It was a lovely early morning in the wild, the sun was just mounting up high in the sky and the hill-side whitened with blossoms of mountain ash. Late autumn colors flashed hues of red, yellow, drab, purple and light to dark shades of green. A rich coverlid of grass— exotic animals and birds—with private untrimmed banks of primitive apples and pebble-stones all negligent of one another as beautiful fragments. That is what I called them or thought of them. Drooping shy and unseen were our love thoughts of love yielding and acts of love climbing. Hands and arms of love, lips of love, phallic thumbs of love, breasts of love, bellies pressed and glued together with love. An all earthly chaste of jungle love it seemed.
Watching our body of love--the body of the man I love with me as the morning dew airs blew from the southwest, nature unraveling--the hairy wild-bee murmured and hankered up and down— griping the full grown lady-flower, curved upon her with amorous firm legs, took his will of her, and held himself tremulous and tight till he was satisfied. In the wet of woods through the early hours, the curious roamer kept at work; his hands roaming all over the body with bashful withdrawing of flesh where the fingers soothingly paused and edged themselves. The mystical delectable night—the strange half-welcome pangs, visions, sweats, had brought us to pulses pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers, a rocking conclusion at the horizon. Flushes after flushes, surfing in the rain as everything seemed better when wet. Hot hands seeking to repress what would master him; his voice carrying me into a land of open grass plains, a place where anything and everything was possible. Jungle fever driving us mad. Then a wholesome relief, stillness, content with fulfilled sighs. Work was done as we tossed carelessly to fall where we could in the beautiful wilderness, our safari concluded.
