Pipi


Pipi - I’d forgotten about Pipi. Well, not forgotten so much, as hadn't thought about her for a long time. I would not have thought about her now, except for a sharp reminder a few weeks ago. Thousands of kilometres from home. At a lonely campsite.
A small party of backpackers arrive late from wherever they have been exploring. Laughter, a variety of accents, battered car spilling out tanned bodies. And Pipi.
Of course it was not really Pipi - Pipi was from a lifetime ago - but I had to take a second look as the jolt of recognition pierced me. There must have been something in my movement, a sense of my attention, perhaps, for she unfurled from her crouch, turned to me brushing flaxen hair behind an ear and smiled her crinkle-eyed smile, confident yet shy, before continuing with whatever she had been doing.
Pipi. All long legs, tumbling hair, shy smile, wrinkley blue-eyed humour. Carefree, floating with the mood, drifting with the current of the moment. We had wafted into each other at a campground, too. I was travelling on my own, she with a group of European boys and girls and, as one did, we ended up around a small fire, talking about whatever the hell we all talked about then, chugging cheap beers, rolling our cigarettes, swapping tips on places to visit, places to avoid.
It had been such a still evening, back then. Soft breezes in an already silky night, towering bluffs against an enormous canvas of stars splattered thick above us, the slow chortle and whirr of frogs in the creek nearby. Humidity and static in the air; the Wet season was coming. We had all laughed - about tales of near escapes, mismatched lovers, failed ambitions. The conversation had dwindled and we parted. I liked the little group: an energetic French boy, his understated English travelling mate, the three German girls: they had met randomly - all travelling individually, coalescing to share costs and experience to travel a remote, inhospitable road in the general direction of a common destination. Quite normal in the backpacking fraternity.
The next day Pipi and a friend were hanging by their campsite. Pipi was unwell, she said, so was unable to go on the hike with the others. A long dusty drive that afternoon took me to a knoll overlooking a magnificent escarpment that glowed red in the light of the setting sun. Returning that night to the campsite, it was well after dark when I crossed the small creek and rumbled in, catching the pale faces by the fire, grins, smoke, beers. Pipi approached me straight away. She did not mess around. Could I take her with me? She knew I was leaving the next day. Her companions wanted to spend longer hiking in the gorges, but she wanted out. Wariness on my part. A hidden agenda on her part? Discussions by the fire.
We left at dawn the next morning, engine ticking over as we made our way over the rocks of the creek bed to the track and away to the bitumen. She said nothing for a while, feet on dash, face tilted toward her window, watching, I suppose, the dawn pass by, roll up held languidly between long, slim fingers.
-Are you well? I ask.
-Much better now. She turns briefly. Smiles. Assesses me.
-I don’t travel well in groups. She’s looking out of the window again.
-I like freedom. To plan and move and travel when, where and with whom I want. I think you are the same.
-Yes. I am happy with my own company.
-This will be a good journey. She’s still looking out of the window. An inch long, thin tier of ash teeters on the end of her cigarette.
The miles trundle under us as the road bores into the distance between thick scrub one moment, high flat topped mesas, short, fat trees and spindly white-trunked saplings the next. The cool of the morning disappears as the sun rises, washing the pastels in sky and scenery to sharp blues, greens and searing whites.
We talk. Relaxed, sporadic, about ourselves. She is nineteen. Left school early, flouted her parents wishes to study further. Worked in bars, shops, modelled. Saved money. On a plane at eighteen, putting distance between her and home.
-What do you want to do? I ask
A shrug. A long pause. I don’t think she is going to answer.
-Discover me, I suppose. She says finally.
-School, manners, customs. I’ve always done what I’ve been told, what others want for me. Now I need to find what I want.
-Do you know?
-I know I don’t want to be judged. The others - she gestured loosely, dismissively, back to last night’s camp - they have ideas, plans, careers mapped out. I am happy going with the flow. I will take an opportunity if it arises, if it feels right.
