There are two rivers in this city: one that divides us from our neighbor to the east, and one that divides downtown from the west. The river to the west is scenic and lovely, with a well-planned and meticulously maintained stretch of grass and trees on a path that cyclists and runners enjoy in abundance. The river to the east is primarily utilitarian, with shipyards and bridges out to another place. It is punctuated with small, manicured areas, like the city government came out of its stupor once every half mile and realized that people who live here might occasionally want to enjoy that waterfront, too.
I live closer to the river to the east. I've definitely enjoyed the path on the river to the west, but when I want to go for a quick run—usually around five miles, sometimes as few as three and occasionally as many as eight—I head east for large stretches of sidewalk with nobody else on them. There is a half-mile stretch of a riverfront park, with recessed benches for looking at boats floating by and for enjoying the pleasure of being outside. When I run through here, I'll sometimes stop, stand on one of the wide concrete berths between the immediately-riverfront, hidden benches and the pedestrian path, feeling the wind and sun over my body and allowing myself to be, momentarily, somewhere else.
The benches are recessed away from the path, such that when I have taken the occasion to sit on one, my head is about at the same level as a passerby's ankle. The concrete barrier that I sometimes stand on is about three feet wide, and spans 80% of the length of a bench, with a gap in the middle and some steps for easy entry into one of these cubbies. I have an imagination about this slightly recessed, hidden space: it's outdoors and public, yet hidden.
It is May. I am walking down the riverfront path with a date: a man near my age or slightly older, with broad shoulders and healthy build; darker skin than mine and with a short, full beard. I am wearing a headband in my hair, a knee-length apricot dress with a cache-coeur neckline with a loose skirt and a tighter top, two inch heels, and black boy-short panties. We walk by the river, with a cool early-summer-late-spring breeze on an otherwise warm night, after an otherwise uneventful dinner and a bottle of red. The wind stirs the edge of my dress. My breasts shake and my thighs slip past my labia with each step. My date tells a joke. I tell a rejoinder. We laugh.
He takes my hand and pulls me to him, and still laughing, still teasing, kisses me lightly. His hands are around my waist, and when he pulls away he pinches and tickles me. I jump and giggle, he pulls me in again, and kisses me again, tickles me again. He suggests that we sit on one of these benches and watch as boats lit up with revelers glide down the river, and takes my hand and leads me down the steps to the recessed seats. The bench is cool concrete. We can hear the clip-clop of people walking by, oblivious to us as we settle in and the night air shrouds us away from prying eyes.
He and I continue joking, continue our laughs—a little quieter now—and continue our light exploratory touches. These turn into kisses and him pulling me into his lap. My hemline is creeping up. He kisses me more forcefully, presumably to quiet me a little bit. I am sitting with my back to his chest, twisted around in this embrace, and he starts to run his hands over my arms and thighs. One hand slips through the crossed front of my dress, one runs up my thigh, under the skirt, straight to my pussy.
He whispers into my ear, “Margot, give me your panties.” I pull them down my legs, bending over in his lap, and slip them over my heels, and hand them to him. He slips them into his pocket.
Our voices are quieter and our breathing heavier. He pulls his hand out from between my legs and puts a finger in my mouth. I look him in the eyes and lick it clean. He is getting hard, and I am shifting around in his lap. I turn around and face him, straddling his pelvis, and his hands hide under my dress, gripping and kneading my ass as we start to kiss more deeply. We are writhing against each other; hidden by the height of the berth and shadows it creates.
A woman on the path behind the bench is laughing as she walks by. There is the creak of someone riding a poorly-maintained bicycle.
I lift myself up a little as my date unzips his jeans and pulls out his fully hardened cock, and I lower myself onto it. I kiss him to stay quiet: my knees are on either side of him against the concrete, he is thrusting into me slowly as I ride him; then he is gripping my hips and holding me up as he starts to fuck me faster. My dress spreads out over our legs like a blanket. We moan quietly into each others mouths.
A couple is walking by and chattering away in low voices. I hear their feet as they stroll past us.
I feel suddenly warm and tense yet relaxed; mixed with a certain sense of fear or dread that is quickly overwhelmed with a sense of pure bliss, coming out of my center and going to my fingers and toes. I stifle a cry. My date kisses me, digs his fingers into my flesh, and hardens and spasms inside my body. There is sweat on our foreheads and running between my breasts. We sit like this for a minute, catching our breath, in a warm post-coital embrace with the cool breeze ruffling through our hair. I stir. He pulls my panties out of his pocket and hands them to me, I use them to catch his fluid as I stand up. I smooth my hair, then smooth his. We walk out of our hiding place, and throw my panties in the nearest trash can.
We walk to our bicycles. I ride in front of him, bent over with my skirt flying everywhere. We make our way quickly back to my apartment, where the plan is to shower ourselves clean of the city grime and spend the rest of the night making as much sound as we like while enjoying each others' bodies.