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Seasons of the Mind Ch. 01

By: Drmaxc



1. Winter

The young woman stood and reached upwards to pull a coat from the metal rack above her head. The guard had made his announcement and the train had begun to slow. Soon the train would be gliding through the darkness of the tunnel to the station waiting on the other side.

Outside, looking through the carriage windows, the night had a sort of luminescence as the moonlight reflected white off the snow. It was a cold winter's night. The carriage warm but outside the frost was hard and it would be crisp and icy underfoot.

Slowly the woman began to wind her long scarf around her neck. A green woollen scarf Harris noted as he had noted everything about the women's clothing since she had joined the train. The coat, the dark blue coat, was pulled on over the woman's Fair Isle jumper. She would certainly need to be wrapped up warm when she alighted from the train. The contrast between the warmth of the coach and the cold of the night would be marked. Her breath would be before her.

Harris had been pleased to see a below the knee pleated grey skirt—not trousers—plenty of material there to keep the girl warm; her black woollen tights looked sensible and defensive against the cold—what little was exposed between skirt and boots and, then, only visible just as she got up from her seat . Not simply shoes, sensible or otherwise, but sturdy long black leather boots to below her knee, probably lined.

One by one the buttons were slipped into their button holes as her hand ascended until the last one brought the lapels together and they were secured leaving a little of the scarf showing around her neck. From her bag a green woollen hat, not the practical sort with a bobble on the top but one with more shape and style—nonetheless warm and practical. And from her coat pockets green woollen gloves were extracted and the first carefully pulled on over fingers.

Harris too rose to his feet, stepped into the aisle and stood, facing towards the woman.

The train entered the tunnel.

Without power, gliding without braking, the train slid through the tunnel, gently slowing with each passing second but as it slowed the lights dimmed until the carriage was in pitch blackness. The moonlight did not penetrate far into the tunnel.

And still the train slowed until it was at rest. Not in the station but seemingly still in the depths of the tunnel, the dark tunnel. There was no sound. It was strangely quiet.

"I'm not sure I like this." The woman spoke, her words clear in the silence and directed at Harris; the last person she had seen. "I hope we soon move on into the station."

There was no movement but a chill came over the air, a deepening chill as if they were no longer in the carriage but already on the platform.

The woman moved, Harris could hear the sound of boots as if she was stepping on frosted snow; and with the sound came a brightening of light around them but not the yellowish light of the carriage's electric lights returning: instead the cold white light of the moon.

In the gathering light Harris—and the woman—could see not the windows of the carriage but trees, many trees; dark bare trees with snow covered branches and, below them covering the ground, a carpet of white snow. The snow virginal, untouched by footsteps except where the woman had moved her boots.

The snow was falling gently in the silence of the wood.

The woman was wide eyed above her scarf, her head and then her body turning around, first one way and then the other, her dark blue coat swinging with her. "The train..."

Harris watched her unmoving, seemingly unperturbed by the change of events.

"What...where... where are we?"

It was the two of them alone. Very much alone. Two figures standing in the silence of a winter wood or, indeed, a forest. The few other people seated in the carriage had disappeared or perhaps had simply not come with Harris and the woman.

"We seem to be in a wood in the snow. No lamp post though." If meant as a joke it did not seem to amuse the woman.

"Where is the train?"

The snow was starting to fall faster. It was cold. Harris did not answer.

The woman was agitated. "There's a light." She said.

Away off into the trees it showed to their right, or was it their left, or was it straight on? It had been behind them at first. A feint yellow light.

"Perhaps it's the lamp post."

The comment was clearly not well received.

"This is not poss..."

The woman started walking towards it, her boots moving evenly. Harris followed in her footsteps: clear marks in the untouched snow. Their feet made a scrunching noise. That and their breathing the only sound. The steadily increasing snow was silent as it fell to the ground.

It was not a lamp post but a weak glimmer from a small cottage window. Small indeed, single storied, made of timber, as might reasonably be expected in a wood, and mud: but with a brick chimney and window. The thatching looked sound. A door, oaken and solid.

There was little hesitation from the woman, a glance back at Harris and then she knocked. The sound harsh in the quiet of the falling snow. She waited.

Harris noted the snow now lying across the woman's shoulders like a mantle; her green hat dusted with snow.

The woman turned with a shrug of her shoulders, "I don't think..."

Standing there looking out into the night, the dark night, the snow swirling and darker clouds coming to obscure the moon they seemed utterly alone. Not a hint of light from anywhere else, just the dark bare surrounding trees; not a sound from a person or animal, just the falling snow. The woman knocked again. There was still no answer.

"It is very cold." She tried the door. It was locked.

There was real alarm in the woman's eyes now.

"I don't understand... and the door is locked."

Harris nodded and stretched out his hand. He was pointing and the woman followed his gaze to a large round stone by the left side of the door jamb.

"Do you think?"

She did not wait for an answer but moved the stone with her gloved hand revealing a key.

"How did you know?"

"It is often so," replied Harris.

The woman looked puzzled but was quick to insert the key and turn. The door opened easily and they stepped inside.

Earth floored it may have been but it was not unhomely. On a plank table by the window a single candle burned in a brass candlestick, the fireplace was neatly laid ready to burn and in the corner of the cottage a stout bed was neatly covered in a blanket. Upon another table a pitcher of water, fresh bread and cheese.

From his coat pocket Harris produced a box of matches and set to lighting the fire. The woman stood in the middle of the cottage as if unsure what to do next. The fire crackled as the tinder and then kindling caught.

"I don't understand. What has happened—to us?"

"It will be a good fire."

Already there was just the hint of warmth from the quick burning kindling, smoke was already—at least mostly—already making its way up the cold chimney.

"I wish there was more light."

"A candle and a fire are good enough to see by."

Clearly the woman was not exactly happy with Harris' conversational skills or his less than helpful answers. She moved to look around the room, even flicking the blankets on the bed back to see what the bed was like. It was a single bed. Just the one. It must have passed through her mind the important question: if they were to spend the night there in the cottage then who was going to sleep in the bed?

Harris sat on a stool by the fire gazing into its building light. It was clear his prognostication about it was being realised.

"Who do you think lives here? When will he be back?"

Harris shrugged his shoulders." May not be a permanent abode."

It did not really answer the question. Again the woman walked around the cottage looking at things. It was not a large cottage and it only had the one room. There was not much to see.

The woman picked up a small iron pot and looked at its congealed contents.

"What do you think this is?"

Harris took it. "Goose fat," he said, sniffing. "Good for roast potatoes. You can't do better."

He hung the pot over the fire and sat immobile looking at it.

It was getting warmer in the room. The girl unbuttoned her coat and took off her hat and gloves and unwound her scarf a little. Harris watched. She sat on a stool the other side of the fire from Harris, hands holding her knees, revealing again the black sensible tights.

Gradually the scent of melting goose fat began to fill the room. A warm comfortable smell. The girl got up and took her coat and scarf off.

"Warmer now?"

"Mmmm, thanks, yes." She sat again, her knees held tightly together. Harris was looking at the grey pleated skirt spreading out over the stool. The girl seemed aware she was being examined.

"Why the goose fat? Is it to dunk the bread? I'm not sure I'd like that."

"You could do that."

They sat staring into the fire. The girl unzipped her boots. The room was becoming warmer by the minute.

"Are there potatoes then?"

"I don't think so."

The woman frowned. It was clear she did not like the short answers which said nothing, nothing at all.

"Why the melted goose fat then? Come on, don't keep it a secret."

"Your anus."

"What!"

"The goose fat is for your bottom. To ease the passage."

"The passage of wha... no!"

The woman was standing, backing away across the room.

"I think," he said, "a dark night is the right time for the other intercourse. A dark cold night when we are all alone."

"No!"

Harris stirred the pot. "Not too hot of course. That would not be good at all. A little above body heat. Pleasing to the touch" He was not looking at the woman but the swirling fat.

The door banged and the woman was gone. Harris lifted the pot from the fire.

It was some time later that the door opened again. There was much more snow on the woman's coat now. She had put it on again before going out or at least grabbed it as she left. Her teeth was chattering.

"Come and warm yourself by the fire. You did not trip over a door scraper then?"

The woman sat in silence. Water began dripping from her coat. She did not answer him.

It took half an hour of silence before the coat was again removed but by then the colour was back in the woman's cheeks. It had been very cold outside.

"I am not sleeping with you."

Harris added more wood to the fire. It was already very warm. A real contrast to the snow outside. He did not answer.

The heat had got to her. Had warmed her after her furious sojourn in the snow. The woman's jumper came off and then the boots. She propped the boots near, but not too near to the fire.

"I don't understand. One moment on the train: the next here." It was a different conversation.

"A bit like magic, isn't it? Puzzling. Into a tunnel or through a wardrobe."

"You really are not being a lot of help."

"You ask questions, but what do you think? Why should I know more than you?"

They were quiet for a time.

It was very warm.

"Look the other way. I'm going to take these tights off."

The man kept looking at the fire. The woman moved behind him, behind his back.

"That's better—I was getting so hot."

"A log fire is good on a cold winter's night." Harris began adding more to the fire.

"Outside it is so cold: yet in here it is almost too warm. Don't put any more wood on the fire."

There was a hint of perspiration on her brow.

The fire crackled and burnt, casting a ruddy glow over the small cottage room. It was a good fire. On the table the candle still burned.

The girl rose from her stool and stood near the window.

"I cannot say you have done wrong with it but, really, that fire is just too hot!"

"Perhaps you should take something more off."

"There isn't any more." It was a firm statement.

"I sleep naked."

"Well, I'm certainly not."

But it was clear the woman was uncomfortable. She got up and took a drink of water.

"Do you think it is safe to drink?" It was a bit late.

"Oh yes. From a spring I imagine."

The perspiration was running free.

"You have made it far too hot. Unbearable."

But the man was still dressed in his suit and seemed to be pleasantly comfortable.

First one then the second button on her blouse undone, the sleeves loosened, the pleats of the skirt flapped by her hands.

The man turned and unsurprisingly his eyes were caught by the bosom pushing out from the half opened blouse, the girl's chest rising and falling as she panted in the heat.

"You'll need to loosen a few more clothes, I imagine."

She was looking flushed. "This is more than the heat of the fire."

"Sexual arousal, if I am not mistaken."

It was a very deliberate action. One the woman did not miss at all. Harris again set the pot of goose fat to heat over the fire. The woman stared at it with wide eyes but did not this time rush from the cottage. Instead she sat, away from the fire, on the edge of the bed. Her thoughts difficult to fathom. Under her skirt her knees were getting wider and wider apart. Perhaps it was to allow heat to escape from between her legs—perhaps.

"I wish there was a bath or shower or something. I'm just dripping with sweat."

"There is a pleasing glow about you, a healthy flush to your cheeks. But no shower, no bath. There is the jug of cool water or you could roll in the snow of course."

"What! That would be freezing!"

"Bracing and refreshing: warm when you return!"

She sat on the bed gazing at the fire, Harris' back and the goose fat.

Her discomfort was growing.

