It's always the way, when you start a local club or society. In my case, it arose from a desire to get more exercise without going to a gym or buying a silly treadmill. If you've got Dartmoor on your doorstep why not go out and explore it? I shared the idea with my neighbours, and even stuck up a notice in the Post Office about it. There was great interest from lots of people to begin with and we all had some fabulous walks, then after a while, they begin to fall away. The excuses were many - we've got relatives coming, I've sprained my ankle, the car failed its MOT and my wife has a blister (and that's just from one couple) - and the inexorable decline begins.

At the start, there were loads of us. The keenest and most regular attenders were the older couples - the Hollands, the Milfords, the Sunningdales, the Cokers and the Westfields. And some younger single people - Keith Stiby, Rachel Marsh, Ginny Greenwood, Jimmy Odcombe and Laura Finch, and a few others whose names I have forgotten.

Lastly there's me. I'm Adam, by the way. Pleased to meet you, too.

We'd meet at an easy-to-find car park somewhere on the edge of the Moor and then set off. Nothing very ambitious, we weren't the Marines yomping across the Falkland Islands to Goose Green, we were amateur ramblers. You know, amateurs with expensive walking gear which was used infrequently. Backpacks with all the trimmings, British Army-style water bottles, branded waterproofs (except we never went out in the rain), Tilly hats, walking poles and top-of-the-range walking boots. We'd take up our backpacks and walking poles, get into our favourite trousers, jackets, skirts and tops and off we'd go for a bit of exercise to get the bodily functions going again. An uphill start, fabulous views, our picnics at a suitable spot, lots of friendly chit-chat, a few laughs and burgeoning friendships, then we'd return to the cars by another route, this time generally downhill. At the end of the walk, I would suggest a few routes for next time and we'd pick one and decide on a date, time and car park to begin at. All in all, an excellent idea although I say it myself.

But, as I say, numbers started declining almost from day one. One Saturday in mid-June it was just me and Rachel, our youngest member at twenty five taking a day off from her studies at Plymouth Uni. We hung around the car park, waiting for a few extra minutes but nobody else turned up. I don't know what their excuses might have been because the weather was great. Sunny, a pleasant little breeze and a few fluffy clouds in the sky with a forecast of more of the same for the whole day, so it wasn't that.

All of us club members had got to know each of the others to a reasonable extent. During the course of any one walk, the group of people having one conversation would change and evolve as that chat came to an end, a slower walker would find their second wind and move forward towards the front, joining and leaving one or more chats, conversations, discussions and political debates while other walkers would slowly morph from one group to another. You know how it is, all very pleasant. Rachel was a younger woman, single but with a spark to her that I liked. And I am sixty-seven years old, mostly single, mostly male, but old enough to not care so much about what people thought of me, harmless but nice with it. So I like to think.

Rachel seemed to think so too. I asked her if she was OK going on a ramble just with me and she looked at me like I was crazy.

“Of course I'm OK. Why, what are you going to do to me?”

“Nothing! I'm too old for any shenanigans, I'm just looking forward to having a nice walk.”

“Me, too,” she said, playfully punching my arm.

The other thing about me is that a long time ago I had found that wearing a short denim skirt, along with the rest of my male clothing, suited me best when on a ramble. The crotchless skirt was far cooler and more comfortable around my privates than normal trousers or shorts. And denim, because it seems to be that the only skirts that have pockets are the denim ones. So I wore those.

I got remarkably few odd looks, and even fewer comments or questions about my skirt habit. Maybe because the rest of my persona was unmistakably male (it was). Maybe they were afraid I'd punch them in the lights if they asked a rude question (I wouldn't). Maybe because they thought I was Scottish (I'm not) and it was a kilt (it wasn't). Or maybe because they simply didn't care (they didn't). Or maybe they didn't even notice.

As Rachel and I set off, we were talking about the lack of other ramblers from the club, and the chatting progressed from there to all sorts of other things until we came to a steep uphill section. We stopped talking so we could breathe better on the way up. At the top of that section, there was a large rock by the path so I sat down on it and took a swig from my water bottle. That's what being sixty-seven does for you. Rachel joined me. It was a large rock, plenty of room for both of us. She took a swig from her own water bottle.

“So what's with the skirt, then?”

