Wild in the Country

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Wild in the Country ISBN # 978-1-906328-19-1 ©Copyright Portia Da Costa 2007 Cover Art by Anne Cain ©Copyright July 2007 Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz Total-e-bound books This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-e-bound eBooks. Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-e-bound eBooks. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork Published in 2007 by Total-e-bound eBooks 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK. Warning: Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-melting.

WILD IN THE COUNTRY Portia Da Costa

Notice from the author Wild in the Country is an erotic fantasy. In real life, always practise safe sex.

Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmark mentioned in this work of fiction: Whiskas Cat Food:

Mars Incorporated.

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Chapter One A Farewell is Observed

Eyes... Watching eyes... She could feel them tracking over her. Monitoring her every response. Noting every grimace, every movement, every lift of her hips as she squirmed beneath Ian’s steady thrusts. Closing her own eyes, she tried to concentrate on her pleasure, but felt it slip away without those watching eyes. What’s wrong with me, she thought, as Ian began to kiss her neck in just the way he always did. It was pleasant, and sometimes it aroused her intensely, but suddenly she felt her involvement waver and fade. Any moment now, sex would become a chore, just something to be got through, and depressingly, she’d start to act and to fake. No! It mustn’t happen! Winding her arms tighter around her lover, she tilted her pelvis, straining for more contact, more friction, more excitement. No! No! she thought, then saw the eyes again, the eyes that were narrowed now, observing acutely but without any sign of passion. “Damn you!” she muttered, shaking her head. “What’s the matter, love? Are you all right?” Ian stilled, ever the careful and considerate one, and lifted his face to look down into hers. “Am I hurting you, Flor? Shall I stop?” “No! No, don’t!” gasped Flora, not seeing him at all, “Go on, I want it! I want you!” But it wasn’t really Ian that she wanted, even as he resumed his even, measured thrusts. It was the watcher she needed, the watcher in her mind. The one who was now smiling slightly with amusement. Conscious of him, conscious particularly that he was a man, she brought her legs up and let Ian go in deeper. She heard her boyfriend groan as she rocked her hips and curved her back, but all she cared about was what the watcher thought. The eyes in her mind were dark, and the face a mystery, although somehow, she could see the mocking smile. Watch then! Watch this! she thought defiantly, lifting her legs higher and swirling her body slowly, whilst reaching down to cradle Ian’s bottom. The eyes

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brightened, grew hotter somehow, and a new and somehow complimentary heat seemed to surge through Flora and settle in the niche of her vulva. She was turning on now, enjoying her body, feeling the familiar inner sparkling of an orgasm growing closer and closer. Don’t go! she said to the eyes as they seemed to tease her, to hint that their interest was waning. Don’t go, you bastard! Don’t go now! In her panic she thrashed harder against the bed, and heard Ian moan as her fingers brushed the cleft of his bottom. His body liked that, but his mind didn’t, and his pelvis jackknifed crazily, fucking hard as if to punish her for a perverted indiscretion. That’s better! the voice behind the watching eyes seemed to say. Show me more! Go further! Make it darker and dirtier and I’ll stay... I would if I could, thought Flora in her last lucid moment, but she knew it wasn’t worth the effort in this case. Even so, she couldn’t govern her fantasies... In her mind the watching eyes became those of many. She was spread on a bed, being fucked, not by Ian but by the first teasing watcher. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his body, bigger and stronger than any man she’d ever before been with. His penis was so thick and so long that her inner channel was constantly being stretched and pummelled. Every thrust, every slight plunge knocked perfectly on her clitoris, and two hands, two big, long-fingered hands were beneath her and caressing her bottom. In her dreamworld, she matched this, and the other watchers murmured softly in approval. Stroking and probing, she sensed them come down from their vantage points and gather around the bed in a close, attentive circle. She couldn’t see their faces any more than she’d been able to see that of the first watcher, but again she was aware that they were smiling, talking and encouraging, their words aimed at both her and her partner. “No! No! Agh! Oh God!” cried Ian as she dug her fingers into him, her nails breaking the skin of his bottom. In Flora’s mind a great cheer went up, a cry of enthusiasm and merriment, and in her body, low low down in cradle of her pelvis, the sparkling became a white flame. A ring of pulsation seemed to expand out of nowhere, and with a long groan, she surrendered to her climax. The voice of the watcher said “well done”...

When Ian had gone, she returned to the bedroom, and one after another peered out of

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its two open windows. Had there really been someone watching them? Had someone really observed what could quite possibly be their last time together? Both windows were quite large for those of a cottage, and in the heat of the afternoon stood open. Even if no one had been watching, it was very possible that someone had heard them... The air was still, and Pennyroyal Cottage wasn’t all that far back from the road. And both she and Ian had cried out loudly at the height of their pleasure. Even now, lurid stories might be flying around the village. All Marwick Magna could be on fire with talk of the new woman from town who made love in broad daylight and with all the windows flung shamelessly wide open. As she considered the idea, Flora liked it. It was just the sort of thing that she’d abandoned her old life for. She wanted to be dangerous now. She wanted to be thought of as a daring woman, a sexual woman. Not just an efficient employee and a very suitable prospective wife. She’d tried so hard to explain this to Ian, to everybody in fact, but all she’d met was blank faces and astonishment. In the end, she’d given up trying and just made her plans without consulting anybody. There had been a furore, but the memory of it was fading. She was here now, free and independent and living in the country. The rest of her life was hers to dispose of as she chose. She was also free to be watched if she so wanted. One window gave out onto her back garden, and then beyond it a long, broad fallow meadow that sloped uphill towards a distant stand of trees. Stepping back to the bed she lay down for a moment then looked out towards the field. They’d need a good pair of binoculars, of course, but anyone standing on the crest of the rise would be able to see a couple making love. Turning her head from the side to look along her prone body, she narrowed her eyes and studied the view from the other window. Again, it was just conceivably possible that she could have been watched from the cottage, or more accurately, the house next door. An upper window of Orchard House looked out towards her bedroom, but the angle was a bit steep for good observation, she guessed. However, if a Peeping Tom were inclined to climb a little, one of the trees the house was named for made a perfect alternative vantage point. It was sturdy and mature, and

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someone crouched in the fork its branches would have a grandstand view of her bed. For one brilliantly illuminated moment, Flora imagined her watcher, in that tree, with his binoculars. She saw him braced, his face intent behind the glasses, his body taut, his crotch clearly swollen as he observed her writhing naked on the sheet. Without thinking her hand stole downwards. So you like a show, do you? she asked the unknown and invisible spectator. She’d got dressed again to say goodbye to Ian in the garden, but her cotton skirt didn’t present much of a barrier, and the pants she wore beneath it were tiny. After a moment, she had her pubis and her thighs uncovered and available; her skirt at her waist and her panties at her knees. Would the watcher like what he saw? she wondered, parting the soft auburn curls at her groin. Was she his type? Did he like leggy, creamy-skinned redheads? Or didn’t the rest matter when she was audaciously showing him her sex? Wriggling, she used her free hand to push her pants down to her ankles, then pressing her feet together, she let her knees fall apart. She was spread now; her pussy on display for him, as wet as it had been before. With one finger, then two, she rummaged through her fleece, and exposed the swollen jewel of her clitoris. There! she told him. Do you like that? Flexing her inner muscles she made her sex pout and jump like the exotic contortions of a strip club performer. The creation, then release, of tension in her vulva made her quiver, and her pleasure begin to mass and roll like thunder. As she tapped her clitoris, she gripped a nipple through her T-shirt, then cried out as a circuit formed inside her, and silvery sensation leapt from one node to the other. Her bottom lifted from the counterpane, and then beat down again as she thrashed against the mattress, her sharp cry piercing the peaceful afternoon. A little while later, she sat up, acutely aware of her exposed state. She reached down, to pull up her pants, then froze at the creak of the bedroom door opening. For a second, she envisaged her watcher walking in and then joining her on the bed. It seemed perfectly feasible that he abandon his looking for touching. Her heart banged in her chest, as the old door slowly moved, then steadied a little when the newcomer finally appeared. “Come here, you rascal,” she said softly as a large, well-fed looking tabby cat sashayed fearlessly into the room, then sighting her, ran lightly towards the bed.

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Peculiarly embarrassed, Flora pulled her pants up quickly and straightened her skirt, then took the cat in her arms as he leapt up. “You’re a naughty boy, Arnold,” she whispered, wondering if all these delusions of being observed were down to the animal. Cats were notorious starers; perhaps her new friend had slipped into the bedroom while she’d been making love with Ian? Maybe the scrutiny had been real? Not human, inscrutably feline. “Are you hungry?” she asked the cat, setting him down as she rose from the bed, “I am. Let’s go and see what your Auntie Morwenna’s left in store for us.” Pennyroyal Cottage’s kitchen appeared period, but underneath was reassuringly modern. With Arnold swirling around her heels, Flora opened up the fridge and took out a small pyrex casserole which was filled to the brim with a rich-looking stew. A yellow post-it note had been affixed to the dish’s lid, and on it were brief but explicit heating up instructions, which were finished off with a large, floridly scrawled ‘M’. Morwenna. “I wonder what she’s like?” mused Flora to Arnold, as she took out another of Morwenna’s welcoming gifts— one of several chilled bottles of white wine. She poured a glass, then set the stew in the oven, gave Arnold some Whiskas, and took her drink through into the sitting room while she waited for her meal to heat through. Morwenna Carfax was a village dweller with whom Flora had been put in touch by the property agent. “Someone who’ll help you settle in’ was the way the man had described her, and the moment Flora had heard that creamy, husky voice she’d known it was one she could trust. One she could warm to. As a friend, or perhaps even more? Shaken by her thoughts, Flora sat down on the over-stuffed chintz-covered sofa. What had made her think that again? She remembered her response when she’d spoken to Morwenna Carfax on the phone. It had astounded her then, and it still shocked her now. It was excitement, a pure sexual excitement, brought on solely by a beautiful low voice. “We’ll look after you,” she’d said, “Don’t worry... You’ll be welcome in Marwick. Especially if you’re pretty and you’re clever.” Loafing back amongst the cushions and closing her eyes, Flora took a sip of wine and tried to picture Morwenna. The voice was sultry, exotic, dark almost, and the first face that came to mind was Morticia Addams. Flora laughed, and stroked Arnold as he leapt up on

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her lap, then felt a little giddy at the strangeness of her thoughts. Her notions about a woman she didn’t know. Morwenna was a countrywoman, obviously, so she could well turn out to be a plump, rosy-faced matron, not a willowy seductress. And yet...the voice and its inflections were pure sex. She imagined a slender body, flashing eyes, a lush mouth— and from her first foolish ‘connection’ a silky, dead straight fall of black hair. Morwenna would be a ‘touching’ person. Someone who laid her hand on your arm as she spoke to you. Someone who thought nothing of putting her arms around you, hugging you, kissing you. Flora gulped her wine, almost feeling those female lips against her own. Soft womanly lips that tasted of apples and spices and honey. She imagined a tongue seeking hers, duelling with it boldly, and tapered fingers travelling slowly across her body. “Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed out loud, causing Arnold to look up disapprovingly. I know I want to experiment a little, she thought, to push the envelope and try new things. But women? Flora would have liked to get more wine, but the enormity of her thoughts— and the settled presence of the cat—seemed to freeze her. She turned the image over in her mind — herself and another woman—and after the first initial jolt, it seemed less shocking. Why not? she asked herself. Especially if this Morwenna was beautiful. There was a flash of colour in her peripheral vision, and she turned towards the polished oaken table. On it was a small, terracotta pot filled flowers—nasturtiums, marigolds, sweet peas—picked and arranged, presumably, by her as yet unseen welcomer. Beside the flowers, there still lay Morwenna’s note. Placing a softly protesting Arnold on the cushion at her side, Flora crossed to the table and began to re-read it. Dearest Flora, welcome to Marwick Magna, it said, in a large and elegantly rounded scrawl. I took the liberty of tidying up the cottage for you, and stocking your fridge and your store-cupboard in readiness. Call it a welcoming gift on behalf of the village. There’s a casserole in the fridge that just needs heating up, and plenty of salad and bread to go with it. Ring me, or better still, call and see me when you’re settled in. Follow the lane back into the village, turn left, then left again and you’ll find us. Looking forward to meeting you and getting to know you. Love, Morwenna. At the bottom there was a hasty ps. Your cat is called Arnold, by the way, and his food is in the cupboard by the sink. He likes his chin tickled and he’s very well behaved. The notepaper was headed ‘Redlake

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House’ and bore both an address and a local phone number. A short while later, Flora sat down to sample Morwenna’s casserole. She’d been a little dubious about such a hearty dish on a warm summer’s day, but the first mouthful revoked her doubts completely. The rich, dark stew was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. Redolent with herbs and spices, and what felt like a fair degree of alcohol, every morsel was a delight to the senses. Flora remembered the property agent saying that Mrs Carfax was a professional cook, amongst other things, and if the quality of this dish was anything to go by, she was a preternaturally skilled one as well. Does she put so much love and attention into everything she does? mused Flora, her mind flying back to its earlier erotic tack. Would just being with Morwenna be a feast? she thought, savouring the tang of the exquisitely cooked meat. Would the woman herself be as delectable as her food?

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Chapter Two Dreams and Surprises

The next morning, Flora woke with a start. The sun was shining into her room, its light dense and yellow, its heat stealing across her limbs like the slow sweet touch of a lover. Sitting up, she wondered what time it was, then got a surprise when she saw her bedside clock. Ten fifteen. She never usually slept so late, nor so deeply for that matter. Was it the wine she’d drunk? It didn’t seem so. She had no headache, no whispers of queasiness; in fact she felt better and fitter than she had for a long time. But as she ran her hands down her body, she blushed. Before going to sleep last night, she’d masturbated again, and the memory of it returned to her vividly. The urge had come on suddenly, as she’d lain in bed and felt the resonances of the day in her body. She’d been relaxed, deliciously so, after a long, hot soak in her new bath, and she hadn’t been sure whether it was the water—and what had appeared to be a home-made aromatherapy bath oil—that had mellowed her, or the wine, or Morwenna’s luscious stew. The bed itself had excited her. She’d aired it, but she still seemed to smell the faint odour of sex. She thought of her ‘farewell’ to Ian, then her own pleasure afterwards, and the soft, white sheets seemed to demand that she continue. Slipping off her night-dress, she listened to the night breeze whispering through her unknown neighbour’s apple trees, the sound like obscene nothings in her ear. In need of a focus, she reached for a book, one of a pile of several that lay on the bedside table, presumably left by the cottage’s previous owner. “Oh wow!” she muttered, then smiled wryly, when she realised exactly what she’d discovered. All her adult life, and particularly in the past couple of years, Flora had enjoyed reading anything about sex. She’d sought out glitzy, block-busting novels that contained explicit love scenes; high profile women’s glossies with daring articles; and even—occasionally and trying

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to make a joke of it—she’d slyly perused girlie mags that had belonged to various boyfriends. Recently, however, her secret passion had become easier to satisfy. It was now quite fashionable for women to read pornography, and there were plenty of books and magazines available. Even so, she’d never mentioned it to Ian... Stuff him! she thought defiantly, beginning to flip through the first book in the pile—a paperback volume entitled The Cognoscenti, and written by one Madeleine Reynard. The book was a revelation. Scan-reading some sections, and studying others more carefully, she discovered it to be the story of an inquisitive young woman’s initiation into a secret society of perversity. In a gradual, sometimes graphic, sometimes subtle process, the heroine unearthed what amounted to a parallel world almost; a sexual world that existed within the everyday one, yet separate from it. The concept was unlikely, but the writing was compelling. One passage in particular entranced her; a scene where the heroine was ravished by a biker in black leather. The man was faceless, a cipher behind his deeply tinted visor, but Madeleine Reynard had made him seem irresistible, the very essence of dark sexual menace. Flora had a good idea what was going to happen, and that the biker was going to turn out to be the hero of the book, but she still imagined him to the accompaniment of delicious tremors, and imagined his cock riding her while his face was still hidden... Dropping the book a moment, Flora stroked herself furiously. As she panted, she wished she had three hands, so she could touch both her breasts and her vulva simultaneously, whilst continuing to turn the book’s pages! What if there really is a hidden world, she wondered, one where women get seduced and pleasured by men they didn’t know? She read on a little, entranced by the story’s decadence and mystery, then abandoned it and concentrated on her body, using her fingers to bring herself to orgasm, while her mind pictured the biker between her legs. Her dreams afterwards were peopled with bizarre images... She’d dreamed of Marwick Magna, and a dark figure riding through it on a gleaming black motorcycle. The faceless road warrior now became the watcher she’d imagined that afternoon; only in the dream, she was lying naked on the village green while he observed her. And beside him stood a beautiful, mysterious woman... Morwenna perhaps? Men—and women—approached across the grass and began to make love to her, control her, dominate

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her. Using her body, but giving her pleasure as a reward. “My God,” Flora muttered now, as the recollections of last night made her pulse race. Rising from her bed she stretched her arms and yawned expansively, then stopped, staring across the room in horror. The night being hot, she’d left the windows open, both of them, and the breeze had blown the curtains back against the wall. Even now, the secret watcher might be looking at her, his motorbike parked out of sight down the lane. Reaching for a robe, she shrugged into it, then peered out of first one window then the other. There was no one that she could see out in the meadow, and the apple tree was reassuringly free of spies and mysterious men in black leather. But when she looked down into the next-door garden, and the plot of flower-bordered lawn towards the rear of the house, she did catch her first glimpse of her new next door neighbour; the man the property agent had told her was the world famous artist, Declan McKenna. McKenna wasn’t the long-haired, grey-bearded eccentric that Flora had been expecting. He was youngish, handsome, and muscular, and his straight dark hair was probably about collar length, although it was difficult to tell at the moment. He was cross-legged on a blanket in the middle of his sunny lawn, describing quick charcoal lines on a open white sketch block. There was a coffee mug beside him, and a half-eaten slice of toast on a blue plate by his knee—and as far as she could see, he was sitting there naked, apart from a pair of elegant, metal-framed glasses. Hardly breathing, Flora drew back into her bedroom. For a moment she felt a strange guilt, as if she’d deliberately spied on his nudity, then dismissed it. The man must be fully aware that he was on view to his neighbour, so his naked state was a deliberate provocation. She sensed a challenge, and her body’s mettle rose to it. Feeling her sex tingle delicately, and her nipples begin to harden, she stepped forward to observe McKenna from behind her curtain. His genitals were hidden by his sketch-pad, but every part of him she could see was impressive. His chest was broad, and his gleaming back was massive. His arms and thighs seemed hewn from corded muscle. She imagined him as a pin-up boy, or an athlete, a sexual icon for the new breed of woman, all the more tempting because he had an artist’s soul and a special talent. Pressing her hand against her crotch, she longed to meet him, then wondered

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suddenly, did he ride a motorcycle? Flora bathed and dressed as fast as she could, then appraised herself quickly in the mirror. Her figure was quite good enough to interest him, she decided: her breasts were rounded, her thighs long, her waist slim. She’d chosen a snug, white vest and a lemoncoloured cotton skirt that swirled flatteringly about her legs as she walked. Her face wasn’t very tanned yet, but she had a liberal dusting of tiny auburn freckles—something she’d hated as a child, but now liked. Her reddish, goldish hair was newly cut in a short, elfin crop— which she also liked—and her eyes were bright and her soft, pink lips were full. She had a feeling, well, more a hope really, that Declan McKenna would find her diverting. “Good morning, Arnold,” she said to the cat, as she walked into the kitchen. Her new companion wove himself winningly around her legs while she prepared both his breakfast and her own, then ignored her the instant his dish was down. “Males, you’re all the same,” she murmured, picking up her tea and cereal and heading for the sitting room. Passing through the tiny area that served as a hall and a place to hang coats, she got a surprise. There was post on her mat. She’d told a few friends that she was moving and given them her address, but hadn’t expected anyone to do anything about it. To have mail on her first day here seemed extraordinary. Settling down on the chintzy sofa, she began slitting envelopes. The first was a note from her mother full of advice and admonishments about living in the country. Flora smiled wryly and put it aside to reply to in a day or two. The next two turned out to be junk mail circulars addressed to The Occupier, and the next item was a ‘good luck in your new home card’ from her ex-colleagues at the bank. This too made her smile. She hadn’t realised they all thought so much about her, although she noted the significant lack of Ian’s signature. The last piece of post was puzzling. Turning it over, she saw no address, no stamp and no postmark, so obviously it’d been delivered by hand. The envelope was long and narrow and made of heavy, cream-laid paper, obviously expensive, and obviously high quality. Its only distinguishing mark was tiny flower drawn in exquisite detail on the flap. Intrigued, Flora picked at the edge, then quickly pried it open. She’d half expected the letter to be another from Morwenna, but she quickly realised it

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was not from Mrs Carfax. The paper had the same dense, creamy texture as the envelope, and the printed text was crisp and clear, probably done on a laser printer or a bubble jet, but the words themselves were quite astounding. She felt first her neck, then her face, then the whole of her body fill with a fiery, racing blush as she read them. Welcome Flora, the message began. Or perhaps I should say Wild Flower? It’s obvious you’re untrammelled by inhibition... Yes, my dear Flora, I hope you’ll be happy here in the country, and I hope I can soon get to know you... Very well. I hope it won’t be long before I’m touching that sublimely smooth body of yours... Exploring its every contour; feeling its textures; tasting its tastes... I’d love to press my face between your long, silky thighs, beautiful Flora, and to smell the musky scent of your pussy. I’d love to twirl those soft red curls in my fingers, then open you, explore you, give you pleasure. And I could, you know... So easily. I’d slide a finger inside you—two perhaps?— then I’d massage your swelling clitoris with my thumb. Or maybe I’d lick you instead. Lash you with my tongue until you scream and shout and climax, then go on and on ‘til you pass out with pure sensation. But perhaps you’d like to give me pleasure instead, Flora my Flower? You look like a girl who’s far too generous to be shy... You could stroke my body, use your mouth on me, get to know every last inch of my eager skin... I’d like you to touch my thighs, my belly, my genitals... oh, and my backside too. My crease. Let’s not be coy... my arse-hole. Because you seem to know exactly how to do it. I can just imagine your dainty finger deep inside me... Alas, sweet wild Flora, this is all getting too much for me! Thinking of you, and watching you, has got me all worked up... And I’ll have to do something about or I’ll go crazy. I’ll use my own hand, but I’ll be dreaming that it’s yours... Until next time, the letter finished prophetically. It was unsigned, but below the bottom line—in capitals—was typed THE SCRIBE. Flora hunched tensely on the settee, her breakfast forgotten. Anger swirled inside her, vying with lust and pure shock for supremacy. Her body was hot, embarrassed and aroused in equal parts, and her mind awash with confusion. It must be from him! Declan McKenna. Who else could have been watching her so closely? Who else could have seen the colour of her pubic hair? Who else could have... An even more hideous thought popped to the surface. My crease... My arsehole... You seem to know exactly how to do it...

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Good God, she’d been right! Somebody had been watching... And they’d watched her with Ian—taking notes, by the sound of it. They’d seen her clutching at Ian like a mad thing, touching him and fondling him while his cock was buried deep inside her. But even as she seethed, a subversive inner voice spoke up clearly. And pointed out her own irrationality. You enjoyed it, the devil’s advocate said. It was that sense of being watched that got you off, made it special. You ought to be thankful, not angry, you ungrateful little fool. Whoever this ‘Scribe’ is, he wants you, and in your heart of hearts, you want him to want you! Flora glanced toward the window and the flowering hedge that divided her land from McKenna’s. Her first impulse had been to storm round there and have it all out with him, but that combative urge was now changing. And what if she were wrong? There were two windows in her bedroom, and consequently two directions from which to watch. What if it were someone strolling in the meadow who’d seen her? Someone who just happened to have a pair of field glasses? It wasn’t unknown to carry binoculars in the country. Declan McKenna was a handsome man, a gifted man who she’d tentatively hoped, well, perhaps more accurately day-dreamed, might help her. It would be silly to start out by picking a fight with him. Looking down at the letter, she re-read its sensual message more positively, then realised that she now had just the entrée she needed. Especially now it was more than his artistic guidance she was hoping for. With the letter in her pocket, she made her way down her path, out into the lane, then along it ‘til she reached the next gate. A moment of doubt assailed her as she reached for the latch, but she quashed it and passed through into Declan McKenna’s garden, then walked as quietly as she could towards the rear of the house. Rounding the corner, she found him sunbathing, his magnificent gilded body moist and gleaming. She could smell a strong but not unpleasant odour coming off him, and saw an uncapped, unlabeled bottle on the tartan rug at his side, containing a fluid that looked thin and rather milky. She supposed it was a sun lotion of some kind. He was still completely naked, and his glasses lay abandoned by the bottle. “Good morning, Flora,” said a deep American voice that went well with the solid, Godlike body.

