The Sweetness of the Pear: Sylvia


“How would you like to spend the weekend in the country?” asked Ilsa. “Sylvia and Tom are going up to the summer house, and we’re invited to go along.”

Sylvia was Ilsa’s best friend and Tom was her fiancee. The summer house belonged to Tom’s family. It was located right in the traditional heartland of Calandria—the idyllic ancestral rain forest. It was a part of the country that I hadn’t seen yet but very much wanted to.

I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt a bit intimidated by Sylvia. Perhaps it’s because she is so strikingly beautiful, with shoulder-length black hair and such a piercing intensity. Perhaps it’s because she is so direct in her manner. She often cuts through the standard courtesies with her own kind of shorthand, assuming congeniality without always working hard to maintain it. I always had a hard time knowing where things stood between the two of us. But Ilsa loved her like a sister, and so that is how I’d come to think of her, as an exotic and somewhat eccentric member of the family whom I could abide, and even appreciate, without always having to understand.

“It sounds like fun,” I replied. “Let’s go, do you want to?”

We all rode up together on the Friday morning train. I’d heard about the large swaths of untouched rain forest, but I had no idea how extensive and green they seem when you chug through them for mile after mile. We passed only a few clearings and villages, and finally got off at Tom’s station. We were able to take a jitney to within about half a mile of the summer house, and we had to walk the rest of the way.

The summer house consisted of a roofed kitchen and sitting room with electricity and running water, two semi-detached, thatched bedrooms, and a large, partially covered veranda that looked down the steep hillside toward the river below. It sat in a small clearing surrounded on all sides by the forest. Fuchsia and hibiscus grew in abundance. The furnishings were rustic, but comfortable.

After Tom opened up the house, our first chore was to sweep the veranda and tidy up the clearing. Then Tom and I collected some firewood while Sylvia and Ilsa organized the kitchen and set out lunch. Tom had a few things to attend to in the village that afternoon. We could go along if we wanted. There was also a nice waterfall within hiking distance. I wanted to see the waterfall; Ilsa preferred just to stay at the summer house and relax. We finally decided that Sylvia and I would visit the waterfall, and then later the three of us would join Tom in the village for supper.

After lunch, Tom changed into the local costume of shorts and sandals, gave Sylvia a quick kiss, and headed off. Most people wore shorts or a skirt in town, Sylvia told us, although both men and women usually went bare chested. But out here in the forest the sartorial rules were less rigid. A lot of people still went about as their ancestors had done, without any clothes at all. There was really no need for them. The insects were not harmful and the temperature was almost always comfortable. If it did rain from time to time, you were better off without clothes anyway.

Ilsa took off her top, and Sylvia took off her top and her bottom. She had long legs and neatly trimmed pubic hair. Her breasts were not as large as Ilsa’s, but large enough to droop under their own weight like two ripe gourds. Her areolas were almost as large as the circle of your thumb and finger, and her nipples rose in their centers so gently that they were barely noticeable.

I had seen Sylvia naked before at Ilsa’s. Calandrians are not self conscious about being naked in front of others, and they are used to having others be naked in front of them. But I was only a neophyte in both of these skills, and my nonchalance was usually more affected than natural. I knew I shouldn’t stare, but I found it hard not to peek. When one is conversing with the friend of a friend, who is breathtakingly gorgeous and absolutely nude, where does one direct one’s eyes? With Sylvia I had always been so afraid of committing a faux pas that I bent over backwards to appear disinterested and proper, with the result that I was often curt and standoffish.

But now the two of us were heading up the trail together wearing nothing but sandals. The way back up to the road was narrow, so I led. Then we walked along the road for a while side by side. Even though we didn’t meet another soul, the road felt public and exposed. At least when one is walking it’s not too hard to figure out what to do with one’s eyes. We didn’t say much except to remark every now and then on a particularly majestic tree or a flower that might have gone unnoticed. When I would turn to look at her on those occasions, her nudity registered pleasantly, but only in my peripheral vision.

