I Like Being f****d Everywhere II
THE forest path was quiet and the only sound one could hear was the crunch of leaves under my boots and the distant call of a bird. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. My short ripped denim shorts left little to the imagination, and my thin tank top clung to my n*****s, which were already hard from the chill. I saw him then, a lone figure sketching by a fallen log. He had dark, messy hair and intense green eyes, focused on his pad. A canvas sat beside him, half-finished, a wild landscape.
I walked closer, deliberately making noise, letting my hips sway. He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. A slow smile spread across my face.
“Beautiful day for art,” I said, my voice light, airy.
He nodded, his gaze lingering on my body. “And f
