1 comments/ 24730 views/ 2 favorites Island in the Barley Ch. 01 By: Drmaxc It was the third time she had dreamt of the copse, the wood, the cluster of trees in the middle of the open field. Sasha sat up in bed and drew the covers around her. It was a very odd dream. Why would she go into a copse and then want to take all her clothes off? Why would she want to step into the shade of the trees leaving her clothes at the border between the sunshine and the gloom? She had not yet stepped far enough into the trees before waking to find an answer. Waking, though, with a quite intense longing between her legs and a wetness running down her thighs. Each time she had woken she had felt that way. Sasha got out of bed. In the mirror she looked at herself. What a funny round face she had, she knew it, but it was not an unpleasing face and it seemed to make people laugh; she smiled at her reflection and it smiled back showing her little white teeth. Sasha glanced downwards at the breasts, as round as her face with the nipples now hard, pointed and sensitive. She clasped them in her hands and moved them, the touch felt good and she watched her hands playing with her breasts as if she was watching some other girl. Her tummy was flat and below it the vee of ruddy gold hair, rather darker in colour than the rich golden red hair hanging down around her shoulders. Sasha parted her legs a little and looked at the hint of pink lips just showing. A hand moved, a hand obscured her fur and a finger touched. She watched fingers stirring and disappearing a little. It was still rather like watching another girl but the feeling, the sensation was very clearly her own. What would it be like watching another girl... or boy? The thought took her back to bed, back to intimacy with herself, back to wet hands, heat and the scent of her arousal under the bedclothes. Her dream had started it: her fingers finished it. It is one thing to have a recurring dream and become familiar with it. We all have them. They can come to us year on year, stretching back into childhood, something familiar, often strange and not quite normal but a dream we recognise, often know it as the dream and wake ourselves from it: it is quite another thing to walk in reality into the dream, to be at one moment in the normal everyday world and the next to recognise the setting or sense of that dream in the now. This, though, was what came to Sasha when visiting friends and going with them for an afternoon walk in the country. It was not some great expedition, a hike, but a gentle stroll down footpaths, across streams and on green roads. Of a moment Sasha stopped on a footpath, staring across a field of green barley, barley gently moving in the breeze, at a copse right in the centre of this field. Not just any copse but the copse, the wood, the cluster of trees from her dream. It was there before her—real and substantial. She wanted to go to it but the copse was not something she could reach as the wood was cut off from the footpath by the fresh growing barley. It would not do to trample the farmer's field. "What are you looking at, Sasha?" "The trees, the copse... nothing really." She tried to sound unconcerned but her whole appearance, her stance, showed otherwise. "You look like you've seen a ghost." "Bit too sunny for that!" Sasha wasn't saying more. It was most peculiar though. It was annoying not to be able to walk over and look at the trees, what did they hide—anything? Why did it look like her dream? She hadn't been to the place, the footpath, before. Was it just co-incidence? But it looked too much the same—no, it was the same. That night, in her friends' house the dream came again. For the fourth time she found herself by the stand of trees; just outside and trying to look in. Standing close to them with the barley moving around her in the slight breeze, like waves across the land, touching her bare legs; the breeze cooling on a hot day. Sasha's hand touched the barley ears, the seeds were swelling, green and new, her fingers feeling the long awns. Skylarks soared behind her rising into the blue, blue sky. Why was she here? The pull of the trees seemed strong in the dream, Sasha felt she could not stay in the sunshine, in the ripening barley, but needed to be under the cover of the trees. It was cooler there, out of the full sun and the dappled sun would not burn her bare flesh. She knew the drill by now. The pink gingham dress slipped from her shoulders to fall around her feet and it was but the work of moments to be free of her shoes and underclothes. Even at the very edge of the wood the feeling was starting, a tingling feeling between her legs, The ground felt soft under her toes as she stepped forward determined to get further into the wood this time. Without a path Sasha would have expected branches and undergrowth to be in her way and perhaps it was just the dream but whilst the trees grew close together she had no difficulty moving forward into the wood. It was warm and not at all gloomy; the trees were young and the canopy not thick, allowing sunlight through as a patchwork of dark and light. It felt strange to be out walking naked but it was only a dream and one she had experienced before. The feeling was building, she was sure the top of her legs were already damp with the lubrication leaking from her, flowing to allow easy entrance to male genitalia. She thought to touch but it did not seem right—what she wanted was the touch, the caress of a male, to have the smoothness of a penishead parting her, penetrating her taking her as a woman. Sasha's hand brushed a nipple, it was hard and pointing. Whether it was her desire for a penis and a man or not but she was, of a sudden, aware she was not alone. To her right and not so many yards from her, coming through the trees was a young man. Like herself he was completely without clothes; unlike her he was fair and tall; like her he wore his hair long, indeed he was hirsute with beard and fine curly chest hair and, of course, fair curly hair around his sex; like her he was sexually excited, it was easy to tell that by the long slightly curved erection standing in front of him and swaying as he walked. Dreams limit inhibitions, dreams do not matter, dreams are not reality. Sasha knew what she wanted to do and that was embrace this male vision and feel his erection inside her. A lovely orgasmic wet dream. Dreams, though, can be remarkably frustrating. She could see the man was sexually excited and so was she—intensely so. The young man caught sight of Sasha and stopped; his eyes wide as he took in both her presence and her nakedness. He had not been touching his penis and it just stood there rising from its bed of fair curls, foreskin retracted and shiny head exposed, caught in a patch of sunlight as if by a spotlight. Sasha advanced slowly towards him, her eyes flicking from his face to his penis, her desire strong, and then she saw him grimace and the lovely penis, she was so desperately in need of, all at once began to spurt. Sasha was aghast. He had not touched it: she had not touched it. String after string of creamy fluid flew from the tip of the penis to fly a yard or so through the air, seeming to flash when it caught the dappled light, before landing on the dry leaf mould of the woodland floor. Sasha awoke in her bed in the dark, tossing and turning in frustration with the dream of the man and his ejaculating penis so fresh in her mind. Her fingers went straight to her sex and with dancing fingers she imagined the young man on top of her, his hard cock thrusting and spurting more usefully inside her as she came hard and long. In the early morning Sasha sat cross-legged on her bed looking out of her bedroom window, watching the sun rise, the change from monochrome to colour, then from subdued pastel to the bright colours of a summer's day. In the distance sat the copse in its sea of barley looking quiet, fresh and a little mysterious in the early dew-light. She was almost minded to go to it that very moment, plunge into its depths but her hosts would be surprised at her having gone out so early and she was not sure she could do it—walk into the wood naked. As the day wore on she was more and more puzzled as to why she had thought in the early light that she would have to walk naked. There was no reason for that, just the dream and that did not bind her. That night she dreamt again. It was the same as before; there she was on the edge, the very edge of the field of barley, the sun pouring down and the inviting coolness of the wood so close. This time she let the dress fall before reaching the wood and felt the hot sun on her skin and the plump ears of barley stroking her thighs as she moved, drawing the already flowing wetness from her. It was quiet in the copse, cooler but still bright from the sun coming through to dapple the ground. Sasha moved forward purposefully wanting to get further into the wood, to find out why she was there—if, that is, there was any reason for the dream. The tingling was strong, tempting her to lie down on the cool soft carpet of old leaves and plunge her fingers into her wetness and strum her herself to orgasm. She tried to ignore the feeling, ignore the sexuality, concentrate on walking further into the wood's depths, get to the very centre to explore, find and understand. But it was no good, her desire was too strong and she sank to her knees with her hands going to her breasts to touch, squeeze and pull before she rolled onto her back, splayed her thighs and her right hand touched between. It was a delicious sensation, first stroking around and then plunging three fingers hard into herself as her thumb touched her little nub. It must have been because of the noise she was making as she rolled on the ground getting closer and closer to orgasm that she did not hear the boy come from her right, nor see him until he was up to her, just feet from her, almost looming over her. As before, he too was naked but this time his long slightly curved erection was firmly held in his hand, a hand that was moving, alternately revealing and then hiding the shiny head. He was staring at her and what a sight she must have looked to him, wanton and exposed on the woodland floor. Her fingers moved as she stared at the boy's cock and his stroking hand, he in turn was staring at her own masturbation, both caught as if in the freeze frame of a picture, motionless but for the playing hands when all of a sudden, long strings of creamy fluid flew from the end of his penis to fall like thick rain drops across her naked tummy and sex. That knocked her into orgasm as she felt his ejaculation falling steadily onto her, warm on her skin. The intensity of the orgasm awoke her with a cry. Sasha had never ever woken to find herself actually coming—coming moreover without having to touch herself first. One moment asleep and the next staring out blankly into the darkness as the waves of orgasm crashed about her all emanating from that one touch, the pattering touch of the boy's ejaculation in her dream. "Were you all right in the night, Sasha, we heard you call out?" Sasha had assured them she was OK, was fine, it had just been a funny dream, a nightmare (she had fibbed a little, it was hardly a nightmare). It was the last day of the visit. There was no time to venture out into the sea of barley. Home again, back from her visit, Sasha was free of the dream for days, weeks even, had other things to think of. But back it came one night. She found herself dreaming in the field of barley at the edge of the copse, the summer sun as hot as before and her legs bare under her dress. She was not unhappy at the familiarity of her recurring dream, not unhappy at its usual sexual conclusion. The feeling was there again, an itch, a want. Sasha looked across the moving sea of barley but there was no sign of the fair boy. Would he be in the dream tonight? Stepping carefully she moved through the rustling gold of the barley to the copse, the sun so hot on her shoulders and hair, pausing as she entered to slide the thin gingham across her skin and discard it on the woodland floor. The pleasant coolness, the pattern of light and shade was as before, the leaf mould soft on her feet. Sasha looked left and right for the boy but there was no sign, perhaps he would be further in, she stepped forward anxious to see further into the copse and, perhaps, find the boy. She remembered the morning in her friends' cottage looking at herself in the mirror, what would it be like to see herself now, a child of nature, unclothed, stepping through the pretty young trees and saplings. What had she looked like to the boy? It was not, after all, she who had caused his erection for he had been excited before he saw her—as she was now. Sasha hoped she would see him, hoped her mind would conjure him