Travels of the Mind

6 Wood

Working hard on a Saturday morning; few people in the office, so she was not disturbed. Outside the greyness of the day was so dreary as compared to the bright electric lights inside. She paused and stared at the wall opposite, thinking about what to write next. To her ears the faintest sound, the sound of distant drumming. She was puzzled what it might be. A band practising? She ignored it in favour of putting her words down, but then the electric light flickered and died plunging the room into gloom. A power cut -- how unhelpful.

Yet the room seemed to be getting darker and darker. The distant sound seemed to be coming closer and closer, so slow and regular, a rhythmic sound. It was not drumming, too slow surely, but what was it? The light faded the more as the sound built. At first just faint and far off, yet slowly getting closer until it was with her, indeed either side of her. She could no longer see her desk and when she reached, she found it was not there at all. Around her a brightening, light but without form - just a mist. She was sitting, sitting in a boat, she could feel that by the rocking, a small rowing boat being rowed through mist.

Her hands gripped the wood of her seat as she tried to make out -- anything at all - but all seemed just mist. Gradually though there was a thinning, and she could see the man rowing; it was a familiar figure - who else but him?

A slight breeze and the mist began to flow; she found she could see the water, still and limpid except where it was caught and swirled where the oars dipped into it, again and again. The rhythmic sound of the blades of the oars and the water. It was icy cold and so clear.

The woman did not say anything. She was not unused to translocation. She wondered where the man was taking her. The sun brightened through the mist and began to rise. Soon she could see they were steadily making their way across a lake or loch to an island, an island with a ruined castle perched upon it.

Harris was dressed, immaculately as always, this time in Highland garb, so appropriate for the cold weather and, possibly, location. The long woollen stockings or knee hose complete with flashes and sgian-dubh above black brogues, the thick warm kilt and sporran, white shirt, buttoned waistcoat and tweed Argyll jacket with tie. Of course, the tie. It was very formal Highland garb for a journey across a loch.

Gone her black skirt and tights, gone her cream blouse, gone most everything. She was sitting there wrapped in a tartan blanket, an earasaid, it had been carefully folded around her forming something of a dress complete with leather belt and silver clasp to her breast. It was hooded over her head and she felt warm and comfortable within the thick wool. Her feet, though, were bare upon the boards of the boat. Her toes upon the wood.

Harris said nothing as he rowed, steady strong strokes of the oars, his feet braced, his knees apart, his buttocks upon the thwarts. She looked from side to side. For a few moments she trailed a hand in the water. It was clear but icy cold. They were anything but by the sea on a hot summer's day.

She wondered why she was being taken to the isle. In her mind the words and tune of the Skye Boat Song:

'Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,

Onward! the sailors cry;

Carry the lad that's born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.'

But it was not that at all. Was she some captured daughter of the chief of a rival clan being taken as hostage or for some other even less savoury purpose -- for the sexual enjoyment of the victorious chief and his clansmen? What had Harris in mind for her? Already she felt a familiar stirring despite the cold. It happened. It happened with Harris. It made her look at his knees; it made her wonder what he wore under his kilt. Women are taught to keep knees together when sitting in a skirt. Men spread -- man spreading -- but the same should apply to men when wearing a kilt, lest 'tackle' become visible. To her mind came the image of a collection of schoolgirls giggling and blushing as they sat looking at a row of fine young men in their kilts, each of them blissfully unaware just what was on show to the girls and how much they were enjoying the sight. She smiled. Men have no idea just how crude or rude women can be together, and schoolgirls, if the truth was known, are no less fascinated by sex than the boys. A row of fine young men with their vari-shaped penises and soft egg-shaped balls nestled between strong thighs. Not showing any sign of hardness, merely at rest but with all the potential of growing and providing the girls with more than a 'poke.'

"I used to have dreams when I was a young girl of being... taken by a Scotsman, yes, in a kilt. A great big man with a sprawling ginger beard and fierce eyes." Her accent became mock Scottish, "An great big tadger and baws. Couldnae get ma skirt aff quick enough."

"If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended, that you have but slumber'd here, while these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream." Harris smiled.

"Shakespeare was not Scottish," she said.

