A Story - The Picnic Table

Fiction? or prediction?

We'd been walking quite awhile without seeing another soul when we finally reached the picnic area, whose existence, frankly, I had begun to question. We started out side-by-side and I'd let her lead a bit going uphill, bearing up under taunts of "come on, old man" for the pleasure and inspiration of her lovely curves.

After not very long I wasn't the only one who was breathing hard and we'd had plenty of ups and downs since then. She'd also grown hesitant of preceding me, and gave the jibes a rest since I was lugging the pack and might start making her carry it. Or maybe it was my threat of finding a switch, or pointing out a blackberry vine with thorns that belonged in a vampire novel, my wide leather belt so inappropriate for summer hiking, or the narrow, thick belt she herself wore which was in no way needed to keep the waist of her shorts from slipping down over the delectable flare of her hips.

"Finally," I sighed, slinging the pack onto the table and digging into it.

"Finally? Why finally?" she asked after taking on half a canteen of water. "Do we have anything to eat in there?"

"Eat? Did we come here to eat?" I asked in return, producing a long coil of rope and a small flag on a long staff of rattan. Two fuzzy jackets were supposedly in case we didn't get back before dark, or possibly autumn.

The picnic table was pretty standard. One jacket went from table edge onto the seat on the right side, padding her knees; the rope went around them, four strands to spread out the strain, dropping down between, under the seat-board and up around her ankles just above her short and very cute little hiking boots. Her shorts were unfastened, enough for now, then the rope went under the seat again, across to the left seat and under it, and back up on the far side for her wrists, the second jacket going under her chin and outstretched arms.

I'm not good at knots but I've gone to a lot of trouble to learn the trucker's hitch, which tightens the load down when you pull on it. I knew it was secure when she said that if I didn't stop tickling her she'd wet herself, twice in warning and once in panic, despite my own warning that such an "accident" would be highly spankable. Working her shorts and panties down was not as trivial as I had predicted but I wasn't feeling a lot of time pressure except from my desire to get my hands on her bottom - it took even longer to work up from squeezing, rubbing and love smacks, which she considers mere teasing, to something with a little more heft to it. We were in a pretty good rhythm for awhile before it was time for the cane.

Wrapping the flag around the staff even padded my end a bit. She likes a lot of little light strokes but needs the hard ones too so I went with the latter. The jackets came in handy because she was managing to move her elbows and hips an inch or two. I slowed down until I didn't have to stop.

I tend to let the cane tip droop a bit on the far side, leaving her with a dark triangle high on her left thigh. The one hard stroke straight across that low left a cane kiss, two dark lines, slightly higher in the center, divided by a thin still-white line. From her tan line I knew it'd be just above the edge of her shorts on the hike back but I'd know it was there. A few minutes of stroking and a few more minutes after that and she'd be ready for one of the belts.