-Following instincts?
-Yes. A pause.
I am thinking that’s what you do too?
-Yes. Always. The times I have ignored my instincts, my guts, I have regretted it and knew I would.
She turns, hair pushed again behind an ear. Blue eyes laughing, laughter lines at the edges.
-It will be a good journey.
A hand on my arm. Lightly. Lingers. A prickle, a stir. She’s smiling - generous lips parted, a small gap in her front teeth. I smile. Nod.
-Yes. I think it will.
We drive on into the day and endless bitumen. A sign points to some Falls. A few kilometres. We swirl the dust through the heat-weary eucalypts all the way to shade below sheer ochre cliff walls. The vegetation is lush, broad-leaved and expansive. A narrow path threads through the fat foliage toward the cliffs. We stretch, bend, twist out the hours of fixed positions. Set off down the path.
Not far, at the base of the cliffs we find a small pond; clear, warm water filled by a splashing gurgle over smoothed rocks. Beyond we hear the rumble of larger quantities of water. It’s spilling from the top off the cliffs, free-falling in spear-headed patterns to lazily smash onto a ledge and spray and spurt into a small pool, freckled by the incessant drops that fill it before it runs away over the rocks to splash into the pond further down.
The water is warm. Not simply ‘not cold’. It has been heated by sun and hot rocks before its cascade. Pipi kicks off her boots. Doc Martens, of course. She wades into the pool.
-That's good! Let’s swim! Wash the dust off.
-I’ll get the bathers
-Pfffft! A scornful, mocking chuckle.
-We don’t need bathers. Come on!
She steps out of her small denim shorts, unknots the shirt tied at her middle. She is wearing no bra. Of course she isn’t, I think.
She catches me looking at her small, pert breasts, the delicate pink nipples, the darker circles of areolae.
-You don’t mind do you? She's laughing at me.
I shake my head.
-Of course not. What else could I say?
She knows I am watching her long legs carry her in a flow back into the water. Submerging her tanned smooth calves, knees, taut thighs, delicate pink underwear, rounded buttocks.
She turns. All smile, sinew and muscle, smooth skin, lean, curves sweeping from flat belly to firm hips. Bright, crinkly eyes.
-Don’t judge me! She laughs.
-Come on. I won’t judge you.
She sinks, the surface rising up her belly to swallow her breasts, a pause at her throat as she inhales, closes her eyes, goes under. Hair floats straggled on the surface for an instant, then is dragged under with her, to shimmer like a halo above her indistinct, wavering body.
She rises, water and hair streaming down her face, shoulders, breasts.
-What are you waiting for?
-You're distracting me.
-I know! She's laughing at me. Again.
She wrings out her hair, brushes droplets off her breasts.
Boots, socks, shirt - off. I hesitate to take down my shorts, uncertain what underwear I have on.
A swoosh of water showers over me. She laughs at her splashing handiwork
-No judging, remember! She laughs. Black, white, grey - I don’t care!
A pause.
-Maybe you have gone commando! A shrug.
-You won’t have anything I haven’t seen before…
They’re black. I step into the water, submerge, arise refreshed, dust free. A small wash rushes to the edge and splashes its way down and away from us. Silence except for the rumble of the falls and the occasional haunting birdsong.
-Would you have come here if I wasn’t with you? She asks.
-Maybe. It was time for a break.
-Would you have swum?
-Probably. I love water, washing off the dust, the sweat.
-Would you have swum naked?
-Skinny dipped? Yeah…probably. I like skinny dipping. In private.
-Me too. With the others I would walk up the beach and swim naked just because I could. I like the feel of water on my skin. Everywhere. I suggested the others come but they are shy. One of the girls, she came with me but was always looking around. On this beach. No one in sight, for fucks sake and she covers her tits, scampers into the ocean, rushes out again. What a pussy! Haha!
She swims the couple of strokes to the fall, pulls herself onto the ledge, lets the water pour over her, sending shards of glistening spray out over the whole pool.
