Travels of the Mind

11. Heather

A pleasant outing, a visit to a picture gallery with Benjamin. Remarkable how talented some people were. How quite incredibly gifted. She wished she could paint. Perhaps she might buy herself some watercolours, but when would she have the time whilst juggling being a mother, with work and looking after Benjamin?

Such a scene before her. The purple hillsides of a Lakeland scene. Lake to the foreground -- Derwent Water, Bassenthwaite Lake, Ullswater, Windermere? She did not know the mountains or lakes well enough to be sure. How good to be out hiking in the sunshine. Yes, wandering lonely as a cloud, as William Wordsworth had written, 'that floats on high o'er vales and hills,' to be 'beside the lake, beneath the trees.'

And all at once, she was. There by the lake beneath a stand of trees looking out at the rippling water.

"All ready?"

She was, dressed not at all as she was in the gallery, but in brown lace up walking boots with green woollen socks, a tweed skirt; easy, comfortable shirt and open cardigan. Upon her head she could see reflected in the water, a bobble hat. Upon her back a knapsack and in her hand a stick.

Harris, and of course it was he, right by her, asking whether she was ready, was similarly kitted out, if not in a skirt. Shorts, open necked short sleeved shirt with spotted neckerchief or cravat. Upon his back a traditional knapsack in dark green canvas. In his hand a walking stick.

There was no point, no point at all, in asking whether he would mind her continuing her perusal of the gallery's paintings. For the time being she just was there not in the gallery, had the natural beauty of the natural world rather than oil paint or watercolour all around her. And Harris would just make some enigmatic comment, perhaps about her being in a painting, or something about 'all in good time'.

"A fine day for a ramble," Harris was looking out over the water, "all as pretty as a picture."

They set off up through the trees, a winding path leading upwards. An almost immediate pause as the saw a flash of movement, red movement upon a tree. A pair of red squirrels were chasing each other around and around a tree trunk up and up into the branches. Sheer fun or sexual? The male pursuing the female with amorous intent. Lovely to see either way. An enchanting sight.

"Very Beatrix Potter," she said and was unsurprised Harris caught her allusion.

"Squirrel Nutkin," he said, and she looked back at the lake imagining the squirrels sailing to the island. "Wrong lake. Not Derwentwater," he added.

Across a stone bridge over a tumbling stream and the path steepened leading out of the trees. A turn, and they were walking almost parallel to the lake, rising only slightly, their path making its way between walls of fresh green bracken. Upwards again and steeply, crossing and then climbing beside another tumbling beck coming down from the mountains. Its water crystal clear.

Steadily upwards until they came to a small tarn where they rested looking at the now expansive view down the lake from far above. Such a view. Harris' hand came to rest upon her knee which was peeking out from under her skirt. A proprietorial placing, as Benjamin might do. Had Harris gained the right from repeated sexual involvement with her? She no longer protested, did not deny access to her body, indeed had asked and invited before.

"I've only had sex with Benjamin... and... you."

Harris smiled his thin smile and slowly shook his head.

It was simply just not so anymore... She had had 'relations' with so many. Might elf like folk rise from the tarn behind her, naked and wet penised? Might a group of jolly hikers come over the brow of the hill; young men, middle-aged or mature -- it mattered not; all sweaty and with a view to bathing in the tarn; them all getting naked and, between her legs, she becoming wet at the sight of so many men with their penises and ballocks. With Harris, the scene not impossible, indeed likely she would join them naked in the water and afterwards be so accepting of their penises. Many men and her there on the grass and rocks in the sunshine by the tarn. The men then walking on, leaving her with Harris, hot but satiated, dripping with so much male ejaculate. They, though, did not appear.

Harris' hand slid from knee onto thigh and made its journey up her skirt. Up a smooth feminine thigh to touch hair and her sex, his fingers then idly and teasingly stroking around rather than 'in'.

"Oh, that is nice," she let herself slip backwards down onto the grass, closing her eyes but opening her knees further, making herself comfortable, lying there, as she thought about the imagined men and what they might do. Letting Harris play in her sex as she might do on her own. His thick fingers rather larger than hers, more filling when they finally pushed in. The man masturbating her so well and so gently, knowing just what to do. How to run his finger between her outer and inner lips, up one side and down the other. Tugging playfully at her inner ones, but so careful not to touch her little man -- yet!