up, so she could watch him, another child of nature walking in the trees, tall, fair and bearded with his long limbs. A vision of maleness with his strength, hair, tight buttocks—she would be happy to walk behind him and watch those—and his long curving erection with the smooth, shiny head. Perhaps they could walk, explore hand in hand—for a time. The feeling of desire was growing as she walked onwards, finding a way through the outer trees. As Sasha thought to herself, she descended a dip in the ground, seemingly a wide dry ditch filled with silver birch and young ash. She paused in a patch of sunlight and touched her left nipple. The feeling was electric. Her other hand went to her mouth, brushing her lips and her tongue lightly caressed her finger tips. She was actually breathing faster as her excitement grew. Where was that boy? She wanted to touch, wanted to be touched. Sasha wanted the penis, wanted to feel it, stroke it. What would it be like to kiss it, to put her tongue out and touch it, suck its big smooth head into her mouth? As she thought, her lips parted and her fingers went into her mouth, her tongue fluttering as if... It was no good, despite wanting to see what lay within, she couldn't go further. She needed to be touched. Sasha turned to an ash sapling and touched her nipples to the smooth bark. Even that felt good, the touch of cool living wood on her sensitive skin. She pressed, pushing one knee forward so the slim trunk was between her thighs and touching her fur. She pushed hard against it and rubbed her pubis hard against the bark so the friction moved and pulled at her sex, her auburn curls mashed between herself and the tree. It was good to feel the touch, to be rutting against the tree, rubbing herself to a climax as she pulled the tree close to herself. There was a sound ahead and above her. Standing on the rise out of the wide, shallow ditch was the boy, the self-same boy as before and with the sun catching his yellow curls. He was as naked as she. Sasha liked his face, liked his body and, most certainly, liked his erection which was standing strong. Sasha did not feel at all embarrassed being caught making love to a tree, it was a dream, her dream, and she could do what she liked. She smiled at him, a friendly smile, a welcoming smile. Sasha was glad to see him. Leaving the tree she turned and walked towards him. Being lower than before she had a different view of his penis, an underside view bringing his balls, his slack scrotum into view and she could even see the shape of the testes, like eggs, within the sack. Sasha wanted to lift, feel, and hold them in her hand. The boy's hand was on his penis now sliding the foreskin up and over the head and down again, alternately revealing and hiding, she could see the bifurcation of the head and the thin strip of skin joining it to the ridge that rose up from the scrotum to the head. Sasha was so close now that she could see the tip of the penis was already a little wet with moisture shining in the sunlight. The desire to suck was strong—it was not something she had ever done for real. Sasha paused, legs a little apart, just below the boy, just below where the bank rose up, watching his hand move. In response her own hand went down to her sex and there they were, two children of nature, masturbating to each other in the green wood, not saying a word. It was good, for a time, but Sasha wanted to touch the boy. With her free hand, Sasha reached upwards, towards the boy's long penis, wanting to replace his hand with her own. The boy's hand fell away and, bending her fingers and thumb, she encircled and held, feeling it warm and hard in her hand. This, though, seemed too much for the boy and with an inarticulate sound of pleasure, the first sound either had made, the penis began to spurt again, the warm jet flying across the space between them to land, this time not on the leaf mould but on and within Sasha's partly open mouth. She awoke startled and orgasming, the taste of the boy on her tongue, the eroticism of the image in her mind fuelling her climax; her fingers brushing her face and lips as if she could still feel the product of the ejaculation; she was wringing wet. Sasha knew that she had to, simply had to cross the sea of barley and enter the copse for real. The feeling was becoming stronger by the day, not just an inquisitiveness but something more as if she was being called, as if someone was in her mind pulling her towards the wood or, perhaps, simply there was a need to satisfy. It was not as if the boy would be there or anything—it was just a wood—but it would be so interesting to be within it and compare it to her dreams. Recurring dreams are not uncommon but Sasha could not escape the idea this dream was peculiarly persistent—not that she did not like it but it was so strange. If anything the sun was hotter than before and there was hardly a breath of wind to move the barley and make it rustle, even faintly. Sasha looked around her across the field back to the track and then to the copse close by. She knew she was dreaming once more, back in the vivid colour of the barley field. Even before entering the wood she let the gingham dress fall luxuriating in the feel of the hot sun on her naked body, its warming effect on her round breasts. Sasha's nipples hardened and a thin trickle of sweat ran down the valley between her breasts. She looked ahead at the cool shade and shook her head, these dreams were so sexual, she could feel the arousal coming even before she reached the trees. There was purpose in her tread, Sasha wanted to get further into the wood, but even as she stepped through the young ashes the touch of the thin branches and long pointed leaves on her skin was electric each time one lightly brushed her as she moved past. There was moisture between her legs now, dampening her auburn hair. It was as if the very copse itself was readying her for sexual intercourse. At the bottom of the shallow ditch or long depression Sasha paused. What would it be like—intercourse? She had thought about it a lot in her bed as her fingers had played, had pushed into herself just like a hard penis she presumed. It would be good to try it with her dream boy; she knew from her earlier dreams she would remember and the semblance of reality would be very strong; it would be a taste, an imaginary approximation. This was where she had reached before, where the boy had appeared standing on the rise ahead of her. This time she felt she could go a little further despite the powerful urge to touch herself, to fall to the ground and roll in the soft leaf mould as one hand stirred her sex to orgasm. Sasha reached up to a sapling, her fingers closing around the smooth young trunk as if enclosing the stem of a rather oversize penis, and she pulled herself up the bank feeling her wet thighs slide across each other as she did so. She paused again but at the top of the bank, feeling as if she had crossed a boundary, had achieved a small success in moving towards the goal of reaching the centre of the copse. Her hand stayed on the sapling, still encircling it with thumb and fingers, she moved them a little up and down remembering holding the boy in the same way in her last dream, her finger and thumb holding his warm hard but soft cock before it had released. The tip of Sasha's little pink tongue ran across her lips moistening them at the memory. Island in the Barley Ch. 01 Behind her there was a faint noise and Sasha turned to see the boy on the other side of the shallow ditch, standing looking at her. Her thought of going further slipped as she stared at his naked maleness. He had such a nice face and she would be very happy to kiss him, to feel his fair beard on her face as he held her with his long arms; and to feel the touch of his long curving erection on her thigh. Exploration, hand in hand perhaps, could come later after touching and intercourse. It was a dream, her erotic dream, after all. This time his hand was not on his penis; that was certainly standing firm, perhaps he had been stroking it earlier, perhaps it had risen at the sight of her—Sasha liked that idea, she would like to see the boy becoming aroused merely by the sight of her body, seeing the penis grow, elongate and rise but she had never seen the process of erection on any man—perhaps, like her, the mere act of walking into the copse had aroused him. But all that presupposed he was real like her and they were sharing a dream whereas the boy was but a figment of her subconscious, dreamt up in a wet dream—a lovely dream. Sasha smiled and the boy smiled back. Her desire to penetrate deeper into the copse wavered. The boy moved and stepped down the bank into the depression in the ground, his long curved penis moving a little to one side and then the other as his thighs moved and he walked across the shallow ditch to her. Sasha's eyes flicked from his face to his penis and she thought she could see, in the patches of sunlight coming through the tree canopy, a pearl of liquid forming on the shiny dome end of his cock. She hoped this did not presage another spurting; an orgasm frustratingly early for her. The frustration of dreams. With her hand still on the sapling she swung herself back down into the ditch to face the boy. Their faces were but inches apart, there was a pause and then their lips met in a kiss, soft lips pressing together; a slight parting and a touching of tongues; Sasha felt a hand moulding her left breast. She let go of the sapling and, as she did so, her knees gave way and she found herself face to face with the boy's curving penis. There it was up close, what she had been thinking and dreaming about. One hand reached to encircle, just as with the sapling, the other to her sex to touch and stimulate. The penis was big before her and her desire for it strong. Leaning forward, Sasha's lips closed and she had the shiny dome within her mouth, cooler than she had expected and so silky smooth. She drew her lips back slowly, following the dome shape so that her lips came closer and closer together as the circumference narrowed until they were together just resting on the very end of the boy's penis. Sasha gave just the tiniest lick right at the end where she had seen the pearly drop and there was just the faintest taste of salt on her tongue. A dream taste. Sasha awoke in the dark from the dream, a dream of the copse. The imagery had been so strong and she knew she had to go to it as if someone was telling her what to do and calling to her in her mind. Dressing hurriedly she was in the car within minutes and travelling as the dawn broke; the light gradually spreading across the land and her speeding motor car. It was midday before she reached the village, before she parked her car and walked up the track which led by the copse. There it was on the skyline, quiet, not really very mysterious but set apart, on its own—an island of trees in a sea of ripe golden barley. Sasha had hoped the crop would already have been reaped as she did not want to trample. It was still and quiet all around her with just the sound of the larks rising as she stood on the track, in the shade of an old oak, irresolute, looking out over the barley. She had come such a long way. Carefully Sasha moved out into the sea, picking her way and disturbing very little. Wouldn't it be awful to hear the farmer shouting at her, angry with her being in a field ready for the harvest but there was no sound but the larks. There was a hush upon the land, a midsummer, midday, hot, still kind of hush; a drowsy quiet to succumb to in the shade of an old oak after a picnic lunch in the fields. Sasha moved slowly across the field getting ever closer to the trees. Unlike in her dreams there was no breeze to move the barley and cause waves to move upon its surface. It was like a flat, sultry calm. Pausing, feet from the edge of the field where the trees began, it seemed to Sasha that she was in her dream for it was just the same—exactly the same; she glanced down at the hem of her gingham dress brushing the barley—so just like the dream: but this was real. It seemed ridiculous, not something you did, but Sasha knew she was going to take the dress off as soon as she was within the trees and her bra and panties as well. She wanted to be naked, to be as naked as she had been in all those dreams. But what if she met someone? The silver birches met her as she reached the copse, their leaves brushing at her, touching the bare skin of her arms. Sasha turned and looked back at the golden field of barley ripe for the harvesting stretching back, acre upon acre, to the track, its colour seeming the colour of her hair. Carefully Sasha took off her dress and folded it, placing her underclothes and sandals beneath. She took a step, a naked step away from the little cotton pile, a first step from what was normal. Why did it feel so good to be naked in the trees, feeling the soft dry leaves of another year beneath her feet? Somehow she was not surprised to find the dip in the ground running to her right and left, a wide depression that was more than a ditch—perhaps the remains of a moat from a time long past. She paused in a patch of sunlight feeling the contrast with the shade on her skin, the midsummer sun hot on her golden-red hair, hot on her pale skin. It did not do for her to be in the hot sun for too long as she would burn. She should have brought her straw hat to shade her shoulders but what would she have looked like walking naked with just a sun hat in the copse—what did she look like now with just her harvest golden hair shading her shoulders and the rest of her naked in the sunshine? It was quiet, very quiet, not even the birds were singing in the heat though there was a background noise from the insects. Sasha looked up into the sky and saw far above her an airliner passing, its con trail faint, a reminder of the modern world in the timelessness of the copse: but she could not hear it. Sasha sat in the pool of sunlight. She did not plan to stay there long, she wanted to go further into the copse, to explore, but it was pleasant just to sit in the stillness and feel the softness of the land beneath her bottom. She was tempted, though, to touch herself as she had done in her dreams. To open her thighs and touch what she knew was already a little wet and waiting. Nearby a pair of butterflies were wheeling around each other, darting here and there in the dappled sunlight. Unbidden Shakespeare came to her mind. 