The action was sudden. One moment the girl was sitting staring into the fire, the next she was up and moving. Seconds later there was a sudden draught as the door opened and then was banged shut. Harris did not so much as move a muscle until the door banged, did not even turn and look, but then a trace of a smile crossed his lips.

The woman returned—her entrance back into the hut as noisy as her exit. This time, though, Harris turned at the sound of the door banging. The girl was naked, completely naked and it was more than evident she had been rolling in the snow. There was snow in her brown hair, snow dusting her skin and even snow clinging to her pubic hair. Quite a lot of snow there, making a contrast with the deep chestnut colour of that hair. It seemed to Harris as if she had been deliberately rubbing herself with snow at the junction of her legs to cool herself.

She was looking at Harris in a defiant sort of way, legs planted apart, naked breasts rising and falling with her quick breathing.

"Cooler now?" He asked.

"No, not really. Why is it the more clothes I have taken off the more aroused I've become?"

The snow was beginning to melt on her body, changing to water droplets. The snow packed in her pubic hair was melting too. A dripping had begun, a steady drip from between her legs.

Harris smiled at the dripping and turned to dip his finger in the pot of goose fat. "It is warm and ready; are you?"

The woman frowned and put her hands on her hips. Naked, yes, but also defiant. "My bottom? I don't think so!"

Harris rose from the stool, loosening his tie. He came towards her and slowly raised his hand. The woman did not move, did not flinch away. With his forefinger he touched just the tip of the woman's left nipple. It, along with its fellow, was already hard and pointing.

"Oh... crumbs." The woman's knees seemed almost to give way. "Don't touch me."

Again just a caress to the nipple, just the lightest touch. The woman gasped.

"I have never..."

"No," said Harris, "I wouldn't think so." He put down the pot and begun removing his tie, lightly brushing the right nipple with the blade.

The woman was shaking.

"Can't we..."

"Vaginal intercourse?"

The woman nodded. The fight seemed to have gone from her, had evaporated with the touch to her nipples. Other desires had replaced the defiance.

"Pleasant—but not tonight. A dark night for the other intercourse." The man was unbuttoning his shirt.

"No, not... Must I? Can't we instead..."

Harris nodded, acknowledging the clear invitation as he unbuttoned his shirt.

"The goose fat will ease the passage."

"I'm not sure I... I mean I've never... not that way."

"Don't worry, it will be fine."

"It won't be comfortable. I mean... Can we instead...?"

"Please, prepare yourself. It will be most pleasurable I can assure... If you would lie across the bed... bottom upwards of course!"

Shirtless, Harris helped the woman. There was no real resistance. He placed a pillow under her so as to raise her bottom higher.

The woman stared straight ahead. It was difficult to judge what she was thinking but the slightly wriggling of her hips, the wobbling of her bottom cheeks all indicated a certain arousal, a woman ready to be mounted—one way or the other.

"I think, after all you will need to be on your knees, perhaps resting on your arms."

The woman wriggled into position. Her bottom raised higher. A position both undignified and yet distinctly erotic. Her pudenda and bottom hole fully exposed and accessible to the room. Her head turned to look back, beyond her body to Harris. He was now fully naked.

In the ruddy glow of the firelight and the one candle she could see the man in his natural state. A fully aroused man for, from the junction of his thighs, there rose, in a smooth curve, his fifth limb; his generative organ with its smooth head fully exposed. In his hand the small black pot of the goose fat. It's warm scent strong in the small dwelling.

She watched wide eyed as he came closer. He dipped his finger in the fat to test the heat. He nodded.

"As Goldilocks said, 'Just right'."

His finger as he lifted it from the pot was shiny with the melted fat.

The woman watched.

He brought it forward, between her cheeks and touched her right on her fundament. The fat was hot but not too hot. It made her clench her cheeks around his finger but, as he gently rotated around the little puckered orifice, carefully coating it with the slippery fat, she relaxed a little. She seemed to be accepting the touch, accepting the man's finger to her bottom.

More warm goose fat, more finger tip circling of the brown rose. The man was careful. He was not hurrying. Plenty of warm goose fat to make the anus slippery. Round and round went his fingers easing the rubbery flesh, encouraging it to relax. Making it ready.

The girl's eyes were closed and she was breathing hard. A moan escaped her.

Harris dipped his finger into the warm goose fat once more and touched the girl at the very centre of her now shiny rosebud and pushed. The tip of his finger slipped easily in. A gasp from the girl and the finger withdrawn.

The sphincter closed and then opened a little again as if seeking the finger. Harris picked up the pot and poured; a dollop of warm goose fat landed right on the anus. A gasp and a clenching of the buttocks, the sphincter opening and closing as if the girl was trying to draw the warm fat into her, sucking the pleasant heat into her body.

The buttocks relaxing but still the orifice pulsing; opening and closing. The man poured again. Another gasp from the girl.

"I had not realised..."

"The delight of anal pleasuring?"

The girl seemed to slump forward further onto the bed and open her legs a little more as if surrendering herself completely to Harris. Her bottom cheeks wide, her slippery anus clear in the candlelight and, immediately below it, her pudenda shiny with arousal. Either place clearly available to Harris' erection.

A finger dipped once more and again applied but this time pushed further. Harris watched the slippery finger touch the girl's bottom hole and then slide steadily in, gradually disappearing, first one finger joint, then another into her. The finger rotated a little and then slid backwards and forwards in the motions of intercourse, a foretaste, albeit a thin one, of what was to come.


Seasons of the Mind Ch. 01



More fat and a second finger inserted together with the first, not deeply but rotating together, easing the rubbery sphincter, massaging it gently into relaxation.

The girl's eyes were closed and she was biting her lip.

"Would you touch me—elsewhere."

"Not yet. Concentrate on your bottom."

The girl's hands clenched but still the circular movement of Harris' fingers.

The fingers withdrawn, This time the anus stayed more relaxed. A thin smile from Harris as three fingers dipped into the fat. Coated with the warm lubricant they too slipped easily into the girl—into her bottom.

Another gasp from the girl. "Please, please take me properly. You may."

"Not tonight. A dark, cold night for the other intercourse. It will be soon."

The fingers withdrawn and the iron pot set back close to the fire to warm again. A few more logs placed. Across the room lying across the bed the young woman, naked, her skin shiny with perspiration from the heat of the fire, her skin orange with the firelight, her bottom lewdly raised and her sex exposed. By the fire Harris standing equally naked stirring the goose fat, his body reflecting the orange flames so they seemed to dance on his skin, his erection standing firm and ready, the knob shining in the orange firelight and fully revealed. A scene of licentiousness, the sexual tension palpable: animal like in its carnality. An almost frozen scene, no movement but for the fire dancing and Harris' hand stirring. A strange, erotic and mysterious tableau. The smell of rich goose fat, as if roast potatoes were cooking, strong in the air.

"Please... I am so ready. I've never been so ready. Please... properly."

The pot lifted and Harris moved across the room. The anus alternately opening and closing—seeking—the pulsing sphincter. Harris readied the pot, slowly tipping it to pour again.

The goose fat a little hotter now and a little runnier was poured once more; poured close to the bottom, poured into the waiting and relaxed anus.

The girl's hands were thumping the bed, arms rising and falling, her body shaking in orgasm. Harris watched.

Once more Harris lifted the iron pot but rather than pouring it on the already running anus brought it close to his own body, right above his upstanding erection before pouring it. The goose fat came in a stream over the lip of the pot and down right on the very centre of the upstanding knob. The man winced as the hot fat touched his urethral opening before running in rivulets down the erection coating it and making it glisten in the firelight.

"It is time." Harris set down the pot by the girl and stood over her. She had not moved. Still with her knees on the bed, still with her bottom in the air, still with arms outstretched and face pushed into the bed. Harris tall and dominant in the scene: the girl totally submissive.

"Please," whispered the girl, "the proper place."

Harris took hold of his slippery member and touched it to her bottom hole.

"No, not there, the proper place... ah, oh!"

Harris had pushed.

He had prepared her well. There was little resistance. Harris' push had been firm and the smooth helmet shape of his knob had pushed her open, letting the whole of it enter right up to the flared corona. The goose fat so slippery and lubricating—it had simply slid in. Instinctively the muscles of the girl's anus had tightened, clasping him in the indentation just beyond the corona as if forming a tight seal.

Harris stood still, waiting. The woman on the bed breathing heavily, holding him.

"No one has ever..."

She did not finish the sentence. There was no need. Harris knew what she meant. No man had ever before entered her bottom but, of course, it was only entrance that had been effected: there was more to come—inches more.

"I'm still so... so worked up. I..."

The muscle relaxed, the clasp released and Harris moved forward. The copious goose fat made the journeying easy. Inch by inch Harris' erection slid into the woman's bottom.

"Stop, stop. I feel so full. Do you have to... have to go the whole way?"

"Yes."

Another inch. The girl's hands were tight fists on the bed, her breath panting. The penis was still making its journey into the dark tunnel. It was obvious her whole being, her whole thought, was concentrated on what was happening—the unusual feeling of being entered—there in her bottom.

Another inch, another slippery inch and Harris was fully embedded. In the cottage on the bed, in the firelight the man was tight up against the woman's bottom. Now no longer visible, the man's hard penis was fully engaged within the woman; not in the normal place; not in the right place; not in the natural place—this was the other intercourse made on a dark night.

"Ready?"

The woman spoke. "I had not realised... the fullness... gently, please... I'm so full. Oh..."

Harris drew slowly back. The motion of intercourse had begun; a sliding, a very slippery sliding of penis within rectum; the shaft gradually reappearing before once more being pushed back; the man holding the girl's hips; the girl pushing a little against the man; a to and fro travel; the penis in continuous motion aided by the warm slippery goose fat.

"I don't believe it: I'm going to come again, I don't believe it—not like this! Not like..."

The rocking motion, the sliding penis moving perhaps a little faster. The girl panting, shaking her head from side to side; her fists rising and falling, beating against the bed. Her bottom impaled. The wonderful oiling of the goose fat allowing such an easy movement.

Harris scooped up yet more hot goose fat and, reaching forward and under, applied it all directly to the girl's pudenda right on her clitoris; the fat well above body heat, thick and clinging: the girl surprised by the sudden heat, the sudden touch and the slippery, moving, wriggling fingers where they had not touched before..

It did not just send her over the edge, she went into an absolute spasm of pleasure. Literally shaking, her bottom quivering, her orgasm more than palpable—and then a scream of utter joy and deep within her bottom the invading penis too began to spurt. The shared orgasm long, hard and so intimate there on the bed in the warm, orange firelight.

Harris pulled slowly out of the orifice.

The train too came out of the tunnel and the carriage lights flickered on. Grabbing onto a table for support, clutching with her green gloved hand, the young woman dressed in a dark blue coat with the chestnut hair and green scarf was gasping and looking flushed.

"You all right, dear, did the sudden darkness frighten you?" An older woman at the table was looking up at her and concerned. The other passengers appeared surprised.

The older woman sniffed, "You know, yes it is that, I can smell roast potatoes, can you?"

