (it means alive, living)
”Jess, my heels are ah live.”
She giggles. Her bare breasts jiggle and something wiggles even more between my legs.
“I see you have a heel, nicht wahr?” as she placed a hand between my legs.
“Yes I do. I’m sorry. I can’t help that.”
“You vant me to help?”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I eat the peel.”
“What kind of peel?”
“The peel to halten babies.”
“The pill? The birth control pill?
“Jess.”
She giggles. Her bare breasts jiggle and something really wiggles to life between my legs.
“Die Sonne ist gut for you.”
“Yes, sunlight is good for us.”
I started undressing. She got up to help. We kissed and got down where she had been.
We kissed for a while and I sensed it was time for more, “Please show me how you like to be touched.”
“Jess, you touch,” and she placed my hand where I had wanted it to be since I saw she was naked.
I began touching her like I have touched most girls since I first got to
Third Base. It wasn’t working. She looked so uncomfortable and I
stopped. I asked her again, this time more slowly, “Please show me how
you like to be touched.”
She understood this time and brought her left foot toward her, lifting
that knee, and smiled. Her right hand, with palm flat and fingers
outstretched, began a slow orbit just above her reddish pubic hair, and
with succeeding revolutions descended slowly. She twitched and let out a
sharp and barely audible, “Ah.”
As her palm made contact with more pubic hairs, there were more twitches
and more sharp sounds, progressively becoming louder. Once her whole
body had convulsed, she asked me to lick her finger. Then she slid that
moistened digit between her labia, brought it back up, and began a slow
circular dance about the button of her clitoris. “Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah,
aaaaaaaaah,” and her hand fell to the grass. The Frogs call this, petit mort, the little death.
If I had been watching something like this, early in the relationship
with my first real girlfriend (we lost our virginity simultaneously), I
would have lost it right then and there in a hot geyser of premature
ejaculation.
She lowered her knee, adjusted her position, spread her legs, and
beckoned me with the unmistakable look I’ve often seen. I obliged Angela
and moved much closer. I gently brushed her pubic hair, then brought my
lips to her labia, kissed her ever so softly, and extended my tongue. I
repeated with my tongue what she had done with her finger. She was so
appreciative, her entrance was so moist, and her earthy fragrance
overpowering.
I entered fully and her entire body shook. With the sun above and a
receptive nymph below, I began the primordial motions. I kissed her lips
and whispered, “Du bist wie ein Handschuh.” (you are like a glove)
“Harry, your hand ist so beeg.”
“Does it hurt you?”
“Nein, nein, nein.” (no, no, no)
In and out. In and out.
I became the surging tide and she the narrow bay; the safe harbor sculpted by countless waves.
In and out. In and out.
She convulsed again. I felt her abdomen rippling below me. Her guttural sounds were louder and more insistent.
In and out. In and out.
I became the global tides and she the shores of the entire Atlantic
Ocean and its paternal predecessor, the Iapetus Sea. We were swimming in
teeming, fertile waters clouded with nebulae of sperm and eggs.
In and out. In and out.
My waves overwhelmed her yet again. Her abdomen rippled more strongly and she sank her nails into my back.
In and out. In and out.
I responded with more savage thrusts. I sucked on her neck and then slowed my frantic pace.
In and out. In and out.
I sensed my response was at hand.
In and out. In and out.
The excitation threshold was exceeded - the point of no return. The
deliriously pleasurable contractions began. A foretaste of paradise
saith the sages.
My river ran in spate. My tumult overflowed her deep, deep well. The
vital flow breached the aqueous/terrestrial boundary. It flooded her
grassy banks, and dissipated in her lush thickets.
It trickled outward. It found natural channels. It trickled downward,
down between Angela’s legs, still parted to accommodate my form. We
laughed. Our laughter stilled the birds of this Arcadia. Its echoes
filled the voids of this Arcadia. Was this the joy of which Friedrich
Schiller wrote? Was this the joy about which a deaf Ludwig composed? She
yodeled and we kept laughing. What joy! What titanic joy!
Within 30 seconds, her yodel was answered by a hunting horn.
“Gott im Himmel. Das ist mein Vater.”
She pushed me off and ran to a nearby tree somewhat to our north.
Understanding perfectly what she had said, I grabbed my clothes and
boots, and ran toward her. We dressed quickly. She showed me a basket
filled with morels.
“I sell dees. Many euros.”
“You are very clever!”
One quick kiss and she shooed me away. “Macht schnell!” (literally, make fast)
I ran across the clearing, bounded over the giggle-jiggle spot that
looked like deer had bedded there for the night, and jogged down the
trail. Within 3 minutes, I passed a guy about my father’s age. He was
holding a braided crimson cord attached to a tan and white billy goat
outfitted with two saddlebags. There was a hunting horn secured over the
top of them. We exchanged cursory greetings and I almost asked him if I
could photograph him to post it on Instagram. A minute later, I
realized the saddlebags were probably game bags and that Angela’s dad
hunted with snares and would not want his image posted on the web if he
were doing this on the sly.
I now thought more highly of the Vater und Tochter. They lived by their wits and they lived off the land. They were of the land and one with the land.
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The End
Harry Merkin (a nom de guerre)
is a dick-brain who is more
articulate than an arthropod
and has many ways with words.
He tries desperately not to
write like Edward
Bulwer-Lytton, but often
fails.
NOTES
A. This short story is a
fabrication. It is dedicated
to all schöne Mädchen
(18 and older) who wear
Hanro.
B. Harry likes Bavaria. Munich is indeed his
favorite German city, and
not just because of the
edenic scenery in its parks,
especially Count Rumford’s,
Englischer Garten. He
is just as happy strolling
for hours through the
galleries of the Alte
Pinakothek and Neue
Pinakothek, as he is
watching others staggering
for days through the
Oktoberfest grounds. He is
that kind of guy.
C. Jess is used to
approximate how some
non-English-speakers
pronounce ‘yes.’ It is also
a term in falconry. A jess
is the leather strap tied to
both feet of a raptor. A
varvel is the brass ring at
its distal end. The varvel
is used to secure the bird
when it lands. The most
amazing falconers are nomads
living in Kazakhstan. Their
golden eagles hunt the prey
of the steppes. (But do they
pray on the steps?) Don’t
spend too much time in
Astana, it has turned into
an inland Doha (a smaller
Dubai) with futuristic buildings lit
garishly at night.
D. Atlas, namesake of the
Atlantic, and his father in
mythology, Iapetus, were
Titans. Through the
inexorable action of plate
tectonics, the ancient
Iapetus Sea disappeared.
When that seam reopened, it
formed the Atlantic Ocean.
Iapetus also fathered
Prometheus, the giver of
fire.
E. “A foretaste of paradise
saith the sages.” – Ask a
Talmudic scholar or
scholarly Rabbi. This is not
ordinarily taught in Bar
Mitzvah or Bat Mitzvah
classes.
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