'The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive;' She watched, sitting in the stillness. There was a slight sound behind her as if a foot had stepped on a twig. In alarm her head came round to look over her right shoulder and there, unbelievable but real, was the boy, the boy of her dream and as naked as she had always seen him. Not a stitch on his body, he was as naked as she; he had stopped and was standing completely still, gazing in apparent shock at the sight of a girl with golden hair sitting on the ground, back to him, but evidently naked. Sasha shot to her feet, turning so her breasts and vee of fair red curls were revealed to him. "It's you!" he said his eyes moving over her body. Sasha had never in her dreams heard him speak, his voice sounded just as she thought it would, and the words showed he too had dreamt of her. What were his thoughts of her—how was this happening? What he thought of her became obvious, his penis at first at rest had stirred and embarrassing for him, rose to its full height. It was long and curved just as in the dream. Sasha liked it. "Hallo," she said. It was incongruous shaking hands but how else to hide their embarrassment, to deal with their nudity? A kiss between strangers, even if they already felt they knew the other, would have implied more, and involved a touching of bodies, no doubt a fleeting touch of breast on breast and the touch of smooth penis head to skin. They both pretended to ignore the erection so obviously present. "I dreamt, I had to come, to be here for real," said Sasha. "Is this real?" "I had to take my clothes off," said Sasha by way of explanation. "Me too, it seemed right, only," his voiced tailed off, "I didn't expect to meet someone. To meet you..." Their hands were still clasped as if to let go would break the moment, require something more. "You have a name? No, of course you do! I'm Sasha." "Nathaniel—Nat." The simple exchange of names made them let go of their hands leaving them standing in the sunlight, facing each other, facing each other's nakedness and Nat's tumescent penis. "I'm sorry about this," Nat indicated his still standing erection. "Don't be, it's nice." She had seen it before. His indicating of it allowed her, gave her permission or reason to look at it, admire it. Sasha wanted to touch but this was not a dream. There was a pause, each uncertain what to say next. "I came to walk further into the copse," said Sasha, "to see what is there, perhaps a glade or something at its centre... I don't really know why I came, I just awoke and had to come, had to drive here. It was a compulsion as if there was a voice in my mind, as if I was being directed to come." "And take your clothes off?" "Yes." "It was just like that for me. Shall we?" "Yes, let's walk. I've never got beyond the rise before, always, always... always you've come and I have been distracted..." It was out in the open now, the sex. Nat turned and walked up out of the depression. Sasha watched his back, his buttocks and liked what she saw. He turned, higher up than her and with his erection standing proud offered Sasha his hand to help her up the bank. She took it—their second touch. He did not let go and they walked on, hand in hand, through the trees as silver birch and ash saplings gave way to more mature trees, ashes and oaks as well as old coppiced hazel. The floor carpet was thick with old leaves and soft to their naked feet. There was a feeling of wetness between her legs, Sasha glanced down at Nat's cock moving a little side by side as he walked, the erection showing no sign of abating. The sexual feeling of the copse was there, not as strong as in the dream but by no means absent. It was nice, Sasha was sure sex would follow, something she had not done with a boy, her only experience was in her head, but she was not worried, not frightened: instead happy to partake—she wanted to touch Nat, feel him and hold his long cock. But that could wait as yet. It seemed to the two that they were now following a path, a track; not that there was any visible sign on the ground such as where old leaves had been scuffed out of the way or even old stone paving but the easiest way, a route avoiding trees and saplings led straight, a clear way before them running into the heart of the copse. They followed the easy course and hand in hand stepped deeper into the wood. Nat paused and looked at Sasha, "I cannot believe you are just the same, just as I imagined you in my dream, just as pretty." Sasha wanted to pull him to her, kiss him, feel his hardness against her tummy but knew if she did it would not stop there. "Later," she said. Both knew what was meant. They walked on. Ahead there seemed more sunshine as if the trees were thinning, and as they drew closer they found this to be so and shortly the boy and girl reached the edge of a glade devoid of trees, and stopped motionless. In the glade only yards from them were deer and, as they watched, the stag mounted the doe, its forelegs high in the air. It performed; the copulation was brief and energetic, on the part of the stag, and then it was over and the ever wary deer saw the couple and bounded away. "It's the wrong time for the Rut," said Nat puzzled, "October, starting September but this is too early." Here and there were patches of grass, soft and cropped. "Must be by the deer," said Sasha. Separating they took their own paths in the sunshine around the glade. The ground was not level, and there were mounds and the occasional sign of old moss covered masonry indicating a building had stood at some time in the distant past. Sasha looked across the glade at Nat examining some old stonework, she liked what she saw and the feeling between her legs was strong, she knew she was really wet, ready for sex, penetration even. It was time. Sasha made her way towards Nat and he turned and walked to meet her. They sat down on one mound, its top particularly level and grassy almost like a bed. It was Sasha who leant in, face upraised, her right breast touching Nat's shoulder and kissed him, her lips on his, a brush at first and then a harder pushing. Lips parted and Sasha's small pink tongue sought Nat's own, wet tongue on wet tongue, the beginning of the mingling; his fair beard on her face; her arm went around his back and his around her shoulder and they pulled each other together. They were not hurried despite the arousal which had been building for both of them since entering the copse. The kissing was long and the tongues played and explored. The touch of Nat's hand on her breast was a pleasing shock to Sasha, one moment it was not there and the next it was holding her round breast, its hard nipple in the softness of his palm. Un-rebuffed, and why would Sasha push him away as she was as ready as he, his fingers moved together, tips sliding on the so smooth skin of her breast to meet around her small pale pink nipple and hold its hardness. A squeeze and Sasha could feel a sudden rush of moisture to her sex and a strengthening desire to be filled. Nat explored and played with Sasha's breasts, stroking and coaxing, she, for her part stroked his downy fine curly chest hair before finding his nipples, though smaller than her own and they—totally without purpose, absurd on a man—were as hard as her own. Without any encouragement from touching, a pearly drop appeared at the very tip of Nat's penis, just as in her dream. Sasha looked at it, its slight opaquecy, how it just rested there, rounded, held together by surface tension; as she did so, the desire from her dream to touch it with her tongue came strongly to her; she remembered though the propensity of the boy, of Nat, to come so quickly. "If I touch you won't come too fast, will you? I do so want to hold you." Nat shook his head, it was different from the dream, he was not on the knife edge. Sasha reached, her hand closed, and she held it in her hand, for the first time in her life she was holding a boy's penis and an erect one at that. She had no comparison to make but she liked the way it curved and was sure it was longer than most. The pearly drop shone in the sunshine. She did not resist her feelings, complied with her instinct, indeed followed the dream. Sasha bent and gave a gentle, tiny lick right at the tip of the penis and there was just the faintest taste of salt on her tongue. She smiled up at Nat, his startled face with its blue eyes and fair curly beard. With her hand she squeezed the shaft, both intriguingly rigid and hard within yet, at the same time, having such soft skin without; she tasted another drop on her tongue. They kissed again as Sasha's hand held the erection and, holding it, she realised its soft skin moved, not like say the skin on her arm or leg moved when pushed across the musculature beneath, but with a much greater freedom. Breaking the kiss she watched her hand moving the skin so it wrinkled up and rolled over the shiny head almost covering it before she rolled it down again so the bulbous head was fully revealed again. "Do you like that? Is this right?" Nat nodded, "Just slowly," and kissed her again, his tongue seeking as his hand began to slide down from her breasts across her tummy, not hurrying, but with purpose in mind. The fingers came to the very edge of her vee of curly red gold hair and paused to stroke the downy softness and to run finger tips through the fine hairs and feel the soft mounding of her pubis above the bone beneath. Sasha's fingers left Nat's penis and they too stroked pubic hair, Nat's fair curls, running her fingers through and then down either side of the shaft; the shaft that rose from the growth and was so very different from her own arrangement where, instead of a penis there was just a little slit, half hidden by her curls, a slit that widened to where she was now very wet. Nat's finger found the little valley and began to travel downwards; Sasha's fingers too went exploring, seeking what lay beneath the penis, again so very different from her own body for instead of her wet folds she found his hanging ball sack; her fingers curled and she held the testes in her hand; she stroked feeling the wrinkled skin, feeling the smooth egg shapes within; careful not to squeeze for she knew how vulnerable, how easily hurt boys were there; her fingers moved on down to find just smooth skin with a smattering of hair, so very different from her own body as Nat was discovering. He, in turn, had let his finger follow the valley downwards; its tip encountered a changing texture, a softer skin and the touch of wetness and the feel of pendulous, so soft skin, skin he could hold between finger and thumb and move and gently rub; his fingers and thumb parted and moved outwards to begin a journey running downwards just where Sasha's thighs ended and soft downy hair began, a travel down the edges of her outer, nether lips. Sasha shuddered at the touch, her tongue thrusting deep within Nat's mouth, she felt on fire with desire for this boy. From far away came the sound of a combine harvester: the harvest had begun. Island in the Barley Ch. 02 Gently Nat's fingers and thumb moved together, their tips sliding up the skin of Sasha's outer lips to rest