And, after a time, too long and too teasingly a time, stuffing her nicely with those thick fingers and making a so enjoyable steady fucking motion causing her to lift her bottom up and push back. Only then did his fingers, finally, brush against her clit. And then what he did to that -- circling, pushing, rubbing, even pulling -- was just so good.

Such a lovely orgasm there in the sunshine, her skirt a little rucked up, the hot sun heating her sex and Harris's fingers playing and stirring. Did that happen a lot with young people on walks? How many young men could simply make their girl come without pushing for their own sexual organs to be manually or orally stimulated? Might, out walking, you come across a couple with the man's hand so clearly up the girl's skirt or in her trousers yet his penis not be out?

"Oh, that was nice! Shall I?"

Her movements deft as she undid Harris' fly, just as she might Benjamin's out on a walk. At least before Maisie came along. It was a bit bad, really, but she could not help thinking how much she liked the opportunity to put her hand into another man's fly -- not Benjamin, feel and find -- and pull out -- a different cock from usual. Not that she could not be happy with just Benjamin, but having little fantasies was nice. Only, only this was so much more real than any daydream or thoughts in her bed. Was it real?

She stroked, slow movement of her hand up and down. Would Harris this time want to copulate? She was ready enough, his organ would easily slip in. How many couples on a Lake District ramble stopped and did just that? Perhaps at the very spot they were now resting upon. Were babies conceived high in the fells? A Lakeland souvenir!

But Harris made no movement to get atop her or suggest she rode him. He seemed very happy to look at the view and be stroked. It was not that he was disinterested in her efforts, the rigidity of his organ showed he was appreciating her hand. His thin smile showed across his face. He was not going soft on her -- not at all.

Men like their penises to be sucked or at least taken into the mouth and worked upon with lips and tongue. She did that so natural act of lowering her head and taking the bulb between her lips. So warm, so smooth, so big and male. So good to fellate.

"Well, I suppose we should be moving on," he said above her, "or would you like to bathe first."

"Oh," she said rising from the penis, "I thought... won't the water be cold."

"Cold, but refreshing. It is a hot day and..." he raised his still wet fingers, "you are quite sticky!"

There was no one around and so -- why not, why not skinny dip in a Lakeland tarn?" Rather exciting to be doing it with a man, a fine handsome man with an erect penis sticking out of his trousers. Unlacing boots, pulling off socks, unclipping skirt. Harris doing much the same.

She watched Harris, now completely naked, walking towards the tarn and turning to wait for her. What a fine-looking man he was. Fine with his usual careful clothing: fine naked and with his penis so upright, stiff and so potent. Did men look a bit ridiculous with their generative organs swollen and erect? She really did not think so. Certainly not when their penises stood like that. What would it be like were those imagined male ramblers also to be there? All naked and all erect -- with just her? So many very fine organs. In her mind some remarkably long and thick. So upright and potent. She could feel more stickiness coming. Perhaps time to slip into the cool water of the tarn.

Not cool but cold, deep enough to swim. Not icy cold and, sensibly, she did not go out of her depth. A short swim but undoubtedly refreshing and her stickiness was certainly washed away! Harris too swimming.

They walked around the little tarn, drying in the sunshine. Such a pleasure to be able to walk naked out in the open like that. What a view across the lake and fells. Perhaps a little risky walking away from one's clothes, not having them ready in a knapsack, but Harris was there. She was certain there was no real risk. The two naked ramblers paused on a little projecting rock jutting out into the tarn, cool waters beneath them. Her hand went once again to Harris' cock, stroking it up from the semi-hardness it had settled into. Up into its full extent -- again upright, stiff and potent. She took it the whole way. Steadily moving the loose skin, steadily masturbating the man, holding the jutting out organ, making the penis ejaculate. Such lovely strong spurts, impressive even, coming from its end. Her handiwork. Out from where they were standing, out from the rock, out over the still water of the tarn, each spurt, each projected teardrop falling to drop into the water, looking either like the rising splash of a fish sending little circular waves outwards, or the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream. She counted a dozen individual droplets hitting the water, some further, some closer. All from her hand and the penis within.

