The Captain's Return

The Captain is waiting for her as agreed. He's leaning with his back against a lamp post, on top of the Scarborough cliffs. It's just after ten o'clock, and it's nearly dark. There's a cool breeze blowing softly through his hair, but it's not unpleasant. At first, he doesn't notice her walking towards him. He's staring off into the sea. He's even more excited than she is, but he doesn't want to show it. She quickens her pace as she gets closer to him. He starts at the sight of her, and blushes. No matter how hard he tries, he can never keep his cool around her.

He greets her with a smile and a kiss. A gentle, restrained kiss, but it still tickles the small of his back and he melts into her embrace.

"I've missed you," he says, and pulls her towards him, wrapping his arms tightly around her, never wanting to let her go.

"Me too."

He offers her his arm, and she takes it, a giddy happiness washing over her. They walk slowly along the path, admiring the cliffs, the beach, the castle. He wants her desperately, but as she leans in for another kiss, he notices an elderly couple walking their greyhound, and just manages to keep himself contained. He's imagining tracing his hands over her curves, touching and kissing every inch of her body to find every little spot that drives her wild, but he simply holds her hand as he wishes the elderly couple a polite good evening.

They walk a little further until they reach an old shelter. It's just a couple of benches with three stone walls and a roof. It's dirty and covered in graffiti, and there are crushed cans and empty bottles strewn around the place, but the view is incredible.

"Shall we stop for a while?"

She nods, and they sit down. It's a clear night, and they both gaze at the twinkling stars in the sky above them, overcome by a sudden shyness. His arm rests on the back of the bench, and she snuggles into his shoulder. He presses his lips to her forehead, and she turns to kiss him properly. As their tongues slide softly over each other, their shyness disappears as quickly as it came.

He runs his fingers over the buttons at the back of her dress, and begins to fiddle with them, trying to get them undone. Her hands are busy exploring his trousers, but then she chuckles at his clumsy fingers and undoes her dress herself, before moving onto his shirt. She teases the silver buttons between her finger and thumb, and then pulls them open, her lips all over his collarbones. He takes off his cravat, and it slips through his fingers onto the muddy floor.

Her kisses are growing urgent. She runs a finger lightly over his chest. He's wearing a tight top to flatten it. A little flustered, he sits up and pulls it over his head. Her lips caress his newly freed nipples.

"You're beautiful," she says, inhaling deeply, breathing him in.

He unbuttons his trousers and she pulls them down. She shrugs the bodice of her dress off her shoulders, and her lips work their way down from his lips to the tangle of hair where his legs meet. He opens his legs and shuffles forward. Her breasts rub over his thighs, and he's hungry. He can feel the wetness between his legs and he's aching for her fingers.

She teases him with gentle strokes, barely meeting his skin, but his hairs transmit the vibrations of her touch and a quiet moan escapes him. She grins, and he asks her, begs her, to bring him out of this excruciating limbo. She kisses him, and her tongue finds its way between his lips. Her hot breath tickles as her soft tongue makes even strokes. A finger teases its way inside him. It feels so incredible he almost has to ask her to stop, but he allows himself to relax and the discomfort gives way to intense pleasure.

He flops back on the bench and tells her he loves her. He tries to remember if he made any noise, and worries he was too loud, that he'll get them caught. He opens his eyes again and looks at her, and his fears melt away.

"Why don't we sit on the grass?"

He points to the bank in front of them, and she doesn't hesitate. He takes her hand and lies down, pulling her with him. She laughs, straddling him. She pins his hands above his head and kisses him. Her lips are still damp, and she tastes of his cunt. Want is not a strong enough word for how he aches to taste her in return.

He invites her to shuffle forward. At first she shakes her head, blushing, afraid if she sits on him he won't be able to breathe. He holds her hand and tells her how perfect she is; he hopes he will remember this moment, and how the moonlight reflects off her naked body, for as long as he lives, but he doesn't quite dare tell her that.

"There's no pressure," he says. "If you don't like it, we can stop."

In the warmth of his reassurance, she changes her mind. She hitches her skirt up around her waist and shuffles forwards. She smells musky and slightly sweaty, and he moans as his mouth makes contact with her. Her skirts are draped over him so that he can't see her face, but he can feel the rhythm of her hips and she's softly whispering his name. He's so overwhelmed by a surge of love, he feels as though he might explode; he pours it out into her with every movement of his tongue, every breath and every time his short, tidy nails dig into her thighs. Her eyes roll back in her head, and her thighs tense. He's gasping for breath, but he doesn't stop until she begs for mercy and rolls off him.

They lie down half-naked, entwined, grass tickling their ears as they look up into the darkness. Their clothes are scattered across the path, and they feel vulnerable in their nudity, but neither of them wants the moment to end. She sighs contentedly and he holds her close. He's never felt more at home.