textfiles/sex/EROTICA/S/storm.txt

           Storm on the moor


She looked up as the first drops of rain were hurled against the
windowpane.  Shivering slightly, she pulled her cardigan tightly round
herself and returned to the letter she was writing, retreating into
the pool of light around the desk lamp.  Immersed in her writing she
did not hear the first knock at her door and it took a much louder
second one to rouse her.  Stretching her back as she got up she went
to the door and opened it suspiciously.

``Yes?''

A man stood in the doorway.  He wore a waterproof jacket and trousers
and carried a rucksack.  His head was bare, and his hair lay flat on
his forehead channelling water down in six streamlets over his eyes
and nose.

``I wonder if you can help me, I seem to have lost my way in the
storm.  I'm making for the youth hostel at Jamestown.  Which is the
best way to go?''

``You look a bit old for youth hostelling, I'd have thought,'' she
laughed.  ``Come in and get dry.  It's no night to be out on the moor
this weather.''

``Thanks, but if I get dry I'll only have to get wet again, and
besides, if I'm not at the hostel by nine I won't get in.''

``Then you'd best come in.  It's another five miles to Jamestown and
you'll not do that by nine.''

He eased himself in through the front door and stood, dripping water
in a circle round his feet.  Briskly she busied herself in taking off
his rucksack and helping him out of his waterproofs.  Despite their
name, these had let a great deal of water through and his clothes
underneath were soaked.  ``What you need is a hot bath.  There's
plenty of hot water.  Have you got a change of clothes?'' He had.
``The bathroom's through there.  Leave the wet things outside and I'll
put them to dry.  I'll bring you a cup of tea as well.  Warm you up
from inside and out!''

A few minutes later he was luxuriating in the warmth of his bath when
the door opened a crack and a tray bearing tea, milk and sugar was
pushed through.  All he saw of his hostess were the shy fingertips at
the very edge of the tray.  Neat, hardworking, dextrous fingers, he
thought; she could be an artist or a needlewoman, someone whose skill
was channelled through her hands.  He lay back in his bath and tried
to imagine her life out here on the desolate moorland farm.

When he emerged from the bathroom the first thing he noticed was that
she had changed out of the jeans and sweater she had been wearing when
he arrived and into a cotton dress across which bold flowers marched
gaily.  The second was that her hair, which had been tied back in a
practical ponytail when he had first seen it had been liberated and
brushed until it shone with the colour of polished oak.  She smiled at
his own dry clothes, jogging trousers and a cotton pullover.  He
grinned back sheepishly.  ``Sorry, I didn't pack the dinner jacket.
Cufflinks are a bit heavy in a rucksack.''

``Then that will have to do.'' She put on a gracious smile.  ``I think
the butler is well trained enough not to comment until he gets back
below stairs.  Come into the kitchen, there's bread and cheese for
supper.  Not very exciting, I'm afraid, but I wasn't expecting
company.  When I get it, though, it's nice to make the effort.''

She was wrong.  Although it was indeed bread and cheese the bread was
homemade, fresh and delicious with seeds scattered through the dough,
and the cheese was mature with a sharpness which caught at the roof of
his mouth while the full flavour flooded round his tongue.  Celery and
tomatoes lubricated the food and a strong, dry, slightly cloudy cider
washed his palate clean.

The storm had subsided to a steady but quiet rain of that sort which,
when once it starts on the moor, can last for days.  The rain gave the
only sound from outside; there were no roads nearby and even the owls
knew that hunting was pointless in such weather, so they sat in their
trees and tried to keep as dry as they could.  In the kitchen the two
humans did much the same.  Not being obliged to catch their food
fresh, however, they were able to eat while they did so.

While they ate they talked.  He told her of his day's walking.  He
told her of the family of buzzards he had seen circling one of the
tors: three of them, mother, father and a young bird being taught to
hunt.  He told her of the stream he had sat beside to eat his lunch as
it ran, giggling, down through a wooded valley, stopping here and
there to form rock pools or chase off down some blind sidearm like a
newly liberated puppy.  She told him of her day, the morning checking
her sheep as they grazed the moor and the afternoon carding wool,
which tomorrow she would spin and later dye and weave into rugs,
throws and capes.  She told him too, of her family.  How her father
had farmed here until he had died, a large, silent man as steadfast
and mysterious as the moor, and how she had taken over from him.  Of
her sister who had left as soon as she could and gone to live in
Canada and to whom she had been writing when he had knocked.

