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I would have written a third story to send along with the other two, would have, always intended to but things got in the way, cats and cucumber seeds and a muddle involving glass, in which a pair of socks that weren’t feature but it’s so involved I won’t bore it with you.

Suffice to say the supposed story didn’t get writ nor the intended tale told, because, socks and seeds aside, I woke up with a foul taste in my mouth and the smell of last nights steak and onions in my beard. Beside me she still snored, hot as a Japanese power station and very nearly as unapproachable, while the light grew, keeping time with my discomfort.

At five thirty the lights a light grey, grey and light with light fog and foggy with light if you can see what I mean, yes I was still as much asleep as I was awake and so I lay, not quite dreaming. Mine is not to complain nor to hope for too much. In fact I gave up expecting anything so long ago that the wheel hadn’t been invented.

Then the keyboard called, along with the urge to pee, get a cup of tee and several other first thing in the morning combinations of possibilities.

When I rolled against her she was silent for once. Usually there is a moan or a scream or a smack of the lug. She lay like a hummock, a hillock, a place of shaded woodlands and valleys leading to a cave……

The heights were right, the angles, even this curve and that one for once. The power station glowed, murmured, changed her pattern of breathing. A hummock became rounder, a leg longer, or was it shorter. Or was it, anyway……

A spring sprang, fragrant, familiar, neither beard nor steak nor onion flavoured. In the valley a startled doe stared wide eyed, hesitant while the archer drew his bow back gently, notched an arrow and saw her fade before he could let fly……

It would be a single page, no more if I wrote it at all. Nothing to make the headlines. Hunter misses prey really doesn’t sell, does it? Like hunter trips on a root and falls flat on his face, fucks up yet again. No, it doesn’t sell and won’t wash either……

But then the shape changed again, grew longer smoother like the strand of a seashore, rounded by wind and waves along her back. The archer drew again, nocked the arrow without seeing the target, not seeing but knowing more or less where it lay……

She murmured again, neither disproval nor encouragement. Maybe disinterest I couldn’t tell. Winds and waves and a forest fair, even with the doe long gone and her hoofprints faded……

I explored gently eliciting nothing and nothing ventured I stumbled on. The angles were better now the shaped more amenable and dammitall if I wasn’t suddenly so much harder……

She must have been too hot earlier must have removed the forbidden nightdress for I could neither see it nor feel it anywhere. But I found the pathway, the incurving valley, the way down deeper, further in……

To begin with I hardly dared to move at all, until she did and then, oh good, she allowed a little leap towards me……

I hardly dared to move a muscle, reach for anything beyond the mound. More treasures lay on the far side, that much was certain, but for now I’d have to be content with what was on offer on this and these……

……combinations of possibilities.

It was hardly a fuck at all, to begin with, more a light placement, an arrow in a notch, a smooth stone rolled softly in the very vee of a valley, but it trickled and tricked, searching as if it knew not the way until, finding a wetness much greater than expected, it paused, pondered, before plunging in.

It was hardly a fuck at all, more the joining of two parts of a repair, a mortice and tenon, both worn, both crooked, yet fitting well with so much surplus glue to ease them together.

I didn’t breathe, didn’t shove, suction like a receding tide seemed to draw me in. She made some noises which were not threatening nor were they sounds of protest. I’ll compile the language one day, if there is time, I know it well, fluently I’d say. I’ve heard it spoken often enough.

Then the angles improved even more for some reason. She was hungry, receptive or maybe I was. I’d like to have said how much I wanted it but it would have spoiled things. The church clock chiming six was annoying enough. She was loosely tight, awkward and easy, doing nothing except, like the distant horizon, just lying there. I wanted her to know how much I wanted it but now I was getting it what else could I say? So I kept quiet, knowing it was pointless, pretending she was still asleep, hoping she was. Familiar feelings built while I remained cautious, still unsure if she was asleep or awake. And did it matter anyway? Did it? Did IT! Fucking hell I so wanted her!

I found the nightdress soon after that, bundled up around her shoulders like some weird hood. Her back was longer under the bedclothes, smoother with a spot, two spots, one here and one there. She moved a little, neither for me nor against me, an adjustment merely, at her own discretion, retaining the suction, the partial vacuum in which, while her own two joys remained out of reach was the only thing I could think of with two U’s in it, side by side.

I got lost for a moment, revelling, reeling, skipping along a sunny street. Can you remember your first fuck? I can, vividly, easily and this one was, is nothing like it.

I had to pull the duvet down so as not to exhale too much against her back. A snorkel would have been handy, now theres an idea. Mad! Mad and cumming. Madly cumming yes, yes oh yes!

In the glade the archer dew on his bowstring again. His arrow sped true, found it mark unerringly, piercing deeply so that the dam burst.

I lay for a while, disconsolate, happy, all manner of things including worried and late. But the better things overlay the worst, buried them, smoothed their edges. I’d had my fuck and changed my luck.

“That was nice!” she murmured.

“Oh good” I said

“I thought you were asleep”

“I was……..”

“I thought you were!”

So I didn’t write that third story, the one I’d planned on writing. Instead I put down, badly, the outline of a sequence of events, a combination of possibilities.

She’s in the shower, now she’s getting ready, humming to the radio on the bedside table, clattering with jars and tubes of this and that.

Toast burns and cats stay sleeping, grey turns to yellow, its those blasted daffodils. Its seven thirty almost and still cool and damp. An egg, yes and…..and and……and in a while I might even get dressed.

© Aahlu 180311.