The Return of Dr. Mecuniam

Perhaps you might first wish to read 'Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for Danger', which introduces Dr. Mecuniam to the reader.

*****

The sky was thunderous dark; a sky you see in paintings but cannot believe could be real, but it was. To the west the palest blue sky as of a summer's day but overhead and coming from the east black, black clouds and with them a wind.

"It looks sort of like rain." The incipient stupidity of Roberta's comment drove Asala almost to a fury. Of course, it fucking looked like rain. It was going to come down in torrents and there they were out for a walk, a walk that had been Asala's idea and not Roberta's at all. Roberta had been content to stay in and watch 'Strictly Come Dancing' or some other inane programme or, instead, go on Facebook or Twitter or just text her vapid friends. It was Asala who had wanted to do something real, something involving moving flesh, working bone and hot blood for that matter: not just sitting and mindlessly watching or tapping a screen. She wanted to be up and doing, experiencing life to the full.

"Life is real! Life is earnest!" she had said to Roberta, but the pretty girl had just looked at her in puzzlement.

"All right, I suppose so. It's what you like doing."

A walk had seemed the very minimum of real activity, albeit up on the moors in a place ten times more real than the studied security of Roberta's mother's new boyfriend - or was it partner's - flat. Asala had not really wanted to come with Roberta to the modern flat at the seaside in the first place but Roberta had made a fuss, said she did not like to be all alone and bored, and so Asala had been kind. After all they had been at school together and, most of the time, she loved being with Roberta.

Roberta, she well knew, would not let Asala forget whose idea it was to go for the walk and get soaked - not though the soaking had happened as yet - but it would. The sky was dark and Asala could not see it as anything but ominous, her mind always made a bit of a drama out of... no, that was unfair, she saw the potential in situations and liked to see the dramatic possibilities. Imagined or not, the weather was still not good. It was a dark, threatening sky, the sort of sky, Asala mused, had seen the Transylvanian count in Bram Stoker's book - no, not the Lair of the White Worm nor the Jewel of the Seven Stars - Asala had been assiduous in her reading - but the other, better known one, milked for all it was worth, she had noted, in Whitby on the Yorkshire coast where they were staying.

To Asala, it seemed the dark cloud brought him but to Roberta he was just an old man caught in the rain - just as they were - and sheltering in an old stone barn. Roberta seemed to have little curiosity about how he happened to be there. She was far more worried by the poor reception on her mobile than about the unlikelihood of an old man being up on the hills in a dark suit and black shiny shoes. Asala did not like him, nor the way he sat in the darker parts of the barn as the rain and wind came - and did rain and wind come, dark and howling.

Asala did not like the man from the first but was that because he seemed to almost ignore her, his attention focused almost exclusively upon Roberta? Was that jealousy?

At first, he had said little but then seemed inclined to some conversation at least. The inclemency of the weather, who they were, where were they saying. His own answers seemed a little too general, a little too unspecific to Asala but she did not think Roberta noticed, was probably not even really listening to what he was saying.

"You might find this diverting." The volume was old, leather bound no less, and probably badly foxed. Asala could not see Roberta so much as touching it when he withdrew it from an inner pocket of his coat and offered it to her. Roberta liked everything new and modern; not for her second-hand things and that went not just for books but authors as well. "Who wants to read what dead people have written?" would be just what she would say. Asala took a very different view: unimpressed by the endless pages of simple prose and poor conversations, half the time without any sort of real plot that, in her opinion, formed the modern novel. Asala buried herself in the more testing and intelligent writing - old or modern - though with a penchant for excitement of a real kind.

The man seemed oddly eager for Roberta to take the book.

"Oh, not my sort of thing." Roberta spoke, hardly even glancing up at the man. Almost flippant - uncaring was how Asala saw it - but then Roberta seemed to realise she could not say that without actually looking at the book. Even she could not do that. She picked it up and idly flicked the pages sending a small cloud of dust into the air.

Asala could not think why the man had even thought Roberta could be interested in such a book. Clearly it was in a process of decay, its pages disintegrating before their eyes, turning to dust. Asala stood and stared out of the doorway into the rain towards the sea and waited for Roberta's curt dismissal of the loan.

