The Stud I Found Behind the Waterfall

I still remember the summers when I learned not to be ashamed of what I liked. I was twenty-nine then, with enough road behind me to know what I wanted from a man and enough nerve to go looking for it without asking permission. That season, I escaped with two friends to the weekend house one of their families owned in a mountain village, the kind with a wide river and houses scattered among the trees.

There was a man in town everyone talked about. His name was Bruno, and he had a workshop where he built go-karts for racing. He lived alone, drove as if death owed him money, and had walked away from three or four rollovers without a scratch. They said he was crazy, that no woman could put up with him, and they blamed it on his rough nature. I would discover the real reason two days after arriving.

That morning my friends decided to go to the village campground, but I couldn't be bothered with the crowds. I preferred to go for a bike ride and try out paths no one had marked for me. As I reached a rise, I went down toward the riverbank along a narrow trail, happy to have the place to myself.

I went a little more than a mile before another track appeared around a bend, almost swallowed by the vegetation. Curiosity got the better of prudence. I left the main path and went in that direction until I came across a small waterfall that seemed not to appear on any map.

It was an arm of the river that split farther upstream and joined up again afterward. I got off my bike and walked toward the falling water, no more than six feet wide. The stones were white and the water so clear that I could see the bottom effortlessly. Behind the liquid curtain I noticed a strange glow, so I went around the side and poked my head through.

It wasn't a cave. It was a chamber carved out by erosion, the size of a room, with a smooth stone floor and a pool of still water to one side, like a natural bathtub. Light entered through a crack in the ceiling and illuminated everything with an almost indecent clarity.

There was Bruno.

He was sitting against the wall, his eyes closed and both hands occupied with himself. He had a thick cock with a broad tip, so generously sized that he needed both hands, one above the other, to encompass it, and there was still plenty of glistening glans sticking out above them. He stroked it slowly, the skin pulled back toward the base, and a thick drop hung from the tip. I stood rooted at the entrance, fascinated, letting my eyes travel over that piece of flesh before moving up to his face. All at once I felt my shorts sticking between my legs, my pussy soaked just from looking at him.

A sound escaped my throat before I could stop it, half moan and half sigh. His eyes flew open and he turned his head, startled, his hand still closed around his cock. I didn't move. I let my gaze travel from his eyes to his crotch and back again, making no attempt to hide what I was thinking, biting my lower lip.

When he saw I wasn't running away, a slow smile crossed his face. He stood without covering himself, his cock pointing at me as if it knew exactly where it was headed, came closer, and took me by the arm to pull me into his hideaway.

“I knew someone would show up someday,” he said quietly, his voice still hoarse.

I remained speechless. One part of me was thinking that he was a man from the village, someone I might run into on any street, and that with his reputation for being crazy there was no guarantee he would be discreet. The other part—the one in charge—was only looking at what he had between his legs and calculating how he was going to make it fit inside me whole. He took my hand and brought it to him. When he noticed I wasn't pulling away, he closed my fingers around his cock and made me pump it slowly, showing me the rhythm he liked. It was hard as iron and burning hot. Then he held the back of my neck and guided me downward, without asking.

I knelt on the stone and opened my mouth without resisting. The first time I could barely manage the head; my tongue filled with the salty taste of pre-cum, and he let out a grunt when I ran the tip of it over his frenulum. He thrust with a roughness that should have bothered me and forced me to take him deeper, until I felt him catch in my throat. I spat, adjusted myself, and went back to sucking him as if I'd been waiting months for that cock. With one hand I held him at the base, while with the other I caressed his heavy balls, tugging gently. He grabbed my hair and began setting the pace, burying himself in me until tears blurred my eyes.

“That's it, slut, that's how you wanted it,” he whispered, and the word went straight through my entire body.

I begged him between gasps to ease up when he squeezed my breasts too hard through my shirt, and he answered with a soft bite on my shoulder, an apology that wasn't one. His fingers were coarse and impatient, and I liked that clumsiness more than any practiced caress. He pulled my clothes off in jerks, taking care not to tear them only because I asked him to. I lay naked on the warm stone, my nipples standing hard and my thighs shining with how wet I was. He looked me up and down and whistled softly.

“You're dripping,” he said, running two fingers between my pussy lips and showing them to me strung with juices. “Lick.”