When the trail split off from the road again, she went first and I followed. This meant that I had her beautiful backside constantly in my view. But there is something different about the backside of a woman free spin when she is tromping through the forest than when she is reaching to take down a bowl in someone’s apartment. Perhaps it’s the constant flexing of the haunches, the sure acceptance of weight on the forward foot, the unselfconscious swing of the arms. She seemed more and more like a creature of the forest. She was beautiful, but it was the beauty of proportion in motion, the beauty of the doe, the springbok. Her coloration—her tan pelt and black mane—stood out strikingly against the green background.

She raised her forearm for me to stop. There was a small rodent just off the path with a bright yellow pod in his two front paws. We stood and watched him nibble.

The trail headed constantly upward, crossing and re-crossing a rocky stream. We passed through a thicket of bamboo whose stalks were as big around as your wrist. It was so dense that at twenty paces apart we could only see each other in glimpses. The stalks were bare of leaves until high in the air, and the ground was completely matted with their pale debris, so that the whole world seemed to have turned into a jumbled black and white geometrical pattern.

Finally we reached a steep cliff face, about a hundred feet tall. It was covered with vegetation, like a garden wall, except for one vertical slash of bare rock where water cascaded down from above. The flow was somewhere between a trickle and a torrent and it spread out as it fell into a diffuse shower of individual drops.

“Do you see the little cave about two thirds of the way up?” asked Sylvia, pointing. “We can climb up to it.”

The path went right up the garden wall just to the left of the rocky slash. It was steep and required careful foot placement, but not unmanageable. I wasn’t used to climbing in the nude. We reached a ledge that extended across the rock, behind the waterfall. Up above we could see the water rushing over the edge out into the pure air. We were about sixty feet above the pool. Below us the forest fell away toward the road, and then more gently toward the river, rising again on the other side toward the distant hills.

“The cave is right along the ledge,” said Sylvia. “You go first. Be careful.”

I had to step closely around her, and I couldn’t do it without holding her shoulder and brushing against her thigh. It was, I realized, probably the first time, except for kisses on the cheeks, that we had ever touched each other.

The ledge was wide enough for one person, but the drop was sheer, so I went sideways, keeping both hands on the cliff wall. The cave was really not much more than a niche, directly behind the waterfall. I saw that Sylvia had started along the ledge as well. There wasn’t much room for the two of us.

“You can sit down,” she shouted over the rush of the water. “I’ll have to sit on your lap.”

I saw what she meant. There was a deep step in the niche just wide enough to sit down on. I gingerly turned around. The naked rock was cool and sharp against my bare back and bottom. I took Sylvia’s arm and held it tightly. It was harder for her to turn since I was in the way. I pulled her onto my lap. She pressed against me to center her gravity as far back as possible. I clasped my arms firmly around her waist.

It was exhilarating: the rush of the water just an arm’s length away, the dizzying height, the sheer drop, the sharpness of the rocky seat, the chill of the spray, the weight of her body, the seriousness of my grasp. The cave was in shadow, and that made the sunlit green of the jungle even more brilliant in comparison. A single hawk soared, level with us, about where the road should be.

After a time Sylvia pressed my arm and let herself down off my lap. I again held her arm as she turned in place. Then I eased myself up from the seat and followed her back to the garden wall. She was exhilarated too, and we exchanged a look of shared adventure that could not have been put into words.


The way to town lead down from the summer house to a well traveled footpath that wound along the river. We met Tom at the cantina and had a dinner of spicy stew and nettles. The evening promenade was along the paved main road. We exchanged pleasantries with several of Tom’s acquaintances and drank pineapple water from a kiosk. We inspected the boats tied up along the dock. A pleasant breeze blew in from the river. As the twilight began to come on we sauntered back home.

It is an old Calandrian custom that on the first night of a visit, the hostess shares her bed with the male guest, and the host shares his bed with the female guest. Traditionally this rule was followed even by married couples, it being taken for granted that marital vows would be held sacrosanct by all the parties involved. Cohabitation and abstinence are not seen as such odd bedfellows in Calandria as they are in the States. Nowadays married couples usually opt out, but the custom is bonus veren siteler still widely observed by young people, even by fiancees.

Sylvia sat down cross-legged on the mat, and I sat down facing her. The candle cast a warm, flickering glow over her face and her voluptuous breasts.

