Author's note: This is another Melanie piece, an enchanted few days on a Scottish island.
My thanks to my muse for her inspiration, and help with editing. Profound thanks also to raconteuse, who painstakingly edited, and smoothed away the jaggy edges. I'm deeply indebted to both of them. Thanks also to my loyal readers, who have stayed with me through my sometimes erratic posting history.
The second and last part of this story has been written, edited, and will be posted in the next few days.
Melanie fans should know that the fourth and fifth chapters of 'Journey into Melanie's Reality' are also complete and edited, and will be posted soon. The sixth and final chapter is in progress...
Oh, and back to the present piece: you'll understand the point of the title when you've read the second part.
*****
Sunlight flittered on gentle waves as they stood by the car at Kennacraig, watching the ferry draw into the linkspan. Cormorants stood on rocks, wings outstretched as if crucified, drying in the warmth. Members of Strathclyde Constabulary stood by a police van, two leashed dogs sitting patiently by them. She pointed to them, wondering:
-I wouldn't have thought there's a lot of crime on an island like Islay darling?
-No, very little. Most folk in a place like Islay never lock their houses or cars. But drugs get smuggled in on the west coast. Thousands of secluded bays with no living being but sheep and deer for miles. That's what the dogs are for, to sniff it out.
They got in the car as several whisky-laden artics rolled off the boat, followed by a dozen or so smaller vehicles. Not a lot of traffic midweek in April. The police pulled in one Transit van, and the dogs leapt into the back, but with laughing apologies the vehicle was allowed to proceed.
It was lunchtime, so they headed for the bar once the car was secure on the vehicle deck, found window seats on the starboard side, and ordered sandwiches. He scanned the bar:
-Look sweetness, Islay Ale on draught. Want to sample it? I've never heard of it, but micro-breweries are springing up all over. They usually make good ale.
She joined him to choose, the barman watching appreciatively as she moved in her short summer skirt:
-Hope ye brought something warmer than that fer yer stay on the island lass. The weather's not usually as kind as it is today.
-Don't worry, - nudging her man – he's warned me!
-This yer first visit?
-Yes, first trip here. We wanted to visit somewhere completely new for both of us, and decided on Islay because it was the nearest island. Something about islands – the boat trip makes it a special adventure.
There was no other custom at the bar, and the man spent time helpfully explaining the range of ales. They made their choices and retired to their stools by the window, watching birdlife on the shoreline as the ferry picked up speed down West Loch Tarbert.
-He's very friendly darling.
-Most islanders are, love: not much room for anything else in a wee community. And of course he's interested in you...
She slapped his arm playfully:
-Sandy! Don't start that nonsense again, please.
He laughed:
-It isnae nonsense darling. What man could resist you?
His hand slid up her naked thigh. She drew breath at the unexpectedness of the sensation:
-Please love, not here. We'll share many new things on this holiday, but I don't want to start with public sex on the ferry. I'm not ready for that. But this I need...
She slid from the stool and stood beside him, arms encircling him, and drew him into a long kiss:
-My first kiss on a ferry – her face was pensive for a second – ever, I think.
He stood, pulled her into his loving embrace, kissed all over her face, then drew back:
-Jesus darling, I can't get enough of you. What a beautiful start to our wee holiday. Let's finish our sandwiches, eh? My hunger isn't just for you. But first, I must visit the shop. We don't have the Islay OS map, and they'll have a wee guidebook too.
When he returned with map and guidebook, she was at the bar sipping a new pint, chatting with the smiling barman:
-Did you find what you were looking for my sweet? Ah, I see you did. We're all set for our adventures then? Willie's been very helpful, telling me his favourite places. Maybe you could show us them on the map?
Willie beamed with pleasure as the fifty thou was spread on the bar, and spent some time pointing out his recommendations. When he excused himself to serve other customers, they returned to their stools to finish their sandwiches.
-Willie suggested we move to the other side soon, so we can watch the shore of Islay passing. What a lovely man.
