With the three-day Labor Day weekend approaching, I was looking forward to doing nothing more strenuous than relaxing in my cozy apartment. I’d catch up on my reading, finish the watercolor I’d been working on (seemingly for months) and play with Jeremiah, my Persian cat. My work as a bank vice president would be the furthest thing from my mind as I savored the blissful quiet of my solitude. And then Louella, my best friend, invited me to spend the weekend with her and her husband at their cabin in the Catskills.

“It’ll do you a world of good, Beth,” she insisted. “You spend too much time indoors, either at the bank or in your apartment. A few days of fresh air will make a brand new woman of you.”

Although I knew that Louella had my best interests in mind, my acceptance of her invitation was something less than enthusiastic. But then, as I started thinking about it, it occurred to me that whatever I had planned to do down here, I could do up there: read, paint, wind down. Louella had promised me my own small room and said I could bring Jeremiah, so I could have my solitude and the pleasure of my furry friend’s company whenever I wanted. And a change of scenery, I realized, couldn’t hurt.

Henry and Louella’s cabin was prettier and roomier than I had imagined. Nestled among towering elms, it was within easy walking distance of a lovely lake upon which could be seen fishermen in rowboats. The air had seemed to grow purer, lighter. with each mile traveled on the drive up, and now, up here in the mountains, it was positively exhilarating. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the sweetsmelling air. “See,” Louella said. smiling as she nudged me in the ribs, “you’re feeling better already, aren’t you?”

True to their word, Henry and Louella left me to my own devices right from the beginning. They knew that as much as I valued their friendship, I needed these precious hours for myself. And so, while they always invited me to go hiking with them or rowboating on the lake or to have dinner in town, they never pushed. I was free to do what I wanted when I wanted.

It was twilight of my second day at the cabin when I took my easel and paints and a straight chair down to the lake. It was another glorious fall day with the reds and yellows and browns of the foliage dazzling the eye and lifting the spirits. Inspired, I chose a spot near the edge of the lake and set up my easel.

I had been painting for perhaps thirty minutes when I sensed someone behind me looking over my shoulder. I turned and found a burly, unshaven man in a baseball cap, a checkered shirt and worn jeans. “Lovely work,” he said. “Very nice indeed.” I stammered a thank-you and he extended his hand, introducing himself as Clint. I told him my name, feeling the strength in his hand as it clasped mine. He had the loveliest blue eyes and the most disarming smile, and whatever uneasiness I’d felt at his sudden appearance evaporated.

He asked me if he could sit and watch me work for a while. I said yes, and he sat himself down Indian-style on the ground. Soon, to my amazement, we were conversing like old friends, learning bits and pieces about each other and discovering we had some things in common, like a love of animals. Clint had retired from the NYC police force at the age of forty-five two years before and had immediately moved up to the pristine mountains.

As he rhapsodized about his present life, he was almost poetic, and I listened attentively as he spoke about days spent out on the lake fishing, long walks in the woods, quiet evenings with friends in the cabin he had built himself, the occasional trip into town in his pickup to purchase things he needed for his garden. Toward the end he chuckled and said, “When I was working, I was outdoors every day, but it sure as hell wasn’t this outdoors.” He didn’t have to state the obvious: that the tranquil beauty and comforting quiet of the mountains was a far cry from the filth and savagery of crime-ridden Manhattan.

“Listen, can you take a break?” Clint said. “I’d like to show you something.”

Unable to believe how much he had affected me in so short a time, I let Clint take me by the hand and lead me along a heavily wooded path. I also couldn’t believe how sexy I felt. Was it the fresh air? The beautiful scenery? The invigorating quiet? Or Clint? A mix of all four, I decided as I heard Clint say that we were almost there. A few minutes later, we were standing in a leafy glade near a bubbling brook surrounded by colorful wildflowers. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Clint said. “I found this place a few months after moving up here.”

“It’s lovely,” I agreed.