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Completely thrown, Flora dithered. How on earth did he know who she was? He hadn’t even looked up at her yet, much less been introduced. “I... I...” she stammered, her eyes locked on Declan McKenna’s firm, hard buttocks, “Hello, Mr McKenna—” She froze again. He was turning over... “I’m sorry...but how the devil do you know who I am?” “Word travels fast in Marwick Magna,” said the nude man before her, stretching luxuriantly, his musculature flexing and rippling, “I didn’t think it’d be all that long before we met... Would you like some coffee?” He nodded towards his empty mug, “I’ve got a potful on the hob inside.” “N... No, thank you.” It would choke her, she was sure. She couldn’t think about drinking; she wasn’t even sure she remembered why she’d come here; she could only stare at Declan McKenna’s naked body. And the beautiful penis that nestled between his thighs. He wasn’t erect, but he wasn’t completely flaccid either, and even as she watched his flesh twitched and seemed to thicken. “Does my nakedness bother you?” he enquired with a grin. “I can get dressed if you prefer... but it seems a shame on a glorious day like this.” “No, it’s fine. Stay as you are,” replied Flora, managing to claw back a little of her composure despite an awareness of her own body’s responses, “It’s just that where I used to live, people don’t go in much for nude sunbathing... The gardens aren’t as secluded as yours.” “I can imagine,” he murmured, shifting to one side of his rug, “You’re a city girl, aren’t you? Come to the country to escape all the madness... Why don’t you sit down—” He patted the tartan cloth a couple of feet from where he lay, “—and tell me all about yourself and why you’re in Marwick.” Trying not to look at Declan McKenna’s cock, Flora sat down at the extreme edge of the rug and folded her skirt protectively around her legs. What could she tell him that would make sense? Her reasons for being here would sound crazy enough as it was, without her ability to describe them being fuddled by his splendid naked presence. Plucking absently at the grass, she began:

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“Well, as you already seem to know, my name’s Flora Swain, and up until a month ago I worked in a bank. I was a small investments advisor, quite a good job, really, but not exciting... Not very fulfilling to the real me... Do you understand?” Declan nodded, smiling slightly. Of course he understood, he was an artist. Bank work would stifle a man like him. And he’d have to wear his clothes all the time, she thought, managing an amused little smile of her own. “I was fed up. In a rut. Bored to death,” she glanced across at his drawing pad, and saw that he’d been sketching a woman’s shapely torso, the curves rich, the breasts and pubic triangle wildly exaggerated. “Then, out of the blue, I was left some money. Quite a lot of money, actually. And I decided I’d do what I wanted with it, not what everyone at the bank said I should so with it. Investments and suchlike.” She looked up, feeling stronger, and somehow pleased with herself. “I packed in my job, gave notice on my flat, and started looking for somewhere entirely new to live... Somewhere in the country. And I found this place—” She nodded over her shoulder towards Pennyroyal Cottage, “in one of the Sunday supplements. It said “beautiful idyllic surroundings”, “carefully renovated property” and stuff like that. And I just knew in my heart it was for me!” “But what are you going to do here in the country?” enquired Declan softly, his brown eyes intense and challenging. “Tend your garden... Make preserves... Press wild flowers?” A thrilling shiver shot down Flora’s spine and seemed to coil itself like a serpent in her sex. His question had been casual, off the cuff, almost mocking, but did she detect an emphasis on those final two words? “I might do all of those,” she replied airily, “But what I really want to do...” It petered out again. Her aspirations would sound puerile to a man who could do, effortlessly, what she only dreamed of. “What is it you want to do, Flora?” he prompted, regarding her steadily, his hand resting—she noticed—on his thigh, just a couple of inches from his semi-erect cock. “Well, ever since I was a kid, I’ve love to draw and sketch and paint... So I’ve decided that now I’ve got a bit of money to tide me over, I’m going to take art seriously and see if I’m any good. That’s why I came here, to Marwick Magna. The literature about the cottage said the village is a bit of an artist’s community. A haven of creativity and all that... I thought this was a good place to settle. I hoped that with all that artistic talent flying around, some of it

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might settle on me.” It’d come out in an ill-considered tumble of words, and pulling up more grass stalks, Flora waited for the inevitable laughter. “That’s a great idea, Flora,” he said, surprising her. When she looked up, his dark eyes were warm, but quite serious. The mockery of a few moments ago was gone. “You’ll do okay here. There’re plenty of people in the village who’d be willing to advise you... Even I could, at a pinch.” He grinned, but it was an honest, boyish grin. “But I warn you, I don’t pull my punches. If your work is crap, you can be sure that I’ll tell you!” “That’s what I want! An honest opinion...” Flora caught her breath, stunned for a moment, when Declan’s fingertips drifted across his penis, the action natural and entirely unselfconscious. “And is that one of your drawings?” he said, apparently unperturbed by her scrutiny, and the fact she was blushing as red as carnation. Flora was puzzled for a moment, then looked down and saw the corner of the envelope protruding from her skirt pocket. For the past minute, while describing her high hopes and her dreams, she’d almost forgotten about her lewd, exotic letter, but now she drew it out and turned over in her fingers. “No. No, it isn’t.” She hesitated, knowing that to show the letter would bring a whole new set of parameters to their barely nascent relationship. Change it from a flickering, delicate flirtation into an erotic torch that might be difficult to govern. “It’s something someone posted through my letterbox this morning,” she said, taking out the single sheet of paper and unfolding it, “I... I wondered if you knew anything about it.” “What is it?” “It’s a letter, of course?” Was he teasing her again? She held out the cream-white paper towards him, and waited for him to take it. But he didn’t... “It’s your letter, Flora. You read it to me.” “I... I can’t!” It was obvious to her now, that he’d written it. “Then neither can I,” he replied, his voice sounding a little odd and tense, “Words

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aren’t my thing, Flora. I express myself in other ways...” He nodded towards the rough but powerful drawing, then shrugged his shoulders and looked vaguely resigned. For a moment, Flora felt confused. Not only by Declan’s nakedness, but by the letter, its contents, and his strange refusal to look at it. Suddenly a hideous idea occurred to her, something more embarrassing, in a different way, than anything that had happened so far. He can’t read, she thought, feeling a peculiar mix of astonishment, pity and tenderness. He’s intelligent, obviously, and artistically gifted beyond measure, but for some reason, he can’t decipher the written word. Feeling a profound urge to reach out and hug him, she withdrew the problematical letter. “I... All right then,” she said, looking down and blushing again at the rawness of the language. “Welcome Flora,” she began. “Or perhaps I should say Wild Flower? It’s obvious...” It was only one page, just a paragraph or two, but it seemed to take her a century to read. She stumbled over some words, and had others dry up inside her mouth, but eventually she whispered, “And it’s just signed “The Scribe”...’ “So, do you have any idea who might have sent it?” asked Declan, quite calmly, as pornographic letters were read out to him every day. “I thought—” She stopped short and looked at him in alarm, horrified at the thought of facing his illiteracy head-on. Declan said nothing, but just flashed her that peculiar half-regretful smile again. “I’ve no idea at all,” she continued, relieved by his tact, “I don’t know anyone here yet. I’ve spoken to Morwenna Carfax on the phone, but I haven’t actually met her... This could be from anybody...” She looked down at the letter, seeking answers but getting none, “Anybody who’s passed across that meadow since yesterday,” she nodded towards the field at the back of their two properties, “All they’d need is a good pair of binoculars.” “Most country people have field glasses, Flora,” replied Declan, “For bird-watching, for observing wild life—” He grinned again, “I have some myself... And I’m sure there’s a pair somewhere in your cottage too, if you look for them. So I wouldn’t say that owning a pair of binoculars necessarily makes anyone a suspect.” “I suppose not,’ said Flora doubtfully, “But who’d write such a thing? It’s... It’s...” “Sensual? Flattering? A turn on?” suggested Declan, his eyes glittering, “You’ve got to

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admit that he—or she—thinks very highly of you... If I’d received that—” He nodded at the letter, “I’d be making every effort to reach out to the person who’d written it.” Flora fell silent. She felt at a loss, out of control, strangely vulnerable. She did want to meet her ‘admirer’, but she didn’t have the slightest idea how to find them. “Morwenna will help you,” said Declan, breaking her fugue, “Morwenna knows everything and everybody. The whole of village life here seems to revolve around the lovely Mrs Carfax.” “Yes,” said Flora, preparing to get up, but feeling distinctly reluctant to abandon the glorious sight of Declan, “I think I’ll go and see her. Show her the letter...” “That’s great, Flora,” said Declan, darting out to grip her wrist with a big, strong hand, “But before you do go. Will you do me a favour?” “Yes. Yes, of course...” Flora felt something flutter in her mid-section, and her heart begin to race. When she looked downwards, she saw Declan was now erect... “Oil my back for me,” he said, his eyes dancing and his mouth totally wicked. He’d seen her ogling his cock, that was obvious. Releasing her hand he lay down on his front, then gestured towards the bottle of milky lotion. “That’s the stuff... One of Morwenna’s finest concoctions. Complete protection and terrific for the skin.” Flora picked up the bottle and sniffed it dubiously. The scent was powerful and citruslike, with elements of flowers and spices. When she poured a little of the mixture onto her fingers, its consistency was thin, but unexpectedly silky. She shuddered. To the touch, it felt extraordinarily like semen, and to look at it there wasn’t much difference either. “Yeah, I know... It reminds me of that too,” said Declan as if he’d read her mind, “I think Morwenna does it on purpose... Everything she does is provocative, and everything she makes either turns you on, or looks like something to do with sex.” “You sound as if you know her well,” said Flora, tentatively dribbling a little of the lotion onto Declan’s broad back, then smoothing it in with the pads of her fingers. His skin was fine-textured, but so warm it felt feverish. “You could say that,” he murmured, chuckling softly. They’re lovers, thought Flora. The tone of voice gave it away. There was passion beneath the surface, and memories and possessiveness. Her own jealousy was a strong as it

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was sudden. “And what about her husband?” she asked crisply, hoping to score a point as she added more lotion, then slicked it over the plains of his shoulders. “Robert?” Declan settled himself a little on the rug... “You can do my ass, you know... It won’t mean we’re engaged or anything...” Flora slapped a dollop of the white lotion on the crown of each buttock, and massaged it in with a fair amount of force. When Declan moaned softly, she almost tipped the bottle over, feeling the muscles beneath her fingers flex and tense. “God, that’s good,” he whispered, a shudder ascending the whole length of his back. “What about Robert Carfax?” insisted Flora, feeling her own body shake, and remembering the words in her letter. “Robert’s a great guy. A good friend of mine. He’s devoted to Morwenna... But then we all are,” he paused, his thighs stirring and his toes curling on the rug, “You will be too, when you meet her.” Flora couldn’t think about Morwenna. She couldn’t really think about anything, except the naked male flesh beneath her fingers and the uninhibited reactions of the man she was anointing. Declan was sighing now, quivering and squirming on the blanket, rubbing his crotch against the firm earth beneath him. By now, Flora had coated his skin from his heels to his hairline, but almost dreamily she poured more lotion on his bottom, then began working it in in meticulous little circles. My arsehole... My crease... she thought, feeling her consciousness drift. She pressed with her thumbs, and made the snug aperture of his anus stretch and pout. Declan scrabbled at the blanket, then twisted it maniacally between his tightly clenched fingers. “Oh my God,” she heard him mutter indistinctly. “Oh God, please, do it, you beautiful girl!” Do what? Flora asked herself, but even as the thought formed, she knew what he wanted. Clasping hard at one buttock, she slid the thumb of her other hand inside him, the entry made easy by the slipperiness of the lotion. “Yes!” sobbed Declan, the single word cracking with grateful power. Rotating his hips against the mat, he whimpered with pleasure, and the tiny sounds made Flora’s sex respond to him, the very core of her beating like a pulse. He was in her power now, this glamorous, talented man whose company had so

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recently intimidated her. He was a moaning wreck, because she was playing with his bottom. Rocking her thumb, she thought fleetingly of Ian, and how much he’d disapproved of anything like this. He’d been scared, she realised, not man enough to show his abandon. Declan McKenna clearly harboured no such doubts; he could surrender to anything without losing his primal maleness. Feeling his sphincter clench around her slowly thrusting thumb, Flora wondered if Declan were about to climax. His being pleasured like this was clearly a great joy to him, and he might well need no other stimulation. And he was grinding his cock against the blanket. Even so, she leant over him, and whispered, “Do you...you want me to touch you?” She couldn’t quite say exactly what she meant, but Declan understood. “Oh yes, Flora, yes,” he whispered, then rolled over as she popped her thumb out of him. Declan’s penis was a wonder. He was bigger than Ian, bigger by far, and not only in length, but girth also. His fat reddened staff pointed skywards in the sunlight, rising from his groin like a shiny living tower. Flora’s first instinct was to throw her thigh astride him, hitch aside her panties, and just let her wet sex slide down and engulf him. But that was far too much, and far too soon. Good Lord, she hardly knew him! And yet, she’d gone this far now, and made an offer. She poured more lotion on her fingers, then took a hold... Making a ring of her thumb and forefinger, she encircled him, having to stretch around his fat rosy glans. Delicately, but enjoying herself, she worked his foreskin back and forth, smiling mischievously as his tiny love-eye winked. “Harder!” cried Declan suddenly, his teeth gritted and his hands once more gouging at the blanket. “Go on, woman, do it!” he commanded, thrusting up his hips as if to urge her with his body. “All right then,” muttered Flora. Unconsciously, she’d been planning a long, slow rise for him; she’d wanted to show him her skill, what she had of it, and to explore him. But clearly all Declan wanted to do was to come, and come quickly. The bastard! With no further ado, she began to move her fingers jerkily, the action rough as if to punish him for his greed. Declan, however, seemed enraptured. Rising to her strokes, he pushed himself

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upwards through her grip, thus intensifying the length and force of each slick pass. Within seconds, he was shouting—some wordless nonsense that Flora barely heard—and his semen was jetting out into the air. Great droplets arced, then fell back down on him, covering his chest and belly like a string of milky jewels. Flora was dumbstruck. She sat motionless on the rug, watching the white fluid’s pearly, running trails, and feeling Declan subside stickily in her clutching hand. What on earth have I done? she thought, looking down at her semen smeared fingers, and the softening male flesh still clasped in them. It’s probably only half an hour since I met this bloody man, and I’ve just jerked him off! What the hell’s happened to me? How could I do such an insane thing? “Thank you, Flora,” murmured Declan sleepily, “That was incredible... Just what I needed.” He reached down and laid his hand lightly over hers for a second. “It’s going to be quite something having you for a neighbour.” Laughing, he circled his fingers around hers, then drew her hand to his lips to kiss it, his eyebrows lifting as he tasted his own come. “I’m sorry... I don’t know what got into me... I... I...” She couldn’t make sense. She couldn’t think. He’d tricked her into masturbating him, and she should be furious—but all she could do was want what she couldn’t now have. “You’re a wonderful girl, Flora,” he said, turning her hand over and kissing her palm too, then licking it slowly and suggestively. “Would you like me to thank you in return? Properly, I mean?” The inference was unmistakable, and so much what Flora longed for that she almost gave in and let it happen. It would only take the very slightest weakening on her part and she’d be flat on her back on this rug with Declan looming over her, and either his hand, his mouth or his newly-hard cock lodged delightfully and effectively between her legs. “Part of me would,” she began tentatively, then couldn’t help but smile, “And I think you know which part...” Unfolding her legs from beneath her, she stood up, “But I don’t think we know each other well enough just yet.” Declan’s dark brows lifted in mockery, but he didn’t protest. “Fair enough,” he said easily, “But don’t forget to just say the word when you’re ready...” “I will,” replied Flora, smoothing her skirt, then reaching down to pick up the letter. Before she could straighten up, however, Declan clasped her wrist. “Your shoulders are

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getting pink, you know. Do you want me to put some lotion on for you?” “No! No, thanks, I’ll manage!” She pulled herself free, and almost danced away from him. The touch of his hand had stoked fires that she’d hoped were damped. He was so close. So male. So desirable... “Okay, but see that you do something,” he admonished, still smirking. “I couldn’t bear to see that beautiful skin burnt. Although the colour’s interesting...” He cocked his head on one side, his eyes narrowed, as if seeing her suddenly as his model. “Will you let me paint you soon, Flora?” he asked, “You’d make a good subject.” “You’re joking!” “I’m serious,” he said quietly. “And if you like, I’d return the compliment. I’d pose for you, and give you some tips on composition...” Amazingly, he was blushing himself now, “I’m no great shakes as a teacher, but I’d be glad to give it a try.” “I’d like that,” said Flora, stepping away. She could feel her resistance melting. He was too dangerous. Too tempting. “Soon... But I think I’d better be going for now.” She took a couple more steps, and increased the distance between them. “Okay, it’s a deal,” he said, lying down again and closing his eyes. “But promise me two things.” “All right, but what are they?” “One—that you’ll put something on your shoulders immediately. And two—that you’ll go and see Morwenna and show her your letter. If anyone can help you find “The Scribe”, she can...” “I’ll do that... I’ll do both, I promise,” replied Flora, still moving because she was still in deep jeopardy, “Goodbye, Mi— Goodbye, Declan.” He was still laughing as she almost tore down his path.

“Flora, Flora, Flora,” murmured Declan McKenna, stretching contentedly on his rug. His new neighbour was everything he’d hoped for: beautifully naive, but with the promise of profound lasciviousness. Reaching down, he cupped his cock and squeezed it lightly, recalling the novelty and sensitivity of her touch. It had been a great beginning, far more than he’d expected from an initial meeting. But this wasn’t moving matters forward...

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With a last lingering stroke of his penis, he rose to his feet and walked slowly into the house. The coolness of his sitting room was like a balm to his heated body, and as ever, its harmonious aura made him calm. He sat down beside the phone and dialled a number. “Morwenna? Hi!” he said when a familiar and very lovely voice answered, “Get your glad rags on, our new friend is on her way...”

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Chapter Three The White Witch of Marwick Magna

“Well, Arnold, I’ve done it now,” Flora told her cat as she walked into the cottage. Arnold looked up from cleaning his whiskers and seemed to nod, while Flora looked down at her hands. Her fingers were sticky where she’d caressed Declan McKenna. “Is this how you’re going to get to know people, Flora?” she asked herself sternly, running upstairs to wash, “By touching them up as soon as you meet them!” What she’d done with—and to—Declan had been preposterous. And yet on another level it had been the most natural thing in the world. Once she’d abandoned her old self, her old ‘bank and safe boyfriend’ persona, it’d been wonderful. To touch a handsome man, just because she wanted to. To give him pleasure without mind-games or bargaining. She wished now that she’d taken him up on his offer, and let him touch her in return. His hands were big, like the rest of him, but he was an artist and would be capable of finesse. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were bright, the pupils huge and dilated. She was fully aroused, and between her legs she ached. “You should’ve just gone with it, you idiot, not stalled right on the brink,” she remonstrated as she hunched on the lavatory to spend a penny, all too aware of her heat and her juices. “That’s why you’ve come here... To make a new start in everything, not just to see if you really can draw...” Stripping off her clothes, she washed quickly, then put on clean knickers with her cotton vest and skirt. Her shoulders were a little pink, she noticed, but not as fiery as Declan had suggested. Even so she rubbed on some moisturiser, then smoothed it into her face and hands also. Down in the sitting room, she found her bag, then slipped ‘The Scribe’s’ letter inside it. It did seem logical to show it to Morwenna, if she knew everyone in the village. She’d be bound to have an inkling of who’d written it. “I’m going out now, Arnold,” she told the cat, who was curled up, oblivious, on the sofa, then set off to follow Morwenna’s directions.

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This must be the perfect English summer’s day, thought Flora as she dawdled her way along the lane. The sun was high in the sky, but there was a pleasant light breeze. She could smell flowers, a heady amalgam of the perfumes from the many cultivated cottage gardens, and also from the humbler wild blooms along the lane-side. Everywhere around her was a profusion of natural colour and greenery, and the only sounds she could hear were droning insects. Her understated city flat, and the sterile, null-shades of the bank’s interior seemed like memories of another, distant planet. More than ever, she knew she’d done the right thing. Thinking of the little sketch-block and pencil in her bag, Flora wondered whether to stop and try and capture an impression of the rambling roses that almost covered a garden wall to her left. She’d begun to feel guilty that she’d not even attempted a drawing since she’d arrived in Marwick Magna, but settling in had seemed to consume all her energy. Hesitating by the roses, she made her mind up. She had to get this ‘letter’ business sorted out before she got down to work in earnest, and seeing Morwenna Carfax was a step towards that. Redlake House was a picturesque, characterful, half-timbered structure whose garden was even bigger and more fragrant than the one at Pennyroyal Cottage. Beside it stood an orchard, more mature than Declan’s, and listening carefully, Flora could hear running water, which she deduced was the nearby River Mar. Unlatching the gate, she stepped through onto the path. The front door was painted black, and as she reached for the iron bell-push, Flora realised her insides felt strange. It was stupid to be frightened. She was an invited guest here. But even so she experienced trepidation. Somewhere in the house, she heard the bell chime, then it was answered by a faint set of footsteps. In an instant the heavy door was swinging open... Flora suddenly found herself wrapped in a woman’s warm arms and being hugged against a soft, perfumed bosom. “Hello! You must be Flora!” said a rich, husky and now familiar voice, as soft lips bestowed kisses of welcome. When she was released, Flora stepped back, feeling bemused. Morwenna Carfax did indeed look a little like Morticia Addams, although her skin was

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softly tanned instead of pale. Her hair was a long, blue-black fall, and impossibly shiny, and her mouth was a passionate deep red. Her dark, slanted eyes glittered wickedly. “I’m sorry, Flora,” she purred, reaching out to take Flora’s arm and lead her into the house, “Everybody tells me I’m far too OTT, but I can’t seem to do anything about it... Do come in. I’m cooking at the moment, but I’ll be finished in a jiffy, and then we can have some wine and a lovely long chat.” Thunder-struck, Flora followed her hostess down a corridor, which was lined on either side with beautiful paintings. An antique sideboard she passed was covered with slithery piles of well thumbed art magazines, and several large bookcases were completely crammed with books. “All Robert’s stuff!” said Morwenna cheerfully over her shoulder, “We both have our own special sanctuaries, but my dear husband seems to overflow from his!” “What does he do?” asked Flora, as Morwenna flung open a door and let out a gust of the most fabulous of cooking smells. “Oh, he’s an art historian, technically, but more a gentleman of leisure than anything,” answered Morwenna with a smile as they entered the kitchen. “There’s money in his family, and fortunately some of it’s come his way... He doesn’t have to work too hard to earn a crust.” “And you cook, don’t you?” said Flora, finding her eyes drawn instinctively towards Morwenna’s rounded bottom, as the dark woman bent gracefully to check her oven. She’s gorgeous, thought Flora, watching her hostess closely as she inspected a tray of half-baked pies. Morwenna was voluptuous, but shapely; her breasts full, her waist narrow, her hips generous. She had the body of an archetypal earth mother, yet she was the very opposite of domestic and homely. Exuding an aura of sharp and pungent sexuality, her very presence teased the nerves and the senses, and her muslin dress seemed dangerously insubstantial. “Amongst other things,’ she said lightly straightening up and pulling off her apron. “Let’s have some wine... Some lunch, perhaps? Have you eaten?” “Er... no, I haven’t. But I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’ “No trouble at all,” Morwenna grinned, and as Flora looked on, she opened cupboards, delved in the fridge and gathered crockery, assembling the elements of a meal as they talked.

