Spring picnic

The first heat of spring came on like a slow lick up the spine. We packed a basket with wine and cold chicken, but neither of us got to touch the food until later. We spread the blanket under the new leaves, stripped to nothing, and took turns dripping olive oil over skin. I poured it across his stomach, watched it run between his thighs, then slid down to lick every trace clean while he fed me bites of strawberries straight from his mouth. Juice ran down his chest. I followed it with my tongue until I reached his cock, took him deep, swallowed the sweetness and salt together. He laid me on my back and coated my ass, one finger, two, then worked the curve of a cucumber against the muscle until it gave. He pressed it inside slowly, letting the oil stretch me while he stroked himself against my mouth. Every bite he took from a peach sent juice over my lips, over his fingers, over the places he opened me again and again. When he finally slid in, full and slick, the cucumber stayed nestled beside him, a tight, obscene second presence that made me moan straight into the wine-soaked grass. We fucked until the sun shifted and the oil cooled, until my thighs shook and come pooled between my legs, until all we tasted was each other and whatever we could still pull from the basket with trembling hands.