Shoal
by parthenogenesis

We went swimming at a wide bend in the river, where an ancient willow tickled the surface of the water and the canopy of its branches created a secret refuge just for us.

The water was a stage for her beauty and grace: she leaped, arced, and glided, her skin iridescent with droplets in the sun. I twisted and gasped in her wake. We frolicked—swimming, jumping, splashing, diving, teasing, laughing, the tips of my fingers tracing her nipples and buttocks; the curves of her smoothness caressing my thighs and rising cock.

When the heat of our passion surpassed the water's cooling allure, we hastened to the bower on shore. Above her, I soared, I dipped, I plunged. Beneath me, on land as in the water, she could not be still: she rolled her hips, arched her back, and made muffled moans against the press of my lips.

At length, I leaned my weight against her with a groan. She screamed the birds from the tree.

I looked down at her in amazement. I made her come like that? I felt like a god.

"Sorry about the scream," she said. "There was a sharp stone in the small of my back."