``I wanted to be an artist.  I was halfway through my degree when Dad
died, and I had to come back and take over.  For Dad the sheep were
raised for meat and the wool was a bonus.  I decided that if I was
going to farm here it would have to be on my terms, and the only
creative thing I could find to do with a sheep was weaving.''

``That's good.'' he said.  ``That's very good.  I admire what you've
done.  It's like Judo, the way you have to use your opponent's
momentum to deflect them into the direction you want them to go.
You've managed that with the farm.  You didn't want to have to farm
it, but if you had to, it would be turned to go in your direction.
The trick is to know which way you want them to go or you don't stand
a chance.  That's the problem I've got at the moment.  I'm out on the
moor trying to sort my feelings about something, decide which way I
want it to go.''

``A woman?''

``No, Anything but.''

``A man?''

``No, I mean work.  I've been offered a promotion which means all the
usual things, more money, more responsibility, but it does mean
stopping doing some of the bits of the job I think I enjoy most.''

``So what are you going to do?''

``I don't know.  I haven't reached the end of the walk yet.  I'll
probably decide that what I really enjoy is just walking the hills and
jack the whole thing in.''

They had finished eating by this time and had moved to the living
room.  Topping up his glass with cider she smiled and said ``Sometimes
you just have to reach out and take what you want.''

``And if what I want is not allowed?''

``You won't know unless you try.''

He reached out a hand and ran it along the line of her hair from the
temple down past her ear to her neck.  She inclined her head slightly
pressing it against the hesitant touch, then took a half step closer
and repeated his gesture, finishing by twisting her weaver's fingers
in the dark curls at his collar.  He completed the step she had begun
and they stood, almost touching at toe, hip and shoulder, her hand at
his collar, his at hers.  Together they each drew the other's head to
theirs and touched lips, gently, exploring the boundaries of their
space.  She dropped her hand from his neck and insinuated both arms
round his waist, running them under the welt of his pullover and
stroking the firm muscles of his back beneath the knitted cotton.
Moving her hands upwards she lifted the garment over his chest, past
his armpits and finally over his head.

Outside the rain started to fall heavily, and the wind blew across the
moor, bending the isolated hawthorn trees and forcing sheep and ponies
to scurry for shelter under dry stone walls.  Inside she wrapped her
arms around him once more and felt his warm solidity as she ran her
cheek over the wisp of curls which formed a T-shape on his chest, the
bar connecting each nipple, the upright flaring round his navel.  With
one forefinger under the chin he drew her face up to his and they
kissed again, more passionately this time, with a hunger their supper
had not assuaged, but inflamed.  He reached out as they kissed and
began undoing the buttons which held together the front of her dress
until it could fall away and lie in a circle about her feet, flowing
from her body as the rain had flowed from his cape in those first few
seconds in this house.  She wore no bra and stood before him in just
her briefs, her breasts full but not large, dark brown nipples tightly
puckered and standing proud from the smooth, taut flesh surrounding
them.  He dipped his head and took the left one gently in his mouth,
caressing it with his tongue as her hand on the back of his neck
gently increased his pressure.

His hands moved down to her hips and hooked into the sides of her
briefs, but she stopped them from proceeding further and withdrew her
breast from the suckling.  Worried that he had gone too far, too fast,
he cleared his throat to apologise but stopped when she took his
nipple in her mouth and started to mirror his attentions.  She did not
wait for long but followed the line of hair down across his stomach,
flicked her tongue momentarily in his navel and pulled on the
waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, kneeling before him as she pulled
the legs over his ankles.  Now they were both clad only in underpants
she did not hesitate but re-broke the symmetry by tugging at his to
release his swollen penis which waved just beneath her nose as the
pants went the way of the tracksuit.

She began at the tip and first kissed, then mouthed her way down one
side to the base, burying her nose in the thick pubic hair which
surrounded his shaft.  The care with which she used her lips and
avoided touching the soft, sensitive skin with her teeth reminded him
of a pony taking a sugarlump from the hand of a small child, and he
had to force back a laugh at the image.  She passed underneath, giving
each of his balls a slow, lingering kiss en passant, then reversed the
action along the other side.  Reaching the glans, she opened her mouth
wide and took him inside, not deeply but gently, and allowing her
tongue access, such sweet access, to work miracles.  Feeling his
orgasm build he stepped back but she clasped herself to him and drank
deep, when he came, of the sweet saltiness.