“And so are you,” Clint said softly, taking me in his strong arms. A moment later, his lips were on mine and we were kissing, tenderly at first and then with more hunger. Rational thought, which I’ve excelled at all my life, abandoned me, chased away by the urgency of my sexual need. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d wanted a man so much. I could feel the heat in my crotch, the wetness of my panties. What I was doing was so out of character. This thirty-six-year-old, reserved executive was acting like a twenty-two-year-old free spirit. And it felt grand.

Not a word of protest did I make as Clint slowly removed my shirt, shorts, bra and panties, sneakers and socks. He eased me down onto a bed of grass and then quickly removed his own clothes. Once naked, he knelt between my spread legs and began lapping at my sex, his tongue burrowing into me, finding and then caressing my swollen clitoris. Looking up at the sky and trees, I moaned with pleasure, my hands going down to Clint’s head, my fingers running through his curly brown hair.

Not even once had I made love outdoors, and as a glorious sense of freedom, a sense of total abandon enveloped me, I silently cursed my conservative nature. But better late than never, I thought as Clint continued his magic down below, his hands now reaching up to squeeze my full breasts. Soon my hips were arching off the ground and I was coming: a sweet, delicious orgasm that had pleasure spiraling from my pussy up and down my body.

When I opened my eyes, there was Clint, leaning back on his haunches, his big, beautiful cock pointing toward the sky. Smiling, I pushed myself up and got on my knees in front of him. I had never been particularly fond of fellatio, but at that moment, there in that lovely glade with my wonderful new friend, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Clint’s cock tasted delicious, and I sucked on it impatiently, wanting more and more of that pulsing shaft in my mouth, down my throat.

“Oh, Beth, yes … yes … ” Clint crooned, resting his hands lightly on the top of my bobbing head. “Suck on it. Suck.”

Had it not been for the ache in my pussy, the need to be filled there with Clint’s lovely cock, I would probably not have stopped sucking him until all of his cream had washed down my throat. As it was, I waited until the ache became unbearable before taking him out of my mouth. “Do it to me now,” I gasped, in a voice I hardly recognized as my own. “God, I’m so hot. So hot.” I threw myself back down on the grass, extending my arms up to Clint in invitation.

He was on me and in me in no time, and an animal-like moan of pure delight sailed from my throat as his cock slid all the way inside me. “God, you’re so very tight,” Clint growled as he established a slow, steady rhythm with his hard thrusts. I wrapped my arms around his back and hooked my legs over his, relishing his weight on me, his manly scent, the feel of his swollen cock filling me so completely. I even found that the feel of his day-old beard on my cheek was arousing to me.

There were only our grunts and groans to break the quiet around us, and in my nakedness, with this beautiful man atop me, I felt like Eve in the garden of Eden, enraptured by the moment, alive with the promise of eternal pleasure. “Oh, don’t stop, please,” I heard myself pleading. “Don’t ever stop.”

The minutes passed-how many I have no idea, for my focus was totally on the orgasms my masterful lover kept giving me as we went from position to position. For a while I sat on him, riding his cock, fucking myself on his pole of flesh. He took me from behind as I lay on my side. At my suggestion, we did it for a while doggy-style, with Clint thrusting into me as I moaned into the grass.

We finished as we had started, in the missionary position, and at the feel of Clint’s warm semen spilling inside me, I had my most explosive orgasm, a thunderbolt of pleasure that had me clawing his back and screaming up at the darkening sky. Breathing hard, Clint rolled off me and onto his back. It must have been minutes before we were able to rouse ourselves from our postcoital languor and get dressed.

Clint walked me back to the lake, and we kissed goodnight. He asked me if he could see me the next day, and I said no. It was silly, perhaps, but I wanted time to savor the beauty of our first time together, to plant the memory deep in my mind and nurture it lovingly. Of course, when he asked for my home phone number, I gave it to him without hesitation.

Well, Clint has phoned every day since, and the last time, he said that if I didn’t come visit him soon, he was going to call his old friends on the police force and have them arrest me for stealing his heart. Now, being locked up in a stuffy jail is no place for a woman who has recently discovered the great outdoors. Guess I’ll just have to rent a car and drive up to the Catskills this weekend.