A Restorative Weeend

He arrived in the middle of the night, the wind howling off the estuary, salt-spray and the scent of ozone filling his nose as he got out of the car. It had been a long journey - both today, and what led to today. His heart was heavy with the conversation and the circumstances of his leaving.

This place was safe, despite the storm, despite the spring tide and the deepness of the dark tonight. A familiar sanctuary - a white clapboard cottage sitting low behind the sea-wall. This was an ancient place, full of memories, of lives lived and the coming and going of the water. A tiny outpost of homes - just three in a row, which stood defiant against the weather. No light shone from any of the cottages - he would be alone this weekend, as he had hoped.

He crept around the edge of the house, finding his way as much by memory and feel as by sight, found the key in its usual spot in the shed, and unlocked the door of the cottage, holding it back against the strength of the wind as he did so. Once inside, the howling ceased, making way for the whistle and rattle of the wind outside, and he immediately felt enclosed.

The house was neat and clean, basic, but comfortable, with two small bedrooms, a bathroom, small kitchen and a sitting room. He turned on the lights, unpacked his meagre shopping into the fridge, took out the one cold beer that he found in there and collapsed onto the sofa. Friday night. He'd made it.

His thoughts darted around, his brain still wired from the drive, from the rain and wind he met when he arrived. What should he do? A weekend to contemplate his options, assess his life. The stakes were high, emotions running to and fro in his mind. Enough waiting, enough hoping for things to change. It was time to consider what he needed. But there were so many people to think about. What did she want, really? What did he want? Tomorrow. There was time for thinking tomorrow. The cold suddenly hit him.

And so, he set about lighting the small woodburning stove that heated the cottage. He found all he needed, exactly where it should be, and lit the fire, watching yellow flames engulf the kindling, the storm hungrily drawing whispers of smoke up the chimney. He began to thaw, warming his hands on the cast iron before it became too hot, and contemplated what to do next. A film, perhaps, or maybe his book. Yes. Reading, calm the mind, look after himself. He decided to collect more logs from the shed outside before the storm got worse, and braced himself for another stint outside.

The rain had stopped momentarily when he made it outside, and he walked to the shed clutching the wicker log basket. As he began to load it up, he noticed a dim light emanating from the first cottage. Curious, he climbed up on to the sea-wall and along. He knew the neighbours from weekends away over many years, wanted to check nothing was amiss.

Through the French doors at the back of the cottage, he could see that the light was flickering, a fire. He descended the wall and peered in. On a red sofa lay a figure in front of a raging open hearth. The light was dim, but he could make out slender shoulders, sleek dark hair, a blanket. He realised it must be Carla, Jim's daughter, back from university. He hadn't seen her since she left for Leeds, but knew that she had finished last summer. He tried to recall her face, to remember what she had studied. As he did so, he spotted a tiny movement. Under her blanket, her shoulder twitched and moved slightly. The blanket rising and falling as she did so. He saw her stretch her neck slightly, her chin rising away from her chest, caught sight of her pale, beautiful face for the first time, her mouth slightly open, and he suddenly realised what he was watching. He felt terrible, he had only meant to check the house was safe, and he quietly made his way back to the woodpile, being careful to be discreet.

Back in his cottage, he took stock of what had just happened. A surge of adrenaline pumped through his veins as he remembered her both from moments ago, and from his memory of long ago. She had always been beautiful. He had watched her blossom as she had grown older, her large brown eyes, her deep voice, both penetrated him. He recalled her mischievousness, her searing intellect and her warmth at the same time. He couldn't stop thinking about her, a sense of lust suddenly overwhelming his sorrow and anxiety from before. As the woodburner creaked and warmed, he lay on the sofa imagining Carla in her cottage only two doors away, the curtains open, the warmth of both their fires warming them, illuminating them.

He imagined her body, long and thin, her toned shoulders, the nape of her neck. He imagined her dark hair, straight and thick, twisting around her collarbone. He imagined her breath, now deep, now shallow, and her beautiful lips, her tongue moistening them from time to time. He imagined her under her blanket, wondered what she might be wearing. Imagined her small breasts, pert and lithe, and imagined her chest heaving as she became more aroused.

As he imagined, he noticed his own hand finding its way, almost involuntarily, to his jeans. He undid his fly and caressed his balls as he fantasised about Carla, felt as his penis swelled, enjoyed the sensation of the fire warming him as he pulled down his jeans and boxers. She and he, both Enjoying themselves, both sheltered from the storm. What might she be fantasising about? He wondered.

His other hand began to touch his shaft, his thumb stroking as he began to slowly reach up and down. He imagined her hands travelling slowly over her beautiful midriff, fingers around her navel, lower. What could she be wearing? Jeans too? Perhaps just pants, her hand moving down until it found her soft mound. He imagined her gentle, low, moan as her fingers began to move in slow circles, stimulating her clitoris from above, and imagined her arousal spreading as she touched herself. He wondered about the details of her, the places that he would never see, touch, taste. Her labia, the feeling of slipping a finger inside her, the sound of her as his penis entered for the first time. His hands quickened as he created a picture in his head. He imagined her slender fingers tracing circles, her clitoris hardening, her skin darkening. He pictured her lifting her pelvis as she became more and more aroused, imagined her fingers curled inside herself, the ridges of her vagina.

He was so close to the edge. He imagined her climax only a few metres away, wondered if she was using her fingers still, or some other source of stimulation. In his mind, she had two fingers inside herself as she came, her other hand on her clitoris, her muscles spasming, her spine stretching, he felt his penis throb, his orgasm overwhelming his body and mind. He felt as line after line of semen landed on his body and he imagined his explosion on her body, her orgasm simultaneous with his own.

The fire was glowing brightly, and radiating heat around the room. He felt suddenly exhausted, the last few days catching up with him once more, the adrenaline wearing off. He pulled the blanket around him, and found himself weary and low, the sound of the wind and rain, which had restarted, offering a sort of natural lullaby, urging him to sleep.