She shifted to lie next to me, and my hands moved to her body, tentatively fingering the small ribs, tracing the mottled skin tones, the patches of pigment, shades of chestnut like the horse who dreamed nearby. I stroked one nipple. It was dark, a hard little coffee bean, fine hairs around the nipple. It hardened, sharp little cone-breast, rigid peak. The other nipple was pink, dusky ashes of roses. She closed her eyes and moaned, a breathy little sigh. I continued to tease, gentle circles with my fingertips, watching the shadows of the branches make further patterns on her skin. Sunshadow shapes.
My fingers moved down to the waistband of her baggy pants. They were loose enough that I could slip my hand underneath them, over the concave planes of stomach, down to the elastic of her underwear stretched tight over the narrow span of her hips.
Tentatively I undid the drawstring on her pants, and dipped my fingers down between her legs, over the cotton underwear. The undulations of her hips encouraged me, and I moved a finger under the gusset of her panties. My finger touched curls of hair, as coarse as the hair on her head, springy and resilient like the sage brush she harvested. I explored, feeling my way around familiar anatomy. It was not like touching myself. Oh, she was younger, firmer, skinnier, but it was the subtle little differences in folds and creases that I noticed. I pictured what she looked like through my fingers, feeling creamy wetness, a landscape of textures.
My wrist was straining at the angle. She gently removed my hand and shed her remaining clothes. Pinto girl.
I started to shake slightly, desire warring with uncertainty. "Show me what women like," I said.
"You already know," she replied, and straddled me, shifting around to lower herself to my mouth. She dipped her head. Her hands cradled my buttocks, raising me to her mouth.
I grasped her and used my thumbs to spread her open, to see her, then explored with my fingers, tentative movements, trying to please. She had no such reservations, and buried her face between my legs, so deeply I wondered how she could breathe. And the pleasure was abrupt and intense. I could see her in my mind's eye as if in a mirror. Folds of my sex mashed against her checks, her mouth pressed up against me, her tongue lapping around the small folds, secret valleys, the small pointed tongue flickering around the hood of my clit, not too hard, not too direct, just that slight off-center stimulation that I like. Quick laps, teasing points and then unbelievably the gentle scrape of teeth. Ah, the shock, the instinctive withdrawal. She drew me closer and the scrape became a suckling, gentle suction on my clit and I came, a gasp, a shudder, a tightening of thighs around her head.
When sensibility returned, I found I had been grasping her skin so tightly that I had left individual prints. Cloudy, crushed-purple marks on the hues of her skin. Two of my fingers were inside her. I felt immediate guilt for my selfishness and moved them gently, a pistioning action so beloved of male lovers. She wiggled upright on top of me, moved around, settling herself firmly on my face. A lap, an exploratory movement of tongue. Salty sage taste, different from my own. I circled my tongue, flickered, tasted. It was hard to breathe, the musty smell of her pussy surrounded me. I wondered if she had taken one of the self-righteous ranchers into her bed last night. The thought was both repugnant and exciting. How could she, I wondered, be so careless with her body? How could she, I wondered, be so free and unfettered? My tongue savored, trying to pick the familiar thick taste of semen, but I couldn't. My senses were filled with everything that is intrinsically female. There wasn't room for anything else.
Calamity moaned a little, and I lapped harder, striving to give her a fraction of what she had given me. It was difficult; my tongue ached and she was wriggling around so much that I couldn't keep a steady rhythm. I kept trying, soft flickerings, more forceful rubbings. I used my fingers, my tongue, even teeth, trying to emulate the feelings she had roused so carelessly in me. And still, she ground herself on my face, grunted, sharp little animal squeals, tightened her thighs around my head. But she didn't come.
My concentration started to waver. I opened my eyes and studied the patterns of the tree boughs above my head. There was a sharp point of a rock digging into my back under the blanket and I jerked convulsively when some small insect skittered over my thigh. But still I persisted. I wanted to give her something purely for herself, and this was all that was within my power.
And just when I was about to stop, when my discomfort was so great that I couldn't last any longer, I felt the first clench of muscles around my fingers, felt the ripples of her orgasm and heard her long wail. I opened my eyes, She was arched up into the light, the curve of her body silhouetted against the wide, white sky, her head thrown back, her mouth open as she panted. The tangle of hair fell in static disarray over her shoulders, covering the deep chestnut nipple, the pale shell one still visible. And she was beautiful.
Much later, we dressed, and she shook out the blanket releasing a shower of horse hairs, throwing the scent of our lovemaking into the breeze. Her horse had wandered off. We rode back together on my borrowed elderly pony. She curled trustingly into my body, riding behind me, her head resting on my shoulder. Her hair tickled my nose.
I was content. A relaxed permeating comfort that went far beyond the euphoria of climax. I held the reins confidently and pretended to guide my horse home. Calamity murmured into my shoulder, reaching around to cup my breast.
I knew that tonight she would don her false cloak of self-assurance and play the sassy flirt for the ranchers once again. Maybe she would come to my room afterwards and we would make love in the sagging bed with the faded sheets. Or maybe she thought that to show that need was a weakness she couldn't allow and so she would stay away. But for now, at this moment in time, she was mine.
I curled my hand back around her thigh and moved my body to the horse's rhythm, letting the friction of the saddle build the memories of Calamity that I was already storing away.