"Was that all right?" she asked, turning to Harris. He smiled and brushed her hair.

"Of course."

They walked on around the tarn and back to boots, knapsacks and clothes. A little driblet of semen hanging and swinging from Harris' softened penis. She crouched and suckled. Salty and rather nice, taking the whole organ in, her mouth removing any remaining stickiness. Her own stickiness washed away by the waters of the tarn, her sex now feeling all cool and refreshed, ready to walk on; similarly, she had washed away Harris' stickiness. Would there be more stickiness later? Might there be a joined stickiness?

Up and up, they climbed, following the path from the tarn. Up onto a ridge which they followed along to the first summit. Such a view standing by the large cairn of stones at the top. Onwards, then, following a dipping, rising, dipping path along to the next peak and the next. A turn and a partial descent to a little rocky outcrop where they made their picnic sitting slightly shaded from the sun looking down to a long valley with a glittering, winding stream making its way downwards, a thread of gold in the sunshine. Harris had provided, or at least the knapsacks did, a glorious picnic. So good to sit and eat, legs drawn up, side by side enjoying the view and easy companionship. The sun so bright, the sky so blue, the air so clear and fresh. Not a cloud in the sky except, perhaps, a hint on the horizon to the west.

On again, a round, following the landscape in a great high circle. Not the Fairfield Round or up Striding Edge, but certainly a high walk, a linking of two, or was it three fells, together, via cols and linking ridges; the scenery dramatic, with it variously being rocky or pleasantly smooth and grassy underfoot. It was both hard work and exceptionally exhilarating and rewarding. On the horizon, though, an increasing appearance of cloud.

"Weather's changing," she remarked.

Harris nodded and said nothing, but the sun went in and it began to get rather darker.

Coming up to another summit Harris sniffed the air, "it's going to be a storm."

"The storm?" Harris had mentioned that again and again. Was this what he had been warning her about? "Something that you said."

His thin smile and a shake of his head, "No, not yet, but soon."

"What, why, where?" But he would say nothing more. The sky darkened yet further.

A crack of thunder and a flash of lightning in the distance. It was going to rain -- more than rain, it was going to pour.

"We need to shelter."

In the knapsacks waterproofs. Not sensible to go up into the fells without proper preparation. The weather can change suddenly and unexpectedly -- as they had found. Harris, of course, unperturbed, perhaps the storm no surprise to him. A turn from the main path and down past a rocky outcrop and there they came to a spring, bubbling out from the hillside, and the path ended under a big rock. The grass was short and green, eaten by sheep, with bracken all around and there was something else -- a cave straight into the hill.

"It's all a bit like Mrs Tiggy-Winkle," she said as they stooped and went into the cave, she had been reading Beatrix Potter's delightful tale to Maisie, "only no door into the hillside," she said. Certainly, no nice clean kitchen with a flagged floor and wooden beams -- anything but -- though, like Lucie, she had to stoop because the cave was so low. No nice hot, singey smell and no little frightened voice, but, whilst the smell of animals, certainly no animal there, just Harris and her.

"And nowhere near Little Town. Far too high up to be dropping pebbles down chimneys." They were indeed way up on a hill that goes up -- up - into the clouds as though it had no top. The clouds not white and pleasant but black and threatening; the rain started as they made themselves comfortable, Harris sitting next to her. They were sheltered in the cave from both wind and rain. Outside the rain poured down, though it seemed the storm was passing them on the other side of the valley. They could see lightning playing over and across the valley on the mountain ridge opposite. Bright flashes and strikes. Had they been outside they would have had to lie down and just take the rain on their backs. Exciting to see the electricity dancing across the rocks, a sight to treasure whilst safe in the cave. Nature at its most potent and powerful.

Once more Harris' fingers crept under and up into her tweed skirt, feeling for her femininity, her sex. Felt and suddenly illuminated by a flash of lightning. His fingers expert, playing her better than Benjamin, perhaps better than her own fingers. Strong male fingers inside her. Would this time Harris go further and push his penis into her? She would be accepting, would like that -- very much. She leant against him and closed her eyes, her whole being focused on her hot wetness and the tickling, stroking, invading fingers.