The young woman did not answer but looked wide eyed at Harris before hurrying down the aisle and from the train.

"Peculiar," said the woman to Harris, "very peculiar. Do you know her?"

Harris smiled his thin smile and slowly shrugged his shoulders.

"Funny, I can still smell those potatoes. Makes me ready for my tea."

Harris settled himself in his seat once more and looked out of the window at the frosty station scene, at the young woman in the dark blue coat and green hat hurrying away. The woman turned and stared at him, her eyes following, as the train started moving and gathering speed.



Seasons of the Mind Ch. 02



2. Summer

The young woman stood and smoothed down the light cotton dress across her thighs. The guard had made his announcement and the train had begun to slow. Soon the train would be gliding through the darkness of the tunnel to the station waiting on the other side.

Outside the carriage windows, the landscape had the soft glow of an early summer's evening. A sort of Maxfield Parrish look to it. The warm golden brown of the harvest ready fields, the blue of the sky, the quiet of the landscape after a scorching day. It was a warm, even hot evening and the woman wiped a hint perspiration from her brow with a little blue cotton handkerchief.

The woman reached across to the seat next to her and picked up a straw hat. A sensible hat for a summer's day, wide brimmed. She put it on. It was then she saw him. She had not seen him since that winter's night, so many months before. Had watched for him on the train, been very wary which carriage she sat in but he had not been there. Not until now.

Harris had been pleased to see the light cotton dress, white with large blue flowers, waisted and dropping to just above her bare knees. Not sleeveless but with only short pieces of material covering her upper arms and leaving most of her arms free. Summery wear for a hot summer's day. A gold chain around her neck and strappy, high heeled, tan coloured, sandal like shoes on her feet. Her chestnut brown hair tied neatly behind her in a pony tail. It was tied with a blue ribbon.

Harris too stood, as if readying himself for the station and the carriage door. He smiled his thin smile in recognition—not that he had missed her presence earlier.

She was not smiling.

The train entered the tunnel.

The lights had not been working in the carriage—there was no need in the bright sunlight—but as the carriage entered the tunnel the light became dimmer as the tunnel's mouth was left behind and the other end was still far away. The train seemed to be losing way, gently slowing within the tunnel, as the light dimmed further, until the train was at rest and the carriage completely dark. Not in the station but seemingly still in the depths of the tunnel, the dark tunnel. There was no sound. It was strangely quiet.

"No, no, please not again." The woman spoke but was already moving up the carriage in the dark away from Harris feeling her way from seat to seat. A hint of panic in her voice.

There was no movement and even the air conditioning in the carriage—not good for the whole journey—seemed to fail as the air became warmer almost as if they were no longer in the carriage but already on the platform.

The woman's hands no longer found the seats but thought she could see light moving towards her. Was it, she wondered, the light at the end of the tunnel? Yet her feet no longer seemed on flattened carpet but the softness of grass and, with the brightening of light around her getting stronger by the second, she could see not the familiar walls of the carriage but trees and stone walls and green meadows basking in the warm sunshine of a summer's day. The birds were singing.

Slowly she turned back to Harris. The man, standing in a cream linen suit and leaning on a cane, was looking at her. His tie was just the same blue as the flowers on her dress.

"No," she cried and began running across the field following the path across the hay meadow. Harris watched her go, watched the pretty sight of a woman running, her dress flowing, her brown limbs working—a vision of grace. It is not easy running in high heels; it was no surprise when the woman pulled them off, one after another, and threw them away as she ran, faster and easier over the land. Harris watched her climb a stile and disappear. Lifting his panama hat he mopped his head with a bright blue spotted handkerchief and set off after the woman, walking easily as he swung his cane. It was very warm in the valley, not a breath of wind. A beautiful day but really a little bit too hot for walking: let alone running.

The woman was running a little downhill following a path, a hand clutched to her straw hat to ensure it did not come off. Glancing back she saw she was well away from the man and she slowed, panting in the heat. There was sweat on her brow and already her dress was damp in places from her exertion. Half way across the next field she stopped and simply flopped down in the middle of it, down on the grass.

Harris did not hurry. With his cane swinging he came steadily towards the woman, looking surprisingly cool in the summer heat. Perhaps it was the linen and panama which gave the appearance of freshness without necessarily the substance. The woman was watching him.

"And where are we now?"

It was not exactly a greeting.

"I would suggest if you were thinking of resting the shade of the old oak ahead might be a better place to sit."

He offered his hand to help the woman up. She did not take it. Getting to her feet she smoothed down her dress and adjusted her hat.

"It's a very fine day." Harris stating the obvious.

"Where does this lead?"

"The sea."

"How do you know? Have you been here before?"

Harris smiled his thin smile but did not answer.

The woman paused in the shade of the oak. It was certainly cooler but still very warm. Harris looked a picture of cool elegance: the woman perspiring and damp. Her run had not helped her comfort. The oak was old, its roots, erupting from the soil, were thick and winding over the ground. The woman sat on one. Harris stood regarding her. She did not look at all cool.

"I wish we had some water."

Harris shrugged, "unfortunately..."

"How far is the sea?"

As if by coincidence there was the sound of seagulls.

"Not far."

It was not. Climbing the next stile brought a view down to the blue, blue sea. The woman paused and regarded the scene. It was picture postcard perfect. Beyond, the path began to drop more steeply as it moved from the green of hay fields into rough grazing and then gorse. The path changing from grass track to sand. They made their way downwards.

"Easier on my feet."

Harris looked at her bare feet and legs beneath her dress.

She said, "I've always liked sand between my toes. Why are we walking?"

"To get to the sea, I suppose. You came this way."

"What was the other way?"

"Fields and hills, did you not look?"

He was not helpful. The girl frowned.

Down they came onto the sand proper. A bay stretching away to right and left; ahead sun dried sand giving way to the flat wet sand where the tide had come.

The sand was hot on the girl's feet.

"It's so hot. My dress is wringing."

They walked onto the open sands.

"That's better," said the girl as her feet touched the wet sand. "Doesn't the sea look lovely?"

And it did. The waves breaking at the edge were small giving the sound of gentle lapping water. No crash of breakers: just the small sound of the sea. The girl ran to the water's edge and then was splashing happily, catching the hem of her dress in each hand and lifting it to keep it from being wetted. Harris lent on his cane and watched.

Are children ever happier than on those perfect days down by the sea building sandcastles or just running, for the joy of it, through the surf? There is something about the sea which does not leave in adulthood, whether walking along the seashore listening to the sea or doing just the same things as when children. Are not childhood memories at their happiest when by the sea, do we not smile in happy reminiscence of endless days in the sunshine by the sea? The reality may not have been quite so perfect but children do not notice the grey skies and the disappointing lack of sun—do not care! They are by the sea.

The girl seemed to dance along the boundary between sea and sand, splashing a little and sending droplets to hang shining momentarily in the hot sunshine. A happy sight on a perfect blue skied day. What could be prettier than a young girl lifting her dress a little and dancing through the water?

"I wish I could swim here."

"Why not?"

"I haven't..."

It seemed to come to her all at once. The open sands, the deserted beach, the high cliffs, the seagulls screeching—there was no one around to be at all perturbed if she was to throw off her dress and run in her underclothes, or less, into the sea. No one but Harris—of course.

The girl looked at Harris as if undecided. He held out his hand. She looked back at the sea, shrugged and began to unbutton her dress. She was conscious of Harris watching her as she pulled the dress upwards. Momentarily she was lost in the folds of the cotton, her vision obscured, knowing he was looking at her legs and her underclothing, then she pulled it over her head and handed it to the man. She turned back to the sea and took a step before looking back at Harris. His eyebrows rose as if expecting something more.

"Oh, very well. There's nobody else." She reached behind her and unclipped her bra. The softness and fullness of her breasts suddenly revealed in the bright sunlight. She handed it to Harris and then pulled her panties down and stepped out of them before handing them too to Harris. She felt exposed and vulnerable.

"Happy now I'm naked—again?" She turned and took a couple of steps towards the deeper water.

"A very fine sight."

And it was. The girl had no reason to be ashamed of her body. It was indeed fine, pleasingly but not excessively slim, good long limbs and her sunbathing in a bikini had added a slight eroticism: emphasising, by whiteness, her breasts, bottom and sex. The patch of chestnut brown hair at her thighs pleasingly shaped and thick contrasting with the whiteness of her skin in its missing bikini shape. Her face pretty and the gold chain and tied pony tail simply adding to the picture.

"Hmmm!"

Your hat, you would not want that to get wet."

Almost angrily she pulled the hat from her head.

He took it. "It's a very fine day."

The girl waded a little and then slipped into the cool water. It was lovely, so refreshing. The girl swam with easy strokes in the calm salty water, her legs kicking. She had not swum naked before. It felt free and easy. Her movement took her a little out and then along the shore. Returning she was looking back to the man. Perhaps she expected to see him undressing or already naked ready to swim too but he was standing, as before, with his stick beside a neatly folded pile of her clothes.

The sun beat down but apart from the seagulls and the gently lapping of the water there was no sound. Clearly the girl thought there was no hurry and swam happily for quite a time.

Coming from the sea the man walked towards her carrying her hat. The water was dripping from her, her hair was wet and the chestnut curls in the vee of her sex were slicked back with the water, plastered to the skin, very clearly showing the cleft, the divide leading between her thighs. It was a pretty and erotic sight. He handed her the hat.

"I feel much better for that. Still thirsty, though. Oh, for a bottle of water."

The man smiled a thin smile and shrugged his shoulders pointing at sea,

"Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink."

"Coleridge."

"Indeed. Shall we walk?"

With his cane he lightly tapped her buttocks. A rather familiar gesture to the casual observer but perhaps he had a greater familiarity with the girl—and her bottom—than was immediately apparent.

She frowned. "My dress?"

"No need—there is no one else."

She turned, there was the dress, colourful on the sand, but a little way from her. She shrugged her shoulders.

They walked leaving the little neat pile of clothes behind. The woman naked but for a straw sun hat on her chestnut hair, the man in a cream linen suit, brogues and a panama hat. The contrast striking. Naked woman, clothed man. The girl wet from the sea, the salt from the brine forming little streaks on her skin as the sun dried it.

Behind them footsteps in the sand, the hard wet sand; the marks from the girl's feet and toes side by side with the steady prints of the man's shoes. Ahead of them the sand seemed to stretch for miles: miles under the heat of the summer sun.

The sun reflected off the sea, quite glaring in its intensity. "So bright," she said looking at the water, "such a hot day."

Harris smiled:

"The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright -

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night."

"Hardly," she said, "Such nonsense from the Walrus and the Carpenter. Can you remember it all?"

The girl talked as the man listened, him saying little just swinging his cane whilst they walked. Gradually the folded blue dress became smaller and smaller—just a pin prick of blue on the sand.

"Don't you find it hot, I mean hot in that jacket?"

"I could take it off if you like." Slipping it from him he carried it draped over one shoulder. His white shirt did not betray particular perspiration.

The girl's tongue moistened her lips, "You haven't any water—a bottle in a pocket or something?"