on their edge, where the sparse hairs stopped and the wetness began; he squeezed, pulling the lips together, hiding and protecting what was within; and then with just one finger he burrowed, pushing past the lips into the wetness beneath, to touch the very edge of her vagina and slip a little way within. Sasha shuddered again and Nat released the lips allowing all of his fingers access. He was surprised at the degree of wetness he encountered, not simply a lubrication but an oily pool of liquid. Sasha was aroused. Nat stroked and explored, his fingers entered, first one, then two travelling deeper until his hand prevented further movement, and then three, all bunched together, simulating the entry of a penis. "Yes," whispered Sasha and gently Nat moved his bunched fingers in and out, simulating the motion of intercourse. In her turn, Sasha was sliding Nat's foreskin up and down—again a simulation of intercourse. It was inevitable their thoughts would turn from simulation to reality. "Shall we?" said Nat and they moved to lie together on the green mound, holding each other tight, the hardness of Nat between them. They rolled together; Nat on top, pushing Sasha down into the green grass, a friendly weight upon her, something she had thought about a lot. They kissed, tongues wrapping around each other, and Sasha closed her arms around Nat's back pulling him to her. Between her now opened thighs Sasha could feel Nat's erection as it lightly touched first one thigh, then the other as it moved forward seeking; she imagined how it looked hanging there, long and curved with balls suspended below in their scrotal sack. They swung when Nat moved—Sasha liked that. The round end of the penis would be pointing right at her sex; it was so exciting to think of its shiny end inches from her. In a few moments Nat would pull himself a little up her body and that knob end would touch her, touch her where she was so soft and felt so wet. Would he pause or move onwards to open her? What would it feel like—at last—to be penetrated, to feel herself opened by a real penis and know it hard within her? Different from fingers she was sure. Sasha spread her legs wider and then it happened. Nat's cock touched her, touched her where she most wanted to be touched, right at her entrance and it felt wonderful, but at that very moment there was a change, an alteration in the air, a softening of the light, a feeling of difference, a sense that all was not as it had been. A familiar smell came to Sasha, the vegetal smell of crushed herbs, and then she heard the sound of voices. All around her Sasha could see shadowy shapes becoming substantial, commencing, though she did not know it, a ritual they had undertaken for centuries. The scent of herbs became stronger, the image of otherness more substantial. She was no longer on a grassy mound, no longer under the clear blue sky, no longer alone with her boy. Instead she was in a room, a high hall and lying on a table still with the weight of Nat upon her, his cock still touching her between her legs; a room full of people all around her; looking at her. Painted men, painted women. Naked people with their skin coloured, coloured from head to foot, painted or perhaps dyed it was hard to tell. The men red or blue, even their penises coloured and the women painted red or white. When they lent over, Sasha could see their eyelids were coloured. It was, unearthly and strange, it was frightening. Nat leapt up from her and she too made to get up but hands came; coloured hands preventing her rising; not hard hands, not rough with her but very gentle; coaxing her, encouraging her to lie down again; whilst at the same time hands were taking hold of Nat, easing him from her, taking him away from her; separating the two of them. Nat with his now shrinking penis, a penis she had so wanted inside her There was a commotion; the people thrust to one side, pushed this way and that, falling blue, red or white from the rush of the biggest, strangest man Sasha had ever seen—if man he was. A naked man, naked but covered in dark, dark hair; not just his mane of hair and his beard but all down his chest, his arms, his legs, his back, his feet, his hands. Covered like a beast—even his very obvious penis was part covered in dark hair. He roared when he saw Sasha and made for her, his arms outstretched and his penis lengthening. The company, recovering, held him back, coloured hands restraining him, holding his fur, stopping him before he could reach Sasha but all the time his eyes were on Sasha and the state of his enormous club like penis made no secret of his object. Her eyes were wide with fear, one moment she had been ready to accept Nat, had so wanted him to be inside her, and now there was this wild man seemingly intent on taking her. Despite all the other naked bodies around him, in the room, it was she he was staring at and trying to reach, his outsize penis rigid and seemingly aimed between her legs. The attempts to hold him appeared only partly serious, half hearted as if, to the onlookers, there was no real threat. As they held him the men and women were laughing, calling to the beast, poking at the wild man; there was no fear in their eyes, instead they seemed to see it all as a joke; hands holding his fur, others stroking and placating him; there were even hands, small delicate hands painted white, stroking the beast's erection, uncovering its club like head, working it as she had seen Nat work his own erection in her dreams. Below the raised staff of his penis the creature's balls swung in their pendulous sack, more reminiscent of the bull in the field than a man. The beast seemed to like the caress, but was still pulling to be free, his eyes fixed on Sasha, his massive dark hairy thighs trying to push forward, but there were restraining arms around them holding them back; his great arms were struggling for release, his mouth making inarticulate sounds as he fought against his captors, but to no avail; and all the time the small white painted hands worked his penis, small white painted hands lifted and played with his enormous balls, the size of cricket balls, and the women smiled up at Sasha, seeking perhaps to reassure her that she was in no danger from the wild man, no danger from his maleness. The red men seemed to be teasing the beast, tormenting it, pretending to let go so that he started forward trying to get at Sasha, and then catching him again, holding him back, his great head with its shaggy main and beard looking side to side in annoyance; and all the time the white women stroked. It did not seem as if this was for the first time, rather the teasing had been done many times before. Sasha could do nothing but stare, despite the shock of her dislocation, the presence of so many strangers and the removal of Nat, her eyes were fixed in trepidation upon the wild man. What if he was released, what would that penis do to her, were they actually teasing her not him? She watched the white hands sliding the covering of the great penis head, stimulating it; pulling at it, she hoped; to such an extent that it would release its fluid and so remove the threat to her. There were five or six white hands upon it, caressing and stroking; surely they would have an effect soon. There was laughter, there was jollity and palpable happiness; a festive mood which not even Sasha in her fear and surprise could mistake; a sense of relief and of joy. Still the white women teased the great hairy man, bouncing his penis up and down, Sasha had not seen the like—it was so huge. There was a sudden exertion and the wild man was almost free; a last attempt to get to Sasha, to cover her naked body and gain entry; but it was too late, the white women and the sight of Sasha naked on the table had taken him too far and he could not prevent the inevitable result. The coming of the wild man was accompanied by a great roar, his shaggy head fell back and his mouth let out the sound, a cry of frustration and anguish mixed with pleasure, a sound that echoed around the room and quietened the happy throng; the white hands withdrew leaving the great club like penis unrestrained, unattended and standing free; and then it happened. Just as Sasha watched in amazement and the whole company looked on, the penis jerked upwards, its great, shiny, bulbous head traversing an arc, the enormous balls drew up an inch or two as if lifted by an invisible hand and the head began to spurt. A streamer of semen shot from the end of the penis and, rising into the air, traversed a parabola for a remarkable distance before falling down onto Sasha's naked skin; the penis dropped down a little before bouncing up again to release another stream of milky, creamy fluid to make another flight through the air. To Sasha it seemed as if time had slowed and the colourful world dropped out of focus as she stared at the enormous spurting penis and the impossible flight of the semen. It could only be that the size of the man and the evident strength of his body had its reflection in the development of those muscles used in ejaculation, the power very considerably exceeding what she had seen, or was it dreamt, of Nat's ejaculation in the copse. Again the semen came, as the beast roared and his unrestrained penis twitched sending a third jet even higher; there was no control of direction and it did not simply fall on Sasha but others too; suddenly there was laughter, cheering and clapping as the wild man continued to perform—a virtuoso performance indeed. As the clapping ran around the hall so did the wild man's semen until there was no more to come. Still dripping, the standing rod began to lose its firmness and, similarly, with the ejaculation done all the strength seemed to go out of the beast himself. Upon his face was a look of disappointment and resignation and slowly he turned, the men letting go of his fur and, head a little bowed, he went out of the room; hands patting and stroking him as he went. Across the room Sasha could see Nat looking as shocked as herself, restrained like her by hands, the hands of pretty women, hands not just holding his body but holding his penis as well, keeping it hard—the cock she had been so looking forward to having inside her. Why were they prevented from that? Were others, coloured others, going to have him in her stead? There was a parting of the crowd; between the people and in the gap made by the moving aside of the gaily painted bodies came a naked man, not a young man like Nat, not a powerful man like the hairy beast who had just so publically ejaculated, not even a coloured man but an old man, an ancient man: almost a withered man. He was completely naked except for a few leaves, autumn leaves, leaves of oak plaited in his long white hair. Between his thin thighs dangled a wrinkled manhood, swaying as he walked; he alone of the males in the room unerect—probably past it, Sasha thought, and a sad figure. His skin seemed thin and, through the paleness, blue veins were clearly visible. That he was important to the people was obvious by the respect they showed, but so ancient, as if he had been with them a very long time, that his time was nearly done. His face, though, belied the age of his body, his eyes were bright and animated, almost twinkling, and his smile a delight to behold. Despite it all, and there was much to be frightened and fearful of, Sasha warmed to him; he looked both sad and happy perhaps sad at his age and happy in his company. He stood looking at Sasha with a look both benevolent and welcoming. The white women came to the ancient man, helping him, supporting him as he stood at the end of the table, his gaze directed downwards at Sasha's nakedness; there was a hush around the hall and Sasha felt the hands holding her were seeking to move her, position her differently, hands taking hold of the soft flesh of her thighs, easing and opening them, separating them to show her sex to the ancient man, moving her legs apart so the secret opening between was revealed: but not just a little, it was a wide splaying so that nothing was hidden, neither from the man nor the assembly; not one of her folds or auburn curls were left hidden; all was shown. A tall girl with long flowing flaxen hair, her skin painted white as snow, full breasts and a profusion of yellow curls between her thighs lifted an ewer; and from its thin spout a stream of oil flowed down to splash across Sasha's sex. It was both cool and warming, fragrant with herbs. Why were they doing this? Another girl, to the side of the ancient man lifted his penis in her hand, cupped both it and balls in her hand, raising them towards the girl with the ewer, another girl took hold of the end of the wrinkled penis and slowly retracted the foreskin exposing the head, a motion seemingly ritualistic, a revealing of the man, and