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“So, Flora, what are your first impressions of Marwick?” she asked, slicing quiche, “It’s certainly the best time of year to arrive... The village looks lovely in the summer.” “It’s wonderful. Everything I’d hoped for,” murmured Flora, her eyes on Morwenna’s rounded breasts. The other woman’s smoke-coloured dress was so thin that Flora could see almost every detail of her body. The thick, erect nipples, the mysterious shadow lower down... Morwenna clearly had no time for underwear. “And the cottage? What do you think of that?” Flora’s hostess was tossing salad now, her unfettered bosom swaying a little as she moved, “I think you’ll find it nice and cool at the moment, but when winter comes, it’s snug. There’s a good deal of money been spent on it.” “It’s very comfortable... I love it! Really!” Flora was aware that she was gushing, but she couldn’t help herself. Morwenna’s sensuous presence was having a powerful effect on her, much as Declan McKenna’s had earlier. She couldn’t stop watching the other woman’s body, breathing deeply to catch her perfume, imagining what she would look like without that excuse for a dress. “And thank you for getting it ready for me. And leaving the food and wine. It was a lifesaver. I was so tired that I just couldn’t be bothered to cook.” “I’m surprised your boyfriend didn’t stay a little longer,” said Morwenna suddenly, her tone innocent, but loaded beneath the surface, “That cottage is a perfect little love nest...” She paused and rearranged some tomato wedges. “And you’re such a pretty girl. I can’t believe that he could tear himself away!” “Oh, he had some meetings to attend—” Flora thought for a moment, then felt suspicious, “How on earth did you know Ian had been to Marwick?” Morwenna laughed. “Oh, this is a very small village, my dear. People notice everything... Somebody passes by, notices something, then at their next stop for a chat, they pass it on... You know how it is...” She gave Flora a very straight, very provocative glance, “You’ll have no secrets here in Marwick, Flora. We all know almost everything about each other...” She paused again and touched her tongue to her full, red lips. “There, that’s everything... We’ll take it to my lair.” Picking up the laden tray, she led the way. “You bring the wine and the glasses.” Yes, and I suppose you know I fancy you, thought Flora, falling in behind her hostess with the wine bottle and two large, crystal goblets. And that I haven’t even the first idea how to do

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anything about it. How do I make a move in a situation like this? What does one do with a woman for God’s sake? Morwenna’s ‘lair’ was much like its owner; a vividly beautiful overload to the senses. A large, airy, garden room, it opened out onto a lawn via an elegant French window, which threw light onto an Aladdin’s cave of wonders. The furniture was a delightful jumble of a dozen different styles: a couple of overstuffed easy chairs covered with multi-coloured throws; two oak desks—one cluttered with books and magazines, the other, surprisingly, housing a computer; a decadent looking Louis Quinz daybed with an embroidered bedspread; a long, scrubbed bench of some kind almost covered with rank after rank of small bottles containing oils and crushed herbs, whose smells seemed to permeate the whole room. Good God, it is a lair! thought Flora, stepping over the threshold. It’s a witch’s den; an alchemist’s laboratory. I’m not safe here... I should run but I can’t! “What about your pies?” she said, snatching at a lifeline. “Oh, don’t worry... The oven has a timer. And Robert will be wandering into the kitchen about now, looking for food. He’ll check on them... He’s rather good like that.” Flora wondered briefly about this art historian husband—he must be quite a man to have captured a handful like Morwenna... “Now, tell me all about yourself,” said Morwenna when they were settled, “and why you came to Marwick Magna.” Her dark eyes were penetratingly intent. Flora knew it would be hopeless to dissemble with Morwenna, so she didn’t even try to. Pausing only to take the occasional gulp of wine—another home-made product, tasting of gooseberries and very, very strong—or forkful of food, she poured out almost the whole her whole story of her life. The bequest; her need to break away; even her dissatisfaction with poor, unimaginative Ian. As the level in her wineglass went down, the story became easier to tell. And her companion seemed more and more bewitching. Almost without noticing, she began talking about sex. “I care for Ian, really, but somehow... I don’t really know how to say this—” Flora paused, put her glass to her lips and realised it was empty. Without speaking, Morwenna leant over and topped it up. “He doesn’t seem enough for me any more. I... I want more. And different things... Ian disapproves of anything kinky.” “Well, that’s a shame, but not a tragedy,” observed Morwenna sagely, “You’re a

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beautiful woman, Flora. You need to be appreciated. Cherished. Indulged...” Her dark, nearblack eyes narrowed. “Have you met Declan McKenna yet? Now there’s a man with imagination...” Am I seeing things, or is she suddenly a lot closer than she was? thought Flora, taking another sip of wine. She was sitting in one of the big easy chairs, with Morwenna sprawled on the floor. The dark woman’s thighs were almost touching Flora’s feet. “He’s very attractive,” said Flora, feeling flummoxed. If she reached out an inch or two she could touch Morwenna’s breasts. “I met him this morning. I went round to ask him about something and he was sunbathing...” Morwenna chuckled again, the laugh as fruity and potent as her wine. “Well, in that case, you’ll know exactly what his best points are.” She put down her glass and placed her hand on Flora’s knee. Flora blushed furiously, remembering her fingers ringing Declan McKenna’s cock. “And I can see that you liked him,” continued Morwenna, her hand almost innocently beginning to stroke. “He’s very attractive,” repeated Flora, wondering how a hand so soft and feminine could feel like a fire through the fabric of her skirt. “So he is,” replied Morwenna, plucking almost contemplatively at a fold of pastel cotton, then edging it upwards along Flora’s quivering thigh. “Did you have sex with him?” she asked, her voice even and normal. “Did he fuck you in his garden, in the sunlight?” “No! No, he didn’t!” gasped Flora, watching the rise of her skirt. She was still holding hard onto her glass of gold-green wine, and she could see the surface of the glowing fluid jittering. It dawned on her that she was being seduced and controlled here just as surely as she had been with Declan, and once again she felt powerless to prevent it. “But you did want him, didn’t you?” persisted Morwenna, her hand stilling, fingers splayed, at Flora’s hip. She’s touching my panties, thought Flora desperately. Any moment now, she’ll slip her fingers under the edge and start touching me. As if it’d heard her Morwenna’s thumb moved slightly. “Flora?” she prompted. “Yes! Yes, I did want him! Of course I wanted him!”

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“That’s good. I’m glad,” murmured Morwenna, leaning forward for a moment and pressing her cheek against Flora’s burning thigh. Her black hair tumbled forward like a wave. “What’s good about it?” cried Flora, longing almost painfully to stroke the silky curtain. “It was the first time I’d ever set eyes on the guy! It was ridiculous! You can’t just have sex with someone you hardly know!” “Why not?” enquired Morwenna, looking up. “I often do... And Declan was a prime example. I can’t think why anyone would want to resist him...” Her face was placid, but her almond-shaped eyes were black with lust. “And you, Flora, what about you?” She glanced towards a small ormolu clock on the mantle-shelf. “It’s what? Less than an hour since you walked into my house? And any minute now you’re going to let me touch you...” “But... but this is different!” Flora’s knuckles were white around the stem of her glass. Morwenna’s fingertips were sneaking upwards, exactly as Flora had predicted. “Because I’m a woman? Because we’re going to be good friends too?” whispered Morwenna, pushing in further and beginning to fondle the soft hair. “It’s no different at all, Flora. I want us to be friends... But I want a helluva lot more than just that.” Flora couldn’t think of anything to say. She doubted if she even could say anything. Morwenna was stroking her pubic hair very lightly, not probing yet, but clearly intending to. She’s a woman, thought Flora again, finishing her wine and letting Morwenna take the glass with her free hand, while below, her other carried on its sensual work. She’s a woman, and she’s started making love to me. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s make things easier, shall we?” said Morwenna gently, withdrawing her hand. “Let’s have all these tiresome clothes out of the way...” Flora sat quite still, mute and submissive, while Morwenna unfastened her cotton skirt for her, then made her lift her bottom so she could pull the garment free. “Good girl,’ whispered Morwenna, “Now let’s have your panties too.” She tugged gently on the thin cotton knickers, and once again, Flora raised her buttocks. “Look how wet they are!” Morwenna pointed to the dark, betraying mark, then touching it with her finger, “Your body wants me, Flora, that’s for certain... Even if your mind still isn’t sure.” It’s true! thought Flora, her heart thudding. Her panties were hanging around her ankles now, and there was no way to deny their fragrant message.

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“But I don’t know what to do,’ she said faintly. “You don’t have to do anything, sweetheart,” said Morwenna, “Not for a while... Just open your knees nice and wide so I can get to you...” Flora complied, the lewd position making her skin turn bright pink. She watched, spellbound, as Morwenna rose to her feet, unfastened a couple of buttons on her dress, then pulled it off over her head in one fluid sinuous motion, before dropping it on the rug with Flora’s abandoned skirt. As Flora had suspected, Morwenna was nude beneath her dress, and her lush body was a unbroken honeyed gold. Someone else who sunbathes naked, thought Flora detachedly, acknowledging the most sublime female form she’d ever seen. “What do you think?” enquired Morwenna softly, posing. With obvious pleasure in her own sultry beauty, she cupped her breasts, then seemed to lift them towards Flora, rubbing the swollen nipples in a slow rhythm with her thumbs. As she caressed herself, her head fell back, and her long gilded throat rippled and arched. Her black hair tumbled down like an ebon waterfall behind her and her splendid hips began to circle and gently weave. Flora’s eyes darted everywhere. The sumptuous orbs of Morwenna’s jutting breasts; her flat belly with its deep, mysterious navel; the glistening triangle of her night-black pubic hair. As if sensing Flora’s scrutiny, Morwenna released her right breast, then set her feet apart and reached down between her legs. Combing her fingers through her wet bush, she parted her labia explicitly, instantly thrust forward with her hips. Flora’s jaw dropped, and she felt her own sex begin to tingle, as without inhibition, Morwenna began to stroke... “Oh yes, that’s so good,” the dark woman groaned, pinching her nipple and her clitoris both simultaneously. Morwenna’s pelvis was beating the air now, but she didn’t lose either her grip or her cadence. Clear juices began to trickle down her thighs. “Oh God, yes! I love this so much,” she cried, her hips jerking and her bare toes gripping the rug. “I think I’d like to come... Ooh, yes!” Her head tilted forward again, and her dark eyes snapped open, “Would you like that, Flora?” she asked, her fingers and her hips still in motion, “Would you like to watch me have my orgasm? Would you?” Flora mouthed the word ‘yes’ but no sound came out of her. She nodded, not sure that her companion had understood.

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Morwenna got the message. Sliding her feet still further apart, she bent her legs to make her sex pout and gape. “Oh, baby...” she murmured vaguely, then with a clever flexion of her wrist she filled her channel, thrusting three fingers inside and jerking crudely. With her thumb she pressed down hard on her clitoris, then twisted her nipple as her hips danced and wove. It took only a few seconds to make it happen. Morwenna cried out, “Ungh! Ungh! Ungh!” her voice uncouth, and her beautiful face distorted. Each grunt was a counterpoint to her humping... “Oh God! Oh God!” she moaned, her knees bending into a deep squat, so her bare sex could get the very best from her hand. From the heart of her trance, Flora realised that she too was moaning involuntarily. She too was touching herself, one hand jammed hard between her thighs. Her clitoris was throbbing as if to mimic Morwenna’s wildness. Her vagina was oozing onto the chair seat beneath her. “Oh, please...” Flora gasped, watching her new friend wring savage pleasure from her climax. “Oh, please, help me,” she pleaded, finally accepting what her body knew she needed. After a moment, Morwenna rose from her farmyard crouch. “Oh baby, I’m so sorry... I’m so selfish,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss Flora’s panting lips, then dropping down again to kneel against her thigh. Closing her eyes, Flora slumped back in the chair, surrendering gratefully to Morwenna’s great experience. She felt the other woman pressing on the insides of her knees, opening her even more, whilst her ankles were still shackled by her panties. The fragile restriction made her feel as if she were bound, trussed up like a helpless victim, and her sex pulsed even harder at the thought of it. “Yes, sweetheart, yes,” cooed Morwenna, as if she were a mind-reader. Flora felt her knickers being twisted somehow, the stricture tightened; then narrow hands were sliding in between her thighs. “Oh, Flora, you’re so wet... So lovely and ready for it...” Skilled fingers dabbled in her juices, coating themselves in readiness, then without warning she was attacked in a way that was unexpected. She yelped, and tried to struggle, but Morwenna’s free hand gripped her hip-bone unyieldingly whilst her other went busily to work.

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Flora moaned in shame, and a dark, unexpected pleasure, as both her vagina and her anus were taken possession of, by a pushing thumb, and a nimble moistened finger. “Relax, my love,” breathed Morwenna, her face against Flora’s twitching thigh as the insulting intrusion continued. “You’ll like it in a minute, I know you will.” Flora had never been gripped like this, both ways at once, and untried, her rectum began to churn. “I... I can’t...” she whimpered fearfully, but just then Morwenna’s finger curved inside her like a hook and found a tender zone that Flora hadn’t even been aware of. She cried out, surprised by an exquisite pulse of sensation in the root of her clitoris, then climaxed heavily, her legs fighting their restraint. While her channel still fluttered, she grabbed her own breasts through her cotton vest and squeezed them roughly. “Clever clever baby,” said Morwenna, from somewhere very close, her warm breath tantalising against Flora’s streaming vulva. “I knew you’d be perfect... Right from the very first moment I heard your voice.” What seemed like a long while later, Flora felt her anus and her vagina become her own again. A moment later, she heard water running somewhere, then she was being wiped, very gently, with a cooling damp cloth, and all her stickiness and sweat cleansed away. “There, that’s better,” said Morwenna, “Now lift your bottom, and let me sponge the underneath of you... Your such a juicy girl, it’s all run down your crack.” Floating, in a daze of contentment, Flora obeyed, then froze in horror as she heard the door being opened. “Everything all right, my—” began a deep, cultured voice, only to stop short in a gasp of admiration. “Oh, my dears, my dears, what a beautiful sight. Please forgive me for interrupting you. I’d better go.” “What is it, Robert?” asked Morwenna imperturbably, continuing with her wiping. Reluctantly Flora opened her eyes. Robert Carfax—in the doorway—was staring directly at her vulva, his face the epitome of male longing. Morwenna’s husband was good-looking in an odd sort of way. His complexion was pallid, and his face rather long, and his brown hair was combed straight back from his forehead. But it was his eyes that made Flora almost forget her predicament. They were a light golden-brown, almost yellow, and they seemed to burn in his face like molten sovereigns.

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“It’s your pies, Wenna,” he said, his voice almost robotic in his obvious distraction. “I took them out and set them to cool in the larder...” “Thank you, my darling,” said Morwenna, turning to smile at him, “I knew I could rely on you... You’re a treasure.” She continued her careful cleansing of Flora’s crotch. “I’ll go... Before I—” He paused, looked boyish and confused. “I’ll see you later, my love.” His remarkable eyes held Flora’s for a second, then he nodded politely, murmured, “Miss Swain...” and left. “Oh God!” cried Flora, turning away and burying her face in the chair arm, her mortification total. Against her will, hot tears began to flow... “There there...” said Morwenna, kneeling up and taking Flora in her arms. Morwenna’s gentle, naked warmth only made Flora sob harder. She hadn’t realised the tension had been building. Sex; the move; her doubts; the letter; Declan; sex again. She’d believed that country living would relax her, but the very opposite was proving to be the case. She was a wound up mass of confusion and turmoil and the relief of weeping was almost as blissful as her orgasm. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually such a ninny,” she said at length, regaining a little of her composure, “It’s just I’m not used to...to all this!” She gestured vaguely, indicating her exposure, Morwenna’s nakedness, and the reverberations of their pleasure all around them. “Don’t worry, you soon will be,” said Morwenna, releasing Flora, then reaching out to pour more wine. She seemed completely at ease playing ‘mine hostess’ au naturel, and Flora got the distinct impression that it was something she did quite often, serving up herself as well as wine and delicious food. “What do you mean, Morwenna?” Flora asked, taking her first, much-needed sip. “Marwick Magna has an effect on people, Flora.” Morwenna slanted her a mysterious, sideways glance. “They tend to lose their inhibitions... Open their minds. The get the urge to try new things...” She turned now, licking droplet of wine from her lips. “Sexual things, usually,” she finished, smiling. “Everyone?” “Well, not every single person... But most. Some of the least expected people have turned into libertines.” “Why? Why does it happen?” Flora was intrigued now, thinking of the sheer volume of

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sexual thoughts she’d had since she’d arrived. “Some say it’s in the water,” replied Morwenna, “A particular combination of minerals. Most of the piped water in the immediate area comes from the local water table.” She drank a little wine, then glanced across at her workbench and her herbs, “Or it could be all the wild herbs growing in these environs. A lot of people use them in cookery. I certainly do.” Flora thought of the deliciously pungent casserole she’d consumed. The lovely flan just now. The very wine she was drinking. If it was the herbs, no wonder she was being affected. “Or it could be magic,” said Morwenna, her voice vibrant as she turned to face Flora, “The village is founded on a pagan temple site... A holy place. They practised fertility rituals here in the druidic age, and they were powerful spells, Flora. Such things have a way of lingering on, even in such modern, technological times as ours.” Good grief, she really believes it! thought Flora. Morwenna’s lips were parted, and her eyes were brilliant. Flora almost expected the other woman’s lustrous dark hair to rise and float in the air, and her fingers to give off silver sparks of energy. Was her new friend a white witch, Flora wondered. And suddenly she had an idea. “This specialness about the village, this eroticism,” she asked, leaning out of the chair to reach for her bag, “Could it have anything to do with this?” She fished out the letter in its cream laid envelope, “It was with my post this morning. It’s unstamped though, so somebody in the village must’ve been around and left it.” She passed it across to Morwenna. “Oh my!” cried Morwenna after a moment, “Oh how absolutely delicious!” She licked her lips again, tracing a fingertip along the printed words, “You lucky thing... You’ve found yourself an admirer already!” Another strange thought struck Flora. Is it you, Morwenna? she asked silently. Are you a writer—and an actress—as well as a witch? “I thought at first it was from Declan,” she said instead, “But then I realised not...for obvious reasons.” Why was it so difficult to mention that problem? Morwenna made a delicate nod of assent, as if she too found it difficult to mention her handsome friend’s plight. “It could be anybody,” she murmured, clearly engrossed in re-reading. Flora noticed that her hand had strayed towards her crotch, “It’s typical of Marwick Magna... Billets doux.

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Sudden affairs... Grandes amours... Like I said, someone’s always falling in lust with someone here.” She looked up, “And if this is the kind of response you inspire, Flora, it’s quite obvious you’re going to fit in very nicely...”

Morwenna grinned, from the window, as she watched Flora Swain walk away down the path, carrying a bottle of wine and a savoury pie in a cardboard box. The girl was delightful, and obviously game—after her first shyness—to plunge in and live Marwick’s strange life. Even though she knew that both the pie and the wine were full of local ‘influence’, Flora had accepted both gifts with evident relish. But what about ‘The Scribe’? thought Morwenna, feeling mischievous. Will she respond to future overtures there just as eagerly? Morwenna suspected that the answer would be ‘yes’. She remembered Flora’s cries of pleasure when she’d let herself be caressed just now. And the girl had even begun responding to the goodbye kiss they’d just shared. Morwenna had been reluctant to let her go, but had given the excuse of more baking to be done, so she didn’t take the girl too far, too fast. “I can wait, Flora my flower,” she whispered, reaching down to touch her vulva through her dress. “Because you’re going to be the very devil of a lover when you’re ready...” “And you, my dear, are the very devil of a lover right now!” said a quiet, amused voice from just behind her.

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Chapter Four Penitence...and More Scribblings

Morwenna spun around and found Robert standing a few feet away from her. She wasn’t surprised that he’d come so close to her unnoticed; his light tread made moving stealthily quite easy. “You’re spying on me again!” she said, mock accusingly. “Someone has to,” he answered, his face mild, his golden eyes intent, “Because otherwise, I don’t know what you’d do.” “I haven’t done anything wrong!” proclaimed Morwenna, enjoying the opening sallies of a game they played often and with pleasure. “Morwenna, you’re outrageous.” He ignored her protest and took her firmly by the arm, “A young woman comes to this house in all innocence, and almost immediately you corrupt her. When will you ever learn to control yourself, woman? You’re an indecent, insatiable predator.” “But you saw her, didn’t you? She is delectable...” She reached out with her free hand, and before Robert could restrain her she touched her fingers to his crotch. To her satisfaction, he was almost erect. “I couldn’t help but see her, Wenna,” said Robert, knocking her hand away, “You’d half stripped her. Now stop this immediately and stand still.” Morwenna had put her dress on again, to see Flora to the door, but beneath it her body began to simmer. Robert’s cool, quiet voice made her nipples rise and pucker and a little river of warm juice filled her quim. She cast her eyes down, to hide her helpless, melting love. “You’re a wicked woman, Morwenna,” Robert observed, maintaining his role, “And undisciplined. Are you going to try and behave yourself for me in future?” “Yes, Robert,” she said quietly, pleating the muslin of her skirt between her hot, restless fingers. It was either that or press them hard against her sex. She adored Robert when he was stern and magisterial; when he acted like a long-suffering uncle. He was only, in actual fact, a

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few years older than she was, but he could play the strict guardian to perfection. “I think, my dear, that as you are so keen to expose young women’s genitals all the time, you should try the experience for yourself.” He looked at her steadily, “Lift your skirt up, Morwenna. Let me see you.” Morwenna blushed beneath her tan, knowing the reaction was ridiculous. A few minutes ago she’d been naked, and happy to be so, but to raise her skirt now was an act of submission. With nervous fingers, she bunched the cloth and pulled it upwards. “Back and front,” instructed Robert quietly. “I think we’ll have your bottom on show as well.” Morwenna obeyed, closing her eyes as waves of lust tumbled through her. Unable to stop herself, she rubbed her trembling thighs together, feeling a little squelch from all the fluid in her vulva. “I’d stop that if I were you,” said Robert, narrowing his eyes. Turning away, he began to walk away down the corridor, “Come along, Wenna, we’re going to my study where I can work and still keep an eye on you. I don’t want any more mischief from you today.” Morwenna could hardly keep herself from groaning as she walked. In a few moments she’d gone from lazy relaxation to intense almost painful arousal. Her engorged sex seemed to bounce with each step, and her swollen nipples were dark and prominent beneath her dress. She wanted to pull them and tweak them as she’d done whilst teasing Flora; she wanted to twist them ‘til she couldn’t help but come. Robert’s office was as elegant and orderly as hers was chaotic, and she could see he was in the middle of a project. A document was still active on the screen of his computer, and several reference books lay open beside the keyboard. Robert was so much more erudite and scholarly than she was, but to Morwenna that only added to his sexiness. She stood quivering and half naked in the room’s exact centre, waiting excitedly while he decided what to do with her... “Well, for a start you can stand in the corner with your hands on your head,” he said, his voice sounding a little bit edgy. Morwenna suspected that he was more aroused at this stage than he wanted to be, and he was cross with himself for his lack of self control. “What about my skirt?” she asked in a small voice. “Let me worry about that,” he replied crisply.