"I'm afraid not."

"My swim was cooling but I really need a drink—there must be something somewhere."

"A tea shop?"

"Oh, please!"

"I see nothing."

"I'm getting desperate. I don't know. I think I'll swim again. It's so hot."

A simple handing of the hat and she was walking into the sea, buttocks rising and falling as she moved. The man watched the pretty sight a little before he too began to undress leaving a second neat pile of clothes on the sand.

The woman had not noticed. Did not see the naked man walking into the water. Only noticed his absence from the shore and then saw there was a second swimmer moving with a powerful crawl along the shore.

Two dripping bodies leaving the water—clearly male and female. The woman the more clearly examining the male—after all the man had already seen the woman.

Harris picked up the hats and handed the straw one to the girl before picking up his cane.

"Do we walk back or on?" She asked.

Once again he lightly tapped her on the buttocks indicating forward. They walked naked together. A different picture.

"Last time," she said.

"A cold night."

"We..."

"You want to engage, for me to be erect?"

"No, no. Of course not."

It was noticeable though that the girl's glances kept dropping downwards, as if she could not keep her eyes of the swinging organ, as if it held a fascination. Again her tongue slipped across her lips but whether this was from a sexual excitement or simply thirst was unclear.

"If you keep looking at my penis like that it will erect."

"Sorry."

But her glances kept returning and it was not many more steps on the sand before the man's organ jerked and began to grow.

A deserted beach under the brightest of blue skies, a glorious summer's day with the sun reaching its zenith. Along the beach leaving footprints two figures walking, a woman and a man, naked but for hats against the sun. The man unexpectedly tumescent and carrying a cane. Strange fetishistic imagery.

"I, oh..." The woman stopped and the man walked on a couple of paces before he noticed her absence and turned to face her. Her eyes were on his erection.

"I... could I drink your water... I mean... I'm so thirsty."

"By all means but, alas, all gone. Whilst swimming I... it seemed opportune."

"Oh, but there is... there is the other liquid. Could I take your seminal... could I drink your cum, please? Please can I fellate... I've got to, I've simply got to! I've got to drink—something."

She was on her knees before him staring at his rigid penis. The rugged, veined shaft rising to the shiny purple head. The sun catching the knob and reflecting from it and making it gleam, the wrinkled foreskin drawn back, the bifurcation of the glans and the taut fraenum facing towards her, inches from her mouth. Strong, powerful and clearly desirable to the woman.

The woman was wetting her lips as best she could, "I've just got to."

She did not seem to wait for an answer, for permission: instead her lips opened and descended covering the head of the organ.

Her head bobbed, stimulating.

From Harris his thin smile as he stood there on the sand, the woman at work at his groin. He looked down, watching the pleasing connection she was making with his body. He could see her lips moving, slipping up and down the shaft but only he could feel what was happening within, what the movement of her cheeks signified, what suction she was giving, what her tongue was doing. He swung his cane.

The woman head came back, the connection lost. She was panting staring at the standing organ. It was now wet—there was spittle on it. It waggled a little from its release. She was staring at it.

"I never imagined a penis could look so desirable—or feel so the same!"

Her hand went up to hold the balls, lifting both erection and scrotum at the same time. "And sexy. I'm so thirsty but so turned on as well."

Her other hand went downwards beneath the chestnut curls. Harris watched her fingering herself and then bringing up her hand wet with her own sexual lubricant. The girl's tongue poked out and licked at the wet fingers trying to assuage her thirst from her own wetness. Again her fingers searched and again she licked but it was not enough—clearly not anywhere near enough.

Her attention returned to the man's stand, caught by the sudden appearance of a little bubble of creamy semen welling up at its tip.

"Oh look, look!" Her excitement palpable,

"May I, may I?" Her head moving forward to the penis. The very end of the tongue probing towards it. A sigh as she took it.

"Mmmm."

She leant back and looked up at Harris standing before her. "I want more."

And, as if in response, the penis was running: but not ejaculating. It was an overflowing, a seeping out; clear fluid slipping down the fraenulum, wetting it. Her tongue touched and she lapped at it greedily seeking the clear liquid.

"Are you coming?" There was a note of panic. "I so hope that's not it, I want more, much more!"

"No, not yet."

Her fingers were busy in her sex. Again the fingers raised to her lips but her eyes constantly on the male organ displayed so strongly in front of her face.

A lick to the fraenum seeking moisture. Her eyes looking up at the man's face high above her.

"May I take it all?"

"You may."

The plum head absorbed again by the lips; the lips sliding over the veined and rugged shaft and working it.

Harris looking away along the beach, his eyes focused on the horizon beyond the broad expanse of emptiness. Above him the seagulls calling. His thin smile on his lips.

It was a private transfer when it came. No apparent external evidence. The lips were sealed tightly around the penis, there was no spurting into an open mouth with the semen flying in the open air across a gap between knob and mouth; it was all internal, the lips forming a tight seal as the ejaculation flowed inside the girl's mouth.

The game, though, would have been given away by the look on Harris' face. Normally not one to betray great emotion, the joy of orgasm was not something he could hide—could not restrain the many, many muscles in his face displaying great pleasure. His teeth showing white. Nor was the movement of the girl's throat, a swallowing motion other than evidence of what was happening—a transfer of sexual fluid.

Her hand was holding his balls as he came, gently kneading them as if to encourage more fluid to be produced by the penis. A deep sigh came from her presumably at the moment she felt the spurting within and her lips ceased their movement—but what her tongue was doing within could not be seen.

The ejaculation seemed copious, perhaps satisfying to a thirsty girl. The lips and penis stayed unmoving for quite a time. The man standing, the woman kneeling on the sand; her hand to her sex moving; the man still, the woman shaking, seemingly with sexual excitement; an erotic tableau under the blue, blue sky. Perhaps she was actually coming, actually experiencing orgasm from the play of her own fingers.




Seasons of the Mind Ch. 02



Harris pulled slowly out, his penis sliding from the woman's mouth.

The train too came out of the tunnel into the bright sunlit station.. Holding onto a table for support with one hand, the young woman dressed in a blue summery dress with the chestnut hair neatly tied by a blue ribbon was looking flushed and startled. Her mouth was open.

"Are you OK; has the heat got to you?" A mature businessman, tie removed and in shirtsleeves sitting at the table, was looking up at her. He appeared concerned but maybe he also found her attractive, perhaps she was in need of his help. The other passengers appeared surprised.

The young woman was panting; her face having, one might almost have thought, that vacant rather startled look women have in the throes of orgasm but that was not exactly likely to be the case, not likely at all on an inter city train, standing to get off at a station. The pleasure of arriving at a destination does not normally bring such an enthusiastic reaction!

"I... oh..." and the young woman looked wide eyed at Harris before hurrying down the aisle and from the train.

"Peculiar," said the businessman to Harris, "very peculiar. Do you know her?"

Harris smiled his thin smile and slowly nodded. He did not reveal more.

Harris sat back in his seat and looked out of the window at the bustling station scene, at the young woman hurrying away. She turned and stared at him as the train started moving and gathering speed.



Seasons of the Mind Ch. 03



3. Autumn

The young woman stood and reached to pull a raincoat from the metal rack above her head. The guard had made his announcement and the train had begun to slow. Soon the train would be gliding through the darkness of the tunnel to the station waiting on the other side.

Outside the carriage windows, leaves were in the air at the end of a blustery autumn day. They swirled by the railway track as the wind caught them. The sun sweeping across the landscape in vivid patches through gaps in the clouds gave a sudden highlight to the browns, reds and golds of the trees, colours that would soon give way to bare naked branches. Already the trees were looking sparser as the wind caught and blew their branches this way and that; a wind doing its job of detaching and whirling the leaves away across the land. Overhead despite the occasional shafts of sunlight the sky had the look of rain. Umbrellas would not be proof against it when it came: the wind would turn them inside out.

Slowly the woman began to do up the buttons of her buff coloured raincoat and fasten the cloth covered buckle of the matching belt with its big brass eyelets.

Harris had been pleased to see the woman dressed sensibly for the day. A warm jumper, vee necked in a vivid rust autumnal colour almost hiding the green shirt beneath; below a green/brown mix tweed skirt hanging a little below her knees and on her feet sensible brogues—a shoe for the weather. Perhaps the woman had a walk to make from the train back to her flat or house. He watched from his seat as the girl's fingers worked the buttons.

From her pocket a green woollen hat which she carefully smoothed over her hair before turning to walk down the carriage.

Harris, further down the carriage whispered "excuse me" to the man sitting next to him, exited his seat and walked down the carriage in the direction of the woman.

Something made her pause in her step; she turned and looked back down the carriage and saw Harris. Her face betrayed recognition—she had not noticed him tucked in beside a window but she knew him now. She did not turn back. Harris smiled his thin smile in acknowledgement. She did not smile.

The train entered the tunnel.

She was not sure if it was the train's lighting dimming and failing or, instead, her own eyesight. She could hear the movement of the train's wheels, the echo from the walls of the tunnel fading. It seemed as if the train was slowing. Light, sound and movement all seemed to be going away from her as she drifted into an all enclosing blackness. It was strangely quiet.

"Where am I going?" The woman spoke but was there anyone to hear?

Inside the carriage the air had been still, not even the air conditioning really causing any movement but now she could feel a breeze as if she was no longer in the carriage but already out on the platform in the autumn weather.

The woman moved, the sound of dried leaves crackling under foot and with the sound came a brightening of light. The woman found herself not on the platform of the station, not in the town but at the edge of a small copse looking out across stone walls and fields down to a valley and mountains beyond. She could hear the wind above her and feel a little wind in her face despite the protection of the trees.

Behind her Harris, leaning on a stout walking stick; Harris immaculately dressed for the country in tweed; indeed a plus four Keepers Tweed suit with matching cap. His rust red socks adding a touch of colour to the brown of the suit and on his feet, like the woman, rubber soled brogues. A sensible shoe for walking.

The woman turned knowing Harris would be there.

"How?" she asked.

Harris smiled but did not answer.

"Another walk?"

Harris spoke. "The mountains beckon."

Beyond the copse a track could be discerned, leading both to and from the valley—both up and down the hill. The woman walked forward a few yards and stepped onto the track; she looked uphill where the path skirted along and around the copse of trees and then made its way across the field to a dry stoned wall. It was the limit of the intake, beyond it the field changed to moor and mountain. The mountain rose up stark above them, a break in the cloud racing across the field passed over Harris and the woman and carried on up the mountain showing its full glory for a moment or two.

"This way?"

Harris smiled.

The woman looked the other way down into the valley for a moment and then set off uphill with Harris following, the wind catching at her raincoat.

"I'm not interested you know."

They had reached the stone wall.

"Not interested in sex, not today, not one little bit. It's been a rotten day and I am tired and was looking forward to going home, a cup of tea and just sitting down. And now here—wherever here is—I am." There was a pause, " I'm not thirsty either."

The allusion was not lost on Harris.

"Come, the walk will refresh you, raise your spirits. The higher we climb, well, the better it'll be."

