Life has been a bit rough — finding time to write has been . . . impossible. So, I hope you don’t mind my absence. This – this is mostly sweet, with a touch of kink.

Normally, a single lost tie-down wouldn’t be a concern. Sometime, before I next needed my tent, I’d find some nylon twine and fix whatever broke — but, despite the fact that the night was still hot at sunset, clouds on the horizon looked ominous, and the wind was just starting to pick up. I did not want to get stuck in a leaking tent.

I worked my way to the campsite, rope in hand, just as the breeze started to turn from “refreshing” to “chilling.” The fire was down to embers, my friends all departed, but I wasn’t quite ready for bed . . . with a log thrown on in just the right place and a few minutes of patience, I had a toasty fire. And then I heard the sound of leaves crunching.

She sat down in a chair near the first without a word spoken. In her right hand, she held the ubiquitous red-plastic-cup, and when she looked at me, her lips seemed just a shade darker than they normally were. “Is there any more wine?” I asked as I started to size up the simple repair.

“I’m afraid this was the last of it,” she answered. “Care to share?”

She was standing before I could nod my assent. I sat, pulling my own cup out of the camp-chair cup-holder, but she sat herself in my lap, the her cup was soon pressed to my lips.

It was a sweet red – chilled from the bottle being left outside on a chilly evening.

Before I was able to swallow the little sip, her lips found my own. Wine dribbled down my chin as our tongues darted into each others’ mouths. The cup hit the ground a second later – neither of us mourned the lost nectar.

She smelled of cheap wine and campfire as we slowly kissed each other. But timid kisses grew in fervor, fast. She melted into my left shoulder as I placed one hand into the rear pocket of her jeans. My fingertips right hand traced the seam of her pants until I had her thigh grasped. She gasped and thrust her hips upward, and my hand left her body for just a second, before sliding under her shirt. Beneath the loose sweatshirt, there was nothing, and one of her breasts found it’s way into my hand. I squeezed and she bit my lip before whimpering.

My erection became full and throbbed for release against my pants. She wiggled her butt – I have to imagine it was merely a “hey, I like the feeling of that” gesture.

With a particularly chilly breeze, the kiss broke. We both panted as I stood, letting her legs drop, in a regulated fall, to the ground. I pulled her sweatshirt over her head and she stood by the campfire, her arms wrapped around her torso, her back to the fire.

I reached down for the twine. She looked around, nervously. There was no movement.

“Hold out your hands,” and she did just that. I made a quick knot about her wrists with the twine doubled-up, and, awkwardly, tied her hands together by pushing the full ball of twine through her arms. I looked up & whispered a quick prayer as I released the twine over an overhead branch. I knew I had but one chance — longing can only take patience so far, and waiting for repeated throws of a ball of twine over a tree branch, well, that could kill the mood.

That I’m writing this should tell you, clever reader, that my throw landed just right – it hit the branch I was aiming for and bounced up, and over, before coming down on the other side. With a quick “tug” and a few extra knots, she was on her tippy-toes, her hands over her head as she held onto the rope between her hands for extra support.

I kissed the nape of her neck and she let out a little cry. Her feet left the ground and embraced me. I then wrapped my arms around her, supporting her weight — and when I released her, her feet fell to the ground.

I stepped back.

For the next twenty minutes, I traced shadows on her, as they were left by the firelight. When beads of sweat started to form, I started tracing those – never pressing more than a fingertip against her skin. When a particularly cold blast of air gusted past, her nipples visibly stiffened.

I unzipped her pants.

Her jeans fell to the ground, and I took the site of this panty-clad vixen ahead of me, lit by the firelight.

I approached her and, in one motion, squatted down, parted her legs, placed my legs around each of her calves, and stood, supporting her weight with my shoulders. Her sex was directly before me.

Through her underwear, I licked. She was wet, so wet that she was soaking through the cotton.

I pulled my head back, just a little bit, and bit the lace at the edge of her underwear, sliding the garment to the side as much as I could. And now, campfire and sex will always remain linked scents to me.

With her lips free, I released her underwear and licked. Holding her legs still, I moved the length of her sex, in hard, deliberate licks, until just the tip of my tongue flicked the nubbin of her clitoris. Slowly I continued these lashings – one, two…ten…twenty.

And then I took her clit between my tongue and my upper lip and played, holding her legs still between my hands and shoulders.

She whimpered and shuddered. I took a breath.

I released one leg and un-did the button of my own jeans. My erection found it’s way through the hole in my boxers, and that was enough for me. I moved back a fraction of an inch and she started to slide down my body. My cock entering her, and she threw her legs around me.

We fucked and our mouths found each other once again. “I love tasting myself when I kiss you,” she whispered and I pulled her hair, pumping into her with increased fervor.

I came into her, and we kissed until my member fell out of her, flaccid. A cold breeze caught me, the front of my boxers now wet made things especially chilly on my end. Her lips chattered as goosebumps rose about her body.

I dropped her legs and fumbled about my jeans for a second – and freed her in just a second with a swift knife cut.

She entered my tent and I threw water on the fire. A storm blew through that evening – and I didn’t care that some water got into the tent.