Apart from a cough or two, Asala heard nothing and, having watched the moving clouds and rain for a time, she turned to find Roberta actually reading. The man was watching her friend with what seemed a hunger as if he wanted to eat her. It was an unsettling image but one that remained with Asala. She could not imagine what had possessed Roberta. It was not in character. Asala turned back to the landscape and watched the rain slanting down like stair-rods. She smiled wryly, who of her generation would know what stair-rods were - certainly not Roberta. It required a penchant for old books to know such things.

"You may borrow it... of course." Behind her the man spoke. Asala did not like his voice.

The man had not actually said where he lived or was staying, much less how to return the book but Roberta seemed almost to have forgotten about that when, eventually, the weather was sufficiently settled for them to attempt a homeward journey; merely dropping the old book into her knapsack. The man had been strangely quiet whilst Roberta was reading and Asala had most definitely not engaged him in conversation or indeed gone near him. In a way it was surprising her interest had not been sparked. The whole situation almost a reversal of the usual. It should have been Asala interested in the old volume and a curious old man, whilst Roberta fidgeted and stared out at the rain wishing it to stop and let her get back off the moor, not Roberta.

The man had stayed in the corner of the barn, seeming to shrink further into it as the sky lightened. The weather continued to brighten and soon the rain stopped completely. The sun came out and the walk back proved dry and actually good. Roberta seemed in much better spirits - perhaps it was the prospect of getting back for tea.

What surprised Asala more than anything, later on, was finding Roberta sitting up in bed reading the book. Her knees drawn up, the shape of her body deliciously hinted at within the cotton. It was so unlike her to bother to read. Asala dropped her bath towel by the bed.

"What is so fascinating in that old book?"

It was the emphasis on the 'old' which clearly sparked Roberta's retort. It was not like Asala to criticise something merely for being old. "Oh, not your thing at all, just some old story. You wouldn't be interested. Too trivial, just a romance. Set ages ago. Even the type is kinda old. Cool actually."

Asala got in beside Roberta and picked up her own book, a paperback, "North and South," by Mrs Gaskell. "Are you going to read for long?" She asked.

Roberta looked so desirable in her pyjamas. Asala had bought them for her on a whim. Men's cotton pyjamas, all stripes and a drawstring waist. The buttons all wrong. It was lovely to slip her hand into the cotton fly and feel not the rigid male pole but the soft down of Roberta's sex, to trace her finger down the little valley and into the warm wetness beyond. To stir and play before a little tug on the drawstring opened all of Roberta's delights to her. And delights they were, from Roberta's fine rounded breasts to her little suckable nubbin. A lovely body.

"Robbie," her lips brushed her friend's ear, "shall we?"

"Another couple of pages, be patient."

Asala pouted. Fresh from her shower and without pyjamas or a nightdress she was still a little damp despite the vigorous towelling. She looked at her friend, admiring the long, dark curls and her little button nose. She had such - was luscious a good word for them - full lips. Despite the covering sheet and Roberta's pyjamas, her eyes flicked downwards to where her hips and the start of her legs were moulded by the draped material, the indentation showing Roberta's pleasingly full hips and the slight mounding of her pubis. Slight only, she was not a boy - urgh! Asala smiled, thinking how much nicer Roberta was than a boy, that lovely, soft, uninterrupted triangle of dark, springy curls and then below, as she knew so well, very full lips just like her face!

Watching Roberta was such a pleasure. Asala's own tongue slid over her lips and she raised herself upwards, the sheet slipping back along her back and her small breasts coming into view. She bent downwards and kissed Roberta on her lips, momentarily obscuring her reading.

"A few pages more, Asala, please and then I'll..."

Asala pouted once again and settled down. Her nose itched. It would be that dusty old book. She stopped herself criticising its age in her mind. It was she who liked old things not Roberta. She waited, and still Roberta read. Finally, her hand made its way between them. Fingers made their way up Roberta's side and onto her cotton clad stomach. Warm, soft, so young and alive soft flesh under the thin covering of her pyjamas. Her fingers found their way twixt buttons and touched naked skin and found the indentation of Roberta's tummy button. Asala knew, which nobody else did, how much that turned her friend on, how it would make her run between her lovely thighs.