She is magnificent, I realise. She sits there, lean legs sloshing gently in the pool, leaning slightly forward, bracing herself on fine, strong forearms. Eyes closed, head tilted back as the water brushes her hair down her back.
-That’s good, you should try it.
She slides back into the pool.
God - there was something about her. The movement. Fluid like an oil, a flow. Limbs that did not bend or stretch but curled, rolled.
I am there now, water pummelling the back of my neck, loosening, soothing. If I do not brace myself as she did, the water would slowly bend me double under its relentless weight. I move my head, letting the weight of plummeting water move over vertebrae, base of skull, shoulders. It is very innervating, rejuvenating.
I open my eyes. She is in the pool still. Up to her neck. Looking at me. Smiling. Coy.
Something is different about her, her energy, her aura.
She raises an arm, a hand. A small scrap of pink material hangs from a finger.
-This is private, isn’t it?
I laugh now.
-Yes! I suppose it is.
-And you do not mind?
-What can I say? Of course not.
The material is flung to land near her other clothes.
She submerges for a second, only to shoot up and fling herself backwards in a smooth silvery arc of limbs and slenderness. A glimpse of breasts, taut stomach, a neat streak of dewy down and smooth thighs - and she’s gone again.
She bubbles up, gurglingly happy.
-Wonderful! Just wonderful! I told you this trip would be good!
She drifts over to me, extends a tanned arm, long fingers.
-Help me up.
It’s easy. She is light and strong, does not really need my help as she pulls up, twists and sits beside me.
-My turn.
-Your turn for what?
-Under the fall. Move.
A shunt of naked hip. A playful shove.
-No. I like it here. Me being mischievous, too.
She stands, moves behind me. She must be crouching, for two hands creep around my waist heading for my cock.
I fall for it, involuntarily move my hand, lose my support and she shoves me hard into the pool. When I surface, she is now sitting under the stream.
-I wish it was not so heavy. It is as if nothing has happened.
-I would let it play, massage me all over. It would be heavenly.
A mental image of her reclining, a light stream of water playing onto her throat and breasts, her belly, her mound; her turning over to let it massage her buttocks, back and neck.
A stirring, a fattening, a tensing. My fascination now awakening an ache, a hunger. It’s acknowledged now. It cannot be banished.
Not private enough for you?
She wants me to go naked too.
-I can’t.
I do not need to explain. She doesn’t ask.
Slides off the ledge, swims past me looking me in the eye, emerges from the pool onto the warm, dry rocks, folds long limbs by her, wrings her hair out, leans back to absorb the sun, tautened breasts eagerly rising to greet the heat.
-You are a minx. You know that, don’t you?
-Of course! But only to people I like - who I feel will rise to the occasion…
-Very funny! You know I can’t come out of the pool don’t you?
No? Why not? Coquettish, one eyebrow raised. She thinks she knows.
But she doesn’t.
-Because there are people coming up from the pond toward us.
-Oh shit!
An inelegant scramble. Shirt on, panties in hand, back in the water.
We emerged soon after their arrival. She as if she had always been in her shirt and panties, me in my underwear. Their arrival the best anti-aphrodisiac possible. Pleasantries, well wishes, farewells and we are back at the car, laughing, giggling like naughty school kids who got away with a prank.
Towels.
-Just as well they didn’t appear five minutes later, she says.
-Why?
A wicked grin, she comes close to me, leans in, brushes my lips with hers, a hand slides down my waistband, feels my cock, my balls. I move to press my lips to hers, to kiss, to respond. She pulls away, hand on my chest; cock, stirring, missing the caress.
-We should go, she says, tucking her towel around her.
We bump down the dirt road to the bitumen. Silence, but we both know it has all changed. Her hand trailing random fingers on my thigh, just above the lower hem of my shorts. We both know what is to happen.