As before her hand stole to Harris' trousers, pulling him out through the fly and stroking. Like by the tarn she lowered her mouth and took him in. She did her best to excite and please knowing what she really wanted was to pull her skirt up and sit astride his thighs and push his erect penis up into her; ride until she made him cum and spurt his fertile seed into her womb. Still plenty of it within him, she was sure, more than enough to make a baby or babies.

But when she tried, started to move her leg across, Harris restrained her. He had his fingers inside her; he had her sex very literally in the palm of his hand. He had control.

"Just the fingers of your hand?" she asked.

She saw him nod. Why not more. Harris had -- before. Before Maisie.

The storm raged across the valley. Loud and close, such a cacophony, so many flashes. She came so strongly -- perhaps it was indeed the noise and the shafts of light that accentuated the feeling. Perhaps it was just Harris. It was all so strong. She sat up panting, and rather exhausted. In her mind, as in her mouth, had been the thought of penises. As Harris had said before, it was no longer just Benjamin and he, she had experienced others and the thought of other men and their sexual organs had been so in her mind. She had thought Harris would have come too but he was still hard and she had not felt that salty rush in her mouth. She wanked steadily. An idea came to her. Perhaps she could inseminate herself. Push his stuff into her if she made him come in her hand. Maybe she could, when he was not looking quickly reach up into her skirt and push it with her fingers up and into herself. It might work.

She reached out with her other hand, cupping it, making it ready as a receptacle, like perhaps schoolboy and girl lovers might do before going 'all the way'. A lightning flash and she saw it happen before she felt the hot drops falling into her palm, the start of the ejaculation, the shooting pulse of white caught there in the lightning flash. A still photograph caught on her retina.

In the blinding darkness she felt the steady falling as Harris ejaculated. The male version of what she had just experienced.

In the dim light she looked at the pool of semen in her hand, and then at Harris. He was watching her, his strong penis, his manhood, still in her other hand.

"Drink," he said, and they shared it. A strange mutual sharing, sipping Harris' fresh semen from her hand. Her lips down into the warm, thick liquid and then her feeling his lips and tongue, all ticklish in her palm. His semen going into her body, but not where she had intended and back into his, as well. A strange ritual perhaps from the past. The thought suddenly in her head of the green man and the elfin folk.

As the storm had come up the other side of the valley, so it went, leaving the rocks all shining with rainfall, the becks gushing and the grass so green in the returning sunlight. The sky a washed blue and, as they descended, the occasional stumpy, wind sculptured hawthorn or mountain ash, its leaves a grass snake green.

Down they came, getting lower and lower as night fell. The evening light from the setting sun, the long shadows and the dramatic yellow light where the sun still fell. She felt so tired. Were they perhaps taking a last steamer across the lake? Below them a little cottage. It looked so sweet, so cosy, so pretty nestled there in a fold in the hillside, a curl of smoke from the chimney. Was it for them, perhaps; had someone prepared it? Was there a jolly, buxom housekeeper there in the kitchen preparing a supper, who would ask whether they had had a good day's walking; suggesting they might like a bath before a drink and dinner. A bath with Harris and, later, might the two of them be all tucked up together in a lovely, old and big double bed in an upper room with sloping eaves? Surely Harris would then mount her, tugging her nightie upwards, perhaps repeatedly, maybe waking her in the middle of the night and again in the morning. His cock entering her again and again and -- yes -- inseminating her; pulsing his potent semen into her again and again, fertilising her; putting her in the family way, indeed in the 'pudding club', making her tummy swell with a little brother or sister for Maisie. She so wanted that.

But the sight of the cottage below them wavered, she stumbled and all of a moment she was back in the gallery looking at the purple hillside of a Lakeland scene, now with a pretty little cottage nestled in a fold in the hillside. She had not, after all, been inseminated, not in the bedroom of the cottage, on the hillside or in a cave. Her sex felt wet and aroused, but the wetness was all her own. No semen, nothing from Harris was there. Later Benjamin would place his own inside her, she was certain, but plentiful as it might be, she was sure it would not do the trick. Why did Harris not take her -- repeatedly -- she was, after all, so willing? Pinned to her jacket a sprig of white heather, not purple, pinned with a silver pin. Lucky white heather -- would she be lucky?