Rachel leaned towards me and poked my skirted leg with a finger. My hairy unshaved legs protruded from the lower hem of the skirt, which wasn't very low in any meaning of the word. The lower half of my thighs and my knees descended into socks and then into my walking boots.

I was just trying to remember my stock reply which I had rehearsed many times for when someone asked me that question but had never actually needed until now, when Rachel continued.

“What are you wearing underneath?”

She looked up at my face and giggled. I dropped my standard reply and was just about to think up a typically British response to the new question, slightly self-deprecating but with a bit of sarcasm and innuendo as well, when she spoke again.

“Why don't you show me?”

I was now in uncharted conversational territory now, and I hadn't made a single reply. Here I was, a sixty-seven-year-old bloke sitting next to a twenty-five-year-old single woman, nobody else around for miles, and she had just asked me to lift my skirt and show her what was underneath. That, and her hand on my leg. She looked down at my skirt and giggled again. She somehow drew my attention to her own legs which were covered by tight spangly-coloured leggings, socks, and walking boots in muddy pink as opposed to my muddy brown ones. My attention rose up her body, taking in her thin plastic jacket open at the front and showing her white tee-shirt top underneath it, and a glimpse of a very curvy cleavage under that.

She screwed the top back on her water bottle, put it back in her backpack and made as if to stand up and walk on along the level towards the next rise. I didn't do the same, so she didn't get as far as standing up, though I did see a tiny shake of her chest which I could have imagined, her boobs swinging a fraction to the left and right, in the space of half a second, clearly restrained by a bra. She could have sent out this movement as a test for me to respond to. Or not.

I set a test of my own by replacing my water bottle in my backpack, then pulling straight the hem of my skirt as I stood up. I smiled at her then turned and walked on up the path towards the base of the rocky summit to the tor we were climbing up. She followed close behind me for a couple of minutes until we were about to pass some large rocks, twice as tall as me and four times as wide, which were slightly off the well-worn path we were following. I looked around and saw no one else was anywhere near me apart from her, so I turned off the path and went behind these rocks, and found myself in a big grassy area surrounded by these rocks. Rachel followed me.

I chose another low wide stone to sit on where we were secluded from anybody's view whether near or far, then sat on it leaving a space next to me for her to sit at too. She joined me once more, this time she had taken her anorak off and stuffed it through one of the straps on her backpack.

She nestled up to my side and we both looked into each other's gaze, me trying to determine what exactly was going on here and her doubtless hoping I would catch on quickly.

“Do you want me to show you?” I asked.

She giggled girlishly and put her hand back on my leg. I pulled the hem of my skirt up a bit, widened my legs and showed her my black granny-style knickers which covered my junk.

“Oooh, knickers as well as a skirt,” she cooed, putting her own hand on the hem of my skirt and lifting it up for a better look. I wriggled myself into a wider leg position. Rachel ducked her head down and had a good peek right up my skirt as far as it went.

“Yes, male underpants are so last century,” I said.

She let her fingertips 'accidentally' touch my thighs, and when I didn't say anything or react, she let them slide down to the insides of my legs. I felt them lightly skim over my skin. I stood up just enough to pull my skirt right up to my waist, leaving my black knickers exposed. I settled back onto my bit of the rock again.

I was pleased with those knickers. I'd bought them a year or two back from a French company, La Redoute. They were midi-style ones with plenty of room for my junk with a gusset wide enough to stop things falling through, one side or the other. Rachel stared at them and slowly put her hand towards them, doubtless waiting for a shriek from me. No such shriek forthcame so she began to explore more firmly. Her fingertips explored my knickers, becoming more greedy as our combined reticence evaporated. She cupped her palm around the outside of my knickers, feeling the slightly distended fullness of all my stuff in a set of underwear not designed for male parts. I could feel her exploratory pushes and pulls. I closed my eyes briefly as I was suddenly beginning to enjoy myself.

The inevitable happened - my penis woke up and began to consider its future inside my knickers, deciding eventually (well, quite quickly, actually) that its future was outside not inside. I stood up and released it by pulling the top of my knickers down, exposing everything to the world and to Rachel in particular. She did an intake of breath, a broad smile and her hands went back to work, this time skin on skin. Hers on mine. I hitched the waistband underneath and behind my balls which had the effect of bringing everything forward and closer to Rachel's face.

