Deep inside Hana’s pussy, Bryce’s cock shot out a thick river of semen with such force she could feel it dash against the walls of her vagina. With such a tight fit, the semen pushed and flowed, filling every nook and space, doing its job, searching for her cervix.
Bryce kept cumming so much so that ropes of his aerated cum began to coat his cock and fall from her vagina onto the tangle of pubic hair around his cock.
They held each other tight as their orgasms rolled on and melded into one. When it was over, they were tight in each other’s arms.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I always have,” he replied.
They lay together for fifteen minutes, holding each other, gently stroking each other. When Summer finally rolled off Bryce, the remains of his cum load were seeping down her leg. She got up and walked to the bathroom. She didn’t bother to close the door as she sat down to pee, emptying her bladder and cleaning out the remaining cum.
Bryce sat on the bed as his erection grew. Summer stood up and wiped her pussy clean, then returned to her man.
“That was wonderful, she whispered. But now it’s time to fuck me.”
Bryce turned Summer around, took his cock in his hand, and for the next forty-five minutes, they fucked relentlessly.
_____________________________________________________________
BRYCE
Summer and I stayed on Bainbridge Island. We worked on an organic farm for a year. She continued drawing, getting a job as an illustrator for a well-known author. I stayed with the farm and, fifteen years later, bought the operation from the owner. Forty years later, we are still there, with our children and a grandchild on the way.
Summer and her parents reconnected, and while she never returned to the Mormon faith, she was still spiritual. We were regulars at the Unitarian church, where all the religious fallen can be found. Other than visits to family and vacations, we lived nearly every day of our lives for forty years on an island.
Today, we are back on the Saint Lawrence River. My family sold our island, and I brought Summer back for one last sail around our tiny island. We never named it because we never got the chance, but as we approached the small rocky shore, I knew the name.
Nothing had changed. The island was the same, although I could see some garbage here and there. No doubt some teens had found it like we had and partied out here. I held Summer as we walked the island together, finally coming to where we first saw each other’s bodies naked. It was the beginning of an adventure that took us across the country and brought us together.
This was also the end of the adventure as I dug a hole and poured Summer’s ashes into it. I pulled out the burned remains of the portrait of me her mother had attempted to destroy more than 40 years earlier and placed it in the hole. I carefully covered the hole and put a few rocks atop her resting spot.
I then recited a poem, If Once You Have Slept on An Island, by Rachel Field.
“If once you have slept on an island,
You’ll never be quite the same;
You may look as you looked the day before
And go by the same old name,
You may bustle about in street and shop
You may sit at home and sew,
But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls
Wherever your feet may go.
You may chat with the neighbors of this and that
And close to your fire keep,
But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell
And tides beat through your sleep.
Oh! you won’t know why, and you can’t say how
Such a change upon you came,
But once you have slept on an island,
You’ll never be quite the same.”
I sailed away from Summer’s Island for the second to the last time. My last time would be when our children would bring my ashes back to be joined with hers.
Leave a Reply