With apologies to Helen Macdonald.
Just seventy some centimetres south from her neck is an area I have come well to love. The bracken fens nearby, damp, inviting, curling, concealing. That hidden reclusive ravine, holding all that is lovely and beckoning in the feminine world.
Yet just below, often fearfully neglected, cradled by two rounded smooth hills, lies the object of my dreams for some time, now my own royal game preserve, my refuge from the rest of the forbidding, excessively civilised world.
I turned May onto her stomach. This is a quiet, pleasant sight. Her shoulders had been well rubbed earlier, now eased and soothed with the oil I had employed. A faint vanilla odour permeated, not overpowering, yet sweet.
Her long brown hair was splayed out fetchingly on the pillows. The landscape contours were inviting, relaxed. I made my way down her body. My fingertips traced her sides, from shoulders to flanks to hips.
Brush, brush, brush.
The first time an anus beckoned me, it did not go well. Lana had agreed beforehand, we had talked for some time. Yet our inexperience was breathtaking. Not enough lubrication was used. She said it hurt, which of course I knew as soon as I entered her, and perhaps all should have come to a halt then. But my excitement was overpowering on that first penetration.
I did go slowly, even she would admit that. The feeling of her rim gripping the head of my penis was extraordinary. The tightest entrance ever. Her first involuntary clench caught me by surprise, and we both inhaled sharply.
She later said that her arse had been on fire. That she felt keenly the impulse to expel the intruder, that my penis felt enormous, invading, ruthless. Perhaps it was.
We would learn the second time - so excellent in life that there are often second times - both for more liquid smoothing to be applied, but also that if I lay upon her back and reached down and under her, and pleasured her vulva with a hand while I impaled her, that good things would occur.
I smiled at the sight of May adjacent me now. Her long trim body holds a gentle soul. Her mind is quick, agile. We had become a couple easily, and the last six months had been intense, satisfying.
Her head was turned to the right, eyes closed, arms at her side. Her flanks gleamed with the oil I had used. Candlelight illuminated her fair skin. Her arse called me.
Late one night I had been with Jorge in the sauna at the university gym. We were the only ones remaining, after two good hard hours of weights-work and exercise. We were naked, sitting on the wooden bench, sweating heavily. Jorge is from Argentina, a sociologist by training, with smooth handsome brown skin, furrowed brows with piercing eyes below. His thick, darkly-furred legs were well suited for football and squats.
"You have to be patient," he urged. "No need to rush. An arse needs to be worshipped, gently at first, fiercely only at the end."
His consort, Geena, possessed a rump that called for ravaging. She was short, dark, curly-haired and nearly chestless, but her braless nipples would poke visibly through any shirt she wore. Her arse was round, full, meaty. Jorge confided early on to me that his greatest pleasure in life was to ravish her rear. She did not mind.
He had listened to my musings about May. We talked about the best ways.
As I stood up, sweat trickling down my body, he gazed at my penis.
"You will do fine. This is one of the times when large is not always the best."
He stood up also, his dark heavy penis nodding, the hair on his legs matted down with sweat.
"I take it that yours has not always found an easy path?" I pointed at his penis but didn't need to.
He laughed.
"Warmup," he said. "Warmup and more warmup. Like you are getting ready for a long run. Stretching. It must not be dry."
He laughed again, long and comfortably.
"Although I do like it when she grunts on first entry." He smiled confidingly. "Yours is a good size, and with care you will be able to pierce any arse you ever find."
"Let us see it hard," he said. His eyes glinted.
As if to help matters, he began to stroke his own member. We stood, looking at each other as we caressed our cocks.
They grew. Rapidly.
The large, rounded head pressed beyond his foreskin. I pictured him impaling Geena while she lay underneath him, her arse-cheeks split asunder. My own penis twitched.
He was much larger than I. His girth must ream her rectum desperately. I imagined his sperm erupting, jetting inside her, his hips thrusting, balls contracting. I smiled.
"Fingernails," he urged. "They cannot be trimmed too short."
He looked at my nodding penis - straight, stiff, urgent.
"Yes," he hissed. "You will do fine."
I rubbed May's flanks, her rounded rump-cheeks. My penis twitched. The thought of entering her was overwhelming. Yet I knew I must take my time.
I pulled a pillow from the head of the bed and carefully tucked it underneath her. She made way, and settled herself on top of it. She knew what was imminent. I felt an involuntary shudder.
I kneaded her rump-cheeks, my own penis bobbing.
Patience. Patience.
The ancient Roman treatise on this,
De Arte Penetrationis
, from the second century CE, repeated this advice again and again. Never to rush. To exist at that edge. To respect the act of impaling, and the person who would be penetrated.
The Romans did not much care who, or what, was impaled. It was just more manly if you were the one to wield the javelin, the
pilum
. Higher status males would take their wives, their concubines, their maidservants, even the water carrier boy, with no compromise to their sexual persona.
The anus was fair game, regardless, and the author of