At the reception. All calm and polite, fill forms, pay money, take key. The cabin is one of a pair set by the tall trees which crowd the riverbank. The river is not flowing.
We climb steps to a verandah, backpacks left in car. A fan lazily rotates above the bed. Lights on. Air conditioner on. Done.
We grab and clutch each other, lips squashing together, fingers plucking at clothing, hems, seams, buttons, elastic.
I push her to the wall, hold her there, lips on neck, hand pulling at the knot at her middle. Her hands? I have them held above her head. We are both breathing hard. All through the long afternoon, the contact, the anticipation has built like the monsoon that is nearly on us; delivering thick humidity as the season approaches, thunderheads foaming above us, promising the drenching that will surely come. In time. All in good time... And when it does, then the river will run. It will flood.
I can feel her, arching against the wall, hips easing toward me. I can feel the smooth-soft skin as I part her shirt, the knotted ends hanging useless by her sides as my hand slides up, lightly cupping each breast, trailing a finger over each nipple. I feel her shiver and stretch, breasts thrusting for attention as I kiss down her collar bone and on towards them. A moan.
I pull her hips to me so she can feel my hardness, my readiness, eagerness, lust. She purrs, gurgling, cut short as I crush her lips with mine, explore her tongue with mine.
I feel her rocking against me, her own desire pushing hard against my length. I lower my hands to her waistband, plucking the button free, finding the zip, easing it down, starting to ease her shorts over hips and buttocks.
Her hands reaching for me, sliding in; smooth, direct, tingling arrows. A grasp, her wrists together, held high above her head once more. My show. You started it. I’ll finish it.
Her shorts are free; they slide to the floor. Finger trails along seams of panties, plucking at waist band, easing under elastic by thigh and buttock. Hips move urgently to guide my hand, stilling only as I soothe through the dampening material the heat, the soft, soft skin.
Sighing, subsiding urgency; sinuous shift of legs and hips to allow me to smooth, flat-palmed, the ache I know she feels.
Wrists released stay high as I trace the goosebumps on her sides up to her breasts, lower my mouth to kiss each, tugging each nipple gently, feeling it elongate and harden.
She’s murmuring. Don’t know what. A gurgle that rises from deep down and bubbles up through her throat to spill over the brim of her lips. I follow the sound, lips, teeth tugging at skin, tracing vibrations up her throat to sip them from her lips, from the corners of her mouth. She giggles. Nicely.
She stretches, cat like, all sinew and pleasure, a sense of ecstasy, of revelling in the sensuous. Hands lower to shoulders, to my back. Tug shirt, raise. A pause in my caresses, for lifted arms and dismissal of my shirt. For the final peeling and arm-threading ejection of hers.
I lower myself, trailing lips, tongue, teeth over breasts and belly, scenting the essence of her. Easing panties down, adoring the deliberate slow revelation of skin, light down, small mound.
Neat steps leave them on the floor. Kisses on hips, down the warm valley, brushing stirring lips, gentle exploration by tongue tip, a parting, heat, smoothness, silk.
She gasps, hands in my hair pulling, raising me, hard, fast to her. To her mouth, drinking me in as hands dive into waistband. She pulls away. Sinks down. Hard grasp. Free from cotton. Tip toe, seeking me. Urgency.
A pause. That moment. Legs around my waist, arms around neck. I can feel hard nipples rake, prick, my chest. There is heat and softness against my piercing hardness. Savouring slowly the parting, the swell and stretch, the shudder, smooth grip and deep travel. Shaking, gulping gasp, welcoming sigh and we move. Together, against the wall. Easing long, supple flow, slickness and sweat, muscles flexing hard. Clench of arms and legs, of thighs and buttocks, drag of scraping, gouging nails, sharp bite of teeth and lips. Delicious pain.
The surge and rise, exasperating, relentless. Contagious urgency spreads up and through us and easy flow morphs rapidly to pressing hurry and then to rabid thrusting passion.
