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On the opposite side of the lane to my own gate is another, much more mysterious portal, the gateway into another world.

This is the story of an acquaintance of mine who, scorning the warning I’d given him, sought to see for himself, and no doubt also to prove to me, that he knew better than I did and that there really was nothing but a meadow beyond that gate.

He was wrong of course, I’ve been there, have returned and was able to tell him but he wouldn’t listen, he knew better he said. So I watched while he crossed the lane and without looking back, opened and passed through that other gate.

Beyond it his feet found the path again and followed it to where, at its end, a huge beech stood, a tree as big around as he had ever seen. So massive that even its lowest boughs were the size of trees in their own right, its main trunk so wide he could see nothing beyond it, so tall he thought it must reach up as high as the sky.

The earth was bare beneath the boughs of that beech tree as it so often is, cool and hard beneath his feet, grey and gritty with broken nut husks from autumns long eons forgotten, worn smooth by the winds which sighed endlessly through the downsweeping branches.

But the wind died when it saw him, stilled and left him, with only mistress silence to greet him, to offer him an invitation colder than a long dead Christmas which he, in his arrogance could not refuse. Then mistress silence caught his hand and her touch filled him with a terrible longing which, while he could not comprehend it, nevertheless drew him inexorably closer to her.

He walked out of the world of men, forsaking this life, this land and all within in it in one short step through the door that opened there, in that coolness, a doorway so dark he became both dazzled and dumbfounded by the depth of it.

Silence whispered and he took one step, then another, and caught his breath before the breezes of another place caught him up, wafting him away on the scents and the pollens of a far distant land. A land of rivers and lakes and mountain ranges and limitless forests of even bigger trees where, in the growing gloom he felt the softest of tickles, the lightest, merest hint of snowflakes on his face.

Snowflakes in summer? Its not impossible but still, in a few disbelieving steps he knew the place from some buried memory and knew, too late, that I’d been right when I’d talked of time and space and other things as part of my warning to him. Now, with a shiver he got an inkling of the danger he was in.

Summer clothes and cheap fashion trainers! Damn, he’d left his jacket hanging on the door in my bedroom.

There was, he felt, a new and different feel in the air, and breathily, more like a vibration than an audible sound, a voice which he’d never ever heard before. Except in his dreams. Chill air caught his breath, steaming as he gasped, stumbled half recognising something and nothing, a twig a leaf, the intangible taste of a quivering mystery.

A shape in a snowflake?

A snowflake? But it is summer……

………………

He said it was about time I stopped writing those silly stories, the offbeat ones, those filled with unrealities and the unlikeliest situations. I thought I’d press on regardless, do as I’d always done, write what came naturally and let him do and say whatever he liked when he came to see me.

“Its rubbish you know!” he’d assured me, tossing the A4 sheets back onto the table untidily. “Space travel, gives you the shits! No-one wants to read about that!”

I’d have hit him if I hadn’t been so enamoured by his body, so drawn towards his broad shoulders, tight belly and pliable rubbery prick.

He read a story to me while we played, a short piece from some magazine or other, its banality jarring and its theme so boring as to be laughable had it not been so poorly written. It was beyond a joke, all of it and yet it seemed it was the kind of stuff he wanted me to write.

I didn’t comment on his stubble or the way his armpits smelled. He comes to me as he is on the understanding that he’ll take me as he finds me. Fenlanders are like that. Six fingered, web footed and genetically inept from too long an exposure to mud and wide open skies.

I didn’t comment on his dirty fingernails either. He’d been grubbing in the fens all his life up until the moment I met him, seeing silt not stars whereas I……

“Erotic stories” he informed me haughtily “don’t have spaceships in them. They have pretty girls with shapely bodies doing sexy things with each other. Why don’t you write a lesbian story? You know, an older woman with a younger girl. That’d be easy enough, wouldn’t it?”

“Easier still if I was female and had a lesbian friend I could study……”

“Alright, write a gay story instead. That’ll be better and you’ll know what you’re talking about, at least”

I suppose he meant a story with pretty young men in it instead of one with a grumpy old man and an overbearing thirty something bigmouth but I didn’t argue, I just wanted to write about spaceships, wondrous planets and time travel.

“One day” I said “I’ll come back here and tell you where I’ve been!”

And that was what did it, silly me, I ought to have known!

He’d no imagination whatsoever. None at all.

…………………

We take it in turns to be submissive and this time it was me. I wouldn’t say he deliberately tried to hurt me but he was rougher than usual I don’t mind telling you. He was trying to teach me a lesson I suppose, demonstrating his dominance, his superior knowledge. None of that stuff works for me, I can let him do whatever he wants and become detached from it all entirely. He knows it of course, because I’ve told him, countless times I’ve told him and countless times he hasn’t bothered. This time he was different, enraged inexplicably and foul tempered despicably. Worse, perhaps the worst of all, he was deliberately, aggressively clumsy with his prick.

It isn’t as if I don’t know what he likes by now, know his tastes and tickles and tiny tantalising foibles. I can suck his cock for an hour and just hold him there, in the same place, wanting to cum but being unable to. And it isn’t as if I don’t give in to him either. I let him do whatever he wants, I’ve told you that, everything and anything without complaining. Even when we take it in turns I think I take more of them, more as the submissive one I mean, which is unfair, I agree but then……

“Georgia crosses the room……” I related to him “Her skirts were long enough to sweep the floor, voluminous with petticoats and sticks of liquorish……”

“What the hell?” he asks holding himself dangerously mid-plunge.