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Morwenna moved to the corner of the room, wondering whether to face the wall, or look out towards Robert. Which would he want to see today? Her lush pubis, or her full, curvaceous rear? She took a chance and presented her naked crotch. Robert opened a drawer in his desk, and took out a number of small metal items, then walked across to her and grasped her filmy skirt. Working silently and neatly, as he did in all things, he pinned the thin cloth in folds at waist level—using safety pins—and left her vulva and her bottom completely nude. “There, that’ll teach you to uncover your guests,” he said, then reached for two other things he’d placed on the sideboard adjacent to her position. Opening the low buttoned neckline of her dress, he eased out a breast and flicked his thumb across its nipple, then caught the tip of it in a tiny silver clamp. Morwenna groaned and wove her hips. “Morwenna!” Robert warned, then drew out the other breast and clamped its nipple too. It was so difficult to control her responses. The clamps were two points of bright fire that were connected directly to her clitoris, and the pain made her throb desperately with desire. She twisted her fingers where they were laced above her head. Robert turned on his heel and walked away from her, his dark-clad line of his back a pure challenge. “Now be quiet, stay still and behave yourself,” he said, checking his monitor, “I want no nonsense from you... I need to work.” Morwenna bit her lips, longing for him. Robert! she cried out inside, as he sat down and began to work. His profile was so elegant, and his skin so smooth and pale... Even the movements of his fingers were evocative. She thought of this morning when they’d caressed her burning core. Slipping into a near trance-like state, she thought of other ways she might yield to the man she loved. She saw herself walking behind Robert through the centre of the village, paraded just as she was now, her body bared and clamped. Her friends would stare at her, point and call out, revel in her shame and her exposure. The thought was so delicious it made her shudder. Feeling her sex pulse, she let her mind enhance the picture. Hanging weights had been attached to tiny rings on the nipple clamps, and gravity

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added another layer of torment. She was clamped in other places too; a pair of swinging pendants were pulling heavily on her labia. “Morwenna,” said Robert softly, not pausing in his typing. Morwenna froze, realising her vision had overcome her and she’d been slowly moving her hips in little circles. “I don’t want to have to tell you again,” he continued, still not turning. The words were authoritarian, but beneath them Morwenna heard his laughter. Her clever, handsome spouse was having fun. Returning to her fantasy, Morwenna added more refinements. In addition to being weighted, there were also objects in both her orifices: front and rear. She bit back on another moan as she almost felt them. In her vagina would be a long, penis-like dildo; it would be thick and pale and ingeniously ridged, and its protruding end would show up plainly against her bush. It would be held firmly in place by a thin white cord that ran lengthways along her sex and this, in turn, would be tied to a leather belt around her waist. The intrusion in her bottom would be enormous and she would feel its hideous presence with every step. It would make her walk awkward, vaguely duck-like and ungainly, and it too would protrude visibly from her body. You’re sick, Morwenna Carfax, she told herself, rolling her pelvis despite Robert’s last injunction. The vision of being exhibited was a powerful one, and the more shaming she could make it, the better it was. Combining this with fantasies of being filled and stretched by inanimate rubber objects—especially in her bottom—was almost enough to make her climax from thought alone. Oh Morwenna, don’t do this! she begged, but once her mind was set in motion she was helpless. Closing her eyes, she pictured a scene that’d really taken place, about a month ago, when Robert had surprised her daydreaming in the kitchen. She’d had a delivery of vegetables, from Patrice at Green Ridge Farm, and a bunch of carrots had been particularly evocative. They were from a beautiful early crop, all thick gold-red and succulent, and though they’d been scrubbed clean they still retained their long green tops. “What on earth are you doing, Wenna,” Robert had enquired, coming up behind her

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and sliding his hands round to cup her breasts. “Declan’s here and we’re both waiting for our lunch.” “Just daydreaming,” she’d answered, catching her breath as his thumbs found her nipples. “It’s these carrots of Patrice’s, they’ve rather got me going...” “I can see that,” murmured Robert, laughing. Her nipples were up like corks beneath her T-shirt. “I expect you were thinking of what Patrice probably does with them...” Morwenna looked down at one particularly sturdy orange vegetable, with its feathery bright green leaves, and imagined the purpose that her friend the farmer might put it too. Patrice was predominantly lesbian, and consequently eschewed the male appendage, but she still had plenty of use for phallic objects. “I was,” she whispered, loving the strum of her husband’s fingers across her breasts. “I was just wondering whether to put one inside me...” She paused, pushing back with her bottom and feeling Robert’s erection nudge her through his chinos. “I thought I might fuck myself with it, and to hell with you and Declan and your lunch!” “You filthy woman,” growled Robert, pushing his penis hard against her crack. His hands gripped her breast-flesh and squeezed. “I’ll show you what to do with your carrot...” His hips rotated and his bulge caressed her cheeks. Morwenna was gasping by the time he released her, then pushed her forward, face down across the work top. “What about your meal, Robert? What about Declan?” she protested, caring nothing for cooking or guests. Her husband was pulling down her leggings now, and bringing the gstring beneath down with them. In a couple of seconds, her rump was naked in the sunlit air. “Food can wait,” replied Robert curtly, his usually soft voice harsh and shaky. Will he beat me, wondered Morwenna dreamily, then saw her husband’s pale fingertips linger on the carrot. Oh, lovely! she thought, wiggling her bottom. “So you like carrots, do you?” Robert murmured, ominously, searching around on the melamine surface with one hand, whilst with the other, he pinched her rounded cheeks. “Well, you shall have one, my dear. In just a moment... And you’re going to have it in a place you won’t forget!” Morwenna squirmed a little, feeling her clitoris twitch and her vulva grow wet. Robert made a small noise of satisfaction—clearly finding whatever it was he was seeking—and in a

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moment, he had both hands on her bottom. One opening her, one rubbing a slippery substance against her hole. “Touch yourself, Wenna,” he commanded, continuing to smear her, and as he applied more and more of what she now deduced was butter. “Oh, Robert, no!” she whimpered, pressing her finger to her clitoris and swivelling it skilfully, as her husband packed melting grease inside her rectum. “Oh Robert, yes!” he told her, and then paused, reaching out again. “Keep touching, Wenna... I want an orgasm from you while I do this.” Something firm and rather cool made contact with her anus, and after an instant began sliding through her sphincter. Morwenna keened at the insulting violation, but nevertheless obeyed Robert’s dictum, caressing her tiny button as the carrot made its entrance. Its very gradual entrance, she realised in desperation. Her beloved husband was trying his best to drive her mad! Inch by painstaking inch, the chunky vegetable slid into her, stretching the delicately sensitive ring as it did so. Morwenna was almost at screaming point by the time Robert had finished, and her innards were alive with wild sensation. “What, no orgasm?” he asked finally, as Morwenna’s thighs quivered with the hot, internal stresses. “I’m disappointed... We’d better put that right now then, hadn’t we?” With no further ado, her reached around beneath her belly, and masturbated her roughly until she shouted. “Oh God! Oh yes, Robbie, yes!” she wailed, her buttocks jerking as the lovely spasms gripped her, making the carrot top dance and bob between her cheeks. “At the risk of sounding clichéd—” said a soft American voice from the doorway, “Is this a private party or can anyone join in?” Morwenna’s orgasm soared up to another level, and Robert’s fingertip continued its wicked work. The pleasure was insupportable—she thought her heart would stop there and then—and the shame was so profound she almost wet herself. Declan, her handsome friend—and also, sometimes, lover—was watching her being brought off with a carrot stuck in her bum. She could hardly bear to think what she must look like. “Morwenna, would you like to tell me exactly what you think you’re doing?” Robert’s soft, even voice brought Morwenna spinning out of fantasy, and suddenly she realised she’d disobeyed him. Her dreams of the kitchen and the carrot had got the better of

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her, and her hands were no longer laced together above her head. One was at her breast, tugging on the nipple clip and the other was hard at work between her legs. “I ought to beat you,” said Robert, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he reached out to dash her hands from her body, “But I know someone who’ll do that particular task far better.’ He paused, then took her right wrist and drew her sticky fingers to his lips. He sucked them briefly. “Mmm...” He reached down and put his hand where hers had been. “I think it’s time we arranged a little session with Crispin, don’t you? You’ve been rather undisciplined of late.” Morwenna’s quim rippled as her husband began to stroke it; fired by his actions—but also by what he’d said. A visit to see the delightfully unremitting Lord Rawnsley was exactly what she needed, but even so she feared greatly for her bottom. Crispin’s hands might be refined and aristocratic, but his arm had all the strength of a navvy’s. After her last visit the marks had stayed for days... “Well?” prompted Robert, his finger on her clitoris, “Don’t you agree? That it’s time to seek His Lordship’s special skills?” “Yes, Robert,” she said meekly, then began to jerk, her knees almost buckling, “Oh yes, Robert! Yes! Yes! Yes!” she wailed, her quim pulsing as she fell against her husband, and felt his powerful arm support her as she came.

Flora spent the rest of the day in semi-shock after she returned from Morwenna’s. Although it’d seemed the only thing to do at the time, her tryst with beautiful herbalist still alarmed her. The full truth of her sexuality took some accepting—and she had to adjust now, to liking women as well as men. Having run a bath when she returned to the cottage, Flora found that after a long period of abstraction, she’d let it go stone cold. Letting the water swirl away, she wondered if there hadn’t been method in her madness. Perhaps she didn’t want to wash the last traces of Morwenna off her? Maybe it was a subconscious way of clinging to her memories? Too restless to draw, to read or to sleep, Flora set off for a walk around the village. Some hours later, she found herself home again, without even really remembering where

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she’d been. She knew she’d met some people; said “hello” and even chatted with a few of them, but the only face she could conjure up was Morwenna’s. The only aura that of her bewitching new friend... It’s true. She really is a witch, thought Flora that night, in her last conscious moment before falling asleep.

The next morning it was the sound of letters dropping onto the mat that woke Flora, and a part of her wanted to race down and see if ‘The Scribe’ had delivered too. The other part of her, however, wanted to remain, warm and sleepy, between the sheets. She’d had a second strange night, with the same sort of dreams, but new images had joined the existing phantasmagoria. In one particularly inflammatory sequence, she’d been back on the village green, and naked again, while both the motorcyclist and Morwenna caressed her. As Flora examined the fragments of this vision, another fact surfaced from her memory. She remembered waking up at some time in the night, and actually hearing the rasping roar of a powerful motorcycle. It was almost as if her mind had made reality out of fantasy. It’d only been the deepest extremes of fatigue that had prevented her from getting out of bed, and looking out of the window, to see if she was imagining things... Did ‘The Scribe’ ride a motorbike and dress in black leather? Flora wondered. Or could it be Morwenna who’d written the raunchy letter? Lingering in bed, Flora imagined that lush, tanned body lying beside her. There was no doubt that Morwenna Carfax was a sensualist of the highest order, and might be that she liked playing word-games as well as games with bodies. And there had been a computer and printer in Morwenna’s workroom. She could easily have written and printed the letter, because even though the content had been detailed and blatant, there had been no concrete indication of ‘The Scribe’s’ gender. Naked and still a little drowsy, Flora rose from her bed. She had to face the post—and possibly ‘The Scribe’—eventually, and having decided to do so, she wanted to act on the decision. Without stopping for a robe, she hurried downstairs. Descending the old stairs with the sunlight pouring in on her, she was suddenly aware of the way her bare breasts were bouncing, and the faint odour of musk on her body.

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There were several things on the mat, but even before she reached them she could see that the bottom-most was a long, cream envelope. Trembling all over, she reached down to pick up the sheaf of mail, then with a supreme effort, she chose an innocuous item first. It was a flyer—one of several—extolling the virtues of a local farm’s produce. The next chit announced a community nature ramble, and the one beneath that advertised the services of one Jack Walters—handyman, carpenter and plumber—who lived in the village and was on call twenty four hours a day. Flora suddenly found herself smiling at this, thinking that with Declan, Morwenna, and the mysterious ‘Scribe’ all showing interest, she didn’t need anyone else to give her ‘service’. “Get real, Swain,” she chided, opening an attractively printed brochure describing a local arts and crafts shop. Reading the brochure brought back a memory from her ‘lost’ afternoon yesterday. She recalled standing before ‘Treasure Trove’ and feeling a faint and rather detached sense of curiosity. The literature announced ‘Art - Images - Books - Everything for the Creative Persuasion’, and Flora wondered, now, how such a specialist outlet could survive in a tiny village like Marwick. And yet now, as her recall became clearer, she remembered seeing customers in the shop, quite a number of them in fact, and a general air of brightness and prosperity. The brochure itself informed her of a mail order service, and contained fulsome quotes from several satisfied customers. I’ll go there, thought Flora, suddenly receiving another memory fragment, the image of a rather beautiful young woman who’d been standing behind ‘Treasure Trove’s’ counter. The girl had obviously been the proprietor, or manageress perhaps, and had been rather striking in a prim sort of way. Flora resurrected an impression of spectacles, a white collar, and an Alice band, and a chin length bob of very shiny nut-brown hair. Dear God, I’m not fancying her now too, am I? she thought, shocked by how clear the picture was. Giving her mind free rein, she imagined going into the shop, flirting with the brown-haired girl, then retiring to a convenient stockroom for some privacy. The idea seemed so natural to her, so free, and so perfectly normal, that it seemed that what Morwenna said was right. The village of Marwick Magna made one randy... “Goddamnit, this is crazy!” Flora muttered, opening the next envelope and sliding out a gilt-edged white card.

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Sir Crispin and Lady Amelia Rawnsley request the presence of Miss Flora Swain to afternoon tea, it was inscribed, and then was followed by a date—the day after tomorrow—a time she should arrive - four thirty - with RSVP and a phone number at the bottom. Flora fingered the golden edge of the card, feeling amused at receiving invitations from ‘the gentry’. Are they sex mad too? she wondered, then imagined a silver-haired Sir Crispin with a prominent erection, chasing a parlour maid around an oak-panelled library. “Crazy!” repeated Flora, throwing the rest of the mail on the tiny table beside the door, and applying her fingernail to the flap of the final envelope. I’ll read this stupid thing, and then I’m going to ignore sex for the rest of the day. I’ll get my gear out and I’ll make a start on some drawing! The letter was printed on the same cream paper as before, and the envelope bore the same little flower. The content was in a similar same vein too... Hello Wild Flower, it began. How do you like our special village? Are you making friends yet? What do you think of the beautiful Mrs Carfax? So, whoever it was knew where she’d been yesterday. Isn’t she luscious? the letter continued. Isn’t she desirable? Aren’t her breasts the most sublime you’ve ever seen? I can just imagine the two of you together, Flora. Your hands upon her body, your fingers in her every fold and crevice, sampling her lushness, her sweat and her juices... Did you lick her, Flora? Did you put your tongue into her pussy and drink her nectar? I would have done... But then again, I’ve already told you what I like. What I’d like to do to your body, pretty Wild Flower... I’d like to see you on a velvet couch, my beauty, with your long legs spread as widely as they’ll go... I’d like to watch a dozen lovers service you one after the other, until your vulva is so aroused its almost painful, and your whole crevice is awash with silky come... I want to push things into you, Wild Flower. Fill both your channels until you’re stretched to capacity, then stroke your clitoris with a feather until you climax. I want to see your juices flowing uncontrollably, and your lovely flesh in spasm around the intrusions... You’ve got me so hot, Flora, just thinking about all that... I feel as if I’m going to explode. One touch from you and I’d be in paradise for hours. I need your hands, Wild Flower, and the gentle touch of your rosy-coloured mouth. I’d like you to sit on my face now, all sticky and stark naked, and ride my tongue until you’ve come a dozen

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times... Oh no, my gorgeous Flora, I’ve gone and done it again. I’ll have to deal with myself to get rid of what you’ve caused... Until next time then, my luscious little Wild Flower... but think of this. All day long, I’ll be dreaming that I’m touching you... So why don’t you dream that you’ve got my hand touching you? “You’re disgusting!” Flora told the absent ‘Scribe’, running her fingertip across the printed nom de plume. She didn’t even feel irritated this time, just amused and turned on by the purple prose. Her intention to avoid sex lay in tatters... Who the Devil are you? she asked silently, re-reading the letter, this time more carefully. Just because Morwenna was mentioned in the message, it didn’t preclude her from having sent it. This was clearly a game that was being enacted here, and it was obvious that Mrs Carfax loved to play... Looking down at her nude body, Flora realised that somewhere in the course of reading the letter, she’d shifted her position. Her thighs were spread, and her swollen sex was gaping. Experimentally, she slipped a hand into her quim and found herself wet and running, as ‘The Scribe’s’ explicit letter had described. Am I going to do it? she asked herself, her fingers tingling in readiness. Here. On the doormat. Where anyone might find me? What if I have a visitor? They’ll just knock and enter... This is the country, and people don’t stand on ceremony. Without answering her own questions she began to rub herself. Working her clitoris rhythmically, she swirled it round and round like a tender little bead. She bent her knees, and opened herself more, thinking of the way Morwenna had performed yesterday; then after a few strokes, she slid her left hand down behind her, and started tickling her anal entrance with one finger. Flora had never felt so depraved, yet so liberated in her life. She was naked and masturbating in her hall in broad daylight, stimulating both her sex and her bottom with no embarrassment. After a few moments, she cried out joyfully as she came. The pleasure seemed to energise her, and feeling light and vigorous, and eager to begin her day, Flora abandoned her mail, and ran upstairs to wash and dress. Thinking of her shoulders, and Declan’s dire warnings, Flora chose a voluminous cotton top in a shade of terracotta, with a tie-dyed skirt that sported the same earthy colours.

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My ‘country clothes’, she thought wryly, doing a twirl and feeling the skirt lift and billow. She’d treated herself to a whole new wardrobe of such loose, light garments, now that she no longer had to ‘power dress’ for the bank. After breakfast, she felt, for the first time since she’d arrived, a real and intense urge to start drawing. Her fingers seemed to itch for a pencil or a stick of conté, and her mind was full of the images she’d create with them. When she’d collected all her materials, she strode out into the garden, towards a little arbour which backed onto the meadow wall. Flora had marked out this particular spot, the minute she’d arrived at Pennyroyal Cottage. At this time of day, the light was perfectly slanted towards the bench that stood beneath the rose strewn arch, and the scent of the flowers that surrounded it was heavenly. Opening a brand new A3 pad, Flora smiled, breathed in, then started drawing. Though she desperately wanted to believe in herself, Flora had always been terrified she was little more than a copyist. This fear was the main reason she’d come to the country; it was a chance to find herself and discover whether she really had a talent. But this morning, however, her doubts were rendered groundless... From the first moment she put crayon to the paper, she felt inspired. Describing one curve, then another and another and another, Flora suddenly realised she was drawing a picture of Morwenna. A naked Morwenna in the stance she’d assumed yesterday; when she’d stood before Flora, in her workroom, and rubbed her vulva. Concentrating intently on the image she was creating, Flora soon realised there was an element of herself in it too. It reminded her of what had happened on the doormat, a little while ago. The figure was more robust-looking than she was though, more pagan. It was a bold expression of every woman at her pleasure, and just to look at it evoked a wonderful feeling of triumph. It was original, it was outrageous...and it was good! Finishing ‘Morwenna’, Flora quickly fixed it, and began a new piece. This time it was a male torso sprang onto the page; another nude, and once again, familiar. Good grief, I can do this! thought Flora with elation as the image of a naked Declan came into being. Working in broad, unhesitating strokes, she exaggerated his musculature a little, and made his penis rampant—although memory told her that he didn’t need much enhancement! She could still feel his hardness, and feel his semen on her fingers. After ‘Declan’ came a series of several other quick drawings, though this time the

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figures were anonymous. Each one was naked, or partially so, and each had a powerful sexual element. They were nothing at all like the rather static life drawings she’d done at her art class; these were dynamic and full of energy and identification. There was something real, from her own persona, in every one. I can do this, she thought again, seeing a sudden glimmer of purpose for her future. Maybe she could specialise? It was a long shot, but there might be a market, out there somewhere, for erotic drawings. Fixing yet another, she started immediately on the next... So absorbed was Flora in her work, that when a shadow fell across her page, she squeaked in shock. The crayon in her fingers jagged crazily across paper, and the stretched out limb of reclining man went wildly awry. “I’m sorry,” said Declan McKenna, looming over her, “Until I frightened you, what you were doing was pretty good.”

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Chapter Five Sun and Roses

“Yes, I thought so too!” snapped Flora, looking up at him, and shielding her eyes against the sun. “Thank you very much, Declan... It would have been the best I’ve done so far.” She was on the defensive, and she knew it, but she wasn’t quite sure how to ‘be’ with him. They weren’t lovers; they weren’t even friends yet; but they’d been intimate in a way she couldn’t ignore. Had he come to repay her for his pleasure? Declan McKenna had clothes on today; if cut-off denims and a tattered vest could be classed as such. His slightly long dark hair was slick and wet from a recent shower, and his tanned feet were devoid of all footwear. Which was probably why she hadn’t heard him sneak up on her. “May I?” he asked squatting down to lift her sheaf of drawings where they lay on the flagstones. His muscular thighs flexed as his body dipped gracefully, and his washed-out shorts moulded faithfully to his crotch. Even with his clothes on he looked positively indecent. “Be my guest,” she replied, feeling nervous. This man was an eminence in the world of art, a genius with a precocious natural talent. She prayed that he’d be both honest—and kind. She’d wanted his advice. She’d even—and she admitted it now—taken this cottage with the hopes of getting it. But at the moment of truth she was scared. “Hutch up,” said Declan, straightening again, and taking a step closer. When she hesitated, he nodded towards the bench. “There’s room for two... Let me sit down and I’ll give you my opinion.” His face was straight, but she sensed an inner Declan laughing. She slid along the seat with a small, nervous frown. Declan was silent for a long, long time, and during all of it, Flora wanted to scream. He hates them, she thought. He thinks I’m a dilettante. A naïf... He’ll tell me I’m wasting my time, and that I should clear off to where I came from! “They’re pretty hot, Flora,’ he said at length, his eyes serious behind the glint of his

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glasses, “You’ve got a nice gutsy style... I like it.” “You’re not just saying that are you?” Flora felt both suspicious and excited at once. “Because... Well... Because of what happened?” For a moment, she imagined she was holding his penis again and hearing his cry of male pleasure. Was he humouring her because he’d made her touch him? Declan laughed softly. “No, I’m not just saying that because you jerked me off. I really do like your stuff...” He paused, then cocked an appraising eye at the drawing on top of the pile. “Although I can see a few ways to improve it... Can I show you?” “Oh, yes, please do!” said Flora eagerly, her heart swelling with a rush of giddy joy. For a moment, all thoughts of flesh and sex were forgotten. The great Declan McKenna was going to help her; and he’d said that her drawings had potential. The alterations were really quite subtle. A line adjusted here; a shading deepened there; a curved area that should be smudged and not hatched. “Now this is great—” he said, taking the conté to the sketch Flora had considered her best. “—but don’t be scared of it. Morwenna has terrific breasts, you might as well exaggerate a bit here... And here. Go for impact. Make her really voluptuous...” He accentuated first one set of curves, then another, “And the same with her hips. Make her an earth mother... Do you see?” Flora did see, and for a moment, she was back in her new friend’s cluttered, herbscented workroom. She looked up to find Declan watching her closely. “Hey! You sly little thing!” His eyes were twinkling dangerously, “This’s from memory, isn’t it?” He touched a finger to the white of the page. “You really have seen Morwenna naked...” Flora blushed. “Go on... Admit it,” he went on, his grin triumphant. Flora said nothing. The more she tried not to think about herself with Morwenna, the less she was able to avoid it, and the memory of their pleasure made her quiver. “She seduced you, didn’t she?” asked Declan more gently, setting sketch-pad aside, and blowing the conté dust from his fingers. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. She’s beautiful, and you’re beautiful... Why shouldn’t you get together?” “But she’s a woman,” protested Flora, knowing her objection was meaningless. She’d

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felt desire for Morwenna; it was a fact. “So?” said Declan, still smiling, “In this screwy place—” He gestured expansively, to encompass the whole of Marwick Magna, “—two girls getting it on is pretty normal... Some of the things I’ve seen would make your hair curl.” Despite her embarrassment, Flora was interested. Declan was a sexy man, who seemed to have few inhibitions. What on earth would it take to shock him? “So?” he persisted again, “Did you get it on with the witch lady?” “Is she a witch?” “Flora, honey, put me out of my misery!” he pleaded, “All this speculation is making me horny!” Without warning, he took her hand and pressed it against him. “Y... Yes, we...did some things...” Flora stammered, not knowing which bothered her most: her own admission or the hard bulge beneath her fingers. “And it was your first time with a woman, right?” he prompted, his hidden penis seeming to leap as he spoke. “Yes.” “How was it? Did you like it?” His voice was changing now, getting gruffer, more urgent. “Did you come?” Flora let out a tiny moan, feeling her sex react, as if his words had caressed it. Between her legs, her thin pants were filled with juice. “Flora!” “Yes, all right! I came! And it was fabulous!” she cried passionately, admitting the truth. “And if Morwenna was here now, I’d do it again. Even if you were watching!” “Lord have mercy, Flora, do you know what you’re saying?” Declan slumped back in the seat as if she’d punched him. “What you’re describing is every man’s fantasy. Two beautiful women making love to each other... You’ve got me so turned on now I’m in agony.” His eyes, which had been closed, snapped open, “Are you going have pity on me?” He grinned. “Again?” Flora was about to refuse angrily and snatch back her hand when suddenly a sly voice spoke up inside her. Her own voice, but sounding subversively different. Don’t be a fool, Flora, it said. He’s gorgeous. He’s intelligent. And he’s available. Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. She let her fingers press down a little harder.

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“I might,” she said, meeting his look and holding it without blinking. Declan’s reply was to reach out, cup her jaw in his fingers, and draw her face, and her lips, towards his. When their mouths touched, Declan’s opened immediately, and his tongue probed imperiously for entrance. Flora was so surprised by the force of it that she let her own lips part to accept him, enjoying the sweet minty taste of his breath. She felt his penis jerk again beneath her fingers, as if her acquiescence had further excited him, and she squeezed him lightly, acknowledging the reaction, then fought back with her own tongue to challenge his. The kiss, and the smell of roses made Flora’s head spin. The pressure on her lips was so intense it almost bruised her, and Declan’s tongue intent on subduing her. The way he first penetrated and pushed, then licked and cajoled was a self-contained sex act in itself. At her core, her vagina began to shudder. “Flora?” he queried softly, as at last he drew away and freed her mouth. The question in his voice made Flora’s mind up. If he’d simply gone ahead, full of masculine arrogance, she would have balked. But he didn’t. He was just the slightest bit unsure of himself, she sensed, and this hint of vulnerability excited her. Removing her hand from his crotch, she tried to stand. “Shall we go inside?” she asked, trying to project confidence as she made an effort to struggle free of him. Declan grabbed her hand again, his moment of doubt clearly past. “No, let’s stay here,” he said, his eyes dark and fiery, “We’ve got the sun and the roses, it’s perfect...” Gentle but firm, he pulled her down onto his lap. “You mean... Outside?” faltered Flora, torn between misgivings and temptation. “But what if somebody comes?” “Well, for my part, I’m banking on coming...” Declan chuckled softly, plucking at the hem of her skirt, “And I’ll do my level best to make sure you do too. At least once...” “No, I mean a visitor, you idiot,” replied Flora, tensing. Declan’s hand was already well on its way up her thigh now, moving slowly across her feverishly-warm skin. “Don’t get uptight. You’re perfectly decent,” said Declan airily, letting her skirt drift down again to cover his searching hand. Once hidden, his fingers surged higher, pushing quickly beneath the piqué leg of her panties.

