Seasons Of The Mind Ch 02

2. Summer

The young woman stood and smoothed down the light cotton dress across her thighs. The guard had made his announcement and the train had begun to slow. Soon the train would be gliding through the darkness of the tunnel to the station waiting on the other side.

Outside the carriage windows, the landscape had the soft glow of an early summer's evening. A sort of Maxfield Parrish look to it. The warm golden brown of the harvest ready fields, the blue of the sky, the quiet of the landscape after a scorching day. It was a warm, even hot evening and the woman wiped a hint perspiration from her brow with a little blue cotton handkerchief.

The woman reached across to the seat next to her and picked up a straw hat. A sensible hat for a summer's day, wide brimmed. She put it on. It was then she saw him. She had not seen him since that winter's night, so many months before. Had watched for him on the train, been very wary which carriage she sat in but he had not been there. Not until now.

Harris had been pleased to see the light cotton dress, white with large blue flowers, waisted and dropping to just above her bare knees. Not sleeveless but with only short pieces of material covering her upper arms and leaving most of her arms free. Summery wear for a hot summer's day. A gold chain around her neck and strappy, high heeled, tan coloured, sandal like shoes on her feet. Her chestnut brown hair tied neatly behind her in a pony tail. It was tied with a blue ribbon.

Harris too stood, as if readying himself for the station and the carriage door. He smiled his thin smile in recognition—not that he had missed her presence earlier.

She was not smiling.

The train entered the tunnel.

The lights had not been working in the carriage—there was no need in the bright sunlight—but as the carriage entered the tunnel the light became dimmer as the tunnel's mouth was left behind and the other end was still far away. The train seemed to be losing way, gently slowing within the tunnel, as the light dimmed further, until the train was at rest and the carriage completely dark. Not in the station but seemingly still in the depths of the tunnel, the dark tunnel. There was no sound. It was strangely quiet.

"No, no, please not again." The woman spoke but was already moving up the carriage in the dark away from Harris feeling her way from seat to seat. A hint of panic in her voice.

There was no movement and even the air conditioning in the carriage—not good for the whole journey—seemed to fail as the air became warmer almost as if they were no longer in the carriage but already on the platform.

The woman's hands no longer found the seats but thought she could see light moving towards her. Was it, she wondered, the light at the end of the tunnel? Yet her feet no longer seemed on flattened carpet but the softness of grass and, with the brightening of light around her getting stronger by the second, she could see not the familiar walls of the carriage but trees and stone walls and green meadows basking in the warm sunshine of a summer's day. The birds were singing.

Slowly she turned back to Harris. The man, standing in a cream linen suit and leaning on a cane, was looking at her. His tie was just the same blue as the flowers on her dress.

"No," she cried and began running across the field following the path across the hay meadow. Harris watched her go, watched the pretty sight of a woman running, her dress flowing, her brown limbs working—a vision of grace. It is not easy running in high heels; it was no surprise when the woman pulled them off, one after another, and threw them away as she ran, faster and easier over the land. Harris watched her climb a stile and disappear. Lifting his panama hat he mopped his head with a bright blue spotted handkerchief and set off after the woman, walking easily as he swung his cane. It was very warm in the valley, not a breath of wind. A beautiful day but really a little bit too hot for walking: let alone running.

The woman was running a little downhill following a path, a hand clutched to her straw hat to ensure it did not come off. Glancing back she saw she was well away from the man and she slowed, panting in the heat. There was sweat on her brow and already her dress was damp in places from her exertion. Half way across the next field she stopped and simply flopped down in the middle of it, down on the grass.

Harris did not hurry. With his cane swinging he came steadily towards the woman, looking surprisingly cool in the summer heat. Perhaps it was the linen and panama which gave the appearance of freshness without necessarily the substance. The woman was watching him.

"And where are we now?"

It was not exactly a greeting.

"I would suggest if you were thinking of resting the shade of the old oak ahead might be a better place to sit."

He offered his hand to help the woman up. She did not take it. Getting to her feet she smoothed down her dress and adjusted her hat.

"It's a very fine day." Harris stating the obvious.

"Where does this lead?"

"The sea."

"How do you know? Have you been here before?"