It worked. Finally, Roberta moved, setting the book down beside her bed. The yawn was not so good. "I'm tired, Asala," she said as she settled down under the shee,t but her face was towards Asala and Asala moved and their lips touched. Soft, feminine lips together though it was Asala's tongue that poked through and into her friend.

Asala's finger moved from Roberta's tummy button, out of her pyjama top and then pulled it upwards exposing, under the sheet, the smooth skin above her pyjama bottoms. Her fingers slipped down the skin and over the bow of the drawstring to the pyjama bottoms and slipped into the fly, her fingers finding the springy curls upon her mons veneris, she wriggled them into the dark curls, feeling them curling around her fingers as she sought and found Roberta's slit. A moan from Roberta right into Asala's mouth. Asala felt Roberta's hand on her own skin. This was so what Asala loved, being sexual with her friend. She loved the outdoors, being out in the fresh air of open moors or pastures, loved the woods, was captivated by romantic ruins but equally loved the soft, cosy intimacy of two girls in a bed.

A sweet gasp from Roberta as Asala's fingers slipped further. Their lips separated, and they lay on the pillow staring at each other as, beneath the sheets, the girls' fingers moved.

It was the most wonderful thing. To be with her friend each with fingers up inside each other. Each smiled at the other, visible to each other despite the bedside light being off, because the curtains were thin and even at this late hour it was not that dark. Asala felt so content. To have her so special friend in bed and intimate with her. She withdrew her three fingers from Roberta and brought them to her own mouth and sucked them tasting her friend as Roberta did the same with Asala's wetness and her own fingers. Again, they dipped, but as was their habit, this time each pushed their fingers into the other's mouth so they tasted themselves. Asala raised herself,

"Robbie..." and her lips found her friend's and they kissed again with tongues playing. And then Roberta did that perfect thing: pulling her tongue from Asala's mouth she dragged it down her chin, down her neck and across her sternum into the valley of her breasts. Asala reached and held the sheet upwards so her friend disappeared beneath it. She closed her eyes as she felt Roberta's wet, rasping tongue move up the mound of her left breast. Roberta sucked and Asala shivered in pleasure. So good to have her nipples sucked.

As Roberta's mouth moved from one of Asala's breasts to the other, she undid the buttons of Roberta's pyjama top leaving the lovely rounded breasts hanging there over her. She did not touch them but just the thought of them hanging there, Roberta's nipples over her own, ready perhaps to be lowered and for the girls to touch - nipple to nipple - was pleasure enough.

Roberta's tongue recommenced its downwards journey, circling and then entering Asala's own tummy button. Asala's thighs parted, wider and wider, opening herself ready for her friend. The touch of Roberta's tongue at the top of her own slit, within her own dark curls. She opened her light brown thighs even wider, as if making herself ready for a man to penetrate. But that was something which would never, never happen - nor to Roberta, she hoped - rather she was opening herself for Roberta's tongue not a penis.

The touch - the touch of Roberta's long tongue. The dear girl, the naughty girl. She had pushed straight into her. No preliminary swirl around her wetness but had plunged straight in, her lips had pushed into her soft flesh, her tongue inside and swirling. Asala abandoned herself to pleasure.

It was minutes before Roberta surfaced as if coming up for air. She had stroked Asala's swollen little button with her tongue, had nibbled it with her lips and lapped away at the pouring wetness she had found. Roberta surged up the bed, her lips finding Asala's. A wet joining. "Fuck me," she breathed into her mouth.

"Don't use that word," Asala replied, but knew what Roberta wanted. Her hand reached and found Roberta's thighs damp with the wetness leaking from her sex - lovely, soft, feminine thighs. Bunching her fingers, she pushed easily between their softness and found her friend's sex. She did not pause and tickle and stroke, rather she plunged straight into the girl - hard and deep. In and out, the motion of sexual intercourse between man and woman. Asala hated the analogy yet knew it was what Roberta was imagining, knew her friend was not as committed to women as she was, remembered Roberta saying once how she wished Asala had a cock or that they could have a man in bed with them as well. 'Wouldn't it be nice, Asala?' She had said. 'Three of us together.' Nice? Hardly.