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“Declan! Please! No!” she whimpered, as one finger tickled the curls of her pubis. “Declan! Please! Yes!” he mocked, then covered her mouth with own to keep her quiet. This time the kiss was twice as stirring; because each tongue movement was echoed down below. Every time he darted and swirled against her palate and her teeth, his fingertip circled wickedly in her juiciness. She felt him ever-so-delicately bite her tongue, and at the same time, draw back the hood of her clitoris, exposing the tender little bud that lay beneath. He pressed with one finger to keep the tiny thing uncovered, while his thumb settled on it, then rotated. “Oh God,” groaned Flora, her voice muffled by Declan’s tongue, while her vulva seemed to vibrate in a fierce climax. Her legs waved, her feet kicked and danced in mid-air, and her bottom gyrated against Declan’s crotch. “Easy! Take it easy!” hissed Declan, lifting his mouth away from hers, and grabbing her firmly around the middle with his free hand. “Keep still or you’ll have me coming in my pants.” Flora didn’t care. She couldn’t. She felt like a feather afloat on a high wave of pleasure, and she could no sooner keep still than she could keep herself from breathing. Moaning and gasping, she continued to jerk and squirm. “That’s it! I can’t take any more of this!” said Declan, half laughing and half gasping himself. With an abruptness that was shocking, he withdrew his rubbing fingers, and pushed Flora upwards to set her on her feet. “Stand a minute,” he ordered tersely. Swaying, Flora found herself facing out into the calm beauty of the garden, while between her legs a tempest still raged. Too excited to be angry, she clapped her own hand against her pussy, and continued where Declan had left off. Behind her, she heard the harsh rasp of a zip. “I’m sorry, honey,” murmured Declan, and Flora felt his hands join hers beneath her skirt. In a flash he was working on her flimsy, juice-soaked panties, and then letting them slither downward towards her ankles, “But I want to come inside you, not my shorts.” He gripped her hips, let her step out of her knickers, and began guiding her. “Now settle down on me and we’ll both get what we want...” Something hard, yet warm and velvety, bumped blindly against her buttocks, smearing silky fluid along the crease where they joined her thighs. She could feel every detail of the tip

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of him, as it sought its destination, as if her skin had suddenly been endowed with extra nerve-ends. Her wet centre seemed to flutter in invitation. “Guide me,” Declan gasped, his fingers digging into her hipbones, “Put me into you, sweet Flora... Use your fingers.” Reaching around beneath the bunched folds of her skirt, Flora groped for what she could feel against her bottom. Declan’s shaft was thick and superbly solid, its fine skin coated with a heavy ooze of pre-come. As she gripped the crest between her fingers, she heard him sob. “That’s it... That’s it... Find the place,” he gasped, then shuddered violently as she edged him towards his goal. Flora’s thighs were tensed by holding her awkward, spread-legged position, and as she tilted her bottom a little—trying for a better angle—Declan’s glans butted momentarily against her anus. His hips bucked involuntarily the instant his flesh touched her, as if his penis yearned to breach that creased pink rose. Flora swayed again, her mind filled with crude, flagitious imagery. For a second, she considered reaching around with her other hand too, stretching open her bottom cheeks, then lunging downwards for that forbidden dark intrusion. It would hurt, yet something wicked in her wanted it. At the last minute, though, temerity held her back... “Another time, maybe?” whispered Declan, as if he’d been privy to her every halfformed thought. A rebuke rose to her lips, but just then their bodies made true contact. The plump head of Declan’s penis knocked against her vagina, slid backwards, then forwards, and finally lodged accurately in the opening. “Bingo!” he cried, pushing with his hips. An inch of him slid inside her body. Letting him run through her slippery fingers, then withdrawing her hand completely, Flora sank downward until she was sitting on his thighs. Neither of them said anything as her bottom kissed his belly, but Declan made an incoherent sound. Flora adjusted herself a little, feeling his bulk jostle her innards, then groaned herself as her whole sex seemed to bulge. He seemed far bigger inside her than she’d expected, his penis more massive when experienced than when observed. It was pressing upwards and outwards on her every inner surface, and making her clitoris stand

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out like a tiny stalk. “Are you okay?” he asked eventually, his voice sounding as if he were having difficulty breathing. “I’m not hurting you, am I?” “No! Not at all!” Flora answered, her own voice emerging as a startled squeak. The urge to touch her clitoris was like a burning in her fingers, yet against all reason, she felt too nervous to succumb to it. “How do I feel?” This time he sounded stronger, more controlled. His hands settled confidently against the inslope of her waistline, his fingers curving firmly across her rib-cage. “Big,” she answered, then almost choked as his hands moved upwards, under her top, to cup her breasts. “Good,” he said, with a surprising lack of smugness. “Oh Flora, you’re beautiful, do you know that?” His fingers tightened, squeezed, lifted further, and brought a broken moan of passion to Flora’s lips. “You’re beautiful like this garden, Flora,” he went on, his thumbs making contact with her nipples, “Like the roses... So lush, so natural, yet so mysterious. Being inside you feels like having the sun wrapped around my cock... I could die now, and I wouldn’t regret a thing.” Half of Flora wanted to shiver with ecstasy at the strange poetry of his outpourings, while the other half felt dangerously close to laughing. It seemed bizarre that a man whose whole life was spent manipulating images, could be so extravagant and imaginative with words. Suddenly, a black cloud seemed to sail across the garden’s pacific brightness. An intangible sorrow that intruded on her joy. Declan might be able to say these lovely things to her, but he could never write them down. She felt an overwhelming rush of tenderness towards him. An urge to help him salve his secret sadness... “And you feel incredible,” she purred, pushing herself forward into his hands, and downwards onto his penis, then swirling her hips to give the movement extra spice. “You’re touching me everywhere inside, Declan. Really stretching me... I feel so full that I could orgasm any second.” Flora had never been particularly vocal during sex before, but suddenly it seemed quite natural, and very thrilling. She sensed an answering wave of excitement in Declan’s body

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where it touched her, as if he too felt the same increase in pleasure. His lips against her ear confirmed her findings. “I love a woman who talks while I’m fucking her,” he said, nipping at her neck and palpating her swollen breasts. “When she tells me what she likes. What she’s feeling. Or even what she’s done before, with some other guy...” Flora didn’t want to bring another man into their closeness, especially not Ian, the only other man she’d been with recently. But there was someone that she knew Declan would like to hear about... “It was incredible with Morwenna...” she began hesitantly, then knew immediately that she’d said the right thing. Declan’s cock seemed to grow an inch inside her, and his fingertips stopped dead still on her nipples. “She’s so sensual, so exotic... I’ve never met anyone like her in my life.” “What did she do?” asked Declan, his voice low and intense. “She talked to me,” continued Flora, seeing a sudden wicked humour in the situation, “She talked about you, actually, and got me to describe what I did yesterday morning.” Declan laughed, his shaking body making his cock move inside her. “Typical Morwenna,” he said, “Always wanting to know the juicy details. So what happened when you’d talked about me?” Flora tried to concentrate, but found it difficult. Declan’s penis was the ultimate distraction, especially when he moved and it bumped against her G spot. Terrorised from within, her clitoris felt close to bursting, and she could feel the piquant bite of Declan’s short’s zip against her inner thighs. “Don’t fight it, Flora,” said Declan urgently, “Stroke your clit... You know you need to.” It mortified her how easily he could read her, but her clitoris was so agonised she couldn’t resist. Dragging up the hem of her skirt, all thoughts of decency and ‘visitors’ forgotten, she pressed her hand into the wet niche of her tingling sex. Letting one fingertip slide around in her fluids, Flora first touched Declan’s shaft where it lodged inside her, then pulled forward a little to concentrate on her clit. The tiny tag of flesh was standing proud between her sex-lips, freed again from its thin protective hood. Flora was tempted to rub it quickly, almost brutally, for instant gratification, but she resisted and commenced a smoother stroke.

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“That’s it,” murmured Declan, his teeth nipping at her ear lobe, “Nice and easy... Nice and slow...” Flora’s hips began to churn, and Declan’s pulling fingers took up the rhythm on her nipples. “Tell me what happened next with Morwenna,” he ordered quietly, drawing out her breasts from her ribcage like two pointed cones. Flora moaned. The unexpected pain seemed to connect directly with her vulva, and her flesh rippled around the harder flesh impaled in it. “Tell me...” He rolled her teats. “Please!” He squashed them between his fingers and his thumbs. “She masturbated,” cried Flora, almost beside herself, “She put her fingers inside her vagina and she rubbed her clitoris with her thumb... It was the first time I’d seen another woman touch herself...” “Do you touch yourself, Flora?” questioned Declan, still pinching and rolling, “Do you do what you’re doing now when you’re alone and horny? Do you beat your clit until you come and come and come?” “Yes! Yes I do!” Flora was almost bouncing now, lifting and falling on Declan’s cock as he tormented her breasts. She could hear his breathing getting heavier now, rasping harshly against her ear, as her writhings stimulated them both in equal measures. “That’s it! Oh, lady, go on... Ride me,” he groaned, all thoughts of interrogation seemingly forgotten as Flora obeyed him. For her own part, Flora felt her pleasure gathering rapidly in her belly until it reached a critical point and seemed to erupt beneath her fingers. A weird, white, dazzling sensation surged up her spine and down towards her toes in the very same instant, then rebounded and returned to her throbbing clitoris—forcing her to cry out as her vagina clasped and spasmed. As that happened, she felt Declan leap inside her, and his hands slid downwards from her breasts to grab her hips. Holding her tightly, he bucked upwards—once, twice, three times—then he too cried out in the highest pleasure, his voice peculiarly sweet in the sunlit garden air. “Oh boy,” he said shakily, after a while.

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“Oh boy,” echoed Flora, wondering when her legs would stop trembling in delayed reaction. “That was wild, Flora, really wild,” he said, kissing the side of her neck as his penis slid out of her channel, “I knew it’d be good between us... But I didn’t expect to have my socks blown off.” He chuckled and rubbed his wet cock against her bottom. His flippancy irritated her. After such beauty, it seemed crass and so typically American. “You’re not wearing any socks.” She nodded towards his long, bare feet, then set her own feet squarely on the ground. Standing up, she grimaced as something slippery ran down the insides of her thighs towards her knees, then locating her panties, she stepped into them and pulled them smoothly into place. “Aren’t you going to cover that?” she enquired tartly, turning to Declan and observing his naked penis. “If you want me to,” he replied amiably, tucking himself away and sliding up his zip. Frowning, Flora could hardly believe how suddenly they’d become alienated. One minute they’d been sharing the transports of orgasm in an idyllically perfumed garden; the next, she felt annoyed that—yet again—she’d been tricked into an intimate act. “What’s eating you now?” enquired Declan, sliding out an arm with eye-defying speed, and making her sit with him. “You don’t regret what we just did, do you?” “No, not really,” she said, trying to work out what was bothering her, “It’s just that... suddenly... I seem to be ‘available’ to everybody. I feel like a sex doll that everyone owns a piece of...” Her brow furrowed as she tidied her skirt and felt the letter in her pocket. “And I had another of those bloody obscene letters this morning too!” “What did it say?” enquired Declan mildly. God, it would be so much easier if she could just let him read the damn thing! But because she couldn’t, she drew out the single sheet of cream laid paper and picked out a few pertinent phrases. It seemed ridiculous to be embarrassed with Declan—his semen was still drying on her thighs, for heaven’s sake! —but even so she felt herself blushing as pink as the roses. “Well, whoever it is, I like their style,” said Declan as she folded, then re-folded the paper.

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“Well, you would!” snapped Flora, still rankled by his macho shallowness. After a moment’s silence, Declan reached out and took the letter from her, and Flora felt a breathtaking surge of rage. Had he been deceiving all along? Was he quite calmly going to read the letter himself, after he’d manoeuvred her into the embarrassment of reading it aloud? But instead of unfolding the letter, he simply passed his fingers assessingly over the paper. “I’ve seen this paper on sale in ‘Treasure Trove’,” he said thoughtfully, “Why don’t you call in there and ask Lucy who’s been buying it recently? It could be a way of tracing this ‘Scribe’ of yours.” “He isn’t my ‘Scribe,” rejoined Flora, secretly admiring the elegance of his logic. She’d been planning to return to the art shop anyway. “’She’,” said Declan. “She what?” “There’s nothing to say that your secret admirer isn’t a woman,” he commented with a grin. “It could be Morwenna... It certainly sounds a lot like her.” “Don’t be ridiculous!” said Flora, springing to her feet again, and stepping clear of him so fast he couldn’t catch her. She knew he was right, but his male smugness still annoyed her. “Look, you can stay here if you want...I don’t care,” she said, backing away as she spoke, “But I’m going inside to take a bath.” Expecting him to answer with something facile about ‘washing her back for her’, Flora felt decidedly piqued when Declan simply smiled and gave her a facetious little wave. “Be seeing you,” he murmured. Flora scowled, turned her back on him, and began striding, with purpose, towards the cottage. Stuff him, the arrogant bastard! When she reached the door, she looked back towards the arbour, as discreetly as she could, to see if he’d been watching her as she left. “Pig!” she hissed. Declan wasn’t looking—because he was intently studying her sketch-pad. He’d forgotten her, and was absorbed in creating a sketch.

When Flora returned to the garden Declan had gone, but her sketch-pad lay open on the

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bench. Half expecting to find a nude, or a pornographic doodle of some kind, she was astounded to see her own face in profile, sketched delicately with most exquisite of hands. She didn’t touch the paper for fear of smudging the drawing—despite the faint scent of fixative that clung to it—but as she surveyed the described lines, she touched their subject. Running her fingers over her face, she felt awe-struck. And she ceased to be angry with Declan McKenna. There was no hint of male arrogance in the way he’d drawn her. It was an image of respect, of affection almost, a regard that transcended lust and flesh. She half wanted to rush around to Orchard House, and thank him for it, but some cautious instinct told her not to. He’d probably say something flip and transatlantic, and spoil things, and she wanted to be able to think kindly of him for a while. And perhaps let absence make the heart grow fonder? she thought, taking the drawing materials inside, then finding her bag and her sunhat. You’re an idiot, Swain! she chastised herself, stepping out into the sunshine and heading for the centre of the village. He’s just an over-sexed Yank who can draw like an angel—you can enjoy him, but let’s not get sentimental, shall we? And yet as she watched a brilliantly-coloured butterfly career ecstatically over the hedgerows, the glow she felt inside wasn’t all sex.

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Chapter Six The Little Shop of Wonders

TREASURE TROVE. Art - Images - Books - Everything for the Creative Persuasion. To Flora, it still seemed strange that such an elitist shop could thrive in a rural hideaway like Marwick. Yet thrive it obviously did. The shop looked bright, spick and span, and well looked after, and even though the village itself was quiet, there were several customers browsing around inside. The pretty brown-haired woman who Flora had noticed yesterday was currently engaged in changing the window display—with the help of a handsome, but rather hairy young man in surf shorts. Does everyone flaunt it here? thought Flora with a smile, assessing his chunky physique and his tousled sun-bleached pony-tail. As he bent over, to place a pile of books in the corner of the window space, his thin shorts pulled tight across the rounds of his backside, showing that what was hidden was just as tempting as what was revealed. Against her will, Flora felt the familiar serpent coiling, and just at the very moment that she felt herself get wet again, the young man straightened up, turned around, and saw her watching. In the face of her immediate, guilty blush, he grinned broadly and gave her a cheeky wink. Flora’s first instinct was walk on quickly, but as if sensing her confusion, the young woman in the window turned too. Looking from Flora to her companion, she seemed to understand immediately—and gave the pony-tailed charmer a smart clip round the ear. “Come in!” mimed the disciplinarian cheerfully to Flora, before stepping back into the shop to welcome her. “Take no notice of Jack,” the young woman said pleasantly when Flora entered. She held out her hand, which emerged from a lace-trimmed cuff. “He’s a utter pig, but his heart’s in the right place.” She nodded in the direction of the brawny Jack, who continued to labour in the window. “I’m Lucy Douglas and I own this place—” She gestured expansively with her free hand. “Or should I say, the mortgage on this place. You must be Flora, the

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newcomer. Pleased to meet you.” “H...hello,” murmured Flora, taken aback once again at being ‘known’. “Yeah, I know... Everybody knows everybody else’s business in Marwick,” said Lucy, her fingers tightening warmly around Flora’s, “It’s a little annoying at first, isn’t it? But don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it.” Her grip continued as she spoke, and Flora detected a certain caressing quality to it, something as disturbing as it was unexpected. “Would you like some coffee? I was just about to make some.” Used to the impersonal rudeness of city shop assistants, Flora was quite taken aback by the friendliness of the welcome. “Er...yes... I’d love some,” she answered, then felt a sudden flash of loss as Lucy smiled and released her captive fingers. “Okay,” said the proprietress amiably, “Look around. I won’t be a jiffy...” Feeling slightly off balance, Flora watched her walk away towards the back of the shop, her long pleated skirt swirling around her calves. The shop-owner was as beautifully, almost archaically dressed, as she had been yesterday—in a navy blue skirt and a demure, white, lace festooned blouse—but Flora sensed something else beneath that neat, fastidious elegance. Something quite at odds with white lace and modest pleats. “Don’t let it fool you,” said an unknown voice in her ear. Flora whirled, almost knocking over a display of sable brushes. “What on earth do you mean?” she demanded—of ‘Jack’, who was standing just two steps behind her, with a pencil tucked jauntily behind one ear and what looked like a tool-pouch slung around his waist. His brilliant blue eyes were alive with pure mischief, and—Flora noticed—his furry chest was dewed lightly with perspiration, as if he’d been doing something far more strenuous that a bit of window dressing. “The twin-set and pearls look,” he said, moving closer, as if to let her catch his scent— of sweat and some sharp ‘green’ male cologne, “It couldn’t be further from the truth.” In the face of Flora’s flabbergasted silence, the pony-tailed man laughed softly. “I’m sorry,” he said with what seemed like remorse, and a fair amount of charm, “You’re not used to us yet, are you?” He wiped his hand on the side of his shorts and held it out, as Lucy had held out hers before him. “I’m Jack Walters,” His grin broadened to reveal teeth that were white and very even, “Jack of all trades, master of some... If you need anything done in the joinery, plumbing, or electrical line, just let me know.”

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Unable to do anything about it, Flora allowed her hand to be taken again, and this time squeezed with a force that was unmistakably intimate. “I do decorating and gardening too...” Jack went on, “And computers, if you’re stuck.” His amazing blue eyes seemed to darken. “And any other little jobs you might think of...” Both the intent, and his expression, were so blatant, that Flora was forced to laugh aloud. And Jack laughed too as she drew her fingers out of his. “A man has to try,” he said easily, clearly knowing when to push, and when not to. “Why don’t you do what Lucy says. Look around. This’s quite a place. “The Little Shop of Wonders” we call it. You’d be amazed at what you’ll find in its darkest corners.” The shop being in Marwick Magna, Flora had a shrewd idea what those amazing things might be, but she just said, “Yes, I’ll have a browse while Lucy makes that coffee.” “You do that...” He gave her another wink. “And now I’d better go and see what Lucy’s doing. She’s hopeless with anything electrical. She’s probably blown up the percolator by now. Excuse me.” Then, with a toss of his tangled ponytail he left her, closing the door to the back room behind him. It’s this place. They’re all mad! thought Flora, wandering away from the brushes in search of Jack’s ‘wonders’. She’d just opened a book of etchings, and done a double-take over its subject, when she heard a muffled giggle from behind the closed door.

“So, what do you think of her?” enquired Lucy Douglas, as she heard a familiar softsoled tread behind her. She was standing at the cupboard, in the small kitchen which opened off the storeroom, hunting for a packet of coffee filters. She didn’t want to welcome a new village playmate with just ‘instant’... “Not bad,” murmured Jack, his voice soft but full of male feeling. “I have to agree,” said Lucy, finding the filters and turning round, “Declan said she was a beauty, and he was right.” She smiled, narrowing her eyes, and licking her soft pink lips. “Do you think she’ll like our little games?” She lifted her chin, feeling a tingle of excitement in the region of her solar plexus, and another, stronger stirring, down below.

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“Oh yes...” Jack unfastened his tool-pouch, put it aside and reached towards her. “Watch those paws on my blouse,” said Lucy, placing her arm across her chest to protect the immaculate white fabric and nodding towards Jack’s work-hardened hands. “If you’re worried, take it off,” said Jack, still reaching. Lucy loved his directness. Jack was a rough diamond-rough trade, really—but that was one of his most attractive features. For all her prim appearance, Lucy adored her sex uncouth, and the idea of it made her cream her lacy panties. Suddenly, all she wanted was a cock in her channel, and the feel of Jack using her crudely. Her nimble fingers flew to her throat, and began undoing the pearl buttons of her blouse. As she unhitched the last one, Lucy’s eyes locked with Jack’s, and found a fire there that matched the flames in her. She nearly fainted with powerful lust as he clasped his crotch. Pulling the tails of her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt, Lucy flexed her shoulders and thrust her breasts out towards him. Beneath her virginal white blouse, she wore a spicy uplift bra; a whore’s finery beneath her chaste and sober outfit. Shimmying like a stripper, she dug her fingers inside its flimsy lace cups, then lifted her breasts free, like two fruits on a platter. Jake immediately grabbed them, and she giggled with delight, then worked her hips as he began to knead and squeeze her. “Do you think Flora Swain’s tits will be as nice as these?” she enquired, covering Jake’s hands with her own and digging her nails in. There was nothing she liked more than being handled forcefully. “Maybe,” grunted Jack, gripping hard and using his nails, until Lucy’s breath hissed urgently through her teeth, “They looked pretty good to me in that thin top.” Almost beside herself, Lucy nodded in agreement. Swivelling her pelvis like a houri, she closed her eyes, and saw Flora Swain naked, then imagined the woman’s breasts being fondled. “Harder!” grunted Lucy, as in her mind’s-eye, it was she who was caressing Flora. Jack complied, as he always did, eager to please with both his hands and his body. Whilst palpating her teats mercilessly, he pressed his crotch forward, and gyrated his bulging erection against her belly. Incensed by her need for him, Lucy shook her head wildly, sending her Alice band tumbling to the floor. Her silky hair flew about her face.

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“Oh God, I’ve got to have it!” she croaked, forgetting Flora Swain as desire surged inside her. She could think of nothing at all now except Jack’s hot, searching cock, and the slippery place between her legs that required it. Dashing his hands away, she turned around, and offered her body—using her stiffened arms to brace her against the work-top. “Fuck me,” she said, rotating her bottom beneath her immaculate pleated skirt. “I’d be glad to,” growled Jack, and she heard the rustle of him tugging down his shorts. Almost instantaneously, she felt cool air on her thighs as her skirt and her slip were hiked upwards. Grunting with impatience, Jack didn’t bother to remove her panties, but just pushed the sodden gusset to one side. A second later, he had his rigid cock inside her. “Work it, bitch!” he hissed, and like the perfect slut, Lucy jammed herself backwards, then wiggled her bottom when he was in her to the hilt. “Oh my, that’s good, Jackie-boy,” she cooed as he initiated a rhythm, rocking his penis back and forth inside her body. She loved the coarseness of him, his spontaneity, the fact that he could be so hard, so quickly, when she needed him. And that he’d always—well, nearly always—do her bidding. “Rub my clit, Jack,” she ordered breathily, feeling the tiny knob of flesh swell and pulse. It’d been almost shouting for attention for some time now, since the moment she’d seen Flora Swain, through the window. Accurate in all things, Jack’s fingers slid quickly inside her panties, locating the nexus of her pleasure within a second. Although his hands were big, and proficient at such activities as hewing wood, lifting weights and laying bricks, they were also capable of an exquisite precision. He swirled Lucy’s clitoris in tiny tricky circles at the same time as he was fucking her body powerfully. Lucy felt an overpowering urge to shout, and to howl the obscenest of encouragements, but she was still mindful of the shop and its customers. She imagined Flora Swain hearing her cries, then feeling jealous and coming in to join them. “I bet you’d like Flora Swain here watching, wouldn’t you?” she gasped as Jack pumped her particularly hard. “She could stroke your arse while you’re busy fucking me... Wouldn’t that be nice?” “Don’t do this, Lucy,” growled Jack, his penis jerking, “You’ll make me come too soon if you start talking dirty.”

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Lucy laughed, and churned her bottom. “Dirty? Was that dirty?” she enquired innocently, then bit her lip as Jack played a fast arpeggio on her clitoris. “Of course it was!” he gasped, slamming harder, his hanging balls jostling her inner thighs. “Ah, but you know how much you like it, Jack,” said Lucy creamily, articulating her own movements to his clever dancing fingers. For a long moment he remained still in her vagina. “And think how much you’d like Flora too...” He made a sound, low in his throat, of male distress, “She could kneel down behind you and watch you going into me... She could lick your thighs... Kiss your bottom... She could stick her tongue inside your hole while you shaft me.” “Don’t! Please don’t!” pleaded Jack, his hips moving again, and hammering against her. “She could reach around too, and diddle me while she fondles your balls. She could service us both while we service each other, then when we’d finished, she could stroke her pussy while we watched...” Jack’s long, helpless groan, and his throbbing, jetting penis would have made Lucy laugh if she hadn’t already been beyond it. As her loins burned in a melting climax, both she and he pitched forward, no longer supported against the table by her arms. She’d had to thrust her fist between her teeth to block her screams.

