It was still there the old outhouse on the edge of the woods, he saw, making his way around it, his eyes scanning each part, each memory soaked into the wood grown old. He opened the door and peered in. The smell faded through lack of use. Cobwebs still hung there, spiders raced across the ground. No other sound. Memories stirred. He and she had sex here once; door locked against the world, against the nosey neighbours, her parents, the night wind and bright moon’s glow.

He can smell her scent still, that smell she had, fresh apples and hay. He walked about the small space, his footsteps moved over where once they lay. Not planned, out of the passion of that meeting, kissing and holding, young flesh stirred and the need to be satisfied. He leaned down and put his fingers across the ground, rubbed where once her buttocks rested, her legs wide, her eyes in shade of the semi dark, her body captured his juices in the passion’s tide. Long since gone she to some other place that one night of sex ingrained in his mind and on the ground and outhouse walls of wood.

He’d love to see her here again and fuck her once more if he could.

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