The picnic surprise

It was raining—hard, messy, cinematic. Thick drops cascaded down the windshield in rivulets, the wipers beating like a frantic heart. The air smelled of wet pavement, summer thunder, and anticipation.

He pulled the car over behind the old theater, the glossy black curves of his restored 1956 BMW 507 gleaming beneath the streetlight. The retro chrome, the whitewall tires, the deep purr of the engine—everything had been planned to perfection. Except the weather.

But Aleksandra didn’t mind.

When he opened the door, she stepped out into the glow of the marquee like a woman plucked from a different decade. Her red dress—a vintage summer piece with playful white polka dots—clung at the waist, flared at the hips. The neckline dipped low, teasing the soft swell of her breasts. Her legs, long and golden, slipped out from beneath the hem like silk. On her feet: black high pumps. On her face: retro cat-eye sunglasses despite the darkened sky. She looked like a promise that someone else had broken—but tonight, she was his to keep.

She slid into the backseat with a graceful swing of her legs, and he followed her in. A thick wool blanket had been laid out across the leather seats, now damp with little flecks of rain. Their eyes met. Her smile held mischief. His fingers found her thigh. Her hand curled behind his ear, playing with a single curl.

No words. Just that quiet, slow tension that hums louder than thunder.

The rain came harder.

So he drove—away from the theater, from the failed plans, from the perfect park—and found a spot near the Charles River. The skyline of Boston shimmered across the water in the distance.

“This okay?” he asked.

Aleksandra leaned in, brushing her lips near his ear. “It’s perfect.”

From the trunk, he pulled out a wicker picnic basket. Inside: delicate slices of Manchego, Kurobuta salami, Bresaola, Lombardy, Cacciatore, Capicola and her favorite Guanciale. Fresh figs and pears. Chocolate truffles dusted with sea salt. Her favorite Greek loukoumades. A small jar of whipped mascarpone. And, just for her, a glass bottle of organic pineapple juice.

Her eyes lit up. “You remembered.”

“Always.”

He never forgets her favorite foods from around the world.

Then he pulled something else out of the basket.

A black silk blindfold.

“I want to play a game,” he said, brushing her damp hair from her face.

“Oh?”

“You’ll taste. You’ll guess. Get it wrong…” He leaned closer, fingers slipping behind her neck. “I undress you.”

Her lips curled. “And if I win?”

“You won’t,” he whispered.

She tilted her chin. “Try me.”

He tied the silk over her eyes, slowly, reverently.

Then he began.

A slice of pear—cool, crisp, perfect.

“Pear,” she said, unbothered.

“Good girl.”

Then a piece of brie, creamy and rich.

She smirked. “Brie de Meaux.”

He raised a brow. “Show off.”

Then came a slice of blood orange soaked in honey and mint.

She paused. “Nectarine?”

He grinned. “Wrong.”

He reached behind her, pulling the zipper of her dress halfway down.

The fabric loosened. Her breath caught—just a little.

In the minute he put the chocolate in her mouth, she sensed the cinnamon and immediately spit it out. She hissed. “Cinnamon?”

“Wrong again.”

The straps of her dress slipped off her shoulders, baring her collarbones, the upper curve of her breasts.

He fed her prosciutto wrapped around fig.

“Fig,” she murmured.

“Correct,” he said, but he kissed her shoulder anyway.

He dipped a fig into the mascarpone and pressed it against her lips. She moaned softly, the sweetness melting on her tongue.

She guessed “ricotta.”

He clicked his tongue. “Tsk. You’re blushing. Are you flustered?”

Her dress was now bunched around her hips. Nothing beneath. Her nipples pebbled in the cool air. Her heels still on.

He poured her a small sip of pineapple juice, brushing the lip of the bottle across her lower lip before letting her drink.

“Mmm…” she sighed. “My favorite.”

“I know.”

He knelt between her legs, slowly pulling her panties down her thighs.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered.

“I’m playing your game.”

“You’re losing beautifully.”

He undressed himself slowly as she sat there, blindfolded, bare, legs slightly parted, mouth flushed from food and kisses.

Then he lifted her with ease, her naked body warm and soft in his hands, and laid her across his lap.

She gasped as the head of his cock slid along her slick folds.

“Shh,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

He sucked her nipple into his mouth, biting gently, then licking until she arched her back against him.

When he finally slid into her, it was deep, slow, perfect.

She whimpered. “More.”

He gripped her hips, guiding her up and down on his cock, teasing her with half-thrusts, making her grind, whimper, beg.

His tongue danced over her nipples again. She rocked harder. He whispered against her breast, “Cum for me.”

She did—shaking, clutching his shoulders, legs trembling.

And only when her body began to relax, did he give in—gripping her waist, fucking her deep and fast until his breath caught, until his cock pulsed and spilled inside her.

They collapsed together, tangled in the scent of food and sex and rain.

Her head rested against his chest.

He stroked her back lazily, kissing her temple.

She laughed softly, still blindfolded.

“So…” she purred. “What do I win?”

He smiled.

“Dessert,” he said, and kissed her shoulder again. “And this time… you don’t need to guess.”

She smiled. She could taste her favorite pink champagne chocolate truffles in her mouth. What a pleasure...

If you are up for an adventure, you know what to do ;-)

I'M UP FOR THE CHALLENGE