Absorbed in a book of erotic prints, it was a while before Flora realised how time was passing, and that neither Lucy nor Jack had returned with coffee. She’d looked up and towards the door, when she’d thought she’d heard that giggle, but then dismissed it as her own imagination. Surely they wouldn’t be...be up to something, when they’d left her out here waiting? And not just her. There was another customer waiting by the till. Isn’t anyone going to serve him? Flora wondered, then also wondered—immediately afterwards—why it should concern her if Lucy lost some business. She didn’t know the woman. She’d scarcely spoken to her for more than a few seconds. And yet she was worrying. Without stopping to think, she went over to the till. “Hello,” she said, smiling at the man who was waiting, “Can I help you? I don’t know

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where Lucy’s got to, but I think I can work this—” It was true. The till was one of the old-fashioned sort that she used long ago whilst doing a Saturday job. “Here,” she took the man’s selections from him—several rather grotesque Aubrey Beardsley postcards—and then slid them into one of the decorated paper bags that lay on the counter. After a moment’s familiarisation, she rang up the marked prices. But when she looked up, the man was offering no money, just grinning at her. His eyes were bright and his mouth was wide and sexy. Oh no, not another predator! thought Flora, staring back at him as boldly as she could. It wasn’t a hardship. Like of the people she’d met so far in Marwick, the prospective purchaser was extraordinarily attractive. He wasn’t good looking in any obvious way, like Declan, or the patently incorrigible Jack, but he had neat dark hair, a friendly, slightly livedin looking face, and a pair of piercingly intelligent grey eyes. And in fawn chinos, and a cream polo shirt, his body looked lean and wiry, but also powerful in all the appropriate places. The only odd thing was that Flora thought she knew him; there was a sense of recognition but it was too hazy to button down. “Well, I don’t actually have any money on me,” he said, his amiable grin broadening, “I was going to ask Lucy if I could have these on the slate... But now the till’s open I’d better slip in an IOU.” “I...” I’ve landed myself in another ‘situation’, thought Flora. This was obviously one of the shop’s regular and trusted patrons, who was no doubt wondering who the hell she was to be asking him for money? “I bet you’re Flora, aren’t you?” the grey-eyed man said as he scribbled his signature on a note-block, then popped the small square of paper in the till drawer. “The new girl at Pennyroyal Cottage...” “For crying out loud!” exclaimed Flora, gazing skyward, “Does everybody in this whole village know who I am?” In her exasperation, she pushed the drawer shut forcefully—and nearly trapped her companion’s fingers in the process! “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she gasped, grabbing his hand—which was pleasantly smooth and cool—and checking it for damage, “It’s just that everybody I seem to meet here already

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knows who I am, while I don’t know any of them from Adam.” She let his hand go, realising she’d held it far too long. “We’re the ones who should be sorry,” the dark-haired man said kindly, “We’re such a nosy lot...” He paused, then smiled again, his grey eyes warm, “I’m Marshall Fox, and I live at the Old Rectory... Pleased to meet you.” Marshall Fox. The nebulous familiarity now made sense. Flora had seen his face before, but not in person. She’d seen him once on television, and many times on book jackets. Marshall Fox wrote fast, sexy, well-researched thrillers that always had six, if not seven digit sales figures. She had at least four of his novels on her own shelves. She’d unpacked them yesterday and lined them up on her new bookshelves, never thinking that she’d soon meet their author. “Flora... Flora Swain,” she stammered, holding out her hand and feeling a little gauche, “I’ve read some of your books,” she blurted out, then immediately felt more gauche than ever. A curious expression passed across Marshall Fox’s face as he quickly shook her hand. He looked nervous, Flora realised. Apprehensive. But for the life of her, she couldn’t work out why. “What did you think of them?” he said quickly, “Which ones... Were they all right? Please tell me.” Flora was astounded. The man wrote best-sellers; in W H Smiths he was a legend; yet he was worried about the response of just one reader. She was touched by his unexpected vulnerability. More than touched. She couldn’t say why, but it somehow seemed erotic. She had a sudden flash vision of Marshall Fox lying beneath her: his eyes pleading, his chest bare, his hands tied. “Flora?” prompted the real, unbound Marshall, bringing her back from her strange flight of fancy. His face, and his whole manner still seemed tense. “Oh shit! You don’t like my books, do you? And you’re trying to work out a polite way to tell me.” He shrugged, gave her the most lost puppy, little boy grin she’d ever seen, “It’s okay. Say what you mean... I can take it.” “No, it’s all right. I think your books are brilliant. Especially—” She named a couple of recent titles, “You’re actually one of my most favourite writers.”

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Oh God, I must seem like one of these pathetic gushing fans! she thought. Her face went pink as an inner voice whispered ‘groupie’. As Marshall seemed to blush in sympathy, the devilish whispers continued. How about it, Flora? the voice said. Wouldn’t you like to go to bed with him? “Really?” Unlikely as it appeared, Marshall was obviously surprised by her enthusiasm. “That’s wonderful! It’s such a relief...” He paused for a moment, seemed about to ask a question, then consulted his watch. “Look, I’ve got to be somewhere soon. But I’ll see you around in the village, won’t I?” “Yes. Yes, of course,” said Flora, a little disappointed after what she’d begun to hope for. “Okay, then,” said Marshall brightly, turning to leave, then suddenly turning back again and grabbing her hand. “I’ll look forward to that. Be seeing you!” Before she really had time to absorb the pressure of his fingers, Marshall released her and was heading out of the shop. Flora was left with the till silently accusing her, and she wondered about that scribbled IOU. But owe you what? she thought, reviewing her peculiar few minutes with the famous, but modest writer. Should she add him to the list with Declan, Morwenna and Lucy et al? The tally of new friends who unashamedly desired her? Possibly, she thought. No, hopefully, murmured the devil inside her, as she returned to the book of erotic prints. A few minutes later she had to close the book again. Every page seemed to remind her of someone, and make her wish she was with them, making love. Every beautiful print made her speculate furiously; about the back room and what Lucy and Jack were doing. Flora was just picking out a selection of new conté colours, when Lucy finally emerged, carrying a tray. Of the handsome Jack there was no sign at all. “Here we are!” the proprietress said guilelessly, looking as innocent and pristine as ever, “That percolator seems to take forever. I must get a new one. I have to have regular coffee or I’m useless.” Are you sure it’s coffee you need regularly? Flora felt like saying. On closer inspection, she’d noticed that one of Lucy’s blouse buttons wasn’t quite fastened, and that her soft, shrimp-pink lips looked slightly bruised. She also smelt very markedly of perfume, as if

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she’d sprayed it liberally to mask another scent. “I hope no-one wanted to buy anything while you were waiting,” she said, drawing up two chairs so they could sit to drink their coffee. “Well, someone did actually,” replied Flora, feeling awkward at what she’d done, “But he hadn’t any money, so he’s left an IOU in the till... I hope that’s all right?” “That’d be Marshall, I suppose,” said Lucy, grinning then taking a sip of her coffee, “He’s a bugger, honestly. He’s got more money that anyone in the village... But he never seems to have any of it with him! He treats this place as if it’s a pub and he’s got a ‘slate’.” “Why do you let him get away with it?” “Because he’s cute, he’s intelligent, and I adore him!” Lucy paused and exhibited a little shudder of delight, “If you’d seen his bottom, you wouldn’t say “no” to him either... He’s got the nicest arse in the whole of the county. And that’s including Declan McKenna’s and “Jack the Lad”’s too!” Flora didn’t know what to say. Lucy had just as much as announced that she’d slept not only with Jack and Marshall, but also Declan. The man she herself had been with only this morning. Despite this, as they chatted, Flora found herself liking the pretty shop-keeper more and more. Lucy was bright, funny and disarming, and for all her neat, almost spinsterish mode of dressing, she had a wicked wit and salty turn of phrase. She also loved to gossip, and she was even more enlightening than Morwenna, when it came to the village and its foibles. The only thing Lucy didn’t know was who ‘The Scribe’ was. “My God, this’s horny stuff!” she exclaimed when Flora had handed over the two sheets of cream paper. “I wish I did know who it was... I’d be round there like a shot to see if there was any left over for me.” She licked her pink lips and began to read again... Aloud. “’Lash you with my tongue until you scream and shout and climax’... Ooh, yes please!” Lucy flicked back and forth between the two different letters, clearly focusing on all the juiciest bits. “’Did you put your tongue in her pussy and drink her nectar?’ Oh my, that’s so hot!” Suddenly, Lucy turned a slow, knowing grin on Flora. “Did you?” “D...did I what?” stammered Flora. “Did you lick Morwenna out? I can tell by your face you did something.” “No! Of course not! I didn’t do anything to her...”

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Technically, it wasn’t a lie, but Flora knew it could very easily have been one. She’d been passive with Morwenna, but that was because it had all been new to her. But she didn’t dare predict what would happen next time. “Look, you don’t have to worry,” said Lucy kindly, “We’re all at it in the village, but there’s no harm done. If Morwenna’s had her hands in your knickers, it’s because she likes you, that’s all... She’s a lovely woman, and a good, caring friend. She’d never do anything that you didn’t really want.” “Do you think she’s “The Scribe”?” asked Flora, her face crimson. “Possibly... She buys this paper. And she writes short stories, so she is used to expressing herself in print...” The shop-keeper smirked again, “And she’d certainly do anything that’s down here...” She waggled the creamy pages, “She’s done at least ninety per cent with me alone!” Flora tried to ignore the instant picture, “But I showed her the first letter and she didn’t turn a hair. She liked it, but she didn’t give any indication that she might have written it.” “Maybe she didn’t,” said Lucy, already re-reading again. “Anyone in the village could have written this... Well, almost anyone.” Flora wondered if Lucy meant Declan. “To be honest, I’d say Marshall’s your prime suspect. He doesn’t just write thrillers, you know. He writes erotica too. Under a pseudonym... This could well be an extract from one of his books.” Flora tried to equate the friendly, somewhat boyish Marshall Fox with the purple prose in the letters Lucy held. Talk about ‘butter wouldn’t melt’. It was amazing how appearances could deceive. She continued to consider him as Lucy went on reading. “Could be “His Lordship”, I suppose,” the shop-keeper said as she handed back the letters, “Although, if it is, he hasn’t yet mentioned what he really likes...” A dozen questions rose to Flora’s lips, but just then, several more customers entered the shop. One of them made straight for Lucy, obviously with a query, and with some reluctance, Flora muttered a hasty ‘see you later’. “Yes, I’d like that,” said the shop-keeper, smiling at Flora over the newcomer’s shoulder, before applying herself to the enquiry, “Call again. And make it soon.” “I will,” said Flora, closing the door. Bloody hell, ‘The Scribe’ could even be Lucy! thought Flora perplexedly as she walked

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back up the lane towards her cottage. She could be the one who isn’t turning a hair, not Morwenna. It’s pretty obvious she likes playing erotic games. After assessing the possibilities of Lucy, Flora considered Marshall Fox. Words were his forté, so seduction by letter would be the perfect approach for him. He might be researching his next pornographic book! Then of course, there was Lord Rawnsley, who she assumed was the one Lucy called ‘His Lordship’, and who it seemed, had certain special preferences. There are just too many candidates, thought Flora with a sigh, as she arrived home, and unlocked the cottage door. As the door swung open, Flora became aware of a slight resistance behind it, and as she stepped inside she found a package and a letter. The packet about eight inches long and wrapped in shiny silver paper—and the letter was in a familiar cream-laid envelope. ‘The Scribe’ had paid a visit in her absence. Picking at the envelope flap, Flora did some rapid calculations. Did timing rule out any of her suspects? Not really. Lucy and Jack had both disappeared during the time she’d been in ‘Treasure Trove’, so either one of them could have made it to the cottage and returned. Marshall Fox had left the shop before her, so he too could have come this way and made a ‘delivery’. He’d apparently had only the Beardsley postcards with him when he’d left, of course, but the Old Rectory couldn’t be all that far away. “All right, you pervert,” she muttered, tearing the envelope, “What is it this time?” She felt cross, but her stomach lurched excitedly. Luscious Wild Flower, the note said. Are you settling in yet? Meeting people? Having orgasms? I hope you are... I’m spending a lot of my time imagining you having them. You’re a beautiful blossom to me, Flora. I can just see you in the sunshine, spreading your petals out voluptuously, your juices flowing as your vulva swells and pulses. You smell the scent of roses as you close your eyes and come... Does this happen? Am I right? If not, accept a small gift from a admirer, crazed with lust. And remember, Flora, as you use it, that I’ll be dreaming of the way it looks inside you, and imagining the way your sexy body squirms in climax. Until next time, enjoy! At the bottom was typed—as usual—THE SCRIBE.

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“Creep! Pervert! You were behind the wall, weren’t you?” she demanded aloud, her whole body shaking with outrage and raw arousal. The person who was writing to her was not only a voyeur, but a listener as well. They’d heard her shouts and struggles as she’d bounced on Declan’s penis, and heard her long groan of pleasure as she’d come. And now they’d had the audacity to leave a gift. Flora fumbled and wrenched open the silvered paper. Inside was a plain white box, made of heavy white card, and within that, was exactly she’d expected. A dildo. A black serpent on a bed of snow white tissue. Flora had never had a vibrator, but had often wondered about them. More than once, she’d been on the point of making a discreet mail order, but had never actually summoned the nerve to do it. Now, it seemed, ‘The Scribe’ had presented her with a state of the art example. The gleaming black cylinder was solid and heavy between her fingers, and its siliconised surface felt disturbingly lifelike. Its ‘skin’ was smooth and dry, and there was a subtle impression of veining along its length. The shape of its tip suggested a male who’d been circumcised. “No!” she cried, while her fingers began exploring the evocative shape. Unable to stop herself, she imagined it pushed inside her, knowing all the time that was doing exactly what ‘The Scribe’ intended. “No!” she cried again. Cramming the dildo back into its box, she left it, and “The Scribe’s” letter, on the little hall table. Five minutes later, armed with her pencil and her sketch-pad, she made her way out into the warm and fragrant garden, hoping that this time she’d get some peace and quiet. If not to draw, then at least to sit and think.

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Chapter Seven Assistance Rendered

Flora spend a lot of the afternoon thinking about the dildo. And most of the rest of the time wondering who’d sent it. Well, you’d better think again, whoever you are, if you think I’m going to use the damned thing, she told her tormentor silently, while she doodled a few lines of a sketch. A few lines later, she realised she’d drawn a penis. Adding more detail, she imagined someone, somewhere in the village, masturbating furiously at the thought of her and the dildo. It didn’t really matter whether or not she was using it; it was the fantasy of it that was important to ‘The Scribe’. I bet you’re having more fun than I am, you bastard! she informed her secretive pen friend. Because I’m just stuck here, in the heat, getting angry. The more she tried not to think about the dildo, the more difficult that process seemed to be. She was being driven crazy by curiosity and frustration. She kept seeing the thing in its box, time and time again, a velvet black cylinder on a bed of pristine white. Why not try it? said the imp of sex who’d taken up residence in her belly. You’ve nothing to lose. ‘The Scribe’ won’t know anything for certain. Does it vibrate? Flora wondered. She’d stuffed the thing back into its box so quickly that hadn’t really examined it. It might be more just a simple phallus, designed for passive insertion; it could be a turbo-charged bar of throbbing energy—ready to zap her clitoris until she came and came and came. It would be so, so easy... No effort, no doubts, no aching wrist. Before she realised what she was doing, Flora was on her feet, and heading back inside the cottage, glancing right and left to make sure she wasn’t observed. But where to do it? she pondered, picking up the box from the hall table where she’d left it. Where would ‘The Scribe’ expect her to masturbate? Her bedroom, where she usually did such things? On the landing, she realised that if she drew her bedroom curtains, it was tantamount to announcing what she was doing; so on impulse, she slipped into the

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bathroom, then closed the door as if to contain a secret vice. Her face in the mirror was flushed and guilty, and seeing it, she almost laughed out loud. What on earth was she so worried about? What was she going to do that she hadn’t done before, a hundred times, with her fingers? What difference did a bit of silicon-rubber technology make? Taking the dildo from the box, she twisted the bevel on the plain end, then nearly dropped it when it began to thrum and whirr. Should I undress, she debated, or just pull down my knickers? She twisted the control again while she pondered her decision. Finally, with her heart beating furiously, she slid down until she was sitting on the bath-mat, then flipped up her skirt so she could get easily to her panties. With extreme caution, she slid the head of the vibrator down inside them, pushing and wiggling it to find the moist lips of her sex. When it was resting in the perfect position, she turned it on. “Ah!” Because it was so quiet and well made, the intensity of the dildo’s action was quite startling. The pleasure was instant, powerful and alarming, and Flora’s legs jerked as if she’d been given an electric shock. Her heart racing, she spun the bevel, and slowed the buzz a little, knowing that if she didn’t it would be over in a matter of seconds. With the dildo merely purring, and moved away from the head of her clitoris, she swivelled around and lay down flat on the bathroom mat. The black rod looked obscene the way it poked out of the top of her panties, yet somehow its very rudeness was totally exciting. “Oh yes,” Flora moaned, feeling her consciousness begin to float on a weird, dark wave. She was lying on the floor, in her own bathroom, with a dildo in her knickers, but suddenly she seemed transported to a world of perversion. She could do anything here; no matter how bizarre, no matter how grotesque, no matter how lewd. Adjusting her bottom, she slid two probing fingers through the elastic leg of her panties and found a streaming well of moisture between her sex-lips. Angling the thrumming vibrator, she let it slide back towards her clitoris, tenting her pants and using their waistband as a lever. “Oh yes,” she groaned again, holding off the final contact, but unable to stop her bottom wiggling and churning. Pushing a single finger into her vagina, she hooked it

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around to find her G spot, and felt sensation stab inside her like a thin white spike. Unable to stop herself she jammed the dildo against her clitoris. Then cried out loudly, in a harsh voice she barely recognised. “Please, please, please,” she chanted, knowing in the lucid part of her mind that her words were nonsensical. Her legs waved, her bottom humped, her vagina rippled, and she could feel her love-juice trickling out of her like a well-spring, then flowing across her perineum and wetting her pants. Sliding into a stupor, she rocked the dildo like a woman possessed. After a few blinding moments, Flora found herself sprawled splay-legged and breathing like a bellows, with the vibrator resting loosely in her knickers. Shaking her head, she spun the bevel and switched it off, but felt too stunned and over-pleasured to do much more. For another five minutes, she just lay motionless, taking stock. “Oh my God,” she said softly when she sat up. Placing the vibrator almost reverently on the side of the bath, she stood up and began taking her clothes off. First she removed her dress; peeling it up over her head in one unbroken motion, and as she did so, thinking of Morwenna doing the same. “I bet you’ve got dozens of dildoes, Mrs Carfax,” Flora said fondly, running her hands up and down her warm body. She imagined Morwenna at her pleasure, using a toy just like ‘The Scribe’s’ wicked gift. It could be her gift, thought Flora, as she unhooked her bra, and let it drop to the floor. Cupping her breasts, she discovered that her nipples were still erect. What would it feel like to rub the vibrator against them, she wondered. In a moment or two, she’d might try it. Her panties were saturated, and she kicked them away, half disgusted, and half smug. Nude now, she reached again for the vibrator, then resumed her prone position on the rug. Take it slow this time, she told herself, parting her thighs, then with a shuffle, hooking her raised ankle over the side of the bathtub. She giggled, thinking how abandoned she must look. How lewd. ‘The Scribe’ would love to see her pussy stretched so wide. But there was no way her nemesis could see her. The top light of the bathroom window was open, but it was very high. Lying where she was, on the floor, she was hidden. Hidden, so there was no need to hold back. Starting with her breasts, she began a voyage of exploration, swirling the gently pulsing

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wand in slow circles. Pressed gently against her nipples it produced a burst of inner sparks, that set a light to every part of her body. She could feel the pleasure dart right through her towards her sex. Steadily, fighting her impatience, she trickled the vibrator all the way down her torso, getting a sharp jolt when she let it rest against her navel. She’d never considered her belly button as an erogenous zone before, but suddenly touching it made her arch and flex her thighs. It seemed to be attached, by a cord, directly to her vulva; and as she rocked the dildo her clitoris twitched and jumped. “Mmmm...” she cooed, feeling the urge to vocalise. “Mmm...yes,” she murmured, flicking the vibrator up and down, back and forth, then sliding it slowly along the inside of her thigh. Teasingly, she let it skirt the soft periphery of her pubis. “Soon...soon...” she told herself, sweeping the black tip in a graceful arc across her belly. Shall I put it inside this time? she pondered, getting closer and ever closer to her centre. She imagined slotting the dildo into her channel, while at the same time using a finger to rub her clitoris. That would be good, oh-so good, so very good. Swirling the vibrator against her entrance, she coated its blackness with her juices, and when it was honeyed, she thrust it in and spun the bevel. All at once, the hot ripples started building. Flora let go of the dildo, and left it resting there inside her, while she used her fingers on one breast and between her legs. She both tweaked and tapped in a steady mocking rhythm. “Oh yes,” she groaned as her pleasure began to rise. Abandoning her nipple, she braced her weight between her shoulders and her legs, then lifted her pelvis and began to waft it to and fro. Flora had never felt more savage, or more primitive. With her quim pierced by the gleaming, humming totem, her breasts and her belly seemed to dance to an ancient beat. Gyrating now, she clenched her buttocks to heighten the tension, and felt her vagina clamp down hard on the humming dildo. Closing her eyes, she played weird visions in her fuddled mind. She imagined herself surrounded by a circle of admirers who were first applauding, then assisting her in her efforts. Hands—soft, female ones belonging to Lucy and Morwenna—stroked her heaving, sweating body, while between her quaking bottom cheeks

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another dildo was being inserted. In the fantasy it was Morwenna’s husband, Robert, who was doing this, his pale face intent as he stuffed her, his golden eyes holding hers with effortless power. Pinching fingers attacked her breasts, and she felt her nipples being pulled and twisted in different directions. As she wrenched her gaze away from Robert, she saw it was Marshall Fox and the roguish Jack who were tugging her teats. A wail of total ecstasy rose wildly from her centre, and she completed her dream with Declan’s penis between her lips. Her orgasm was so violent that the vibrator slid right out of her, and as it rolled away, she collapsed nervelessly onto the floor. She was vaguely aware of cracking her ankle on the edge of the bathtub, but the faint pain seemed to belong to another body. Another woman, in some other space and time. From her diaphragm to her thighs, she was one mass of firing nerve-ends, one great pulsation that seemed to melt her blood and bones. Curling like a foetus, she sobbed and gasped and whimpered. It seemed to take a long, long while to come back to earth—but when she did, Flora heard a disturbing noise. It was coming from outside somewhere, through the open top window, and it was unmistakably the yowl of a troubled cat. Arnold! Flora struggled to her feet, then flopped down to sit on the side of the bath. Her knees were weak! Making a second attempt, she felt more stable and managed to snatch up her dress. She pulled it on as she stumbled down the stairs, still listening for Arnold’s plaintive cries. “Oh, Arnold!” she cried when she reached the garden, “How the bloody hell did you get up there?” Her cat was in the largest tree in the garden, perched right at the end of the very highest branch and making ineffectual swipes towards the nearest vantage point. Somehow, in spite of his proven agility, he’d managed to become well and truly trapped. Flora looked around, seeking a way to get to him. He’d probably got up via one of Declan’s apple trees on the other side of the wall, but for the life of her, Flora couldn’t see a way to reach him. Perhaps Declan could help? Although Flora no longer suspected him of spying on her from one of his trees, she had no doubt that he’d be able climb one. Smoothing down her

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dress, she set off at a run to get him. When she knocked on his door though, there was no answer, and both his back and front gardens were deserted. Still painfully aware of Arnold’s increasingly piercing complaints, Flora made her way back into the lane. There was not a soul to be seen out there either. Did she have a ladder anywhere? Hunting around the tiny garage and the outhouse, she found nothing, but when she returned to the cottage, her eye lit upon the post that had been left that morning. The item on top was Jack Walters’ flyer. On impulse, she dialled his mobile number. “I’ll be right round,” the handyman said warmly when she explained Arnold’s dilemma, “Just give me five minutes to put my ladders on the van.” As she put down the phone, Flora had second thoughts. It seemed such a ‘damsel in distress’ thing to have done, tantamount to a come-on, and she didn’t think Jack Walters would need any encouragement. Furthermore, cats were the strangest and craftiest of creatures; by the time the handyman and his ladders arrived, there was every likelihood that Arnold would safe again. A quarter of an hour later, however, when a truly hideous, psychedelically painted van drew up in front of the cottage—complete with a rather more serious looking set of ladders lashed to its roof-rack—Arnold was still wailing pitifully from his perch. “Don’t worry, we’ll soon sort him out,” said Jack, peering at her from beneath the brim of a Star Trek baseball cap when Flora ran down the path to meet him, “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to rescue this little sod.” “I’m sorry to drag you out,” she replied as Jack began unhitching the ladders, “I would have gone up after him... But I was never quite that daring, even in my tree-climbing heyday.” Jack gave her an appraising look, as if assessing her limbs for the purpose...or perhaps for something else entirely. Flora was suddenly acutely aware that she had on only her dress and her sandals. What could he see through the thin cotton fabric? Especially if the sun was right behind her. “You’re probably right not to try,” he said, his voice surprisingly sensible and businesslike. Flora felt suddenly disappointed. “It’s a bitch of a tree... You could hurt