again the oil was poured to come as a thin stream onto the penis and hands. The girls began to work the penis, now slippery with oil. Sasha was doubtful there would be any effect but she was wrong: there was movement, a gradual stirring, a thickening and lengthening as it rose upwards, curving towards the wooden ceiling of the hall. It was then completely obvious to Sasha what was to happen. The connection between her opened legs and the now erect penis with its foreskin retracted, its tapered, domed end revealed, both sexual organs covered with the same oil, the same warming, stimulating oil, was clear; it was not going to be Nat who would first enter her but this strangely ancient man. He was being prepared for intercourse: she was being prepared for intercourse. Carefully the ancient man was assisted forward; hands, white delicate female hands gently lifted him upwards, and all the time his kindly eyes set in his smiling face looked at Sasha as if to reassure her, let her know this was not going to be too bad for her and to just let it happen. There was little she could do but accept, hands held her, hands held her thighs apart, hands were stroking her breasts, hands warm with the oil, sliding easily, fingers pinching her, once more, erect nipples. Despite the untimely removal of Nat and the shock of the change, the oil and the hands were bringing back her sexual excitement as if she was again in her dreams, her dreams of walking naked in the copse. Was this a fulfilment of those dreams, was she actually really in those dreams: was she actually dreaming or was this somehow real? The ancient man was lifted, carried forward and the women gently lowered the ancient man to lie along her body, face to face, chest to chest, stomach to stomach and oily sex to oily sex. Sasha could feel against her the difference between her sex and the male, the so different hardness of the male erection—unexpected because she had not thought the ancient man capable: but the proof was between her thighs; she could feel the hands of the women there, still moving him, still stimulating him but now positioning him, positioning him for intercourse, positioning his erection, the smooth exposed head, shiny with oil, at her entrance, her virgin entrance. And then it began. Sasha could feel the head of the ancient man's erection pushing against her; was it him pushing or the women pushing him? She could feel a hand clasped along the shaft to aid its rigidity, she could feel fingers opening her—perhaps testing her readiness. Were hands pushing his bottom and transmitting the pressure, the movement, down along his shaft to her? Was it he who was attempting to enter her or was it the women, the people who were doing the deed? Was it him or them who had pushed the domed head into her entrance? Already the old man had gone further than Nat, he had only touched her there, but this man's erection was actually pushing against her, seeking entrance, seeking to part or to break her hymen and enter. Hands were stroking her, seeking to reassure or was it to stimulate; Sasha looked from side to side, to all the people watching her, watching them, watching with a palpable air of sexual excitement; so many erections and there too was Nat with his lovely long curved penis, held not by her but by another girl. Why she—not her? On top of her the old man felt warm but almost without animation; it was clear everything about the intercourse was being done for him. He was the conduit, but not the participant; it was not him but the women who were seeking to take Sasha's virginity as if it was a collective action by the people rather than personal act by the man. They had been preparing, had sown the seed in the two young people's minds, seen the ripening and now it was time for harvest. Sasha could feel the pressure mounting, the smooth, dome shape of the penis pushing against her, seeking to enter, seeking to tear her, rend her hymen and slide up into her body. The smooth dome of the penis was pressing hard against her. And then it happened, a sharp pain and then movement; the penis was moving on up into her; all at once her legs were lifted and her feet brought up to be held locked over the old man's back as his penis slid completely into her—Sasha a virgin no longer. There was a cry, a cheer as if something great and wonderful had been achieved. Everyone was watching, holding hands, red people, blue people, white women, all watching; the men all with penises upstanding, coloured penises raised—in salute? And then the full movement began, the motion of intercourse, the rhythmic pumping; slowly at first the ancient man began to move, helped by the white women but there seemed now to be some strength in his body as if the very act of penetration had given him strength; there was a small pushing of his hips, a drawing back so the penis slid out a way and then a pushing back. Despite the pain, Sasha could not but respond; the warming oil and heady scent of herbs seemed to be taking her body where she did not want to go—towards a sexual release, a climax with this man rather than the boy she so wanted to share the experience with. She felt her own hips moving against him, her legs clasping; and then one by one she felt the hands leaving her, leaving the ancient man and her to have intercourse alone and unaided. What would Nat be thinking? But she could not prevent herself. Perhaps they would be allowed to fuck afterwards or would he have to stand in a queue; there was no way of knowing where this was all leading but Sasha could not help herself, could not stop herself responding to the fucking, responding to the sensation of feeling a penis hard within her, stretching her, pulling at her clit. She knew the oil had something to do with it, she had never felt her sex so warm, so invigorated, so excited; never felt such an orgasm building—never felt so sexually alight as she did now, thrusting hard against the man. Sasha came hard and with abandon, her face contorted and it must have been obvious to all what was happening yet she was unable to care; but still the man moved; he had achieved an erection but was he also capable of ejaculation, the strange male sexual act so graphically, and recently, demonstrated to the company by the Wild Man? Still his penis was sliding, still Sasha was pushing against it, and still the two sexual organs were moving together sliding on Sasha's wetness and the herb oil—perhaps she could come again? She could feel more oil had been poured from the ewer; she could imagine its travel as well as feel the result; scented oil poured from the thin spout of the ewer onto the bottom of the ancient man, to run into the crack, warming his anus, slipping downwards onto and around his scrotum to run up the shaft of his penis, some to be pumped by it into her but a stream to run on past the penis and onto her lips, thence to her clitoris—oh the feeling of heat—and on downwards heating and stimulating her own anus. Sasha pushed with renewed vigour and it seemed the ancient man responded—were they reaching the climax, she thought she would come again but what of the man? Would she for the first time feel the pulsing emission of semen inside her, the thing she had watched with such fascination when Nat had come for her in the wood? Island in the Barley Ch. 02 Not only was there the embarrassment of so public a copulation both in the people seeing but also in the sound as well; the sucking, squelching noises as the penis pumped; sounds enhanced by the exceptional lubrication of the poured oil. Still it continued and Sasha felt the building of her second orgasm—a feeling stronger than the first, a feeling building in her loins and creeping outwards. The intensity was a shock, the sense of heat from the oil remarkable; and louder, much louder than the sounds of intercourse was her scream, a scream of pure pleasure as she came—wave after wave. And despite it all, despite the intensity of the feeling she felt it, that true culmination of the purpose of sexual intercourse, yes, she felt that pulsing emission of semen deep within her, an ejaculation she had wondered was even possible; the ancient man's orgasm had come. The movement ceased; there was stillness and then applause, a cheering, a huzzah from everyone. The happiness of the crowd so evident, so real, so palpable it could not but affect Sasha; but why the joy, why the pleasure in watching two people copulating, seeing her virginity taken, watching a rape? They were assisted to rise from the table, Sasha could feel the women disconnecting them, hands feeling between them and removing the penis from her. The ancient man stood; the same man but changed, renewed; even the leaves in his hair seemed greener, less autumnal, more summer than spring; his face looked the same, the same kindly, smiling animated visage but it was in his body that there was change: no longer withered but yet still old, there was strength there now as if he had been given new vigour by the very act of intercourse. Indeed there was no other explanation. But it was not just he; the whole company, even the house seemed brighter, stronger and with more colour—and colour there certainly was. Colour brash, bright, even clashing but strong—not just in the painted people but in the tapestries, the hangings, the furniture. Once more the ancient man's penis was the only one in the room not fully erect but the reason now was very different from before; it was so very evidently recently come from its business, it glistened wetly and upon it were the very clear signs of intercourse with a young virgin girl—the semen and the blood. Now standing Sasha could feel a trickling between her legs and, as she looked down, there, upon her thighs, were the self same signs—the semen and the blood. It was the harvesting of Sasha: the ritual of defloration. Fresh blood, fresh girl changing to woman: a freshness needed. Island in the Barley Ch. 03 "Gentlefolk, our lives return. 'Twixt shadow and night, in'st crack between naught and fire we breathe again. Enjoy — whilst ye may." The ancient man spoke in a manner so old that Sasha could catch the meaning only with difficulty; the accent strange. He lifted her hand and there was another huzzah. What followed was an orgy, the like of which Sasha had neither dreamt of or expected to see; there was an air of lust in the room, a palpable air, a feeling that what needed to be was to rut and not to stop; all around her men and women were coming together; bodies joining with the need to fuck, on and on. Awaking the next morning she had, at first, thought she was at home and it had all, tritely, been just a dream. The hardness of the floor, the strangeness of the covering, the herbal vegetal scent and the sounds of an awakening household soon disabused her of that notion; she was not even alone under the blanket and it was neither Nat nor even a man she was with. From virgin to what? A day ago no man had ventured between her legs, no man had pushed his erection between her nether lips: but now? How many men had taken opportunity of her, had eased his hard phallus into her, not to come—well not many—but just to enter her? Was it all the men—not Nat though—he had not been permitted; the women had seen to that. How many of them had he in turn entered? What a pleasure for him; sweet coloured bodies for the asking; a touch and the girl would open or bend—but all Sasha had wanted to do was be with him, hold him, yes fuck him: had he felt the same? She was not in a bedroom, not alone in a chamber but instead on the floor of a hall together with most of the revellers of the night before. In the middle of the hall still burnt, though low, a fire with its smoke curling upwards to be lost in the tie beams and rafters high above her; there was no chimney but the primitiveness of the hall was relieved by there being glass, albeit small diamond or rectangular panes, in the mullioned windows. Sasha frowned; it all seemed more than odd, was she a 'Traveller in Time;' had she slipped back with Nat to some mediaeval period? Where was she; what was happening to her; why was it difficult to think quite straight? The brightness of the sunlight streaming through the windows did not help; how much had she drunk the night before; how much had been pressed upon her; certainly more than she was used to; her head was sore and so was her much used sex—her much pressed sex; what was happening to her? Through the small opening of a casement she could see more smoke rising from a thatched outbuilding and drifting towards her came the smell of cooking—appetising, delicious, sensual. Around her people were moving and looking, like Sasha knew she too must appear, much the worse for wear from the night before. Sasha stepped outside and stood blinking in the sunlight bemused to find, instead