February 26th, 2009 by admin
A June sky crammed with clouded light and the sounds of feeding birds, soon it’ll be full morning. Her high boots are actually astride him, moving forward as he lies prone within the tall marsh grass. She raises herself on muddied booted knees, a gloved hand seeking and finding, arousing and rubbing the erection along the lips of the vulva, her breathing lifting her chest under her open coat. Looking down, the top of her tongue protruding between wet lips, “It’s going..” she withdraws her hand and slowly descends. “…innnn!” A soft sibilant sound, he grunts, she gasps, looking up, “Oh shit, you’re big.” A pause then, cautiously, she lifts herself a couple of inches before taking place. “Am I doing this right?”
She begins to head on him, each slow plunge taking her higher, then deeper, the rubber ripples and creaks, punctuated by panting. “I’m riding a cock horse.” An exchange of sharp indrawn breathes echoes around the wet marsh. “And it’s wild.”
Gloved hands are stretched as much as caress the covered mounds of her breasts, scattering dew from the grass. “A better position?
“Then I’ve got you prepared already?”
He nods. “Are you?”
“You know i’m.”
She lifts herself off and presses herself back against the bottom, spreads her waders wide, pulling up front of her coat. His breathing quickening he slides himself between her boots and leans forward on raised arms. She grasps his wet shoulders and pulls him down. “Let me put it in.” Wide eyes lookup at him. “Go, go, shoot me into the sky.”
The thrusts are actually hard and long pressing her down in small jerks. She is holding him, sighing. “’Pregnate me, Harold.”
It comes, filling her, lifting her in an extended spasm, shuddering contractions sending ripples down the rubber and the boots. A shriek. “Oh shit and sugar, that’s marvelous.”
A watery sun works in the course of the clouds lighting the ocean of reeds waving gently within the morning breeze; flocks of waterfowl hiss overhead heading for the feeding pools. He lifts himself up from the reed bed and helps her to rise. She presses her lips to him for a kiss. “An early morning fuck – purported to be a great time.” amusing. “ Firing you up. Once you got that decision I pictured you, one hand getting it ready while the opposite was pulling up your boots.”
“Damn it, it was five o’clock, i used to be seeking to sleep not wake my penis, boot up and drive.”
“But you knew i used to be watching the calendar and also you are wonderful and also you did.” Another touch of her lips. “And first thing you said was ‘Mount me Myra,’ and that i did didn’t I?”
“Remember, if anyone asks we are saying we’ve got been checking nesting sites for signs of predators.”
She smiles up at him and places her arms round him for a hug. “Or i’ll tell the reality and say i’m still trembling from another splendid fuck and show them where I’m leaking baby juice down the edges of my boots.”
July and the seaside hotel was already crowded, the elements in heat-wave mode, nonetheless it were the chance to spend time together over two days. They’d walked the cliffs and the beach and talked, discovering a mind that was not entirely enthusiastic about parturition, a mind jam-packed with dreams and concepts, stuffed with curiosity and sympathy. He learned she have been a foster child with a loving foster mother who needed to share her love among six other children; an overcrowded house and a foster father who employed a mindless cruelty that he had convinced himself was the simplest technique to deal with babies.
She had a terribly bright mind and there has been talk of her happening to grammar school, maybe then a college, English being her best subject, but her education have been interrupted by the constant must act as a nursemaid for the opposite foster children. Age 16 she had left the house, reinvented herself as Myra in preference to the Joyce on her birth certificate and, with an exceptional school report, had little trouble in getting a task on the Wildfowl Centre. From working within the visitor reception area she had moved to being a laboratory assistant where Harold, the research ornithologist, had discovered her to own a natural curiosity and was a rapid reader.
Harold told her she had a face “like a Botticelli model” and showed her a replica of the painting in an art book. She had stared. “Got better breasts than she has.” Harold checked out her blouse beneath the white lab coat and agreed she certainly had. “Not as tall as her neither and my legs are thicker.” Harold nodded but said the face and the eyes were a fine match.
She had flicked the pages thoughtfully and paused at a Mantegna. He told her the model was Isabella d’Este . She held up the book. “A baby at the way – she looks so beautiful and happy.”
That was the beginning as he recalled it. She wanted a toddler, not a husband. She wanted good genes. Kate had encouraged her compulsive ambition after she had won on a lottery. Although the 1st prize needed to be shared with four others who had also chosen a similar winning numbers, there has been enough now within the bank to hide what she calculated to be the likely costs. “And i will’t consider the rest i’d like to spend it on.”
Arriving on the Wildfowl Park, she have been “kinda adopted” by Kate and another woman who had met her on the bus stop, helping her together with her one small suitcase, offering the room within the cottage described of their advert. “Kate was always so kind and loving and that i never got much of that before., and when Beryl took off to work in London I kind of moved in as a comfy replacement and he or she taught me lots – sex included. Says she loves me.”
To Harold this all sounded somewhat unpleasant but he didn’t explore further recognizing Myra’s endearing naivety.
That they had set out to “what we came here to do” immediately there of their hotel room only to locate the bed creaked and groaned alarmingly and the mattress had a deep valley down the centre. He did only marginally better along with her leaning back against the threshold of the bed nevertheless it was brief and unsatisfactory, both being tired with walking and talking followed by a calorie-laden hotel dinner and sleep not sex became the concern.
Coupling was thwarted at the second day by noisy hotel guests and the daytime heat dictated the window being left wide open so both feared they might be heard by other guests also embracing fresh sea air through their windows.