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yourself.” His eyes twinkled, and his wide, firm mouth began to curve, “And we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Swinging from disappointment to hackles up resentment, Flora said nothing, but just stood back to let him pass with the ladders. Well, you wanted him to make a pass, didn’t you? she tasked herself as Jack set up the ladders with a smooth efficiency which was at odds with his wacky shorts and his off-thewall van. He was obviously some kind of village lothario, and possibly a latter-day hippie like Morwenna—but in matters practical he seemed focused and competent. Within minutes he was up into the tree, climbing boldly yet gracefully, and murmuring soft reassurances to the cat as he ascended. Flora couldn’t help but admire his powerful legs as he stretched and balanced between branches. And his muscular back as he reached his fingertips towards Arnold. The feline resisted arrest, but finally after much coaxing, a lot of advance and retreat, and some very bad language, Jack had the cat in his arms and began descending. Part of the way down the ladder, Arnold decided to go psycho and both cat and rescuer began to come down rather faster. As Jack half-fell towards the ground, he was cursing freely. Flora rushed towards him, and helped him to his feet as Arnold flounced off in high dudgeon across the garden. “Are you all right?” she said, alarmed by the sight of a number of long, red scratches adorning Jack’s shoulders and arms. “I’m so sorry...really. He’s been so good until now. I didn’t realise he had this wild streak.” Instinctively, she touched her fingers to one of the deepest of the gouges, across Jack’s bare and hirsute chest, then snatched them back when he flinched and drew his breath. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she apologised again, feeling disconcerted by the return of Jack’s broad grin. “Oh, don’t worry...you didn’t hurt me,” he said softly, almost whimsically, “and even if you did, I’m sure I’d get to like it.” Now what the hell was that supposed to mean? “Would you like me to get some disinfectant or something... For those scratches?” Flora could feel something familiar stirring inside her. The snake of lust that she’d believed vanquished by the dildo. She tore her eyes away from Jack’s scratched, gleaming shoulders and squared her own, intending to be level-headed, “I believe there’s a first aid kit in the

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house.” “They’ll be okay,” he replied easily, “I’ve had worse...” Reaching out, he laid a hand on her arm, and Flora nearly squeaked with surprise. “But I could do with a wash if you don’t mind? It’s hot work climbing trees in the sun.” The thought of his sweat did something strange to Flora’s innards. She imagined him naked and hairy, standing by her sink, his pose elegant yet fundamentally male. “Oh... Er, yes. Yes, of course,” she stuttered, “I’ll show you where the bathroom is.” “It’s okay, I know my way,” said Jack, following her into the cottage. Against her better judgement, Flora whirled and stared at him. She didn’t know anything about the cottage’s previous owners, but it was clear Jack Walters had known them intimately. “Don’t look like that,” he said, chuckling and moving dangerously closer, “I did a lot of the renovations, that’s all... I know where the bathroom is because I was the one who put it in!” “Of course,” said Flora tightly, “Well, if you know where it is, please help yourself.” “Cheers!” Jack grinned, and tugged off his baseball cap, releasing his hair which had been caught into a ponytail through the hole in the back of it. Flora had never been a great lover of long hair on men, but she had to admit that Jack’s shaggy locks rather suited him. They made him look earthy and desirable, like an animal, a challenge to be tamed. Flora gnawed her lip as he bounded up the stairs. “Don’t even think about it,” she whispered, looking towards the staircase, seeing the image of him washing again. But a part of her knew it was too late. Kidding herself that everything was perfectly normal and that she was only being sociable, she fetched the bottle of wine that Morwenna had given her from the kitchen. Selecting two large semi-balloon glasses, she set them on the coffee table, then attacked the bottle with a corkscrew. “Try this, it’s a concoction,” Morwenna had said, and when Flora sniffed its bouquet she had to agree. The perfume of the wine was so intensely fruity and herbal that she could already taste it without even having sipped it. The scent seemed to fill her head, invade her brain, and make her dizzy. Not only that, but it reminded of Morwenna, and by association, inspired a tingling need for sex.

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No way back now, she thought, pouring two generous measures, then took a large sip of her own to boost her courage. The wine’s flavour was both volatile and stirring—Flora’s taste buds detected berries, apples and honey, and beneath that the mysterious tang of a bitter herb. The whole concoction seemed surge right through her like liquid sunshine, and after the first mouthful, she took a second luscious sip. And then another. And another. After the fourth pull, she was forced to replenish her glass. “Witchcraft,” she muttered to herself, swirling the fluid in the fat-bellied goblet and watching it cling fondly and viscously to the glass. Neither supermarket plonk nor the finest chateau-bottled vintage champagne had the characteristics that this wild brew possessed. “It’s an aphrodisiac, isn’t it, Morwenna?” she observed, holding the scented liquid beneath her nose and inhaling deeply, “As if anybody in this nutty village would ever need one!” “Need one what?” Flora span around and found Jack at the bottom of the stairs again, grinning broadly, and standing with his hands behind his back. “Nothing... Nothing at all. I was just wool-gathering. Would you like a glass of wine?” Jack nodded, still smirking. In fact smiling so devilishly that Flora felt a pang of suspicion. What was so funny? And what was it that he was now, so obviously, hiding behind his back? Oh no! In almost the same moment that Jack revealed his hands, Flora remembered what she’d been doing just before Arnold had started wailing. She couldn’t speak, and Jack didn’t need to; he just held out the vibrator, then twirled the bevel and made it hum. Flora prayed for a cliché to be reality—and that the ground would open beneath her and swallow her up. Jack continued to swivel the control of the vibrator, and seemed to be listening, almost seriously to its pitch. “It’s a beauty,” he said at length, switching off the motor. “Exceptionally fine craftsmanship. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better one. Where did you get it?” “Oh, for crying out loud! This isn’t the Antiques Roadshow!” “No, really! I’m interested.” Jack’s handsome face was a picture of profound erotic

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amusement. He swirled the bevel again, and ran the vibrator at its fastest speed. Flora’s heart and mind were in turmoil. She’d never felt more profoundly embarrassed in her life—even during the adventures of the last couple of days—and at the same time, she was rapidly becoming turned on. Seeing her sturdy, just-used dildo clasped in Jack’s capable fingers was like watching the way he handled his own stiff cock. “I’m sorry, can we put that away, please, and pretend you didn’t see it,” she pleaded, reaching for the still humming rod. “You’re not ashamed, are you?” said Jack provocatively. Placing the dildo on the coffee table, he sat down and reached for his wine. Flora was ashamed, but part of her knew she shouldn’t be. She was a free woman, living alone. She was entitled to take her pleasure however she chose. And in Marwick, using a vibrator surely wasn’t unusual. “No, not really,” she began, then took a long swallow of wine, “It’s just that I hardly know you...and you’re a man. I’d talk to a girl friend about using a vibrator... And if I had a boyfriend, I might tell him I had one. But you’re not my boyfriend and I only met you a couple of hours ago!” Jack’s candid blue eyes told her that any shortcomings in their relationship could be instantly rectified, if she wished it, but Flora felt grateful that he had the good taste not to press the matter. Instead, he too took a sip of his wine. After a long moment of consideration, he said, “This’s brilliant, isn’t it?” He inhaled deeply, just as Flora had done, “I assume it’s one of Morwenna’s special brews?” “Yes, it is. She gave me a flan too. Are you hungry?” Flora didn’t quite know what’d come over her. One minute she was burning with mortification over Jack’s find in the bathroom, and the next she was relaxing and offering him a snack. “Not exactly,” said Jack slowly, and Flora realised he was still trying to flirt. Unable to help herself she began to laugh softly. “That thing,” she said, nodding towards the dildo, “What do they say? ‘Be sure your sins will find you out’.” “True,” said Jack, quirking his eyebrows suggestively, “Although I can’t see why it should be a sin.” Suddenly he looked contemplative, his eyes far-away. “I love watching a

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woman bring herself off... It’s a beautiful sight... Holy in a way. I just wish I’d been here to watch you.” For a moment, Flora thought of her secret ‘watcher’ and wondered if Jack was ‘The Scribe’, then she realised she half wished what he wished. Feeling a subtle change coming over her, she refilled their glasses. “Take care,” said Jack, looking every inch the imp again, “That’s potent stuff. It can make you do some pretty strange things.” “I don’t care! I like doing strange things!” cried Flora suddenly, feeling the wine like a drug in her bloodstream. Reaching for the dildo, she watched Jack from beneath her lashes. Jack met her look, his blue eyes like twin wells of complicity. He caught his breath as she fiddled with the bevel, then visibly held it as the black wand began to hum. What do I do now? thought Flora, feeling her sudden rush of confidence leech away. She was committed to something, but she knew not what. Her pulse racing, she began fondling the vibrator, tracing its subtle moulding as if it were Jack in the real flesh. No man could ever achieve an erection so unyielding, yet the silicon surface of the device was oddly voluptuous, and it still bore the faint odour of her body. On impulse she kissed the trilling tip, and caught a trace of saltiness, then she lifted her skirt and ran the vibrator up her thigh. The humming resonance seemed to travel swiftly upwards, as if drawn like a polar magnet towards her sex. Jack’s eyes had turned from aquamarine to navy, and his breathing was audible and ragged. Somewhere in the back of Flora’s mind, there was a cool, detached feminist who thought this funny. She’d shown him virtually nothing and he was hers... His rising erection, beneath his shorts, was the living proof. Easing her skirt a little higher, Flora slid the vibrator beneath the hem, still not touching herself but implying that she might. Her own arousal was beginning to disturb her now; her breasts were tight, and her labia and her clitoris were swelling. She felt an overwhelming urge to wriggle about, throw up her skirts, and plunge in the dildo, but a playful impulse made her hold back to tease her lover. Cupping her left breast in her left hand, she let her eyes close, then settled back against the cushions and parted her legs. “Is that what you do?” said Jack suddenly. His voice was half squeaky, half a rasp. “Sometimes,” replied Flora, deliberately vague. Hitching her bottom a little forwards,

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she abandoned her breast for a moment to rearrange her skirt, bringing its fullness to the front so she could hide the dildo. Once that was done, she returned her attention to her nipple, taking hold of it, and rolling it gently between her fingers—which sent a piercing jolt of feeling towards her core. Moaning softly, she pushed the dildo against her sex. “Let me see,” said Jack, “Please!” “No! You’ve got to use your imagination,” gasped Flora, as the throb of the miniature motor begin to plague her. She shuffled again, opening her bottom cheeks and pressing downwards, then inveigled the dildo’s pulsating cock-head between her labia, biting her lips when it found its target with no delay. She was aware of Jack beside her, his own excitement rising, but apart from that he seemed to vanish from her mindview. He was just an attendant, a pair of blue eyes, that reflected her. “Please!” “No! But you may feel...” She rolled her head against the back of the settee, losing her mind to the intense insistent buzzing. Slick juice poured freely from her entrance to her vagina, and beneath her buttocks her thin skirt was soaking wet. From what felt like a vast distance, there came sounds of rustling, and the sensation of weight shifting on the sofa. She felt something cotton brush her exposed knee, then the touch of a hairy, muscular leg. After that a hand settled on her thigh, moved tentatively beneath her skirt, then moved smoothly upwards towards its goal. Spread fingers hovered over her pubis, exploring the soft hair there, the wet groove, and its hard intruder. She felt a single digit settle precisely at the meeting point—the very nexus of living flesh and stark technology, then Jack’s bare thigh slid against hers as he shimmied and sighed. The heartfelt sound made Flora open her eyes for a second. Jack was slumped beside her, his position much like hers. His right hand disappeared beneath the printed cotton of her skirt, while his left was clamped firmly around his penis. His gaudy shorts were in a bundle at his ankles with his briefs and he looked so abandoned that Flora’s vulva shuddered, coming to a sudden searing climax around the dildo. “Oh, baby, yes!” Jack cried as if answering the jumping flesh beneath his finger. Flora was no longer looking at him—she was beyond seeing now—but she sensed his hand was moving on his cock. And the idea of that made her pleasure soar anew.

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Half fainting, she let the dildo drop away from between her fingers, and felt Jack increase his pressure in its place. Her legs kicked uncontrollably as he circled and palpated her, his fingertip rocking and gliding in her fluid. Then with a final gasp, she stilled her squirming and begged, “No more!” For a short while, Flora lay like a panting zombie, her skirt rumpled, her whole body loose and glowing. She was almost oblivious to the moaning man at her side, but eventually she opened her eyes, and turned towards him. Jack was lying much as she must have done—eyes closed so he could tune out stark reality. He was masturbating steadily, rubbing his thick, impressive penis, and his lips were parted as his pelvis slowly wove. Flora felt a strange surge of affection. She and Jack barely knew each other, yet he hid nothing from her, not even this private ritual. Granted, he’d coaxed her into revealing her secret pleasure, but somehow, this surrender of his seemed far, far greater. And all of a sudden, she wanted to grant him a fitting reward. Sliding to her knees on the floor, she leant across him, at an angle, and touched her mouth to him. She dragged her lips, from side to side, over the tip of his cock. Jack’s eyes flew open—their blue depths full of shock and near-childlike joy. Almost instantaneously, he released his own flesh from his fingers, then gently cradled her head with his shaking hands. “Oh, Flora,” he whimpered softly as her lips received him. His flavour was rich, intensely salty, and heavy with musk. Flora felt her mouth begin to water as she lashed him with her tongue, and she listened with delight to his increasingly passionate cries. He grunted and gasped as she probed his stretching love-eye, then wailed loudly as she flicked her tongue-tip along his frenum. When she sucked hard, and clasped his balls, he bucked his hips and shouted, then a second later, he began an ancient pumping rhythm. Flora’s mouth was swiftly assailed by spurts of heat. Jack’s orgasm went on and on with what seemed an unnatural persistence, and after a few moments, Flora realised she was dribbling his semen. It trickled like liquid satin, from between her lips and down her chin, but at last the inundation ebbed and faded. As she swallowed, she felt his erection begin to subside. “Oh God!” Jack whispered fervently as he released her head, then started to caress her. She felt his fingers ruffle her hair, then affectionately touch her cheeks. She heard him sigh

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with content when she set free his flaccid member. “That was incredible,” he said, his voice sounding weak. Flora rose from the floor and slumped down beside him, aware that her own deficit of energy was fast catching up on her. She leant against him, and just let herself be cuddled. “You’re quite something, Flora Swain,” Jack continued, with an admiration that seemed nothing short of awe, “I’m bloody glad that old Arnold went up that tree.” Flora thought about pointing out that even if there hadn’t been an ‘Arnold’ incident, there would doubtless have been some other reason that she needed Jack’s assistance, but somehow she couldn’t work up the energy to speak. With an ‘mmmm’ of pure well-being she snuggled closer to Jack’s strong body, and almost immediately felt the trailing edge of sleep.

“She’s with Walters,” said Declan, speaking softly into his mobile phone. He’d just coasted his bike to a halt, ditched his helmet and jacket on the garden seat, and was gazing towards Flora’s cottage. The sight of Walters’ van had seemed to hit him like a punch, and inside he was a mass of troubled feelings. “And are you jealous?” enquired a seductive voice from the tiny speaker. “I don’t know,” Declan lied, feeling the familiar green eyed monster twist his belly. His discomfort intensified when he heard the noise of plaintive sobbing. The sound of a woman in climax—or getting very close to it—which came tellingly from Flora’s open window. Declan moaned himself as his penis began to swell. “Of course you are!” Morwenna laughed. “Come around and we’ll take your mind off her... Robert’s feeling imaginative and I’ve been a naughty girl.” Without speaking another word, she broke the connection and left him hanging. Declan stared at the slim unit in his hand, and as he did so, a man’s voice cried out too. “Screw you! The lot of you!” he hissed, clicking his phone off and almost snapping it in two pieces. Feeling full of irrational anger, he stormed into his house with his belongings, then set off again towards Morwenna...and sweet release.

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Chapter Eight A Table for Three

Why am I so angry? Declan asked himself, striding down the lane as if a demon—or an art critic—were on his heels. His feelings, he realised, were fast becoming a mystery to him. For months now, he’d taken his women very lightly, and enjoyed pleasure when, and wherever it presented itself. Which was often, and all over, in Marwick Magna. The village, he admitted, had been the saving of him. From almost the moment he’d crossed the parish boundary, his muse—who had absconded—had come back to him. Bringing his fully restored sex drive in her wake, as well as a resolve to avoid heavy relationships in future. Morwenna Carfax had helped along these changes. Declan been astounded at first when she’d come on to him, at a cocktail party she’d held at Redlake House. He’d seen her husband, Robert—whom he’d known already—watching them closely, but even so he’d been unable to resist her. She’d led him out to the summerhouse, and started kissing him, and before he really knew what was happening, she’d asked him to put his hand up her skirt. He could still remember the thrill of that first contact. Morwenna had been completely naked beneath her dress, and the folds of her sex had been awash with slippery juice. He’d never encountered a woman so incredibly wet before, and never touched a pussy so hot and feverish. It’d been the most natural thing in the world to start rubbing her. Within seconds she was writhing, bouncing on his hand, swirling her hips to move her clitoris against his fingers. Almost of its own accord the front of her dress had come open, exposing her creamy breasts to the scented night air. Her nipples looked two garnets in the darkness. Just at the moment Morwenna came noisily to climax, her husband Robert was suddenly with them, slipping silently into the summer house like a ghost. Declan froze, his juice-covered fingers falling still in Morwenna’s furrow, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. There was no excuse, no justification. He was standing

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with his hand clearly up Morwenna’s skirt, and her naked breasts were just inches from his body. He was clothed, but his erection was very evident. Robert smiled, not just with his thin, rather pallid lips, but also with his peculiar, lightgold coloured eyes. ‘Please continue,’ he said softly, settling into a relaxed stance just a few feet away. He crossed his arms around him in a relaxed and languid attitude, then raised one hand and let his chin rest upon it. “Don’t let me inhibit you, Declan,” he continued, his tone perfectly even and unruffled. “I... I’m...” stammered Declan, about to withdraw his hand. “I...” He got no further. Morwenna began to jiggle again, grinding her sex on his fingers while she reached up to pinch her own naked nipples. Within the space of a few seconds she was shoving her hips back and forward, an uncouth grimace expressing her second climax. Her husband continued his observation for a few moments, then whispered, “My dear...” and approached noiselessly across the room. Declan watched in astonishment as the art historian kissed his faithless wife, then let his pale hand drift delicately across her breasts. “I love you,” he murmured, closing his hand around one of hers and squeezing roughly, “You’re magnificent.” Releasing her, he turned swiftly and strode away, pausing only at the door to give Declan a strange look, his narrow lips curving in another slight smile. “Sweet Jesus!” hissed Declan, retrieving his wet fingers from beneath Morwenna’s floating skirt. “Don’t worry, that was just what he likes,” said Morwenna, regaining her poise with miraculous swiftness, “He’ll probably think you should be rewarded...” She’d unzipped him then, and for the next ten minutes Declan had forgotten being caught, forgotten Robert, forgotten everything. Except the feel of her red mouth on his cock. Returning to the present, Declan blinked, almost surprised to find himself out in the sunshine. His memory of Morwenna had been so detailed and compelling that it’d carried him away from the here and now. He’d almost forgotten his jealousy over Flora. But not quite. He grinned as he unlatched the gate to the garden of Redlake House. In trying to reason with himself, he’d told himself that he hardly knew the girl. But that was a bit of an anomaly, wasn’t it? He certainly had knowledge of her in the biblical sense. In fact he’d

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been with her only that morning, which made her perfidy with Jack Walters even worse. So what was it about Flora Swain? he pondered, ringing Morwenna’s bell and hearing its sonorous note chime distantly in the house. Flora was a pretty enough thing, but Marwick Magna was just bursting with beauty, and Morwenna Carfax was the premier example—a pagan goddess of exquisite perfection. Lost in his ruminations, Declan jumped when the black door swung open. “Come in,” said Robert Carfax evenly, almost as if they’d been speaking to each other only a moment ago, and were right in the middle of something. Which we are, aren’t we? thought Declan, looking at his friend, his lover Morwenna’s husband. Robert was barefoot and wearing a thin, abbreviated robe of wafer-thin black silk. The nakedness of his pale, hairless legs looked exotic somehow, against the shimmering darkness of the robe, and Declan felt an ambiguous but not unpleasant stirring. Robert was an unusual man: refined but not effete, artistic but not fey, profoundly intelligent but with a keen sense of the outré. And he was good-looking too, in an unconventional way. His usually sleek hair was slightly dishevelled today, as if he—or someone else—had been running their fingers repeatedly through it, and his golden eyes looked sensual, almost languorous. His near naked body smelt decidedly of sex. “Am I interrupting something?” Declan enquired as he followed Robert down the corridor, feeling intensely aware of the older man’s near nudity. Robert seemed to ignore Declan’s enquiry, and simply said, “A drink?” as he ushered the way into his long, sunlit office. “Yeah. Er...please,” Declan answered, slightly stunned by the sight that met his eyes. Morwenna was stretched out on Robert’s square-legged, rather narrow mahogany table, her naked body arranged like a sculpture. She was masturbating slowly with a dreamy, drugged abstraction, her long legs flexing and scissoring as she rubbed. Her eyes were closed and her strokes continued as Declan walked in. It was far from the first time he’d seen this spectacle, but nevertheless, he was lost for words in wonder. To watch a woman at her pleasure was one of his greatest turn-ons, and Morwenna was an exhibitionist par excellence. Without breaking her delicate rhythm, she reached her second hand beneath her, to finger her anus while she jerked and swirled her

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clitoris. Declan swallowed as his penis swelled uncomfortably. It was just a week since he’d been with Morwenna, but the sight of her seemed new to him. He could believe how much this display of hers aroused him. “Bring yourself off,” said Robert casually as he poured out two generous glasses of wine. He wasn’t even watching what his naked wife was doing, but it was clear he was attuned to her excitement. “So? How goes it?” he asked of Declan, handing him a drink, then sitting down in one of a pair of leather-covered wing chairs. There were two, set with a perfect view of the table. “In what context?” asked Declan, taking his own seat. He gulped a long grateful swallow of the delicious home-made wine, his eyes never leaving Morwenna. She was near her peak now, and bouncing her bottom against the table. “With our new friend, the lovely Flora?” Robert sipped his own drink, and studied Declan across the glass. Sparks of gilded light seemed to dance in his glowing eyes, and his expression was full of mischief and curiosity. “Okay, I think,” said Declan, drinking again, his loins aching where his erection was fighting his jeans. Morwenna’s knees were bent now, and her slim legs were raised. Between her thighs her rosy vulva gaped open, and she was making the most of increase in access. Her quickly slicking fingers has speeded up to a swift cadence, and Declan could hear her juices squelching. “Yes, things are going great,” he affirmed, only half recalling what he was talking out. “In fact this morning I—” He hesitated, his thoughts addled by a plaintive groan from the table. “I made love to her. In the garden, in broad daylight.” “Really,” murmured Robert, “And I thought Morwenna was being hasty.” He grinned narrowly, mysteriously. “I’ve threatened her with a visit to the Manor...” He looked contemplatively into the golden depths of his glass, “It doesn’t seem fair to let you get off scot-free.” Declan said nothing. He was caught, frozen by his own desire, between Morwenna, and subtle lure of her husband. An attraction that both excited and disturbed him. “I’m joking, of course,” murmured Robert, his voice cryptic, but his eyes speaking

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volumes. “I know,” replied Declan, trying to sound just as calm. Morwenna was working herself passionately now, assaulting her clitoris with a fingerand-thumb pinch. From the steep angle of her wrist, where it disappeared beneath her bottom, it was clear she had a digit inside her rectum. An intrusion she was wriggling and pressing down on. Declan suddenly longed for a sable brush or a drawing pencil. He wanted to capture Morwenna’s contortions on paper, in harsh, dark lines that would exaggerate their crudeness. A woman of great beauty, frigging herself without compunction, and penetrating her own bottom in her search for baser thrills. He mapped out a series of studies in his mind, each one of them more obscene than the last. It would be a visual tribute to his friend’s great obsession—Robert’s devotion to his wife’s glorious backside, and to its potential for both ecstasy and shame. Declan could remember any number of wild nights they’d all spent together, and the use of dildoes, porcelain eggs, and things far stranger... His recollections became a further set of studies. Morwenna’s splendid rear raised and naked; her anal portal stretched by some rude intrusion; the lustre of semen across her cheeks, both his and Robert’s. Lost in his visions, he abruptly realised he was groaning, his harsh gasps blending with Morwenna’s orgasmic yelps. “Are you unwell, Declan?” murmured Robert, the faint aura of smile around his lips. He knows exactly what I’m seeing, thought Declan, swirling the remnants of his wine in his glass. Morwenna’s enigmatic spouse had great powers of perception—much as she did herself—and it often seemed as if he were almost telepathic. “No...I’m fine,” he answered. “But you’re aroused,” observed Robert, his unusual eyes drifting to Declan’s crotch. “You must be uncomfortable. Why not give yourself room to...to manoeuvre?” He wants to see my cock, thought Declan, recognising another of Robert’s peccadilloes. His special fondness for the naked male form. For bodies as fine and handsome as his own. As if exhibiting the very mind-reading qualities that Declan suspected in him, Robert suddenly drained his glass, set it down, then reached for the sash of his black robe. Fixing his eyes steadily on Declan, the older man teased open the loose knot, then said, “Another

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drink?” and rose smoothly to his feet. As Declan nodded, the fine silk billowed and the robe gaped. Robert was erect—unsurprisingly given Morwenna’s lewd performance—his narrow cock jutting up steeply from his groin. Its circumcised tip was agleam with thin juice. Declan felt the grip of strange urges. He wanted to touch his friend, to handle and caress him, to slide that fine-textured skin over its unyielding, rigid core. He was shocked, but in itself that aroused him more. After a moment, Declan his raised head and met Robert’s intensely focused gaze. The other man’s eyes were two pools of melting gold, and desire—full and reciprocal—poured out of them. “I’ll get us those drinks,” he said, then turned away, his cock swinging provocatively as he moved. Declan felt light-headed, as if every drop of his blood was in his penis. His erection was bent and painful in its rigid denim trap, and with a sigh, he surrendered and unzipped himself. As his prick sprang free, he heard another sigh, close by. Morwenna was half sitting up now, one hand still pressed lightly to her crotch. Her luxuriant black hair hung like a cloak around her shoulders and her face was softly pink and beatific. A deeper flush mottled her throat and upper chest. As Declan watched her, her hand began to stir. “Not until I tell you!” said Robert, from where he stood, pouring wine. He had his back to his wife, and there was no way he could see her, yet he clearly knew exactly what she was up to. “Lie down again... Hands on the table. Legs apart.” Morwenna obeyed him, her face a mask of rapture. She was a dramatically forceful woman, full of intelligence and independence, yet obviously these submissive moments moved her deeply. As she settled back onto the table, she seemed to glow. Not with a blush, but an inward fire of joy. Her delight and her arousal seemed to be bursting from her body, and she wiggled her bottom against the brightly polished wood. “And do try to keep still,” admonished Robert. He’d turned around and was bringing Declan his glass of wine. It was Declan’s turn now, to do the blushing, and he was acutely aware of his bare cock. Looming over him, Robert’s eyes narrowed appraisingly.