of the copse, a yard, garden and many outhouses stretching away; order instead of nature; the familiar landscape of the barley field in the middle distance gone, the little houses here and there away across the fields missing and in its place, towards her, a patchwork of long cultivated strips and different houses, indeed even clusters where none stood to her remembrance; there were woods where woods should not be; indeed the only thing that seemed in the right place was the track she had left to walk through the field of barley to the copse where she had so wonderfully met Nat—was it only yesterday? Though she could see beyond the environs of the house there seemed to be a sort of haze creeping over the further landscape as if it was only partially there. Washed, breakfasted and somewhat refreshed Sasha was taken to walk in the garden. There seemed nothing for her to say about her predicament. How could she ask what had become of her world? She tried asking about how she came to be there but was met by smiles: not explanation. Sasha had seen Nat but everyone seemed, gently but effectively, to be keeping them apart and it had not been possible to talk. The garden was enclosed by walls and hedges. Sasha was surprised at how well it was tended; already men were at work digging, weeding and watering both lead edged beds and the many pots containing gillyflowers (she was told). Up trellises of latticework attached to the walls grew many climbing plants particularly, she could see, roses and grapes. Usefully positioned were turved seats for sitting in the sunshine and arches and pergolas for decoration. Topiary was to found here and there, cunningly cut from the simple rosemary or made from dry twigs bound together with climbing plants cleverly forming the living shapes; there were centaurs and serving maids with wicker baskets containing real growing French lilies; some representations, rather naughtily wrought, of centaurs erect or topiary couples intertwined; yet again was topiary cut as enormous sexual organs. There seemed to be a remarkable degree of playfulness about the whole garden. Other parts of the garden were full of scent revealing herbaria containing, Sasha was again told, food plants, medicinal plants as well as those for strewing on floors, making hand waters, quelling insects and other household purposes. Sasha brushed hyssop, thyme, and lavender and the scent rose into the warming day. At the centre of the garden was a particularly formal garden with bricked paths, low box hedging and a circular paved area surrounding a fountain with a lead figure of Neptune; a steady stream of water ran from his upstanding penis into the bowl below. It was very pleasant to walk in the garden under the brilliant blue sky, a little surprising to do so unclothed but that seemed to be the way of the people. The people were so friendly, so clearly delighted with her presence, so happy to talk and explain about the garden but quick to check her with some suggestion for a different walk should she try and find her way across to Nat and unwilling to offer any explanation of quite why she was there or even when. Around the whole garden was a sort of ditch or moat; perhaps the very depression she had stepped down and up from the day before -- or was it centuries hence? The afternoon seemed a more indolent time; there was less activity, perhaps because of the heat of high summer; there was more sitting on the turved benches or resting in the shade of trees or the house. Musical instruments were brought: recorders, flutes, viols, psalteries and rebecs. There was even a Hurdy Gurdy. Sasha had heard of that: 'Thrown like a star in my vast sleep I open my eyes to take a peep To find that I was by the sea Gazing with tranquillity. 'Twas then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man Came singing songs of love.' Sasha was offered instrument after instrument by the musicians but she, at first, declined. It was not that Sasha was unmusical—she played the guitar and sang quite well—but the music of the house was different to what she knew and she had not played the strange instruments before; instruments similar but different to what she was used to; older instruments made well before her time. There were, though, willing and ready teachers; and many an afternoon she sat in a window seat with a Citole practising and playing; sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied and her proficiency grew. Not only did the household turn to music but to other games. The obsession with the sexual a permanent undercurrent: public copulation acceptable, an invitation to fellatio seemingly commonplace, finding two fine gentlemen walking and conversing with a lady whilst impressively erect; not an unusual occurrence. Sasha had always been fond of dancing; and music in the house led to dancing and she soon found herself learning both the dances for couples and complex figured dances from, she had to accept, the mediaeval world she found herself in: Gavotte, Almain, La Volta, Galliard, and Pavan. But there were others she practised that she doubted were known at all in the wider mediaeval world; dances permitted by the lack of clothing, dances where hands were placed elsewhere than on shoulders, backs and waists; elaborate dances involving the couples moving whilst intimately attached, dances where the men and women moved from partner to partner and penis was briefly inserted into vagina before the rhythm of the dance moved the people on; dances where the only contact between the sexes was the holding of sexual organs. Dances like La Quequette and La Branlette. Sasha knew she would never forget the sight of the great hall full of naked people dancing to the naked musicians; so much lovely music, so many happy people shining with their exertion and so many erections sported by handsome men, so much musical intercourse. Of course Nat was also there, dancing too, but somehow, however much she hoped, she did not seem to be paired with him and even with the formal dances where partners were frequently exchanged, somehow it was never him who pushed his penis into her; never did it transpire that it was his turn to dance with her. It was not that the other men were un-comely, that she did not enjoy the sex with them—or even, to her surprise, the women on occasion—it was, after all, easier to enjoy than become cross, sulky and morose and she was a young women to whom sexual desire and fantasy alone in her own bed, in her world, had been anything but a stranger: but she wanted Nat, wanted him, wanted his lovely curving penis inside her. The pace of the sexuality in the household was certainly a surprise, if not a wonder, to Sasha. It was if there was an urgency, a need to copulate as much as they could, as if they only had so much time and needed to make the best they could of time. It was not that she counted but she was sure the men and probably the woman, came, that is orgasmed, many times in a day; not something she thought normal but perhaps it was practice; in the same way that regular running trained the muscles to let you run further and faster, in the way practice made you a better juggler so, perhaps, regular use of the penis, permitted more frequent and potent erections or regular exercising of the female parts ensured a ready wetness about them. Certainly there was never a suggestion of saving themselves for the evening or later about the men. If Sasha was to take the initiative by grasping a penis, bending to suck or presenting herself in a way suggestive that she desired intercourse she did not think that refusal was likely or perhaps even acceptable in the Great House. Not that she was allowed, it seemed, to present herself to the man she most wanted, not even to hold Nat's penis in her hand and stroke it so it covered her hand with its warm semen—indeed she barely had the opportunity to exchange two words with him at one moment and even then, likely as not, some pretty girl would be in possession of his penis, whether in her hand or more. His penis was so clearly not for her. Sasha might have wondered if his feelings for her had disappeared with the competing attraction of the other women, girls so obviously available and keen to please, were it not for his eyes so obviously seeking her out and the occasional word. They were words she treasured. In the garden the people played other games as well, games with cards and dice: Shovelboard, Tables (or, as Sasha thought of it, Backgammon), Chesse-play, Merrils, draughts and what came to be Sasha's favourites Fox and Geese or Fox and Hounds. The former where one player is the fox and tries to capture, or eat, the geese; the latter, reversing the roles, has one player as the fox who tries to evade the hounds. Sometimes they played this rather more for real as a chasing or hide and seek game around the grounds with the hounds not so much eating the fox as fucking her or the fox fucking all the geese in turn. Laughter and squeals as the girl or girls were caught. The men, and sometimes the women, enjoyed the physical sports: running, boxing, fencing and wrestling. The wrestling was not like Sasha had seen before; the object being to throw the other player rather than wrestle on the floor seeking to immobilise the opponent; a wary circling and then grappling and pushing, each seeking to throw down the other or cast him onto the ground. The ladies seemed to particularly enjoy watching the sport; perhaps it was the sight of fine young men and their bodies engaged in physical exertion, the sweat shining, showing their musculature or perhaps it was the unexpected erections as they wrestled that caught their eyes. To Sasha the days seemed nothing more than a dreamlike pointlessness of indulgence and hedonism. The feeling was always dreamlike, as if she was almost, but not quite, there; as if she and Nat were being kept from a full consciousness; as if they were being prevented, or rather not permitted to fully understand what was happening to them. It was all strange, all wonderful, all so very different. Sasha was not sure why she was there, if she was there at all, or quite where she was. It was real and unreal and she was unsure in her acceptance of it but there was little else she could do. There she was. The days wore on, days of high summer, days of licentiousness, one seeming to drift into another. Sasha lost count of time. She had not kept a tally of the days, had not scratched 'five bar gates' on a wall as if in prison; and if she was in a prison then it was a strange one; she could perhaps see herself as a much used or misused prisoner but she could not say she had not enjoyed the sex, not found herself un-responding to the play, not been a somewhat willing participant in the promiscuity. How could she not when two fine young men would sit beside her on a turf bench of an afternoon, engage her in conversation, play music with her before their rising erections revealed another interest in her and how could she resist the touch of many hands, stroking, teasing and exciting her. How pleasant to feel the simultaneous light touch of lips upon both her nipples, to relax in the hot sunshine as her nipples were suckled to hard little peas and the dampness crept out between her legs to moisten the tickling grasses of the turf bench below. To open her legs a little and feel the hot rays of the sun catch her 'there' and know it was an invitation for hands to rest on her inner thighs and fingers to walk upwards, one hand to each soft inner thigh, creeping closer and closer to her sex—ready, wet and waiting. Her hands, in turn, reaching to grasp and feel the strength of their penises, to slide her fingers, formed into two circles, up and down simulating the motion of intercourse. And how might they take her? She remembered once being served by two of the young men whilst she leant over a low wall, her forearms resting on the warm brickwork of the coping, as the young men took it in turns to enter her from the rear, somewhat in the style of the hounds. It was, no doubt, a pleasing exchange for the young men, a companionable activity, and one which prolonged the intercourse to the pleasure of Sasha; a good feeling for her to feel the steady and enthusiastic stimulation whilst enjoying the feel of the hot sun on her shoulders; lovely to feel what she had only before thought about in intimate moments alone in her bed, thoughts about penetration, the actual feel of a cock lodged within her, filling and sliding, and what the slap of swinging balls against her thighs would be like. Thoughts that had made her wet fingers move faster, thoughts that had bunched her fingers to push inside herself, thoughts that had aided her fingers in stroking the softness of her inner thighs, thoughts that had made her cry out in a personal but lonely