Northern California provides a backdrop of awe-inspiring beauty as a couple discovers the simple pleasure of making love under open blue skies.
Sounds like you two are going to have a wonderful vacation,” I said. Bob had come into the office after lunch with a smile and a handful of travel brochures. As he told me about the various spots he and Sheila were planning to visit, he interrupted himself and said, “Listen, why don’t you and Cathy spend some time at our place. It’s up by the Russian River.” The place he was talking about had been his parents’ house. He had inherited it. For quite some time Bob and Sheila had tried to coax us up there, but something had always gotten in the way; this time however, I said, “You’re on.”
My work load is heavy. I assist physicists with cancer research. The last few weeks had been extremely tiring. At least we were winding up the latest business. Now I was really looking forward to this.
The Russian River winds its way through Northern California about sixty miles north of San Francisco. The Russians established a post at Fort Ross in the early nineteenth century; in fact, at one time this area constituted one of the farthest reaches of the Russian Empire. Much of its beauty remains as it must have been centuries ago.
About a week after Bob and Sheila had left on their vacation, Cathy and I finally had a break from our grueling schedules and decided to visit Bob’s place on the river. So Friday we rented a car, and early Saturday morning, we were on our way north.
The traffic around the Golden Gate Bridge was heavy, but finally we turned off the main thoroughfare and found ourselves winding our way through vineyards. I drove with my hand on Cathy’s thigh. The vineyards and small farms eventually gave way to thick redwood forests. Picturesque inns nestled in the woods along the highway.
As we drove through this scenic country, Cathy reached over and took my hand. ’I’m already beginning to unwind.” In turn I began to massage her pussy through her panties. I was finally relaxing too. Driving was not the taxing endeavor it is in San Francisco. Instead the roadway, with its generous curves and smooth pavement, lent my hand a hypnotic, tranquil rhythm that brought Cathy to a slow climax. Finally we saw the lodge Bob had told us to look for. According to his directions, we would be turning off the highway onto a very narrow road in less than half a mile.
Within twenty minutes we had reached Bob’s place — a rustic, two-story wooden house with grapevines in the front and stately redwoods behind it. As Cathy and I got out of the car, the late morning’s warmth enveloped us. We walked into the sparsely furnished house, and Cathy changed into fresh clothes. We knew the river wasn’t too far from the house, but to get to it we would have to cut through the woods out back. Putting a bottle of wine and some food in a small backpack, we began our walk. The symphony of living sounds and silence in these majestic woods was stunning; we entered with the sounds of leaves crunching beneath our feet.
“This is beautiful,” Cathy said, nestling against me. I buried my face in her soft brown hair and kissed it, smelling sunshine in it. The warmth, the quiet and the musky smell of the plant life around us quickly acted as aphrodisiacs.
We slowed our pace. After twenty minutes we reached the river, and we stood hidden in a spot that was covered with foliage. As we stood there, two people in a canoe slid smoothly by. Cathy and I turned to one another and smiled. I drew her close; our eyes met and our lips came together. She put her tongue in my mouth. I stopped her, and we both spread open a blanket in a small clearing. I glanced up for a moment and my eyes fell on Cathy, who was standing like a Celtic maiden in a forest grotto.