Sweat, cries, panting, groans. Final hard drive and agonised bursts . Furious convulsion, shuddering, agitation and collapse.
We showered, soaping each other, washing her long blonde hair, working the smooth conditioner through the fine strands then over our bodies so we slid and slipped frictionless against each other when pressed together. Towelled each other dry. Stepped onto the verandah to watch the thunderheads rolling in, the lightening rippling through distant clouds, a scent of hot, wet, acid soil in the air.
We rolled cigarettes, chugged our beers, sweated in the oppressive humidity until finally, a rushing wind brought cascading rain sweeping down, clattering the tin roof, beating the soil, banishing the humidity.
-Come on, she says, takes my hand.
Inside is cool, cocooned by the hard drumming of the rain on the timber and iron. She loosens my towel, lets it fall to the floor. Takes me in her hand, gently. Stroking, exploring, feeling.
I reach for her, for her breast, for her towel.
-No. She leads me to the bed, pushes me firmly, gently down.
A large swirl of rain batters the roof, deafening.
She peels off her towel, lets it drop, comes to the bed, kisses me. Long, slow, gentle, passionate. Soft lips seeking, envelopping, yielding and absorbing me as her hand strokes my chest, my stomach, my thig; wraps around my cock, weighs my balls.
I throw an arm over her, try to roll her over, to explore her, please her, make love to her.
-No. Let me. My turn.
A giggle.
She reached every part of me: my body, my soul. Her long, languid fingers drifted from the urgent pulse of my cock, encircled my ankles as she nuzzled and nibbled my calves and thighs; they outlined muscles, veins and sinews, thrilled nerves, soothing the scratch of nail with rippling kisses. She turned me over to pressure vertebrae, gouge my buttocks and massage them with hot-breathed lips. On my back, an urgent rising and falling of hips she quelled with a hand lightly placed on my groin, above my cock base, as she pressed a finger hard on a line below my balls.
She took me in her mouth, daintily, her lips falling slowly over my head, as if sensing every smoothness, each wrinkle, each ridge as she slid down, her tongue rolling and curling along the length and veins. When she left me, it was as if her lips were as reluctant as parting lovers, a slow departure, eeking out the inevitable, final moment, the letting go. I felt each millimetre of her lips cross my head to meet at the very tip with a light kiss.
Her hand remained, carelessly stroking as her mouth travelled back up my belly, tongue probing my navel, lips nipping nipples, teeth tugging throat, rich, silky lips against mine.
So slow, deliberate. Erotic. It was like a massage. I was left mellow - turned on, but not rampant. Soothed, smoothed, softened. No need to hurry.
She pulled away slowly, took my hand and guided it to a breast. Her signal for me to tend her.
I explored every inch, raising her hair to kiss her neck, shoulders; nipping, as she had done to me, each vertebrae, soothing each with a gentle rub of a finger as I worked down, caressing smooth buttocks, pulling at the soft, tanned skin on the backs of her smooth thighs, eliciting a shudder and a giggle as I licked, and nipped the back of her knee. Calves and small ankles, heels, soles, balls of feet. Every. Square. Inch. She was delicious, every bit of her: texture, scent, a latent energy in the skin to the touch, a vibrancy to the eye.
I took each toe in my mouth, gentle sucks. She turned on to her back. A sigh. A smile. I worked my way up shins, knee, thigh. A delicious flow as I moved around her inner thigh as she shifted, let her legs float apart. A small flicker of tongue, brushing the lips, a tensing as I eased them apart with small flickers and flicks, teasing until I cupped her mound in my mouth and trailed my tongue deep into her and up to her clit.
I stayed there, leisurely rolling my tongue around, over and across it, occasionally taking it between my lips to tug it lightly, enjoying the sharp gasp, soft yelp, it induced from her.
I left my hand there to soothe her as I tasted her hips, belly, breasts, nipples and throat once more.
She slides a leg effortlessly under me as I caress her sides and breasts. She wraps me in her legs, crossing her ankles below my buttocks, small pressure indicating what she wants.