Harris smiled his thin smile but did not answer.

The woman paused in the shade of the oak. It was certainly cooler but still very warm. Harris looked a picture of cool elegance: the woman perspiring and damp. Her run had not helped her comfort. The oak was old, its roots, erupting from the soil, were thick and winding over the ground. The woman sat on one. Harris stood regarding her. She did not look at all cool.

"I wish we had some water."

Harris shrugged, "unfortunately..."

"How far is the sea?"

As if by coincidence there was the sound of seagulls.

"Not far."

It was not. Climbing the next stile brought a view down to the blue, blue sea. The woman paused and regarded the scene. It was picture postcard perfect. Beyond, the path began to drop more steeply as it moved from the green of hay fields into rough grazing and then gorse. The path changing from grass track to sand. They made their way downwards.

"Easier on my feet."

Harris looked at her bare feet and legs beneath her dress.

She said, "I've always liked sand between my toes. Why are we walking?"

"To get to the sea, I suppose. You came this way."

"What was the other way?"

"Fields and hills, did you not look?"

He was not helpful. The girl frowned.

Down they came onto the sand proper. A bay stretching away to right and left; ahead sun dried sand giving way to the flat wet sand where the tide had come.

The sand was hot on the girl's feet.

"It's so hot. My dress is wringing."

They walked onto the open sands.

"That's better," said the girl as her feet touched the wet sand. "Doesn't the sea look lovely?"

And it did. The waves breaking at the edge were small giving the sound of gentle lapping water. No crash of breakers: just the small sound of the sea. The girl ran to the water's edge and then was splashing happily, catching the hem of her dress in each hand and lifting it to keep it from being wetted. Harris lent on his cane and watched.

Are children ever happier than on those perfect days down by the sea building sandcastles or just running, for the joy of it, through the surf? There is something about the sea which does not leave in adulthood, whether walking along the seashore listening to the sea or doing just the same things as when children. Are not childhood memories at their happiest when by the sea, do we not smile in happy reminiscence of endless days in the sunshine by the sea? The reality may not have been quite so perfect but children do not notice the grey skies and the disappointing lack of sun—do not care! They are by the sea.

The girl seemed to dance along the boundary between sea and sand, splashing a little and sending droplets to hang shining momentarily in the hot sunshine. A happy sight on a perfect blue skied day. What could be prettier than a young girl lifting her dress a little and dancing through the water?

"I wish I could swim here."

"Why not?"

"I haven't..."

It seemed to come to her all at once. The open sands, the deserted beach, the high cliffs, the seagulls screeching—there was no one around to be at all perturbed if she was to throw off her dress and run in her underclothes, or less, into the sea. No one but Harris—of course.

The girl looked at Harris as if undecided. He held out his hand. She looked back at the sea, shrugged and began to unbutton her dress. She was conscious of Harris watching her as she pulled the dress upwards. Momentarily she was lost in the folds of the cotton, her vision obscured, knowing he was looking at her legs and her underclothing, then she pulled it over her head and handed it to the man. She turned back to the sea and took a step before looking back at Harris. His eyebrows rose as if expecting something more.

"Oh, very well. There's nobody else." She reached behind her and unclipped her bra. The softness and fullness of her breasts suddenly revealed in the bright sunlight. She handed it to Harris and then pulled her panties down and stepped out of them before handing them too to Harris. She felt exposed and vulnerable.

"Happy now I'm naked—again?" She turned and took a couple of steps towards the deeper water.

"A very fine sight."

And it was. The girl had no reason to be ashamed of her body. It was indeed fine, pleasingly but not excessively slim, good long limbs and her sunbathing in a bikini had added a slight eroticism: emphasising, by whiteness, her breasts, bottom and sex. The patch of chestnut brown hair at her thighs pleasingly shaped and thick contrasting with the whiteness of her skin in its missing bikini shape. Her face pretty and the gold chain and tied pony tail simply adding to the picture.

"Hmmm!"

Your hat, you would not want that to get wet."

Almost angrily she pulled the hat from her head.

He took it. "It's a very fine day."