A shrug of the shoulders and,

"But pleasures are like poppies spread,

You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;

Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white--then melts forever."

"Robbie Burns?"

"Indeed. Tam O 'Shanter. Carpe diem - pluck the day - seize the moment, let dreams become reality, for a while." He looked at her, she reached forward and held his knees as he rowed.

Slowly she lifted his kilt. What a thing to do -- really. His penis was no longer at rest but standing upright, strong and very manly, his twin balls hanging -- tadger and baws. She left it like that, kilt back and Harris exposed, as he rowed. Young men -- men generally -- like to ogle. Pity the girl who forgets to remain modest whilst lying on the grass in the park reading a book, not realising for a time the young men can see up her short skirt; pity indeed the girl rowing who has to brace herself with her feet and cannot help her knickers -- if she has them -- coming into view. How nice for the young man to watch his girl rowing in a short skirt with nothing beneath, his eyes taking in her charms as his jeans bulge. It was like that for her only in reverse. A fine manly organ, she most certainly gave Harris that.

Steady work across the loch; the world seemingly empty but for the moving rowing boat; her eyes admiring the scenery but returning again and again to the rigid cock. Her hand reached, it was almost involuntary, she was drawn towards it, wanting to grasp and feel. So big and firm in her hand.

"Can you row and use that at the same time?"

"If you guide me."

Did he mean the boat. or the penis. or both? Harris paused in his rowing, holding the oars still in his hands, and she took it as an opportunity to lean forward and suck. Carpe deum. She had wanted to suck, wanted to feel his firm, rounded manliness in her mouth, roll her tongue on its smoothness, push and pull her lips upon it.

But only for a few moments. Carefully, so as not to in any way upset the boat and cause it to waggle from side to side, even tip up, she came forward between the oars and his outstretched arms, pulling the earasaid, the blanket, upwards a little so she could settle upon his now cold thighs, her warm soft thighs upon his cold hard thighs as her wetness, pushed forward, and sought his cock. Beneath the folds of woollen cloth, wet warm femininity sought hard maleness with a view to enclosing it and perhaps being impregnated by it.

All was hidden within their clothing. It was not how they might have been rowing or sailing around an island in the Aegean or, perhaps, even on a sunny but secluded spot on a river in the Home Counties where clothing could have been dispensed with. Sexual organs were connected but all deep under woollen garments, only the organs were touching, the rest of their bodies swathed in warm wool. A steady copulation that made the boat rock a little, and then Harris began to row. A forward and backwards movement just the right thing as regards sexual intercourse. She felt -- how she felt it -- the steady movement of penis within her sex, stretching and tugging at all the right things as they made their steady way across the loch.

"Left a bit," did she mean to slightly turn the boat or to move his cock to the left. Both actually. Onwards moved the boat, the island and castle now near at hand.

"Nearly there." And she was, quite on the brink of orgasm, It was the bump, the jolt as the boat touched shore that set her off. Just that extra push into her, as the momentum of her body against the sudden halting of the boat forced Harris, braced upon the thwarts, the more into her.

"Oh," she said, "oh!"

Gently he lifted her upwards and off his penis.

"Aren't you...?",

"All in good time." The kilt dropped down covering the wet erection, it, probably, suddenly feeling very cold in the chilly air. He helped her from the boat. 'In good time.' What was the wait, what was she being led to? She could hardly refuse him when the time came. Not after her actions upon the boat. What was prepared for her? Was there a whole clan awaiting her? Had she merely been warmed for them? The thought both frightening and strangely exciting. What happened in dreams did not matter -- really. She had thought them alone until the forest and the curly haired elfin boy, not that they had copulated but... surely Harris would not let her be taken by man after man? But what of the plain, beyond the basalt chasm...

Across the grass and the rocks, upwards, she following Harris, his brogues sure footed, his knees working and his woollen kilt swaying. She felt like a woman following her man -- but he was not her man; that was Benjamin.

Through the ruinous stone walls, across a courtyard and up a winding stone stair. Another spiral within a circle, just like at the garden, up and up. The view at the top stunning. The wind pulling at her hair, making the chestnut strands fly. The purple clad and snow topped mountains around, the waters of the lake and all seen from a ruined castle on an island. A magnificent panorama and romantic setting. So Sir Walter Scott.