And I’m there once more.
Sliding smoothly, effortlessly in; one long ripple, two stuttered sighs.
We pause at the deepest. Still. Breathing, light, airy kisses, gentle, almost imperceptible strokes, grips.
She flows, really… flows. I can feel feet uncrossing, crossing, pulling me gently in, holding me deep. Deep. A subtle clench around my shaft - is it rippling along the length?
A long, deep kiss against yielding lips as I move slowly out until guided back in to the silky heat by those feet, hands running over my back, fingers brushing buttocks, goosebumps prickling on her skin under my fingers, her breasts soft against my chest except for the hard scratch of nipples.
A slow undulation as she rises to take a fraction more of me - a curling of muscle underneath, felt from chest through belly to a light gulping squeeze.
Slowly out, ease back in to a billowing surge that engulfs me in a welter of nails, hands, arms, legs and feet. A gasp and teeth on neck, on shoulder.
I rise, supported on forearms, pushing deep; feel legs float from my buttocks, drift and roll, lengthen and rest on my shoulders. I kiss a calf. One hand smooths an inner thigh.
A deep rumble of thunder in the distance.
Ease out, slowly in. Legs bend over shoulder, heels on back, pulling herself up to me. I can feel her moistness, the tender, soft lips, the heat, a faint impression of down, the smooth, cool curve of buttocks brushed by my balls.
Her hands are raised, pulling on my neck, pulling herself up, pulling me in deeper.
The rain thunders on the roof, pours over gutters, slaps onto the earth. A small down draft from the lazy ceiling fan wafts a tendril of cool air over my back.
Out. In. Ripple and curl, billow and surge. Hardness, softness, placid passion. Slow flow, grip and curl - different to anything I had ever experienced before. So much more than the physical, the gratification. This was mutual, natural appreciation, a confluence of sexual synergies rolled into sensual fulfilment on a level unknown to me.
Sometimes it was tantric: imperceptible movements. Other times unspoken, synchronised movement. Intimate - romantic, even. Sometimes her legs are up, bent back, knees near her breasts, other times, they are squeezing my waist, urging a plunge. Her arms, too, wrap around my neck, pull me, hold me to her breasts, then stretch away above her head as she straightens, taut, like a cat revelling in a stroke.
And when I come, it, too, is gentle. A long, low wave that rolls up my legs, fills and then bursts in a pulsing series of pumping throbs. She feels it all, responds with legs pulling me in, arms pulling me down, I can feel her cunt gripping hard, holding me for as long as she can.
A massive long, growling roll of thunder, a large flash through the curtains. She holds me to her. Laughs.
-What is it? I ask
-I couldn’t script that, she answers. You come, I come. The thunder, the lightening. Hilarious.
We sleep. The rain dies as the morning steams.. Awake, a hand strays down her side. She twists, a kiss. We make love once more. She’s on top, pushing on my hips, sliding forward and back, forward and back. Me - I clutch her to me as I come in sharp vigorous spurts, teeth on breasts, threatening to bite nipple. She comes once I’ve subsided, hard, frantic gyrating grind against pubic bone, sharp intake of breath, sharp shudder. Collapse.
We roll into the city, our destination, in the early afternoon. To the Backpackers. She checks in, I think, while I park the car. But I cannot find her when I get to the reception. No record.
A description. She had asked for the bus timetable, left fast to catch the bus to Adelaide. Something about having done what she wanted to do in the Territory…
And now this girl, two - three - decades later. I straighten up, having checked my swag. She’s there next to me.
-Hello, she says.
-Hello. Do I know you?
-I don’t think so. Are you going to Darwin?
-I am. Why?
-I am thinking perhaps you could give me a lift. The others - a careless, dismissive gesture towards her travelling companions - they want to stay. Me - I want to keep moving.
-What’s your name?
-Hildegarde. I’m German. But, please, don’t judge me on that….