The woman raised her right leg and put the brogue on the stone step of the stile. A neat ankle in a brown cotton sock showed above the well polished tan of the full brogue. She lifted herself up before raising her leg again to get over to the other side of the stile.

There is nothing at all wrong with a skirt for walking if it is loose enough. Better perhaps than trousers in many ways. It allows more freedom of movement to the lower limbs jsut when you need to stretch. The woman's tweed skirt was sensible and proof against the wind. What her climb upon the stile did reveal, the act of raising her leg causing the skirt material to slide a little up her leg, was her shapely knee poking out from under skirt and raincoat. A bare knee moreover and start of thigh above. She was not, as clearly evidenced, wearing tights but long brown socks reaching just below her knee, neatly turned on down on themselves. leaving her upper leg bare.

Perhaps she did not have to look to know Harris would be looking at her leg—her leg above the sock. It was inevitable, it was what men did. An explanation came. "I didn't bother with tights today, not in this skirt."

The tap of the metal ferrule of the walking stick on stone as Harris came over the stile. He followed her as she strode onwards along the clear path between the heather, a twisting path rising steadily towards the mountain.

Over the wall the wind seemed to fall away, the flank of the mountain at that point sheltering. In the distance another wall with gate or stile—it was too far to discern. As the woman walked she unbuckled and then undid her raincoat. Half way to the wall she took it off.

"Warm work despite the weather." The sun was shining through the clouds at that moment and, being out of the wind, it was pleasant even quite warm. It was obvious it would not last. There was still a light breeze

"May I carry?"

"Why not. You brought me here." The woman looked around her and handed her raincoat to Harris.

"I do feel better, you know; I think I do, after all, have the energy to climb your mountain!"

A first smile from the woman.

She strode off. By the time Harris reached the wall she was already up on the stile, brogues planted firmly, standing astride the stone and looking back towards the distant copse and then up towards the mountain.

"Magnificent scenery. Where are we? The Lakes?"

Harris smiled, said nothing but looked at the woman. She looked fine standing there, her chin well up, her eyes scanning the horizon, her chestnut hair captured in her hat but still visible and being moved by the light breeze, her trim body standing with poise, her breasts pushing at the rust coloured jumper giving it a fine womanly swell, the roundness of her hips within her tweed skirt both pleasing and suggesting fecundity, below that her brown cotton clad calves and shiny tan brogues planted on the stone. A vision of healthy, young, country womanhood. It was not that she was unfashionable in her clothes but it could so equally have been a picture of walking in the 1930s, an advertisement for the country air, perhaps by a railway company. Her hair, though, was a little long for the time—an anachronism.

"Right then, on?" And she was off again. Another stretch of moorland but rising. A dip down and a beck to be crossed. In the dip of the land the movement of air was completely stilled, it was actually quite hot. The woman paused looking at the gill and on to where, a little way below, it dropped into a small pool.

"In the summer you could bathe in that and sit on the rocks in the sunshine and dry."

"Would you like to?"

"Not today—too cold and it's not just the water; and I am not taking my clothes off for you—it's not the beach! And I don't..." She did not finish her sentence. But a frown came to her face.

"A pity, I'd imagine you as a nymph, an Oread, a mountain water nymph bathing or perhaps sitting on a rock."

"And you as a satyr with your..." She shook her head and walked on, climbing higher, Harris following.

One last stile and then the path ahead rose more steeply, a steeper path climbing the now rocky flank of the mountain. Again the woman was first onto the stile, climbing onto it with her knee once more showing; but, rather than climbing over it, she rested not sitting facing forwards or back but astride its top, a narrow blade of stone.

"Oh, that's a bit cold!" She raised herself up a little but then, once more, settled down, her skirt a little rucked up, her bare knees open to the air.

"It's you isn't it? It is you! I wasn't before; not at all; it is you! How do you...?"

An apparently puzzled look on Harris face as he looked up at the girl seated astride the stile, seated as if on horseback, the stone between her legs.

"Oh, you know. I know you know! You said, I remember it, you said as we climb higher my spirits would rise. I had not realised what you meant by my spirits: that you meant my, my arousal."

She was rubbing herself, clearly rubbing herself on the stone of the stile.

"I thought it was nothing, an itch at first but it's not, is it? Not at all. What are you doing to me?" She looked up beyond the wall to the mountain. "It'll be cold, too cold. What have you up there? A refuge, a hut, a bothy?"

Harris shook his head, "there's just the mountain."

"Too cold, it's sheltered here but you can see that it's not further on. Too cold and how did you know, how did you know?"

Harris still looked quizzical.

"How did you know I would not be wearing panties, how could you know, how could you know?"

She was still moving, rubbing herself on the stone, clearly rubbing herself intimately.

Understanding seemed to dawn on Harris' face but he said nothing.

"On up then?" She asked.

Harris nodded.

With apparent reluctance the girl stood, one foot still on each side of the stile, the blade of the stone rising up between her knees, a hand on stone for balance and a leg swung over revealing a little more thigh to Harris. She walked on.

Harris followed her up onto the stile, his hands helping himself up as his feet climbed the steps. At the top he paused and watched the woman ahead making her way up the steep rocky path; already she was well above him. He looked down; the smooth blade of stone forming the summit of the stile, full two feet in height, an obstacle to step over, showed a small wet patch. It might shortly be washed away by rain but for the moment the cold inanimate stone had felt the hot, wet caress of a woman's sex. Again Harris' thin smile came, he paused for a moment looking at the moistened stone before he too stepped over the stile and followed the woman up the mountain.

A corner turned and the wind returned. It had been gentle across the moor but as the path wound its way between rocks, turned and ventured up a gully the wind came strong, blowing over the mountain and down towards them. The woman's hat came off letting her chestnut hair fly free and stream behind her. She turned but Harris had already stooped and caught the errant clothing as it rolled down the path towards him.

"Oh, good: thought I might well have lost it." Harris handed it to her and she jammed it back on, "and my coat, I think."

The unfolded coat flapped and seemed to be trying to escape and make its own way back down the mountain and across the valley by air. It did not succeed. Buttoned and belted once more the woman stepped back onto the path to battle with the wind.

It was a sharp climb upwards, foot in front of foot, the occasional hand having to be used and still the wind rushed down upon them. If they had thought the wind strong there, it was nothing to the gusts as they reached the col. Harris pointed to the left and they made their way across a smooth grassy slope falling away on either side towards a further ascent.

One gust pushed the woman over. One moment striding purposefully, the next on her back on the grass, coat and skirt blown upwards and much thigh revealed showing white above her long brown socks. Momentarily shaken, she lay there before Harris reached and pulled her up by the hand again.

The woman stood, bracing herself against the wind and nodded her thanks.

Harris raised his walking stick in the air and shook it:

"Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!

You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,

Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world!

Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once,

That make ingrateful man!"

Had Harris a long white beard and hair streaming in the wind, with rags blowing about him he might have made a passable Lear but his voice was certainly strong above the noise of the wind and his declamation sound.

The woman came close and shouted "King Lear," in his ear before they moved forward hand in hand, battling the wind, across the ground.

As suddenly as it had begun the wind dropped. Their journey forwards took them up beside a spur of shielding rock. They had reached the shelter of the next stage of the ascent; once more the mountain sheltering them from the strength of the wind.

Harris swung his walking stick forward and, pushing at it with his hand, made to walk on.

"Does that help?"

He looked at the stick.

"This?"

"Yes."

"It would help you. You can borrow..."

"No, I'm all right. I just wondered."

"You can try it later."

The path was rocky and they had to clamber. The girl ahead of him, her hands reaching, her brown cotton clad calves pushing.

The girl rested and Harris came up beside her.

"Are you finding it hard?" Harris asked.

The woman looked at him sideways and down to his trousers.

"Are you?"

Harris' thin smile. "Not yet."

"But it's far too chilly."

"Perhaps." He was saying nothing more it seemed.

"I'm fine walking—climbing, only..."

Harris' eyebrow rose, "Only what?"

"It's, it's; I'm dripping, it's running down my thighs."

The woman raised her tweed skirt, opening her coat and legs: there, close to her knees, a little rivulet was running down. An intimate revelation.

"You said it. The higher I climb. Despite the exertion, despite the chilling wind...I've got to. I've simply got to fuck. There's no doubt. I've got to do something. Would you, could you, please?"

"Not yet."

"How do you... I mean, everything I see reminds me... look, look at this."

Her hand reached and touched a jagged piece of rock. "It just makes me think of a hard, erect penis. Look at it, hard, pointing—right so far—but sharp, cutting sharp; no use at all. Why can't the rock be smooth? Why couldn't this rock be beautifully smooth, shaped like a beautifully curving man's erection so I could just get up on it, push at it and fuck like there was no tomorrow. Big though! Fuck, I want something hard in me. Fuck the mountain. The mountain—it's just so fucking male rising up and up like it does. Strong, hard, thrusting upwards. I want to fuck so much. What have you done to me? I mean, I just don't talk like this—normally."

"The smooth rock would be cold. Too cold surely?"

"I'm so hot I wouldn't notice. Didn't notice the stile... well not much. I'd warm it all right!"

"We should climb further."

"Must we? My thighs are sliding together as I walk, I've never been so wet... not like this not running with... touch me, please touch me. Why won't you get your cock out? Fuck me, make me come, please!"

Her hand was still holding the shard of rock.

"We haven't reached the top. Come." His hand reached and held hers. She seemed to shudder at the touch but not with revulsion, seemingly quite the opposite. The touch of a man.

Up they climbed, it was steady work, the man pulling the girl behind him.

Another turn and the mountain fell away from them on one side only to rise a little way off to a pinnacle of rock, a soaring needle of rock. Possibly climbable but only with considerable rock climbing gear: carabiners, pitons, belay devices, harnesses and ropes. It rose vertically upwards, a massive pillar of rock. The sun chose that moment to break through the clouds bathing the pinnacle in golden light. The woman stood as if transfixed.

She began to laugh, almost with a touch of hysteria, "Look, the mountain's got an erection, a fucking enormous, rock hard erection." She backed into Harris, her bottom moving against him—rather more than suggestive—rubbing hard.

"Please, please just lift my skirt. You know I've no panties. Go on, just stick it in and fuck. Take me, please." She was pushing against the hardness in his trousers. "I can feel the fucking thing—I know it's there!"

"Not yet. We must climb further. Patience." Harris tapped his walking stick.

"Fuck you."

She stomped off on up the track and then all of a sudden bent and picked something up. "Look!" Her excitement palpable.

The stone in her hand was not like the others underfoot, not rough or jagged but smooth and polished. Perhaps a man made tool for some Stone-age man or woman's unknown purpose. Some four or five inches long, rounded at both ends. The girl was stroking it with evident excitement, "Look, a little erection—all for me!" Her fingers were holding it, stroking it just like she might the real thing.

"A bit small."

"Better than fucking nothing since you aren't prepared to get your cock out." She got crafty. "Why don't you let me compare."

"Not yet."