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“Why don’t you touch it?” he said softly, still holding both glasses, as if Declan’s were some form of reward. Declan looked down at himself. He was so stiff that his flesh appeared inflamed almost, and his glans seemed to be yearning towards Robert’s. To try and govern it, he wrapped his fingers round his shaft. “Wonderful,” murmured Robert, proffering the drink. Declan reached for the glass with his left hand, then frowned when Robert shook his head. He was puzzled at first, but he soon realised his friend’s intention. Placing his own drink aside, Robert knelt down on the carpet, and held the second glass to Declan’s lips. “Drink,” he whispered, “Drink...and stroke yourself.” The rim of the crystal goblet was cool to the touch, and its pressure imperious against Declan’s mouth lower lip. He felt as helpless as Morwenna when he began to move his fingers, and Robert tipped the glass and made him swallow the luscious wine. The sensation of drinking, and handling himself at the same time, was peculiar but far from unpleasant. One experience seemed to compliment the other. The fruit-rich wine, and the silky glide of his gripping hand. His hips began to buck, and the movement made him dribble, knocking his mouth against rim of the hovering glass. “Steady,” said Robert quietly, leaning forward to cradle Declan’s head, and brush his own cock against Declan’s jeans-clad shin. The wine wasn’t Morwenna’s strongest vintage, but suddenly it seemed to addle all his wits. He gulped down the golden fluid like a baby with its bottle, and started rubbing himself faster and ever faster. “Steady,” repeated Robert, and Declan knew it wasn’t the drink he meant now. “We wouldn’t want things to happen prematurely...” He nodded downwards towards Declan’s weeping cock. Declan withdrew his hand as if he’d burnt it. He’d been so close that he could feel his balls crawling; and his very soul gathering expectantly for the spring. He gripped the chairarm like a life-belt, then felt Robert’s hand take hold of his, raising it up and putting the glass within its grip. The older man smiled. “Why not take your clothes off?” he said, reaching for his own glass, and taking a sip before he shucked off his robe. The black silk slid down his arms with

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a ghost of a swish, and he caught it behind him at the small of his back. Robert’s body was lean, and very pale and smooth-skinned. He had almost no bodyhair at all aside from a few wiry, reddish tufts at the base of his belly, and his stance was graceful, like a dancer’s or an athlete’s. Declan was well aware that his friend was neither of these, and put Robert’s fitness down to a plenitude of good sex. “Don’t be shy,” purred Morwenna, from the table, and Declan realised she was watching them closely. Robert threw her a mock-threatening glance, then walked over and laid his fingers across her lips. “Remember what I told you,” he said, bending to put his face close to hers, “If you don’t behave, I’ll have to tell Crispin...and you’re in enough trouble there already.” As Declan watched them, Morwenna suckled Robert’s fingers. Slipping his T-shirt over his head, Declan considered the significance of Robert’s last sentence. He wasn’t quite sure yet whether he was into the games played at Rawnsley Manor, but his cock seemed to jerk at the idea of them. Crispin Rawnsley, the quintessential English aristocrat, was a practitioner of one of the nation’s oldest vices, and a visit to him meant Morwenna would get a thrashing. As he bent to unlace his trainers, Declan imagined her perfect white bottom again, but this time offered naked for the lash. He saw her writhing, heard her protesting; then pictured her cheeks striped with a pattern of livid pink. He imagined Robert stooping to kiss away the pain; then turning her over and making her forget it a different way. Declan had never hit a woman, either in anger or for pleasure, but as he kicked away his trainers he considered it. He looked at Morwenna, and imagined his hand connecting percussively with her bottom. She’d love it, of course, and hate it too; but as he understood it that was the essence of ritual punishment. A exotic blend of two extreme emotions, both for recipient and punisher alike. Sliding down his jeans, he flipped the interior image to Flora, and felt a low electric jolt in his troubled groin. Although they were both free agents—and he probably the freer of the two of them—he still couldn’t help feeling she’d betrayed him. He’d managed to forget his scorched male pride while he was here with Robert and Morwenna, but it was still simmering, in his gut, like a low dark flame. As he skinned down his briefs, he imagined he had Flora across his knee. He’d touch

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her first, stroke her buttocks, and perhaps play with her a little, and just when she was beginning to whimper, he’d start to spank her. He curled his fingers around his cock and savoured the thought. “Declan... Come and join us.” Morwenna’s low, sweet voice broke Declan’s fantasy. She was looking across at him, over the top of Robert’s head, while her husband sucked hungrily on her nipple, and caressed her other breast with just the tips of his fingers. Very conscious of his erection, Declan walked slowly across to the table. It was quite clear that Morwenna wanted both of them, but he was still slightly nervous of Robert’s nakedness. As the older man bent over his wife, sucking and fondling avidly, his own body was tacitly on offer. His buttocks and his thighs made a long graceful line, Declan’s hand itched with the urge to run down it. And he was convinced that Robert would respond. “Declan, please,” prompted Morwenna as he dithered, opening her legs as if to indicate her needs. Moving closer, Declan slid his hands tentatively between her thighs, then pushed one finger into the dark forest of her pubis. As he found her clitoris, she responded, and her hips began to roll. Under her breath, she hissed a joyous, “Oh yes!”

“Oh yes!” hissed Morwenna as Declan’s finger touched her. She was never happier than when naked with two lovers to attend her—especially these two, whose bodies were so different. Robert, with his subtle strength and his skin as fine and pale as a teenage girl’s; and Declan, the classic Adonis, as bronzed and muscular as every woman’s wettest dream. She had one sucking her breast and the other touching her pussy. “Oh yes!” she whispered again, divinely happy. The feminist inside her gloated too. She was a deity being presided over, a goddess on an altar, with two highly-skilled servants to do her bidding. The men might think it was the other way around—especially Robert, who she’d agreed to obey for the duration—but in reality she was the one who had control. Making a sound of pure lust in the depths of her throat, she lifted her pelvis to indicate her wishes. “She’s enjoying this too much,” said Robert suddenly, lifting his head from her breast and looking down at her. “Ease back a little, Declan. Make her work for it.”

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Morwenna whimpered as Declan’s touch receded. She loved the delicate way he’d been manipulating her. He had huge hands, but his fingers were narrow and very flexible, perfect for painting or for caressing a woman’s vulva. “Please,” she whispered, churning her hips again, and lifting her own hands to cup her swollen breasts. Letting her legs loll apart, she exhibited herself, creating a lewd and wanton lure with her opened sex. “You’re a trollop, Wenna,” cooed Robert in her ear, and after a second or two, she felt him start to kiss her. First her brow, then her cheek, and then her jawline, his approach stealthy, but as seductive as her own. He was kissing her face, but it was her quim that was reacting, her warm juices gathering thickly at her core. “Touch me, someone,” she begged as the inner fires flared. “For God’s sake, you two bastards, bring me off!” “Tut tut, my dear, there’s no need to be so crude,” said Robert reprovingly, his mouth printing a chain of kisses along her collarbone. He’s so good at this, thought Morwenna, her sex-flesh throbbing. Robert was a consummate master of the slow, circuitous route. He’d been known to spend hours teasing her like this, bringing her to screaming point before he’d even touched her clitoris. And now he had Declan to assist him, another lover who had rare and special skills. As if thought conjured deed, she felt a pair of lips kiss her left instep and her leg being lifted gently from the table. And while Robert nibbled the tender curve of her shoulder, down below Declan concentrated on her feet. Her breasts and her vulva they both studiously ignored. Enflamed, she redoubled her own efforts, pinching a nipple and rolling her clitoris beneath her thumb. But just as she felt the wave building, her wrists were suddenly gripped by two strong hands. One was broad, the other narrower, but steely. “Don’t!” Robert’s voice was determined but not unkind. “Let us see to you. Put yourself in our hands...” As one they lifted her fingers off her body, leaving her primed and only seconds away from coming. The frustration was agonising, but Morwenna knew better than to contravene Robert’s order. She was desperate to have an orgasm and her clitoris was burning, but she knew now she’d have to wait for her husband’s leave. She wanted to slap his face...or get down and kneel before him.

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“Please,” she begged, her fingers scratching and gouging at the polished wood beneath her. Unable to stay still, she circled her bottom against the table. “Patience, my love,” said Robert, smoothing her tumbled hair out of her eyes, and licking the salty sweat from off her brow. He was covering her face with kisses now: tiny ones, longer ones, licking little darting ones. And when his mouth touched hers, he pried her open and explored her, plunging his long flexing tongue in like a penis, and mimicking the sex act with a skill that made her ache. Meanwhile, at her feet, Declan too was busy kissing. She felt his mouth open over her ankle bone, then suck furiously, while his fingers played up and down her calf. He seemed unperturbed by her manic jerks and squirmings. “Robert, can I hold you?” she whispered when her mouth was released and her husband began to nuzzle her tangled hair. His cock was just inches from her fingers, its red tip engorged and inviting. “Just for a moment then...” Robert’s voice was suddenly less even, and he pushed forward and let his glans touch her wrist. Immediately, Morwenna took hold of him, sighing with enchantment at his heat and his hardness. She loved her husband’s penis so very, very much, because like the rest of him it was noble and elegant; a perfectly proportioned rod, full of power and primal vigour, its shaft long, its head firm and shapely. Carefully, forcing herself to be gentle and contained, she began a slow exploration of his contours. Robert’s cock seemed to have a life of its own, and it pulsed in her palm like a captive bird. The skin on its surface was as fine as hot velvet, and the core within it as hard as seasoned wood. His love-eye wept thin, glassy fluid. He groaned into her hair as she gloved her hand around him, then slowly oh so slowly rubbed his length. As she masturbated her sighing husband, Morwenna wondered what Declan was thinking. He was still kissing her, still placing his lips precisely and measuredly, but he was now moving higher and higher up her leg. Doodling around her knees—first one, then the other—he kept making sorties across the silky margins of her thighs. Opening her legs wider, she tried once again to tempt him. “Have a care, Morwenna,” said her husband, sliding his hand beneath her chin and making her look him in the eye. “We set the pace here, not you.” He bumped his hips and

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made his cock surge in her grip. “Yes, Robert, I will,” she answered, doing her best to keep her tortured body still, and not to squeeze her husband too hard. “But please... May I hold Declan too?” “Of course you may,” answered Robert, “But only if he wishes it...” It was nonsense really, just ritual. How could Declan not want her fingers wrapped around him? He was fully aware of her skills... Her tall, dark friend made no answer, but simply turned and stepped towards her head, putting his erection within reach of her grasp. With another happy sigh, Morwenna reached out and enfolded him, feeling his broad hand settle lightly on her thigh. It was difficult to concentrate, and not being ambidextrous, Morwenna could only managed a little simple rubbing. She closed her eyes tightly and listened to their responses, but was surprised when the pair of them fell silent. Opening her eyes again, she looked up, studying first one handsome face, then the other... Robert and Declan were staring intently at each other, their dreamy, rapt expressions almost alike. For the space of a few seconds, Morwenna forgot her own frustration, and concentrated purely on what she saw in her men. They want each other, she thought, suppressing a smile, and a small gasp of triumph. There was a white-hot desire writ across her Robert’s handsome features, and the same— plus a little confusion—on Declan’s. He was fighting it, she sensed, but not fighting very hard. In a matter of minutes, he’d probably give into it, and the thought of that made Morwenna’s lust soar. Letting her mind jump ahead, she suddenly saw them... First kissing, and then making love. Who would be the dominant, and who the submissive? she wondered, feeling the thin ooze of pre-come in both palms. Who would take? Who would give? Who would roll over and surrender his supremacy? Instinct told her that Robert would play the ‘man’ in this duo, in spite of Declan’s more macho persona. She could hardly wait to see it. It had to happen. But she had to act as the catalyst. “I want you,” she moaned, shimmying her body again, “I want you both... Both at once. Oh Robert, please...” Their two penises were rods of fire in her hands. “And how might that be accomplished?” Robert leant over her again and ran a fingertip along the contour of her brow. “You must tell us, my love... Tell us exactly what

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you want of us.” “I... I want you in my mouth, Robert.” She arched her throat, trying to kiss the hand that caressed her. “And I’d like Declan to put his cock into my pussy.” Gyrating her hips, she drew attention to her emptiness. “Yes. Yes, I think I’d like that,” said Robert, as if contemplating some obscure, philosophical question, “I’d like it very much.” His finger drifted down her face, then circled the red bow of her lips, “I’d like to fuck you here... Make you swallow me... Get in as deeply as I can.” He pushed first one finger, then two, then three into her mouth, making her suck them. As her spittle coated him, he began a shallow thrusting action. “Would you do that?” he asked, even though she couldn’t speak, and he already knew the answer. “Would you let me come in your mouth? Fill your throat with my semen... Would you?” She nodded as she nursed on his fingers. “And what about you, Declan?” Robert enquired, his fingers still in Morwenna’s mouth while she looked up at their friend—whose erect cock she was still slowly fondling. “Do you accept what dear Wenna is offering?” continued her husband archly, as if her were merely a secondary consideration. “Yes. Yes, I do!” Declan’s voice was urgent, and deeply stressed, as if he were being pushed to the limits of his endurance. “Good. Then let’s get to it,” Robert sounded businesslike as he retrieved his wet fingers. Once she’d released their pricks, the two men worked as a team. Without a single word of conference, Robert took hold of her shoulders, and Declan her hips, and between them they swivelled her round on the narrow table; until she was lying crosswise with her head and legs dangling, and her hips resting on the edge at Declan’s side. Morwenna looked up at the two men, her hunger for both of them equal. She saw Robert nod infinitesimally, and step forward. As her husband’s glans touched her lips, then pushed its way between them, she felt two strong hands open wide her thighs. She tried to speak, to express her eagerness, but her mouth was already full of Robert’s cock. Unable to make a coherent sound, she began to work her hips, then felt Declan’s fingers peeling open her labia, and exposing her inner

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vulva, her lushest fruit. Robert’s penis bored steadily inwards, and she gagged slightly, then felt his cool fingers stroke her neck to soothe and coax her. As if by magic, her throat softened and let him in. Simultaneously, Declan’s cock thrust deep inside her. The sensations of dual immolation were transcendent. She was full, packed, bursting with magnificent male flesh. Robert was as deep in her throat as he’d ever been before, and she could feel his balls bumping against her nose. Her eyes were closed—what could she see but a blur of Robert’s thighs? —but with her inner vision she saw the complete picture. A woman arched across a table; her cascading black hair brushing the carpet; one man in her mouth and a second between her legs. As she ‘watched’, the woman’s hands began to move over her own body, seeking out places that the two men were ignoring; pinching her nipples and stabbing roughly at her clitoris. Her orgasm bubbled inside her like an elixir in a cauldron, and her mouth and quim were corked by her two lovers. Both Declan and Robert seemed content to stay motionless, each as deeply into her body as they could get, while she lay suspended between them. She twisted her nipple, and scrubbed her clitoris wildly, then convulsed as the inner cauldron boiled over. Long arcs of sweet sensation flashed instantaneously around her body, bouncing and careening between every site of pleasure. If her mouth had been free she would have screamed. As it was, her muffled cry of ecstasy gurgled uncouthly around Robert, while the pulsing rhythm of her vagina caressed Declan. Both men gasped, and laid fervent, loving hands upon her, and within seconds they each joined her in climax; anointing her with semen and groaning her name as their bodies jerked.

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Chapter Nine Aftermath

It was a while before Morwenna could think clearly again, but even when she could she kept her eyes closed. She could sense an atmosphere forming in the room close by her, something rather delicate happening between Robert and Declan. It was almost as if she’d acted as their conduit. A bridge, as much mental as physical, to connect their wants and needs. Robert had always desired their friend the artist; it was something he’d told her about often enough, and sometimes hinted, albeit subtly, to Declan himself. But this was the first time she’d been aware of reciprocation. It seemed strange that, after all these years, her husband’s lust was finally being returned. So, if she was the conduit, what—or who—had been the catalyst? Flora Swain? Morwenna grinned creamily to herself. Yes, it had to be Marwick’s beautiful new arrival, the innocent but eager neophyte in their midst. So, who was it you were fucking just then, boys? she asked her companions silently, risking a peek from beneath the veil of her lashes. From her vantage point on the table, curled up in foetal contentment, she could see both her handsome lovers with perfect ease, and what she saw made her desire stir anew. Robert and Declan were sitting together. Almost embracing. After the three of them had disengaged themselves from each other, the men had both kissed her, then chosen to collapse onto Robert’s battered old sofa. Their two bodies were less than inches apart. Morwenna so much wanted to see them make love. She loved Robert, and she cared deeply for Declan. They were both adorable. To see the two of them entwined would be beautiful. Oh boys, please! she willed them silently, wishing that they’d lose all inhibition and touch each other. It was something she wanted just as much as she’d wanted them to touch her. And the afternoon was young yet... There was time for all sorts of possibilities when you were healthy and lusty and eager.

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As if by magic, Robert’s drooping eyelids snapped open, and he looked sideways, almost slyly, at Declan. The bigger, darker man was half drowsing still: his strong thighs splayed, his cock quiescent between them. Morwenna saw her husband glance towards Declan’s genitals. He’s going to do it! she thought. He is! He is! Her own sex began to quiver softly. Containing her excitement, and remaining perfectly still, she watched her husband’s tongue flick out across his lips. You’re a devil, Rob, she thought fondly, almost tasting his desire in her own mouth. She saw his fingers flex, almost begin to reach out, then pause. The next instant he looked across and caught her eye. He didn’t speak, or even mime, but she heard his voice in her mind as clear as radio. Help me, Wenna, he seemed to say. Help me out, this is delicate. I need you. Moving as noiselessly as she could, Morwenna straightened and slid down off the table. As she walked across the room, she caught her breath and almost faltered, feeling a rush of trickling liquid on her thigh. Your semen, Declan my darling, she thought as she approached him. Your essence, and now my husband wants more of it. Sitting down beside Declan, she leant against him, and let her long hair drift like mist across his skin. “Mmmm...” Declan made an appreciative sound, then stretched luxuriously, his hardpacked muscle flexing and surging as he moved. Dear God, man, you’re so beautiful! thought Morwenna. She wanted to overwhelm him, run wild with him, devour him; to make his cock stiff, and then leap astride and ride him. But instead, she simply stroked his sweaty chest. Robert gave her a look that was half gratitude and half a warning, an expression that aroused her even more. It’s all right, she told her husband with her eyes. This time he’s yours, but when you’re done, I want the leavings. Letting her hand slide down Declan’s sleek torso, she traced her fingertips over each bunch of bulging muscle. His physique was beautifully modelled but not grotesquely overdeveloped, and his flat male belly was as hard as a slab of oak. As she approached his penis, it twitched slightly and began to rise. “Morwenna,” he groaned, as she let her hand move lower. His eyelids fluttered, then opened, and he turned his face towards her, reaching up a hand to bring her mouth down to his.

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“Relax, darling. Lie back and enjoy,” she whispered, fending him off with one hand while the other brushed his sex. “That’s it,” she told him as he obeyed her, “Close your eyes and leave everything to me.” Oh Declan, she thought as his long, black lashes fluttered down again. Why do you men always make my job so easy? She looked across him and met Robert’s golden gaze. I love you, her husband mimed, blowing her a kiss under the cover of a stagey yawn. “I need a drink,” he said pointedly, rising to his feet and stepping carefully around Declan’s stretched out legs. Morwenna looked up at her slender, pale-skinned husband, and blew a kiss of her own—towards the might of his newly stiffened cock. As an answer, he jiggled his erection with his fingers. Returning her attention to Declan, she said, “Good boy,” as he shuffled his bottom on the sofa, easing himself forward and opening wide his sculpted thighs. His penis was now proudly at attention. Planning her strategy, Morwenna slid down onto her knees on the carpet, then edged closer until she was kneeling between Declan’s legs. Seeing his beautiful penis from the angle of a penitent, she felt a sudden urge to tell Robert he could make his own arrangements. She wanted to pleasure Declan herself, and she was already leaning forward, her mouth relaxed in readiness, when a cool hand fell on her shoulder and gripped it firmly. There were no words spoken—they had to maintain the pretence—but she fell still, in obedience to her master. Guided by Robert’s nod, she put her hand on Declan’s penis, very lightly enclosed it, and then stroked its underside with her thumb. The fine penile skin was very warm, and close-textured, and as she held him she felt a long vein pulsing. “Oh yeah,” he whispered, shifting his haunches, then tipping back his head. “Yeah, that is so good,” he gasped as she squeezed a little, watching the expression that induced upon his face. Holding the very tip of Declan’s cock between her finger and thumb, Morwenna wondered how much he suspected. Was he aware of Robert’s machinations? When the time came would he shake off his usual bias? And let his sex life gain a brand new dimension... As she worked meticulously on Declan’s dripping glans, she felt Robert move close in behind her, and his own cock touch the nape of her neck. Flexing her shoulders, she pushed

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back against him, using her hair as a soft-as-silk caress. He made no sound, but his fingers slid gently around the side of her face, fondling her cheek and then stroking her open mouth. Declan was still moaning, almost crowing with delight, his cock now impossibly stiff and red. He was moving too, rocking his bottom against the battered upholstery, rolling his head frantically against the back of the settee. As she watched her friend’s excitement, Morwenna felt her husband stir behind her, kneeling down and running his hand along her arm. After couple of seconds, they were both holding Declan’s penis, but it was Robert who was in charge of the caress. Brushing aside her thick hair, he rested his chin on her shoulder, so he had an uninterrupted view of Declan’s body. His cock butted against the cheeks of her bottom. Morwenna was finding it difficult to concentrate. She felt as if she wanted to swivel her hips the way Declan was doing, and to reach down between her legs to touch her pussy. The naked presence of the two men was overpowering. When she felt a slight but telling pressure on the back of her stroking hand, she knew Robert was giving her a signal. Switching to her left hand for a second, she withdrew her right, and let Robert take its place with his hand. As his fingers encompassed Declan, she drew back both of her hands, and let one of them slip surreptitiously between her thighs. Captivated, she watched her husband masturbate his best friend, his hand as pale as milk on Declan’s redness. Morwenna had observed her husband manipulating himself on many occasions, but this new twist was unbearably exciting. His expertise...and another man’s flesh. After a few moments, Declan confirmed Robert’s skills by squirming even harder. Morwenna saw him lift his hands, his fingers clenching, then reach out towards his caressor. “Oh no you don’t!” she cried playfully, “No touching!” She smacked his thigh with her left hand. “Lie back and leave everything to me...” Declan frowned and obeyed her, relaxing into Robert’s ministrations. Morwenna looked closely at the prone man