The girl waded a little and then slipped into the cool water. It was lovely, so refreshing. The girl swam with easy strokes in the calm salty water, her legs kicking. She had not swum naked before. It felt free and easy. Her movement took her a little out and then along the shore. Returning she was looking back to the man. Perhaps she expected to see him undressing or already naked ready to swim too but he was standing, as before, with his stick beside a neatly folded pile of her clothes.

The sun beat down but apart from the seagulls and the gently lapping of the water there was no sound. Clearly the girl thought there was no hurry and swam happily for quite a time.

Coming from the sea the man walked towards her carrying her hat. The water was dripping from her, her hair was wet and the chestnut curls in the vee of her sex were slicked back with the water, plastered to the skin, very clearly showing the cleft, the divide leading between her thighs. It was a pretty and erotic sight. He handed her the hat.

"I feel much better for that. Still thirsty, though. Oh, for a bottle of water."

The man smiled a thin smile and shrugged his shoulders pointing at sea,

"Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink."

"Coleridge."

"Indeed. Shall we walk?"

With his cane he lightly tapped her buttocks. A rather familiar gesture to the casual observer but perhaps he had a greater familiarity with the girl—and her bottom—than was immediately apparent.

She frowned. "My dress?"

"No need—there is no one else."

She turned, there was the dress, colourful on the sand, but a little way from her. She shrugged her shoulders.

They walked leaving the little neat pile of clothes behind. The woman naked but for a straw sun hat on her chestnut hair, the man in a cream linen suit, brogues and a panama hat. The contrast striking. Naked woman, clothed man. The girl wet from the sea, the salt from the brine forming little streaks on her skin as the sun dried it.

Behind them footsteps in the sand, the hard wet sand; the marks from the girl's feet and toes side by side with the steady prints of the man's shoes. Ahead of them the sand seemed to stretch for miles: miles under the heat of the summer sun.

The sun reflected off the sea, quite glaring in its intensity. "So bright," she said looking at the water, "such a hot day."

Harris smiled:

"The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright -

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night."

"Hardly," she said, "Such nonsense from the Walrus and the Carpenter. Can you remember it all?"

The girl talked as the man listened, him saying little just swinging his cane whilst they walked. Gradually the folded blue dress became smaller and smaller—just a pin prick of blue on the sand.

"Don't you find it hot, I mean hot in that jacket?"

"I could take it off if you like." Slipping it from him he carried it draped over one shoulder. His white shirt did not betray particular perspiration.

The girl's tongue moistened her lips, "You haven't any water—a bottle in a pocket or something?"

"I'm afraid not."

"My swim was cooling but I really need a drink—there must be something somewhere."

"A tea shop?"

"Oh, please!"

"I see nothing."

"I'm getting desperate. I don't know. I think I'll swim again. It's so hot."

A simple handing of the hat and she was walking into the sea, buttocks rising and falling as she moved. The man watched the pretty sight a little before he too began to undress leaving a second neat pile of clothes on the sand.

The woman had not noticed. Did not see the naked man walking into the water. Only noticed his absence from the shore and then saw there was a second swimmer moving with a powerful crawl along the shore.

Two dripping bodies leaving the water—clearly male and female. The woman the more clearly examining the male—after all the man had already seen the woman.

Harris picked up the hats and handed the straw one to the girl before picking up his cane.

"Do we walk back or on?" She asked.

Once again he lightly tapped her on the buttocks indicating forward. They walked naked together. A different picture.

"Last time," she said.

"A cold night."

"We..."

"You want to engage, for me to be erect?"

"No, no. Of course not."

It was noticeable though that the girl's glances kept dropping downwards, as if she could not keep her eyes of the swinging organ, as if it held a fascination. Again her tongue slipped across her lips but whether this was from a sexual excitement or simply thirst was unclear.

"If you keep looking at my penis like that it will erect."

"Sorry."

But her glances kept returning and it was not many more steps on the sand before the man's organ jerked and began to grow.

A deserted beach under the brightest of blue skies, a glorious summer's day with the sun reaching its zenith. Along the beach leaving footprints two figures walking, a woman and a man, naked but for hats against the sun. The man unexpectedly tumescent and carrying a cane. Strange fetishistic imagery.

"I, oh..." The woman stopped and the man walked on a couple of paces before he noticed her absence and turned to face her. Her eyes were on his erection.