The storm had increased in its intensity, and the wind was starting to
bend fences and bang gates.  Far away, over the moor, small limbs were
being torn from trees and sheep were gathering still closer in what
little shelter they could find.  Even the hard granite tors were not
immune as wind and water allied to abrade the weaker strata, softening
the contours of the stones.

As his spasms subsided he drew her up from her knees and clasped her
to his chest, squeezing the breath from her.  ``Your turn now,'' he
said, leading her out of the living room and into the bedroom.  He
took her over to the bed and gently lowered her onto it as if she were
made of wafer-thin porcelain.  Tenderly he removed her pants, kissing
her knees, her ankles and her toes as he drew the thin cotton over
each in turn.  Then he returned, kissing toes, ankles, knees as he
moved up her legs, following by light pecks at each inner thigh in
turn, inching towards the light triangle of hair which swirled around
her cunt.  He noticed with delight the way that her hair lightened
from oak to sunlight as it grew away from his target, so that the top
edge feathered indistinctly into the colour of her skin.  Bending low
he kissed his way down to the apex of her triangle, his chin
moistening with her juices, and ran his tongue up and down her outer
lips, delighting in the metallic sharpness of her taste before darting
his tongue deeper into her, searching for her clitoris.  As he probed
his hands moved up her body to play with her breasts and she tucked
her foot under his thigh to hook her toes around his now limp prick.
Her fingers entwined themselves once more in his hair and pulled his
mouth into her groin as she rose to orgasm under his ministrations.

Feeling his cock stirring again he pulled himself up her body,
tonguing her navel, then moving up to kiss her firmly on the mouth,
his tongue and lips coated in her fluids, her tongue and lips still
tasting of his semen.  Slowly he inched his prick into her, teasing
his way into her well lubricated cunt.  She was still high from her
orgasm and the muscles of her vaginal wall fluttered as he began to
stroke her breasts with one hand and her buttocks with the other, and
to match the rhythm of his thrusts, pausing briefly at the deepest to
savour the warmth of her welcome.  Kissing her mouth, their tongues
battling over possession of lips and teeth he pulled gently so that
she rose over him, her hair a tent for their kisses, her breasts
spilling over his chest, her nipples hard against him, her pelvis
grinding as they both came again, his orgasm intensified by the
passive role she let him assume.  As they descended they clasped each
other, squeezing hands, arms, breasts and cock, and slowly drifted
into sleep.

Waking at three o'clock, he went out to relieve the pressure of his
bladder and noticed that the wind had subsided.  All that remained was
a light rain which dripped noisily from outbuilding roofs, while far
off he heard an owl hoot in preparation for its delayed night's
hunting.  As he slipped back between the sheets she rolled towards him
and they made slow, gentle love, lying on their sides, arms and legs
entwined.  Neither came, and neither cared; it was an act of comfort
and togetherness.  Before they once more returned to sleep he murmured
``I've decided.  I'm going to sidestep their promotion and throw it
right back at them,'' and felt her cheeks lift in a dozy smile beneath
his lips.

When she woke the next morning sunshine filled every corner of the
room, the light was lucid and vital, proclaiming the cleanness that
followed the storm.  She stretched her back and looked around for her
clothes, which were piled neatly folded on the chair by the bed.  Then
her nose brought the sensation of coffee to her as the door opened.
``Good morning,'' he said, ``I've taken the liberty of preparing you
some breakfast.  Coffee and toast, and I can do you an egg if you'd
like?''

She dressed hurriedly and went through to eat breakfast with him.
They ate in silence, neither mentioning the events of the night beyond
the strictly meteorological.  When they were through and washed up he
packed his rucksack and shouldered it, saying ``Well, thanks for your
hospitality, I'd best be on my way.  I've a long walk ahead of me
today.''

``It's been good to have the company for a change.  Enjoy the rest of
your walk, and do call again if you're in the area,'' she said.

``Thanks, I think I might take you up on that,'' he grinned as he went
out through the door.  She watched it close then went over to the
window and looked down until she saw her husband emerge from the
urinous, needle-littered, graffiti-covered concrete stairwell, turn
and wave at her tower block balcony and walk off into the city's
dust-dry streets.