“The mountain has two caves, you know,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “We saw one of them today. It’s pretty well known. But there is another cave on the other side. It’s harder to find, and you sometimes have to get your feet a little muddy. Some people don’t like it very much. But I’m fond of it, and I like to visit it every once in a while. Do you know the little cave on the other side of the mountain?”

“I’ve seen it,” I said, “but I’ve never gone inside.”

“Would you like to?

“I’d need a guide.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “This is a weekend for caving.”

She had me lay over a bolster. It put my bare bottom up in the air and I felt even more exposed than I had felt on the open road. She fetched some things from the drawer.

“Not every mountain has a front cave, but every mountain has a back cave,” she said. “It’s more democratic in that respect.” She held the cheeks of my bottom apart with one hand, and began to trace her finger gently between them. Then she lightly scratched with her fingernail all around my anus. The area felt contiguous with the rest of me, but also strangely separate. Her touch was very vivid, but disjointed and fractal. This was not a part of my anatomy that was often inspected, let alone fondled, and the sensation gave me a massive hard on.

“The cave is guarded by a grumpy old gnome,” she said, applying some salve to her finger. “He has his job to do, and most of the time he just goes about his business. He is not much used to being disturbed.” She spread the salve around my anus, massaging it around and around. It was not unpleasant. “Hello, Mr. Gnome. Will you let us in today?”

She pushed her well-lubricated finger right into my ass hole. I could feel it slide in, but once it was in it felt much thicker than just a finger. It felt, in fact, very much like something else that I was used to pushing out rather than letting in. “The more you relax, the more Mr. Gnome will relax too.” She slowly moved her finger in and out. It was all I could do to relax, but I eventually found that I could pay attention to the swirling mix of sensations and urges without having to actively participate in them. It truly was like exploring a mysterious and intriguing new world that I had never been to before.

Mr. Gnome must have let down his guard a bit, because Sylvia now introduced a second finger. The urge to eliminate was stronger, but I was still able to hold it at bay, although this meant willfully ignoring lessons and reflexes I had learned all the way back before the dawn of consciousness. One part of me knew that I was leaving myself vulnerable to something foul and shameful, but I put myself completely in Sylvia’s hands. She moved her fingers in and out. The urge hovered on the edge of imperative. A new, warm, tingling arose and spread throughout my groin. Sylvia seemed to have introduced her whole fist. The urge became overpowering. Mr. Gnome got down to business.

“Can you hold it, Hector? No? Then poop it out, Hector, poop it out.”

I did. I gave in. I pooped, right there in front of Sylvia. Like a helpless, incontinent baby. I pooped.

But Sylvia had tricked both me and Mr. Gnome. It was more of a virtual poop. She was able to modulate the profile and the flow, introducing apples, coconuts, watermelons into the mix, then tapering back to sausages, green beans, spaghetti, Once I had started things in motion, Mr. Gnome kept the conveyor belt running, and the tingling just didn’t stop.

Sylvia finally withdrew, and my pucker seemed like it would suck itself inside out. These were feelings I had only ever experienced before in the line of duty, and then only fleetingly and in complete privacy. Now I was wallowing in these feeling right in front of Ilsa’s beautiful best friend, with my balls on display, my ass up in the air, and her hand stuck up it. I didn’t know even how to begin to try to figure out something to say. She ran her clean hand electrifyingly up my spine and tenderly kissed my cheek. For the second time that day she gave me the look of shared adventure.

Sylvia went to clean up, and brought back a wet cloth to clean me as well. I had forgotten that she was naked, and the sight of her full breasts and her downy triangle aroused me more than I thought I could stand. She checked my fingernails to make sure they were not too long. Then she lay down herself over the bolster, exposing to me her very most secret hidden places.

“Be very gentle,” she whispered. “The cave is tender, and the gnome is temperamental. Be sure to use lots of salve.”

Her bottom was smooth and round and as beautiful to touch as it was to look at. I ran deneme bonusu veren siteler my finger along her crack, savoring its depth and its tightness. She reached back to hold her cheeks open for me. I saw that her anus was at the center of a conical crater whose walls were slightly pleated as they tucked down into what was only a tiny, pin-sized hole at the bottom. The ring right around the hole was a little pinker, and the ring around that a little darker than the rest of her skin. Her anus was very close to the opening of her vagina, and the two were connected by a thin noodle of skin that squiggled along her perineum like an extension of her inner lips. It was a captivating landscape.