God he adored everything about this remarkable woman. The sparkle in her eyes, her joy in the freshness of the new. She utterly entranced him; had from the first moment they met, a year-and-a-half previously. He was constantly surprised and flattered that she'd chosen him. His woman. His Melanie. He felt his years drop away when they were together.
Food and drink inside them, they moved to port, stepped out on deck. Dappled sunlight lit the slopes of Beinn Bheigier as their arms slid round each other. He sighed and drew her into a kiss:
-God, I love my wee country darling. But not as much as I love you.
His fingers moved to her breasts, small and firm, exquisite. He felt the nipple hardening under his touch and she moaned into their kiss:
-Oh sweetness, please don't start me. I'm on a hair-trigger, wanting you.
He smiled and dropped the teasing hand to her knee, slipping it up her muscled thigh:
-I want you soaking by the time we get to the hotel darling.
-Oh love, please don't. I'm soaking already...
But her legs shuffled apart. Glancing around to check nobody else was in sight, his fingers drifted up under the short loose skirt till he was stroking her sex through wet panties. He drew her back into a secluded corner, pressed her against the steel superstructure, and his hand slid under the flimsy silk.
-Darling, please, I'm ready to burst, but not in public...
-Wheesht lass, we're quite alone, and you need this.
Her clit was engorged, her labia swollen, and his fingers worked her need. She panted and moaned into his mouth:
-Oh god love, yesss...
His movements quickened and she convulsed in his arms. He loved watching her face in orgasm, the most beautiful sight ever. His hand was soaking:
-More darling mine?
-No love, not now, please? I want your mouth for the next one, and you can't do that here. Anyway – she shivered slightly – I'm getting cold.
-Can't have that then. Let's get you inside.
They spent most of the rest of the crossing in the bar, he learning the map, she studying the guidebook. She giggled at one point, kissed his cheek softly:
-Look sweetness, here's an interesting church. Maybe we can complete what was interrupted in Dunblane last week?
-Which church love?
-Bowmore Parish Church, look, here:
-Ah yes – glancing at the guidebook – it's quite famous. It's in every architectural guide to the country. Not many circular kirks in Scotland. And it'll be open to visitors... but very quiet midweek at this time of year. So we may be in luck. I'd visit it if I were here alone. But with you...
His cock, already tumescent from the excitement of playing with her cunt earlier, stiffened at the thought. She noticed, and stroked it surreptitiously through his jeans. It was his turn to protest:
-No sweetness, please, not here. I'm on a hair-trigger too... but I need to save it for you, when we get to our room.
She laughed and withdrew her hand. She knew from long experience that he could seldom orgasm more than once a day, though it had happened on a few memorable occasions:
-Just getting you back for teasing me. Yes darling, naked in our room in – she glanced at her watch – less than an hour. We should be arriving soon?
-Aye, about fifteen minutes. You up to going on deck again?
-Yes love, let's. I'm very warm now.
-Starboard deck first. I've never seen the Paps of Jura up close.
-The what?
-Jura's the adjacent island, and has three fine mountains. From their shape, they're called paps. Scots for a woman's breasts. Jura's other claim to fame is that George Orwell wrote '1984' there when he was dying of TB. Stupid place for a man with TB to stay – it must be one of the wettest bits of Scotland. Let's have a look.
They stepped on deck to see the mountains of Jura rise above to the right, but something else caught Melanie's attention:
-Look darling, seals!
-Aye, grey seals, Atlantic seals. You'll see a few on this trip love, much closer than this. They're everywhere on the west coast.
Her excitement was infectious, though he'd seen seals aplenty. He took her precious face in his hands, watching the almost childlike joy in her eyes. Kissed her parted lips. The engine-throb beneath them changed and he drew back:
-Very nearly there love. Let's go to the other side and see Port Askaig.
He watched her face as the wee ferry port drew closer. A pier, a small cluster of houses and shops, a hotel, fishing boats bobbing at anchor, sentinel cormorants on the rocks. The call came for drivers and passengers to return to their vehicles. She turned to him, eyes gleaming:
-What a beautiful place to bring me to darling. Thank you so much.
