I couldn t believe it when I read last month s story Passion on the Bayou, for I had a strikingly similar experience that I felt I should share with Variations readers.
Last fall I took a trip to New Orleans, which turned out to be one of the most sensuous times of my life. In the city where debauchery reigns supreme, I had a terrific time bar hopping, checking out the local brass bands and stuffing myself with all the greasy but delicious Cajun delights. But after a week of overindulgence, I was ready for a break, so I rented a car and headed out to bayou country, hoping to catch one of the swamp tours mentioned in my guide book.
Unfortunately, I got there at four o clock and missed all of the scheduled tours, so I drove up and down the levee, asking people at the docks if they knew anyone who might take me out. Finally I was referred to a guy who lived in one of the houseboats lodged at the dock. I knocked, and a heavy twanged southern accent told me to enter. Inside the one room houseboat, I saw a tall, lanky, rather grizzled man in his mid fifties tumbling out of bed. I was slightly put off at first, but then he introduced himself as Half Pint and began chatting quite amicably, even showing me the two flying squirrels he kept as pets.
The tour was incredible, and Half Pint kept me entertained with his tales of the swampland and bayou country, telling me of the two years he spent driving his houseboat around the 150 miles of swamp. He pointed out baby gators and blue herons, and I was captivated by the mystery of the twisting inlets and winding trees.
I became more and more charmed by Half Pint as he spoke and was quite drawn to him. His dark blue eyes sparkled from his heavily lined face, which was covered with a grayish brown scruff, and his smile spread across his face like the brilliant sunset that was painting itself on the sky before us. Half Pint said he especially loved drifting along in the enigmatic beauty and stillness of the swamp at night. I couldn t keep my mind from picturing all the things that Half Pint and I could do under that heavy blanket of darkness.
But it was getting very nippy and we headed back, Half Pint inviting me in for a shot of whiskey to kill the chill. He showed me pictures of the many animals he had raised or tended to over the years, and I was beginning to brim over with desire for this modern day Dr. Doolittle. And when the conversation turned to food and Half Pint informed me, with a wink in his eye, of his love of raw oysters, I quickly took my opportunity and invited Half Pint out to dinner. As we drove off, one of Half Pint s friends asked where we were going, and he jokingly called out, She s gonna take me out and molest my body. Oh, if he only knew the half of it.
Dinner was great, with Half Pint repeatedly ordering a dozen more oysters and some champagne, giving me that sexy wink of his and saying, Ya know what oysters and champagne do to a woman, don t ya? Did I ever. As if I wasn t feeling horny enough before. I sensed that the sexual tension was mounting, but I wasn t sure if it might just be Half Pint s southern charm. But when he offered to let me stay on his boat so I wouldn t have to drive back in the dark, I didn t hesitate a moment.
Back at the houseboat, Half Pint fired up the wood burning stove and put on some country music. As we sat at his tiny table, he told me more of his swamp adventures and I told him all about my life in New York, conveniently leaving out my live in boyfriend. Just as I was contemplating how to make my move, Half Pint looked me straight in the eye and said, You know, Steph, you re mighty pretty, and that ain t just the oysters talking.
With that, he leaned forward and brushed my long blonde hair out of my face, then cupped my chin in his large rough hands and drew me in for a gentle kiss on the lips. After withdrawing for a moment, I then placed my hands on his stubbly cheeks and drew him in for another kiss, this time parting his soft lips with my tongue and probing the inside of his mouth. He responded passionately, and soon I moved over and straddled his lap, never breaking our heated kiss.
Half Pint s gnarled hands tentatively touched my buttocks as I ground my pelvis slightly against his, but he started kneading fervently when my hands began groping his body and unbuttoning his worn shirt. His chest hair was coarse against my hands and I ran my fingers through it as we kissed, seeking out his small nipples and tugging on them gently. Half Pint moaned and ran his hands up under my shirt, then began fiddling with my bra strap.
After a few moments of grappling, he managed to unhook my bra and move his huge hands moved around to cup my breasts. They seemed to be practically swallowed up by the sea of his palms, and his rough fingertips toying with my sensitive nipples sent tingles coursing straight to my pussy. I groped for Half Pint s crotch, undoing his belt and unzipping his fly. He wore no underwear, and his cock sprang right out into my eager hands like a jack in the box given that final crank.
Now, I ve heard that you can tell the size of a man s cock by looking at his hands, and Half Pint sure proved that doctrine to be true. I curled my hand around his massive member, stroking gently over the many thick veins that twisted throughout the slightly curved shaft like the knots on an old tree. Half Pint groaned and ran his coarse hands over my stomach and down past the waistband of my jeans. I released his cock and got off him just long enough to strip off my pants and underwear, then straddled my swamp king once again.
I slid my aching pussy slowly along the length of his shaft, delighting in the sensation of each vein working its way over my swollen clitoris. We began grinding in a steady rhythm, moving in sync until we could not stand the sweet torture for another second. Half Pint finally gasped, Oh, Steph, it s so good, I got to be up in there. I quickly obliged by standing up for a moment, then lowering my slick channel down to engulf his love pole.
I let him enter me slowly, savoring each ripple of his cock against my cunt walls, then began to grind slowly up and down. Half Pint threw his head back and gasped when I slid up until just the very tip of his cock was still inside me, then slammed my pelvis down in one quick stroke. Half Pint licked his enormous thumb and then placed it on my clit, rubbing in steady circles as I posted up and down on him. I clutched his chest and began to cry out long and deep as the tremors of orgasm approached, and I imagined my cries carrying into the mysterious blackness of the swamp.
With the murky scent of the swamp tantalizing my senses, I thought of how isolated we were just me and my mystery swamp lover in this magical paradise. That idea sent me over the edge, and I exploded in one of the most powerful orgasms of my life, clutching Half Pint s shoulders in desperation as wave after wave of pleasure racked my body. When I recovered enough to move, I ever so slowly slid my cunt up Half Pint s cock, then slammed down so he was buried inside me. That did it for him, and he grunted and clutched my buttocks as he shot streams of hot come into my welcoming pussy.
Forget New Orleans I spent the rest of my vacation on the houseboat with Half Pint, reveling in the beauty of the swamp and his cock. One time we even did it in his boat in the middle of the swamp as a large alligator looked on from the bank. You can bet your bottom dollar that I ll be returning to my swamp god the first chance I get. I don t know what it is about the bayou, but it sure seems to bring out the passion in us all!
Ms. S.R., New York