It is wet here.

Beneath the glowing clouds of the night sky, below the wings
beneath the clouds, over the sparkle of Anchorage, over the dark
flatness of Glacier Bay, down the lanes of Seward Highway, south
down the peninsula to darkness and woods, through the woods to the
small town of Lodgepole, over the treetops of White Birch Park, down
among the bushes, on the ground, a man climbed on top of a woman,
putting her hands over her head.

She crossed her legs, thighs pressing shut.

He held her down at the elbows, sinking the angles of arm into the
soft grass. Between the tops of her closed thighs lay a fold that
couldn’t be squeezed completely shut, a little smile of flesh covered
with hair. The head of his cock angled its way easily into the smile,
punching through to the hole below.

She moaned as the touch inside lengthened.

In the soft, dappled moonlight filtering down through the birch
trees his raised buttocks lowered into the rhythm of a slow, sure pump.
Her mouth hung open. A long, long exhale, breath and sob.

She cocked her hips obediently...