Balcony Bliss

This is Story 2 from a family vacation when our kids were young, private time was hard to come by, and sex was furtive. (To read the first, see ”Vacation Innovation,” on Jan. 18, 2024.) As before, descriptive details – some imagined for lack of specific memories – were added to flesh out the basic elements of the episode, which ARE ALL factual as to time, place, positions, primary activities, and end result!  

Balcony Bliss

SETTING: Not sixty feet away from our run of balconied rooms, built hard against a swiftly flowing mountain stream, rose up a matching run of rooms on the other side. The room balconies on both sides very nearly extended over the burbling waters beneath – wherein lay the romantic appeal of the place.

Though bleeding daylight, there was still enough sky-glow to see folks enjoying their stream-side platforms opposite us (and vice versa) and the warm radiance of lighted rooms glimmered and glinted off the waters below us, adding to the ambient light. Since our young ones succumbed to weariness early and crashed for the night after a busy day of family fun, it happened that we would soon make use of our own outdoor balcony.

EPISODE: “Come out and listen with me!” my Petite Lady invited as she reached through drapes to slide open the glass door to our unit’s outside space. Moving to the railing, she winged her arms upon it, lowered her chin to her hands, and leaned in to enjoy the “music of the spheres.” Did she sigh contentedly and grow still, the hint of a smile turning the corners of her mouth upward, enjoying some secret thought? Or am I just imagining now that she did so? (You’ll have to decide….)

I pulled a deck chair up right beside her, perched on the front edge of it, and leaned my head against her cushiony side-breast spilling out from under her right arm. She shifted her feet to rebalance and as she did, I noted that they inched apart somewhat as I snuggled into her. Glued together like that, we relaxed, breathed, and listened to the murmuring sounds of tumbling waters and trilling bugs.

Being the kind of guy that I am, a question began to grow in my mind as we lingered in that position: what might she be wearing under that cotton coverup? She seemed in no hurry to leave, so I determined to find out while the woodsy insect music swelled and darkness deepened. But…! I needed do it carefully, lest I overreach (duh, literally) and discover her thoughts had been elsewhere.

Dropping the hand I hooked over her left hip bone, I drew her close, and casually brought it down to palm her shin just below the hem of her shift. I gave her shin a little “Hey there” squeeze, and she didn’t move. Squeezing again, I found she still didn’t move. “So far, so good,” said I to the spongey noodle that was now pondering whether to wake up from his comfortable slumber down in my pants. “It’s early,” I continued in my thoughts. “Don’t get your hopes up too soon.”

I reached my thumb around into that soft cavity behind her knee and began to thumb-tap the skin there. She lifted her head, turned her face in my direction, then nestled her left cheek on her hands and resumed her still-statue pose. Were her eyes closed at this point? Maybe. But I cannot say because my mind was focused on parts of her that were much more concealed.

I lazily moved my hand to her other leg and traced the softness behind her knee there. With a sweet sigh, she shifted again resulting in – Glory! – a slightly wider stance. (That WAS encouraging!) I danced some feathery touches up the back of her leg, then slipped around to lightly slide down the inside of one leg using the softest touches that I could bestow. (She LOVES feathery touches.)

If she’d had nine legs, I would have stroked them all. But having just two, I took LOTS of time. I gave my girl a veritable CONCERT of whispery touches that dusky evening, sometimes slip-sliding along, sometimes fingertip-tapping against her skin, sometimes digit-climbing her leg mischievously, like old Inky Dinky spider. Her legs, now nicely triangled on the deck under her cotton shift, twitched and quivered as I retraced such movements up, down, inside, and around, her legs from sandaled heels nearly to her bottom above. (At least I imagine that her legs twitched and quivered. Ha!)

By this time, I leaned against her in a delicious reverie. My gentle bids were welcomed and I was on the edge of sensual overload; the waters leap-frogging noisily below us; the light-drained sky with its orange horizon peeking through the trees; the mild night calming us; the softness of her smooth bare skin under my hand that felt bare-er the higher I reached (HOO! if that is possible); the tactile memory (Oh! now dominating every other thought) of just how hot and slippery her magical crease felt on earlier occasions when I had probed and pushed my fingers into its aroused form, AND, the evident enjoyment she was taking from my touching her thusly – well, how could it get any better than that!

As my eager (but patient) hand grazed higher, I pictured my Sweet-Pea-with-the-Pearl’s face bearing the ever-so-slight smile that softens her countenance when I’m causing her to feel good down there, though from my position, I could not see it. But I had watched that expression too many times not to imagine the corners of her mouth upturned slightly, her eyes closed, brow creases smoothed, her overall countenance beautifully dreamy. I sat still as a rock as I leaned into her side. Except…! Except for my left arm reaching high between her legs from behind up under her skirt.

All peacefully we breathed, feeling a little naughty indulging in our “public” evening delight. (MH readers who boldly flirt with the risk of being “caught” – all but naked, even! – may smile at our timidity but you gotta realize; we were raised fundamentalists. We pushed on our boundaries where we found them.)