orgasm, time and time again in her own bed. Across the garden, the other side from her, had been Nat in the very self same act—well not quite the same as it was he who was doing the penetrating rather than being the penetrate. Across a similar wall two girls were leaning and it was Nat who was behind them, moving from one to the other—not that Sasha could see the actual connection as it was hidden by the wall but what he was doing was obvious; their eyes met and they smiled at each other, a warm intimate smile as their eyes lingered and their orgasms came: orgasms that were both simultaneous and mutual. Mutual because they came more from looking at each other with desire and hope than the physical stimulation of the bodies they were actual joined to and copulating with. But even when spent it seemed they were not permitted to go to each other; Nat was coaxed away whilst Sasha's partners completed what they had begun with Sasha still lent against her wall watching Nat being led away by the women. She hardly noticed first the one and then the other of her companions releasing himself within her as her eyes followed Nat disappearing from the garden and away from her. The household did not hold back on any of the senses; sexual activity was not its only delight and feasting and drinking came high in its pleasures—intermingled and cumulating in an orgy of copulation, of course. Sasha was swept along—not that she minded a good dinner or a few drinks though this went far beyond what she would have desired. And entertainment featured highly, entertainment made by the people, entertainment in music, song, dance and play-acts. All this culminated in the day of the masque. It was to be a grand feast, a masque even, or so the women said to Sasha, with excitement, and the preparations took up several days. Days when the weather seemed to take a hotter, more sultry turn as if the endless blue skies were drawing to a close, as if the rain was about, at last, to come and break the spell of endless summer but there was not a cloud in the sky to even hint that there could be such a thing as the patter of raindrops upon the parched ground and the scent of wetted dust rising into the hot air. Island in the Barley Ch. 04 The play, the masque, began with austere, crackling cold winter, or so Sasha judged from the heavily clothed players and the general drapery of white spread around—even the music lent a chilly air. There was a lack of excitement; a lack of life, for it was the dead time of the year when nature slept. The mood that the play now cast was sombre; the usual gaiety of the household became subdued but then, gradually, there was a change; the music developed a livelier edge and in through the door danced a young man with green oak leaves in his hair; indeed he was garlanded in a great many of them and nothing else. He danced solo for quite a time, rather creditably, before a whole company of the young people entered, looking like flower children dressed in nothing more than flowers Sasha had seen in the garden, to set up a maypole and dance around it. Playful green spring complete with light jolly music, the people dancing naked with flowers in their hair, the girls white painted and the boys in red and blue. The symbolism of spring, the time of new life, accentuated, or perhaps overdone, by the arrival of a giant green phallus made of greenery woven around a wicker former held high. Its entrance was greeted by much cheering and laughter; it seemed the signal for further amusements as the next entrance was by a man on stilts who strode around the room naked with an absurdly elongated penis and pendulous balls flapping between his thighs—not, of course, real but simply an appendage made up to look like oversize genitalia—to the great amusement of the company. It seemed to represent a very good joke indeed: the giant's cock. The freshness of spring, the urge to renew, indeed to bring forth new life seemed, inevitably, to lead to copulation. Sasha could not disagree that it was integral to the play—however odd public copulation seemed to her upbringing: though not to the House, as she well knew. Presumably the display was planned and practised but it was dramatically real for all that. One of the young girls around the maypole was chosen by her fellows and pulled forward, feigning reluctance, to be crowned as the May Queen with her crown of interwoven flowers. Seated, or enthroned, the young people danced around her taking it in turns to dance forward and make obeisance with a kiss between her legs. The re-entry of the young man with the crown of oak leaves was greeted by a cheer from the audience and he danced around the whole company seeming to be trying to get to the seated girl and as he danced his penis grew -- not, Sasha thought, the easiest of dance moves to practice. It seemed as if the white women were trying to prevent him getting to the seated woman: the red men seeking to encourage—but all as dance. It was no surprise to Sasha that the men had the day, the women were subdued , and the oak clad young man danced around the throne in increasing wild and dramatic leaps, his vigorous masculine energy both mysterious and familiar, until he stopped still, waiting with his penis raised like a sceptre before him. With a balletic grace the girl arose and in one fluid movement descended to kneel before the man, her mouth opening to absorb the penis head—the fealial duty of a queen to her king. As one, the figures in red, blue and white moved to repeat the action and all was still. Sasha applauded with the rest. A very strange tableau but so well acted and danced for all that. And then the players moved, the men to mount the women from the rear but all in a circle around the royal couple, hands to hips as the whole company walked in a circle around them, actually fucking as they went. Not, though, for the couple, the position of the beasts, instead the oak clad king carried the May Queen with her legs locked around his hips and his penis lodged within for all to see as the company circled around them. Then the circle broke and the players exited all still fucking as the jolly music played on. A remarkable sight. There was a pause whilst more wine was served and then a languid song introduced the next season, summoning up a vision of hot, sultry summer. A vision little needed because that was how it had been since Sasha had found herself at the House; a summer that seemed almost to have overstayed its welcome; a summer that was going on for too long and had passed its time. The oak clad man re-entered but not with a vigorous dance but a much more stately progress, a circuit of the room attended by women ensuring his penis maintained its erection, a progress designed it seemed to Sasha to show the power of the man, his maleness and fecundity. A king at the height of his power, waiting. Then came a re-entry of the players but with even the women sporting erect penises in the form of corn dollies woven to shape. A further dance and then they brought out the Wild Man once more, bound and restrained, again to be teased by the women to the amusement of all. He seemed confused at first by the corn dolly penises as if not recognising the white women as women, his eyes darting around the room only to light briefly upon Sasha. Once more the sight of her seemed the cue for his erection but bound as he was he could do nothing, not seek Sasha nor indeed touch the women around him. For all his masculinity unable to do more than display: the male impotent without the woman. Once more the small white hands came to tease, touch and stimulate, some girls even lifted by their sisters and with legs opened brought close to the Wild Man so their sex just touched the club like end of the mighty penis, not to effect entrance—probably physically impossible—but to stroke and tease, to slide their wetness across his knob to stimulate the beast and feel his monstrous cock where they were softest. The re-entry of the May Queen seemed to drive the Wild Man into a frenzy. Was it just that she was the only woman without the corn dolly penis and therefore the only true woman close to him that he could see to assuage his need to rut? Indeed, as the players moved, the whole tableau seemed to celebrate masculinity. The King, the Green Man, standing erect waiting as the May Queen approached attended by some of the white woman but androgynous with their upstanding corn dollies, the red men truly erect with their own penises and the enormous Wild Man with his monstrous erection outdoing all. Carefully lifted, the May Queen's legs were parted and she was presented to the King, a sexual gift. Standing proud his penis was inserted into the woman and union achieved. The women releasing their hold on the May Queen so the King carried her alone, joined to him in the special way of men and women. This seemed to annoy the Wild Man and he pulled even harder against his bonds but there was no let up in the gentle stimulation of his penis by the small white hands as they covered and recovered its head. Beneath his shaggy coat his muscles strained at his bonds seeking release but all the while he was being sexually stimulated; small white hands pulling at the great foreskin and sliding it over the head. The result inevitable, just as it had been before when Sasha came to the House, but it was not the Wild Man who came first. As the eyes of the audience flicked from the pretty copulating couple to the Wild Man it was the Green Man who came first; at the height of summer, at the peak of his fecundity it was he who came releasing his seed within the May Queen—the motion obvious to Sasha, the expression on his face clear; not simply public copulation but the completion of the act for all to see. No sooner done, than the Green Man danced away around the hall, his wet, erect penis displayed, still weeping, and the women lifted the May Queen high above their heads, spreading her legs wide to display the result of the copulation for all to see, rotating her around the company before lowering her and bringing her to the Wild Man for him to know that it was the Green Man who had enjoyed her not he. This seemed to be too much for the Wild Man and, once again, Sasha watched in amazement at the size and strength of the ejaculation—a display of maleness difficult to believe. A great roar filled the hall, once again a cry of frustration and anguish mixed with pleasure, and the penis jerked out of the small white hands that were both restraining and stimulating it; the enormous balls drew upwards, as if pulled by a block and tackle, and the great bulbous head released its first spurt of semen high into the air, higher even than the great shaggy head of the Wild Man. Before even the first shot had reached the ground, a second even more powerful spurt left the penis. It was a remarkable sight. The unrestrained penis pumping its charge this way and that to the evident delight of the audience as the sound of their clapping filled the air, competing with the roaring of the beast. Even Sasha found herself joining in—it was a sight to see, a fitting climax to the scene of summer. The onset of autumn brought back the central dancer, still garlanded in oak leaves but leaves now faded, brown and dry. No longer did the audience see the skipping, lively young man of spring but now with a slow pace, bent but still dancing—his penis no longer displaying the magnificence of summer. Not surprisingly, Sasha thought, given it had just so publically come within the girl playing the May Queen, but it did fit the mood completely. The company though, danced energetically and still sexually, weaving past the principle dancer almost ignoring him until, as they passed, they began plucking the leaves from him, a leaf at a time. It took many revolutions of the hall but gradually, like with the steady pull of autumn winds, the fall came and he was denuded—leaving only a few oaken leaves in his hair. Still he danced but slower and slower as the music too lost pace and seemed, to Sasha, to feel colder and colder. One by one the company dropped the leaves into the great crackling fire and each leaf in turn caught and flared briefly before its gossamer, skeletal remains floated upwards on the rising heated air and was lost. It was almost mesmerising, the burning leaves one after another catching the audience's attention as the dancers passed and re-passed the fire until, when the audience looked again, the whole company was laid motionless on the floor and the principal dancer was no longer there. Applause. The play had been well done, very well done but it was not yet over. Once more the players re-entered playing austere, crackling cold winter in thick clothes and continuing the sombre, reflective mood of the burning leaves but then, just as there had been earlier, there