She pouted and reached under her skirt. It was obvious, obvious as anything what she was going to do. The sudden concentration on her face, a wince when she touched something interesting with the stone and then the wide open eyes indicating Stone-age man's tool was entering her body. Her mouth dropped open and she was shuddering. Her thighs clamped tightly together evidently holding it.

"Cold? Is it cold?" asked Harris.

"Fucking cold but I'm so hot and it feels... at last something there, something substantial, something hard, something in me. I want a man, I want a penis!" It was almost a wail. "If only you would..."

Harris tapped his walking stick on the ground.

They walked on. The stone was not left behind them.

A hard climb faced them pulling with hands at times and, with the wind returned, it was not easy but then the path eased as it wound back into the lee of the mountain.

The woman sat down on a rock, panting a little from the exertion, her faced flushed but whether that was from the climbing or her arousal—or both was difficult to know. She spread her knees within her skirt and raincoat and reached inside. It was obvious from her movement that she had grasped the stone and was moving it inside her—in and out, in and out. "Oh, oh, oh that's nice. Why can't I come, why can't I come?"




Seasons of the Mind Ch. 03



All of a sudden her hand came out with the stone and she held it up to Harris.

"Look how wet it is. Doesn't that excite you, don't you want to get in me in its stead."

The stone was shiny with moisture—actually dripping.

"Go on, feel how wet it is from me, how warm it is. My thighs are wide open to you, come on, please. Lay on me, stick your cock in me. Now! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

Harris took the stone and looked at it and then tapped his stick.

"No."

"That fucking stick—give the thing to me." She grabbed and then, "Oh, oh fuck, why didn't you say?"

The walking stick held in Harris' hand the whole time suddenly revealed its secret. Sturdy and long, black and polished with a silver ferrule at the end—the ferrule that had so annoyed the woman with its tap, tap, tap on the ground—but now she could see its handle, its head, all the time hidden in Harris hand, revealed to her.

Most beautifully carved, warm to the touch and polished by Harris' hand; perhaps fashioned in ebony wood—the woodcarver had taken the most exquisite care in his work—the handle, the end to be held in the hand, was not simply smoothly rounded but had been carved into the facsimile of a penis—a large black, erect penis. Every detail was perfect, the roll of the retracted foreskin, the thin, so thin fraenum, the veins to the shaft winding down and around until fading into a smooth, round, slightly tapering rod as it made its way down to the ferrule; the bulbous head—and 'bulbous' was certainly the word—so polished and smooth; bifurcated of course to one side and at its very tip the opening carved not closed but open as if in the act of expelling semen.

The girl was fingering the end, stroking the shaft—masturbating it with a look of fascinated concentration.

"It's so beautiful," she said as her fingers ran lightly up the shaft to the head, "and so big."

"I said you were welcome to borrow."

He had indeed—and she had missed the real import of the offer.

"May I?"

The girl grasped the stick half way down and inserted the rounded end under her skirt. Her eyes closed. "Oh, oh yes. Not that little boy's cock, that stone, but a real man's, a big man's. I've not before... oh... not with..."

What the 'with' was, she did not say. The girl cried out and shuddered as her hand pushed the handle of the walking stick to her. It was evidently going in.

"Fuck, that's big! Bigger than..."

She was breathing heavily and began moving the stick backwards and forwards pleasuring herself as Harris stood and watched.

"So firm, no give and the carving—I can feel..."

After a time she let go and lent backwards, hands behind her on the rock, thighs wide spread in her skirt and sticking out of her skirt the black walking stick, not resting on the ground but held up in the air—held up by being lodged intimately, the silver ferrule high in the air.

She looked at Harris. "Would you, please?"

This time Harris seemed to relent, he dropped the stone in his pocket and took hold of his walking stick and gently moved it to and fro. He could not see what he was doing, was working it by feel but he was clearly doing the right thing. The woman lent further backwards and surrendered herself to the pleasure of it. The big black penis pushing at her, being worked to and fro, in and out. Her legs were wide.

"I might just come, I might just come, I might just..."

But it seemed not.

"It's no good, no good, I can't get there but I'm on the edge. So close, so fucking close."

Harris withdrew the stick, pulled it from her skirt. The end was now not just polished but wet. His hand closed over the wet end hiding the detailed carving, he tapped the ferrule on the ground and gave his thin smile.

"Very well." The girl got up but quickly took the stick from him and walked on tapping it on the ground, pulling herself forward with it but very clearly also fondling the head. Her hand and fingers were not still upon it.

Again the wind, harsh and unrelenting for a time.

A crevice in the rock, the path leading into it, a narrow passage onwards, a passage barely wide enough for a body to pass. The wind stilled completely once inside it; above them the clouds moving.

The girl turned to Harris—not an easy movement in the narrow space. "This is nice, intimate even. We could..."

Her fingers reached to Harris' fly. One by one the buttons in the tweed trousers were undone. He stood unmoving, permitting her. The woman's hand slipped inside, feeling. She looked up at Harris' face and a smile came to her face.

"Oh good, I was worried perhaps..."

From the fly she extracted Harris' penis. It was fully erect, the knob swollen. She pulled and more of it slipped through the material of his fly.

"At last, the real thing. Oh it's so, so lovely. Look at it so strong, so hard, so smooth, so fucking wonderful—so male. I don't talk like this—normally—but I just want to fuck." Her hand was pulling, moving the erection, stroking it just like she had been stroking the walking stick.

"Not yet."

"Why, why, why—just a bit, please. Just a little in me."

"You won't come, not until we are on the summit."

"Oh, but a little bit of a fuck won't hurt."

Slowly he shook his head. She was reluctant to let go.

She walked on, Harris following, his erection projecting from his trousers where she had left it. Further on there was scrambling but always upwards, a narrow path within the fissure.

Co-incidence perhaps, but as they came out of the surprising long crevice back into the wind it faltered and died. Ahead of them just a little above them the final rise, just a mounding of stone and no more. The girl raced ahead, stick tapping on the rock. Harris followed a little more leisurely in his still immaculate tweed suit, rust coloured socks, tan brogues and casual erection.

The girl had sat down right on the peak and facing away from the approaching Harris. There was no cairn, just a final rise of the hard rock of the mountain. She was gazing out and around her, looking to the other mountains and the valleys and streams below. Far below a force cascaded, white and sparkling, falling perhaps a hundred feet. Her legs spread in her skirt, the black ebony penis once more working inside her—she had not waited to use it again.

She turned and looked at Harris and as she watched the sun came through a break in the clouds bathing the mountain top in light. A smile came to her face—perhaps it was the incongruity of seeing Harris climbing upwards towards her with his erection exposed. Perhaps it was in simply seeing it—it had not been put away.

As Harris came up to her she reached and held the erection. With the woman seated on the mountain's top and Harris standing a little lower his erection stood level with her face. Had she been minded all she would have needed to do was to have lent forward a bit and she could have taken it into her mouth.

"It's lovely," she said staring at the smooth bulb at the end of Harris's erection.

"A fine view from here," said Harris looking around, "very fine."

"Mmmm, yes." But her eyes did not leave the erection, "very fine."

Beneath her skirt the walking stick was moving steadily faster.

"Look at the waterfall, the force down there." Harris exclaimed. pointing.

The girl was gasping, clearly sexually excited beyond normal. Both her hands were moving, one moving the stick, the other Harris' erection—firm regular strokes sliding his foreskin back and forth as she gazed at it, seemingly fascinated.

"Look at the force!"

She glanced down towards the force cascading onto the rocks below, a great torrent of white foam. "Yes, yes beautiful." She did not seem greatly interested in it. "But all it reminds me of is a great big ejaculation—all that whiteness splashing." Her eyes flicked back to the erection standing before her. "I'm so worked up. I've just got to come. Please, please fuck me, please..." Her hand was working the stick, the black ebony hardness within her. "Oh, yes, yes I think..."

The look on her face, the rapid movement beneath her skirt, the rapid thrusting of the walking stick at herself, the big, black ebony head pushing at her, all indicated imminent orgasm. A look of blissful relief on her face.

Harris looked back from the waterfall and the mountains to her and at her hand really pumping his penis hard in front of her face. Her pretty face with its screwed up eyes and look of complete happiness. It was such a pretty, little face. A thin smile came to his face.

And then it happened. There was to be no fuck. Harris did not say a word. The eye of Harris' penis opened and, like the force across the valley, it too cascaded a torrent of white foam, spurting, splashing out and falling right onto the girl. Her eyes opened wide in surprise as she felt it hot on her face; lost in her own orgasm, her hand did not falter but her mouth opened. The orgasm so long sought, a release steadily building as she had climbed up and up, a peak at long last reached and so long desired had come.

The onslaught of semen splashing onto her face slowed and stopped—there was no more to come. So very different from the ever flowing force.

No more semen to be released, nothing more to come out but from the tunnel came the train, out into the bright, momentarily sunlit station. Holding onto a table for support with one hand, a young woman dressed in a tightly belted raincoat with a green hat on her hair was looking flushed and very startled. She was unmoving, seemingly rooted to the spot, yet she was shaking and breathing hard as if something had taken her unawares. Her eyes were wide and her mouth open.

A mature businesswoman in a black trouser suit looked up, "Is anything wrong?" But she frowned. What had the young woman got on her face?

A businessman, grey and balding, neatly dressed with yellow tie and handkerchief in his top pocket stood, "Can I help?" His voice betraying concern but he too was frowning. The young lady was pretty but what was that all over her face? It looked like... he had seen pictures.

"I, oh..." he said aloud as the young woman's pink tongue slipped out and licked what looked like... from the corner of her mouth.

That seemed to galvanise the young woman into action. She looked wide eyed at Harris, "It, it's real!" Her only words before she fled from the train scrabbling in her handbag for a handkerchief, a tissue.

"That was... I... what was real?" the businessman looked up at Harris.

Harris smiled his thin smile and shrugged his shoulders. He did not say more.

Harris settled back in a seat and looked out of the window towards the bustling station scene, at the young woman hurrying away. She turned, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief and staring at him as the train started moving and gathering speed.



Seasons of the Mind Ch. 04



4. Spring

The young woman stood and reached for the rush bag on the rack above her head. Her stretching lifted the cotton skirt a little further above her knee. Across the way a businessman shot a surreptitious glance, no doubt admiring the young woman's trim figure and that extra glimpse of leg. A few moments before, the guard had announced the train's imminent arrival at the next 'station stop' and it had begun to slow. Soon the train would be gliding through the darkness of the tunnel to the station waiting on the other side.

Outside the carriage windows the landscape had the fresh, bright green look of a spring day. Everything so new, lush and brilliant; there was an especially vividness, a vitality even, to the grass and the leaves of the trees newly unfurled and perfect. Not at all that first spring day, that harbinger, about which Christina Rossetti had pondered:

"I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,

If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,

If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun,

And crocus fires are kindling one by one."

That was well past, the season was advanced, the daffodil flowers had come and gone and their seed pods were swelling: but it was still very much spring. Not yet the dry summer heat turning the grass to golden brown and ripening the crops—no, this was spring, the time of new life and with all the promise of a fresh start.

