When you invite me on a hike, I know roughly what is likely to happen. We are not together, but usually, when we meet up, we get together in the carnal sense, because we enjoy it. Friends with benefits, as people call it. You are a horny bastard, and see no reason to keep your hands off me, since I grant you permissive access rights. It's one of the things I like about you. Another thing I like, or perhaps admire, is your knowledge of the hills. Let's just say you know your way around a landscape, whether it be the wide open spaces of the uplands, or more intimate territory.

We set off in the morning from a small car parking area, heading northeast up a trackway through the woods. You have all the right gear—expensive hiking boots and technical moisture-wicking clothing. I am making do with a pair of military-surplus boots, a bit heavy, but comfy enough for a few miles, and an old rain jacket that I hope is still waterproof. Not that it looks like I'm going to need it to stay dry; it's a perfect day in mid-May, already starting to get warm, with a few fluffy white clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. In my little rucksack is one of those fold-up tartan picnic blankets with a waterproof backing, that I fondly imagine you will pin me down on later, in some secluded spot. A flask of water, and a big bar of chocolate for emergencies (there's always an emergency that requires chocolate, I find). I seem to have forgotten my moral compass, but have no intention of using it, anyway.

We hike up the track for half a mile or so, talking about the wildflowers that we spot, sharing what we know of their ecology, medicinal uses, and significance in folklore. At the top of the hill, where the trees become sparse and we can see the next valley spread out before us for the first time, we pause to admire the view, and you pull me to you for a kiss. I wonder what your plan is, and how long it will be before I am the next view to be admired and traversed.

The next couple of miles are through more open country, as we work our way along the sunlit flank that rises on the west side of the valley, on a grassy path that follows the top edges of a series of sheep-grazed fields that stretch down the hill to our right. To our left is a wall marking the boundary between the agricultural land and the bottom of the steeper, wilder slope that rises to the ridge above us. A few cars meander along the unclassified road on the valley floor, and farm buildings are dotted here and there below us.

We cross several stiles between fields. Each time you go first, then turn to me to take me in your arms and kiss me as I climb over, and we run our hands over one another on top of our clothes to map out the familiar contours and landmarks that we will soon rediscover. The anticipation of sensuous, sweet delight to come sits heavy in my mind, nagging at my attention like a tempting bar of chocolate in a hiking pack.

The path starts to drop again, into recently verdant deciduous woodland, and splits into three. You indicate the smallest, roughest track as our route. It is quite overgrown in places, and we have to negotiate overhanging branches and tree roots, and pick our way through patches of low-growing wild brambles and bracken. Not a popular footpath, you tell me, with most ramblers choosing the better-maintained and more clearly signposted bridleway that heads to the same destination. We move through the trees and woodland understory in the dappled sunlight, making our way slowly upwards as the ground rises.

Eventually, we come to the edge of the wood, and arrive at a field boundary, with a stile set in a gap in the wall and a long view over the next valley and distant hills.

"Here," you say.

I spread out the picnic rug, and we sit down. You unlace my boots, and pull them off my feet in turn. It is a thing with us that I always get naked first, either by undressing myself while you watch, or, as now, by having you undress me. It is a big turn-on for me to be naked while you are still clothed, and you don't seem to complain about the arrangement.

You lift my teeshirt over my head and arms, and unhook my bra, removing it and fondling my breasts as you kiss my neck. The warmth of the day has meant that the possibly waterproof jacket has long since been stowed in my rucksack. You unfasten my trousers and pull them, and my knickers, down my legs and over my feet in one. I wonder if you will bother to take off my hiking socks—maybe not, now that you have exposed the bits you are interested in, as you don't tend to stand on ceremony—and I lie back, my cunt twitching at the thought of your hands and mouth, and eventually your cock, going everywhere I want them.

Instead, you put my boots back on my feet without bothering to lace them, and tell me to stand up. You rummage in your pack and pull out some cords, and guide me over to the stile. This is formed of a couple of steps up to a waist-height barrier, with two tall, vertical wooden handholds either side of the opening in the wall. You bind my wrists to the uprights using the cords, and have me stand with my feet either side of the steps and my legs spread wide. We have experimented a bit with bondage before, in your bed; and have had sex outside a few times, in fields and woods; and once, on a drunken night, in a shop doorway; but the combination of the two is new and very exciting. You lean your weight against me and start to finger me from behind, running your other hand over my body, your breath hot on my neck as you whisper endearments and filth into my ear. Knowing that I couldn't quickly get away to dress, even if someone came, is very arousing. I am already extremely wet, probably enough to soak through even the most sophisticated outdoor gear.

I hear you unzip your trousers, and with that fair warning, you push yourself into me, one foot on the ground and your other knee up on the top step of the stile for leverage. I brace my body against yours and my forearms against the uprights of the stile, my moans drowning out the sounds of birdsong and distant sheep, as you fuck me deeply and slowly. Your cock moving up inside me sends waves of pleasure rolling through me; the sun warms my right cheek and shoulder; a slight breeze plays over my bare breasts; and my belly and forearms are pushed against the wood of the stile, worn smooth by people's boots and hands. You reach around to massage my clit, and start to thrust faster and harder, and I cum hard with you in me, my mind's-eye view superseding the external one. Not long after, you cum too, mingling your juices with mine so that they run out of me and down my thighs.

As you untie me, we giggle at our naughtiness, and the fact that we got away with it. Even the most underused path is likely to have some foot traffic on this overcrowded island we call home, so we are lucky to have had the place to ourselves. Back on the picnic rug, I dress, somewhat hampered by our shared kisses and caresses. Once never seems to be enough for us, and I suspect the blanket might yet see some action on the way back to the car if you know of another suitable spot, which knowing you, you will do. For now, though, we climb over the stile to spread it out on the sheep-cropped grass on the other side, so we can sit and admire the scenery while we eat the chocolate.

It looks like we timed things pretty well, because as we sit down, we can see, off in the distance, a man and a dog coming around the bend in the path down below us. They make their way up towards us.

"Lovely day for it, and always better with chocolate," the man remarks, as the dog snuffles at our legs. We agree that it is, because what could possibly be nicer on a perfect May day than sharing a delicious, sweet, decadent treat with a good friend, while enjoying a view?