If 'Twere Donne

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic


A short story from my book 'Tales from the Cold Northern Hills' available on Amazon or from Lulu.com

Submitted: January 23, 2018

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Submitted: January 23, 2018

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IF ?TWERE DONNE

 

After the third orgasm I start to purr. It originates somewhere deep in my stomach and travels upwards until it reaches my throat. I first discovered this propensity when I met Gustav Prendergast.

I’d gone on one of those residential writing courses, expecting to fuck the famous poet who was booked for the weekend - about the only reason I can see for attending these literary non-events, and he’d cancelled at the last moment. In the circumstances I could hardly ask for my money back, so I cast my eye over the other participants in search of a substitute.

I’d registered the look of interest Gustav shot me as I walked in - over the years I’ve developed a sixth sense for that sort of thing. My internal man-monitor had flashed up the message - ‘too short’ - but now I was forced to take a second look. He was at least as tall as I was, with a strong, muscular frame, a great thick head of hair and the most incredible blue eyes, those kind that have a black rim round the edge. With his dark hair they were irresistible, and he had a way of looking at you with a quirky smile playing round the corners of his mouth, which was soft and sensitive. Yes, he deserved more than a passing glance.

He sought me out in the interval of a tedious lecture on Donne, and I could tell he was trying to impress me with his analytical skills. But my mind was listening to his body, not his brain.

“What do you think?” he asked, having made some fruitful point.

“I think,” I said slowly, looking straight into his eyes, “you should take me away from here and fuck me.” Shock stripped the veil of bland politeness from his face, and for a moment I saw another Gustav hidden behind the dark blue eyes. Then he recovered.

“What are we waiting for?” Seizing my hand, he pulled me from the room. I took him to a place I knew on the moors. A rock, huge as a house, stands half a mile off  the track. No one ever goes there. It’s not on the way to anywhere, it’s just a solitary deposit of a long-ago glacier, and I love it. It’s at the high point of the moors, and the first time I went up there and lay on my back in the sun with the Father of Nine, I sensed the bustle of a mediaeval fair all around me. I hardly thought it likely, but the Father said this rock marked the boundaries of four parishes, and it was quite possible such an event could have taken place there.

Anyway, I found it a magical place, and it was not far from the poetry convention in Gustav’s fast car, though I think he wondered where on earth I was taking him.

He was as fit as I was, and the walk across the moor bothered him not at all, in fact he was intrigued to see the dark bulk of the Rock loom ever closer as we climbed the moor.

“It’s a bit Cathy and Heathcliff, isn’t it?” he said, but his eyes were shining. In another of those omen-filled moments, the bleached skull of a sheep lay across the track.

“Look!” I said, pointing, “a sacrifice to the gods,” knowing this meant we were joined on the astral as well as on earth, though I didn’t say so to him.

On the top of the Rock, long ago, someone carved out a deep basin, which is always filled with cold, clear rainwater, an exhilarating plunge on a hot day, and in the side the same hands have carved a chamber, facing west towards the setting sun, where I like to think an anchorite may have lived.

But when we panted up the final slope, hand in hand, intoxicated with each other and the thought of what we were going to do, we saw a man sitting at the base of the rock, reading a book!

“Oh!” I pulled at Gustav’s hand. “What shall we do now?”

“Climb it,” he said, shading his eyes from the sun as he looked up its sloping sides. “I’m not going back now we’re here.”

With a polite ‘good afternoon’, we pushed past the reader and climbed the rock face, clinging to the small toe-holds cut in its sides.

You could see all four parishes from the summit, but more interestingly you could see Gustav Prendergast’s hot dick as it pushed against the restraining cloth of his trousers. He flung himself down on the edge of the pool, laughing and pulling me with him, hands inside my knickers.

“We can’t -” I said, “What about -”

“I took you for a free spirit -” he said, “I don’t care if you don’t.”

His pole rose unrestrained as his pants came off. I wanted to caress it but he wouldn’t wait. Seizing me, he lowered me onto it. Supporting my waist with hairy arms, his head hanging over the lip of the pool, he roared his appreciation into the heavens.

Rising on the upstroke, I could see the man below, still reading his book. He seemed oblivious of the rampaging above him but, during a temporary lull, he got up, methodically inserted a bookmark and, still not looking up, set off down the slope. I began to rise and fall again, imagining him turning at last, seeing my round white arse joyously waving against the celestial blue.

Afterwards, we washed in the pool, then lay on the grass to dry. Soon we were making love again, more comfortably this time. That’s when I discovered the purring.

The sun started to go down about the same time as Gustav.

“We won’t be very popular when we get back,” he said. “They’re sure to know what we’ve been up to.”

“Especially when they see your crass grin,” I said, “You look so much more beautiful when you smile.”

“Well, I didn’t have much to smile about, until you came along,” he said. “Tell you what, though, you don’t seem all that popular with the others.”

“I had noticed a certain animosity,” I said. “It’s been worrying me. Do you think they dislike me because I’m so talented, or because I’m so beautiful?”

“I don’t think it’s either of those things,” he said.

“What, then?” I asked.

“I think,” he said slowly, “it’s because you’re a whore.”

I knew then I was going to like him.


© Copyright 2019 Geraldine Firequeen. All rights reserved.

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