The woman swung the strap of the bag over her shoulder and looked up the carriage. To the businessman it was immediately obvious she had then seen someone she knew. These things are not always easy to put into words, perhaps it was the way the swing of her movement stopped, perhaps it was a slight change in the muscles of her face or else the fixity of the stare of her eyes — but he knew.

Harris had been pleased to see the cotton skirt; such a cornflower blue with white flowers all over and with a matching cotton covered belt. Her blouse was white linen, generously cut with long sleeves, a short, darker blue jacket was slipped on over the blouse. Her hair, her long chestnut hair was caught with and tied with a blue bangle. On her feet white trainers. Sensible clothing for a warm spring day.

Harris stood, as the cutting drew in around the train just before the mouth of the tunnel, as the train rocked a little from side to side: perhaps he was getting ready to alight at the station, perhaps to seek a cup of tea from the buffet, perhaps to greet the woman, perhaps...

The train entered the tunnel.

The light faded as they left the bright light of the spring day behind them and the train slid into the gloom of the tunnel Outside the world had its seasons, the snow came, the sun shone, the wind blew, but in the tunnel all was the same, season on season. A steady temperature in the darkness, a deep quiet except when the trains passed through. As the light went the train seemed to lose way, gently slowing within the tunnel until it came to rest in its depths. All was quiet—it was as if the train had never been.

The woman said nothing as if she was waiting, waiting perhaps for the train to come out of the tunnel but the end seemed to be getting no closer: if anything the station seemed further away and instead of the train she felt as if she was outside, perhaps at the other side of the tunnel from the station, perhaps elsewhere.

From the silence came sound, the sound of birdsong. Chirrups, cheeps and beautiful singing; many, many birds in full song. And with the song came the light.

The woman was still looking towards Harris. The man, standing dressed in a dark blue blazer complete with brass buttons and light brown twill trousers, leaning on a cane, returned the gaze. In his top pocket a handkerchief blossomed matching the colour of her skirt.

"Oh," she said, "oh."

The woman looked around her, at the fresh green meadow, at the rich grass beneath her feet, at the green hedges showing white with May blossom, at distant mountains and up at the blue sky. A beautiful spring day. The grass so green, everything so green. Later in the summer there would still be green in the fields and meadows but it would not have that fresh new look of the spring. Spring, a time of newness, of budding leaves and flowers, of new life as the world shook off winter, woke from dormancy and revealed itself anew.

A sigh. "I thought... it matters not what I thought. So, not a walk in the mountains? Not close enough?"

"No," said Harris, "too far."

Behind her, she heard a deep lowing and turning she saw a herd of white cattle coming towards them.

"Oh," she said again.

"Inquisitive as always," commented Harris

The cattle were close, their eyes watching big, brown and blinking, their sweet breath coming.

"There's a lot of them." Clearly she felt a little crowded. The cattle were actually close enough to touch.

"There's not a bull is there?"

"Not a danger when there's cows about: only on their own."

"I don't like the idea even so... they are so big and..." It was another 'oh.'

Coming across the field, no doubt to check on his females—his considerable harem—was a truly magnificent white bull. So much bigger than the cows and complete with that which clearly sets the bull apart from the cows—a ring through its nose. That and, rather than udders, an enormous pair of balls swinging beneath him. There was no missing this was the male of the species.

"Can we...?"

They walked across the field followed by the herd and climbed a wooden stile in the hedge. Harris offering his hand to help the woman up. There was no hesitation in her taking it and he watched as she placed first one trainer and then another on the stile and swung her cotton covered leg over the stone.

Another field, another lush field of grass. They started walking across, heading towards another hedge at the other side.

"It's a very fine day," said Harris.

The woman looked up at the almost perfect blue of the sky. "It is very warm for spring."

She turned. Behind them the cows had lost interest in the visitors to their field and returned to tearing at the grass. Not so the bull. It was taking a proprietorial interest in one of the cows. Not only were its bollocks now obvious but its pizzle as well. Up it reared onto the cow's back. A massive animal in comparison.

"It is the spring," said Harris commenting on the scene..

"Ah," said the woman. "A time for intercourse, sexual intercourse."

Harris nodded.

The woman had understood.

Above them birds were chasing each other, swooping here and there in pairs and gaily painted butterflies flitted around each other. Ahead of them rabbits were popping in and out of rabbit holes, their bob tails dancing.

Harris smiled his thin smile.

The woman asked, "Shall I ready myself now?"

"All in its time. Come, let us walk."

Another stile, another field but with trees on the other side.

Trees overhanging a flowing stream. They stood together watching the sparkling water as it made its way downstream.

"Look!" In the water fishes swimming, their scales flashing in the sunshine, clearly visible against the gravel and stone bottom. The water so very clear, so very fresh; the fish so very active. Perhaps the water was newly oxygenated from tumbling down waterfalls—perhaps a force high in the mountains.

"Trout," said Harris.

They followed the stream as it wound through the fields, the path along the bank clear.

"Stream or river?"

"Large stream or small river—when does one become the other?"

A widening into a pool, the water flowing slower as it crossed the greater body of water. By the water's edge horses drinking. A stallion and a mare. They looked up and trotted towards Harris and the woman.

Harris stroked their long necks as he stood between them, the woman held back.

"I'm a little nervous of animals."

"Come," Harris took her by the hand. "Like this."

They stood with the horses for a time stroking the coarse hair of their coats before, evidently satisfied, the horses turned and moved back across the field.

As they watched the stallion's penis grew, grew to a remarkable length and size—perhaps not in relation to the animal but big nonetheless—and then a little ungainly he was up on the mare's back, his big black penis disappearing into the animal. It was not a prolonged intercourse. A matter of not many seconds before their interest in grass was resumed.

"A big lad," said the woman, "it's certainly spring."

There was a noise, a squealing in the hedge.

"What's that."

"Hedgehogs copulating I should think."

"Carefully?"

"So I should imagine!"

The squeals did not cease. They stood listening, trying to see but whilst the sounds continued unabated and there was rustling in the hedgerow, there was not so much as sight of a prickle.

"Not like the horses or cows."

"No, rather more prolonged."

"Like people."

Again Harris' smile, "Sometimes!"

The girl smiled back, "Some men..."

Harris raised an eyebrow.

"Women like to take it slowly but some men...."

Harris nodded.

"Some men..."

Another pool, a dip down from the bank to the crystal clear water. Around the pool, trees hung their branches fresh in their spring finery. A perfect scene, easy to imagine it as a scene a painter would wish to paint, sitting on a stool with his or her easel; though perhaps in need of something in the foreground to give interest, a focal point; what could that be? Might it be a haywain or perhaps a naked girl?

"It looks lovely." They stepped down to the water and looked out across the pool. One fish and then another leapt and splashed back again. "Truly a magical place."

The woman crouched, her cotton skirt flowing about her to the ground and touched the water. "Soft, lovely soft water... not exactly warm but just so perfect; I've got to, simply got to..."

"Swim?"

"Such a perfect, wonderful place. Don't look."

Harris turned and climbed up and back up the bank and sat staring out over the field with his back to the stream, hands resting on his cane. Behind him the rustle of clothing, the sound of a woman undressing. The sound of a foot, one, then perhaps a second in the water.

"Oh, it is cold—no, don't look, let me get in. I can do it. I can."

Quiet, just the sound of the bees and the birds calling, then a splash and the sound of gasping. Clearly the woman had adopted the 'all at once' approach to getting into cold water—a plunge to get it over with.

"Oh, oh, wonderful—really."

Harris turned and there was the naked woman, a girl really, swimming away from him across the pool. The clear water revealing the grace of her limbs moving, her pink bottom showing naked and round. A naked girl swimming in the open countryside—a delightful thing to discover and see. Harris got to his feet and came back down to the water's edge and sat by the neat pile of clothes and watched. The girl turned and swam back.

Still under the water, giving some degree of modesty, even if the water was very clear, she spoke. "Certainly bracing; but the water is just so soft. Are you coming in?"

All at once she rose. The water falling from her in shiny droplets as she surged upwards, the water cascading from her breasts and she stood with the sun shining full on her, a naked woman. Her full hips with their vee of chestnut hair slicked by the water, her full breasts with pointing nipples. The painter would have been pleased.

"A naiad rising from the waters," said Harris.

"Naiad?"

"Water nymph."

"Are you joining me?"

"In the water?"

Harris stood and removed his blazer.

The woman smiled, turned and swam again.

A second neat pile of clothes building. The woman stopped her swimming and watched. It seemed it was one rule for the male: quite another for the female. She could watch. She stood; once more the water falling from her.

Harris, in just his trousers, looked at her. A fine young woman, her pale winter skin shining wet in the sunlight, her good limbs and full breasts showing. Her hair, above and below, wet with the water, wonderful chestnut coloured hair: though intriguingly a little darker below. That it was cold was clear from her hard, hard nipples standing up from her breasts; hard points on the softness of her breasts.

It was not the cold that made the man's penis stand. Slowly Harris undid his belt and began to pull down trousers and pants; Harris smiled his thin smile—almost apologetic—and there, like the bull, like the stallion, springing up as it was released was the male rampant. From his thighs his strong erection curved upwards; the soft covering of skin fully rolled back and the helmet shape of his knob fully revealed in the sunlight. The male organ readied for sexual intercourse.

The woman smiled. "It must be spring," she said, "your thoughts are revealed!" She did not turn away.

"In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love."

"I know the phrase but the poem..."

"Alfred Lord Tennyson."

"Ah, yes, of course Tennyson, but thoughts of love? Come, come, it is not that at all!" One knee went a little forward, that feminine pose of mixed modesty and sexuality.

Harris stepped forward, a foot in the water, his erection swaying before him. The woman watched as he waded forward, coming closer until he was right up to her—just a penis between them. Again she looked down, down at Harris' erection, his knob almost but not quite poking into her chestnut curls. The painter might have found himself adding a rather unusual subject to his painting especially if the putative intercourse proceeded which, to an observer, must have appeared more than a little likely.

"Swimming will cool your lover's ardour."

"For a time."

"For a time."

An agreement had been reached. The woman had accepted the inevitability of the situation. The man's penis would enter her body, the semen would be released: but not yet.

Without touching her, Harris turned and waded deeper before leaning forward into the water and swimming; his pink bottom now showing in the water. The girl too lent forward and slipped back into the water. Limbs moving regularly, two bottoms moving across the pool, two naked bodies showing through the crystal clear water.

Lovely to swim, lovely to swim wild and naked in such a beautiful place and in such perfectly pure, clean water. It was cold: it was not high summer and with a certain inevitability there came a time when the water was just too cold to stay, when the goose pimples were coming to the women's shoulders and more. Wading again for the shore, Harris watched the rise and fall of her bottom cheeks, the pleasing and graceful back view of the woman. She turned and began to laugh as Harris too waded out. The cold water may well have made her nipples hard and pointing but whereas they were erect: Harris was anything but...

Laughing, she pointed, "Where has it gone?"

