He was gorgeous. He was a god, an Adonis. Stripped to the waist in the sunshine, the muscles of his back shining under his sweat glistened skin. No waste on him, no fat, just smooth skin, glowing in the sun. He didn’t know I was there, watching him, wanting him.
He was doing warm up exercises, calisthenics, stretching his arms up high above his head, and then pulling them down and out to his sides. All his movements were smooth, free of jerks, and I could see what he was working as he moved, his skin sliding over the muscles that flexed and tensed, then relaxed.
Suddenly, he relaxed and his flesh seemed to sag onto his bones as he did so. Then he straightened up, and bent to the ground gathering up his bow. It was a complex structure, looking like a 19th century ironwork bridge designed by a Victorian engineer, full of wheels and cables.
He straightened again and stood erect, eyes ahead, relaxed and unfocussed. Arms loose, hanging by his sides, the burden of the bow hanging loosely in one hand, unnoticed.
The meditative state of Zen sought.
Slowly he brought his left arm up, till it was level with his shoulders, the bow gripped lightly. He twisted it slightly so that it was perfectly vertical, perfectly parallel to his upright body. His body formed an inverted L, a perfect right angle between torso and arm, and he turned his head leftwards, to peer down his arm, through the bow, past his hand, to the distant target.
I followed his gaze. I knew the target was a good metre across, and the gold centre spot as big as my fist. At this distance, I couldn’t even see the spot, and the target was just a postage stamp.
He raised his right arm, an arrow held by the feathered end, and gently slid it onto the resting place on the bow. Without changing his focus, he pushed the arrow forward until the end is at the string, and with an almost silent twang, he clicked the arrow onto the string, curling his fingers around the string.
A moment to reflect, and he pulled back the string, muscles in his forearm, and upper arm start to pull, then shoulder and back muscles take up the strain. I caught my breath as his muscles outlined against his skin; I wanted to caress them, feel the sweat, kiss the skin softly, so softly.
But I didn’t move, and kept deathly quiet.
At full stretch he rested, string resting against his chin, and touching his nose. The small disc attached to the string gently touched his lips, telling him the position was fine. I wanted my lips to be touching his, telling him the position was perfect.
He looked down his arm, beyond the bow, to the sight stretching in front, and the small dot it contained. He lined it to the tiny gold disc at the target centre, tiny at this distance, and let his breathing settle into gentle ins and outs. He held his stance for just a moment, and then released the string.
There was no change in his stance; the only change was that his muscles rapidly relaxed, and the bow swung loose in his hands. I picked up my binoculars and checked – bullseye. The arrow was dead centre. I knew what arrow I wanted, and just what dead centre I wanted it to hit.
He collected another arrow from the quiver he wore at his side, and started again. The Zen stance, the smooth setting of the arrow, the sudden tensing of his muscles, and the concentration before that final release.
When he’d shot all his arrows, he turned to me and smiled. He’d known I was there all along. We waited for the safety signal and walked together down the range. He gripped an arrow shaft and pulled, noting the score. I knew exactly what shaft I wanted to grasp. I’d give it a real good pull, and my score would be of the highest. I chuckled to myself at the thought, and winked at him when he turned questioning eyes on me. He got the message, and grinned back. An evil grin, full of wicked promise.
He collected all the arrows, packed his things, moving faster than he had all afternoon; now he was on a promise, and I always keep my promises.
We got back home in double quick time and tore off to the bedroom, dropping clothing as we went. Stripped down, he was even better looking; hard pecs , flat belly, leading on down to a crisp batch of pale hair, and a good fat dick, just starting to swell. I moved close to him, pressing my breasts against his chest, stretching up to kiss him deeply; reaching down to get a grip on that gorgeous dick. It grew rapidly in my hand, and I gently stroked it, up and down, alternately exposing and covering the head which I felt getting slick with pre-cum. He lifted a hand and cupped my breast, tweaking the nipple into hardness.
His cock rose to upright, and I shoved him backwards onto the bed. I knelt and took his cock in my mouth, sucking the slimy wetness and running my tongue around the head under the foreskin. I could hear him groan softly.
When he begged me to stop, I climbed up and straddled him, holding his dick, and rubbing it up and down inside my pussy lips. Then I sank down on him, taking the whole length deep in me. I rose and fell, letting his cock push in and out of me, stretching me open, and he grabbed my hips with those strong hands of his. He gripped me tightly, and started to buck, setting his pace and overriding mine; he was faster, more urgent, and my breath came in short pants and he plunged into me.
Suddenly he rolled me over and pushed deeply into me. My legs were wide apart and I wrapped them round him, hammering my heels into his butt. He was a solid there as he was elsewhere, but I heel-kicked him anyway, encouraging as much of him inside me as I could get, as he could give.
The electricity tingled all through me, my pussy was oozing juice, and the skin on my tits was tingling. And then I came. I arched my back, and a scream was almost torn from my throat, as wave upon wave of muscle clenching orgasm passed over me.
As I came off the peak, I looked up at him, and saw the Zen stance, the smooth setting of the arrow, the sudden tensing of his muscles, and the concentration before that final release.
A bullseye, just as I knew it would be.
Read Roger’s other sexy stories published on Every Night Erotica, here.
You may find more of Roger here: www.rogertedman.info.