Once again, my hungry girl shifted her legs. This time she planted her feet so widely apart that the invitation was unmistakable. Go for it, love! Slide that hungry hand of yours all the way up where you want it – where I WANT IT! My legs are open; the soft pink petals that you love to touch are waiting, and they’re verrry hungry. Oh, My Dear, I can say that they are positively DROOLING for your touch. YOU’LL see!

At least, that’s what I now fancy she was thinking. (A body movement can inspire a thousand words.)

Joyfully, I reached up to embark upon a full tour of the territory. All gently, I stroked those petaled parts and the deepening crevice that cradled them. Her outer lips were, by now, slowly separating hills, puffy and damp. The divided flesh curling down over her pubic bone was painted with that slickest of oils, her own self-supplied lubricant. (And boy, she was supplying a LOT.)

Ahem… Now confirmed. M’Lady was out on the balcony bare bottomed under her shift, just waiting to be discovered naked and horny. (Who was seducing whom?!) Well, discover I did. Now I determined to not disappoint her.

I stroked her swelling folds with fumbling fingers. I swished; I swirled; I kneaded in erotic elation. (Her arousal was, and still is, my greatest aphrodisiac.) For a moment or two – from my left arm position behind and beneath – I reached so high up in front of her that my hand clasped at the curves of her belly while her swollen pussy pressed wetly against my wrist (requiring a couple teasing wiggles for good measure).

From the soft skin of her belly, my fingers slid down to comb through her luxuriously curly, pubic hair. Such humid warmth therein! Such rich texture! I slid under, gathered her entirely in my hand, lifting against her outer hills, wet labia, prominent clitoris, and reddened deep portal. This was like the whole-crotch pressure that she often enjoyed when I hand-pleasured her.

Releasing that sweet gathering of parts, I traced her inner lips their joining on each side of her clitoral hood. Then I lingered for a fingertip dance around her pearl’s soft sanctuary. With deliberation, I traced her symmetrical lips downward feeling them wish-bone out, then back in, to encircle her darkening gorge. I reversed movements yet again, loitering at the top. The longer I touched all around her pearl’s pedestal, it thickened and distended. (I LOVE that little erection!)

My Dream Girl’s sloppy crotch was now so blood-pumped. My fingers fit mostly inside her deep-walled entry as I sloshed around its contours, sliding effortlessly.

Abruptly, her bare bottom jutted back against the coverup’s fabric, then jerked forward in a quick twerk. She jutted back again, then rocked her pelvis down and forward as I continued my stroking. Again, she did, and again. The jutting back, the tilting up. Both accelerated until her pelvis was freely rocking in rhythm with my accelerating fingers. This added extra pressure with each pelvic thrust. For my part, I was mouth-breathing now – almost panting – from the erotic stimulation coursing through our linked bodies and minds.

Oh, how I wanted her to come in a full frenzy of PLEASURE! I knew she was getting close. And ACK!! Let it be SOON, lest I pass out from hyperventilation!

Now! she whispered. FAST! HARD! I pressed down, bumped, and rubbed my fingers over her turgid clitoris with its standing pearl. That erect little prominence was now shouting (I can tell these things); More! MORE!! OH, PLEASE! MORE-E-E!!! DON’T YOU DARE STUH’ … [PANTING] … D-O-ON’T STO-O-O-OPPPPP!  OOOOOHHHHHHHH! UNGGG!! GUHHHHH!!! FWOOOO-EEEEEEEEE!

With a rush and a gasp, SHE. CAME. MARVELOUSLY!  Her legs snapped shut and clamped tightly, trapping my hand and wrist in her crotch. She twisted her hips to one side and her knees almost buckled when her first spasm broke. Each one sent heady rushes of pleasure through her body. She sucked in air and exhaled in sharp, clipped breaths.

How many times did she rise up, then slide down, those pleasure waves on that (still today) memorable night. Only to be surprised by more waves lifting her up, then sending her exhilaratingly down again? I will tell you; I have no idea! (Well it was FORTY YEARS ago, folks.) I know the waves crested and receded. The gradually calmed as they expanded outward from her little inverted hanging valley that I call my Puss. On cue, her brain dumped its boatload of happy chemicals. A deep peace seeped into her limbs, her thoughts, her quieting flesh.

When the waves quieted to serene, and her sighs subsided to normal breathing, she unlocked her legs. She stepped apart to release my wrist and hand that had been so strongly captured in her orgasmic embrace. I stretched out my crumpled, sticky fingers, then gave her sexy bottom some a few lingering feels. (I always loved tracing the delicate transition lines where her thighs ended and her round bottom cheeks began.) Fully pleased, I pulled my hand out from under her gown into the cooler outside air. I was coming down from my own panting excitement – a passion that peaked with hers when she climaxed. “GOD, what a creature!” I exulted.

Did someone look at us from across the dusky stream? Could they discern in that dim light what we were doing so long out there on our balcony? I doubt it. But what if someone did happen to watch us there? I hope they enjoyed it. Seeing lovers please each other on their vacation room balcony while creation’s night hits played around them.

My sweet lover floated in the sway of released endorphins. She gave a long, contented sigh, as she moved into that liminal state between dozing and dreaming. I sighed with her in the afterglow of our shared ecstasy.

Not a word was said – nor needed said.

And then we went to bed.