I write this account for posterity after witnessing a most extraordinary country tradition upon my visit to South Peltagow this spring season. The information here is garnered from my own first hand account, and as told to me by the local folk.
South Peltagow and the surrounding villages are rather unremarkable otherwise, pockmarked with squat country homes and rambling fields with nary much more than a baker, a crumbling church, and a pub with an offensive watery ale surrounding the town square. Little can be said about the place, other than at the spring equinox.
The gentleman’s garden parties, as they are rather coyly known, are held when the blooms are at their greenest, bursting to blossom, pollen thick upon the air. The local menfolk gather at daybreak in meadows, pastures and at river banks, nearly giddy with excitement of the day. Each has his own recommended locale, and there is quite a bit of territorial jockeying in the days prior to the garden party.
For emerging from the greenery, their minds and muscles still-dozed with the sleep of deep winter, spring nymphs in all varieties of pastel-colours – blushing pinks, lilac and lavenders, robin egg blue – could be found, blinking their wide, pupil-less eyes. The sap in their veins was slowed, their reactions dulled. They stretched slender limbs and turned their round faces toward the sun.
I have been told that many in the past have attempted to lure them with honey or sweet breads, promises or prayers, but the tried and true method remained the most effective. A sturdy pair of shoes, and a willingness to run. Gentry and common men are made equal in the chase.
Once caught, the nymphs wriggled.
Their pleas sounded like larksong, like a breeze through a willow’s branches.
A seasoned practitioner knew to not waste time reveling in his success, for as soon as the first offering is given (I have been told that any location, even splattered across a hued torso or face would due, but the womb is most recommended), the companion became much more pliable within moments. Eyes softened, lips parted, body quieted, the wildness tamed. It was then that the true magic of the encounter began.
The second was an easier fare, with many a spring creature eagerly opening their mouths to accommodate a gentleman’s length. With a little coaching, they can even be instructed to wrap one petite, petal-coloured hand around a shaft and stroke in time. The creatures had no reflex in the back of their throats, and it was a remarkable sight to have one gaze up at oneself through heavy, jewel-toned lashes, even as their throat distended. If the warm seed was poured down their throat – for they always swallowed, without question nor hesitation – many have reported that the companions become rather insatiable. I myself can confirm the verity of such speculations.
Often the most spirited, the third encounter will frequently feature the quivering pleas of the companion, complaining that the seed inside of her has gone quite cold. The gentleman had better be prepared for the endurance, or if not, is advised to bring salt in his pocket to place under the nymph’s tongue – such an action will return to her to prickly senses. But if you are willing and eager for a third coupling, it is indeed the most joyous.
My companion, a stunning creature with flesh like the innermost petal of a cherry blossom, displayed an insatiable energy. She knelt in the heather, pressing herself onto my still-turgid length, and I wasn’t required to expend another breath of effort until I felt her quivering with ecstasy, her tightness milking forth my own pleasure. Perhaps a greater man than I could have resisted the sensation, but stars burst in front of my eyes as the heat gathered to a precipice. I held her hips tightly to my own, and released deep inside of her. Wave after wave of ecstasy coursed through me, and she cried out as I did.
There are perhaps some who will attribute this account to mold in the aforementioned watery ale in the local pub, or to the collective delusion of uneducated village folk. However, when I awoke from the slumber in which I had fallen, the mid-morning sun was bright upon my face, and I would swear to any man who asks it that I glimpsed the face of a woman in the flowering cherry blossoms above.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/mzuq7h/mf_south_peltagow_in_the_spring_a_firsthand