The world around the car trembled, seasons flickering in a mad whirl: spring—winter—spring—winter. Sophie moaned under his hands, the belt sliding across her skin, stimulating her nipples, the lower strap pressing between her legs, her jeans already soaked through.
The sounds spilling from her lips grew louder, richer, sharper with each breath, and with every cry reality cracked wider. David felt his mind fracturing, the borders of worlds dissolving, but he couldn't stop—spellbound, he kept playing with the belt and her breasts.
Then a flash—sudden, blinding—and the world stilled in spring. The snowy road was gone for good. The car stood at the edge of a green meadow, ringed by tall grass and blossoms of late spring. A warm wind rustled the leaves, the sun burned against their skin, and the air reeked of earth and flowers. Sophie opened her eyes, her chest rising and falling, sweat beading across her skin, her breath slowly steadying. She looked at David, her eyes blazing wild fire, and without words they both knew—this wasn't an end. It was a beginning.
She was the first to step out of the car, her bare breasts swaying in the breeze. Her jeans were undone, and she stripped them off with her panties, leaving herself utterly naked. Her body, taut and strong, gleamed in the sunlight, her skin still pale from winter, stark against this blazing new world.
David followed, tugging off his sweater, his pants, freeing himself—hard, swollen, aching to break. They said nothing; words were useless in this madness.
Sophie lay back in the grass, her spine pressing into the soft ground, her legs spreading in anticipation. David knelt between her thighs, his hands roaming her body, squeezing her breasts, fingers teasing her nipples until her voice spilled in sweet cries. He lowered his mouth, lips grazing her arms, her neck, then down—his tongue circled her nipples, sucking, biting lightly, while she trembled beneath him. Between her legs she was hot, drenched, an open invitation.
He slid inside her slowly. Missionary—classic, ordinary. And yet here, in this alien spring, it felt primal, untouched by centuries of ritual. Sophie arched her hips, eyes wide open but staring past him, lost in sensation. She slipped her hand between them, fingers working her clit.
David thrust in slow, meditative rhythm, as though trying to stretch out every moment of this divine act. Sophie's free hand clutched his ass, guiding his pace, her nails carving red streaks into his skin.
"Deeper…" she whispered, her voice breaking with need.
He quickened, sinking harder. Sophie clenched around him, her body answering each thrust, the sensation devouring him whole—heat, pressure, rhythm consuming his mind.
He flipped her onto her hands and knees, taking her from behind—raw, animal, fitting for this wild steppe. His hands gripped her hips, feeling the iron strength of her muscles. He drove into her in one sharp thrust, and Sophie's cry split the meadow—half shock, half ecstasy.
Minutes later she rose up, pressing her back against his chest. He grabbed her breasts greedily, buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and sunlit skin.
His thrusts grew harder, ragged, strings of his nerves pulled taut.
They shifted again—she straddled him, her thighs clamping his sides, her hands pressing into his chest. Sophie set the pace, rising and sinking, rolling her hips as if to make him touch every nerve inside her.
David watched her, unable to look away—her skin slick with sweat, the anguish on her face flipping into bliss and back again, her tongue sliding across her lips, her damp hair clinging to her temples. Her breasts—God, her breasts—danced in their own wild rhythm, nipples stiff to the wind and his touch alike.
Their cries ripped through the steppe, raw, primal, as though they were the only souls left on this entire planet. And maybe, just maybe, they were.