“No hair! I like that.” Her words echoed from the surrounding rocks.

Her fingers gripped my rapidly expanding shaft and began fondling it. I was standing up so I turned to face her as she was still sitting on her bit of the rock. Her mouth was only a few inches from my penis and this distance decreased to zero as her lips slowly enveloped the end of my shaft. I felt her fingers stroking my balls and going behind them and touching me between my legs. And I felt her tongue slipping around the end of my penis. Her fingertip slowly skated around the base of my balls, slipping backwards sometimes towards my bum, then coming back to my balls again.

“You'll get a bit of a mouthful if you do that,” I managed to mumble, as all sorts of feelings zigzagged around my lower body.

“Mmmm,” I heard, and felt on my tip as her lips buzzed around my penis.

She reached under my skirt and pulled my black knickers down my thighs, over my knees where they got stuck around the tops of my socks. I held my skirt up away from her head as she leaned forward again and drew me further into her mouth, sucking and licking the end of my tip and teasing my balls. The whole thing had taken me a bit by surprise and I suddenly knew that Rachel would get a mouthful quicker than expected.

“Rachel, I'm ...”

She hummed again and flapped one arm as if to say 'it's OK'. Quicker even than I had feared, I spurted suddenly into her mouth, and kept spurting. My knees did that thing where I lost the ability to keep them straight for a split second, a few times, long enough for my legs to buckle but not long enough for me to fall over, although being sixty-seven that was a close thing. I let myself finish spurting out my stuff and Rachel swallowed and kept swallowing. My spasms came to an end and Rachel licked around the end of my penis, drawing the last of my semen and seemingly downing it with relish. She stood up and wiped around her mouth with her tee-shirt sleeve.

“Your turn, now,” she announced, taking my hands and placing them directly on her breasts which were underneath her top.

“Don't hold back.”

I suddenly realised how big her bust was. For the past year or two, all the ramblers had always worn outdoor clothing. Shirts, sweaters, oversized jackets, scarves and rain-proof anoraks, with a backpack on their back with the straps coming over their shoulders. I had not noticed, or even been able to estimate if I had wanted to, what the sizes of people's busts, stomachs or bottoms were. Why would I want to know?

Take the Cokers, a lovely couple. Cheerful, interesting and enthusiastic (for a year or two at least). But how they managed to heave themselves out of their four-by-four and make it across the car park I don't know, let alone walk up hills and tors. Ditto the Westfields, or at least him. He would have qualified for the Fattest Man In Town regardless of which town you were talking about. And don't get me going on Keith Stiby who had a beer gut the size of Plymouth Brewery, while at the other end of the scale, Ginny Greenwood was like a particularly skinny beanpole who seemed to be able to pluck energy from the air around her because she had no reserves on her person, as it were. So eyeing up other people's body shapes was difficult and not terribly rewarding. Lovely people, but sexy? I think not. And Rachel didn't flaunt herself at all, being bundled up like a roly-poly the same as everyone else. Consequently, on this the warmest day we'd ever had on one of our Dartmoor walks, her attributes came as a shock. A pleasant one, but a shock nonetheless.

Very pleasant.

She waited while I looked at her chest. I noticed at once how her tee-shirt strained its seams at boob level, stretching across them with the material pulled taut. It showed the lines of the cups on her bra and the clearest hint of some nipples pushing through the bra and the tee-shirt. I set my mind to imagine what lay under the tight tee-shirt top. Plenty, I thought, looking again at the tautness of the tee-shirt between her two boobs. The overhang was considerable and one that I had not seen for a few decades. Not just the normal bust, but a bust which extended forwards more than I expected, with a deep recess underneath, as below her bra the tee-shirt drew back in around her slim tummy, still managing to look taut right down to her belt. I stared at her large perky boobs, obviously with a strong bra to keep them up against the force of gravity. She dropped her backpack onto the ground next to mine and stayed standing in front of me as I sat down again on my rock, the better to see her bust at face level.

My face level.

