By Wolf

River View is dedicated to the love of my life, who shattered forever the limits imprisoning my heart, bringing me a dimensionless love for the first, and last time in my life. For I am yours, beloved. Always. More than breath, my love.

Disclaimer: The characters of Hercules don't belong to me. I made no money here and since I don't even use their names, probably don't need this furkin disclaimer. But, it looks nice so I'll keep it. :)

He didn't know I watched him. Had been watching him for some time from within my dewy shrine of ferns. But even the magnificent, lush foliage which ensured my anonymity with its intoxicating rainbow of scents and color paled in comparison to the resplendent flaxen haloed male form, idling these long hours in his own easy company.

He'd spent most of the day knee deep in the rushing currents of the river. And in response to the heated blaze of the earlier afternoon sun, had shed his clothes carelessly by the bank. My breath caught, then seemed to stop altogether as I watched him slide gracefully back into the river. He moved with a dancer's elegance and agility as if totally unaware of the perfection of his taught, muscular physique. Each smooth, powerful line flowing so naturally into the next, that when stillness claimed him he resembled more a Grecian icon stolen from Mt. Olympus, than flesh and bone and blood.

With so much intimate splendor before me I found my gaze curiously entranced by the subtle cording of his thigh muscles as they cleaved against the pull of the water. The soft ripple of honed sinew traveling upward to the faultless rounded spheres of his buttocks. Rock hard orbs, tightened against the strong draw of the river. And the beauty of his thick sex, surging from the perfect V of his thighs, dancing on the water's blazing surface. My mind reeled, slipped and then soared to lose itself entirely to the vision before it until I too was of the sun, was of the vision, was of the burnished golden perfection carved by some timeless passiontide into that of a singular mortal man.

My body quivered and dampened in response to the sensual, omnipotent image before it. A hunger deeper than need of sustenance seeped into my being. A hunger of heart and soul and desire. One I had never experienced. I watched the river until I became the river. I concentrated on the rushing current until its sure and driving presence was my own. My hands pressing their weight against the ivory, silken steel of the fisherman's ass. My fingers boiling down the glorious, half seen dark crevice between his elegant thighs to test the weight of that magnificent cock. Holding it gently, then submerging it in my grasp. Massaging it like a whisper, then ravaging it like a goddess, until to leave it barren of me would be to drive the fisherman to the precipice of sanity. As I was balancing there, now. Alone. The heated moisture of reserves' abandonment thickening and painting my own cleft with need. My button pulsing in echo to the hastening labor of my breaths. So aware of my own form, so attuned had I become to the baser language of my body, I could feel the trail of a single drop of sweat as it traveled from beneath the swelling of my breasts, a single tear of passion which warmed the vertical crease of my belly and dewed in the nest of my pubis.

But then I was released from my trance as the sun began to slip to the horizon. In doing so it's rays were suddenly captured in the moistened feathery hairs of the fisherman's smooth body, prisiming a brilliant light that made him seem more god then godly creation.

All afternoon he'd been amusing himself with the sport of fishing. Although, something made me wonder if this easy dance between my golden-haired god and the river's bounty was merely a distraction for deeper thoughts. There was a sense of preoccupation about him. Of his mind being miles from his body.

He held a long pole of birch or spruce, I couldn't really tell, while the quiet power of his extended arm snapped an amazing length of cord back and forth well above his head. He worked the line with a fluid, gentle precision but never seemed to concentrate on where his cast landed. So it surprised me when time and again, with the merest flick of his wrist he'd send the line out to the churning waters only to snap it back almost instantly with a trout or some other fresh water fish attached. The small ones he immediately released, extracting the hook from their mouths or gills with an experienced hitch of his wrist. A few of the larger trout he re-hooked to a length of braided cord he'd tied about his waist so that his prospective supper lie just under the water, keeping cooled and fresh until hunger became more important than returning the long cord to its meanderings above the gleaming platinum splendor of his hair.

All this I catalogued as if memorizing a story I'd be required to comment on to one of my teachers. It seemed rude to me somehow, to want the weight and attentions of the fisherman's rigid, beauteous sex, and not learn of him first. There was little doubt, this was a man to whom the cast and the water and the life brimming within its icy blue depths, found there his own meaning. The river's ebb and flow a mirror to his own white water currents and calm, insular pools. He was of this water as much as if he'd sprung from it, gleaming, naked and erect. And yet, he was quite apart from it, as if he were trying to pluck his soul from the liquid font in which he steadfastly remained.

Then he finally emerged from the water, surging through its tide with that easy power his body tapped so unconsciously, and freed the braided rope from his waist, lowering both his supper and himself into the wild overgrowth of reedy bank grass.

Again my breath knotted in my throat as he lay on his back, stretching his full length in a last attempt to luxuriate in the fever of the dissipating sun. A few of the longer reeds arched over the luster of his right thigh to brush against his now relaxed penis, lying heavily there.

I barely recognized the moan as my own, or remembered when I had bundled my skirt to arc on my lap, to slip a finger into the fire of my sensitive depths. I smoldered. I burned. My secretive juices running warm down my fingers, rivulets of lava from the dark curling blanket which framed my unfamiliar ache, to the alabaster of my thighs. I stroked myself, and longed for the fullness and renting of flesh I knew I would suffer at the entry of the fisherman's well-endowed sex into my virginal slit. The blood and the wine and festival of continuing. It had all seemed so removed from me, until now.