I cleaned them one by one, looking him in the eyes. He lowered his mouth to my tits and sucked my nipples until they were hard as little stones, while two of his fingers were already slipping inside me, searching for the spot that made my back arch. He made me come like that, very quickly, against his hand, trembling and biting his shoulder so I wouldn't scream. His palm was left soaked. He licked it without taking his eyes off me.

He made me turn around, arranged me to his liking, and put me on all fours on a towel spread over the stone. I felt the fat head of his cock pressed against my pussy entrance, rubbing up and down, searching for a way in. He entered in a single thrust, all the way to the bottom. It hurt for a second, barely, a burn that made me clench my teeth, and then the pain turned into something else, the sensation of being filled all the way up to my throat.

“Slowly at first,” I told him, and for once he listened to me.

He moved with long, controlled thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, and I felt every inch of him opening a path inside me. The towel bunched between my fingers. Within a minute I no longer wanted him to go slowly. I leaned onto my elbows and began pushing my ass backward myself, seeking him, fucking myself on him. He caught the signal at once and let go.

He pulled my hair back, marked my buttocks with his open palm, and every slap tore an animal cry from me that echoed off the stone walls. His cock slid in and out with a wet, obscene sound, and I felt my juices running down the inside of my thigh. He put his thumb in my mouth from behind and made me suck it; then that same wet thumb moved down and pressed against my asshole, pushing gently, playing, without quite slipping all the way in. My whole body trembled. The echo of the waterfall mingled with my breathing and the wet smacking of our bodies, and for a moment I completely forgot where I was and who that man was.

“I'm going to come,” he growled.

“Not inside,” I begged, a trap of my own to push him toward doing exactly the opposite.

It worked. He gripped my waist, his fingers digging in, pressed me against him, and drove in the last of his furious thrusts, short and deep. I felt him swell and the first hot jet fill me inside, and I came with him, screaming into the towel, my knees trembling on the rock and my fingers digging into the fabric. He kept coming for what seemed like half a minute, squeezing me against his pubis, until he finally let himself go. When he pulled out, I felt his semen running down my thighs, warm and thick.

***

He moved away and dropped down beside me, breathing hard. I stayed like that for a while, facedown, my ass still raised, feeling his cum dripping out of me. I ran two fingers over my pussy, lifted them strung with white, and brought them to my mouth out of curiosity. He watched me from the corner of his eye, smiling.

I went over to the pool, stepped in up to my waist, and cleaned myself without hurrying. The water was icy cold and made my nipples hard again. I came back. I found him reclining, staring at the stone ceiling as if none of it were strange, his cock resting thick and half-hard on his thigh, still glistening.

“Bruno,” he said, offering me the name I hadn't asked for.

I gave him a false one. I wasn't going to give my real name to a man half the village distrusted.

I leaned over him and took him into my mouth again, trying to bring him back to life. It took no effort. I felt him grow thicker between my lips, pulse against my tongue, stretch until he struck the back of my throat. I ran my tongue along his entire length, from balls to tip, and sucked his glans with hollowed cheeks until he muttered a curse. He reacted immediately, ready to continue, and I climbed on top of him so I could set the pace my way.

I opened myself with my fingers and positioned him against my entrance. I lowered myself slowly, feeling every inch open me again, a long moan escaping from deep inside me. When I had him all the way in, I stayed still for a second, squeezing him with my inner muscles, feeling him pulse. Then I began moving with increasing eagerness, rising and lowering myself while he took advantage of the position to return to my breasts with his tongue and teeth. He bit my nipples and I dug my nails into his shoulders. He had me so close to the edge that I came quickly, squeezing down on him, trembling with my mouth open against his neck.

Then I turned around, facing the stone, bracing myself on my hands, and offered him my back so he could take control. I guided his cock myself between my buttocks and lowered myself onto it again, this time facing away from him, in reverse cowgirl. He did it from the first thrust, without respite: he grabbed my hips and began thrusting upward, bouncing me on him while I supported myself with my palms against his thighs. I could see my belly rising and falling, my tits jumping with every blow. He slipped a hand around in front and began rubbing my clitoris with two fingers, quick and filthy, until he made me come for the second time. He came just as I finished, pushing me down against him and unloading again deep inside with a long grunt.