"Oh, I love you so, Asala, fuck me harder." Her tongue pushed into Asala's mouth in time with her thrustings, her long mobile tongue moving in Asala's mouth and then her fingers finding and thrumming Asala's clitoris.

Entwined, steamy and wet under the single sheet Roberta and Asala orgasmed, hot, damps so feminine bodies, whilst through the window the Moon looked on.

The next day was sunny and the two girls spent the morning up at the abbey, set high above the town. Roberta had complained a little at the number of steps to climb but had been mollified by the view and the feel of the sun. Towards lunchtime the sky had darkened and they had returned home, reaching it just before the first drops of rain fell. After lunch Asala had settled to read but her friend had not wanted to do that, perhaps, thought Asala, having grown tired of that old book she had been reading the night before, and, after aimlessly wandering around the flat and disturbing Asala's reading, had gone out. Asala had not thought Roberta would be gone long, expecting her to return even more morose and disparaging about the smallness of the town, not seeing the interest in the old and historic seaport. Roberta, however, was gone for the whole afternoon and when she returned looked bright eyed and happy saying how well her shopping had gone. Asala was puzzled. Whitby was not the biggest of places and Roberta had only bought a single thing, a cotton dress. It seemed to Asala a long time to have spent away from her just to buy a single dress.

Asala's idea about Roberta having lost interest in the old book proved misconceived. She knew how quickly Roberta could tire of things, her concentration span if not that of a gnat was certainly not very long, but Asala had never seen Roberta quite so engrossed even sitting in an armchair reading long after their usual bedtime.

Bedtime with Roberta meant sex to Asala and she became impatient once more, "Shall we shower together tonight, Robbie?"

The answer had been non-committal and made without even looking up.

Finally, the exasperating girl set the book aside and looked up. She looked to Asala a little dazed and confused, perhaps in need of sleep. And then she sneezed. Much as Asala liked poking around in second hand bookshops and actually liked the smell of old books she thought Roberta's rather more dusty than she liked.

"Shower?"

Asala led Roberta by the hand and even undressed her, enjoying the gradually revealing of her body. Turning on the shower, Asala encouraged her friend into the water with a few pats to her soft bottom before undressing herself and entering the falling water. Lovely to wash each other. Their rule if in the shower or bath together was they did not touch their own bodies but washed the other. That rule went back a long way.

Lovely to soap each other's breasts and make the nipples harden, lovely to pull Roberta to herself and feel their pubic hair touch as they soaped the cheeks of each other's bottom, nice to finger each other's bottom hole, stroking the wrinkled, rubbery flesh with soapy fingers. Giggling fun to place a cupping hand between each other's thighs and feel the sudden warmth as each emptied their bladder, lovely to find the source and place a finger on the hole seeking to stem the hot flow and making it squirt here, there and everywhere but particularly, if done right, directing the hot, rushing stream, horizontally onto the nearby clit. Once, when they had been in the bath, Roberta had made Asala come like that when she had directed her own flow right onto Asala's little hard pea. A forceful and hot jet - it had been quite something.

The shower seemed to have awoken Roberta - and her lust. She was erotic with the towel, drying her friend. The towel rubbed purposefully across Asala's nipples and an exaggerated pressing of cotton towelling against her sex. "You are very wet here, Asala, dear, I can't seem to dry you!"

Asala had tumbled onto the bed, naked from the shower and had opened her legs towards Roberta. Roberta had turned, her lovely rounded bottom towards Asala and had fumbled in her drawer.

"I have something to play with."

Asala liked the use of a dildo or vibrator, enjoyed pushing the thing into her friend or having Roberta use one on her. They had even done strangely intimate things with a real cucumber once upon a time, well, actually, at least thrice, with one each end, but what Asala did not like was to have the dildo at all realistically moulded. A plastic cucumber or banana would have been fine to her, as realistic as possible as a green cucumber or yellow banana, but she did not like penis modelled dildos one bit. Yet Roberta had deliberately brought one, it was there in her hand - to tease or possibly annoy. Asala was horrified, her legs had snapped, wetly, together.

"I don't want that thing inside me."

"But I do," her friend had replied. She had held it against her, rising upwards from her so lovely curls as if she was some sort of hermaphrodite. "Come on, Asala, let me fuck you with it and then you fuck me."