By The Pond

Denisa waded barefoot through the pond, toes flicking silvery fish away from her ankles like some ridiculous princess who misplaced her shoes. Max watched from the tree line, half-grinning, half-hardening. He’d never seen someone herd koi with their pinky toe before, but the sight hit like a sucker punch to the libido. He crossed the grass, and she looked up—smile crooked, dress damp at the hem. A silent agreement passed between them: clothes were optional, privacy optional too. They landed on the old couch under the pergola, cushions wheezing as they flopped down. Max yanked her dress over her head while she tugged his jeans past his hips in a clumsy tug-of-war. Skin met sunlight and breeze; her nipples tightened under the sudden air. His cock sprang free, thick and already damp at the tip. She wrapped a cool, pond-cool hand around it, pumping twice before swinging a leg over his lap. Denisa sank down in one wet, sliding rush, pussy swallowing him to the root. They both groaned like the couch might tattletale. She rode him in quick bounces, tits jiggling, thighs flexing, while he braced her hips and thrust up to meet each drop. Wet sounds carried on the wind—skin on skin, lapping water behind them, her soft curses mixed with sudden giggles when a fish leaped and splashed as if cheering them on. Max’s thumb found her clit, circling fast. Her walls clenched, milking him harder, and he spilled inside her with a grunt, hips jerking so the old couch creaked like it might finally give up the ghost. They stayed tangled, sweat cooling, both laughing at the absurdity of pond water and picnic furniture becoming the setting for the afternoon’s impromptu fuck.