I feel like a fetus, nurtured in heavy, amniotic waters. The hot springs invite an overflowing of senses. The pungent smell of sagebrush wafts from the surrounding hills. The star-cloaked sky spreads out above me, inviting dreams of exploration. The staccato cacophony of frogs breaks the silence of the night.

I feel your hands, heavy in the oily water, gliding over my skin like a promise. Fingers circling my nipples, ah, the sweet, sharp ache. I taste your breath as you press against my mouth. The advance of your tongue, the retreat of those skating fingers from my breast. My legs drift, sliding fluidly to entangle with yours. Smooth, your legs, the rasp of wiry hair smoothed to a pelt in the opaque waters.

You turn, and you're hard against my hip. I reach down; silken iron paradox cleaving the water. Your fingers seeking between my legs, hot slick-oil heat. Hot slick-oil water, the boundaries blur. Your hips undulate, press and retreat, surging into my hand. Curls of breath and sulphurous steam. A thumb press, just there on my clit, a slow tickle of touch, a ripple of water. A flurry of fingers, rubbing, circling.

It's not enough. I reach to encircle your cock, my thumb rubs over the tip, a gentle press to the slit. A hiss of indrawn breath. A somnolent state of arousal.

I straddle you. The fat slide of penetration. The clench of internal muscle, the rhythm of sex. Buried inside me, Back to the womb.