“Sorry!” I said “I got sidetracked for a moment”

“Be sensible for fuck’s sake!” he growls then does his best to make me squeal.

“……And Damien regarded her……” I went on.

“What are her tits like?”

“Tit like!” I tell him “You know, mammary shaped, a pair, each with its own nipple, the left one slightly…...”

I didn’t even wince when he smacked my backside.

“Alright, what’s his prick like? Tell me that!”

“Whose?” I enquire, feigning ignorance.

“Your character Damien’s of course!” he squeaks.

“No idea!” I say “I haven’t seen it yet……”

Sometimes, oh sometimes I really wish he’d be a bit more imaginative.

“She couldn’t see the beech tree from her window” I began again “Not because she hadn’t looked for it but because at that very moment she stood there with her sweater pulled inside out, half off, over her head……”

“Beech tree?” he growled “What are you going on about now?”

“The beech tree on the other side of the road from here. Damien and Georgia have a picnic under it and she gets stung by a wasp……”

I could tell he wasn’t far off so I squeezed him tightly like only I can do.

He drew his breath in sharply, raggedly, almost at the point of no return but not quite.

“Damien knocks over the wine bottle in his haste to console her and most of it is lost. Then they find some ants have got into the sandwiches……”

“Uh?”

“Why have you stopped?”

“Fuck’n picnic! Ants! Beech trees! There ain’t no fuck’n beech tree!”

“Yes there is! Yes there is!”

I hold him there for what feels like ages, his thighs against mine his nuts hanging crookedly, heavily. I probably want to cum at least as much as he does but I don’t think about it much. Its not an issue when you have the time and the place and the spaceship.

“Show you if you like” I say as I relax and release him again. Oh I’d sooner sit on him, for sure I would. It’d be more comfortable for both of us, the trouble is I’d then be in control and he wouldn’t like that.

“If you want” I continue “we can go over there”

I’d sooner lie on my back for him than let him do it this way but there it is, that’s how he likes to do it. He likes the shape I make that way around he says, this curve and that, back muscles and vertebrae. I could show him my belly button and nipples if I lay on my back but he’s not interested, he’s no imagination and even though I’ve always done my best for him Where spaceships are concerned he remains a steadfast unbeliever.

“Why don’t you lie down and let me finish you off?” I suggest.

“Don’t!” he warns and grabs my hair.

That’s another sign he’s almost cumming, almost there and doesn’t ever want the feeling to stop.

I shall insist next time. Lie on my back and put my legs over his shoulders. He’d be more inclined to do something for me like that. Insist I shall, make him do it……do it……do……

A sharp grunt, a strong jerky pulse and he cums and oddly enough I think I can feel the slither of ejaculate inside me.

………………

He does nothing for me and I am sad. I want him to but he won’t and doesn’t. He’s already shrivelled when he goes away for a shower.

I can cum in less time than he thinks and without making any mess. And I can picture the interior of my spaceship clearly.

The shower sang and he made some noises which weren’t singing but which denoted both his state of mind and his cleanliness to me distinctly. I could smell the soap he’d used and the shampoo and knew that, in two minutes he’d stand there with his hair all askew and the orange towel around his waist.

My cum was at least as good as his had been, and much better for me of course. Two tissues took the strain, that’s why they’re called man sized, and he’d never know.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” he demanded when he came out.

“I thought I’d have a shower too” I said “If that’s okay, before I show you the spaceship……”

Dunno about me hitting him; he very nearly hit me!

………………

I went over everything again as I dried myself, told him about time travel and how to do it, about space ships and Tesla rings, antimagnetism and star gates. I could see he wasn’t interested, wasn’t even listening, or if he was he was doing so impolitely. In short he was taking the piss.

“I really wish you’d talk sense” he sniffed and I really wished there was some way I could show him. I knew he’d be going home soon, going and taking his dyed in the wool ideas with him.

“It is sense!” I insisted “Perfect sense! You’re the one who can’t see!”

“Bollocks!” he decreed.

That did it.

I went and got the book I’d borrowed from the Great Library in Alexandria two hundred and seventeen centuries ago.

“It’s a fake” was what he said.

Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.

“It’s overdue for return” I told him “And they’ll cut off one of my ears if I don’t pay the fine!”

“You got it off that stall on the market”

“If that stall on the market had this it wouldn’t be there!”

A dyed in the wool unbeliever.

I got dressed, put some shoes on, tucked in my shirt.

“Come on!” I said “I’ll show you!”

Like I said, sometimes I don’t know why I bother.

“Why would I need you to show me if it is as easy as you say?”

He was trying to catch me out, clearly.

“There’s a right way and a wrong way to do it” I said.

“I’ll bet!”

“Right and its easy, wrong and you’re dead……”

“Bollocks!” he emphasised scornfully. “A bloody beech tree! Across the road and through a gateway. That was what you said!”

“That was what I said!”

He went to the door, opened it and looked at me.

”All bollocks!” he insisted.

And that was when I wished, really, really wished, I’d never mention my blasted spaceship.

© Aahlu 040711.

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