was a change to the music as it built and built to a jig, teasing the audience's anticipation until through the door danced the young man once again garlanded with new green oak leaves in his hair. It was the culmination of the play and the audience rose as one to applaud and summon back the whole company of players. Sasha had never seen the like. The feasting and drinking went on far into the night and as always, despite the merriment, Sasha was guarded from reaching Nat and, she could see, he from reaching her. Not that she had any shortage of suitors wishing to touch and caress and this kept her in a state of perpetual arousal, her nipples distended and a warm wetness between her thighs. It was undoubtedly enjoyable to sit on a bench between two fine young men sipping wine and feel one hand on each thigh and then two different sets of fingers teasing her moist flesh before, together, simulating the motion of intercourse. And, of course, wine was not her only drink; how pleasant it was to take the proffered smooth plum of an erection in her mouth and suck the salty creaminess from it. Difficult to refuse the advances of the men and, she had to admit, she was particularly pleased when the young principal dancer, still with the oak leaves in his hair, asked if he might engage in a few strokes with her. It seemed quite the done thing to swap freely from one partner to another, very like the easy exchange of dancing partners; a dance with one young man and then a turn around the floor with another. So pleasant to be lifted like the May Queen by the athletic young man and lowered onto his cock. How strange, but nice, to be both carried and fucked at the same time as the young man walked across the room. He did not come but she did! The master of the house, the old man who had first fucked her was in fine form; so different from when Sasha had first seen him; his energy surprising as he directed the festivities. Seated in a great oaken chair, engaged in conversation he looked very much a king—if a king was to sit naked with oak leaves in his hair and his erect phallus standing exposed; revealing his pleasure in the erotic scenes around him. And not just around him for, every so often, he would beckon another woman to come and sit not so much on his knee as on his lap and, to get comfortable, it was clearly so much easier to slip the penis up into herself. It was later in the evening before Sasha was summoned. Evidently it was the done thing, to sit upon his lap and mount the ancient man rather than he doing the mounting, the done thing for her fingers to hold the slippery cock as she let herself down, its smooth head once again parting her opening and ensuring its knarled rigidity slipped up inside her. How strange to converse with the man in the archaic way she had become used to; how strange to be sitting like that, conjugally joined, whilst discussing the merits of the masque, the players and of the grand feast; how difficult to know what was the etiquette—should she gently bounce or simply sit with the penis within her, should she use her vaginal muscles to discretely stimulate, would it be a faux pas if she was to cause ejaculation? On and on into the hot night the masque continued until, exhausted, the revellers one by one fell asleep, but, as dawn broke and the first hint of light showed through the window glass, two of their number began to move, slipping naked between the sleeping people towards each other. It was not pre-arranged—there had not been the opportunity—but independently the idea had come to them and Nat and Sasha moved closer together unobserved, closer and closer until they were touching, kissing and holding each other as they had first done in the copse so long before. So happy to be together. The sexual thrill of at last holding each other sped through their bodies, raising Nat's much used penis for use and moistened Sasha's sex ready to receive it. No one stirred as gently, and quietly, Nat rolled on top of Sasha and her thighs parted, one moment his cock hung between her thighs, the next it was pushing at her seeking entry—forbidden ingress. Outside, out in the night, out in the hot, arid night the enemy had been coming together, quietly like mice, creeping towards the house, a house they found silent and unguarded. The denizens had not been watchful and they paid the price. Nat's penis slid into Sasha, an easy entrance. He was not the first that night and it was not just Sasha's moisture that lubricated: but it was not as if Nat's penis, in turn, had not been exploring other women that self same night. Neither was under an illusion but they wanted each other—it was what they had been wanting since that first meeting in the copse. And now it was happening, really happening, they were fucking together as lovers should do, arms around each other, lips to lips, sex within sex. There was a stirring, a realisation all was not well all, a staggering to the feet, first by the ancient man and then a pointing, a pointing at them, the only people in the room engaged in sex—a public copulation. A look of dismay on one of the onlookers, a look of sadness on another, visible fear on the face of a friend; the rising tide of sound and then the distinct words amongst the babel coming to Sasha, words from a girl, a friend she had often played music with in the garden, had played games with and more—the simple words, "Nay, I beseech, not yet..." But it seemed to Sasha, whilst Nat continued to rise and fall upon her with increasing urgency, that the people were not quite as distinct, not quite in such strong colour, just a little washed out as if they—or she—were not quite there. And then it happened. A crash of glass, the sound of shouting, a bursting open of the doors, confusion, the ancient man tripping and his hair catching alight in the fire, the leaves in his hair burning, fire coming through the windows catching the hangings, the shouting, the smoke, the confusion all around Sasha and Nat. But as the flames rose higher and the acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils, the house seemed to be becoming less distinct—and still they fucked. She could hear cries for water to quench the fire but the voices were becoming fainter and all she could see were the flames and all she could feel was the heat and Nat pushing against her. Gradually, though, the flames around them lost their heat and colour; there was a fading and Sasha found herself still on her back, still being fucked by Nat but outside on the hard grassed ground whilst high overhead in the early dawn she could see black clouds racing in to cover a pale clear sky. Despite the events all around, Sasha had not let go of Nat, had clasped him tighter and to her amazement she felt an orgasm building; despite it all she was going to come. Her attention focused on the penis driving her, Nat's lovely curving penis, and on the sensations coming from her clit being pulled by the regular motion; her hands sought Nat's bottom and pulled him hard into her. It was the clap of thunder that actually set her off, an unusual aural cue, but nonetheless it had its effect and as the skies opened and the dry heat was suddenly eased by the torrent of water falling on their joined bodies, a long delayed and simultaneous orgasm shook them. Two lovers alone in a copse, a wood in the middle of a field, making the beast with two backs: the culmination of so much desire and waiting. Sasha mind was filled both with the awful fire, the crackling sound, the cries and screams but with joy at having, at last, lain with Nat. The rain poured down, already soaking them as they got unsteadily to their feet, hand in hand, under the dark sky, looking around them in a dazed way as the ground was drenched with the cool rain water. They had escaped. The lightning flashed and the rain poured down and down. Across the field in the rain they ran, the water running in rivulets down their naked bodies, their hair plastered to their skin, the hard clay of the field becoming slippery with the rain. It would take time for the rain to seep in and loosen it and, instead, just the surface of the clods was emulsified like grease to their naked feet. Slipping, sliding, falling into the channels of water between the furrows; sometimes one falling, sometimes both together in a muddy, wet slippery heap of bodies and mud; and still the rain poured down. Had they not recently been copulating, had they not just escaped, had they not been in shock then they might just have just stopped running and rolled together in the mud, mouths seeking, hands clasping and just fucked like that in the pleasure of the rain at last coming to end the overstayed Indian summer. Instead they kept running away from the horror of the burning house and their captivity, putting distance between them and it; as Sasha led them to her friends' house. The frantic knocking in the early dawn, the sleepy words, "Who is it?" from an upstairs window and then the disbelief, the joy at finding Sasha—naked and mud bespatted as she was. Hugs, introductions, baths, breakfast and the inevitable, "Where on Earth have you been? So worried... missing persons... just your car and piles of clothes..." Island in the Barley Ch. 04 And what could Sasha tell? What had indeed happened? How could she explain? She tried, she told her friends what she thought had happened, fantastical as it was: the dreams, the calling to the copse, Nat, the translation, the House, the life and then the fire. Her friends looked from one to the other. "The House that Is and Is Not'—did you not read that book I left in your room, Sasha? I put it there because I thought it would interest you; you have a liking for history, legends and things and this was local and mysterious. Just a local legend, or so I thought, I didn't think... did not imagine, that there could be any truth in it. Wait, I'll get the book." It was easily found. "You see, Sir _____ was a great landowner in these parts in his day. When? Oh the Sixteenth Century apparently. He upset the locals; upset them with his 'loose morals, lewdness and licentiousness' but he had high friends and no one would lay a hand on him, restrain him or take him to task. So one night the locals took matters into their own hands and it got out of hand, as mob rule does, terribly out of hand. The house caught fire and Sir ________ and his guests perished. But that was not the end of the tale, as you would have known had you read the book I left out for you, and it was said that Sir_______, well, sort of returned. There were local tales, mysterious disappearances and reappearances over the centuries. The author seems to have pieced together this and that, found fragments here and there. Perhaps these tales were taken seriously at one time but certainly not in the Twentieth Century or now, well, not except by the author, obviously, who collected tales and references and wove the unlikely history. But it is out of print, only a few locals have ever mentioned it—an almost forgotten tale." Sasha's questions came thick and fast, "How did they... across the years, across the centuries... who were they really... or is it who are they?" But there were no answers to those sorts of questions. It was not easy dealing with the police, being 'missing persons' who had been in 'the national papers.' Their tale ridiculous—though Sasha was not sure that it actually seemed so strange to the local bobby but certainly the other policemen from the town were less than happy with what Nat and she said. They were exhausted by early evening and bedtime came soon and with it the inevitable question about sleeping arrangements—the delicate question of whether Nat and Sasha were 'an item.' Sasha looked at Nat and Nat looked at Sasha. "Oh, yes," they said. Well wrapped up in warm clothes, as the delayed autumn came with a vengeance, the wind rushing to tear the leaves from the branches, Nat, Sasha and her friends stood in the middle of the copse looking around them. They had stumped across the ploughed field in Wellingtons, the mud sticky and the furrows still pooled with rain. Little showed of what had been; of the great house, the garden with its walls and paths; here and there moss covered fragments of masonry gave a hint but the grasses and trees had long had opportunity and nature had taken its full hold. Sasha bent to pick up something white and blackened in the grass—a fragment of bone—was it human or just some animal's remains, was it perhaps someone she had known, had laughed with or even fucked? She drew closer to Nat and shivered. There was no way of knowing. Were they all still there, hidden from sight, waiting for another chance, another brief chance at life; life to be lived to the full, waiting to ensnare another couple and call them across the field of barley into the past?