I went back to the water to cool off, my legs still weak. I thought the man would need quite a while, but less than ten minutes had passed when he was already on top of me again, hard as if he hadn't done anything. He was an animal when it came to stamina, with energy to spare. He threw me onto the warm stone, arranged me on my side, and positioned himself in the opposite direction, looking for a sixty-nine. He opened my legs with his hands and pressed his mouth to my pussy without warning.

He licked me as if he were hungry, his broad, flat tongue moving up and down, stopping at my clitoris to suck it between his lips. Then he thrust his tongue inside me, fucking me with it, and I lost the thread while trying to return the favor. I grabbed his cock with both hands and put it back in my mouth, sucking him from that angle while caressing his balls with one hand and pressing a finger behind him, on that soft patch just before his anus. He moaned against my pussy, and the vibration made me clamp my thighs around his head. I came over his mouth, dripping onto his chin, and he kept licking until the last tremor. The crack in the ceiling continued to let in the sun, and the light fell over us like a spotlight.

When we finished that round, he took me back to the warm stones. He opened my legs and sank between them with his mouth, patient this time, sucking me unhurriedly, alternating tongue and fingers. He slipped two fingers inside, curling them upward, while he licked my clitoris with the tip of his tongue. I fell apart beneath him more than once, moaning without caring who might hear me in that lost corner of the river, grabbing him by the hair and pushing his face against me until I couldn't take any more.

***

Later he got into the water to relax while I remained stretched out on the rock, my body limp, my breathing ragged, and my crotch throbbing like a second heart. He appeared with a handful of fruit he'd kept in a bag, and we ate in silence, watching the waterfall. About twenty minutes passed before either of us spoke.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked, with an almost childish curiosity.

I had no problem being honest. I told him it had been a long time since a man had left me so thoroughly wrecked, that I liked exactly those encounters without names or futures, intense and without promises. I confessed that I enjoyed being treated with that mixture of hunger and nerve, that I liked being talked dirty to, slapped, and pulled by the hair, and that I had rarely met someone so willing to give me everything I asked for.

As I spoke, I noticed him waking up again between his legs. I wanted to try him one last time, so I gently pushed him back to recline and took my time, slowly, playing with my tongue all over his cock, spitting onto the tip and using it as lubrication, moving my hand up and down in time with my mouth. I watched how he writhed with pleasure at the sight of me, how his belly tightened, and how he reached for my hair with one hand so he could hold on. That image—a man completely surrendered, all his size and reputation for roughness reduced to moans by my mouth—turned me on as much as everything else. I took his balls into my mouth one at a time, sucking them carefully, and swallowed his cock down to the base again.

I wanted to see him finish up close, so when I felt him reach his limit I pulled away and knelt in front of him, my mouth open and my tongue out. I gripped his cock with both hands and pumped it quickly, looking into his eyes. He exploded within seconds: the first jet landed on my cheek, the second on my tongue, and the rest across my breasts, thick white streams running between them. I licked my lips and smiled at him, smeared with his cum. I never tired of finding out how much energy that body still had left.

Then I made him lie down again, quickly rinsed myself off with water, and climbed on top of him once more, just for a little while, long enough to draw one last shudder from myself with him deep inside me. I rode him slowly, my hands braced on his chest, letting myself sink all the way down and feeling him touch my deepest point. I came like that, squeezing him with my whole pussy, trembling above him with my head thrown back.

I rested for another ten minutes, then returned to the water to rinse my hair, my face, and the dried semen from my skin. I got dressed, gave him a long goodbye kiss, still tasting him in my mouth, and grabbed my bike. More than three hours had passed since I'd left; my friends must have been worried, so I pedaled back as fast as I could, feeling the seat pressing against a swollen, burning pussy that would not soon forget what had been done to it.

The next day we left the village. I never went back, partly because I was afraid that man would talk about me around town. Though I can't say I didn't want to, I admit. I was left wondering whether the reputation for madness he carried wasn't, deep down, a way of scaring off anyone who couldn't match his appetite.

From time to time, on long afternoons, I still think about the hidden waterfall, the light falling through the crack onto the white stone, and a stranger who treated me exactly as I had always wanted to be treated. That afternoon I learned that the best stories are the ones you go looking for alone, far from the marked path, and that desire, when lived without guilt, needs neither names nor promises to leave its mark.