A drink within the bar and an early night was the plan but as a unadorned Myra plumped up her breasts and lubricated, a disco spread out at the terrace below their room. Closing the window only made them sweat and, after fiddling with his erection, Myra decided they might leave it until the morning.
They overslept after which were disturbed by an over enthusiastic chamber maid arriving to wash the room inside the belief the occupants will be enjoying an early breakfast instead of one another.
Myra saw the humour in all this and voted the weekend a hit. She decided “it were lovely sharing a bed with a true man to cuddle, and also you’re a genuine man, Harold.” She had a musical laugh and he smiled when she added, “Wouldn’t pick this hotel for a honeymoon, the bride would likely still be a virgin by the point she left. We do it better within the mud at the marsh.” She pressed his arm, giggling.
“What’s so funny?”
“Being fucked among the many ducks.” She imitates a toddler’s voice, “Mummy, how was I conceived?”
Dark boiling clouds and rising wind signal the arriving of an August storm ending the warmth wave. Ignoring the cloying heat he twists within the seat forcing his legs deep into his thigh high boots, his mind creating heart-beating pictures, the blue eyes clouding with pleasure, the long deep plunges, the exquisite sensation of delivering his semen. Then her laughter, pointing to the excess sliding out of her white and warm, forming thin threads before pooling on her booted feet.
The storm is nearer now and he has pushed open the laboratory door, buttoning his raincoat, boots strapped as much as his belt flexing and creaking. He presses a rubber gloved hand to his crotch and feels a well-recognized thickening, the second one time this month: the third, he reminds himself, in four weeks, a product, he has decided, of uncontrollable lust in preference to scientific experiment. The need to prove his fecundity had become compulsive and he refused his mind permission to dwell on it.
The primary raindrops form splashes at the windscreen as he pictures her standing, a small and vulnerable figure smothered inside a protracted raincoat, hat tied under the chin, and in her high wading boots, waiting under the porch of the visitor centre, nervous, excited.
It’ll, aside from the storm, be a repeat of last month, and the month before that – back to May. There’ll be the embrace, then back to the Land Rover, the drive to the marsh where they are going to park before more kisses and he or she will ask him if he’s excited, anticipating enjoying her small body and her physical assets. Then they’ll wade around the lake and once there she’s going to kneel in her boots, lifting his coat so she will find and draw out what she loves to call “the babymaker”. For now the performance has become more elaborate, her enthusiasm on a brand new scale. Now she’s going to hold it in gloved fingers and smile at him, fingering the foreskin, easing back. “Let me kiss it ‘till i will feel it touching the back of my throat, then i do know it’s really filled and prepared.”
He’ll grunt, hands stroking the wet rainhat, until she removes her mouth, looking first up at him, silver rain sparkling on her face, then right down to the erection standing out from between the tops of his boots. She’s going to stare at it, eyes wide, before positioning herself. Those first strokes, she had told him, were top-of-the-line. “You’re so big and that i’m so small so being stretched open is wonderful.” He could hear her voice pitched higher. “Big slow strokes, then the stunning warm sperm spurts.”
He smiled on the considered her wide-eyed response to his assurance that he loved the sensation of her tensing herself on his penis. It stimulated him, he told her, to massage her very core with every thrust of his boots pressed tight between hers, his “babymaker” pumping away, milking the juices from her. What he now enjoyed was witnessing her panting orgasm signaling the coming of his wanted semen. He loved it when she called out his name as he reached the purpose of his climax. She had smiled when he told her, as they caressed afterwards, that she should call the newborn Harold if it was a boy; Harriet if it was a woman.
The storm was short and that they waited within the Land Rover until the worst had passed. Myra, held firmly in his arms, shrieking and holding hands to her ears with each coming rumble following the lightning flash. He tried to distract her, shouting above the rattle of rain at the roof, telling her she should leave Kate and he’d find her a small apartment where he could visit her. Then intercourse will be simple. Another flash, another crash, another shriek, then a shake of the pinnacle.
Moving during the dripping woods and around the storm soaked marsh, they’d waded to the island and performed as he had pictured except that she had repeated her thunderstorm shriek together with his ejaculation. She excused herself saying have been like a internal thunderstorm. “You poured it in like a cloudburst.” And for the primary time she called him “darling” and pointed to the white streaks round the boot tops. “White signatures of fertility. Read that somewhere.”
Standing, she had put her small arms to his waist, turned and pressed her head against his coat. “I like doing it out within the reeds: seeing the sky, the fresh smell of the air, the splash of the water, the stunning feeling of being properly fucked.”
The water had risen almost to the tops of her waders within the storm flooded stream and he needed to hold her. What, she had desired to know as they climbed the bank, was the highest position for fucking when the foetus was evident? She had, she feared, now got so used to what he liked to name penile intromission she would feel deprived without it. “Bet one could too and also you’ll ought to find another Myra.”
September arrived with cold winds and tears. Harold offered his handkerchief to dry her eyes. “My millions of sperm that stretch your uterus are nourished by the mucus of the cervical canal – what you call your ‘juice’ – but sometimes the alkali balance is just too strong and kills the sperm – hence we’re trying these tablets.”
He holds her close, stroking. “ Another possibility is with the fertilized egg. It travels down the uterus within per week and it grows projections which allow it to burrow into the liner of the uterus and once it has happened pregnancy begins. But sometimes – a process called nidation – it fails and the result’s a heavy and debilitating period like you have just experienced.”
He kissed the pinnacle of her head. “It’s not something to fret about. Here again the tablets might help but usually nature corrects the issue and it only requires patience.”
A tear stained face looks up at him. “I never imagined it’d be this tough, especially as now we both enjoy it a lot.”
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