I could not help but trace my finger along the lightly forested rim of her vagina and dip it briefly inside, but then I focused on the primary objective. I ran my finger along the noodle, and felt it between my thumb and my finger. I circled the walls of the crater with the pad of my finger, spiraling down toward the pin hole. Then I traced each pleated ray back up from the hole with my nail, painstakingly, as if I were enameling a precious miniature.

I dabbed my finger with salve, and spread it generously around her crater. Then I coated my finger again and pressed it down into her opening. It was too tight for the finger to go right in, and I was very careful to be slow and tender. My finger felt very slippery against her bottom. I pressed again, gently, then released. “Let me in, Mr. Gnome,” I said.

“You can push a little harder,” Sylvia whispered.

I re-centered my finger and pushed more steadily. This time I penetrated her tight pucker up to the first phalange. I could feel Mr. Gnome’s warm fist slowly unclenching. I pushed farther and was able to get my finger in deeper. This was definitely new and uncharted territory for me, and I had to rely on my sense of touch to try to visualize my surroundings.

Remembering what Sylvia had done to me, I moved my finger slowly in and out, charting the passageway and recording every change and quiver of pressure. When I thought she was loose enough, I salved up my middle finger and tried to work it is as well. Again I went very slowly, step by step, and my patience was again rewarded. I played the fingers in and out and tried to gently spread them, up and down and side to side.

“You can put your penis in next if you want to,” whispered Sylvia. “I think Mr. Gnome is ready for it.”

Just the thought of that made my penis throb even more. It was as solid as a rolling pin, and the head was swollen, flushed, and leaking. I took out my fingers and applied salve all over the head and all up and down the shaft. When I brought it up to Sylvia, her little hole was no bigger than my pee hole. It seemed ludicrous to think that my big cock would fit in there.

“It’s too big,” I said softly.

“You have to push. Not too hard. It’s kind of like fishing. You just have to be patient. Mr. Gnome will let you in eventually.”

I did as she said. I felt as if I was leaning against a soft but solid wall. But I kept up a steady pressure. Eventually I began to sink in, as if into viscous bread dough. I pressed on until the whole head was jammed into the dough. Then, all of a sudden, I sunk in up to mid shaft. The hole was tight, but not excruciating, and I could feel its grasp all along the shaft and head. I tried to push in further.

“I think we need more salve,” said Sylvia. “Let me push you out.” I could feel her bearing down, and then the deep exhilarating massage as Mr. Gnome excreted me. I put more salve on her butt, and more on my cock. This time it did not take as long for me to get in. The fit was tight, but slippery, and I could push in all the way until my balls clonked against her pussy.

“Now if you move it in and out, you can make us both cum,” she said.

It was not so much a matter of thrusting as of squeezing further in, and dragging further out. I could feel the head of my penis pulsing and its girth pushing back against the tightness of the walls. Sylvia let go of her cheeks and brought her hands down to fondle her breasts. I slid my clean hand between her legs and massaged her vulva.

The friction and the tightness of her butt brought on a thrumming tingle that soon escalated into the first strains of climax. I slowed down to give Sylvia more time, but it felt just too good. “I’m cumming.” The tingling blossomed into an intense, velvety, basso-profundo chord, accompanied by an overwhelming peristaltic spasm that drained an ache from my balls that I hadn’t even realized was there. Sylvia bore down. My cock was still hard and I pushed back against her, keeping her in a state of suspension until she came as well.

We went quietly to the bathroom to pee and wash up. Back in the room, Sylvia blew out the candle. We lay on our sides, facing each other. I put my arms around her and pulled her into a close embrace. I could feel her large warm breasts against my chest and her smooth thighs against my still semi-erect penis. She hugged me back. I still felt vivid reverberations, fore and aft, and I presumed that she did too. It was a warm night, and we relaxed our embrace. But it was a narrow bed, and we were not able to move too far apart.

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