The Willow Tree

The Willow Tree

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Summary

A man finds himself thinking on the Willow Tree where he and his wife first made love. It's lost its importance to them both...but not for the reasons that some might suspect.

Summary

A man finds himself thinking on the Willow Tree where he and his wife first made love. It's lost its importance to them both...but not for the reasons that some might suspect.

Content

Submitted: September 26, 2017

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: September 26, 2017

A A A

A A A


We came to a place in our lives where the Willow Tree meant nothing.

Let me explain.

I made love to my wife when the Willow Tree was young and so were our hearts and bodies. I can remember her straining to please me while building up to orgasm while the willow-tree branches hung in curtains of gray-green above us. A canopy to the bed of our consummate relationship. She was sprawled out on the small blanket I’d brought with us and it was enough to accommodate us as young adults. I remember being fascinated by the stains she’d left behind on the floral pattern of the blanket—not disgust or revulsion, but interest. And when I’d came in her, it was a release like no other. I swear the Willow Tree shuddered with me with each expulsion. And when it was over, what we had done was not merely sexual. We both understood that. In the late afternoon while the mid-spring breezes lifted the boughs of the Willow—curtains to our two-part act of lovemaking—we lay and looked at one another. I ran my hands along the dip of her stomach, the curve of her breast and the cups of her upturned palms. If but to sample her substance, her solidity. If only to remember her this way. Some part of me probably understood that these things were not going to always be the same. But youth has a way of obscuring those kinds of revelations. I only knew we were making memories.

Sex can be beautiful, and not just dirty. Well, I suppose in a sense it is dirty, but so is eating. And Americans love the hell out of that. So do the French. So do the fine folks of Mexico. Eating can be beautiful too, I suppose, if you’ve got the right lips for it. Interestingly enough, the same can be said of sex. Regardless, though, I’ve always associated sex with sessions in my wife’s bed at her parents’ house, with sanguine slants of sunlight coming through her open window in the summertime and falling across us both while we pushed against each other. Watched each other’s faces, the curl of the lips, the cutting of the eyes and the motion of our hips. Buried our faces in one another’s necks and listened to the passion building inside our throats till it bubbled up and out in muffled shouts and screams to shake loose the birds spellbound by the setting sun just beyond her windowsill—they’d fly away, cawing, winging to wherever it is that birds wing to when a girl and a guy are fucking hard. We learned to not fuck so hard, though—we learned to fuck with grace over time. Fucking hard is easy. Fucking with grace and putting the movement and energy into the right places, in the right rhythm without bobbing up and down like a broke-shaft jack-hammer takes knowing your partner and knowing yourself. And knowing what you like to do, and knowing that she likes to do it. Lots of things, essentially. So while I was horniest when I was younger, the sex was better when I was older. A strange, inverted, upside-down-way of viewing things, but true. Sex can also be excruciatingly unsatisfying, but thank God and biology that these sessions are rare. Otherwise, we’d not have so many humans promulgating and making more humans to burn the world to a crisp (so I’ve been told. Dammit, mom and dad, why’d you make me to be such a burden!).

My wife made an excellent apple crisp, by the way. She loved to cook and I loved to eat. She was beautiful when she ate. She had the right lips for it, I suppose. Oh…and for sex, too.

We always went back to the Willow. It was by a marsh, unfrequented by many because it was rumored there were strange things afoot in amongst those trees. They probably mistook our moanings for forebodings of lost banshees or spectral fucking. I don’t know, but we never saw anything in our time there. Of course, our eyes weren’t really looking towards the stagnant water. I don’t know that my wife loved being on bottom, but she never really wanted to be on top. I don’t care—my dick in her pussy could be upside down while she bounced on a pogo stick for all I care, so long as we are having sex. Making love is another way to put it, but that implies the other things that go with sex—candles and candies and caressing. The three magic Cs, for those of you not privy yet to the world of intercourse. Oh…that and clitoris. Don’t you dare fucking forget that C, you little cock-strokers. That is a maiden’s place of pleasure. Her node of ecstasy. Touch it right, lick it right, keep it tight and you’ll find yourself satisfied most every time you have sex. It takes some time for some women to let go and let that orgasm wrack her body like it ought just because they’ve been taught from early on that sex is something taboo. For some reason, it seems, women have been withheld as it pertains to their sexuality. But I tell you, if you’re gonna get raunchy, be prepared to please her as much as you want to be pleased.

Now, I’m speaking as a heterosexual, and while some funky freaky things happened in groups in college, I can’t comment on the other…er…sexualities.

Back to the Willow Tree.

We came to place in our lives where the Willow Tree meant nothing.

Want to know why?

Because some plunger-handle fucking, shit-humping, possum-dick fucker cut it down. God, I wished some people would just die or get laid already!

The Willow Tree actually does mean something in our memories, but not anymore. Some sad slob bought the land to develop it into a nature preserve and clear-cut that area to use as a kind of lodge. Pissed. Me. Off.

But, no worries there. Because my wife and I are making new memories beneath the mulberry tree we found hiking out behind our house the other day. And let me tell you, watching her tits bounce in broad daylight while I grab hold of her ass and hips just to hang on…I don’t give a shit what tree we’re under! 


© Copyright 2020 Aurora M. Soleado. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

Other Content by Aurora M. Soleado

More Great Reading

Popular Tags