I offer a story from life, where the details and names have, of course, been changed, but the emotions are very real. A trip out of town with a big group was my Alena's idea. She generally loves getting everyone together—my friends, her girlfriends. It's loud, fun, and almost always ends with dancing around the campfire. This time we're going to a new place; someone mentioned there was a small lake and an old bridge there. I'm driving, Alena's next to me, and in the back, the friends are discussing something, music, and the smell of summer coming from the open window. We arrive. The clearing is excellent, the grill is set up quickly, and the girls are laying out snacks. Alena is wearing a light sundress today, her hair tied up, but a couple of strands have come loose from the wind. I look at her, she catches my eye and smiles, a knowing smile, as if to say, I know what you're thinking. We haven't really seen each other for a week; we've both been working a lot, and this trip is the first time in a while that we're together and not in a hurry. The shashlik is cooking, and the group disperses across the clearing: some with guitars, some playing volleyball. Alena comes over and takes my arm: — Shall we take a walk? Let's see the lake. Refusing isn't my style. We follow the path, and at first we hear voices, then they become quieter. There really is a lake, the water dark and calm. And on the shore is an old boathouse. A small wooden house with a lean-to, some of the boards faded, no lock, just a latch on the outside. Inside, it's dimly lit, smelling of dry wood and a hint of seaweed. An old boat lies overturned against the wall, planks on the floor, and some sand here and there. “It’s cozy,” says Alena and steps inside. I follow her in. She turns around, stands on tiptoe, and kisses me. Slowly, languidly, her tongue glides over my lips. The sundress feels weightless under my palms, nothing extra underneath. My hands drop to her hips, and she presses closer. “I missed you,” she whispered right into my neck. The reaction is immediate: my jeans feel tight. She feels it and runs her hand over the fabric. We both know we're not going back to the clearing right now. But there's a catch: my wallet with the condoms is still in the car. My pockets are empty. I tell her this, almost apologetically. Alena thinks for a second, looks around, as if the answer might be written on the walls of the station. Then she looks at me: - Today you can do without it, if you have time. This trust is more arousing than any caresses. I sit her on the edge of the overturned boat; it's wide, almost like a bench. Her sundress rides up, and my palms caress her thighs, moving higher. Her panties are already wet, the fabric thin, almost see-through. I push them aside, my fingers sliding easily. Alena bukvoeb.run leans back, resting on her elbows, her eyes half-closed. Inside the house, the only light comes from the cracks between the boards, striped, drawing patterns on her skin. I pull down my jeans, and she pulls me toward her by the T-shirt. I enter slowly, letting her get used to it. It's tight and hot inside, and she exhales with a soft moan. I begin to move, measuredly at first, then faster. The old boat creaks beneath us, a rhythmic, almost musical sound. And then - voices. Someone's walking along the path to the lake. Two of them, judging by the sound, are our group. They decided to take a look too. We freeze. I'm inside, Alena lies beneath me, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat. She squeezes me tighter, her face a mixture of panic and excitement. The voices fade away toward the far shore. It seems they didn't notice. We exhale almost in sync. Alena smiles: - Continue. I don't make her ask twice. Now the movements are deeper, she adjusts, lifting her hips. I hold her waist with one hand, the other touching where we are joined. She begins to moan softly, almost soundlessly, her nails digging into my shoulders. The rhythm quickens, I feel her approaching. A few more thrusts – and Alena arches, biting her lip, her body shuddering. That's enough. I pull out a second before she does, cumming on her stomach. A warm, sticky trail across her tanned skin. We lie there, catching our breath. The station still smells of wood and lake. I have a wrinkled but clean napkin in the back pocket of my jeans—everything has been thought of, except for the condom, of course. We tidy ourselves up and get dressed. We go out and carefully close the latch. We walk back, and along the way I pick a daisy and weave it into her hair. Everything is ready by the fire, and no one has noticed our absence, only Alena's friend winks—maybe she's just imagining it. The shashlik was excellent, and the evening was great too.