So Stephanie waited, bending over the apex of the slide, naked now, her shorts dropped on the ground below. Her face pressed down against the cold metal of the chute, her ass prettily presented for me. I slipped my fingers between wet, petalled folds, and began to stroke her again.
Stephanie said, “Oh, I don’t think I got anything more.” But I smacked her bottom again, because I wanted to make it clear that all sorts of things weren’t really up to her. Not for the time being, and that a second orgasm was one of those things. She laughed, for reasons of her own, and then sighed when I resumed working my fingers against sweet soft wetness.
I put my thumb against her asshole and pressed a little, and got another sigh. She tightened her muscles on my thumb: I took that as clasping me, not trying to force me out. She sighed again, and I decided I was right about that.
I kept that pressure, and kept the rhythm of my fingers in her absolutely steady, neither fast now slow, not speeding up or slowing down. Her buttocks had clenched, and she rolled her hips to keep pressed against my hand. Her vocal noises were still sighs, but higher pitched, enthusiastic sighs.
I said, “I have. More, I mean. I’m going to fuck you so hard, little Stephanie, when we get back.”
Her foot twitched. She was no longer standing on the steps, letting her tummy take all of her weight. She made a nasal sound, and carolled, “fuuuuuuck!”, partly in answer to what I’d said, and partly for other good reasons.
The sound she made when she came, that second time, was like the greatest expression of fear and grief you could imagine, except that it was clearly loudly and absolutely joyous. Her feet and thighs lifted clear of the steps, so that I had to grab her and hold her while she came, or else she’d have slid remorselessly down.
Eventually she breathed a kind of laugh. “I didn’t see that coming. Jesus!”
Stephanie said, “Yiiiii!” And she whooped with indignation and disbelieving laughter, while she hurtled facedown and naked, down that polished metal chute.
I didn’t follow her down, though I wanted to. I climbed back down the steps and picked up her discarded shorts and panties. It seemed the responsible thing to do.
Stephanie, now getting up from the level bit at the slide’s end, called out to me, “You utter, utter, utter, utter bastard!” It seemed utter bastards were a good thing.
And then a light went on, from the house nearest the playground. People were stirring. We’d stirred them.