Messing About on the River

This is a stand-alone story for the Literotica Summer Lovin' 2024 contest.

____

When the weather is fine then you know it's a sign

For messing about on the river.

If you take my advice there's nothing so nice

As messing about on the river. ...

There are backwater places all hidden from view,

And quaint little islands just awaiting for you.

So I'll leave you right now to cast off your bow,

Go messing about on the river.

(Song of the Inland Waterways, by Tony Hatch, sung by Josh McCrae)

____

They've evolved from a one-night stand into friends with benefits. But they're not interested in a relationship. No. Definitely not. Never...

____

"You've never been to Cambridge before. OK, pedant! 'Never, apart from that one conference, and that one time you visited me and it pissed it down the entire time'. So, what I was saying was, you've never done the proper tourist stuff?"

Emily looked at the guy whose bed she lay in. Long-haired scientist Richie was tall and lean, elegant, even, and naked. After four months, and them spending several days together on five occasions, he might have started to look like a boyfriend, except for his being repelled by any such idea. Richie was devoted to working hard and pursuing an academic career, and had little patience with anyone who didn't support that. Or with anyone he regarded as an idiot, which was a large proportion of the population. He wasn't good at hiding his lack of respect, either. 'That arrogant ginger dickhead in Dan's lab' was a common description.

His boss Dan defended him. In his opinion, "There's nothing wrong with Richie, apart from having the same tact level as the average brick being thrown through a window."

Emily had met Richie when some male postdocs had talked over her in a conference bar; he'd pointed that out. Later, he'd told her she asked good questions, and offered to help her rewrite a paper, to give her a better chance of being published in a prestigious journal. Her conclusion was that his bark was worse than his bite.

He'd also casually mentioned that he was

only

coming to her room to look at her draft paper. 'Unless you actually wanted to have sex,' he'd added, off-hand.

It had set her mind running...

Emily had recently moved to a post in Montpellier, on the French Mediterranean. Looking for any relationship wasn't anywhere near her priorities. Even a short-term fling would be hard, given how much she was working, and the difficulty of managing that when she was still awkward in the language. She was feeling the lack of human contact as she settled into her new life in France, where she could chat but not yet impress anyone in French. Realising that Richie was blunt enough to decline if he wanted, she'd eventually decided to tell him she might be interested in said sex.

She'd challenged him to impress her sexually. Emily had had more than enough of men who didn't care if a woman found their sex satisfying! And Richie had managed to impress her, repeatedly, simply by actually being interested in her reactions.

She might feel slightly like an experimental subject, but when the experiment was 'how to make her have a particularly good orgasm', she'd happily live with that! Outside work, she'd learned he wasn't arrogant at all. Quiet and self-effacing, even. He only spoke when he had something to say, which was rather restful compared to many of Emily's colleagues.

"What 'proper' tourist stuff?" she asked. "We went to the Zoology Museum. And the Fitzwilliam. You pointed out all the historical bits as we went round the town centre. The Senate House Leap, King's College Chapel, and all."

"We didn't do the Backs. Where college gardens back onto the river. A modern wonder of the world, they say. Especially if you see it from a punt."

"Do you know how to punt?"

"Obviously," Richie confirmed, competent as ever. "It's not difficult - if you're remotely sober! Shall we? There's a college graduate one. It's not as beat-up as the others."

Two hours later, he held the shallow flat-bottomed wooden boat for Emily to step into. She lay down on a pile of plastic-coated cushions, her shoulders propped up on a 45-degree slope, facing the stern platform onto which Richie stepped. She squinted at Richie, silhouetted in the warm mid-June sun. Behind her, the narrow boat had space for six more passengers.

"Pass us the pole, love."

Blinking at the unexpected endearment - just a figure of speech, for him - Emily lifted the long pole that was losing its varnish. He pushed the metal end into the water until half the pole was obscured, and they glided away from the bank of the crowded Mill Pond, where dozens of tourists inexpertly wobbled into or out of their hired punts, watched by a hundred more.

"Right. Let's get out of here. North we go!"

"Why not the other way?" Emily queried, ever contrary. "Not as pretty?"