Rachel's arms stayed down by her side, inviting me towards her white tee-shirt and its ill-concealed contents. I found my gaze centred on her bust which was like a range of hills rising from her front in a way very similar to the shape of the Dartmoor hill, Sheepstor, that we were actually on, complete with knobbly bits on top in two places.

“Well, Rachel, you are very beautiful!” I cooed, my hands advancing slowly towards her, uncertain as to where they might land.

She smiled happily and continued standing there doing nothing except inviting me in.

“What size are these?” I marvelled, gazing at them and mentally (if not actually) drooling at the sight of them.

“I'm a 32EE,” she admitted, proudly.

I ran my fingers along the tightness of her tee-shirt, from one side to the other. Rachel watched, staring down at her boobs while I fiddled with her tee-shirt top. I pushed my finger onto the middle part, between one breast and the other. I went on pushing until I came down to skin level. The tee-shirt stretched even further than it was already. I felt the wire bits of her bra where they loop upwards from under each cup. Through the material of her tee-shirt I gripped the top of the metalwork and tried lifting it and shaking it from side to side as far as it would go, which wasn't far. Her boobs shook in sympathy with my attempts, and Rachel herself moved in sympathy with her bra.

Both of my hands now settled around the underneath of each cup and tried moving her cups in different directions at the same moment. Her breasts, still in their cups, filled each hand very nicely. Each time I moved her breasts away from each other, her tee-shirt stretched even further than it already was. I could feel her large boobs held in a substantial bra, the band fitted tight to her chest and the cups free to swing as far as they could, just what you need to keep big boobs under control.

I reached behind her and began to pull her tee-shirt up, but she beat me to it. She pulled the tee-shirt off over her head, exposing the bra. It was a plain, workman-like bra with no frills, in a white colour but with large cups with strong wire curves under each one, and with a deep strap going around to her back. I reached behind her again, and once more she beat me to it. The bra simply sprang away from her chest, while her breasts in their cups dropped an inch or two. She leaned forward and the bra dropped at my feet and her breasts, now free of any support, heaved themselves into their natural shape and back into my hands.

They were seriously big - I'm sixty-seven (as I keep saying) and have been around a bit, but I'd never been this close to such a gorgeous pair of puppies as hers. I was still in a bit of shock that I was actually doing this, and doing it with Rachel. Had I been given a choice between Ginny, Laura and the female halves of the Hollands, the Milfords, the Sunningdales, the Cokers and the Westfields I would have chosen Rachel, not because she was the youngest rambler but because she was the most fun to be with, discounting the sex thing entirely. The female halves of the couples were, of course, already in a couple (and I didn't fancy a smack in the mouth from their other halves), and Ginny and Laura were too wrapped up in their one-track-minded issues to ever drag them away from thinking - and talking - about their veganism or their cats.

Rachel stayed standing up in front of me, her hands now back at her sides while her two breasts pointed their nipples directly at my face. They were truly enormous, and from only a few inches away from my face. I took a breast in each hand and pressed my face into her cleavage. She put a hand on each breast as well and pushed them into my cheeks. I savoured the feeling of her skin on mine, the sight of her bust close up, the sound of her heartbeat in my ears and, yes, even the strong smell of female sweat and hormones breezing into my nostrils.

Well, it was a warm day and we had just walked up Sheepstor.

Her nipples were large and a little puffy, and pushed out from the front of each breast in a smooth cone shape leading forwards. I moved my head and put my lips over one of her nipples and licked it, then suckled for a few seconds before changing to the other one. My penis, having had an exciting moment just recently and had exhausted itself, began to wake up again, an event not lost on Rachel who amazingly could see it down past her boobs and my head and shoulders, if she leaned her head to one side or another. She let me play with her boobs for a few lovely seconds, then she couldn't wait any longer.

“Adam, get my leggings down!”

I stood up, grabbed the waistband of her spangly leggings and simply pulled them down as far as her socks. I had half dragged her knickers down but they'd been left behind somewhere around her hips. They were white granny ones, plain in design and not what you might call 'lingerie' but just right for hiking in. I uncovered her crotch, shaved very tightly. I reluctantly left her breasts which sprang back into position, pulled her knickers down and bent down to put my face directly between her legs. I took a deep long sniff of the wonderful scents coming from her vagina. Hot, steamy, strongly scented and thoroughly delightful. My tongue came out like the sun in the morning and tasted what I could smell. I suckled her there between her legs, too, and began to enjoy the sticky mess which started coming out of her and into my mouth.