Where indeed! No longer stallion like with his proud erection, his plum sitting proudly on its strong curving stalk and shining in the sun: instead a little shrivelled thing, the knob quite hidden in layers of protecting folds, the testes that before had hung so free and swung like the bull were now drawn up tight and raison like. Not at all the man he was!

"A young man's fancy might turn in the springtime to thoughts of love but is it not more," a giggle, "'O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art though Romeo!' Oh dear, oh dear—all gone!"

Her hand reached and held; all of it in her hand. There was not much of it. "Poor little thing, so cold, so shrunken."

But it must have liked her hand. There was a stirring, a growing and the little male thing lifted off her hand, the warm blood pumping with some difficulty making the head grow and fill, the business end peaking a little out of its covering. But the erection was nothing like the previous proud stand; the head certainly filled with blood, full and rounded in its acorn shape but the shaft, though lengthening, did not fill out—it was too cold for a proper erection—capable enough but oddly formed with the big helmet standing on an unusually narrow stalk and below the balls as tight as tight could be against his body making Harris look as if he had been gelded.

The woman laughed again as she stared at the penis and then, looking up at Harris's face, she smiled, "Not really up to the job at present!" Crouching she took the bulbous glans into her mouth—just the head.

Harris sighed and for a time the two were motionless. Harris standing, the woman crouching and her lips wrapped around the end of his penis, all the thin shaft visible but the head hidden. Externally there was no movement but only the two of them knew whether her tongue was also still.

"Cold," she said, "so cold in my mouth. It would be too cold in my..." Standing, she reached for her clothes.

Harris looked down at himself, "Perhaps... Come, that was a lovely swim but we are both cold. It is still a sunny day. Let's run and warm up." He took her hand leading her away from the piles of clothes. Away from modesty.

Naked, hand in hand, they ran together across the green grass of the open field; Harris' misshapen penis bounding and the girl's breasts bouncing. A joyous, exuberant running, the girl laughing at it all but the exercise not short or half hearted: on the contrary, it was long and vigorous making the muscles really work and, of course, the sun and the generated heat together all the time drying their wet skin and warming them.

Finally separating, the girl made to step up and over a stile. Legs parted as she stepped over the smooth stone, the top grazed her exposed sex, a light touch but enough to make her wince with pleasure. "Ooh, that's nice!"

A little rubbing, a little sexual stimulation, and then she was over and looking back at Harris, her eyes significantly focused down at his once more flaccid penis. "I seem to have a thing for stone stiles! Catch me if you can!" And she was off running across the next field, hand cupping her breasts to stop them bounding.

Harris stepped up and looked down. Just as on the mountains, the stone of the stile was wet—wet from a woman. His thin smile came and there was a stirring in his loin as once more his thoughts betrayed him. But there was no one to see. Ahead of him the running woman, her buttocks moving, the cheeks rising and falling—an erotic sight. At the top of the stile Harris stood for a moment seeming to relish his tumescent exposure to the fresh spring day, a world seemingly obsessed on that day with the act of procreation. Harris reached with his hand and gently retracted his foreskin—a symbolic gesture—and then he was running, running naked after the girl.

He was the faster runner. Not the Rugby tackle when he caught her but a firm smack to the bottom.

She turned, laughing and he picked her up in his arms, one arm under her back, the other under her thighs. She kicked a little as if trying to get away but she was laughing.

Around them the bees in flight hopping from flower to flower collecting their nectar. A warm sound for a warm day. A continuous insect hum all around. And there were many, many flowers in the field, yellows, blues, whites: buttercups, cornflowers and daisies. The usual flowers to be expected, but also bird's-foot trefoil, meadow vetchling, common cat's-ear, yellow rattle, meadow saxifrage, common twayblade, oxeye daisy and common knapweed. A growing field of hay where the cattle did not come. Rich growing grass to be cut and dried for winter forage.

"It's all so lovely, the birds, the flowers—Spring is such a lovely time of the year." The girl spoke resting in Harris' arms, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"Came the Spring with all its splendour,

All its birds and all its blossoms,

All its flowers, and leaves, and grasses."




Seasons of the Mind Ch. 04



"I don't know that one."

"That's Longfellow—The Song of Hiawatha."

Harris put her down but his penis was betraying him again. Almost an erection. They walked.

In places the field undulated and dipped—not a simple flat meadow—and there were also oaks giving shade.

"What a place for a picnic," the woman cried dropping down into a perfectly round and deep indentation, the meadow seamlessly flowing down into it. "Why, it's a veritable sun trap and," she flopped down at its bottom, "you can neither see in nor out—what a place for lovers."

It was clear that as soon as she said it she realised just what she had said.

"Oh, I did not mean."

"It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

That o'er the green corn-field did pass,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring."

"'Hey nonino'—whatever that means—must be Shakespeare," she said.

"It must indeed!"

"There's never anyone else. There's evidence of people, yes—a cottage, a candle..." There was a pause. "... goose fat even—I cannot forget that—a path to the wonderful sea or into the high mountains, stone walls, fields, cattle, horses—but never anyone else. Why?"

Harris smiled his thin smile but said nothing.

"Why?" She repeated looking up at him. A naked man standing above her.

"Do you want others?"

She looked down at her nakedness. "Well, not at this precise moment. I would not feel right. And..." again the significant look at his penis, "you certainly are not decent for company!"

It was still not an erection but the thing hanging over her was not the docile little thing of the Grecian statue. Somewhat uplifted and swollen, it would not take very much more to reach that particular classification. Harris settled himself down beside her.

The hot sun was lifting the essential oils and bringing a fresh herb smell to the couple. The bees too were happy with the flowers and flew this way and that completely disinterested in the naked people, the woman lying down arms stretched above her, the man sitting.

"Oh. this is simply glorious; I could not be more relaxed."

Perhaps forgetting herself—perhaps not—her thighs drifted apart. Perhaps it was the pleasing warmth of the sun; perhaps it was just relaxation; legs drawn a little up so her knees were bent with one knee rather falling away from the other. The man looked at the chestnut curls, a little darker than the colour of her hair; looked at the pretty way they made their way from the lush mounded triangle down and between her legs. Perhaps it was what they were framing; perhaps it was the little hints of pinkness poking through the curls. It was obvious what he was thinking—the movement a betrayal.

The girl saw the more than burgeoning erection—it was now the real thing, its earlier cold distorted shape gone—and she smiled. It was a welcoming smile. The man lent a little forward; looking a little closer. The sight of the exposed sex clearly of interest—clearly pleasing.

His hand moved like a bee drifting from flower to flower but, instead, moving over her body; she watched him, clearly amused to see where next it would fall. He recited:

"The bee buzz'd up in the heat,

"I am faint for your honey, my sweet."

The flower said, "Take it, my dear,

For now is the Spring of the year.

So come, come!"

"Hum!"

And the bee buzz'd down from the heat."

And with the final line down came his hand, his fingers landing right between her legs; lightly on her furry sex.

"Oh," she said, "oh."

"Tennyson," he said, "again."

"What a silly poem." But her eyes were on his hand. It had not moved and was perched right there on her warm sexual hair.

"Go on," she said, "do it!"

Harris fingers delved, his fingers moving, slipping into the sexual hair, his fingers disappearing into her body.

"Oh, that is so nice." Her legs opened wider and she lay back fully relaxed and let him do what he wished. "So nice, so nice to be touched like that; so lovely to be naked and petted in the sunshine. Oh yes, all those fingers!"

A happy smile on her face, her eyes closed as Harris kissed her breasts. The nipples hard now with sexual excitement instead of the cold; they were ready to be sucked.

"Lie on me."

An invitation from a woman to a man. Harris did just that and he lay on the girl, lay with his erection pointing up between her thighs, naked breast to naked breast and face to face.

"Kiss me."

And as they kissed the woman moved. It was not he who entered the woman but she who pushed him into her. Just a movement of her hips. The woman taking, accepting the man. Their bodies joining, the male within the female. For a time just stillness and then there was movement, the man's buttocks rising and falling as he gently pushed at the girl.

Spring is a time for intercourse and a time for new life. Around them, above and below and in the fields sexual intercourse went on. In the hedgerows the hedgehogs squealed; in his field the white bull once more mounted one of his cows, his thick pizzle entering and squirting; the proud stallion too reared up and his long, long penis thrust into the mare and there in the fold in the land, in a warm hidden place, the man was joined with the woman.

A clear cry across the green meadows; a woman taken to the peak of excitement; an orgasm par excellence. But she was not alone in coming—the man was to follow; the thrusting of the penis did not stop, neither with her cry nor the wash of her orgasm instead on it went, sliding within her; it did not stop its movement until Harris too reached his climax and once more the woman felt the hot spurting of the man's semen—not in her bottom, not in her mouth, not on her face but in the proper place—it was the time. In the light and on a bright, warm spring day it was the time for that proper intercourse between man and woman.

Two bodies lying entwined, two bodies intimately connected, two bodies as one. The man within the woman.

"It's been so lovely here." The woman looked from side to side, as she lay beneath Harris, and beyond him up at the sky, a woman lying with a man atop her—indeed within her. His pleasant weight on her, strong and masculine. "Such soft grass; such a bed to be taken in. A green bower indeed! Such an Arcadia; I feel like a Shakespearian shepherdess taken by her swain. Do you have to take it out? Can't we just stay and swim and run and fuck again?"

Harris smiled his thin smile but slowly shook his head.

"There is a time; time comes, time goes."

"Oh no, don't, please... leave it be."

His buttocks moved above her and gently, so gently, the now flaccid penis that had entered so strongly, had pushed in so firmly, full and potent, slipped out from the warm, wet sheath leaving a vagina not empty but filled with the man's semen. The liquid transfer from him to her.

It was totally the wrong time of the month to have sexual intercourse or, rather, totally the right time: it all depended upon how you looked at the matter. She had felt it that very morning, knew the ovum had been released. The sharp sudden pain. Had felt fecund.

Standing in the railway carriage as it rattled out of the tunnel; standing modestly dressed in a cornflower blue skirt, white linen shirt and blue jacket the women was looking at Harris. They were not even touching. "It's not real is it? It wasn't real. It can't be. Surely it is—was—all in your mind?" It was not a whisper.

Harris smiled softly, a thin smile giving nothing away. The other passengers looked at her. What was she saying to a seeming stranger? She had not been sitting with him. What was not real?

As she always did, the woman got off the train, automatically really, otherwise she would have found herself at the wrong station but it left the question—questions—unanswered. Her walk was unhurried, her face pensive. She turned at the sound of movement and watched as the train pulled out of the platform, gathering speed.

She knew she was pregnant even before she left the station.

Did it matter? Did it matter!

Benjamin and she had been trying for almost a year and a half with no success. Did it really matter? Did it matter at all? Did it really matter who had made her pregnant? She had, after all wanted that special thing, wanted it desperately. But was it to be Ben's child from their sweet lovemaking the night before or from this man—this stranger? A child conceived in a green bower on a warm spring day along with the birds and the bees; who knew where? Surely not, surely it had only been in the mind—his and hers? Who was the man, the man on the train, the man she had lain with, the man with whom she had done many different things—she did not even know his name—and where had she been time and time again in all the different seasons?