Picnic With Marona

Marona and I arrive at my bedchamber.

She wastes no time. Already naked, she leaps onto the bed like a warrior onto the battlefield, legs spread, face glowing with anticipation and questionable restraint.

But then I stare at the ceiling and feel... bored.

"This is so boring," I say, unimpressed. "Having sex on a bed is so last week. Let's go to the garden."

"What?" Marona blinks, confused, legs still heroically parted.

Without waiting, I scoop her into my arms like a romantic barbarian. Verona, my eternally calm and naked maid, is already laying out a wide cloth on the garden ground like a picnic for perverts.

"This feels festive," I say, grinning. "Verona, bring sandwiches. And fruit juice. Something tropical."

"Yes, my Lord," Verona replies, as if this is just another Tuesday.

Then I begin.

We engage in passionate intercourse under the sun, like two sacred animals obeying the ancient call of fertility.

Marona moans with increasing volume and irregular vowel combinations.

But I'm focused on the garden—the way the wind brushes the trees, the birds chirping hymns of encouragement, and the way my hips move like a steam-powered piston.

"Ahh... so refreshing!" I exclaim, arms wide to embrace the sky, while my lower half continues the sacred choreography of thrust and devotion.

"Verona," I say mid-pump, "feed me a sandwich."

She holds one to my lips. I take a bite.

Delicious. Salty ham, crisp lettuce, a hint of mustard. My hips do not break rhythm.

Marona's large, heroic breasts bounce with reckless abandon—like twin water balloons caught in a minor earthquake.

"Now the juice," I say between chews.

Verona obliges. I sip tropical bliss while simultaneously delivering divine pleasure.

"This is peak living," I whisper.

Then I feel it.

The climax approaches like a cavalry charge.

With a final thrust that could register on a seismograph, I release a majestic torrent of love juice into Marona's eager womb. Birds fly away. Flowers bloom faster. Somewhere in the distance, a bard writes a ballad.

I pull out with quiet dignity and walk to a garden chair. I sit like a philosopher contemplating the cosmos after battle.

Marona lies sprawled on the picnic cloth, her legs still open like parentheses. Her body twitches, her face twisted in an expression that can only be described as Ultra Ahegao. She looks like she's seen the divine and the divine winked back.

I take another sip of juice.

"Do you want more, Marona?" I ask casually, like I'm offering seconds at a buffet.

"I... I... want... more... your Rod... so good..."

"Round two, then."

We go again. This time, it's an odyssey.

For nearly an hour, I move like a relentless automaton possessed by lust and cardio discipline. Then, with one last heroic thrust, I release another sacred offering. Marona arches like a bridge struck by lightning. Her brain, I'm certain, has been flooded with enough oxytocin to chemically erase the last five years of her memory.

She collapses.

Twitching.

Sweaty.

Satisfied.

Then she laughs. A soft, strange laugh, while gazing at my Rod as if she's found the Holy Grail in phallic form.

She murmurs something almost inaudible. Something like, my precious...

Verona and the other maids, unfazed and efficient, help the bliss-blasted Marona to her feet.

I adjust my robe, nod solemnly, and walk out of the garden without a word—like a man who just harvested potatoes.