Rifts in a River
A waterfall tumbled down over a steep cliff into a circular pool carved out of the ancient rock over millennia of erosion. It was a perfect day, the sun high in the sky, the spray from the waterfall glistening in the bright light, a faint rainbow spanning the pool. Mid-afternoon, the splashing of the water into the pool the only sound, the air still and warm the way it should always be were it not for the rotations, the seasons. The rarity of silence, the drumming of water on water, water on stone, the fleeting nature of perfection. Nothing ever lasts long enough, not even under a waterfall.
"Elakala Waterfalls Swirling Pool" (photo by ForestWander Nature Photography)
A young couple was coming to the waterfall through the forest. They had been there many times before. They knew where to go and what to do. They found their customary place sheltered by bushes and trees, took off their clothes, piled them neatly on a rock out of reach of the tumbling water. Taking a bar of soap from their carrying bag, they made their way through the bushes and over the rocks and walked to their secret place behind the waterfall, balancing themselves against the rocky cliff.
An old man was shuffling around the pool, a Great Dane on either side of him, as if guarding him, guiding him. He crossed the old wooden bridge where the pool turned into a river again. When he arrived on the other side, he climbed up on the rocks and slowly walked into the forest, the two dogs flanking him faithfully, attentively. Neither of them made a sound, nor did the old man find it necessary to talk to them. They, too, had come here many times before and knew where to go and what to do. They, too, belonged, to the forest and to each other.
Further downstream, out of sight of the young couple and the old man, a fisherman was standing on the riverbank with his fishing rod, not catching anything. He didn’t mind. He loved the river; he loved the solitude. Although he would have liked to be able to cook some fresh fish for his supper, he just kept dangling his line in the water and didn’t worry about expectations. He was used to it. He had come to the river many times before. Sometimes he caught something, sometimes he didn’t. It didn’t make much of a difference to him, as long as it was a perfect day for being quiet and thinking lazy thoughts. He loved being by himself by the river and thinking lazy thoughts. Beautiful afternoons were made for that.
A short distance further downstream, a woman was sitting naked on a flat rock in the middle of the river. She had never been there before, at least not as far as he knew. He took her presence as a kind of an intrusion into his solitude, but since she seemed to be very beautiful, he didn’t mind that, either. From where he stood on the riverbank, he could only see her back, her long blond hair falling down to her shoulders, the hint of a full breast. He fantasized about what she looked liked from the front, about how she would come out of the water, how they would tumble into the soft grass together. But she didn’t move, didn’t even turn to look at him, so single-minded was her contemplation of the river parting behind her, reuniting below her, flowing on.
The young couple picked their way carefully along the narrow path between the rock face and the waterfall until they were completely surrounded by water and soaking wet from the spray. They laughed gleefully. They loved being behind the waterfall where they were all alone. The water was coming down in front of them, running down the cliff behind them, dripping from the rocks on either side of them. They took the bar of soap and began to lather each other with the cool water, laughing and teasing each other, then getting serious with the lathering.
He rubbed her breasts diligently and fervently until they were completely covered with suds, her pink nipples strutting proudly from her breasts.
He rubbed her breasts diligently and fervently until they were completely covered with suds, her pink nipples strutting proudly from her breasts. She sighed contentedly. She took his penis into her hands and rubbed it with the soap, pulling his foreskin back and soaping the pink head, reaching down to his balls and lathering them with great relish and at great length. He groaned with pleasure. After a while, he reclaimed the soap and reached down between her legs, soaping her pussy and rubbing the soap into her crevices and into her opening. She moaned deeply, voicing her absolute delight with his attentive treatment.
When they were both covered in soap, they put their arms around each other and rubbed their slick, slippery bodies together, laughing and moaning from the pleasure they derived from each other’s soapy skin. The young woman flung her arms around his neck, put one leg up over his hip, and hoisted herself up until she could lift her other leg up over his other hip. He put his hands under her buttocks to provide her with the necessary support and she lowered herself to impale herself on him. They groaned when he penetrated her, his soaking penis sliding effortlessly into her soaking vagina. She started bobbing up and down, much to their mutual delight, and he squeezed her buttocks to add to her pleasure.
It felt as if they were doing this for the first time, even though they had been there many times before. Some things tended to feel that way, every time as good as the first, as exciting as the last. Theirs was no exception. They were ecstatic with the way their afternoon progressed, with the pleasure they derived from each other behind the thundering waterfall.