"Not in town, no. It gets well lovely as you head out past Fen Causeway, and towards Grantchester. Quiet. Willow trees over the water. Birds. But mainly because of the rollers. It's ten feet higher, the Upper Cam. So you have to get out, and let the punt slide down this slope into the lower half of the river. No, they don't let you be in it! We'd be dragging it up, if we wanted to go that way. So we'll go the other way." Richie pushed them away from two punts filled with shouting tourists, then let the pole act as a rudder, steering them back on course.

They passed under Silver Street - "Good pub there, I fell asleep on the lawn after Finals," - and the Mathematical Bridge - "Story goes, it was assembled round Henry VIII's time, with no nails or bolts at all, just all slots together." Emily admired the structure of dozens of pieces of dark wood, fitting like a puzzle. "Allegedly, in Victorian times, or the Thirties, or the Seventies, they took it apart to see how it works, and couldn't get it back together without all the metal rivets you see today. They say it's bollocks, the bolts are just to strengthen it, but don't let the facts get in the way of a good story. So yeah, that's Queens' College. Not The Queen's college, one queen: that's in Oxford. Don't ask me who any of the queens were! Margaret Beaufort, maybe? Any question about Wars of the Roses, it's always her. Or Margaret of Anjou. One of them. Oi, duck! Move it."

A brown mallard sat in their path, unperturbed by the punters. Richie managed to point the punt so as to miss her by inches. "Got to be chilled about life, mallards. What with the males' attitudes to fucking them, like it or not. You kind of hope they just don't understand consent and shit, don't you? Sorry, that's depressing - potentially traumatised ducks! Anyway. That's the back walls of St. Catharine's. Small college, nice Ball each year. Had a giant ball pit, one time." He quirked a lip, almost smiling. "You were only allowed in if you confirmed you were in no danger of puking - or worse - into the balls, and would pay £100 if you did. I think they survived until nearly the Survivors Photo. That's at six a.m."

"Impressive. How much sex happened in there, I wonder?"

She wasn't surprised that Richie's pale face pinkened. Not just with the effort of pushing through mud on the river bed. "Some. For sure. Drunk students at four a.m...."

"Uh-huh." She wouldn't push it. "Wow, green!"

"King's College lawn, King's Meadow. Ooh, look, five cows on it. And, guess what? King's College Bridge." He bent nearly double to fit, despite successfully passing under the middle of the stone arch. "That's the worst one. Now, here you go: here's that world-famous view. White bit is King's, King's College Chapel there, next to Clare's Old Court, all yellow stone. You want a photo, for your mum?"

"Go on."

Richie held the pole under his arm, took the camera Emily offered him, and snapped away. "There you go. Beautiful Ball each year, Clare has. They go for charm and romance, given their spectacular gardens - less on the bouncy castles and popular DJs. Fireworks over the river at midnight, you get the idea. It's quite awesome. Clare Bridge. I'll let those guys go first - I need to be right in the centre of any of the arches; I'm not a Japanese short-arse.

Indeed, Richie was a gangling good six foot, topped by waist-length reddish-mousy hair. He continued his monologue. "Quiz time. How many balls are there on the bridge?"

Emily counted the stone balls on the balustrade. "Seven on this side. Presumably seven on the other side? Oh, yes, there are. Go on! What am I missing?"

"One moment." He pushed along the roof of the arch with his hands, propelling them under the bridge. That's the Master's Garden, there. The fireworks set fire to that tree, one year. Seems to have mostly recovered. "Oh, yeah. Look back, now."

Emily looked back down the river. The lichen-crusted mottled grey bridge, with the formal gardens on each side, and meadows and limestone colleges beyond, made an idyllic scene. The dozen other punts only detracted somewhat; Richie in a tight black T-shirt and grey combat shorts was a highlight. She'd love to loosen that pigtail of hair and see all his hair flying free. Ideally, she'd scritch his scalp, but he hated any messing with his hair, which, he'd confessed, was why he'd grown it in the first place. She contented herself with knowing how he looked in the shower, washing said hair. It was fair - he liked watching her, too. Not just watching her washing, either. The first time she'd come to Cambridge, when she'd met Richie at the conference and persuaded him back to her room on the second night, he'd spotted her vibrator and requested a show...

"See any odd balls?"

Emily's eyes flicked to his crotch, before she remembered to look at the bridge. "No." She followed his finger. "Oh!"

"Exactly. There's thirteen and seven-eighths balls up there. No, I haven't measured, but it seems about right."

"What's the story?"