When my fisherman finally closed his eyes, I almost stole out from my cover. Every fiber of my being screaming to lie naked beside him. My senses capsized and drowning. My mind abandoning itself of all conscious thought except to the feel of his silky skin under my sensitive touch. The curve of his perfect lips locked to mine. The exquisite pressure of his own need filling an endless void I had only now discovered yawned within me. Arms and legs becoming living ropes, forever binding us into one soul. My mind played out a body poem; a graceful dance of baser needs and insatiable pleasures. I could feel nothing at that moment that wasn't born of the thought of him. I was consumed by a fire that had no beginning, no ending. Not even the whispered tales of pain and tearing could cool the immolation of my soul or dissuade me from straining toward the want of my own blood to join the liquid now saturating my fingers, my hand, my thighs. Need beyond need. Want beyond want.

And just as I could stand our separation no longer... my hesitation proved to be my undoing. I heard the approaching footsteps as he did, and turned to see the intruder who would force me to keep my newly discovered appetites unsated.

My luscious golden fisherman smiled brightly at this unwelcomed stranger, who, I was forced to admit, was exceedingly handsome in his own right. The tall, broad shouldered man sat easily by my sun-kissed dreamer and while staring at the churn of the river remarked his day long walk had cleared his mind of the world's worries. He hoped the day's fishing had done the same for the man who he clearly considered a close companion and confidant.

Neither commented on the state of undress of my golden warrior, (he seemed like he was more than just a fisherman) as they fell into a silence that could only be shared by common souls.

Then quite unexpectedly, or maybe not so, the beautiful interloper leaned over and laid the broad flat of his palm against the side of my warrior's face. He let it linger there, caressing that aureate landscape, claiming it with his self-assured stillness. Then the taller man shifted his weight, maneuvering his considerable size with an agility I would never have guessed to bring his lips tenderly toward the warrior's, until only the warmth of his breath separated them.

The stranger kept his maddening distance until the warrior, lashes still sleeping peacefully upon gilt-flushed cheeks, rose slightly and laid his moistened lips upon his companion's.

The ache in my dripping center increased with the passion and need of that kiss. Tender softness metamorphosed into a greedy stirring of flesh and souls.

The warrior's sweet lips parted slightly, and in the unfiltered blaze of sunset, I saw the pink of his tongue begin tracing the outlines of the stranger's lips. There was such tenderness, such sanctity in this simple, loving act that if I'd been in control of my body, I'd have ordered my eyes to turn away. This was too intimate. Too private, this kiss. But, I could no more turn away, than I could quench the fires burning my own soul, causing my skin to flush hot in the cooling of near-twilight.

I noticed the steady rise and thickening of the warrior's sex as the kiss continued. The stranger seemed to feel his companion's need even without sight, as the hand not cupping the warrior's face traversed with growing hunger across the flat of his belly, the curve of his hip, a thumb detouring into the sanctuary of the indentation there, and then disappearing partially from my view to covet his heavy sac.

My warrior groaned and flung his head back to the pillowing reeds, his tousled golden mass threading its silk through the roughened grass. The warrior splayed himself defenseless before the stranger, encouraging the plunder to come.

My breaths became increasingly harsh, my moans guttural and hoarse as I allowed another finger to invade and explore my depths. Spasms of previously unknown pleasure began gathering somewhere within me. Some place which, until now, I had always sensed to be forbidden. But, those thoughts seemed relegated to a world I no longer moved in. No longer belonged to. I belonged only to the two forms entwined in the waning light; to their need of each other, to their limitless love which I needed no light of day to see clearly.

The stranger settled himself, his tunic, now only the palest yellow in the remaining illumination and pooling softly on a corded thigh, so that his mouth could covet my warrior's blushing cock, fully aroused and quivering.

I had to squint to bring enough light to my own lust-fogged vision, but I could make out the stranger's strong tongue as it glided across then circumferenced the rosy head. My warrior lifted his hips, welcoming the rage of sensation as if welcoming his own death. Surely his expression was of gallantry trespassing across the Styx.

The upthrust, blazing member was then sucked into the stranger's mouth with gluttonous wanting. A mighty, primal rhythm began which brought the beats of my heart under its spell. The driving of my fingers quickened with the dips of the stranger's head and the rise of my warrior's hips. Syncopation. Our three physical bodies connected at that moment as surely as if the Fates had woven our lives of a single thread.

Only distance and their total immersion in each other kept the stranger or my warrior from hearing the screams of my completion; the first I'd ever known. The sweetest I would ever know. It was followed closely by the loving cries of my warrior's release and then, by the same quivering ecstasy of the stranger, though he'd not been touched, nor did I see him touch himself.

Evening's cocoon turned them to silhouettes within a harder darkness, erasing any boundaries of flesh between them as my warrior curled close to the stranger. They were as a solitary being. An entity of purest love and devotion, previously unknown to mortal or god. I felt blessed to have been, if not their discoverer, then at least, their witness.

This is the kind of dimensionless love the bards weave into their most highly prized songs and stories. But, it is also the love which is supposed to be beyond reach, beyond knowing. Almost beyond imagination.

In the velvet darkness I uncoiled my limbs from their long inactivity. But I hardly felt the sudden rush of blood into deadened nerves, so consumed was I with the importance of imprinting in my mind the sight of these men who'd forever stolen my heart. I had to be certain I'd never lose the exact image of them, or the sense of their love. For now those images and thoughts were what formed me, molded me and would sustain me in the world beyond my initiation at this river bank. A world which was very different from the one I'd left just this morning.

And to which now I reluctantly returned.

The End

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