The old man with the two Great Danes circled through the forest until he came to the other end of the waterfall. Telling his dogs to stay among the trees, he carefully picked his way down over the rocks in search of some berries until he was right next to the waterfall. To his considerable surprise, he could clearly see the two young people engaged in their act of sexual union behind the watery curtain. Although he had come to the waterfall many times before, he had never realized that there were two lovers hiding behind it. He was thrilled. It was such an idyllic yet also such an utterly sensuous and intriguing view he couldn’t take his eyes off them. He simply kept standing there, watching them. The longer he watched the two and listened to their moaning and groaning as they raised each other closer and closer to their orgasms, the younger he became, the younger he felt.
Downstream, the fisherman was getting tired of standing on the riverbank and not catching anything. He thought of packing up and going home, but he was getting increasingly more curious about the naked woman out on the rock. He wondered what she might say if he joined her in the water. His hormones racing wildly through his body by then, he decided to throw caution to the wind. He quickly took off his clothes, waded out into the river, and circled the rock. The woman was indeed very beautiful, light and airy, almost watery, otherworldly in a spellbinding and sensuous way. She seemed to be part of the rock, part of the river, and he an intruder in her own private world. But she smiled encouragingly and readily spread her legs.
"full relax" (photo by Flickr user flavio.leone)
He stepped up to the rock between her legs and took her breasts into his hands. They were full and firm, a perfect fit. She moaned, balanced herself on the rock with her arms. Then she arched her back, and threw her head back until her face was lifted up to the sun. Emboldened, the fisherman slid his penis into her proffered vagina and started thrusting into her. She moaned again, yet she never moved nor spoke a single word, just moaned with obvious pleasure.
All around them, the fish he had been trying to catch all day were leaping out of the water, as if mocking him, if fish were capable of such an emotion. Life can be like that; the great ironies of living in cycles. Being in a river downstream from a tumbling waterfall and a pool has been known to make things simpler and easier, but it didn’t. The afternoon was simply gliding along its path.
The more the fisherman thrust, the older he became, the older he felt. She seemed insatiable. With his last ounce of energy, he bore down on her and gushed into her, groaning with the culminating effort and the delicious release. He couldn’t tell if she had an orgasm of her own, and she still didn’t say anything. When he withdrew from her, she simply bent forward and kissed him lightly on his lips. He took that as a sign that their encounter was over. He limped back to the shore, picked up his clothes and his fishing gear, and melted into the forest. The trees and the bushes closed in around him, the forest getting darker as the afternoon wore on. Out on her rock, the woman shuddered through a series of intensely pleasurable orgasms of her own.
Behind the waterfall, the young couple was in the throes of their orgasms as well. The old man detached himself from his voyeuristic vantage point, climbed back up over the rocks, and called his dogs. They flanked him obediently as he walked back out of the forest, charging in among the trees once and barking as if they were chasing something. Then they were at his sides again, protecting him. He walked around the pool with a new lightness in his step, a new smile on his face, then vanished in the dimming light of the forest on the other side.
The young couple stepped through the waterfall and jumped into the pool. They swam around for a while, grabbing at each other, pretending to push each other under water, enjoying their time in the refreshing water, reveling in their youthful exuberance. They weren’t aware of anything around them. They were much too involved with themselves and with each other, he with her breasts bobbing lustily in the water, she with his penis getting bigger again, he with her still-moist pussy. As was their right. They were too young to be concerned.
They swam to the other end of the pool where the water was shallow and calm and the bottom sandy and soft. There they fused themselves to each other again, half their bodies lying in the water, half on the sun-warmed sand. The old man wasn’t watching anymore. The fisherman didn’t know they were there. The woman on the rock had her own life to live. The couple stayed in the pool, filling themselves with each other, fulfilling their destiny as they needed to and were supposed to.
The sun was slowly disappearing behind the tops of the trees, nearing the end of another journey. An eagle circling overhead. Somewhere a sign: “You are here.” An arrow, pointing. Markers for the mystic quest.
The woman sitting on the rock in the middle of the river slowly detached herself from her resting place and let herself glide into the gently rolling water. She was smiling cryptically to herself, knowing she had to fulfill her own calling, prepared to find her own way. The slow current took her up like an old friend and she floated leisurely downstream to where the river opened up into a calm lake. She swam a few strokes from the river mouth out into the lake. Then she dissolved in the water, a wave on the quiet surface of the lake. The haunting call of a loon.
–
Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His stories, poems, essays and articles have also appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic writing has been published in The International Journal of Erotica, In the Buff, Erotic Tales, My Wife and Her Lovers, and Kairos, is forthcoming in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions, and appears online in Lucrezia Magazine, Oysters & Chocolate, Eros Monthly, Bare Back Magazine, and Samarel Artcore Fantasies. He makes his home in London (Canada) with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.
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