"The story goes - again, they say it's not actually true - was that the stonemason hired to make the bridge had agreed his price, then the college wanted some extra twiddly bits, then they reneged and didn't pay him. In revenge, he cut that section out of the last ball, ensuring that the bridge would never be complete."

"To be fair, that does sound plausible. I mean, why else would there be a sliver missing?"

"Oh, that's easy.

Students

... Explains anything!"

"Fair point." She'd heard the word used in disgust by the police, and by townies in many a student-dominated city.

"Actually, though, there's another story. You see how they're just smooth stone balls, about a foot across? Yeah, well. Allegedly, shortly before I started, students got a ball that size, made from polystyrene. Painted it grey, added the yellow and white splotches, held it up right in the middle of the balustrade there so it looked like it belonged..."

"Oh...!" Emily's face proved she'd figured where this was going. Richie enjoyed how quick her mind was. And how dirty, but in the meantime, back to the anecdote.

"Yeah. They waited for a punt full of tourists to come along, pushed it over, and next thing you know, there was seven soggy tourists, plus expensive camera equipment, standing waist-deep in the Cam. Which you really don't want to do. Rowers get all sorts of rashes from it."

"I'll bear it in mind."

"Don't worry. I won't push you in. The story gets told about students 'just a couple years ago', every decade. So it might not be true, but come on, it would be cheap and easy to do... They say you'd be sent down, though. Chucked out. And just because I'm now faculty, doesn't mean I want to test that! That's Trinity Hall. Small college, friendly. No idea why it's not part of Trinity next door; medieval politics, I guess. Though Trinity's more modern, Tudor. When does medieval end, anyhow?"

Emily shrugged, not knowing any more history than he did. "Nice garden."

"Mm. Actually, I remember - Trinity was formed from the merger of two earlier medieval colleges, so actually Henry VIII shouldn't take all the credit. Typical. Now, this monstrosity of a bridge is the only one around that isn't in a college, so it's open to the public all year round, and you can cycle over it. Or try!" The concrete grey arch was topped with ugly Seventies railings with peeling black paint. "It's called the Bridge of Orgasms. No, seriously! Oh sure, it's got a formal name - Garrett Hostel Lane Bridge, but it's never called that. It's the effort to finally get to the top, will you make it, not yet there... And aah..." He mimed free-wheeling down the slope, punt pole tucked under his arm and drifting.

Emily laughed. "It's still hideous. Bare concrete really clashes with everything else about. Even it does mean you don't need to bend over, going under."

"Yup. Here, you have Trinity. Richest college in Cambridge. They say you can walk from Trinity, Cambridge to Trinity College, Oxford without stepping off Trinity land; I think that one's actually true. Biggest landowner in the country after the Queen and the National Trust. Admire the huge expanse of garden there, and that fence stopping anyone wandering in. Clare at least lets anyone walk through, except during exam season."

Emily gazed in awe at the huge yellow buildings with their ornate carvings. She'd travelled enough to know Richie wasn't lying when he described Cambridge as 'just a university, with some extra-fancy halls of residence attached', but she had to admit she still found the colleges intimidating. Richie's response was that the novelty soon wore off when you lived in one, especially after bumping your head or tripping on ancient steps for the umpteenth time. He'd done his first degree in Cambridge, then moved to New York for his PhD and stayed in America for a post-doc position, before returning to England. He hadn't planned to return to Cambridge, but it was where the best job offer was.

"And Trinity Bridge. Where half the tourists give up. One moment, I need to straighten up. I'm not going under the side arches if I don't have to!" This time, Richie stepped down into the body of the punt, standing astride Emily's ankles, as he passed her the punt pole and propelled them with his hands under the mottled grey and red stone. It must be some twenty feet; underneath the low bridge was dim and the water oily blue, suddenly cold. Emily was glad to escape the flickering shadows, back into the bright sunshine. The bright blue sky with wispy cirrus clouds, green oak trees, willows and landscaped lawns, yellow Cotswold stone buildings, and the sparkle of sunlight on the narrow river, made for the perfect English summer.

"Just needs a jug of Pimm's, or strawberries and cream, to tick off all the 'perfect English summer' boxes," Emily commented.

"Mm. I think those students in that garden are too far away to beg them to share. In May Week - that's in early June - it's one garden party after another all day, Balls all night. Sober up for Suicide Sunday at the end. When exam results come out."

"How the hell do students afford that?" She'd seen posters advertising the various Balls, with ticket prices. £200 was a low one.