"The loneliness," she said. Just the two of us?" It was a question. Harris smiled his thin smile, his eyes full of merriment. She looked at Harris standing with the wind streaming past him, catching at his kilt. A heroic pose. A fine figure of a man.

"Perhaps," he said, coming up behind her. She felt the lifting of her earasaid and knew what would happen. Men so liked pushing at the softness of woman's bottoms, up beneath her came his penis and into her. An easy entrance, she had opened her legs and she was still very wet. She stared out over the half-ruined battlements, out over the wild expanse of the Scottish highlands -- if that was where she was.

How often had Benjamin come up behind her, perhaps at the prosaic kitchen sink, perhaps in the bathroom as she brushed her hair at the mirror, or when she had been standing looking out of a window? How often had she felt his hard penis nestling in the crack of her buttocks? How well the upright shape seemed to snugly fit there; how good it felt whether through thick denim or perhaps the silken thinness of a nightdress. When Benjamin was naked she could so feel the shape of his erect penis upon her skin, could feel every part of it: denim through denim it was just a vague shape but nonetheless familiar.

She turned back to Harris. "That's nice," she said. And it was. Steady and rhythmic. It had been good in the boat, now good upon the castle walls.

"The storm is coming," he said.

She looked back out over the castle walls and the weather certainly looked menacing. Large thunderclouds were building in the east. Big and rolling towards them. Would he impregnate her upon the castle walls, would they perhaps stand there as the thunder and lightning cracked and flashed around them, perhaps even with the rain falling as Harris completed the act. That simple spurting of the penis, the thick fluid pouring out and clinging within her. She wanted to be pregnant again, so wanted another child, so wanted fertile semen within her to make her with child.

Again, though, she felt the penis leave her.

"Come," he said, and took her by the hand. Down the stair but not all the way back instead through a doorway. A surprise as she saw the castle after all was not wholly ruinous; she found herself in a warm kitchen, a fire crackling in the range, a kettle boiling upon it and a pan gently heating. A domestic scene, if perhaps from two hundred years before. Nothing modern to be seen. Harris settled himself in a great wooden chair.

"Shall I, shall I brew the tea?" she asked.

Obvious that it was expected. That the women would perform womanly duties whilst the man sat in state. She did not mind. She reached and stirred the pot, almost without thinking to make sure it did not catch, and the contents burn. From it came a warm and enticing aroma. She started and looked sharply at Harris. It was the smell of warming goose fat.

She remembered; she remembered very well their first meeting -- and the goose fat, how it had been not too hot, a little above body heat, pleasing to the touch.

"You wish... my bottom... again?"

Harris smiled from his chair. She could not tell if under the heavy kilt he was erect and ready. "Yes, I do. This time the other intercourse. A cold day without, but here by the fireside so warm."

She had experienced orgasm already that day; had twice permitted -- encouraged - him to enter her body. Could she deny him his wish?

"I don't want to."

The shrug of his shoulders seemed to suggest both that her wishes were not important and, moreover, doubt at her wish. He sat there, seemingly waiting -- for his tea or, rather, something else -- the laird sitting in state in his great carved chair to be waited upon. Slowly she unfastened her belt and the broach at her neck. The earasaid fell, leaving her naked. Slowly she turned so he could see her from the rear and then she walked to the oak table and bent herself over it, lying with her breasts upon its top, her legs parted and her bottom uppermost.

Had that happened there before? Young kitchen wenches surrendering themselves to the wishes of their master or perhaps being held down by the cook or other denizens of the kitchen? An initiation rite for the new girl -- or perhaps boy -- her mind taking off into unexpected thoughts. It was her arousal; it had not gone away. The ideas in her head wandered and meandered as she waited. Behind her the sound of the pot being stirred. She knew how it would be. Hotter than body heat but not too hot. She waited, both sex and anus exposed. A choice, but she knew the choice was already made.

She was not held, not held by strong arms. She was not a young, kitchen wench being introduced, perhaps for the first time, to a cock. Newly brought to the castle, finding her place was to be bent over the great table, as other girls had before her. On the contrary, her bending was at her own volition, her parting of her bottom cheeks voluntary.