Rachel lay down on the grass. Well, actually, she more or less fell over. She tried to widen her legs but the knickers and leggings bunched up around her knees stymied that idea.

“Go in, go in!” she yelped.

I dropped onto the grass too and lay over her, my penis as hard as it gets at my age. I felt her fingers guiding me into her vagina. Her knees were as apart as they could be, giving me just enough room to get myself inside her.

“Push!”

I pushed, already uncontrollably about to ejaculate again, but she beat me to it.

“Yes, yes... yes!” she kept repeating.

“Come on, don't stop now!”

I couldn't stop myself now even if I wanted to, which neither of us did. I felt my foreskin being peeled back and rolled forward again and again as I pushed and she shoved her hips up against mine. Back and forward, back and forward, my foreskin rubbed against the side of her tight vagina. I was vaguely aware of her perky EEs rubbing on my tummy but I had other sensations to enjoy. After only a few seconds of trying to make it last I ejaculated again inside her, my foreskin and the tightness of her legs and pussy won a decisive victory, and out it all came, spurt after spurt.

After each spurt Rachel thrust herself back at me in pure pleasure, still moaning 'Yes' to herself and anyone else who was listening. I didn't know any woman ever actually said 'yes' whilst having sex, I thought it was just something you read about. My arm strength was not great and I realised I was lying on top of her without supporting myself much, but she didn't mind. As the spurts died back and the paroxysm faded away she put her arms around me and pulled me tighter on top of her, my anorak and ruckled-up skirt on her bare boobs and tummy, and we lay there for ages, just enjoying each other and getting our breath back.

At length, I eased myself out of her pussy and from between her thighs, rolled over and dug around in my pocket for a tissue. I wiped myself off then offered her a clean one still in the packet. I watched her put her bra on again, an engineering exercise to make anyone proud to be a part of, and we both stood up and reorganised our knickers, leggings and skirt. Without saying anything, but with our libido overflowing, we continued our ramble up to the top of Sheepstor (thankfully not very far away) where we ate the picnics we had brought with us, gazing around us at the terrific views in all directions, and just chatting about normal things.

Eventually, we gathered ourselves and our things together again and set off downhill, aiming for the car park. We had to pass the spot where we had just had such a great time with each other, and strangely neither of us wanted to pass it. We looked at each other naughtily, and ducked back behind the same rocks as before.

“Let's get all our clothes off, this time,” she suggested, already starting to take off her backpack.

“Good idea,” I said. “I'll watch!”

So I did. First off was her white tee-shirt, exposing her 32EE bra. Then that came off, too. Next, she undid her boots and took them off along with her socks while I admired her breasts which flopped around a little every time she bent down. My eyes were fixated her her lovely puffy nipples (a point not lost on her). Then off came her leggings and finally her knickers. She stood there, naked as the day she was born, except her boobs were a lot bigger. Now able to look at her properly for the first time, I saw her tight pussy with those rounded lips closed up tightly. I did 'turn around' motions with one hand, and she turned around so I could look at her bottom.

“Bend over, please, Rachel?” I asked.

Again, pert little buttocks and the hint of those lips coming back between her legs, so when she bent forwards for me I could see them much better, nestling between her thighs under her back passage.

She stood up again.

“Now you.”

I wondered what she might say towards the end of my undressing. My jacket, boots and socks came off, then the skirt, then the knickers. Then my tee-shirt, leaving me with just the last item I was still wearing. Rachel drew in her breath and took a step forward, then stopped, uncertain of what to say. She stared at it in surprise for a beat, then smiled, shrugging her shoulders as if to say 'who cares'.

You see, that's the thing about being at the forefront of fashion (at least in my own estimation), blazing a trail in male/female clothing choices. You tend to cause a stir. I stood there, almost naked but Rachel wasn't looking between my legs, she was looking at my bra. Wrapped around my upper chest, my bra was exactly like any other bra. It had a band, cups and shoulder straps, plus a little bit of lace at the top of the cups, a tiny little bow between the tops of the cups, and was in a size commensurate with my chest size and my boob size. Except I didn't have any boobs, at least, no more than any other man, so the bra was a 42C. Well, bras in 42 don't come with cups any smaller than C. This bra was a black one, one of many I had.