"You don't pay! No, not many gatecrashers nowadays - wristbands get checked at every internal gate, so even climbing into a Court and abseiling in doesn't get you far. Two-thirds of the people there are working, pulling shifts for a couple hours. Or doing the work in advance. Or after; I used to punt people to Grantchester for breakfast. Though one year I helped my mate setting up lights, beforehand. So yeah, huge extravaganzas, but they just aim to break even. So they just need some nostalgic alumni to return and pay through the nose for college dinner and the rest. Huge amount of work, but anyone on the actual Committee, it sets them up for events management careers." Richie stopped talking, and they drifted the next few minutes in silence. "Here, see, way more peaceful. Nice, yeah?"

Apart from two punts of tourists being chauffeured back the way they had come, not a soul was visible. "All the undergrads, gone after the end of term. Beautiful stretch here, I'll get a bit of speed up. Students dangled a car underneath Trinity Bridge, that one, back in the Sixties. That's true, I've seen photos." He pushed his pole to the river bed a few times with more vigour. The ripples stretched further across the grey-blue water, reflecting sunshine. The river narrowed now, maybe twenty feet or less. Grass sloped down to the water on the left bank, beginning to yellow in the June heat, while a warm red brick wall, showing hundreds of years of weathering, separated them from the college on the right.

"John's bridge. Second largest college after Trinity. Not that most students want to live in these courts. Too many stairs, not enough plumbing. See that tower?" A round tower stood in the midst of the cluster of Tudor buildings. "Only lads ever took the set - suite of rooms - at the top. Huge lounge, two bedrooms, wee kitchenette, no toilet unless you go down six flights of the spiral stairs to the basement. They piss in the sink or out the window, obviously. Suppose they'd have had chamber pots, back in the day."

Torn between disgust and amusement, Emily giggled. "What about your rooms?"

"Me? Modern block in first year, then in a house - typical Victorian terrace - in second."

"And your third year?"

"Yeah, OK. I had this lovely set - living room and bedroom - in the attic of New Court. 'New', as in, 'built in the early 1700s'. Had to duck your head going through each door, and there were steps down into each room. Great once you were there, though. Even had a wash basin."

"Which you pissed in?"

A pink flush washed over Richie's face again. "I was young!"

"Eight years ago! I bet you haven't changed much."

"I have!" he contradicted. "Well, certainly since the start of my degree. I've mellowed, hugely." Trying not to look incredulous, Emily let him continue. "I know I

fit,

as a scientist. Now, I'm 'that good researcher with a few weird quirks, bit of a dickhead', not that 'weirdo arsehole who reads all the time'. See?"

She saw.

He laughed, rueful. "Yes, I'd open the tiny dormer window and piss out onto the roof, sometimes. I never managed to hit a tourist, though. The angle's all wrong."

"As long as you've grown out of that!"

"I assure you, if I get my cock out in a college, anywhere outside the Gents, it will only be to stick inside you."

"That's possibly the most romantic thing I've ever heard you say," Emily teased.

Richie coughed, and awkwardly regained his footing. "Anyway. Here, wonder of the Victorian world - the magnificent Bridge of Sighs."

The covered bridge spanned the river, linking brick buildings which had risen up on either side. Just before the bridge, on the left, a formal garden was visible behind a low wall. The bridge's walls were carved limestone around a dozen windows, each one a delicate triptych of tracery openings. "Like in a church, only no glass. Wow!"

"Nice, isn't it? They say it's architecturally not that similar to the original in Venice, but who cares? It's still quite something. Let's keep going a bit - the tourists will just look back, then bog off again."

He poled carefully under the bridge. Back in the sunshine, he stretched. "Oof. Hot!"

"Take your T-shirt off, then." Emily might have been daydreaming of Italian gondoliers in Venice, after passing the namesake bridge.

"And get more sunburn?"

"Here. Step down, I'll cream you up."

It sounded like an innuendo. Richie confirmed it: "How could I refuse?" He shrugged off his top. He might not have the tan or physique of a stereotypical Italian, but the man had a decent body. Lean muscle, smooth pale skin, she observed again, while rubbing white suncream into invisibility. She topped up her own suncream on general principle rather than worrying about burning. Living on the Mediterranean coast meant she was getting a decent tan, complementing her long frizzy honey-coloured hair.