A touch, a touch straight to her anus, the hotness of a finger dipped in the fat, touching and caressing. Just as, hopefully, the young kitchen wench, would be prepared. She had known it was coming but, even so, it made her start and her buttocks clench; her soft cheeks gripping the finger as her anus tightened. The movement stopped until she relaxed and then the stroking began again. More hot, but not too hot, goose grease applied; this time poured to run down the crack of her bottom; not too hot, what had he said the other time? Like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, 'just right!'

Harris's finger rotated around the puckered orifice, easing and coaxing it into relaxation -- into compliance. As before he did not hurry, there was all the time in the world. Plentiful goose fat making her anus slippery and pliable, softening and relaxing it until, with a little more hot fat, she felt a fingertip easing in. Awfully -- or was it so awful really -- that she was becoming rather wet again and that suggested there was nothing bad about it. Was her anus really grasping at the finger and trying to draw it in or perhaps seeking to draw the warmth of the fat inwards?

The finger was sliding easily now, in and out of her body, and then she felt the second and third, her fundament easing open and being made ready. The movement of the fingers so like that of a penis, so like sexual intercourse -- only in the other place.

Her arms extended she found her hands gripping the other side of the table; her eyes shut as her mind concentrated on the feeling of the moving fingers inside her. She would have preferred to be taken properly -- goose fat or no goose fat -- but knew it was not to be. She did not turn and look to see if Harris had removed his kilt and was now exposed. At some point he would pour or dip his cock into the hot grease and then apply it to her. In her mind the thought, all of a sudden, of her husband. The thought of him being stretched out beneath her, his penis within her vagina as she awaited the second penis -- Harris' in her back passage. What was that like -- double penetration -- she had never... but the thought, now when she was so aroused, strangely intriguing. What would Benjamin think of the hot goose fat being poured down her bottom crack to drip hot onto his scrotum; would it make him jump and push his cock the harder into her? It made her squeeze her muscles as if squeezing Benjamin's cock but actually squeezing Harris' fingers.

"Relax. It is almost time."

The fingers were withdrawn. She waited, remembering that first time in the cottage with the orange firelight, not so very different from the kitchen of the castle, and how she had waited for the touch of Harris' penis. The smell of rich goose fat brought it all so back, as if roast potatoes were cooking, strong in the air.

"Please... I am so ready. Properly would be best." But that would be denied.

Once more the goose fat was poured, runny and perhaps hotter than before. She heard the pot being placed upon a trivet upon the table. It was not to be heated any more.

As all those years before, she felt the touch of the hot, no doubt heavily greased, male member to her bottom hole. A slight pressure from the smooth helmet shape and then firm pressure pushing her open. The goose fat so slippery and lubricating -- letting the penis slide so easily in. As before her muscles tightened, clasping the indentation just beyond the corona as if forming a tight seal. She was breathing hard, so conscious of the heat and the large invading object. Behind her Harris stood still, waiting.

The muscle relaxed as she accepted the invader and, with the clasp released, the journeying recommenced. Inch by inch Harris' erection slid up into her bottom. A slow but incessant movement in and in, up and up. One more inch, one more slippery inch and Harris was fully embedded. The initial deed done. She could feel his thighs against her skin. He had removed the kilt.

So full; she remembered how full she had been before. She had not let Benjamin... perhaps she should have done. So full, and the heat from the fat so warming and, she knew, it would be so slippery when the man recommenced the movement.

Slippery was perhaps not even the right word, so much hot goose fat, so little friction as the piston moved within its so tight sleeve. Back and forth, a steady pumping. Breathing heavily, she just lay there as her bottom was used, almost shocked to feel how pleasurable it was. Would it have been like that for the young kitchen wenches? She hoped so. What if Benjamin had been there, two penises working her; one in her bottom and one in her vagina, not double the pleasure but double the fullness; two pistons working, and then her eyes opened wide in almost shock, not from imminent orgasm but the realisation she would want Harris in her vagina and not Benjamin. She wanted Harris' fertile seed where it counted.