“You're wearing a bra??” she asked, her questioning inflexion rising more dramatically than usual. The double question mark was evident in her question. She stepped forward again and touched it, running her fingers over the tight straps and empty cups so close to my skin.

“You've said why you wear a skirt, so why do you wear a bra?”

“Just for fun, really. I've always wanted to know it was like, so I tried it, and still keep trying it.”

I stopped talking and unhooked it, but Rachel had other ideas.

“Don't take it off, let me do it up again for you.”

She disappeared behind me and I felt the band tighten again around my chest. I also felt her hands running over the straps at the back, then at the front as she came back into view. She felt for my boobs, to see if I had any. If I did, I'd say there were a B at the most. She stood in front of me again, her hands on my bra cups. My hands reached out and touched her breasts again, her nipples almost jumping into my hands.

We both knelt down on the grass still playing with each other. I lay down on the cool grass and she lay on top of me, her massive breasts hanging down almost vertically. She seemed fascinated by me in my bra, and what with being in the same place that we'd had sex in only an hour or so earlier and her being fixated by my bra, both of our juices were up to the mark very quickly. Oh, and her lying naked on top of me with her luscious ladies pressing down on my chest. Boobs on boobs, you might say. And her pussy nestling down on my ever-growing penis.

This time, we took more time and went a bit deeper, so to speak. I slid straight into her, using the still-present moisture from last time mingled with sweat from our walking. I knew she had felt me go in with no preamble, stretching her, opening her up and sending a wave of sensations to her brain. I felt her tighten around me, trying to control it in some way - to expel it completely or to pull it in further, making it seem bigger than it was. Blood rushed all over our bodies, and we lost control of ourselves in only a few seconds. She had obviously been cooking it up since our first time. Her thighs squeezed me, her pelvis ground into me, her leg muscles twitching and vibrating. I exploded inside her again, and she rocked back and forward on top of me. I had plenty left and I kept coming, spurting my stuff in her vagina and all over her thighs, and myself as well. It dribbled out of her and out of me all over our midriffs and the grass underneath us. Panting both, we lay there in a starburst of feelings until the heavy breathing settled back to normal and the grass began to feel distinctly cool to my back and legs.

She rolled off me and we both reached again for our backpacks and the tissues we knew were in there somewhere. We cleaned ourselves up and got dressed, walked out of the secluded area and back to our cars in the car park, talking about our sensations and my surprise that she had wanted to have an old fool like me.

“You're no fool, Adam.”

“So, just old, then.”

“...”

We unlocked our cars which were parked next to each other and slid our backpacks into each boot. Rachel put her feet up onto the back bumper one at a time, undid her bootlaces and slipped into some driving shoes. I watched her bottom wiggling around as she did these tasks, and couldn't restrain myself any longer. I stood behind her and slid my hands around her sides and found her breasts sitting quietly under her anorak, tee-shirt and bra. She held herself still while I played with her. She slipped her leggings and knickers down in one movement and pushed her bottom back towards me. I pulled my skirt up and my knickers to one side and plunged myself into her again from behind, although the angle was a little awkward and it felt tighter than I expected.

“Mmmm, go on, go on!” she whispered.

I did, and ejaculated again into her. I wasn't actually sure which hole I was in - her wet and sticky pussy, or the other one.

“Am I in the right place?” I whispered, urgently, thrusting against her push-backs.

“Yes, no doubt about that!”

Some of my cum went in, some of it went all over her knickers and leggings and the rest went all over me and the back bumper of her car. Again, we enjoyed the paroxysms while we stood up, clutching onto the back of her car for support. My knees did that twitching thing, and her vagina clenched and unclenched quickly a few times. I didn't know they could do that. And once again, our urges came to an end, and once again we cleaned ourselves up. The sun had lost its power even though it was barely five o'clock when we did up the last button and pulled the last piece of clothing into place. We hugged each other silently, then reluctantly separated and got in our own cars.

I followed her out of the car park and down the road to the reservoir, through the village and up to the main road, where she turned left and I turned right.

“Till next time, Rachel,” I whispered. “Till next time.”