I’m crouched under low spruce branches edging the clearing. Heart hammers. Sweat beads on my forehead. Late July in the Ardennes. Sun dips, golden on bending grasses. Air thick with wild scents. Pure bliss.
Binoculars up. That graceful back, swaying curves, shiny-furred haunch. Shiver hits me. Rustle behind. Deep voice: ‘Sir, what are you doing here?’
The Awakening: Pulse-Racing Stealth Watch
Spin around. Face-to-face with the game warden. Green uniform, broad shoulders, ruddy face, black mustache, hunter’s hat. Old rifle slung over.
I grin awkwardly. ‘Beautiful spot. Great weather.’ He eyes my binoculars, big telephoto. ‘Birdwatching? Photographed that doe just now.’ He chuckles. ‘Fine. Stay quiet. Countess likes peace on her lands.’ He crunches away. Jays screech off.
Relief. Back to it. Beyond the doe, by reeds at the pond: her silhouette. Dismounts gray stallion. Drinks. She stands, long black hair over hunting jacket. Staring at rippling water.
Zoom in on willow. Heart races. She’s there, carefree post-ride. Steps show tight beige stretch pants hugging legs, pert ass.
Creep closer. Silent steps over moss, rocks. Now 40 meters, behind brambles. She’s prone on soft grass, hands on belly.
Fine features, tanned skin, flushed cheeks. Eyes shut, blissful smile. Mid-30s. Broidered blouse, jacket open. One button undone—left tit’s swell visible. Firm breasts rise with breaths.
Rustle—doe bounds past. Back to her. Hand grazes tit, squeezes, pinches nipple. Slides down, untucks blouse. Fingers on smooth belly, dip to crotch.
Zipper down. Unclasps. Sigh. Right hand slips under white floral panties. My cock throbs in loose pants. Hard as oak.
Blouse open. Left hand cups tits. Right wriggles in tight elastic. Legs spread. She checks around—freeze. Buzzard cries. Safe.
Pants to boots. Recumbent. Eyes closed. Elastic yanked, dark bush peeks. Fingers precise: stroke slit, dip in. Imagining soaked, swollen lips.
Can’t hold. She arches, peels panties off round ass. Bare on grass. Legs at 45, both hands now. Fingers plow black curls, clit circle.
Closer. Cock out, hard, pre-cum oozing. Belly-down, thrust into soft turf. Her spasms build. Finger fucks deep, body arches, head lolls.
Horse whinnies. She bolts up, dresses fast, scans. Spots me. Advances.
‘Lizarding on my land?’ Cock bulging. Heron flies. ‘Birdwatching, Madame.’ She glances at my tent. Smiles. ‘Nature’s beauty. Come back.’ Mounts, gallops off. Hair flying.
The Act: Raw Forest Fuck and Explosive Release
Stagger away. Collapse. Pants down. Grip shaft, balls cupped. Replay her fingers in slick folds. Pump fast. Cum jets hot on belly.
Next dawn. Bakery. There she is: slit skirt, toned legs, lilac blouse open at collarbone, pearl necklace. ‘Morning. Chasing the doe?’
‘Yes, patient approach.’ She bends into car—perfect ass. Skirt rides up: pink panty flash.
Baker: ‘Widow Countess. Husband crashed.’ Croissants devoured. Trek to pond via stream. Cut grass bed under willow.
Jay cries. She trots up. Horse rears—spots me. Dismounts, crop tucked.
Arms open. She drops crop, head to my shoulder. Kiss. Eyes burn desire. Hand grabs cock, balls.
Kneels. Jeans down. Cock springs. Mouth engulfs head, tongue swirls frenulum. Sucks balls. Hand strokes. I press her head. Cum floods her throat. She swallows, eyes locked.
She strips. Jacket, blouse, pants, boots. Pink panties tease dark shadow, wet spot.
Bra off. Knead firm tits, suck hard nipples. She turns, panties down. Doggy, ass waves.
Cock ready. Grip hips. Fingers find soaked bush, open slit. Circle clit. She moans, bucks.
Thrust in. Tight, wet heaven. Pull hair, rub clit. Pound deep. Birds silent.
She cums: ‘Yes!’ I erupt inside. Collapse.
Afterglow. Skygaze. ‘Aurore.’ ‘Boris. Northern lights.’ She wants more.
Birds chirp. Doe slips away. Secret sealed.