"I... could I drink your water... I mean... I'm so thirsty."

"By all means but, alas, all gone. Whilst swimming I... it seemed opportune."

"Oh, but there is... there is the other liquid. Could I take your seminal... could I drink your cum, please? Please can I fellate... I've got to, I've simply got to! I've got to drink—something."

She was on her knees before him staring at his rigid penis. The rugged, veined shaft rising to the shiny purple head. The sun catching the knob and reflecting from it and making it gleam, the wrinkled foreskin drawn back, the bifurcation of the glans and the taut fraenum facing towards her, inches from her mouth. Strong, powerful and clearly desirable to the woman.

The woman was wetting her lips as best she could, "I've just got to."

She did not seem to wait for an answer, for permission: instead her lips opened and descended covering the head of the organ.

Her head bobbed, stimulating.

From Harris his thin smile as he stood there on the sand, the woman at work at his groin. He looked down, watching the pleasing connection she was making with his body. He could see her lips moving, slipping up and down the shaft but only he could feel what was happening within, what the movement of her cheeks signified, what suction she was giving, what her tongue was doing. He swung his cane.

The woman head came back, the connection lost. She was panting staring at the standing organ. It was now wet—there was spittle on it. It waggled a little from its release. She was staring at it.

"I never imagined a penis could look so desirable—or feel so the same!"

Her hand went up to hold the balls, lifting both erection and scrotum at the same time. "And sexy. I'm so thirsty but so turned on as well."

Her other hand went downwards beneath the chestnut curls. Harris watched her fingering herself and then bringing up her hand wet with her own sexual lubricant. The girl's tongue poked out and licked at the wet fingers trying to assuage her thirst from her own wetness. Again her fingers searched and again she licked but it was not enough—clearly not anywhere near enough.

Her attention returned to the man's stand, caught by the sudden appearance of a little bubble of creamy semen welling up at its tip.

"Oh look, look!" Her excitement palpable,

"May I, may I?" Her head moving forward to the penis. The very end of the tongue probing towards it. A sigh as she took it.

"Mmmm."

She leant back and looked up at Harris standing before her. "I want more."

And, as if in response, the penis was running: but not ejaculating. It was an overflowing, a seeping out; clear fluid slipping down the fraenulum, wetting it. Her tongue touched and she lapped at it greedily seeking the clear liquid.

"Are you coming?" There was a note of panic. "I so hope that's not it, I want more, much more!"

"No, not yet."

Her fingers were busy in her sex. Again the fingers raised to her lips but her eyes constantly on the male organ displayed so strongly in front of her face.

A lick to the fraenum seeking moisture. Her eyes looking up at the man's face high above her.

"May I take it all?"

"You may."

The plum head absorbed again by the lips; the lips sliding over the veined and rugged shaft and working it.

Harris looking away along the beach, his eyes focused on the horizon beyond the broad expanse of emptiness. Above him the seagulls calling. His thin smile on his lips.

It was a private transfer when it came. No apparent external evidence. The lips were sealed tightly around the penis, there was no spurting into an open mouth with the semen flying in the open air across a gap between knob and mouth; it was all internal, the lips forming a tight seal as the ejaculation flowed inside the girl's mouth.

The game, though, would have been given away by the look on Harris' face. Normally not one to betray great emotion, the joy of orgasm was not something he could hide—could not restrain the many, many muscles in his face displaying great pleasure. His teeth showing white. Nor was the movement of the girl's throat, a swallowing motion other than evidence of what was happening—a transfer of sexual fluid.

Her hand was holding his balls as he came, gently kneading them as if to encourage more fluid to be produced by the penis. A deep sigh came from her presumably at the moment she felt the spurting within and her lips ceased their movement—but what her tongue was doing within could not be seen.

The ejaculation seemed copious, perhaps satisfying to a thirsty girl. The lips and penis stayed unmoving for quite a time. The man standing, the woman kneeling on the sand; her hand to her sex moving; the man still, the woman shaking, seemingly with sexual excitement; an erotic tableau under the blue, blue sky. Perhaps she was actually coming, actually experiencing orgasm from the play of her own fingers.